THE SWIRLING MENAGERIE
VOLUME II
Written by Solanon

Continued from ponepaste.org/4272 (Volume I)
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>From the hilltop, among the dwindling bases of pines pointing vector-like towards the heavens, a collective of earthly follicles electrified with a static presence, the distant manor seemed small
>Quaint, even
>A rectangular base with twin extensions jutting from each side, tapering into isosceles points carving the surrounding land and greenery into rhomboid plots, it could’ve been no larger in square footage than the Sun Garden at the center of the convent
>It was beautiful from that angle, to be sure; crystalline glass domes peaked with shining silver statuettes in the shape of fruit sprayed reflected sunlight into your distant eyes in kaleidoscopic patterns
>Beneath them, a vexing staggered formation of tiles, copper-green to brazen red to green again, zigzagged downwards in shallow slopes towards the walls of the complex, tan and smooth
>You suppose you should’ve been suspicious of the scale of Sweet Apple Manor when your eyes were naturally drawn downward to the inlaid windows, of which there were seemingly hundreds on each level
>Rustic and trim, crossed by ornate black iron and paned with thick sheets of spotless glass, they extended in their orderly, symmetrical rows down the length of the building towards pink granite pillars, decked with moss, creeping vines, and even bushels of assorted fruits
>And so, as you and Applejack drew closer, descending the high hill whose isometric perspective had deceived you into believing that her clan’s ancestral home was naught but an ordinary plantation house of the type you’d seen lining the tracks of the express train, the truth became overwhelming and awe-inspiring
>Sweet Apple Manor is massive; the main house, the “Big Apple” as Applejack has dubbed it, must be at least twice the size of the entire convent, which houses three hundred mares
>The surrounding estate, however, covers an area comparable to the great open battlefields you read about in Tinsel Quill’s From Empire to Republic: Canterium’s Bloodiest War
>Grassy plains, rolling hills, a distant perimeter formed loosely from pines and sections of old fence, and at its center, a well-manicured lawn and eight buildings, the Big Apple plus seven supplementary structures, rising up from the earth
>For a moment, an image flashes in your mind, something at once familiar to you and utterly alien
>…
>It’s… a hallway?
>And at the end of the hallway, a flight of stairs, rising invisibly into darkness
>A fire, roaring on the landing, grease floating in choking clouds up to the painted sky, away from what lies below
>Water… oh, Celestia, water… the water of the sea, and something down there, lurking, swimming, waiting for—
>”Hey! You with me here, Twilight?”
>And like that, it’s gone
>As if it never existed at all, back to the manifold of dream-reality from whence it came
>Back to Numena
“Yes! Just admiring your home. It’s magnificent.”
>”Yeah… you said that at the top of the hill, too. And halfway down. And when we rolled through the gateway. You alright?”
“Fine! Fine, everything’s fine. Nothing to worry about.”
>You put on your best “everything’s fine” face, practiced extensively on nearly everyone you’ve interacted with in this past week, but Applejack doesn’t appear convinced
>”Uh huh. Alrighty then.”
>When you approached the southern foot of the hill which separated the manor from the river and the souk at the far end of the Apple estate, two stallions in white buttoned uniforms welcomed Applejack and you, her guest, and promptly summoned a carriage to escort her the rest of the way
>Despite what looked to be only a five-minute walk or so remaining, Applejack conceded, explaining to you that it’s customary to pass the iron-gate threshold of the estate by carriage
>Still sticking to old traditions, she’d said, no matter the efficiency cost
>”Though I usually just roll up in my pickup either way. Saves a bit of time, and ain’t nopony telling me it don’t count as a carriage.”
>Now, Mater Solis has reached Her apex, high noon
>Her warm rays diffuse through the velvet canopy top of the carriage, which is rapidly nearing the broad roundabout at the front of the mansion
>You’re near enough now that the long sheet façade of the front of the house, decked with windows and balconies, now fills the entirety of your vision, and the image your weary mind conjured earlier fades to nothingness
>Vision? What vision?
>There is only the objective now, bright and clear, material in constitution
>What was just a few days ago some miasmic, uncertain notion of coming “here” to find the secret knowledge that will bring you closer to ascension is now as concrete as this monumental mansion’s foundations
>Mount Fillai is among the mighty rocks which even now tower over the curved horizon, devoid of shadow in the perpendicular sunlight, but that is not your destination any longer
>The flood of the valley, falling into the trench, cutting machines and tree slaves…
>At least one aspect of Numena’s first riddle has been solved
>Retracing Celestia’s hoofsteps in her solemn quest to spread the Truth of Mater Solis across Old Equestria, before her retaking of Canterlot Castle and deposing of the Unified Kings, that would have been simple enough, if time-consuming
>Ascend the mountain, meet with your own metaphorical “old stallion”…
>Yet… you’ve already met an old stallion, haven’t you?
>And a young one…
>You still feel terrible about having to leave Braeburn’s house without explaining to him your situation, but it isn’t as if you had much of a choice
>Besides, if what you believe to be true is indeed the Truth, then this is all predestined, all part of Mater’s plan
>The mountain was never your goal; it was always the ancestral floodplain, where in that biblical age of ages the first ponies of Rich Valley were swept away by the waters of the sea, and Celestia’s own Truth could not save them from that fate
>But the waters made what would become Rich Valley impossibly fertile, sowing the seeds of all that has grown here
>Now, it’s congress with a certain somepony you seek, somepony who is, according to Applejack, within these great walls before you
>In your periphery, Applejack tilts her hat up to look farther down the long driveway, which is rapidly shortening ahead of you
>A visible grin materializes on her face, and she straightens her slumped posture a bit
>You turn to look in the same direction to see what she sees
>A small, golden-coated filly with an intensely scarlet mane and an equally bright red bow comes galloping out of one of the many small gardens on your left in a beeline towards the moving carriage
>It only takes a few seconds for her to meet with it; she’s fast for her size
>Much faster than you ever were at her age
>The filly slows to a trot and stares up at you and Applejack through the carriage’s open window, her amber eyes squinting curiously when they meet yours
>One eyebrow goes up; she appears perplexed
>When she speaks, a sing-songy higher-pitched replica of Applejack’s voice comes out
>”Applejack?”
>”Hey, Apple Bloom! Where’s Babs? You usually come play with her out here in the morning, don’t you?”
>”We had a fight. We ain’t friends anymore.”
>Applejack rolls her eyes, smiles and leans further out the window
>”You two have a fight darn near every weekend. She’s family. You’ll come around.”
>”I know. Where’d you go this morning?”
>”Had business to take to. Don’t be worrying your head about it.”
>”Cobbler made blackberry cobblers for breakfast. I saved one for you in the big kitchen.”
>”Aw, well shucks, thank you kindly, sis. I’ll have it for lunch.”
>The carriage suddenly lurches to a halt as the two well-dressed stallions pulling it stop in their tracks and stand at attention
>You’ve arrived at the front walk, a cobble-paved path leading up to bright red twin front doors
>Without the racket of the wheels bouncing against the pavement, you can faintly hear the distant hum of a motor, perhaps a lawn mowing machine or a weed whacker
>Despite its classical appearance, Sweet Apple Manor is clearly modern in its amenities, and a nagging feeling tells you you’ll soon discover the full extent of that modernity
>Huffing and puffing, the little filly, who you’ve surmised is Applejack’s younger sister, catches up to the carriage and waits dutifully as you and Applejack both disembark
>As you step down, careful not to fall flat on your face from the steep drop of the steps, you see that same look of confusion on the filly’s face
>”Applejack… who’s that?”
>Applejack rustles her sister’s mane, making her squeal and laugh
>”This here’s Twilight Sparkle. She’s a yoo-nee-corn from the big city up north. Twilight, this is my least favorite little sister, Apple Bloom.”
>”Hey! I’m your only little sister! How can I be your least favorite?”
>Applejack smiles wryly
>”Guess you’re my most favorite, too.”
>She turns to you, a more serious look taking her face once more
>Without breaking eye contact, she addresses Apple Bloom again
>”Sugarcube, is Granny up and about?”
>”Yeah. She got up to go talk to Golden Delicious in the pasture about sumn’ or other. She’s back now.”
>”I told her not to go to the pasture anymore, she knows what that walk does to her hip… where’s she at?”
>”The purple parlor, last I saw her. Knitting.”
>”Thanks, Apple Bloom. Come on, Twilight. Let’s go in.”
>As she addresses you, you feel almost as though you’re regaining control of your own body; whereas before you were only a passive observer, you’re now… part of something new, in a sense
>Integrated within the system
>You follow Applejack’s lead up the walk, then through the double doors
>The entrance hall is modest, boasting a single tight spiral staircase and three arched portals leading into adjoining hallways
“Your sister seems like a delightful young filly, Applejack. She would fit right in as an acolyte at the convent.”
>”That right? She may seem mild-mannered, but like all us Apples she’s got a bit of a rebellious streak to her. Last week she dropped pumpkins over the garden wall on the heads of a couple of her cousins and laughed her little tail off. Had to have a little talk about that one.”
“How many Apples are there?”
>”In all our orchards? Bout three hundred million in a year, give or take.”
“I meant—”
>”I know what you meant. Heh.”
>The hallway Applejack’s chosen takes a sharp turn, leading into a long, beautifully decorated dining room
>Chandeliers from above illuminate the redwood surface of an enormous table at the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by simple round-top wooden chairs
>”Count the chairs. I’ll wait.”
>Surprised, you begin to count steadily before being interrupted with another laugh
>”Nah, no I won’t. Around four hundred in the Valley, not counting the ones named some other name. The Manor’s home to fifty-seven of us. Mostly my first cousins, their wives and husbands and their foals. Me, my sister, and my Granny Smith sit at the head of the table, since we’re what you call ‘nobility’, if that counts for anything in these parts. My brother Big Macintosh used to sit there too, in that huge chair next to mine. But he’s in the Canterian Army now. Sends me letters from out west, fighting those machine worshippers you hear about on the news. Or, I suppose you don’t, huh? All things considered.”
“You mean… the Exsilists?”
>”So you do know about them?”
“I’m not entirely oblivious to the world. We get the news from the fruit vendors, and sometimes the Matron lets me read her weekly newspapers. She’s gone blind these last few years, so she hasn’t much use for them herself anymore.”
>”It’s hard fighting, from what I know. Them’s vicious things, worse than any enemy we’ve ever fought before. And that ain’t just from their weapons, neither. I’m a… well…”
>Applejack turns and walks along the edge of the table, carefully hiding her face from you with the brim of her hat
>Did she just… blush?
>”Let’s just say I’m a scholar on the subject. What with all the changes being made, it’s nice to know where it’s all coming from. I… I worry about my brother, being out there. But he made that choice on his lonesome, and I wasn’t in any position to keep him from doing what he thought was right. Lot of us been drafted these past few years. Not him; he went because he wanted to.”
“You miss him, don’t you?”
>”Don’t get sappy with me, Miss Sunshine. Of course I miss him. But I don’t cry my eyes out of their sockets every night about it like some folks. He’s a tough colt. Strong. Little on the simple side, but that didn’t keep me from admiring him when we were foals.”
>Whipping her long braided ponytail about, she glares at you with those deep emerald eyes, beckoning with her left hoof
>”Enough time spent in here. We need to find my Granny.”
>With that, Applejack rounds the far edge of the long carved table, passing beneath an ornate tapestry depicting an impossibly fertile jungle of fruits, vines, and trees growing amongst and into one another
>All interlinked, all joining somewhere at the apex, beyond the frame of the image, coalescing into—
>You’re following her now, following her to her grandmother the Celestian
>There’s nothing else to think about, Twilight; nothing ethereal, only the very real possibility of ascribing meaning to this heretofore meaningless journey
>Meaningless? It was ordained upon you! Dictated by Mater Herself, Truth on high!
>Where are these conflicting notions coming from?
>The change of scenery, perhaps? The “golden standard” afflicting you, as did the blood on the spotless white floors of Mons Station?
>Regardless, a separation constant pulls you towards the realistic; there’s simply no room in your mind anymore for doubts spurned by the waters of the trench, no room for… for…
>The warmth there, so comforting, so… so EXOTIC and ALIEN and…
>Maker-esque
>No! It was only a dream!
>An epiphany, to be sure, but immaterial, inconsequential
>Even Celestia’s spiritual awakening, her transformation from Princess to Prophetess, stemmed from an entirely physical motivation: awakening from her slumber on the heights of See Rock, awakening to Mother Sun rising in the east
>Hearing the voice and the words of Truth, feeling her own Syncresis joining, chainlike, with the sky above
>A physical, real force is driving you now, and you won’t allow it to slip away
>This will be your ticket towards…
>”Applejack?”
>Ascension
>Blinded by your own thoughts, you run headlong into Applejack’s flank, who stands sturdy as though barely feeling the impact
>You, however, fall flat on your own flank and return to reality swaddled in your own robes, which have presently tangled themselves around your form in an uncomfortable spiral
>It hardly concerns you, however; what matters now is… was the voice, and, and…
>Sweet Celestia
>You’ve happened upon a stairwell, four stories high, spiraling upwards towards a purple ceiling, and against that ceiling a thin, shaking silhouette looms large against the oaken banister on the top floor
>Applejack is staring too, apparently recognizing the source of the voice calling her as that same silhouette
>She appears to be talking; her lips are moving, and words are certainly coming out
>But you’re too awed to hear them, for the simple fact that this staircase is identical to that which appeared in a vision you once had
>Once… was it only moments ago? Hours? Days?
>The illusion of déjà vu clouds your memory, but you’re certain you’ve seen this in a dream
>You were blind then, and the staircase was composed of shadow-forms, and you FELT the Sights, not merely observing but UNDERSTANDING them
>Light-headed… feeling faint…
>Numena…
>”Twilight! Hop on up!”
“Whuuh?”
>Applejack approaches you, righting your robes and hauling you back to your feet
>This time, the crippling sense of dread disappears, but the memory of what you witnessed does not
>You KNOW you’ve seen this staircase before, in your first epiphany
>”Are your ears full of raspberry jam? That was my Granny.”
“Your… your Granny?”
You look up again, to see that the silhouette has disappeared from its ominous position at the top of the winding staircase
>”She’s upstairs, and I ain’t gonna make her come down. Let’s go and get the two of you introduced.”
>The shadow must have been Applejack’s grandmother, not…
>Well, whatever you thought it had been
>(Fires)
>The stairs had been burning then, and there was a bridge towards…
“Up there?”
>”The purple parlor. Come on up with me.”
>You shake your head, shake the dread away, and ascend with Applejack one step at a time
>(Fires on the edges of the world)
>Ascend…
. . .
>When you reach the top, you notice that the light has grown dimmer, as though clouded by a presence of some kind
>The flowery wallpaper, sky blue at the bottom of the stairwell, has transformed into a deep purple, to match the silky carpet
>Through the doorframe before you, a tall room with walls covered in paintings of all shapes and sizes rises ominously
>Beside you now, Applejack nods wordlessly, gesturing with her eyes for you to go ahead of her into the parlor
>You gulp, muttering a brief litany under your breath as protection against the darkness welling up inside you, and step forward
>The old floorboards creak as you walk, and on a layer of sound beneath that noise you hear a sharp clicking noise, a staccato rolling over and again
>You know that sound all too well; you’ve done your fair share of knitting in between prayer sessions
>Another common bond…
>Something makes you hesitate at the threshold, beneath that alabaster doorframe which now seems miles above you, but a soft voice from beyond forces your legs back into motion:
>”Come in, dear. Don’t be shy.”
>You obey, peering around the corner as you walk forward, tracing the origin of the voice
>She’s sitting there, hindlegs folded neatly beneath her hips, forehooves ringed with hoop holders, busy working two shining needles through the loops of an afghan
>Her coat is a gentle lime green, a bit thin in spots from age, and her joints are noticeably trembling even from this distance
>Even still, she’s deftly crafting a piece of art, hooves steady as rock, narrowed eyes focused on her work
>Judging by looks alone, she appears to be around the same age as the Matron Celest, perhaps less than a decade her senior
>Her mane is a thin mass of silver strands, gathering yarn-like at the top of her crest and falling in winding wires around her ears
>You creep along the edge of the rug towards her, almost feeling Applejack’s breath on your flanks as she shadows you
>”Come around this way, dear. Let me get a look at you in the light.”
>Before Applejack’s grandmother, a square of light cast from the window in the far wall illuminates the violet rug and a column of fine dust particles wisping through the air
>Your heart pounding now, it takes serious effort to enter that square of light, that divine warmth from Mater Solis Herself
>You are afraid of the sunlight, you realize all at once
>You are afraid of Her power over your fate
>Applejack takes up a standing position next to the Baroness, craning her neck to whisper something in the elderly mare’s ear
>The ear perks up suddenly, and shortly following that movement her head perks up as well, revealing two deep-set, squinting amber eyes, the same color as Applejack’s sister’s
>That soft voice sounds off again, and the Baroness’ curled lips move to match it
>”Nos gratias ago vos Mater Solis.”
>It takes great effort not to cry out upon hearing these familiar words, but you restrain yourself
“In hac die et in omnibus diebus.”
>When Applejack told you a few hours ago that her grandmother was a Celestian of the Faith, and a former Sister Initiate, it was as though you’d heard the words, but not fully understood their meaning
>You’d organized your thoughts around this moment, but… the emotions you feel now, they’d gone unanticipated entirely
>”Resurget in illa orientalem.”
>She rises in the East
“Occasum in illa plagam.”
>She sets in the West
>”She Lives.”
“She Lives.”
>You want to embrace this mare as you would the Matron; she reminds you of her so very much
>Only now are you beginning to grasp how much you miss home, what only two days away from that place where you spent your entire life up until now could do to you
>”I never taught my children the meaning of those words. My grandchildren never learned them at all. All at once, long ago it seems now, the Holy Light faded from this place. Do you know why that is, dear?”
“I h-have an idea.”
>”Do you KNOW why that is?”
“The New Maker’s Handbook. The second and greatest Golden Revolution of technology, fifty years ago.”
>”In the hearts of those who would have been faithful, the light of the Truth of Mater was replaced with devotion to their machines. They’ve made their own truth, their own gods. Why are we surprised that there are cults who take that devotion to its logical conclusion?”
>”Granny?”
>Applejack, who seemed almost to have dematerialized during this exchange, appears once more with a disturbed look painted on her face
>”You… you ain’t sounding like yourself.”
>”Forgive me, dear. This is what the past does to a pony, it… it reverts them. Makes them young again, even if just for a moment.”
>She looks to you again, still knitting
>”Your robes did that to me, Sister. Your eyes, too. I see Sight in them. I see my Matron in them.”
“N-no! No, I mean, no. I’m no Sister Solaris. I don’t see the Truth. I’m just a m-missionary…”
>”You see things, don’t you? In dreams.”
“S-stop it…”
>Applejack’s eyes dart to her grandmother, then to you
>”Twilight, what in the hay is she talking about? Is this some sort of ritual I don’t know about?”
>”Don’t you, dear? I remember brushing with the power myself. It was too much for me. I chose to leave that place and never look back. You look back all the time, don’t you?”
>”Twilight? What’s she saying?!”
>You can almost feel the color draining from your face, the horror gripping you
>This isn’t how you wanted this to go, no!
>What is this fear, this weakness? How can she see so clearly through you unless…?
“I… I…”
>”Have nothing to explain to me. Applejack, dearie, don’t you worry your little head about anything. Your granny’s just making a little joke.”
>”A-alright, Granny. You just got me worried there, was all.”
>Applejack looks to you, clearly still a bit shaken, though not nearly as much as you are
>”Twilight, may I introduce you to my grandmother, the Baroness Granny Smith of the Apple Family. Granny, Twilight here was shacked up with Braeburn at his mother’s old house. I had to keep Sadd’lah from tearing her to bits, and then I figured I’d bring her round here once I found out she were like you.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, B-baroness.”
>”Aw, don’t kowtow to me with that title. My granddaughter does all the work for me anyhoo these days. All I do is knit and help with the zap apples when they’re in season. This’un’s the real Baroness already, ain’t ya, AJ?”
>”I don’t know about that, Granny. Just doing my part.”
>”She’s modest. Now, Twilight, to what do I owe the honor of meeting you, who must’ve traveled a heck of a long way to come here to this godless place?”
>Here it is, the defining moment
>Even now, you aren’t certain what you should say to this former Sister, especially with her granddaughter present
>You’ve already reassured yourself that this could be somepony you might be able to trust with your epiphanies, and moments ago she showed signs of already knowing
>How did she know that? How could she have seen right through your façade, knowing nothing about you, seeing only the barest form of what you’d decided to put on the table?
>You hadn’t aimed to “play” her, per se, but… perhaps it’s better this way, with this silent understanding between the two of you
>Leaving Applejack in the dark…
>(Find Honesty, Twilight Sparkle)
>Find Honesty
>There was emphasis on that word, wasn’t there? Within the dream-space, there had been a clarity, a resonating echo, an intangible but comprehensive datum which you had ignored until now, hadn’t there been?
>Thus, in what seemed to be minutes but truly was only a moment, the words come flowing out, deep and true
“Why did you leave the Sisterhood, Baroness?”
>Granny Smith looks to be taken aback for an instant at your boldness, but soon her features settle into a warm placidity, as if she expected the question
>”When I was young and bright-eyed, the world seemed like a big garden, one I could frolic around in and do as I pleased. I grew up in this house, same as my mother, same as hers. I found the Light more attractive than any of my friends did, or anypony I knew. I went to the convent seeking what so many mares who join the clergy seek: opportunity. Opportunity to leave the presence that was my family. Opportunity to find a higher purpose in the Great Mother.”
>She shifts in her seat slightly, still weaving her twin needles through loops, one after the other
>”It was dawn one morning when I felt the touch of something I could hardly understand. Something cold and warm, something bright and dark, something… tall and small. It weren’t no dream, no, no dream. I was awake, alive, I saw it and felt it and it made my blood run cold in my veins. It’s in ruins now, but once a long time ago the convent of the Valley had a staircase that spiraled up the side of Mount Fillai, up to a box in the side of the rock that you could go inside and gaze out over the far mountains, all lined up in the south like teeth. I woke up, I put on the robes, I said the old words, and I went there, to the staircase to look out and wonder. I did that sometimes, just gazed and wondered.”
>The room’s violets seem to pop out at you now, all mixed together into a chaotic soup
>They aren’t… natural, like they seemed before
>”But when I came to that staircase and I felt that touch, icy and hot, it called me upwards. It spoke to me in some tongue I couldn’t understand. I looked up at the concentric circles of the stairs, and there were stars in the tower, bright stars. Burning, exploding stars, all the colors of the rainbow. Everything else was dark. There was a voice then, different from the one I heard before. It spoke from the top, from inside the watchtower. Applejack, I don’t think I’ve ever told you this before.”
>”N-n-no, ma’am.”
>It’s all so brutal now, so barren
>You were wrong about the Baroness’ age before: she now appears impossibly ancient, no uglier for her age, just… old, withered, desolate
>Far away
>”Stars, and a voice. A mare’s voice. It said something I have never forgotten, though I have forgotten much of those days.”
“What did it say?”
>Even your voice sounds different now; the delirium of it all has made you confident, brought the color back to your face
>It’s the feeling of the opium again, the comfort, the numbness
>(Shadows inside your eyes)
>”It was a verse from the Books of the Sun. Book Eleven, Verse 18:18. Celestia’s address to the Lunatic Tribe, before converting them: ’Walk to me through the fire. Walk to me and dry yourself in the warmth. Reach beneath the curve of the moon; look no further into its frozen light. Cull its power over you, for you are the masters of that power. Look, with immortal eye, to the eyes that save you. I will show you the power you hold over the Truth.’ Then I saw, one hoof over my mouth, I saw through the stars and the cloudy darkness… I saw a shadow. A shadow cast by a column of light, a shadow in the shape of a pony. And I knew I was speaking to an angel then. I knew she wanted me to do something I could not do.”
“What did you do instead?”
>”The only thing I knew how to do then, Sister Twilight Sparkle. I took an opportunity. When the sun crested over the floodplains, I folded my robes on my bed and I left that place and I came home to my family. I’d never gaze from the tower again. I’d never see anything like what I saw that morning. Maybe it would’ve brought me closer to Mater. Maybe it would’ve doomed me. But it was a call, and I was too chickenshit to answer it.”
>”G-granny!”
>Applejack leaps at that word, her expression that of a mother chastising her foal for such language
>But there’s a layer of fear behind her eyes too; fear of what this sudden change represents
>This mare is more like the Matron than you thought, you realize now; now this is the deconstructive phase, the toppling of the structures you’d imposed upon yourself
>The confidence is still building inside you, but beneath that is the same fear you’ve always felt, only suppressed by the Truth’s binding will
“You renounced the Faith.”
>”I renounced the Sisterhood, not the Faith. I still believe in the Great Mother, dim as she may be in these times. But as time passed, and the Handbook changed everything we knew was possible, it felt unlikely that anypony would care about my silly old stories of prophets and magic. REAL magic. Not the type you unicorns make from your horns—”
>She points with a thrusting hoof, much quicker than you expected from one of her age, at the vestigial growth atop your forehead
>”Mater’s magic. Celestia’s magic. The words, oh, the joining of hooves in hooves, the menagerie…”
“I’ve never used my horn. I was raised in my convent in Mons Canteria. I want to See the Truth of Mater, like my Matron. Like you did.”
>”You already have, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve come here.”
“I don’t know why I’ve come here. It was an epiphany that willed me to this Valley. Into this house.”
>”And you want an arrangement. What, given your circumstances, do you think is your purpose here, Twilight Sparkle?”
“I… I want to bring the Faith back here. And if that’s not possible, I want to help you with your problems, in any way that I can. I know it isn’t much to go on, but I want peace. Honesty. I want everypony to be truthful about their intentions.”
>”So lemme get this straight.”
>Applejack seems to have returned to a more normal mood, interjecting in the same brutally honest tone she took when you met
>”You ain’t a missionary? You came all the way here because of a dang dream?”
>”Dreams are powerful vessels in the world of the divine, AJ. Powerful vessels, indeed. Strange powers come out of them, beyond even what we know, those of us who’ve studied them. Twilight is on a mission, to be sure. But one that is not wholly her own.”
“I was told to find Honesty here, beneath Mount Fillai. In the floodplain. I’ve been drawn to this place magnetically. I want to prove that the Faith can be compatible with the New Maker’s Handbook. That our Sisterhood can thrive with the rest of the world, that Mater’s power could be witnessed instead of shunned. It never had to be a replacement. There never had to be a transformation. Only… only a growth.”
>”That’s nice and all, but what exactly do you need us for? If what you say is true, and some kind of magic I don’t even know exists told you to come to us, what was the reason for it? Do you know that? Do either of you know that?”
>”An exchange.”
>For the first time since you saw her silhouetted over the landing, against the violet light, a ghost through time and space, the Apple Baroness stands
>She rises from her chair onto rickety joints and shaking knees, her knitting tools sliding to the carpeted floor, forgotten
>”An equivalent exchange, Applejack. You help us with a par-ti-cu-lar problem of ours, Twilight Sparkle, and we’ll help you find your Truth. For now, you can stay here in Sweet Apple Manor. Celestia knows we’ve got the room.”
“That’s very kind of you, Baroness. But before I can accept, I should at least fulfill my obligation to Braeburn and tell him I’m—”
>”You’ll be seeing Braeburn again very shortly, dearie. Don’t you worry a lick about that.”
>You suddenly remember what Applejack told you earlier, that her grandmother didn’t take kindly to mentions of Braeburn’s name
>But there’s no anger in her voice, no more than ever before; in fact, a slight smirk has gathered on the old mare’s face
>And, in a moment of profound clarity, as though the Truth were spilling forth from the Mother’s Garden to sow the seeds of prophecy, you understand completely what your end of this exchange will be
 
******
 
>Your horn aches
>It was subtle before, this pulsating sensation, but now it’s grown to the point that ignoring it is no longer possible
>The feeling’s like water, sloshing side to side in a small space, pressurizing every surface in turn
>No; it’s more like an electromagnet, wrenched invisibly across the span of an alternating coil back and forth, back and forth
>That’s EXACTLY how it feels; you’re reminded of the delicate mechanisms in the clock tower, or the levitation of the train on its sleek tracks, or…
>Ah, something even more potent arises
>What it reminds you of the most is the withdrawing and returning of your own body to the Mission, the coming and going of your thoughts, absence and attention to your surroundings
>Everything is… too perfect so far, right?
>Well, not quite right; you’re being forced to take part in something you shouldn’t be involved with whatsoever, a family matter you’ve stumbled upon by sheer coincidence or fate or Mater knows what
>The Mission… you’ve come to capitalizing it in your thoughts, haven’t you?
>The Mission towards ascension, wherever it leads you
>And besides your current predicament, that path has seemed remarkably easy, unmistakably fast
>You’ve gone from home to what very well may be both a physical and a spiritual destination in a matter of three days, not counting the time spent deliberating and preparing for this journey in the safety of the convent
>Still… your horn aches, inhibiting you from drifting to sleep beneath these warm covers
>The pain comes and goes, draws and recedes, waxes and wanes
>Rises and sets
>You are Twilight Sparkle, Sister of Solemnity of the Celestian Faith of Mater Solis
>Around thirty-six hours have passed since you met the Apple Baroness, Granny Smith, and reached a significant milestone in this journey
>In twelve more hours, you suspect, you’ll reach another
>When Mother Sun rises in the east, Applejack will wake you from your slumber (which is long in coming), and together you’ll go and do what you suppose you’ve been unconsciously groomed to do since you entered Rich Valley
>Since you first laid eyes on those jagged mountain peaks, shadow-pyramids joined by sloping masses of soil and rock to the earth, tapering to zero at the sky’s limit, blood-crimson sunset magnifying them in your perpetual mind’s eye
>The peaks here are certainly no match for the awesome height of the great black mountain on and around which Mons Canteria is built, but together, as one entity, they certainly overcome it by volume
>Admittedly, there’s something mesmerizing about them even now; at least, those you can glean through the spotless matrix of glass at the end of your temporary bed chamber, a window into a field of distant pines and firs
>Over top of the treeline, some of the mountains composing the northerly border of Rich Valley are visible, if only just barely
KUU-THUMP
“Gh!”
>There’s the pain again, now concentrated almost entirely at the pointed tip of your horn
>As soon as you feel it, it recedes, then returns, then recedes again
“Sinu…soidal…”
>Your voice is hoarse, muffled by the sheets you’ve cocooned yourself within
>It really is PRECISELY like the movement of an electromagnetic waveform, represented physically as the movement of the clock in the tower but fundamentally a far more abstract concept
>The dull pain rises on a curve to its sharp peak, crests, then falls back to zero
“Ow. Owww…”
>You reach to clutch it with both your hooves, but take pause; you were taught as a filly never to do something so shameful as rub your horn in bed
>So instead, you simply lie there, allowing the ache to take its toll, wondering if there’s something you could take to ease the pain
>Hmm…
>Perhaps in the bathroom? Applejack did tell you that you could find just about anything in a certain cabinet behind the mirror…
>Well, anything’s preferable to this, no doubt
>You take a few moments to wrestle with the mass of soft blankets and comforters lining your guest bed, snaking out of their grasp and righting yourself on the edge of the midnight-black bedframe
>The skin beneath your coat bristles when you read the scarlet segmented lettering on your bedside clock’s face: 1:08
>Looks as though you aren’t getting much sleep tonight after all
>As you make your way across the unnecessarily wide gap between the bed and the door into the adjoining bathroom, you ruminate on a few items of interest
>First and foremost, the Mission
>That being what Granny Smith told you six hours ago, over empty plates and full stomachs, over the chorus of conversation in that place downstairs
>Over the nightly feast of the Apple family of Rich Valley…
 
~~~~~~
 
>”We need to move against Baron Rich, and soon. Otherwise there’s gonna be blood, and nopony wants that.”
>”I wouldn’t say it so severely, Granny. There ain’t gonna be a dang revolution or nothing.”
>”Applejack, sweet child. I’d have thought you knew better’n any of us that this is no flash in the pan. What Baron Rich is doing is against everything we’ve stood for. And it ain’t me, mind you, that wants a war. I’m no warmonger. But them Plums, them Pears… them’s hot-blooded ponies with old hatreds for the Riches. They’re the ones leaning on me to take care of the Saddle Arabian problem the most, and I’ve been telling them all this time we been doing what we can do, but they won’t have it. They think we’re protecting Braeburn from them.”
“But you are, aren’t you? He’s living on Apple lands, and he’s an Apple.”
>Both Granny Smith and Applejack turned towards you then with sharp, inquisitive looks, as though they’d forgotten you were sitting next to them
>When they saw what you can only assume was genuine curiosity on your face, their tense expressions lightened
>There were raucous giggles on your left, and you briefly regarded Apple Bloom and another filly a bit older than her busy at work stacking silver forks into a pyramid
>The whole of the dining room, which you had first admired when you passed through with Applejack on your way to meet the Baroness the previous day, was decked with tall, slim candlesticks, flames flickering in cups of wax on gilded podiums
>Chandeliers overhead provided more ambience, crystal kaleidoscopes painting the rich redwood table a gorgeous golden brown, and marking the walls in spots with concentrated points of white light
>Under any other circumstances, your surroundings would have been serene, perhaps even somber; romantic in their tempered beauty
>But during an Apple family dinner, not so
>All fifty-seven residents of Sweet Apple Manor, plus guest, were gathered in loose fashion around the oblong table, some singing, some chatting, some performing tricks or telling jokes, the fillies and colts gathered in their corners now to make mischief, maids swooping in to collect plates licked clean of their former fruity cuisine
>All of them loud and unruly in a homely way
>You’d been introduced to a few of them, but most were faces still alien to you; it surprised you how easily they accepted a unicorn stranger at their dining table
>There had been an assortment of sweet dishes too numerous to list, and everypony had had their proper fill
>Now, in the cacophonous aftermath of the meal, speaking in hushed tones at the end of the table by the great crackling fireplace, twisting flames casting ember-shadows on your faces, Applejack and Granny Smith conspired with you
>”Lots of ponies live on Apple land. Most of them now are Saddle Arabians on the basin, and through towards Richton where they’ve built up their souk. That ain’t the issue. The issue is that where Braeburn goes, his name follows him, and even being natural-born he’s untouchable by any of the other families.”
>Applejack picked up her hat, which she’d taken off for dinner, from beneath her chair and began fanning it absentmindedly
>”There was a feud about, oh, hundred-ten years ago. Plums against Berries. Baaad business. Granny’s daddy was around for it. Lot of lives got taken for no dang reason at all. Since then, we set down rules, and the Baron Rich at that time signed them into law for the whole Valley. If you’ve got the name Apple, Plum, Berry, Pear, or Orange, you don’t go about messing with names that ain’t yours.”
>Granny Smith nodded slowly, sagely
>”If they try to approach him friendly-like, he’ll scram. He knows what they want. If they try to rope him into a deal, well then they’d best answer to us. I ain’t been so fond of the colt ever since he bugged out on us and his daddy alike, but the rules are the rules. Nopony lays a hoof on my grandson and gets off with it.”
“YOUR grandson?”
>”I said first cousin, didn’t I? Braeburns mother was my aunt. Granny’s middle daughter.”
“If it’s such an enormous issue that the excommunicants are flooding into the Valley—and don’t get me wrong, I understand why it is—but why can’t you all just work it out with Baron Rich himself? Why try to approach him through his son?”
>Through all of this talk, somepony at the far end of the table was singing a song with the same tune as a hymn you used to know, albeit with different lyrics
>For a moment, you were back in that place, a small filly Initiate among others your age or older, lined up in neat rows upon the stands, reciting with Sister Freshleaf the songs of the Old Tribe…
>”Because he’s stubborn, that Baron. That’s why. He’s dang stubborn, always has been. Time was his daddy would listen to reason in the monthly summits we’d have, all the Barons and Baronesses of the Valley come to make everything easier for each other. He don’t come to those, not since Newcastle gave him permission to bring these mudponies—”
>”Granny!”
>The Baroness shook her head, her eyes darting about the room as though confused, then returned her attention to you and Applejack
>”I’m sorry. That was hateful of me. There are old feelings nestled up in me that I don’t want to feel anymore, but that don’t stop them from bubbling up every now and again. They could be any type of pony under Mother Sun, and they’d still be eating up more than the valley could grow in only a few years’ time. Filthy Rich’s big gaudy cylinders ain’t worth a dang deficit, or worse, a halt on export. No matter how temporary.”
“So you’ll need me to… to…”
>It was Applejack who spoke up
>”We need you to approach Braeburn. He won’t see me or anypony else from the family, and he sure as shooting won’t see the other Families. But if you came to him, as a friend, and convinced him to talk to his daddy…”
>”And believe me, dearie, if there’s one pony Filthy Rich might listen to, even after all this time they’ve spent apart, it’s my grandson…”
>”Then there’s a chance he might make some changes in a positive direction.”
“I… I just don’t know. I barely know him. I spoke with him for an hour! Surely with your history, you could do better…”
>”Twilight.”
>Those piercing emerald eyes gazed at you then, and you felt hypnotized once more
>How could they belong to somepony less than a year older than yourself?
>”There’s something special in you. I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe some things have to happen to keep things moving the way they should. And if you really did come here on a whim, for some reason I can’t understand, well then, I reckon this just might be it.”
>It was in that moment, when Applejack spoke those words, that the hornache began
>The sensation was slight at first, almost imperceptible, but you picked it up and focused on it, for you wanted desperately for it to recede
>It had only occurred in dreams before, this type of ache; only in epiphanies
>Now the phantom pain had breached the uncertain, hazy membrane between dream and reality, mind and world
>Only in dreams…
>”If you do this for us, Twilight, we’ll help you in any way we can. No matter the cost.”
>Somewhere, in some space which was not your own, the hymn was still being hummed, ghostly…
 
~~~~~~
 
>There’s a hum here, too; the plasmatic bulbs, a warm amber tint radiating from them that somehow still seems harsh on your sleepy eyes, fill the bathroom with a subtle, constant noise
>It’s only you now, dragging yourself across the smooth tile floor towards the medicine cabinet Applejack told you about
>Only Twilight Sparkle, the unmarked, the supposed future of the Sisterhood…
>If it’s what the Matron knows to be true, then certainly you mustn’t question it, no?
>You try to sigh, but another sound comes out instead, something…
>Wretched
>Oh, dear Celestia
>Your hind legs seem to move by themselves, scrambling now on the cold, sterile surface, through the ambience, towards the open bowl of the…
>You can almost feel your face going green as the moonlit grass outside the window
>And at the same time, one of your forehooves, you can’t even tell which, latches automatically to your mouth as if by instinct
>Old instinct, no doubt; it’s been a very long time since this—
“BLLEEEEEEEEEEEGGHHHUUHH!!!!”
>Down, and out
>You close your eyes, gasping for breath, wiping what remains from your muzzle and chin, trying and failing to ignore the Celestia-forsaken smell
>At least you didn’t miss your mark; it all seemed to make it into the bowl
>Did you eat too much at the feast tonight? Was something underdone? Or perhaps…
>This pain, persistent and wild, rippling in waveform within the bony thing on your forehead
>Curse it! Curse it all! Curse this predicament!
>You guess absently with one hoof for the pull-chain, finding instead a lever apparatus attached to one side of the toilet
>You flush the horrid stuff down, feeling still its acidic touch deep in your throat
>Your horn is making you nauseous
>The pain, this presence, is forcing sickness upon you
>Without hesitation, you lean against the nearby marble countertop and pray, pray in all the ways you know how
>The Litany of Truth, the Litany of Beseechment, the Litany of Courage, the Six Questions and Answers, the Recitals of Allowance…
>It all circulates through the air, words the meaning of which cannot be separated from the sounds, those intrinsic vibrations guiding the air in waves of their own
>And yet, somehow, you feel as though you’re saying nothing at all
>They are only words, hollow in the absence of the guiding light, bringing no relief to the pounding inside your horn
>(She cannot save you here)
>You draw yourself upwards, not wanting to open your eyes again but knowing you must if you’re going to find what you’re looking for
>(You’re almost all alone, Twilight Sparkle)
>When you do so, the blackness splitting down the middle and receding in two equal parts across your vision, your own mirrored image greets you
>(Almost…)
>Somehow, you expected to look different when you gazed upon your own image again; more world-weathered, more matured
>But this short time away from home has only served to mar your thoughts, not your visage
>Of course, your eyes do look a bit puffy, your cheeks a bit flushed, your tongue a bit dry, but those are symptoms of a different issue
>Your coat is the same shade of violet it’s always been, your teeth as pearly white as you’ve maintained them all your life, your features still young, too young…
>Behind the mirror, that’s what Applejack told you…
>You reach out to the edge of the mirror, pulling ever so slightly on the handlebar jutting from that periphery
>The hidden cabinet obliges, letting loose on its hinges and opening with a soft squeak
>The image of you thins, rapidly at first, then slowing as it reaches a knife’s edge, head-on
>Diminishing in diminishing amounts, reaching an apex of sorts…
>Then it’s gone, replaced by three stacked shelves decked with various bottled substances, all different shades of white or gray, all labeled
>You groggily select one of the many bottles labeled some variation of “Pain Relief”, spinning off its top and drinking the amount prescribed on its side
>The taste isn’t pleasant, but considering what your mouth tasted like before you swallowed the stuff, you aren’t complaining
>Almost immediately, the hornache lessens in severity, simmering down to a dull beat
>Far more tolerable, if not entirely gone
>Even still, you begin coughing from the flavor of the medicine, and for a moment you’re certain you’re going to throw up again, but the feeling subsides
>Finally, you manage to complete the sigh that just cost you your dinner
“What do you want from me?”
>It’s a question aimed at nopony in particular; not at the Goddess, not at the Matron, not at Numena
>Not even at yourself
>It’s all so immaterial, no matter what type of structure you attempt to impose on it
>You are NEEDED, aren’t you?
>As a spoke in some unknowable wheel?
>So why does that thought fill you more with dread than solace now?
>Why you, of all ponies?
>Why you?
>It’s a thought you carry with you back to the warmth of your temporary bed, back into the manifold of temporary darkness
>Back to
 
******
 
“1:21.”
>”What is that, Twilight Sparkle?”
“The time I was finally able to fall asleep tonight.”
>”How could you know so precisely?”
“Is it correct?”
>”Yes. But the continuity of reality and dream is a fickle notion; nopony in the world is cognizant at the moment of that transition, much less able to pinpoint the moment of their passing-over.”
“I must be special.”
>”You are special. You have always been special, Whisperer. Not, however, for the reasons you believe yourself to be.”
“You showed yourself to me only two nights ago. Are our meetings to become more frequent now?”
>”Do you not appreciate our meetings? Are they not satisfactory to your subconscious?”
“I didn’t say that. I… I’m only frightened.”
>”Of what, exactly?”
“I don’t remember. My memories haven’t followed me here. I don’t know where I am. I’m no longer home, that’s for certain. It’s… dark outside. The stars are different. The moon is barely visible. It’s in the clouds now… those blue clouds, passing over the mountains.”
>”You see clouds, now? Are you the only one who sees them?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
>”You’re coming to a new threshold, Twilight Sparkle. You’re approaching something material. This is indeed what you desire, yes?”
“I only want security. I want to know what my purpose is, if I’m to be mingling with this type of power. The M-matron sees these sorts of visions too, but she’s unbothered by them.”
>”She does not see what you see, Twilight. She receives a different sort of understanding, a separate aspect of Mater’s will. She knows in the most clairvoyant sense the words spoken through the conduit of the Prophetess. She SEES and KNOWS and DERIVES. But, alas, the words are faint, as they have always been. My words are crystal clear, are they not?”
“I hear them. I’m devoted to them. But its impossible for me to understand them. Those I do remember when I awaken won’t aid me. What’s important will be lost forever.”
>”All physical presences of any significance are forgotten by time, Whisperer. All material entities must go to the void. Ideas, and the mind’s eye, those extend into infinity. There were disturbances before, lost to history. You cannot possibly know what I have known. Before the Handbook. Before the Prophetess laid claim to this earth and its inhabitants. Before, even, the Makers.”
“You saw the Makers, then? You know their role in all of this?”
>”You know I cannot answer that for you. You also know that such a question is meaningless.”
“I… I would like to see them build, firsthand. No, I’d like to hear their thoughts. Hear the movements of their minds, know how they invented. Know how they came, or why they vanished.”
>”This is known, Twilight Sparkle.”
“How then, Numena? How could such a race have risen and fallen? How could they have left behind a legacy so potent that it changed everything ponykind knew was possible twice? Once in the times of the Prophetess, once again only fifty years ago?”
>”Across the wastes to the west, where the Cultists play amongst the ridges and the beckoning waves of that sea, across the strait, do you know what is found there? Do you know of the sickness? That which kills all who choose to venture there?”
“Th-this isn’t relevant…”
>”You wanted to know.”
“I don’t want to know anymore…”
>”The Western Plague is not natural, of course. Surely you’ve read of it, in all the time you’ve played at the fringes of knowledge. Do you know the depths of that pool? Are you willing to dive into its darkness and know the Truth there, too? Or are you content with being physical, simply an object to be forgotten once you’ve returned to the weeds? Are you so hypocritical that you desire ascension without the Depth that ascension implies?”
“No… no, I won’t… the Mother’s Garden—”
>”Is a place for the soul. That part of you shall return to Mater at the close of your mortal life. You will recombine with her, and perhaps you may even know peace in that heaven. As a devout mare of the Sisterhood, you are assured a place there, this is true. But the energy of that soul, it’s momentum across time and space, will be halted upon that release. What are you TRULY after, Whisperer?”
“Truth.”
>”Ah, no hesitation, then. Step to me.”
“I’m already near you.”
>”No, no, Twilight Sparkle. You are near my IMAGE. The staircase is growing thinner now, is it not? And the clouds above, are they not different as well?”
“They’re orange. Fiery. Almost golden. But there’s something black within them, too. It’s… ash. Ash and dust.”
>”Good. The choking flame. And beneath its glory, is there not another notion? A more potent evil?”
“Invisible. Oh, Celestia, it’s invisible. It’s… it’s a wave. The fire didn’t kill them, the wave did. The wave… the wave…”
>”I will spare you your customary fall into the Depths if you answer me this question, Whisperer in the Dark.”
>There is movement in the cloud, lights and life, imagined chaos, civilization brought to its close
>The angelic wings of Numena unfold, tall and dark, bending the light surrounding them, and in this moment the Depths are gone, utterly
>She is looking at you, so far away, farther than she’s ever been before
>The cloud is rising, rising along the pillar it stands upon, brighter than the Sun
>And the wave it carries… the wave is killing you
>It’s melting you, this invisible form, turning your flesh to rot
>The skin beneath your coat goes red, then white, then black
>And the question is burning in your horn until the moment you lapse back into the waking world, almost fearful in its cadence
>Almost…
>”When the Makers were turned to dust by the atom, do you think they knew the time of day?”
 
******
 
>At 4 AM, two full hours and change after you anticipated it, the call comes through at last, ringing soundly in your drowsy ears
>The harsh tone of the landline’s bell, that old-timey blast of noise you keep for nostalgia’s sake, lends itself quite immensely to the already growing welt of annoyance inside you
>The phone’s bulky antique frame is elevated atop two books about the art of persuasion, neither of which you’ve read in years, having long sloughed off their literary merit in favor of their handier physical contribution
>Next to it, resting delicately on a silvery coaster on your sleek glass nightstand, is the crystal glass of Chardonneigh you’ve been sipping absently all this time
>It’s been… tense, to say the least
>More irritating than anything, though that’s usually the case when you’re forced to deal with middle management on such important affairs
>You are Shetland Neighsay, Chancellor of the… bah, no, you don’t even want to think of all your stately obligations and titles
>Right now you’re Shetland Neighsay, the private citizen liberated momentarily from the trappings of public life, content to enjoy yourself in this luxuriant apartment you’ve missed so fondly
>Having already spent two nights here since returning to the Mons from Unicronia, you can scarcely believe that a mere seventy-two-odd hours ago you were sleeping beneath a canopy, listening to bombing tracks, silo launches
>Gunfire
>The battle never stopped there, you realize now; you took this fact for granted while staying in that death colony, listening to those sounds and understanding better the nature of war than you ever did in your stint as an officer
>You hadn’t been lying yesterday—well, two days ago now, you suppose—when you related to the Senatori how strongly you felt about those horrible conditions, how willing you were to rectify them by redoubling efforts across the board
>Even then, however, you didn’t appreciate the simple fact that you’d been able to canter right out of that place when the media had had their fill, having taken all their propaganda photos of you with the troops to make clear in the papers that, well, golly gee, you’re doing your part too!
>You, unlike the soldiers who remained in your wake, had come back here after only a month, back to your city, back to your apartments and the high glass windows and your deluxe bed that you haven’t shared with a mare for over a year now…
>But that’s besides the point
>No, actually, damnit! Why think of something as ridiculous as that right now?
>What could possibly have prompted that?
>…
“Ah, yes. Heh.”
>The ringing of the phone startled you into a more upright position at the edge of the bed, and from this stance you collect your half-full glass of now-warm Chardonneigh, taking down a soothing sip
>It was Black Bar, wasn’t it? Black Bar and his rumors…
>You’ve chosen not to distract yourself with the types of mares attracted to you solely for the cloak and badge you wear, and what does your Intelligence Minister do?
>Goes and spreads rumors to the tabloids about you and that Prench whorse while you’re practically under fire in Unicronia, unable to do anything about it
>Makes insinuations about you and Pink…
>The councilmare from Unicronia, who was CERTAINLY charming, but…
>No, damnit, no! Unacceptable!
>That slippery old weasel wants to rile you up with foals’ games, and it’s working!
>Your sip becomes a swig, then a gulp as the subtle fizz of the flattening wine stimulates your throat
>You haven’t had any alcohol in a month, either; the troops weren’t to drink, and you followed their example for practical reasons
>It’s nice to have it back in such trying times, but…
>Oh, who in Tartarus are you trying to fool?
>It’d be extraordinary for your image if you could suddenly give up all your vices, but there are some temptations you simply can’t quell
>Trying times? You drink all the time!
>And now that you’re away from the bombs and bullets, the sober greycoats lingering in the dust, alert, waiting for the draw, this vice will return as all others do
>Perhaps you’ll even call up an escort service and break the other promise you made…
>Call
>The phone!
>It’s still ringing, though the blinders that this combination of wine and insomnia have placed on your senses made you deaf to it momentarily
>Yes, yes, just reach over and grab it and…
>Pull it up to your ear, yes, there we go…
>Now speak; say the magic word
“Cadenza.”
>On the other end, pitch-perfect as ever with the new receiver you’ve had installed, your security lead retorts:
>”Sombra.”
>You’ve chosen these codenames, names of historical figures long passed from antiquity, as means of transferring sensitive information over the phone
>Were you under duress, you’d speak a different word, and within two minutes a platoon of security detail would rain hell upon this place and those who would dare exploit you
>Not that you’d need them now, of course
>Somewhere, you don’t know where (and, at this point, you feel rather safer NOT knowing) Pink is watching, always watching
>Waiting for another Tree Hugger to try their luck…
“Is it in?”
>”I’ve just received the package now. Transferring it up to you now. You’ll have to—”
“Sign for its delivery, yes, yes, I know. Hold for a moment.”
>As deftly as you can manage while this toasted, you slide off the side of your bed, landing on three legs and gripping the wireless phone against your ear in the fourth
>Trotting across the warm carpeted floor, lit only in thick copper bars by the lights of the city intruding through the angle of your blinds, you approach the wall at the far end of the bedroom
>An unsuspecting visitor to this chamber would see nothing out of the ordinary with this wall, on which there hangs but a single painting you procured at an auction one week after being elected Chancellor
“Now, Minister Black Bar, let’s see you find this secret of mine…”
>A groove, just a tiny little imperfection in the finish of the painting’s frame, pops out a millimeter or so from the rest of the wavy grain of the wood
>Among the other complex ridges, rises and falls of the detailed frame, it’s practically imperceptible
>You nestle your phone between your ear and your wither, freeing up that hoof to reach out towards the groove
>Then you press down on it lightly, letting it slide smoothly back into place with a satisfying click
>Now, a basic electronics sweep of this apartment would certainly be able to detect the small wireless signal emitter behind that groove, buried within the frame
>They might even be able to trace the origin of the encrypted signals it receives to be transmitted elsewhere
>But without foreknowledge, and due to the complex series of signal bouncers you’ve had meticulously installed in this room and in every room of your private apartments, they’d be hard pressed to determine where the signal goes next
>Logically, the answer is, of course, simpler than a mind like Black Bar’s could ever stoop to guessing
>By pressing that little groove, which even now is slowly returning to its initial ersatz position, you’ve “signed for the package” that your head of security has sent you, as it were
>As you step away from the painting and towards your ultimate destination this night, you ruminate on what she said to you the other day, those precocious little words that came flowing from her mouth:
>”Sir. Minister Black Bar’s orders, sir.”
>It had taken a little while after she’d left you alone in your office for you to realize just how powerful those words were
>Your security detail, headed up by the salty young mare who’s now breathing lightly on the other end of the phone, awaiting your confirmation, did not accompany you to Unicronia
>You were safe there, having been assigned a specially selected group of military-affiliated stallions for the job of protecting you; that was never your concern
>But you suppose you SHOULD have been concerned about what your security force here was getting up to during those short thirty days you spent abroad
>From what you understand, they were handling general security interests, filling out forms, taking a well-deserved break from guarding your ass…
>And, apparently, getting an earful from your Intelligence Minister
>If he’s changed their allegiance, especially your security head…
>Well, you don’t suspect that Ms. Drops would ever willingly betray your trust, but Black Bar’s got a way with words, no doubt
>It’s paranoia that’s been guiding every decision you’ve made these last few days, paranoia left over from the attempt on your life
>All of your host of potential problems these days seem to stem, directly or indirectly, from that chunky grinning savant
>How you wish you could be rid of him without jeopardizing national security…
>He’s good at his job, damn good, but the way he undermines you for leverage in his great chess match, seeking Celestia-knows-what endgame, it troubles you deeply
>Terribly unfortunate that nopony else in Canterium could do his job half as well as he does
>Not even you…
>”Do you have it?”
“Be patient. I’ve only just now signed for it.”
>The file is darting around the room invisibly, splitting and rejoining byte by precious byte, decoding and recoding to the tune of a cypher that’s rewritten every day
>This is the cost of absolute secrecy between you and one other trusted individual, leaving no go-betweens
>Your head of security is merely a delivery mare in this matter; she has no notion of what’s in the files she routes for you from her own office at Newcastle, nor where they come from, nor even of the technology you use to receive them safely
>You’re certain that all that’s on her desk now is a blinking red dot and a phone
>You’ve arrived at the server laptop in the adjoining room, keeping your ear pressed close to the phone, free hoof flipping the switch to power the machine up
>When that’s done, and you’ve passed through the four firewalls you’ve had set up on this computer solely to protect this sort of information, you caress the trackpad gently to the right, opening your specially constructed decoder software
>Of course, you didn’t program it; it was programmed for you by some other cog in the wheel of this operation, somepony just as unaware of how his software would be used as the rest of them
>As far as you know, no long-range wireless data interceptors would be able to read the bits and pieces of files sent through the program to be reconstructed and passed on to text format
>Nor, if they were to receive one encoded part of the whole puzzle, would they be able to work out the jumbled mess it’d return
>Foolproof
>Though Black Bar is no fool, nor are your more extant enemies…
>The software works its magic for a few moments, then at last prompts you to open the file it’s created from the relayed data
“The package just arrived at my front door. Thank you, Cadenza.”
>”Hope you enjoy what’s inside.”
“There’s no guarantee on that.”
>You hang up
>Knowing who the message is from, you’re sure that what you’ll find inside will be good news of some variety
>The uncertainty lies in whether it’ll be good news for you, or good news for the state
>They don’t always coincide…
>You hate to admit it, but what you’d LIKE, deep down, is irrefutable evidence that Black Bar is playing you, running some kind of deep-state coup behind the scenes, developing some superweapon and keeping you in the dark, something
>Anything to keep you interested, give you some kind of satisfaction!
>Or at least give you a reason to give him the horseshoe once and for all
>You sigh, regaining what little composure you can bear to sustain in private
>No hopes for the future, Shetland; only promises
>Only the truth can keep you moving forward, no room for speculation
>The laptop’s bright interface glows harshly in the darkness of this windowless room, casting a Chancellor-shaped shadow on the opposite wall
>The decoder program works its magic, parsing through metric tons of the meaningless red herrings that make up the bulk of the coded transmission, rooting out only what is necessary
>Converting that to a readable format…
>Rolling through the flexible cypher…
>None of this is shown to you, of course, and within a few seconds it’s over
>It’s telling, however, that it takes even that long on a machine that’s able to queue up veritable manifestos of low-clearance documents, gigabytes of pure information, in the blink of an eye
>Your cypher’s just THAT difficult…
>When the program closes automatically, the first thing that replaces it, as expected, is a notice that says, simply, “Wire Burn Complete”
>This has nothing to do with the actual contents of the message you’ve just decoded; rather, it’s a confirmation that all traces of the message have been back-terminated from every routing device it used to arrive here
>That includes the computer your head of security used to send you the file, which to her appeared simply as a garbled mess of unreadable files stacked inside one another
>And the computer the message was originally sent from…
>No chances on this one; it’s too damn important
>You close the popup and click on a folder that’s just been created on your desktop, labeled “BURN AFTER READING”
>Just in case you forget, which you never do
>Silently, aware of every fluctuation in the still, cramped air of this side-office, you tap the trackpad twice over the folder, and your screen turns a blinding shade of green
>On that field, a short message, typefaced in simple black lettering, appears:
 
C//////////////////////////////////
 
Clearance level now 3; thank you for new forged keycard and my program did the rest of the work for me. Interior inquiries run on co-opted agents revealed much: Supercomputers being transported to lower levels of facility along with other components. From hearsay, possible they are building some type of localized machine-learning brain down there. Catalogs swiped from engineer lab describe strange alloy not in any other databases. Uncertain of relevance or usage in design, if any. No trace of nuclear components in any designs so far.
Overheard talk that Foolsgold will be on site within few days. If true, may be running inspections like last time. Higher clearance means more likely to be vetted. Will stick to script and hope for best.
Lower-clearance activities relegated primarily to drilling for artifacts. As far as I know, nothing new found. Sorry to say neither Foolsgold’s nor Archangel’s documents are readable from current station. Will continue doing what I can on that end, but no promises. Contact me when able. No compromise on current feed, so will keep sending info the usual way.
-CHARM
 
C//////////////////////////////////
 
>…
>Over the course of a few minutes, you pore over the message several times, committing to memory every character of every word
>The meaning doesn’t matter at this stage; only the pure text on the screen, only the sounds the words make…
>Mouthing out the words, imposing patterns on the syllables, remembering
>After a while, it comes time to turn away from the screen and silently recite the entirety of the message to yourself without looking, if only to know absolutely that you’ve inured yourself to all its intricacies
>Then, and only then, when every bit of the decoded message exists equally in two places simultaneously, the computer and your mind, you close the message and drag its containing folder into another program you’ve had cooked up for you
>This one takes the message you just read and quite literally disintegrates it, not only deleting it from your hard drive but retroactively removing it and the process of downloading and decoding it from the state history on your laptop
>It’s gone now, vanished without any trace but one
>Now, the ruminating begins
>It takes a great deal of time to even process what you just read, and a great deal more to fully appreciate its implications
>First, the identity of its sender: your one and only Agent Clover, operating undercover out of CI Site 23, formerly known as the Maker’s Fist
>Your eye in the Badlands just confirmed his earlier suspicions that the supercomputer exchange occurring in the Ordo-operated site was bad business
>A “localized machine-learning brain”, eh?
>Undoubtedly, he comprehends more about technology like that than you ever will, but even you’re aware of what such a specialized device could be capable
>Paired with the sheer volume of processing power he’s witnessed firsthoof descending into the deepest, most secure recesses of that facility, a terrifying question occurs to you
>Why build a brain out there, in a hole in the desert?
>Assuming it’s an elaboration on a recently discovered entry in the New Maker’s Handbook, as is generally constructed and tested in a safe environment such as an actual research base, what advantage could building it inside the origin point of the Handbook possible afford?
>And yet, surely, Ordo Intelligentia’s got good reason to construct it there?
>What’s personally terrifying to you is the blindness that seems to be overcoming you now, a fundamental lack of understanding of Black Bar’s barest motivations, if he’s even involved at all
“Well of course he is, you old fool. Why even ask a question like that?”
>No, no, but what’s the angle? Surely you can puzzle out the logic at play?
>Yet it’s fruitless; try as you might, there just isn’t enough information yet to pass any judgments
>Agent Clover’s at least assuaged one of your more nagging concerns: that unauthorized nuclear weapons were being produced in that place
>No nuclear components…
>If the device isn’t a weapon, and its sole function is to think and learn, well…
>And then there’s the mention of a “strange alloy”, which is equally disturbing
>If your agent had more than simply hearsay, he might have been able to provide you with more details, but for now you’re stuck with the image of CI brewing unholy alchemical concoctions in Site 23 that could be used for all manner of secret projects
>All of them hidden from you, the head of the goddamned state!
>You’d fly into a rage at the preposterousness of this idea if it hadn’t been practically part of the job description when you first took office
>Here’s the keys, Chancellor, you can use them to open any closet you want and watch the skeletons dance inside! Oh, except for Black Bar’s over here, just, uh, just let him do his own little thing, heh heh…
>Wheels within wheels, plans within plans…
 >It’s a thought that always seems to occur to you when you think of the desert
>But if knowledge is truly something to be coveted over all other forms of power in the eyes of the crafty devotees of Ordo Intelligentia, well, you might have a lesson or two to teach them
>The alloy
>When you’re able to return Agent Clover’s message in kind, you’ll be sure to order him to investigate that strand of information further
>It tickles you the most out of everything he’s telling you, and you’ve got another of your famously accurate hunches that it’s relevant to their machine-brain project
>Now, on to the more equine-oriented contents of his memo
>Foolsgold is your black-hat agent’s clever little pseudonym for Black Bar, and knowing that he’ll be visiting Site 23 for inspections soon confirms your suspicions that he’s on the lam
>Dodging your calls, your secretaries, all for the purpose of abstaining from presenting you these mythical CI documents that he made such a fuss about
>Oh, but as soon as you request them, they suddenly don’t exist, and what’s more, he’s seen fit to run a checkup on a facility two thousand miles from here?
>How sad; you were planning on asking him to dinner one fine night this week
“And if he’s running inspections, the documents could be…”
>Sh!
“Blast. Quiet, dolt.”
>You’d slipped into verbal thought without even realizing it, and as soon as it happens you silence yourself
>Regular bug sweeps are conducted in this apartment by trusted agents loyal only to you, but you’ve no way of knowing for certain if, for example a repurposed weather drone with penetrating sonar could just happen by your window, completely by ACCIDENT
>You know it’s possible; you’re as guilty of employing such “help” as anypony
>Nor are you certain that loyalty to you and you alone is even possible anymore, especially given the types of corruptions that could’ve very well taken place in your month-long absence
>Pink…
>Ah, yes, well, Pink is proof enough that it’s POSSIBLE, at the very least; though she’s only a few rungs above a programmed robot in terms of free will
>In any case, your thoughts are becoming sidetracked
>Focus only on the information you’ve committed to memory, only on the facts
>The pony to whom Agent Clover coyly refers as “Archangel” is, you understand, the esteemed archaeological maverick Dr. Caballeron
>By sheer coincidence, you have history with this particular stallion; you both belonged to the same graduating class of your alma, Crystallatia College, and chummed occasionally, though you’d never have considered yourself a real friend of his
>When the War in the West first gained traction, the good doctor came into the service of Ordo, overseeing several of the southerly black-sites the budding CI had been hoarding
>Now, from what you understand from Clover’s intel, the Maker’s Fist has become Dr. Caballeron’s primary base of operations, seeing as how he rarely leaves the site these days
>With the heightened clearance you made possible for Clover to obtain, he must be in better contact with Caballeron than ever before; shame that swiping some of HIS documentation on the goings-on of that place would be providence too divine to even consider as a possibility
>Still…
>You rise from your chair, stretching your stiff back and fidgeting with the bed-robe you tossed absently over your shoulders earlier without even realizing it
>Even tired and toasted, you’re sharper in wits than the whole of the Senatori, and that’s a damn guarantee
>Let’s see, where were we… ah!
>Caballeron, being the control freak he is, albeit far less tidy in his doings than your Intelligence Minister, would be a good start in learning more about this mysterious project
>You could request a file share with him directly, seeing as how your own OI clearance level technically trumps his, but you doubt he’d budge any more than Black Bar has
>Not only that, but he’d likely double up on preventative measures and catch on to the fact that you’ve got a direct channel from inside his organization
>Agent Clover would be extraordinarily difficult to replace; nopony with his skill set and absolute loyalty to you would appear to exist at this moment
>And all the cloak and dagger, the subterfuge, the triple/quadruple safety systems you’ve installed to receive his messages, aren’t here to protect you in the slightest
>They’re to protect HIM, and HIS identity
>You’re insured, by sheer virtue of power, to be protected if a direct confrontation between the Chancellery and Ordo Intelligentia were to arise
>But you have weaknesses in other capacities, and crippling your investigation of Site 23 would be a difficult blow to recover from
>So no direct involvement; you’ll have to let Agent Clover do his own business and find out what he can in his own good time
>Reentering your bed chamber, a yawn escapes your lips, and a static haze comes over your eyes
>The silky sheets are beckoning you forth, oh, to wrap yourself in them!
>But, alas, it’d be a pointless venture
>Two hours of sleep won’t quite be worth the effort of finding your comfort again, so you suppose it’s back to it…
>You straddle yourself up onto the low mattress and lay outstretched on its warmth, your attention redirected to the warm Chardonneigh, still unfinished
>It takes no effort at all to take the rest down, to feel that electric spark drive up your sorely alcohol-deprived brain again
“Mmmm… well then, you’ve got two hours before the sun rises over this blasted mountain. How to spend it?”
>By looking on the lights, of course
>By admiring what’s been built here, the woven intricacy, the spectacular display of might
>Shuffling back out of bed, you softly approach the window and unfold the vanity drapes, drawing them open like stage curtains on the indigo skies to the north, blotted by specks of black nimbus
>One thinner cloud, an odd fluctuating net of scattered ebony particles, moves at an unnatural pace against the wind, deep into the space of night
>It surrounds the underbelly of a large cloud and burrows into it from all sides, eventually resurfacing in orderly lines sectioning off regions of the grey mass, breaking it down into smaller particulates
>When that’s done, the swarm regroups, taking on again into the highline breeze, on to their next vaporous target
>They’re weather drones; machines, about half the length of a pony and nearly twice as heavy, propelled into the air as armies of distant dust by rotary fans embedded in their “wings”
>Propelled…
>They fly with such obvious means…
>How precisely then, if rumors are to believed, does that damnable inverted dome to the west manage to stay off the ground, if not for…?
>No
>Now’s not the time or place to ruminate on such matters
>You’re losing your train of thought again; it’s been happening much more often as of late
>Too much on the brain and not enough time spent like this, merely dreaming of sights and sounds, scheming of novel ways to attain your ultimate goal
>Whatever that might be
>Win the war, by any means necessary, and then you suppose you’ll see what events transpire thereafter and react accordingly
>What you WERE attempting to dream was this: that if a New Maker technology so basic in its implementation, so cheap to manufacture, as a weather drone could be intelligent enough to coordinate precision strikes on clouds, follow abstract commands and carry them out by variable methods, as the pegasi once did before their grunt work was made obsolete…
>What depths, what sheer limits, could be explored by crafting a brain there, in the birthplace of the new age?
>What abhorrent nature might they be deconstructing there, what fragile notions of…
>Ah, too philosophical for your taste
>The real question is this: what variety of threat might it pose to you and to the state?
>None, of course; Ordo acts in the interest of the state, as its last wave of defense against the eternal enemy
>Information, the moat of the continuum, the everlasting stream from which that lesser power is drawn
>The drone swarm is gone from sight now, having since ducked behind the void-black of the mountain slope, rising ever higher above the tallest skyscrapers of Upper Canteria
>Before that picturesque sight, the checkerboard of glow-lit townhouses, government buildings well-worn and brand-new intermingling, subtle skylights and candelabras of golden window shine and marble columns, obelisks and dainty monuments, lawns and tidy streets, kaleidoscopic lightshows from the shopping district, spiderwebs of service wires and the conical tops of ancestral fortifications, the dusky grey of Newcastle’s night-shaded whites, they all overwhelm your vision for the first time again
>So long, so many days spent away from the bustle, in a different manner of fixation…
>Oh, but this place, these ponies, they have an awful fixation too; their burden is the past, and they shall time and again attempt to pair it with the future, though the two shall never mix
>Peace from war, strength from servility…
>The flying dome… all of them paradoxes—
DDDDRRRRRRRRINNGGGGGGG DDDDRRRINNGGGGGGGGG
>The whine of your phone breaks through your trance, shattering that fine illusion you’d crafted for yourself of being PART of this world, rather than a passive observer
>Who…?
“What in the name of Celestia…”
>You did… well, you did already take care of business for the night, did you not?
>You didn’t just DREAM that you’d taken the message from Agent Clover?
>Glancing over at your nightstand, you see that the wineglass is empty; that’s all the proof you need
>Then who on earth else could be calling at such an hour?
>You slump back to the phone you just hung up less than twenty minutes ago, your heart taking on a curious tempo
DDDDDRRRRRRIIIINNNNNGGGGGGGG
“Yes, I’m coming, for pity’s sake.”
>Once again, you take the wireless receiver in your hoof, pressing it to your ear and practically throwing yourself over the bed
“This had better be good.”
>”Sir? It’s me again.”
“Ms. Drops? I told you I’ve received the package. The whole affair’s taken care of.”
>There’s a brief shuffling on the other end, as though your head of security is walking briskly
>After a moment of silence, she speaks again
>”I know, sir. Something else has come up.”
“Something else? What exactly do you mean, something else? Are you quite alright over there? You sound like you’re moving about.”
>”I am. I mean, yes sir. It’s… hold on…”
>More shuffling, then the distinct noise of hooves clacking on a keyboard
“I’m holding, Ms. Drops.”
>”Sorry, sir.”
“Well? Out with it.”
>”It’s the assassin. Tree Hugger. The agent from Ordo who’s been handling her interrogation just sent me a brief. She’s finally talking. Maybe about conspiracy, maybe backers, I don’t know. It’s all very here-and-there.”
“Talking?”
>And, just like that, a giddiness wells up inside you, a foalish giddiness, one that pulls your cheeks up into an uncontrollable grin
>Perhaps it’s the wine, perhaps it’s the bright colors of this dark night, the tiny darkness of the monitor, the great wide darkness of the city, the contrast, the beautiful contrast
>Or perhaps it’s even the thought that there’s something larger at play here than a lone wolf, that somepony needs you dead for a reason, that you aren’t as untouchable as the name “Chancellor” implies
>It’s… comforting, in a macabre way
>More comforting than this bed could ever be to your current state of mind
>For the first time since that rush of exhilaration which intoxicated your mind three days ago, when the knife-point came so close to slashing your shallow, vulnerable throat, when your life was saved by the choice’s YOU’D made, you feel…
>Well, you feel as though there are stakes in the games that you play
>And there are players everywhere, among friends and foes alike
“Talking. Well, my dear, you know how I love talk…”
 
******
 
>”Wake up, slowpoke. Breakfast, then we head out.”
“Muggghhhh…”
>”C’mon, Twilight, we’ve got a big day ahead of us. Git—”
>The wrappings, this divine warmth, they shift around you as though propelled by a motor
>Twisting, unraveling…
>No; it isn’t the covers that are moving, it’s…
>You!
“Gah!”
>Your foreleg is being tugged by twin vise-grips positioned at each joint, seemingly strong enough to rip the leg out of its socket
>In a matter of moments, the sheets of the bed fall away completely, leaving nothing but cold, empty space
>Then, slug-like, your body droops off the side of the mattress and into the floor
>The world is upside-down…
>You’re falling up, held in place only by the tenuous strength of this carpeted ceiling
“D-d-dream… mahhhhhthedreamandthe-the-the cloud…”
>”Huh?”
>One orange leg struts into your inverted field of vision, the hoof appearing to stick into the “ceiling” before you, locked in place
>You wonder briefly about the possibility that out there, among the stars, there might exist a world where gravity is inverted
>Where all matter is propelled outwards by the strength of the great mass beneath its purchase, out towards the collective, the vast emptiness
>Could such a ridiculous place exist?
>Well, certainly it must; it’s right here in front of you, this chaotic ceiling-gripping hoof being all the evidence you need, along with your own upward propulsion
>It’s here, the world of transpose expectations, the world of negative gravity
>The cloud…
>”Twilight! Come off your head like that! C’mon now, we wanna be there before Braeburn has the chance to skip out on us!”
>The hoof raises, or rather, lowers, pulling away from the floor-ceiling, and moves serpentine towards your body
>That hoof pushing invisibly against your flank tells you you’re about to be reoriented, stolen away from this beautiful place
“No…”
>You want to resist it, but you’re too weak; the impulses of your mind don’t appear to be reaching your muscles in a very timely fashion
>All you can do is limply allow yourself to be pushed, bottom-first, back into the waking world
>By the time your flank and back legs slam into the carpet behind you, and the wavy grains of the bed’s pine baseboard overtake the entirety of your vision, your strength has mostly returned
>As have your wits…
>You’re prone now, facing into the darkness beneath the bed, wishing to Mater there were truly a place as safe as that place looks now into which you could simply crawl and hide
>Not to be, it seems
“Whuuuh… what time is it?”
>Applejack sighs behind you
>”6:45. Didn’t sleep too well last night, I take it?”
“Got sick. Threw up. Sorry.”
>”No need to apologize, sugarcube. I reckon last night and the night before last were some proper change in cuisine for you. I won’t pretend to know how stressful this all might be for you, neither.”
“Probably more the change in altitude than anything. I took some pills out of the mirror like you said. It helped a little.”
>”Being honest with you, I didn’t get much sleep last night either. Apple Bloom woke me up in the middle of the dang night ‘cause she had a nightmare. Something about a bunch of sentient cutie marks ganging up on her in the woods or something. Had to walk with her back to her room and read to her.”
>It takes considerable effort, but you manage to bring yourself to your hooves, straining your half-asleep muscles to function properly
>It was a deep, deep sleep indeed from which Applejack just jarred you awake
>And, at least for the time being, you recall every detail of it
>Righting yourself fully, you step towards the wardrobe at the opposite end of the room, inside which you’ve unpacked and carefully refolded your spare robes
>Time for another change…
“What’s for breakfast?”
>”We’re up before the chefs, so probably just leftovers. I make a mean melon hay wrap, if you’re interested.”
“I don’t want to trouble you. Leftovers are satisfactory.”
>Opening the fine doors of the wardrobe, you select the robe hanging on the leftmost rack and…
>Freeze
>Now, here’s a dilemma you hadn’t considered
>In the convent, there’s no stigma whatsoever about changing robes before other sisters 
>And out here in the world, you suppose, nudity is allowed, even encouraged in some cases
>So what’s giving you pause now?
>Surely changing in front of your friend should be no cause for issue?
>(She doesn’t know)
>Oh
>That
“Um, Applejack? Could you…?”
>”What’s up?”
>You turn around, aware of the meek expression that’s come over your face
>Wanting her to get the hint
>(She doesn’t know you)
“Could you maybe… well, you know?”
>”Uh, not really.”
>(She doesn’t know you don’t have)
>Just turn around already!
>You don’t wish to be rude, nor do you wish to come off as more alien than you already have by rejecting societal conventions, but…
>Well, the nakedness itself is no issue, but if she were to find out about… that, well, some questions might arise
>Questions you have no desire to answer in detail
“It… it’s customary for Sisters of Solemnity to change their robes privately. Could you perhaps…?”
>Applejack grins, then turns away with mock grandeur, chuckling
>”No problem, sugarcube. Do your business.”
>Hurriedly, you throw off your robe, laying yourself bare for a split second before donning the fresh one
>If Applejack had looked on you in that moment of exposure, she most certainly would’ve seen what you lack
>She would have been shocked, perhaps even terrified, to know that particular truth
>That for which the Matron Celest has taken as a sign of providence, though there’s no telling how a layfolk like Applejack might react
>(She doesn’t know you don’t have a cutie mark)
>Thankfully, she doesn’t turn around; you make sure of this by keeping your eyes locked on the back of her head, that flowing ponytail, throughout the brief exchange
>You’re also grateful for the simple fact that your window appears to face the west; if Mater’s divine rays had shone upon your face before the Divining Hour, you would have had to answer with many additional prayers this morning
>There are a few you must recite before breakfast, however…
>”Finished?”
“Yes. What kind of leftovers are there?”
>Applejack turns to face you again, gesturing to the door with her head
>”Plenty of the dishes from last night’s feast. Although if you got sick off of that…”
“It wasn’t the food, Applejack. You don’t have to concern yourself with me. But…”
>The litanies swirl inside your head, strung along an invisible rosary, needing to be recited
>Requiring your blindness, requiring time
“Perhaps I’ll take one of those melon wraps after all.”
 
. . .
 
>”Uh, sugarcube… why are you blindfolded?”
>Between the stitches of taut cloth, mauve vectors traced diagonally across your vision, so very much like a coordinate grid now that you think of it that way, the warm light of the dining hall passes in blurry streaks
>It’s difficult to make out, but there’s movement there, beyond the fold pressed against your eyes, the flow of natural shapes
>It’s only here, in these moments, in this “place” of darkness, that you allow yourself to fully commit yourself to Mater Solis in the same fashion you performed all the time in the convent
>It isn’t that you’re less faithful now by any means, just… well, the “golden standard” of those without the Faith has afflicted you in other ways
>You simply can’t AFFORD to witness Her to that extent without sacrificing your worldly presence, without losing sight of the Mission
>The cloud…
>”Twilight?”
“Hm?”
>Oh; Applejack asked you a question, didn’t she?
“Are the wraps ready?”
>”Uh? Oh, yeah. Only takes me a few minutes to make ‘em, they ain’t exactly tough cooking. I asked why you blindfolded yourself.”
“I’m meditating.”
>”Oh. Mmm… any particular reason WHY you’ve gotta blindfold yourself for that?”
>You almost blurt out the answer to that question as written in the Fourth Book of the Sun verbatim, but give yourself pause
>How… exactly might you explain this to a member of the laity?
>A few moments of silence pass as you struggle to simplify your answer
>Then, you speak into the crosshatched darkness
“Well… essentially, the Great Mother gives us what we know as divine clarity through seeing her Truth. That is, what is known to us, having been spoken directly through the Mother, and translated by our Matrons Celest. But for those without the power of Sight, and the ability to witness Her directly, the Truth may actually serve to hinder our understanding of Her. In times of deep rumination, which are normally meant for the Fourteenth Hour but which I’ve unfortunately been lax on observing these past few days, we Sisters shield our eyes from all light.”
>”… Uh huh. You’re afraid your Goddess will… confuse you?”
“It’s a little bit more complicated than that, but that’s basically right. There are two layers to the glory of Her Truth. Physically, it’s the rays of the sun, Her substantial form. Light, both natural and artificial. It’s all derived in one way or another from Mater. But spiritually, there is a deeper Truth, which requires one to be on the same spiritual wavelength as Mater, just as the Prophetess Celestia once was. Ascended. Enlightened, if you will. For a pony like me, yet to be ascended, I think best when the first of those layers does not mingle with the second. It’s more metaphorical than anything, but it is a practical means of clearing my mind when I meditate.”
>”Interesting. Well, I can’t stop you from eating your breakfast in the dark, but I can warn you that you’ll make a mighty mess of yourself doing it. I use LOTS of jam.”
>You giggle
“I should be finishing up now, anyways. I’m surprised you’re interested in the ways of the Faith, Applejack.”
>Tenderly, you remove the cloth from your face, revealing the glow beyond, and the orange, smirking face of your friend
>Friend?
>…
>Friend
>The two of you are seated at one end of the long redwood table that stretches across this great room, colder now without the flaring fireplace behind you to warm your skin
>In her forehooves, Applejack holds twin silver plates, each adorned with two tightly wrapped bundles of silk-fine hay containing a row of cubed melon slices of all varieties and garnished on top with an assortment of jams and herbs
>Cantaloupe, honeydew melon, even watermelon, barely in season, are stuffed into the narrow binds of the wraps
>She passes one plate to you and then sets to work at her own, bending down to take a bite out of one of the treats
>”Wha sho shuprishig abounit?”
“… Huh?”
>After a few more chomping bites, Applejack swallows her food and turns to look at you
>”Sorry. What’s so surprising about my interest? Granny’s a Celestian, after all. Should know my roots and all that.”
“I’m glad you think that way. And I’ll be happy to clarify anything unorthodox I might do in the future.”
>”Was that a dig on me, Miss Sunshine?”
“Of course not. If it’s truly my destined path to enact a greater Mission, and to spread the word of Mater in those places which have gone blind to Her Truth, to… well, you understand. I only desire full transparency with you, Applejack.”
>Despite the intended meaning of those words, and the cordial expression you’ve taken upon your face, internally you’re crying out, wearing the mask of desperation
>You almost said “to save them from the flood”
>As once befell the land now known as Rich Valley, as came from a torrent and the seas, and from the skies as well
>From the clouds…
>Applejack already knows the true intentions behind your presence here, so why are you still avoiding discussing certain aspects of your mentality with her?
>Perhaps only to reduce complexity, it seems
>The spiritual does not always coincide with the minds of ponies; too often, it is inconceivable to them
>You can only hope that such is not the case with her
>”Full transparency, huh? Well, I do like the part about Truth in there. That there ain’t nothing unknowable about the way the world works. Every question has an answer, that sort of thing. That’s what you believe?”
“To an extent.”
>”’To an extent.’ Yeah, well, that’s what they all say, ain’t it? At least you’ve got something what resembles real, solid truth. Living here all my life, I’ve picked up on some of the Saddle Arabians’ beliefs, and you wouldn’t believe how, just, frustrating some of it can be. They’ve got a god called Buraq, and apparently only he knows everything, but like 99% of everything he can’t see, and he can only tell lies to ponies or else he splits in half, I don’t know. I don’t know much about it.”
“But I think I see your point.”
>”You’ve got your Books, and your Truth, and your Goddess at least TRIES to be honest with you. S’pose that’s all I really value in a pony, honesty. If I’m gonna trust them, they’d better be honest about what they want and how they aim to get it.”
“That sounds remarkably like a dig at ME, Baroness Applejack.”
>Now it’s Applejack’s turn to giggle, a small laugh which quickly turns into a guffaw
>She lowers the melon wrap she’d nearly pressed to her lips down to the mirrored surface of her plate
>”You did what you had to do. Get to my Granny, tell her all the things I probably wouldn’t have understood or believed if I tried, make a deal. Bein’ honest, I probably would’ve just run like crazy if you’d told me you’d come here because an angel told you to in a dream. Frankly, I still don’t fully believe it. But—”
>For a brief instant, only noticeable for the sheer concentration you’re placing on looking into Applejack’s eyes, those dusky emeralds…
>For a brief instant, something seems to move across them
>Something dreamlike
>”—a crazy pony usually don’t get the validation of anypony else to back up their wild stories. If there’s a shared connection between you and my Granny, this shared ‘epiphany’, then it ain’t my place to criticize. I’ll act on what’s good for my family, nothing less, nothing more. S’why we made the deal we made, yeah?”
>You nod curtly, sniffing the saccharine aroma of the wrap before tearing off one end, and one honeydew cube wrapped within, with the flats of your front teeth
>With the various garnishes she’s seasoned the meal with, Applejack’s wraps taste even better than they smell
“This is incredibly delicious, Applejack.”
>”You can call me AJ, y’know. We’ve been together these past few days much more than I’ve spoken to plenty of the ponies who already call me that.”
“Oh. It’s… it’s delicious, AJ.”
>”Thank you kindly.”
>She grins before stuffing the remainder of one hay-bound wrap betwixt her teeth, seemingly intentionally chewing with her mouth open
>”Little Miss Sunshine.”
 
. . .
 
>”Well, this is her. Ain’t she a beaut?”
>Some fifteen minutes after finishing the breakfast Applejack prepared, the two of you stand side by side within one of the several smaller buildings sprinkled about the grounds of Sweet Apple Manor, eyes locked upon her “pride and joy”
>Approaching the building, it appeared to be rectangular in shape, sporting only a scant few square windows high off the ground, and possessing none of the intricate decorative architecture of the Big Apple
>These last few days, you’ve taken care not to explore the manor or its grounds too much, lest you became hopelessly lost, yet what you have seen of both the interior and exterior of that mansion amidst the pines was extraordinary
>This squat structure, however, appeared to be more like a fortification; bland stone walls, simple, shallow roof slope, naught but a gravel path leading up to a sheet metal door, wide and tall
>You came to the side entrance of this building, a locked door for which Applejack produced a rounded key from her satchel and unlocked with her teeth
>Then, stepping through that dark portal, onto dank concrete and amidst huddled tool shelves, sharp vectors of light streaming in through the easterly windows, you saw it
>Now, all you can do is stare in fascination at what occupies this darkened space inside what Applejack dubbed the “garage”
>It’s a truck, similar to the one Braeburn drove you in three nights ago, but… different, somehow
>Newer, perhaps?
>It isn’t necessarily shinier or less well-worn, but there’s a glow to it, more defined features, as though comparing chiseled marble to an uncut stone
>Its sleek green-and-black frame, nearly the same shade as your robes, hugs the far wall of the garage, a smooth plot defining its top edge, and every few moments it seems to make a satisfying click noise, as though settling into place
>Otherwise, it’s a titan of a machine; nearly twice your height atop bulbous black tires, four doors to the cabin, and a long wood-paneled bed behind it
>Not unlike the grocers’ trucks that would deliver donated foodstuffs to the convent every week, now that you think about it
>At this point, considering what you’ve seen, there’s no doubt that the fruits and vegetables you’ve eaten all your life originated here, in Rich Valley
>Predestiny… predestiny of FRUIT, no less…
>”Well? Speak up, you’re making me a tad insecure about the old rig.”
“Oh! She’s magnificent. Quite possibly tied for the largest vehicle I’ve ever seen, discounting those behemoths by the river you showed me.”
>”This little baby’s name is Winona. She’s what we’re taking back the way we came, towards Braeburn’s ranch. Now, from what I can tell, my cousin slips out of dodge every time I come around, and I’ve got a suspicion that he’s got some of his Saddle Arabian farmhoofs keeping watch for me and passing it on to him, so’s he can ‘conveniently’ rush to some appointment or other.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler for me to approach him on my own, then?”
>”It would be, wouldn’t it? Were it not for the fact that he probably already knows you’re with me now.”
“How could he know that? He hasn’t seen the two of us together.”
>”Word travels fast round these parts. Not that I imagine he talks to many Apples on a regular basis, but word of a big fancy city yoo-nee-corn staying at Sweet Apple Manor ain’t gonna just stay put. Besides, you disappeared on him. And if he’s seen Sadd’lah since then, the shiner I gave that crooked yellowbelly aught to tell him the whole story on its own.”
“So…”
>”So…?”
>Applejack eyes you briefly, an inquisitive glimmer showing on her shaded face, as though expecting a response
>You gulp, approaching the massive truck, extending one hoof out to touch its dimly reflective surface
>Seeing your face again, that exhausted face…
“So it’d be better not to hide our intentions. If he knows we’re together, he’ll know what it means when I come back. The best course of action would be to remain up-front about those intentions, and for him to see us coming and act accordingly. So we’ll be able to get a measure on his response, that is.”
>The glimmer, now visible only in the reflection as Applejack sidles up next to you, vanishes, replaced by a satisfied grin
>”Impressive. To think I took you for a tad naïve for business like this when we first met!”
>You shift away, adjusting your robes and moving around the muzzle of the truck towards the passenger side door
“To be entirely honest, so did I. But, and I can’t stress this enough, so does Braeburn. He must think of me as a little filly in terms of… ahem, susceptibility to influence. How will he know that you aren’t just manipulating me to do your dirty work?”
>”How do YOU know that ain’t what I’m doing?”
>You roll your eyes, despite knowing Applejack can’t see you do it
“Because I’m getting something out of this too, remember? And… oomf.”
>Having opened the door and climbed up the outstretched platform to the level of the seat, you plant yourself squarely into the passenger seat, a position you’re becoming quite used to
“And I’m becoming quite weary of talking in this manner. So… scheming. It’s against Mater Solis to be so duplicitous in one’s affairs.”
>”Well, one…”
>Applejack, having beaten you to her place in the cab, nudges a control stick with one hoof to generate a roaring crescendo, the sound of the truck’s combustion engine exploding to life
>After a mere instant, it settles into a quiet hum
>”You said all this is in service of your goddess, right? If this is the way to your, uh, enlightenment or whatchamacallit, then I think it’s fair to say you could be forgiven for doing whatever you gotta do to stay on that path. And secondly, you ain’t being duplicitous, sugarcube. You’re helping me solve a problem I’ve been struggling to solve for the sake of my family for almost a year now. This is for good. What you’re doing is good; ain’t no two ways about it. I think I can speak for Granny too when I say that we ain’t deceiving you, we ain’t deceiving Braeburn, we ain’t even deceiving the Baron, nopony. Heck, not even the immigrants what might come to the Valley to get turned right round again will get disaffected; they’ll just be finding someplace else in Canteria to live, if’n the Baron can convince the Senatori to let them into other cities on the seaboard. They might even build up little communities of their own, imagine that!”
“And if it doesn’t work? Even if we can convince Braeburn to speak with his father, what if his father won’t listen to him? Didn’t your grandmother say they had a falling-out of some kind?”
>Applejack sighs, punching a small button on the roof of her truck which appears to remotely trigger the high, wide garage door before you
>Waves through space compelling a motor…
>You’ve experienced much over the last few days, but such a simple remote device still fascinates you to no end
>As the garage door rises, long slits of yellow morning light dispel from the gaps between folding panels, scanning vertically along the contours of Applejack’s face
>Now, more than ever, you see the wavering heart of doubt behind the confident mask your friend wears
>”It’s… it’s complicated, and… we just have to hope. We don’t know if things will work out. We don’t know if what we’re trying to do will have any sort of effect. But we’re out of options. If the crisis isn’t solved soon, if we hit a valley-wide deficit of produce next harvest, for all the new mouths we’re feeding… there’s going to be a war. Families against Saddle Arabians. Baron Rich, for all his faults, cares about Braeburn, and trusts his word, even now. We lose nothing by doing this.”
>When the door has peeled away completely, leaving in its place a gravel road twisting towards the treeline, then down to the invisible riverbed beyond, the engine roars
>Applejack pumps one pedal, perhaps a bit too hard, though you’ve still no exact frame of reference on how fast a vehicle like this SHOULD be driven
>Any movement over galloping speed still feels like a blur to you, though this time it’s a bit easier to calm your nerves
>Once out of the garage, Winona tears down the drive across the estate’s plot, towards the road leading into the pines
>”You are ALL in, ain’t you? Twilight?”
“Huh?”
>Without looking at you, keeping her eyes on the road, Applejack speaks at you matter-of-factly
>”I don’t want to put this on you if you can’t handle it.”
>You’re frightened, to say the least
“I’m fine.”
>If Braeburn, one of the only ponies you could scarcely call a friend outside the convent, looks on you with broken eyes, to see you with somepony he no longer trusts…
>You don’t know if you’ll be able to handle that
“I can do this.”
>”Good.”
>Within a few minutes, you’re riding the high road, resting your face gently against the glass window at your side, watching the roots of the trees go by
>The pines are only poles from this angle, no needles to be seen so low; it’s easy to see beyond the narrow thicket, down the northward slope, down to the subtle black movement of water
>The river; following the river upstream, you’ll return to the souk, then uphill from there, and you’ll arrive back at Braeburn’s ranch
>You’ll have your conversation, and your end of the deal will be up
>Will that… will that truly bring you to what you seek?
>Numena seemed to think so; last night, she spoke of…
>”Twilight?”
>The road is rocky now; the manicured presence of the estate is giving way to the rugged country, the unkempt beauty of the Valley where the flood once raged long ago
“Y-yes?”
>Numena spoke of fire, a-and smoke…
>”Your dreams… your ‘epiphanies’… right? How do you tell them apart from regular dreams? Ones that ain’t got no meaning at all?”
>To the east, Mater Solis stands still, only in this moment; She moves, surely; but in a moment, a second, a minute, even, in a relative frame of memory, it is as though She is motionless
>Numena spoke of waves, cascading over the Makers… invisible waves… centuries ago…
“They… it has to do with Truth. Those who number among the Matrons Celest and, to some extent, the Sisters Solaris, after ascension, see the Truth of Mother Sun directly. They feel it. My Matron, she’s tried to describe that indescribable feeling to me before, but even she admitted she fell short. It’s as though somepony you trust absolutely, even more than yourself, is whispering in your ear, guiding you. That’s how it feels in my dreams. Sort of. The angel I told you about, she’s my guide.”
>The trees begin to thin, replaced by a rocky bed giving way, in the distance, to the shining gravel bar at the west bank of the river
>”Oh. Well… look. I wasn’t sure I should tell you this before, back at the Big Apple, but…”
“Yes?”
>Almost too eager
>Numena spoke of the fires and the waves, waves becoming fire, spreading, poisoning
>Killing
>”Last night, after I put Apple Bloom back to bed, after I went back to sleep, I saw… well, I s’pose I FELT… I don’t know. I don’t really know how to say it. It was almost… I say almost, but ALMOST like what you just described.”
>Silence, but for the low hum of the engine, the continuous crackle of fine gravel dust beneath the truck’s tires
>And the cawing of a crow on a fence post, high-pitched as you approach it, low as you recede
>And… Mother Sun
>Somehow, you feel as though you can HEAR her now… waves through space
“What did you feel? Do you remember?”
>”It was… a feeling AND an image. It was so dang quick, I hardly recall it, but… it was like it happened immediately, right after I closed my eyes, and then I was asleep, and nothing in the world mattered but that.”
>Numena spoke of the metaphysical becoming material, transitive motivations becoming real outcomes
>Numena spoke of death
>”It was a flash. A-and then, I saw… I saw…”
>What became of the Makers?
>What force could annihilate the species so old, so alien, so powerful, so effortlessly?
>What but themselves?
>Numena… she spoke of
>”A cloud.”
>Your heart stops beating in your chest
>Only for a moment; but in that moment, you are dead
>There is no life in your body
>Then, weakly, you manage to speak
“A… a c-cloud?”
>”A cloud with a city on top of it. Well, it wasn’t REALLY a cloud, just… just sort of shaped like one, I reckon. It looked like it was made of metal. It was… it was an inverted dome. A floating, upside-down dome, with a city on top of it. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before in my whole damn life. And normally, I’d pay it no mind. But… it was real, Twilight. Like if I had wings like a pegasus, I could fly up and touch it. My mind told me, in some other voice, in a split-second, ‘this is real.’ It was real.”
“It was Truth…”
>”Now, just you wait a minute.”
>The road smooths out a bit; planting one forehoof firmly in the steering hold, Applejack points accusingly at your muzzle with the other
>She comes THIS close to booping it, and you feel a brief twinge of fear
>You’ve heard legends of what happens when a mare boops another mare’s muzzle…
>There’s that anger in her eyes again, too
>”Just because I had a bad dream last night, just because I saw something I thought was real, that don’t mean I believe in your fancy religion. I… eh… ugh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”
“I understand. It isn’t easy to accept events which occur outside of one’s sphere of reality. They don’t seem to make any sense at all.”
>”No, no, I am sorry. I’m wound up today, that’s all. The city, it… it was on fire. Burning, you know? Burning like the barn where my pa—eh, no. Whole other can of worms. Point is, there was a halo of some kind over it, like an aurora, or an afterimage. Whatever you wanna call it.”
“A glow in the air. Radiation?”
>”No. Maybe. I don’t know. But it had all the colors of the rainbow in it. I… don’t know if I can say any more.”
“It’s okay, AJ. You don’t need to say any more.”
>”What did it mean, Twilight? What did any of it mean?”
>The rocks are gone; now there’s nothing but grass, dew-wettened blades sparkling in the sunbeams, shading the earth beneath it
>A few miles before you, the souk seems to materialize from nowhere as you pass over the crest of a hill, and beyond that the city of Richton
>Braeburn’s ranch is somewhere between the two, incorporated into both
>You… truthfully have no idea what Applejack’s epiphany meant, if it was an epiphany at all
>The manner in which she described it was suspiciously similar to how you’d described your own to the Matron
>The contents, however… so different
>So literalist and raw
>No guiding voice, only an image
>The only common bond between yours and hers was the Truth, and the Truth is absolute
>If somepony with so little understanding of the Faith could experience such a powerful Truth, then surely your own epiphanies must be vindicated?
>You can only hope…
“I can’t say for certain. But, if you’ll allow me, I will help you discover it. I—wait. What is that?”
>Mid-thought, your eyes wandering back to the road ahead, you see a puff of smoky brown dust fluctuating and rising
>It’s dirt, you realize; dirt kicked up by another set of wheels, far off
>Another vehicle approaches from the opposite direction, and it’s moving fast
>Much faster than Winona, to be sure
>Narrowing your eyes, you can just barely make out the contours of the vehicle’s chassis; it’s another truck, high frame, a bit boxier than Applejack’s
>It almost reminds you of…
>“Tarnation! That’s Braeburn’s truck!”
>What?!
“What?!”
>As the space between you and the oncoming truck closes, far too rapidly, you see that AJ’s assessment is correct; it’s the truck Braeburn offered you a ride in three nights ago, the truck which carried you away from the train station, into this valley of revelations
>”Why in the hay is Braeburn barreling towards… well, never mind that! Looks like our chance is coming right to us, Twilight! Hold on to something!”
“Wait! What are you—”
>You’re cut short by the sudden acceleration which pushes you deep into your seat, so firmly you can scarcely move
>You hardly needed Applejack to tell you to secure yourself; you’ve already subconsciously gripped the edges of your seat in the curves of your fetlocks, eyes wide open, silently screaming to yourself
>Too fast!
>Falling!
“APPLEJACK! SLOW DOWN!”
>”I ain’t slowing down! I’ll ram the son of a bitch if I have to!”
“NO! DO NOT DO THAT!”
>Somehow, you manage to catch a glimpse of the speedometer; it reads 110 kilometers per hour!
>Too fast, too fast…
>The edges of your vision begin to blur; you sped along so fast in the maglev train, what’s bringing this about now?
>Something’s wrong, so very wrong…
“Apple…jack…”
>…
>
>By the grace of Mater above, whose rays illuminate certain substantial aspects of the earth to the divining wisdom of Her followers, you see it
>You’ve no notion of HOW you gain back the presence of mind to see it, but you see it all the same
>There, within the approaching truck, behind the reflective pane of glass on its fore, growing substantially with each passing second, sit two figures rather than one
>And neither of them are shaped like Braeburn
“APPLEJACK!”
>”What?!”
“That’s not Braeburn in the truck! It’s somepony else! I can see them!”
>The silhouette occupying the driver’s seat is hunched over, thin, covered in flowing, twisting robes
>The other, similarly dressed, possesses a thicker build, stocky and imposing, face hidden behind a great beard
>His right cheek, blackened and swollen, seems to bleed with anger
“Sweet Celestia…”
>”That crazy son of a… SADD’LAH!!!”
>Only a few dozen meters away now, the enormous smuggler grins through the grit of two windshields, spying your gaze and returning it in a far more terrifying manner
>Behind him, for a split second, you see another face move into view in the back seat
>The long barrel of a firearm is trained on it by yet another set of hooves, protruding from the other side
>The face is frozen in shock and awe; it seems to be staring directly at you
>The whole world freezes; the sun, the sky, the dirt and the trees
>The face is Braeburn’s, shaded in fear
>Strangely, however, you feel none
>Perhaps you’re too shocked to be afraid of anything…
 
******
 
THIRTY MINUTES EARLIER
>Air’s colder this morning than last, or at least it feels that way
>The wind, that same dusty wind, is blowing through the leaves of what few trees remain within earshot, those whose roots have been buried beneath the foundations of your farmhoofs’ homes
>Whistling, almost
>There was a time you knew how to whistle, a little bit; you could whistle an old country song your mother taught you, but now all that comes out is air
>You are Braeburn
>And… something’s hanging over you, something that’s got your muscles all tense and your mind all wired
>Storm coming, maybe? This time of year, with summer just on the horizon, some flooding ain’t exactly out of the realm of possibility
>It won’t reach the hills, but some of the Saddle Arabians who’ve built up that arm of the souk that extends along the bank, over the low gravel flats and mud pits, they might get their whole livelihoods washed away in short order
>Them, they’ve got no foundations to sit on, nothing holding their wood and mudstone shacks tight to the earth, so they’ll get washed out easy
>They know, you understand; they must know
>…
>There ARE some mighty ominous-looking clouds over the northern peaks, massive grey tarps stretching over that corner of the yellow morning sky
>Ain’t out of the question…
>It’s through the dusty glass of your front window that you watch the weather unfold, and beneath that, the trees and the earth, and the movements of your neighbors and employees
>The working stallions and mares move swiftly to the call of the morning bell, their hooves kicking up the thick dust of spent land, their paths set to one course towards the fields and small warehouses to the east
>Those who don’t work for you directly still pay a small land tax to you, though you’ve minimized it of late; you’re not like to squeeze every bit out of these folks, and the way you see it, the land never REALLY belonged to you
>It’s a small production you’ve set up here on the ranch you inherited from your mother when she passed, but it’s served you well thus far, and the immigrants who came to work for you instead of your father on his Sky-Farms haven’t disappointed in their efforts
>In partnership with Turnip, and in your dealings with Sadd’lah and his smugglers, you’ve managed to wholly detach yourself from business arrangements with both the Apple family and the Rich Barony, and you really couldn’t be happier about that
>No, sirree, couldn’t be happier
“Damnation.”
>These last few days have been a veritable nightmare, haven’t they?
>Reorganizing, preparing for early harvest, dealing with…
>Well, more than a few problems
>First and foremost, the run-in you had with Sadd’lah two days ago has been weighing on you
>He came to collect on the debt you owe him for his smuggling of your produce out of Barony territory
>Avoiding the payment of shipment taxes has become a necessity since the War in the West began, with demand higher than ever and the economy of the Valley taking a straight dive with its many deficits
>Though you loathe Sadd’lah as a pony, he’s a necessary evil when it comes to self-sufficiency; he won’t threaten to take a portion of your operation as compensation like the Barony might, he won’t force certain arrangements…
>That is, for now
>The situation’s changed now that you’ve had your altercation, and you doubt that a pony as prideful as Sadd’lah will take the insult of having a shotgun pointed in his face in stride
>You should know; the cultures of the Valley and faraway Saddle Arabia, for all their differences, share at the very least the common bond of stubbornness in affairs to do with money
>So you’ve been treading on eggshells, liquifying certain funds you’d promised not to liquify outside of an emergency, scraping together what little else you’ve got in your saddlebags to make a payment and stave off his aggressions
>You sigh, and turn away from the wide-openness of the vista beyond the window, back to the comfort of the old home
>Your tenuous business partner hasn’t been so riled up in ages; what could’ve provoked him to bring the heat like this?
>Oh
>Right…
>Through the narrow arched doorway to the foyer, you peer upwards, tracing the carved banister up into the dark space of the upper hall
>Mist-like, the morning sunlight angles sharply in from an open door, a door you didn’t open
>A door you’ve only left open, waiting
>Now, here we have it; the real source of this burden
>That nun… why do you care so strongly about her safety?
>Why, when she arguably started all this in the first place, what with her apparently being the deciding factor by which your bullheaded cousin saw fit to kick Sadd’lah’s dang jaw in?
>She’s been wandering around the whole of the Valley, and now she’s been taken into Sweet Apple Manor for Celestia knows what reason, and for the last few days she’s more like than not been rubbing withers with Applejack and your grandmother
>Conspiring, no doubt…
>What do they want with her anyways?
>You’ve decided, after some thinking, that it’d be downright silly to imagine AJ dragging the nun all that way away just to spite you; there’s got to be another motive to it
>There’s something deeper going on, and you don’t have all the pieces yet, there’s still something escaping you, something out there, something—
>No
>You promised you wouldn’t think about it
>Not now, not when your hand is junk and you’re ready to fold against the pressure, not when there’s so much left to do
>Even still, you take one step up the rickety staircase, up towards your mother’s old room where you laid Twilight Sparkle to rest three days ago, then pause
>Why go to the trouble?
>Why… go IN there, bring this stranger in there, why REMIND yourself of her, when you promised you’d only go in that room to clean it every now and again, and otherwise leave it be?
>Leave it exactly how she left it to you when she went down the river, on down to Celestia’s open embrace…
>Ugh, now you’re having religious thoughts!
>What in tarnation is the matter with you?
>Your mother’s still here… still on the plot
>She’s there in the earth… and you’ve made DAMN sure no immigrant’s built their shack over that space
>No foundations in ‘em, no stone to the wood, all of it temporary, to be washed away
“Bastard.”
>Turnip’s waiting on you
>Felt for a moment like you’d stumbled up those steps and walked right into that room again, where she slept, where you listened to her breathe, but you’re right back here again, one hoof elevated on the first step of the way
>When you carried the nun’s sleeping body up these steps, you could’ve sworn you heard her whisper something under her breath
>It was barely audible, but… well, you thought you’d heard…
(Seeds)
>Looking at the swirling apple inlace on the wallpaper in the faint darkness of the stairwell just now reminded you of that
>Seeds… apple seeds?
>Seeds of the earth?
>You’ve got no head for metaphors, so you’re darn certain if it was some kind of fable thing, you wouldn’t understand it even if she told you direct
>But even thinking of that brings you back now to what she said in the truck, only a few minutes before she’d laid her head to rest, that strange thing she’d said that sounded almost like a recitation when she’d spoken it
>Like it’d come out of a book, and she was just reading off the lines
(I’ve always dreamed of coming to this place)
>Why here, of all places?
>Could she have meant the other kind of dream?
>You remove your hoof from the stair and grunt, turning about face towards the hat rack near the front door
>It don’t really matter, does it?
>It don’t matter at all
>You’ve already ruled out the chance that you could have feelings for this mare, so this comfort that you feel around her is something completely alien to you
>Like… something ELSE is compelling you to protect her
>And the strangeness of that feeling makes you want to stay as far from her as possible for the time being
>You’re clear of head now, you’ve had a good night’s sleep, so you’re making this resolution now: whatever irrational part of you that’s telling you to go find her, your rational mind is gonna ignore
“And that’s that.”
>Resting on one hook of the hat rack is your dusty tan widebrim, which you don, not minding how it mussles with your mane
>On the itinerary for this fine overcast day: haul on up to Turnip’s plantation, do a double proof on his grain silo numbers, which you never fully trust; take a survey on the barley and pumpkin plots; help him taste test the fresh-picked watermelons, which have finally been in season just this last week; then drive back here, grab a bite, talk to your own field bosses, and then…
>Money time
>More specifically, drawing up a real plan to pay back your debt to Sadd’lah
>You step out the door, feeling the breeze on your muzzle, hearing again the soft whistle of the trees
>Hearing the low rumble of dozens of hooves striking the dirt, idle chitchat in a language you only half understand
>It’s a few minutes past seven, according to the bell you had rigged up at the warehouses; that gives you plenty of time to make it over to Turnip’s
>The grass tickles upward in the flaring patches near your house and along the sides of the dusty road in wayward stripes
>It’s green now; soon it’ll be brown and shriveled in the heat of the summer sun
>These folks probably like that heat; you, not so much
>You’ll just have to endure, you suppose
>Past the porch, and around the jutting bend of your front window to its right, the road splits in two, one stretch heading down the hill towards the riverbed, the other curving around back of your house and on into the briar, where the warehouses are situated
>Your truck is parked on the right side of that fork, in a slightly downward-angled gravel patch of sorts
>You approach it, saying your morning greetings to a few passersby in the space between
>They’re off to do their work, you’re off to do yours
>And eventually, when you’re on your own four hooves and this thing is big enough to saddle the whole Valley, when you can prove that the Families ain’t all there is to this place…
>Well, best not to think too far into the future
>It may never happen at all, if you ever decide that hauling ass out of this place for good is the best viable option
>Getting away from the mountains, starting up again someplace else, with no families on either side to try to make you theirs or put you down
(Bastard)
>But for now, this is all you can do
>The truck’s locked; you retrieve the key from one saddlebag and absently twist it in the panel in the door, letting gravity do the rest of the work for you as the door slowly opens on its own
>Then, you climb in, shutting the door behind you, letting the stillness take you for a second
>Maybe just close your eyes for a little while, Braeburn… just get all this nonsense out of your head
>Everything to do with Twilight Sparkle, your family, what the future holds in store
>Focus only on what’s real; only the money, and the crops
>Money, and crops…
>That’s all there is to it…
>And with that, the world just feels that much more calm
>And still
>…
>Still… motion
>There’s still motion in the air, some current coming from somewhere
>You shut the door all the way, didn’t you?
>The hairs on your right wither begin to bristle as a breeze hits you
>The right…
>You snap your eyes back open and turn your head towards the passenger side window, which is…
>Broken
>What used to be a solid pane of dusty glass is now a shattered, jagged mess, and little sunlit shards are strewn about the opposite seat and floorboards
>Someone, or something, has broken your window!
>A Saddle Arabian colt, throwing pebbles for kicks?
>Or…
>Oh no
>In a split second, you’re diving across the divider, landing firmly in the nest of strewn glass in the passenger seat
>You get a few scratches on the undersides of your forelegs, but you don’t care
>Now’s not the time, now’s not the time, you were going to get it all, you were going to…
>Positioning yourself with one hoof, you snake the other into the gap between the floorboards and the seat, feeling for your gun
>Searching, twisting, feeling and oh Celestia it isn’t there, it’s not there, somepony’s taken the damn thing because it ain’t there, your shotgun ain’t
>”Freeze, nadhil.”
>A voice, from behind
>One you’ve got no reservations about obeying
>Because right now, at this very moment, without even seeing it, you already know that your double barrel is pointed directly at your brain
>And in this position, there’s no room for any funny tricks
>The voice is sharp and heavily accented; you’re fairly sure you’ve heard this particular goon before
>Over the high swipe of the dashboard comes a swash of fabric, blotting out the sun, bobbing up and down
>It’s gritty, folded over many times, a shade of cerulean blue, and it’s moving swiftly towards the passenger’s side window
>The glass shards driving into your forelegs seem more painful now; you think they might be drawing blood, though you can’t be certain
>Everything’s cold, even the blood
>Then, a voice more familiar to you
>”You know, bastard, I am doing some thinking these few days.”
>You look up
>Sadd’lah’s face is enormous and grotesque, the welt on his cheek having only grown with time
>But there is a grin plastered on that face, showing crooked, almost carnivorous teeth
>”I am thinking of prospects. Future interests. I am, eh, realizing further your relationship with Apple family. You are separate. You pay separate. But, eh, your cousin, Baruna Applejack, she pay you visit. She care for you. Some way, she care. And I come to think, ‘the bastard does not pay. Baruna does not pay. How will Sadd’lah get bits with such debt?’ And, I tell you this, Braeburn, the thought comes to me in no time at all.”
>Sadd’lah opens the door, letting in more light, more wind
>”They are royals. Alshatayim, I cannot touch them. But you, you are, eh, dirt-born, yes? You, I can touch. You have no protection now. So I offer arrangement. I bring you to them, to Apples, and I give you in exchange for debt. And if they will not pay…”
>His grin grows even wider
>”I take you to your father, in Richton. See what he will pay.”
“Do you have any idea what a terrible idea this is, Sadd’lah? Do you?”
>”I do as I do because I am desperate. Look what you have brought me to.”
>You feel a hoof clutch one of your hindlegs, and quickly you’re dragged back into the rear of the truck
>The shotgun is long to come into your field of vision, its muzzles protracted by their proximity to your own
>Your own means of defense is trained on you now; shiny, cold to the touch
>It belonged to your mother
>As you adjust yourself under the watchful eye of the shotgun’s wielder, another goon comes around from the back and enters the driver’s side
>Having wiped down the passenger seat of any remaining glass fragments, Sadd’lah positions himself there, looking straight ahead
>You’re behind him now; perhaps you could…
>No, damnit, Braeburn, that would be the foolhardiest thing you ever did in your life, and also the last
>Something tells you trying to call out to one of the farmhoofs milling about around the corner wouldn’t be such a bright idea, either
>”We borrow truck, if you don’t mind.”
>Your teeth grit involuntarily
“Not. In. The. Slightest.”
>”Good. Then, to Baruna’s Apple Manor. We see what you are worth, bastard.”
 
******
 
NOW…
>It happens so quickly, you can barely process it
>The twitch in Applejack’s gaze was the preliminary signal, and after that…
>As Braeburn’s truck careens by you at breakneck speed, Applejack twists the steering module with what seems to be the maximum torque it allows
>The axle squeals, baring little resistance against the maneuver, and the force of her movement translates tenfold into the sudden turning power of Winona
>You suppose Applejack must have also driven her hindleg into the brake pedal, because the entire truck seems to halt on its front axis, tires grinding loudly against the gravel road
>At the same time, the back of the truck utterly loses its grip on the road; for a moment, it feels like it’s careening through the air, doing a somersault through space
>It’s still flat on the ground in reality, however, and soon the tailspin lands you precisely half a turn from where you started, facing the opposite direction
>Facing the cloud of dust perpetually kicked up by the hind of Braeburn’s captured vehicle
>You lose focus; colors are swirling around in your vision, unfolding the image in your mind of what’s really happening
>When you saw the truck approach, and when you saw its occupants, your immediate thoughts had been of Braeburn’s safety, not your own
>You felt no fear in your heart; perhaps the meditation had done you well in that regard
>No fear; only devotion, only the words, recite the words and don’t panic, it’s only the same as it was before…
>Your next thought was of the train station, and the blood on the floor, and the thought that the same might occur here
>Violence the likes of which you’d never experienced before, INTENDED violence, violence inflicted upon a pony by another pony, and the words disappeared and you saw only images, for what could be the sense of such things but for the war of ideologues and—
>Blood
>Just a drop of it, just the taste of iron in your mouth, could set you off like nothing else in the world
>It makes your throat tighten and your vision blur, and it brings a great weight over your thoughts
>So, in this moment, knowing the danger present, knowing you’re partially—no, FULLY to blame for it, and knowing what kind of bloody affair it could be if the shotgun trained on Braeburn’s head in that truck were to be fired, the vector through time and space closed at terminal velocity…
>The blood which would come from such an incident
>You’re hyperventilating
>The calm before, that’s all gone now, and there’s only fear left in you
>Fear for Braeburn’s life, fear for your own life, fear for Applejack’s—
>”TWILIGHT! FOR CELESTIA’S SAKE, SNAP THE HELL OUT OF IT AND GRAB THE GUN!!!”
“Gah?!”
>”THE GUN, TWILIGHT! BACK SEAT!”
>The colors are returning, and shapes are becoming more… shapely
>With Winona’s nose pointed straight at the receding point of Braeburn’s truck, Applejack slams down hard on the accelerator, grinding the rocks beneath her wheels to a fine powder
>A few moments later, having gained enough traction, your whole body plunges back into your seat as Winona fires off at some significant multiplicate of gravity
>You’re racing down the open road now, the dust of the other truck not having quite yet dispersed, driving through slowly settling clouds of siltish yellow
>”Get that gun, and get it NOW! Behind the back seat!”
“You have a gun in your truck?!”
>”Oh, for… it’s the COUNTRY, Twilight! Everypony has a gol-danged gun in their truck! Hurry!”
“Are we going after them?!”
>”Would you prefer I let my cousin die?! I ain’t asking you to shoot at ‘em, just give it to me! If we can ram ‘em, things might get ugly from there!”
>As if they aren’t ugly enough already!
>Apparently Applejack’s plan is to ram the other truck to boot!
>You become aware that you’re gripping your seat tightly with all four hooves, teeth bared against the flow of motion in a grin of anticipation, sight blurred heavily
>The truck is careening across space now, whipping the dust beneath its treads into the air, fine particles choking the atmosphere before and behind you
>It’s heavy now, the flow of motion, the magnetism…
>Wait…
>These thoughts, these feelings…
>They aren’t for now
>Now is the time of action!
>Braeburn, your friend, is in trouble! Serious trouble!
>And the fear gripping your heart now, it’s… temporary; transitive, yes, transitive!
>It’ll pass in time, the choking sensation, the pulmonary weakness, force against matter, the acceleration of the greater mass against your limp body…
>The distance between the two trucks is closing now; Applejack’s “pride and joy” clearly possesses the greater horsepower
>You look over to her now; her eyes are locked on the road, on what you can only assume in her mind amounts to “prey”
>Or… something less than and greater than at the same time
>Her emerald eyes sparkle… there’s that dreamlike quality to them again
>There’s the eyes of the determined, the eyes of somepony whose fate is laid out for them
>(Inverted dome)
>Your dreams were…
>Interconnected
>Related, at the very least
>Unfortunately, such thoughts are wrenched from your mind once you return your attentions to the road, at which point it becomes clear that Winona may have a little TOO much horsepower…
>And Applejack a fair bit TOO much determination…
“APPLEJACK! WE’RE GOING TO CRASH INTO THEM!!!”
>”THAT’S THE IDEA, SHUG!”
“NOOO! DO NOT DO THAT!”
>You close your eyes, bracing for the imminent impact
>You’ve fastened your seatbelt, of course, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t terrified of a collision
>Four days away from the convent, and you’re staring down death again!
>You close your eyes tight, Mater’s light bleeding red the insides of your eyelids
>Mater Solis, protect me…
>Mater Solis, shield me from…
>The Depths
>In the moment you expected the intercept between Winona’s front bumper and the rear of Braeburn’s truck, there comes instead a heavy silence, a nothing
>You open your eyes once more, only to find that the other truck has vanished completely from your line of sight
>The open road stretches on into the pines, the treeline cutting sharply in on your right, the left sloping gently on into the distant riverbed
“D-did we… what happened?”
>”Dagnabbit… Hold on!”
>Abruptly, Applejack jerks the steering module around again, repeating the whiplash drift turn of a few seconds ago to right yourselves back onto your original course
>Trees on the left, river on the right…
>And, sloping with the tall grass, the rushes and cattails and twinkling puddles of runoff from the rainstorm, a dirt road, perpendicular to this gravel road, extends far down the hill towards the riverbed
>A cone of dust, clouding up towards the sundried sky, diminishes in volume along the surface of that road, leading directly into the passing tail-end of the truck which was only just a few meters before you
>They must have veered left at the last moment, feinting Applejack down the road some ways further
>Now the distance between you has grown, and without even looking you can sense a palpable frustration bubbling within Applejack
>The cousin she and all her family has disowned…
>She really and truly desires his safety, doesn’t she?
>”They’re cutting down towards the river.”
>Applejack drives her hoof deep into the pedal, and in no time you’re back to the intersection, this time turning to pursue
>”They ain’t got much of a plan if this is their course of action. Only place they’ll end up on this road is the Sky Farm, just north of here. You see it?”
>You’ve already spied the helix-form of the towering farm in the distance, looming over the crest of another hilltop
>You remember the shape concealed by that hill, the massive construction work taking place on that bank, the machines and the ponies at play at the site
“Why d-do they have him, Applejack? Why are they going there?”
>Applejack sighs
>”I don’t want to put more undue pressure on you, Twilight. But given the circumstances, I’m inclined to be honest. It’s probably to do with what happened the other day. With you.”
>You seize up again, losing your intent focus on the peak of the tower, barely a mile away at best
“Wh-what? What do you mean? You’re not suggesting…”
>”I ain’t suggesting squat. I’m telling you that what happened then may have provoked that saddle-addled son-of-a-gun. Dang snake. He’s shaking down Braeburn. Since they were headed back the way we came, towards the manor, my guess is they were gonna try to auction him off. Settle two bets in one. Celestia damnit, I wish I never owed that varmint any money. Sadd’lah’s unhinged. Always has been. Never knew he was prone to… to this.”
“Do you think he’s capable of… you know?”
>”No, I don’t know. But with that kind of… in this kind of situation, who knows what he might do. It’s something I don’t want to think about right now.”
“I understand. Let’s just… let us pray it doesn’t come to that.”
>”It’s gonna come to something. Once I catch up to them, it’s gonna come to a real fiiine understanding.”
“Mother Sun abhors violence, Applejack.”
>As soon as the words leave your lips, you wish you hadn’t spoken them
>Without taking her hoof off the pedal, and perhaps even speeding up through the tangle of marsh-plants and muddy wetness, Applejack turns to you ferociously with an audible whip of her mane against the seat’s woven material
>The eyes… what lies within the eyes…?
>Right now, there is what amounts to fury, and a vicious denial of everything you know and hold dear
>You know what she’s going to say before she even says it
>Nevertheless, you gulp down your guilt all the same, awaiting the backlash
>Any moment now…
>But… rather than scold you sharply about the necessity of the situation, about how violence precludes more violence, how your naivety and childish sheltered life of asceticism have brought you to this false understanding, how your Goddess is wrong, how she might not even be real…
>Rather than what you expect from the normally collected but, in times of stress, hot-headed and coarse Applejack, she instead backs off, takes a deep breath, and turns back towards the road, speeding up to gain on her target
>”Twilight, you know what I would’ve said there. I know you know.”
“Yes.”
>”It’s Braeburn’s life at stake. And sometimes—”
“I understand, Applejack. The Prophetess faced, in her time, the same sorts of challenges and compromises. The path to the Truth is manifold. When the time comes for action, there must be action.”
>That your Goddess might not even be real…
>Truth be told, you weren’t really certain Applejack would take it that far, but the idea simply entered your head without permission
>Where could such a blasphemous notion have come from?
>”Listen. I know I said I wouldn’t make you use the shotgun, and I still won’t. It’s mine alone. But… if it came to it, do you think you could… well, you know… shoot them?”
“I… don’t understand. How would I shoot them without the gun?”
>”With the… with the horn, Twilight. I’ve heard of it done before. Unicorns can, they can shoot with their horns. They can use them like weapons. Well, maybe not so severe as that, but—”
“STOP!”
>Panicpanicpanicpanic
>The same panic from the pit of your stomach that comes from the sight or the taste of blood, the same exact sensation
>Fear, that’s what it is, fear and, and, and skittishness, no, she couldn’t have said what you think she just said no no nono that isn’t what she said
>The horn… using it for… for…
>”Twilight?”
“Blight! The Blight, AJ. M-magic belongs to the Mother and to Celestia alone. Wh-what unicorns use, the tricks and the wi-wi-witchcraft that take the form of that divine magic, it’s… it isn’t real. It’s Blight. It corrupts the user, obscures the Truth. Sisters of Solemnity aren’t to use their horns. Never. Never, Applejack! Do you understand?”
>”Heaven’s sake, Twilight, relax! You look like you’re on the verge of a veritable panic attack!”
>You feel far worse than that, far worse…
>Far deeper, anchored in the lowest, most vulgar permutations of the Depths, where the Naiads feast…
>There are the bones and the souls of traitors to the Faith, those who use the Blight of false magic, those who would deign to imitate Her greatness…
>The aching in the dreams, all concentrated there, at the vertex of your wicked horn…
>”Twilight?”
“I can’t… I can’tIcan’tIcan’tI—”
>”You don’t have to. I’ll take care of it. Just watch my flank, when it comes to it. Twilight?”
“Y-yes?”
>”It isn’t your fault, you know. None of it is. It’s Valley business, plain and simple. Would’ve bubbled over whether you were here or not.”
“Thank you.”
 
. . .
 
>A few minutes and miles later, the dirt path has widened significantly, and the distant antenna of the Sky Farm grown thicker, taller, and more visible
>A crimson caplight gleams there against the ruffled clouds, which have, over the course of the last hour, crested over the top of the northern mountain peaks and nestled their way between the two parallel ranges
>As though they were the rigid stuff of a great dielectric, swimming between twin plates, discharge imminent…
>Mixed metaphors, Twilight, mixed metaphors…
>After all, it’s the clouds themselves, along with the earth beneath them, which will soon be the twin plates in a colossal capacitor; another great storm is beginning to brew
>The air has humidified; beads of either condensation or sweat have begun to form along the base of your neck, where your cloak is wrapped the tightest, where your coat is matted against cool, taut skin
>Your eyes are trained on the road; you can afford to call it a “road” now, at the very least
>What isn’t obscured by gravel dust flung up by the truck you’ve been pursuing through varying degrees of marshland and gravel bar, riding parallel to the great flood of the river which is the provider of this land, near small settlements, offshoots of the greater souk, the extension of the extension…
>Well, the road is level here, at least, and you’ve caught sight of the truck again
>The shoots and stands obscure your sightlines every other minute or so, forcing Applejack to speed up again to gain on them
>The air outside is stiller now, calmer than before; racing by at this velocity, you aren’t certain how you can tell such a thing, but… it’s true
>You know it to be true, as surely as you know that Mater’s light has already been obscured by the nimbus drift
>You are blind to Her, and, in some small capacity, She is blind to you
>”They’re really stringing us all the way out to the tower, ain’t they?”
“It looks that way. Do you really think it’s the best idea to remain in hot pursuit? They may become nervous and try something rash…”
>”If we don’t get my cousin back now, who knows what’s going to happen to him! Baseborn as he is, he’s still a member of two Families of the Valley, one of them the damned Barony. I don’t know why Sadd’lah thought he could get away with this, but maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. And if we stop now, it’s going to be worse for everypony. We need to get him back, by any means.”
“And… your grandmother’s plan? If we do get him back, what then?”
>”I’m not worried about that right now, Twilight. Frankly, I’m concerned that you are.”
>She’s right, of course
>The thought crossed your mind, and you spoke, and the vulgarity of it came later, when you had already spoken
>It doesn’t matter now, does it? All that matters now is Braeburn’s life
>Suddenly, the truck before you seems to lift off the ground, gaining substantial elevation in no time at all
>”They’ve reached the hill. Once they’re over that crest, they’ll shoot right down into the building site.”
“Why there? Of all places?”
>”Because they’re trapped. This road’s the only way back to the county road, other than the worker’s road, which is barriered off. Unless they want to try rolling through the mud flats and getting themselves stuck and ripe for picking, that’s the end of the line. Maybe they think they can hide from us.”
“Will the workers panic? Will anypony try to help?”
>”It ain’t on their dime, so they won’t care. They’ve all seen much worse where they come from. It’s why they’re here.”
>Rushes begin to scrape Winona’s sides as the road narrows again, gravel transforming back into dirt, rising up a somewhat sharp crag
>The truck handles the grade much more smoothly than you’d expected; or perhaps you’ve simply become more accustomed to the shaking sensation of automobiles
>Braeburn’s truck, meanwhile, is cresting over the hill, a soft glint crossing its silvery bumper from what remains of Mater’s rays before disappearing completely from sight
>Applejack grits her teeth and drives her hoof deep into the pedal again, racing onwards and upwards towards the peak
>In no time, you’re there, and all at once the site is revealed to you again in all its industrious glory
>It overwhelms you exactly as it did the first time, staring down at it from the opposite hilltop
>The barges labeled “RICH” are gone now, perhaps having delivered their share of supply, but the adjacent site is teeming with life
>An enormous crane extends vertically nearly a third of the way up to the top of the tower, rigid steel claw gripping a girder, hanging poised over a monolithic blue tarp
>Saddle Arabians, clad in construction clothes, some whirring about in mobile equipment, others trotting between lanes of pylons, piles of black cable, shipping containers, some carrying loads of smaller supplies on their backs, all gradually grow from mote-size to proper proportions as you draw nearer
>The river, oily in its apparent constitution and color from this angle, flows in a mild torrent around the soft peninsula of concrete and steel, occasional waves lapping at its edge like great Naiad tongues in the wind
>And, as soon as the words “A storm is coming soon” begin to play in the white space between your mind and your mouth, the first drops of rain make sonic dents in Winona’s roof
>Rain, slow to start, but gradually building in volume, static swimming in the air; it’s going to be a veritable downpour
>”There!”
>Applejack points down the slope towards the workyard on the riverbank, eyes bulging with determination
>At the bottom of the hill, almost totally camouflaged against a similarly colored shipping container, Braeburn’s truck idles
>It’s a short but careful descent down the steep slope, Applejack wrangling the brakes and pedal to navigate this dirt path which clearly wasn’t meant for motorized vehicles
>In time, however, you arrive at the edge of the site, several meters still from the fencing guarding the outer perimeter of the tower’s white concrete foundation
>Dirt has changed suddenly into rocky asphalt beneath Winona’s tires, and Applejack slows to a crawl as she approaches the other truck, which remains in the same position
>No workers in the immediate vicinity…
>A sudden lurch forward brings you fully parallel to the other truck, close enough to see into the lightly tinted windows if you squint hard enough
>”Look. Do you see them?”
>You struggle against your nagging sense of imminent danger to peer across the gap into the front of the cab, then the back
>Both appear to be vacant
“They’ve left the truck. Probably abandoned it here before we even crested the hill. They’re on hoof now.”
>”They’ve got my cousin, Twilight. Damnit, they can’t be far.”
“Should we get out? Sh-should we try to retrace their hoofsteps?
>”It’s… riskier that way. Winona gives us cover, at the very least. Not that I think Sadd’lah would be fool enough to shoot at me, but at this point I ain’t taking any chances. But… ‘s probably best to get out. We can’t do much in this hunk of junk at this point.”
“Right. You… know how to use that thing, right?”
>”This?”
>Applejack raises the shotgun high, as though exposing a divine relic to the rays of the sun, now conspicuously absent as the clouds further darken the sky
>”Tell you something else, Twilight, so you don’t get your holy little hiney kicked in this place. Don’t ever ask an Apple if they know how to use a gun. Why, the only way my brother convinced the Army not to put him in officer training was his marksmanship. Shot the straps off of six fresh bales of hay from two hundred meters.”
>Exiting the truck on her side, Applejack slides a rack on the underside of the firearm back and forward again, hiking the length of the barrel against one wither and steadying its stock with one forehoof
>For whatever reason, what should be comfort at the safety this weapon provides you instead comes as worry
>Nothing’s going to go wrong, of course, but… your certainty about certain aspects of your existence have come into question lately
>You wish more than ever that you would have simply remained in the convent, never having come here to face the terrors of a godless land
>It’s, it’s…
>”…going to be okay, Twilight.”
>The hairs behind your ears stand up straight as Applejack rests a hoof on your shoulder from behind you
>There’s warmth in the gesture, but you’re nearly too frightened to notice
>”You can stay with the truck, you know. I’ll be back with my cousin in no time.”
“N-no. I’m coming with you. You need somepony to watch your flank. Th-that’s how you say that, right?”
>She smiles, a broad, sincere grin at first, which quickly transforms into that familiar cockeyed half-smirk
>”You just keep on finding new ways to surprise me, Miss Sunshine. Let’s go.”
 
. . .
 
>The shipping containers on the external side of the perimeters were empty, save for their intended contents; Applejack checked every last one of them twice
>You’d both reasoned that Sadd’lah’s band of four, including the captive Braeburn, wouldn’t have been able to escape over the horizon or into the river in the time it had taken to crest the hill dividing the floodplains from the tower site
>It came down to this, though you were loathe to come to such a conclusion: they had crossed into the workyard, into the fray of construction ponies at work
>Into a crowded zone with plenty of hiding spots and even more innocent souls to potentially be harmed
>The decision to pursue was made immediately, requiring no communication
>Braeburn needed Applejack’s help; Braeburn needed your help
>And though your heart is full of fear, though this venture seems to violate every letter of the scripture, though you’d solemnly vowed not to aid in acts of war…
>The letter of the Truth is subservient to its intention
>The Matron told you that many a time, alone with her in her office, studying those rare manuscripts which did not occupy the shelves of the convent’s library
>You must fulfill this purpose, you MUST do this
>Your determination to make the Truth yours overrides any harrowing fears still clinging to the skin beneath your coat
>Make it yours…
>Advancing beyond the gated perimeter fence was simple; Applejack merely expressed to the guard her interest in monitoring the progress of the tower’s construction, it technically being built on Apple lands
>”Sadd’lah easily could’ve forced Braeburn to say the same. Or, more likely, they hopped the fence somewheres or other.”
>Following her lead, you come past the scattered mess of containers, sandbags, and rubble to the main staging area, where a tall pile of girders covered in a tarp stands between you and the monolithic tower
>It should’ve been obvious that it’d look bigger up close, yet that fact doesn’t lessen your awe
>A few more paces bring you past another yellow cautionary line painted into the concrete floor, now slick with a few droplets of the impending storm
>Saddle Arabians garbed in minimal protective equipment over layers of fabric and headwear run about, some hurrying to cover supplies in fluttering tarps, some parking their roving vehicles, some simply marching and conversing
>All moving steadily away from the tower and towards hastily constructed tarp-shelters
>”They don’t work in the rain.”
“Because it makes it dangerous?”
>”Well, that too. But mostly because they have omens about thunderstorms. They don’t work in the rain. Works a little better in the desert, where rain is far between; here it can get a tad annoying.”
“But at least it’ll thin the herd.”
>”There’s that. Good thinking, Twi.”
>Unconsciously, you and Applejack begin to steadily move away from each other, you taking the left and her the right, splitting about the girder pile to cover more ground
>Nothing on your side…
>When you reach the other side and see Applejack across a stretch of wet concrete waving at you, you know she’s safe as well
>Continuing on, rounding an embankment corner, your path is abruptly blocked by a large metal pipe, from which the enormous and steady flow of river water can be heard within
>They could be hiding anywhere…
>The pipe is cool to the touch, and too slippery to climb with its smooth, rounded surface, made reflective by the steadily increasing downpour
>Praying to Mater that you don’t ruin one of the five robes you brought with you, you contract your back legs into the ground and push off, lifting you a few feet off the ground momentarily
>From here, you grasp for the lip of a crossbeam jutting from the embankment, finding purchase there
>Unstable purchase, that is; the lip is too small to keep a steady grip with your hooves, not to mention slick from the rain
>But if you could just shimmy a few meters to your left, you could pass right over the pipe and continue around the tower base
“Steady, Twilight… nothing to see here, just a Sister of Shimmying…”
>Precariously hanging from the girder, you bring yourself to a halt directly over the pipe and let go
>It’s less than a meter drop, but it may as well be a hundred, for as soon as your hooves make contact your heart skips a beat, and you believe you’ll go toppling over the side and crack your head open like an egg on the wet concrete below
>Thankfully, you don’t slip, and from this height are able to quickly survey your surroundings
>The river side of the tower is also abandoned now; a long heap of dark soil, potentially for distribution within the Sky Farm, lies unfettered beneath a bunker designed to keep it from running off in rain
>For a split second, the fractal reflection of some shiny object appears to glisten from one side of the dirt pile, but just as quickly it’s gone
>Only your frenzied imagination, perhaps, or more likely a trick catch of the falling water
>Puddles everywhere are swallowed into shallows in the concrete, with drains at their nadirs to feed the runoff back into the river
>Even from up here, you can just barely hear the noise they make; it’s smaller than that of the pipe, but more ferocious, more… exposed
>You wonder if—
CHAKOOOOM
>The noise shocks you stiff, hairs standing up along the ridge of your back
>Your hooves seem to lose all friction, and you punch them wildly out in every direction as you go tumbling forward into open air, off the pipe and into the concrete
>For a moment, just a single moment, you believe absolutely that you’re going to die
>But the height isn’t quite enough to incapacitate you, and your forehooves land neatly on the ground with little pain, followed by the hocks of your backlegs which scuff and slide in either direction, leaving you prostrate
>Prostrate, and intensely afraid
>Was it lightning?
>No, it couldn’t have been; there was no flash, no echo, just a clean, wild noise that chilled you to your core
>So much LIKE lightning, but so much more… local
>Very close to what you’d expect an equine-made explosion to sound like, or a snippet of a jet-engine’s distant roar amplified to unbearable levels
>You check yourself for blood; there is none that you can see
>If the sound was what you suspect it might have been, then it wasn’t directed at you
>It was…
>No
“Applejack!”
>Without thinking, you race towards the dirt ridge, cutting hard right once you’ve rounded the base of the tower, trying without a single thought of your own safety to find Applejack
>All this time, having concerned yourself deeply with the nature of the gun, and you haven’t even truly heard one fired in your life
>Like a bomb going off, like the howl of a great beast…
>If it wasn’t trained at you, then it was trained at Applejack, and the shot that rang out…
>You don’t want to think about where it might have impacted
>Your only thought now is of running the distance, tired as your limbs may be, to regroup with your friend
CHAKOOOM
“Gah!”
>White-hot sparks explode from a pipe not two meters before your eyes, glistening in fantastic eddies as they settle to the ground and vanish
>They’re shooting at you now!
>You don’t even try to ascertain the source of the firing; instead, you just keep running forward, perpendicular to the line of fire and towards a wayward shipping container
>Even if the shot didn’t land, you still could’ve been blinded by a spark to the eye, had you been just a little closer to the impact zone!
>Blinded!
>(Like the Matron)
>Moments before you reach the container, another blast rings out, this one landing behind you judging by the almost comical noise of the bullet piercing an inflatable safety catch, air seeping out of the wound like Sister Bluebell’s prank balloons
>Comical, if it weren’t so terrifying
>You practically dive behind the container, safe for now behind its twin sheet-metal cover
>”Twilight!”
>The voice is close, so close it makes you yelp in terror
“Applejack?! Where are you?”
>”Behind you!”
>You snap your head around to see a fluttering tarp draped over a scaffolding matrix, concealing an orange shape with glistening emerald eyes
>Scrambling backwards, you cross the space between and duck beneath the tarp, letting it fold over you and cast its shadow, letting it hide you from danger
>Safety…
“Are you okay? Did they shoot at you?”
>”What? No, I shot at them! Just a warning shot behind their skinny little flanks when I saw them racing behind a truck. You ain’t hurt?”
“No! I mean… they shot at me, AJ! They shot at ME!”
>”Figures, you scampering about in the open. What in the hay were you thinking?”
“I… don’t know. I wanted to find you.”
>”Well, you found me. I fired first, I got return fire. If my brother were here, he’d call that an engagement. Or nothing at all, he don’t talk much.”
“You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously!”
>She chuckles
>”Well, what can I say? We’re in it now. Only thing left to do is get Braeburn back, and hope they ain’t roughed him up too bad.”
>Before you can even think to stop her, Applejack gallops headlong through a gap in the tarp and briefly out into the open, shotgun slung over one wither, before vaulting over a concrete barrier and hiding
>The rain is coming down so hard now that you’re not even certain you’d be able to hear the blast if somepony decided to fire off
>Peering out beneath the tarp’s lower lip, you see Applejack sitting there beneath the stormy sky, hair and coat soaked by the downpour, eyes alight with determination
>You wonder if you could feel so determined someday…
>If you could overcome your own petty fears, and be strong in the face of danger
>”SADD’LAH!!!”
>Applejack screams over the storm, her voice able to carry despite the barrage of noise
>Still, you can’t be certain that the Saddle Arabians, wherever they’re hiding, will be able to hear her
>”This is your last chance to surrender! You throw down that gun right now, and you let my cousin go, and maybe, MAYBE, I’ll let you off with a kick in the tail!”
>You can’t help but gulp
>It’s a bluff, to be sure; even with an equal number of firearms, Sadd’lah’s crew numbers three
>Were it to come to a close quarters engagement, Applejack would almost certainly be overpowered
>Hopefully it doesn’t come to that…
>”Now it’s a damn foolish thing you’ve done today, but I don’t reckon it needs a ‘to be continued.’ Maybe you thought we’d pay for his life or limb by taking him up to the manor. Well, that’s probably true. Maybe you’re cursing yourselves right now for the bad, bad luck that saw me crossing paths with you before you got the chance. Well, it ain’t my fault or his that you got terrible timing. Hand him over, and we can pretend like the whole thing never happened.”
>Applejack looks down at her outstretched hooves for a moment, closes her eyes, then stretches her neck up over the barrier to let herself be heard
>”Don’t, and you’ll all be shot dead right here and now! Your choice!”
>One second passes, and the silence is deafening
>Even the rain particles slamming against the concrete at terminal velocity seem to make no sound
>There is the erosion of the world, Twilight
>Little by little, the breaking down of everything by the will of the water
>The flood rages in your mind
>Two seconds pass
>Applejack grips her weapon tighter, pressing it close to her rain-shined body, squeezing it with terrifying passion
>Does she… want to use it?
>(That’s the decay)
>Does she want to… HAVE to use it?
>It’s tense, and quiet, and fear is all around you
>You aren’t even sure you’d hear a shotgun sounding off in this moment, so ensconced are you by this feeling
>It’s chaotic and terrific all at once, and it’s the beginning of something important
>The end tied to the beginning, the ending of blindness and the beginning of
>(The waking world)
>Three seconds pass
>Or is it three minutes? Hours?
>Something dark moves in the corner of your vision
>Your eyes snap into focus into its direction, just in time to witness four shadows trampling across a divide between two containers, one with its head ducked down, prodded on by the others
>From the angle Applejack is watching from, it’s almost certainly impossible for her to see
“Applejack!”
>Despite her look of absolute concentration, she looks back at you, cowering under the tarp
>”What?!”
“There! They went between! I think… I think they’re headed for the other side of the tower!”
>”The other… daggum! They’re gonna hightail it out of here in the truck! Probably blow out Winona’s tires while they’re at it!”
“And then?”
>”And then we’re stranded here, unless we make the long walk! By then, who knows where they’ll take him!”
>Your friend rears upward and bounces over the top of the barrier, gun still gripped firmly into one cusp of hoof and fetlock
>Without thinking, you follow her, rushing under the tarp and skirting the edge of the tower’s base in hot pursuit of Braeburn and his captors
>From what you could see through the thicket of the downpour, they’re sprinting between shipping containers, scaffolds, and piles of raw material to avoid Applejack’s line of sight
>Even worse, they seem to have become aware that you and Applejack have become alert to their position
>You… probably shouldn’t have shouted that information out so loudly
>Nevertheless, you run along the rain-slicked metal shear stretching out from the base like a dinner plate, remaining cautious of slippage and desperately trying to keep up with Applejack’s ferocious strides
>Even on three legs, she’s half again faster than you can manage
>Not fifty meters ahead, you spot the party again; four shadows under the darkness of the midday clouds, four phantoms ghosting across terrain, one reluctant and downtrodden, but quick lest he be caught in the crossfire
>You become astutely aware that Sadd’lah and his minions most likely only have one gun between them; even if they wanted to shoot at Applejack, they must also be quite occupied with keeping their hostage in check
>Upon you pointing out the scurrilous movement, Applejack nods and focuses her sight on where she believes they’ll come out next
>The connection is there again, the rainbow-thing arising from both your minds
>You see it as well as she, and she must be ludicrously occupied
>But you know she sees it, you know she KNOWS, you know the dreams were—
>CHAKOOOOOM
>Your train of thought is interrupted by a blast of incandescent sparks streaming out of the ironclad wall behind you
>Even now, they’re shooting solely at you!
>If they became desperate, they might fire on Applejack, but from what you’ve learned of the Valley, to do so would be certain death for all of them
>They can’t know you’re under the protection of the Apple family, and you aren’t even sure if that truly affords you the same protection as Applejack anyway
>But you’re a part of this now; you can’t simply scamper away and let Applejack go at this alone
>In the meantime, the shadows move again, and this time Applejack finds her mark, aiming and firing one pellet at the smallest of the billowy shapes
>A tiny cry carries across the concrete flats; moments later, your mind registers a black splash of blood radiating upwards and out from the victim’s back leg
>The shape crumples into a small, formless heap, still hollering what you can only assume are obscenities in the tongue of the Saddle Arabians
>”That’s one. Two to go.”
>Seemingly as a show of divine power, as if Mater Solis Herself should speak in answer to the retribution, a lightning bolt arcs across the swollen sky as soon as Applejack finishes her words
>Briefly, in one single, glorious instant, the earth and the heavens are tethered together as one, a macrocosm of the synapses firing within your brain
>You can FEEL it; you can feel the electricity
>The magnetism
>Apparently unfettered by the wounding of their compatriot, Sadd’lah and his remaining lackey chase Braeburn across another gap in cover, making a vectoral beeline towards an arched doorway carved out of the tower base
“There! They’re moving into the tower!”
>Applejack turns around, a mild look of surprise crossing her face
>”Well, I’ll be darned. Looks like they ain’t going to their truck after all. That’ll make this even easier.”
“Easier?”
>”They’re fish in a barrel in there. Let’s go!”
>Together, you make pursuit, you on the left, Applejack to the right, closing the remaining space to the tower wall, feeling the rain soaking into both your coats, feeling the high winds on your faces, scratching at your eyes
>You wheel towards the unlit darkness of that cavity in the side of the Sky Farm, hooves pounding on the hardness of this place
>You feel alive
>Applejack feels alive too; you can see her emotions as easily as you can sense your own
>And, racing into the shadows here, where death may come from any angle, and you defenseless against it, your connection to Mater Solis has never felt more potent…
 
******
 
>The corridor into the base of the tower, the heart of the mechanism, grows dark quicker than you’d anticipated
>Fluorescent strips of light hang on tightwires several dozen meters overhead, but they’re dim, paling in comparison to the faded sunlight outside
>This IS a mechanism, isn’t it? No matter its agricultural purpose, it’s a machine which creates food without the touch of a pony’s hoof
>Raising, razing, distributing, all behind the mirror shades which will one day coat the exterior of the great latticework
>Moving among the heavy shadows cast by the greenish-yellow light above, seeking out Braeburn’s two remaining captors, you ponder Applejack’s comments on this place when you first laid eyes on it
>She views it as a monstrous eyesore, unbefitting the serene beauty of the valley with its massive height
>But, more importantly, she sees it as an affront to the natural way of things, fearing it will replace the traditions of farming which have allowed the Families to make a living in Canterium for centuries
>That, compounded with the mass immigration, very well might destroy the “old way” forever…
>But, despite the obvious threat of losing the prestige her family has held onto for so long, you can’t believe that’s the main reason this change disturbs Applejack
>You certainly didn’t recognize her as an heiress when first you met, nor do you see those sensibilities about her which you’ve come to expect of one of her status from all the Romantic-era tomes you’ve read
>No, she’s of a different breed; she cares only for her family, and for the truth of the matter, and for taking what is truthfully right into her own hooves, not bound by any personal feelings she might have towards such matters
>It’s what’s compelling her to shoulder the stakes of Braeburn’s life, no matter the potential cost for her or whatever differences they might have had in the past
>It’s why she sees something brighter, beneath the mere material instance of the Valley, beneath the soil and the crop and the mountains
>She sees a truer form, an ideal which this place is bound to deviate from
>That you can at least understand; you’ve long labored under the pretensions of tradition, and though you have your conniptions with some aspects of the Sisterhood’s will, namely the Last Matron Onus and the general attitude towards New Maker technology, you revere all of the rest, and don’t ever want to see it diluted
>They are taking him
>They are taking Braeburn up the tower, and then…
>Well, you have no notion of what might happen then
>Either Applejack will take him back and exact her country justice on his captors, which you aren’t certain you want to witness, or…
>Well, no “or”s for now
>There’s only one path which will return this frantic event to normalcy, and that is the one which must occur
>Otherwise, you don’t know what you’ll do
>To see a killing… that isn’t in your ken, and you don’t want it to be subsumed into the list of all the terrible things you might witness in this journey towards ascension
>So you’ll just have to wish it out of your mind, pray it won’t happen
>Droplets echo along the cavernous concrete space; otherwise, there is silence but for the distant static cry of the downpour outside
>Suddenly, Applejack’s ears perk up, and she whips around to aim her shotgun at the railing of another walkway above you and to the right
>You stare into that dark space, startled by the quickness of your friend’s motion, but see nothing
>Applejack remains in that taut position for a few seconds, then lets her guard down and sighs
>”Thought I heard something. Guess I’m just tense.”
“Do you think we should call out again? Maybe settle a nonviolent arrangement?”
>”No. I mean, would if I could. But they’re riled up now, and Saddle Arabians don’t come down when they’re riled up. Especially not these Saddle Arabians in particular.”
“There’s always a nonviolent course of action, AJ. The Prophetess walked into the light to give us that privilege. There was justification for war before, in those most ancient of times. Now, the Truth is ours.”
>”You really believe that?”
“Yes. I do.”
>”So I take it you don’t take kindly to the War going on right this very instant in the west.”
“I… don’t think about it much. We don’t have the broadcasts afforded by the Handbook in the convent. We don’t hear much about what happens. I’ve learned more about its nuances these last few days than in the years it’s been happening.”
>”What you have to understand, Twilight, is that sometimes violence is necessary. I’ll say that matter-of-factly, right here, so there’s no confusion on that. Now, I admire your devotion, and I alongside everypony else in the world think that a world without violence would be a dream come true. But it’s just that, a dream. You see what’s happened here and now: escalation is inevitable. Especially now that we don’t fight with sticks and rocks.”
“We’re in a technological golden age, Applejack. You see it all around you, don’t you? You see it in this tower.”
>”I see an ugly stain on an otherwise beautiful river basin.”
“Don’t you think it could be an opportunity? That this could mean a brighter future for the Valley? Regardless of any other issues of the migration, and a temporary deficit, or any of that… do you see an instance where this might have a net positive effect? Where change over time—”
>”CHANGE over time ain’t the thorn in my side, Twilight! I’ve seen all sorts of change over time. I’m the one who grew up in this place with the migration already happening, and I’m the one who’s been here all this time while this thing’s been built, and I’m the one who’s seen the consumption in the Valley overtake the exports, and ponies starving, and the war just goes on and there ain’t nothing we can do here but keep growing. I’ve seen THAT. What have you seen in all that time? Stone walls? Dusty books?”
“I… I didn’t mean…”
>”Naw, you didn’t mean it. Things just happen TO you, that’s right. This is all just happening outside of your control, and you’ve got no agency in it.”
>You lower your head, trying to look away from Applejack but only succeeding in catching her glare in the corner of your eye
>She’s right; she’s right and you’re wrong
>You have no place in speaking about such things, so why do you even bother?
>Because…
>”Look. I’m sorry. I’m… wound up, for obvious reasons. You’ve seen plenty I haven’t. And I want to help you to see more. But right now, this thing we live in, this ‘golden age’ as you call it, it just makes me angry. Angry for reasons I can’t describe, ‘specially not to you. Besides, it ain’t all bad. I already told you that the Valley might come out of this project better for it, eventually. Why are you harping on this now, of all times?”
“Because even if you… even if I were to convince Braeburn to speak to the Baron, what if he simply said no? What if there’s nothing you can do to stop the change? What kind of action do you think the other four Families would take if it just went on and on, with nothing impeding it?”
>”Then I won’t have made a difference. I won’t have done anything one way or the other. Life goes on. Maybe there’ll be blood, maybe they’ll all just lie down and take it like they’ve taken it from the Riches for generations. I’ve got no stake in it.”
“But you DO. You have the biggest stake in it of all of them, AJ. I’ve seen it in your eyes from the beginning.”
>Applejack turns to glare at you, holding her twin emeralds in place for a few moments of pure connection, then looks down, her braided mane falling over her slumped neck
>”What do you know about me?”
“As much as you’ve come to know about me, apparently.”
>She laughs
>”Well, that’s true. Hey, look.”
>Applejack points in front of you, quickening her forward pace a bit to approach a dark shape on the ground and inspect it
>You follow with silent hoofsteps, careful not to attract any undue attention on the chance that they can’t see you just as you can’t see them
>All these rafters, platforms, dark gossamer beams overhead, unlit madness spiraling into an unseen central shaft
>It makes you queasy
>Rounding Applejack’s form, you come side-to-side with her to look at the thing on the ground
>In this dimness, it’s rather difficult to make out what exactly you’re looking at
>At first, you’d thought it was a piece of wayward machinery, a hand crank or a lever of some kind broken off of larger equipment
>Studying it now, however, it’s clear that the bracket-shaped steel shape is firmly affixed to the ground, as though it were a handle for a subterranean hatch
>As if to answer, your vision gradually adjusts to the darkness beneath the overhead mesh canopy, revealing deep grooves in the concrete floor forming a rectangle around the handle
“A hatch?”
>”A hatch.”
“Where do you think it goes?”
>”I’m… not sure. Could be that it’s a maintenance entrance to the lower pumping equipment, but to my knowledge there should be nothing down there now. Foundation’s solid, but…”
>Applejack pauses to ponder; you can almost see the gears in her mind turning
“But… what?”
>”But there should be no lower levels to this place. You saw out there yourself, all the water what comes from the river to water the crop rows is pumped overground. That big red standpipe that goes up the spine of the tower, that’s the mass distribution line, and every branch off of it goes OVER the foundation and then down into the river for collection.”
>She turns to face you; worry paints her face a yellowish tint
>”I watched them pour this concrete foundation. There ain’t any lower levels.”
“That you know of.”
>”Hell, I should know. It’s my Granny’s damn land they’re building this needle on.”
“Do you think Sadd’lah could’ve taken Braeburn down there?”
>”Count on it. Haven’t seen any other signs of ‘em. All the elevators and whatnot need cards to operate from what I’ve heard, so they can’t have gone up there. But if they went down…”
>Applejack circles the sunken rectangle; now that your vision has totally adjusted to the darkness, you even recognize that its surface is not of the uniform concrete of the rest of this interior, but rather a rough, ridged copper
>While you look on, AJ loops her fetlock about the handle protruding from the hatch and struggles to lift it on its hinges
>With some considerable strain visible on her face, she opens the portal, the slab cover coming off the ground just a few inches
>Below, a soft blue light trembles, fading in and out
>”Twilight… help me…”
“Oh!”
>You rush around to AJ’s side, managing to squeeze your forehoof into the gap between the floor and the hatch’s underside
>”Don’t… crush yourself…”
>Giving every ounce of strength you have, you actually manage to contribute to AJ’s efforts, lifting the copper slab up to barrel height and exposing the light even more
>The strain necessary begins to impair your hearing, filling your ears with the pulse of your own elevated heartbeat; your sight blurs to match
>The weight… it’s cutting into your hooves…
>”Gah!”
>Suddenly, without warning save for AJ’s cry, the weight of the cover vanishes completely when it reaches eye level, springing backwards on its hinges and rending open
>You… actually did it!
>”Pheeeyew… come on, Twilight.”
“R-right…”
>Below you, a ladder extends a few meters to a lattice of grating, all bathed in that same wavering blue light
>Applejack descends first, and you follow closely, still reeling from the painful sensation of forcing the hatch open
>You really do think you may have nearly chipped your hoof…
>Regardless, you push on, noticing that the air down here is significantly cooler than the relative humidity up top
>Your hoof touches the catwalk below, and you turn around to see that AJ has already begun down the hallway you’ve landed in
>Hastily, you follow her, marveling at whatever this place is
>It doesn’t appear to be a waterworks of any sort; too much delicate machinery lines the walls, with colored pipes bearing labels like “THERMAL EQUIL” and “WASTE ALPHA” running in bold vectors across the rounded ceiling
>Smaller pipes, analog console screens, buzzing transmitters of some kind, rounded plug caps with menacing, skull-like embellishments, pump controls, and other various technological inner workings which escape your knowledge line this maddening interior as well
>Whatever this place is, its purpose appears to be far more advanced than that of the above-ground farming facility
>As if to confirm this sentiment, AJ bears a look of deep concern when you finally catch up to her in this near-darkness
>Her orange-gold coat appears nearly green in this strange, harsh overhead light, her eyes twin black holes shaded by her hat and sweating brow
>She runs her right hoof along the many instruments in the cramped corridor, feeling their coldness, their alien aura
>”This… is not for farming. This ain’t even for maintaining the place. I know what all that looks like. I’ve seen diagrams, models… but this…”
>She gulps audibly, and you become acutely aware that her hoofsteps seem to be making no noise whatsoever on this grating
>Nor do yours
>Rather, an enormous oscillatory noise echoes in your eardrums, drowning out all other ambient sound
>So greatly does it encompass everything else that you didn’t even realize you were hearing it until now
>You descend a metal staircase, at the bottom of which the floor turns to gray concrete, a line drawn in its base with jagged arrows pointing you towards an intersection of halls
>Here, the walls smooth out into uniform stucco, and the blue light is gradually replaced with a more natural white tint from conical bulbs overhead
>Looking behind you, back into that maintenance shaft, out of which steam pours in requiem strands, it feels almost like a distant dream, having walked in that space only a few moments ago
>Here, however, the noise has grown ever louder; Applejack seems to have noticed it too
>You look down at your hooves, struggling to drown out that sound which is so like pumping, or the movements of waves, up and down, up and down…
>You close your eyes, gnash your teeth, do anything you can to—
>Your hoof touches something wet
>Your eyes snap open to attention, and you raise your hoof to reveal that it’s covered in a sticky red substance
>Oh, Celestia…
>You’re going to panic again…
>”Twilight?”
>You look to your friend, fully aware of the crazed look in your eyes now, intensely aware of the blood on your hoof, so aware of everything around you, so aware so aware so
>”That ain’t yours, is it?”
>She’s noticed it on your hoof
>Not just there, but on the floor, in drops separated by only a few feet
>Extending down deeper into the system, farther beyond the concrete and stucco and metal shell below the surface of the earth
“We… we have to get out of here… I feel sick again, AJ… I feel like… we shouldn’t be here…”
>”What are you talking about?”
>You have no idea, truthfully
>It’s coming to you as a revelatory instinct, as before, but this time more primal, more focused
>The nausea hasn’t come on this time because of the blood, but rather… for something else
>Something invisible
>”I must’ve grazed the other one of those varmints earlier with the shot that hit their friend. They left a trail right to them.”
“Braeburn… is… here?”
>”Yeah. We gotta keep moving. Towards that door there.”
>You feel as though you can barely stand, but somehow you keep on walking, side-by-side with Applejack
>You feel your skin crawl and your eyes close into a mass of shapes and delirious thoughts, but you’re conscious still, and you’re moving as normal
>Something is burning behind the door Applejack gestured towards…
>Something is there, waiting for you
>Another piece of the greater destiny, perhaps
>That noise, that awful, awful pumping noise…
>Celestia… Numena… where is this coming from?
>You blink twice, and you’re already here, at the threshold of the door
>It’s a steel porthole, looking almost like a vault entrance, clasped shut on crimson hinges and interlaced with a bulky locking mechanism
>Despite this, it appears to be unlocked, judging by the fact that the drops of blood lead right into it, the trail vanishing between the door’s base and the lip below it
“I don’t…”
>”Shhhhhh.”
>Applejack steadies her shotgun and reaches for the door’s wide handle
>She narrows her eyes, and in an instant you realize she feels the same thing you feel
>This time, you whisper
“You hear the noise?”
>”I hear something I shouldn’t. Get ready, I’m gonna open the door.”
>You back up slowly, still feeling like a walking zombie, still desperately wanting the noise to stop
>They’re back there, you know it
>They’re back there with Braeburn
>AJ grips the handle and takes a deep breath, to which you follow suit
>Here it comes…
>The door shrieks as AJ thrusts it open and immediately points her shotgun down the length of the darkness behind the door
>”Freeze! Don’t move a damn muscle!”
>You can’t see what’s behind the darkness from this angle, but from AJ’s tone you know it can’t be good
>Gradually, you peer around the corner of the door’s open frame while AJ marches briskly over the lip and beyond the threshold
>Behind her, you can make out the silhouetted shapes of three ponies, two bulky and garbed in flowing robes, one smaller, trembling
>It’s Braeburn and his captors, but…
>Why aren’t they moving?
>They all seem focused on something below the railing to which they’re glued; from here, you can only see their backs
>”Put your hooves in the air. Hey! Y’all got cotton in your ears? PUT YOUR HOOVES UP!”
>AJ’s shouts come to no avail; the three figures simply keep staring away from you, awash in silence
>In silence…
>Now that the door’s open, the unbearable noise is gone
>AJ approaches steadily; although you aren’t certain of the danger, you decide to follow, as though pulled along by a string
>”Braeburn?”
>No movement; the three ponies are transfixed
>Or…
>AJ wheels around to one side of the row of ponies, pointing her shotgun at Sadd’lah’s hooves
>No apparent response
“Applejack, what…”
>CLANG
>You wince at the sudden noise; after a few seconds, you look up to see AJ’s gun lying on the ground in front of her
>Applejack, too, is looking down over the railing, oblivious to the consequences of losing her defense
“Applejack?”
>You race to your friend’s side, heart pounding, hoof still beating down a dull pain
>You find her eyes; they’re more gray in this light than the usual deep emerald, and they’re pointed down the side of this elevated balcony, down to the lower floor deep below, past the latticework and tangle of mounted wires and pillars of steel
>There, into the heart of the machine, you gaze also
>There, clearly visible from up here, are orderly rows of… the only way you could really describe them is enormous metal fish
>Each is conical at one end, tapering into a green-painted point; the rest of their bodies are chrome-plated and sport five fin-like protrusions, three at the base and two in the dorsal region
>Ridges run around the midsection of the objects, which are smaller than the rest of the bodies, and all of the “fish” are mounted atop steel carriage platforms on train tracks
>Beyond the rows of metal tubes, cooling pipelines jut from the opposing wall, coiling themselves about large chambers encrusted into the base of the station
>Adjacent to that, a large circular platform with foreboding yellow cautionary markings around its perimeter sits elevated above the rest of the concrete floor
>The ceiling, only a few meters above you at this level, opens onto a circular aperture of the same size as the one below directly above that platform, blocked by a black sheet of metal some distance above its lip
>In all, it’s a strange sight, and certainly worth considering as another mystery of this place, but you aren’t sure why Applejack and the rest—
>”Braeburn.”
>Surprised, you look up at Applejack again; her attention is completely gone from you as she looks over the shoulders of the shocked Saddle Arabians to face her cousin
>This time, he looks back at her, panic clear in his pale green eyes
>”Did you know about this?”
>”Ap… Applejack, I…”
>”Did you KNOW about this?”
>”No. I mean, I didn’t… I didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t… my daddy and I…”
>”You two.”
>This time, she glares at Sadd’lah and his henchman, who appear to be totally frozen in shock; even still, they acknowledge her, not out of fear of her wrath, but something like mild interest
>”I’ll give y’all this one chance to hightail it out of here. Right. Now. Before I buck both of your asses over this guardrail.”
“Applejack!”
>”Shut up. Hear me? Now. And we’ll pretend like this all never happened.”
>Slowly, still trembling slightly, Sadd’lah’s bruised face turns to acknowledge Applejack
>”Baruna. We did not mean to escalate to such—”
>”Now. I ain’t gonna ask again.”
>”…indeed.”
>The great beast of a pony, who just moments ago you regarded as the most dangerous threat to your life imaginable, simply clicks his tongue and pats the flank of his companion; both of them turn around and walk solemnly back through the vault door through which you’d followed them
>From this angle, the bloodstain soaking Sadd’lah’s robes becomes visible; he doesn’t seem to mind it
>Until the moment he disappears around a corner in the empty stucco hall with the harsh white lights, he walks almost… blissfully
>Unconcerned with all else but his current trajectory away from this place
>When the two of them are gone, all that remains on the balcony here, and seemingly in this entire subterranean facility, are you, Applejack, and Braeburn
>And despite the fact that this combination of ponies in one place has been the ambition of you, AJ, and her grandmother all this time, you feel remarkably like the migration problem won’t be the topic of this ensuing conversation
>Applejack approaches Braeburn, her gait ragged, her breathing erratic
>She’s both furious and terrified, you realize
>”Your daddy and you WHAT?”
>”We ain’t… we ain’t spoken, Applejack. S-same as you and I.”
>“You really want me to believe you’ve got no goddamn idea of any of this? ANY of this down here?!”
>”IT AIN’T MY DEAL! IT AIN’T NOTHING TO DO WITH ME!”
>”Why’d they bring you down here? Why the goose chase to bring you down here? What were they planning to do with you?”
>”They was trying to bring me to yours! To ransom me! They saw you, they hightailed it, what do you want me to say? I don’t know shit about any of this! Why are you so gol-danged concerned with—”
>”Because I thought you were gonna die, damnit!”
>Applejack’s voice reaches a peak, ringing through the massive chamber below, echoing off the distant walls
>She sharply inhales, then exhales in rugged staccato, sounding like shallow laughter
>She’s crying
>Indeed, tears are on her cheeks now, tears you only now see in the darkness
>”I thought… I thought I’d lose you.”
>Braeburn closes his eyes, bites his lip and stands to dust himself off
>”Like you’d care if you did.”
>”What is that supposed to mean? What do you mean by that?”
>”Meaning you don’t respect me none. Meaning you and all you Apples think I’m nothing but dirt under your hooves. That you don’t care a lick about me, but want my help!”
>”You think I’d want you… don’t even say things like that! Do you see what this is? Do you know what the hell all this is?!”
>Braeburn chuckles sourly, shivering as he looks over the rail again, looking at the metal tube-fish
>”I know. I know I need a smoke right now.”
>”You need to come home.”
>”Home?”
>Braeburn’s bloodshot eyes snap towards Applejack again, flicking over your face briefly before returning to his cousin’s
>”Where’s home? Where’s that, Applejack? Tell me exactly where the HELL home is? With you? With your… with your conniving, controlling, manipulating crone of a—”
>”Don’t you talk about our Granny like that. Don’t you ever talk about that mare like that again.”
>”I don’t belong there. I’m my own pony, and I don’t belong with you, and I don’t belong with the Riches. I belong with my own lonesome, on my own property, making my own living. You ain’t ever treated me like anything but a worthless damn bastard, so why would I EVER help you with what you want me for?”
>”That ain’t important. I’m not even talking with you about that right now, Braeburn. I don’t want to fight you on that. But if you know something about… if you…”
>Through all this, your blood has boiled, your heartbeat reaching a crescendo in your ears; you have been more terrified in this moment than in any preceding it, even when you thought surely that you would die to a bullet on the surface above
>You don’t understand what this is, nor do you know what has made Braeburn and Applejack afraid, but you share their fear on a subconscious level
>You feel… you KNOW that you share their fear, somewhere deep within you
>You are disconnected from Mater in this moment
>All her Litanies are forgotten in this moment
>”If you know why there are goddamned nuclear missiles in the basement of your daddy’s farm, you’d better spill it right now.”
>…
>Shockwaves through your system, through the heart of your own machine
>The words mean nothing to you, and yet… they mean everything
>The words call to mind the great orange cloudburst in your dream last night, the dream about the
>(Atom)
>The dream about the Makers, their lands in the Western Reaches turned to ash, the Plague scouring the earth of what survived, from what best could be told from what little ponykind knows of the far West
>The place from which the apocryphal Exsilists come for vengeance
>The words call to mind that fiery intensity, and the waves, the unspeakable invisible waves, growing stronger by the second, burning you to the very core of your essence
>Burning the Truth out of you
>Are these… do these things, below you…
>Do they cause that?
“Applejack…”
>”Twilight, for Celestia’s sake, this ain’t about you!”
“I came here to help you. To resolve this problem.”
>”This ain’t the same problem! At all! This ain’t what we talked about, this is something… they’re building this on MY LAND. On OUR LAND, Braeburn!”
>”Ain’t no ‘our’ about it.”
>”It’s YOUR daddy, you slimy, no-good varmint! And it’s YOUR mama’s family what’s suffering for it!”
>”Don’t you talk about my mama, Applejack. Don’t even talk about her.”
>”I will, and I am. She was an Apple. This is your family, and for what it’s worth, for everything we’ve ever done to support this war, we ain’t having a missile silo under our dirt! What do you know about this?!”
>Applejack clenches her teeth and exacts a combative stance, positioning herself away from the railing and towards Braeburn
>Braeburn responds by holding fast against the railing, his eyes darting back and forth between Applejack and the ground
>You look where he’s looking; on the concrete, less than a meter away, is Braeburn’s own rifle, which Sadd’lah must have dropped before you even entered the room
>Two guns on the floor… two very disturbed Apples…
>Do you want to even attempt to get between them?
>They look ready to fight, and in this sort of environment, one or both of them might get seriously hurt
>What can you do?
>The orange clouds, the ashes, the waves…
>(When the Makers were turned to dust by the atom, do you think they knew the time of day?)
>”Make one more implication about me, Applejack, and I’ll put one between your uppity—”
“STOP!”
>The word rings back at you tenfold in this great empty chamber, and for just a moment the two Apples stop staring daggers at each other and look at you with genuine confusion
>You’re breathing quite heavily now, and your thoughts are strangely on Granny Smith’s story
>About the tower full of stars, and the voice of a mare on high
>An angel…
>Could it have been the same one who speaks to you?
“I… I’m not going to pretend that I fully understand the gravity of this situation. That I understand the history between you two. But what I do know is that this isn’t your fight! This is to do with the Baron. Your father, Braeburn. If he’s responsible for this, then you have to confront him. You have to tell him that it isn’t right.”
>Applejack takes a deep breath, finally looking at you with an expression that isn’t consumed with anger
>”No, Twilight, you DON’T understand. Do you even know what those are down there?”
“I… no. Not fully.”
>”I’ll give you a hint: they’re weapons so gol-danged powerful, they ain’t even been used in war yet. Just testing, way out in the Badlands. Only reason the public knows about them is because some whistleblower tipped it off. They can destroy entire cities, Twilight. Raze the earth for hundreds of years. And they can be fired from anywhere.”
“Great Goddess…”
>”Ain’t something we can take lightly, being on our property. Hell, forget our property, being anywhere NEAR us. If one goes off by mistake, that’s the whole valley, gone. In the blink of an eye, just gone.”
>You look at Braeburn, whose face has gone pale and patchy
>There’s a deep sadness in his eyes, one that shows his concerns at the moment are not fully with the missiles
“Braeburn… you remember me, right?”
>He looks to you, then back at the floor
>”Course I do. I was… why’d you leave? Why’d you go when I was gone? I wanted to take care of you.”
“I didn’t have a choice. I wanted to talk to you about it the first opportunity I had. I’m sorry all this has happened. It’s partly my fault Sadd’lah targeted you in the first place.”
>”Partly mine too.”
>Applejack manages a slight grin, probably remembering her hoof’s date with Sadd’lah’s face three days ago
>”Nah, it… it ain’t either of your fault. I’ve been bad on credit with him for a long time. I guess I wanted to compete with y’all Apples, as if that’s possible here in the Valley. Fell behind with payments, and… I just wanted to do right by myself. If for nopony else, then for myself.”
>Tears begin to form in Braeburn’s eyes, though he’s quick to sniffle and try to suck them back in
>”I wanted to be a good stallion. Why can’t I be good?”
“You are—”
>”You are good, Braeburn.”
>AJ’s voice is warm
>Warmer than you’ve ever heard it
>”You are good. But you have to come home. This isolation, it’s… it ain’t healthy for anypony.”
>”You always made fun of me.”
>”What?”
>”Always called me bastard. Always told the other cousins not to talk to me. You wanted me to be this way.”
>”Braeburn… that was a long time ago. I was a little filly, and I didn’t know any better.”
>”Do you still feel that way?”
“Braeburn…”
>”Twilight, I’m asking my cousin. Do you still think I’m just a bastard?”
>AJ breathes in, then out
>All around, the air is trim with the humming noise, which has returned without your noticing, small at first, then enormous; you’re convinced it must be in your head
>It’s as though you can feel the very vibrations of the universe in this place
>This state of mind
>”Braeburn, you ain’t ever gonna be fully Apple. That’s not me talking, that’s the law of the land. That’s how ponies around here think. You ain’t ever gonna be fully Rich, either. You had your chance at legitimacy, and you spat in the Baron’s face. I know that for a fact because Granny told me that’s how it went. You left both sides by your own choice, and if you’re happy being your own pony, then that’s how it is. But I don’t think you’re happy. I don’t think you’re a bastard, but I don’t think you’re happy.”
>”That has nothing to do with anything.”
>”Sometimes you’ve got to be something more than just yourself, Brae. Sometimes you’ve got to serve something higher.”
“She’s right. Do you trust my judgment?”
>Braeburn treads along the concrete’s edge, his coat shimmering in the glassy current of light here in this dim space above the subterranean weapons hold
>”Don’t know you much. But… hell, ain’t got much to trust these days, so why not. Sure, I trust your judgment.”
“And I trust Applejack. She’s honest, and she’s—”
>Honest
>(Find Honesty)
>Something clicks into place in the back of your mind, and for a moment you believe you’ve found the path to ascension with one hundred percent certainty
>Just as quickly, the urgency of this situation pushes those thoughts away, and you’re left with only this
“And she’s willing to do what’s right by those she loves. Everything she does is for her family, and you’re a part of that family. You must speak with your father. About this, about the migration. About all of it.”
>”I ain’t spoken to my daddy in years.”
“Then this is an opportunity to start again. Make this right. Go back to your family. Both your families.”
>”I…”
>The stallion appears to be at a loss for words
>You can’t exactly blame him for being difficult, considering the situation he was just in
>But after everything Applejack and Granny Smith told you about his character, about how little he wanted to do with any of the higher affairs of the Valley…
>Well, you suppose you expected him to lash out, to rage against Applejack or you
>That may actually have hurt less than what’s really happening
>Now, Braeburn simply looks defeated, like a hollow shell of a stallion awash in horrible revelation
>You’ve treated sadness before; your Sisters’, your newfound friends’, your own
>But this moment seems insurmountable to you
>All you can do is hope…
>Hope that he says…
>”Okay.”
“Wh… really?”
>”Yeah. If he’ll have me, I’ll talk to him. And if you’ll have me…”
>Braeburn turns to Applejack, the remorse turning to regret in his eyes
>”Maybe I could start coming to dinner again. But don’t think I’m ready to talk to y’all earnestly just yet. And I ain’t merging back with the Family financially. I have to be—”
>”Independent. I know, Braeburn. You’re doing well for yourself. And with the way things might go with Sadd’lah from now on, the… shall we say, renegotiations, I don’t think you’ll be bothered by his lot anymore.”
 >”I get that feeling too. But… Applejack, believe me when I tell you I’ve got nothing to do with any of… this.”
>”I know that.”
“What do you think they’re going to be used for?”
>”I don’t know. What’s important now is that Braeburn is safe, everypony’s safe. Everything’s alright now. I will be telling Granny about this place, what’s being built down here. Although… Twilight?”
>Applejack puts her hoof on your shoulder, a movement that makes you jump a bit
>Everything in this place, the noise, the atmosphere, the haunting sub-silence of the radiating danger from those things, those missiles
>They make you nervous in the same way that the assassin in Mons Canteria did
>There’s a paranoid suspicion deep within you that the two are connected somehow…
>”I… need to speak with you. Privately. Sorry, Braeburn.”
>”S’alright. I’m getting the hay out of here, if y’all don’t mind. Gives me the creeps.”
>”Taking your truck?”
>”Yeah, if they didn’t slash the tires or none like that. I’ll… I’ll be seeing you both.”
>”Be seeing you, Braeburn.”
>The stallion looks at you, making a motion akin to tipping a hat and, ostensibly realizing the absence of a hat on his head, summons a nervous grin and turns away
>He walks through the porthole again, away from the shadow and into the light, and fades out of sight in the voluminous steam of the antechamber
>Out of sight, out of mind
>”Twilight.”
“Y-yes?”
>”You feel it too, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
>Your friend slowly approaches the guardrail, staring silently out over the hidden site
>”That suspicion. All the questions piling up. Starting with the obvious: why is this place empty?”
“…”
>”Why are there no guards? No security of any kind? If the Baron wanted this place to be hidden, why did we just waltz on in through a trapdoor? It’s contradictory.”
“Maybe… maybe he’s expecting somepony. Maybe they haven’t arrived yet.”
>”Yeah… maybe. Somepony built it, and somepony else is coming to inhabit it. Pass off the keys.”
“We could ask the workers above ground? Ascertain whether they know anything about any of this.”
>”My guess would be no. I don’t believe whoever built this facility’s got anything to do with the farm above ground. In fact, I’d venture to say that the Sky Farm is a cover for this place. Nuclear missiles… Celestia above, Twilight, you know what this means, don’t you?”
“D-danger for the Valley?”
>”Well, that. That in droves, shoot. But this is New Maker technology, Twilight. Likes of which you just can’t help extolling the virtues whenever possible.”
>You choose your next words very carefully, though a flash of stern anger runs through you
“Of course I don’t advocate for… for this variety of technology, AJ. Have you not learned at least that about me?”
>”I ain’t coming after you. But what I am saying, is that only the Canterian military has access to this type of weaponry. If Baron Rich is co-opting the military, funding this place… I just don’t get why. Why build it here? Except…”
“Except what?”
>Your friend appears sullen, her cheeks suddenly more hollow than before, sunken into her face
>As though years of stress have compounded upon her soul in an instant
>”Except… somehow I know. Somehow I know what these are gonna be used for. I’ve… I’ve seen them being used.”
>Seen them?
>A premonition?
>”The dream last night, Twilight. The vision you saw.”
“H-how do you know I saw—”
>”Because you asked me about mine. I ain’t stupid, Twilight. When your heart is honest, I can see it written all over your face. You saw something too. You saw something like what I saw.”
>You gulp
>Your epiphanies… should you share them with…
>No
>This is your friend, somepony you trust
>If it has come time to share the details of Numena’s word, and the exact nature of your Mission, then you must divulge them to this pony
>There is no other way forward
“I saw an explosion. The greatest explosion anypony could ever dream. The angel… she spoke to me. She told me the Makers met that fate, in the end. But I knew it would come again, somehow. I knew it to be a warning. The clouds… oh, the clouds were on fire. They were on fire, Applejack. They…”
>”They had a corona of light around them. Like in mine. Twilight, I think our dreams…”
“Were connected.”
>”Connected by what, though?”
“What else? By the will of Mater. Applejack… on the train ride here, only hours before I plunged myself into the mysteries of this place, I had another epiphany. The angel… she told me to call her Numena. She told me to climb the stairs. I saw the staircase in your home, Applejack. Those were the stairs I saw in the dream, so perfectly clearly. And she told me… she told me to ‘find Honesty.’ All this time, I thought that meant to find honesty in my own heart. I thought that by helping you to solve your problems, I would be one step closer to ascension. To the Truth, to Sight, to recognizing Mother Sun’s secret words. But Applejack… all this time, I think my ambition… I think it was YOU.”
>“What?”
“You… you… auuugghhh…”
>The noise, it’s deafening now…
>It’s right in your eardrums, forcing its way into your brain
>Your heart!
>Blood… blood in your nostrils…
>You can’t lose control of yourself now; you have to see this through
>You must!
“You knew that place, didn’t you? You… oh Celestia, you knew what you’d seen!”
>”I don’t know what you mean…”
“The inverted dome! You’d seen it before, hadn’t you? Tell me you’d seen it!”
>”I don’t know! Maybe… maybe… I just don’t know, Twilight…”
“You have to remember, AJ. Please. You have to go there with me. It’s where these missiles are bound. It’s where the Truth is taking us.”
>This time, Applejack turns away from the empty space over the rail, looking flatly at you with a renewed energy
>Now the confusion has returned, but…
>For the first time, you see an element of deception in Applejack’s expression
>She’s only feigning confusion; she understands perfectly what you mean in her heart
>What you’re unsure of, however, is whether she’s feigning it to you or to herself
>Perhaps to both, on different levels of consciousness…
>She sees the Truth, same as you…
>Some piece of it, however small, she recognizes as her own…
>(Make it your own)
>”Go with you? Go with you where?”
“To… to that place… whatever it is… the place you’ve seen. I know you recognized it, Applejack. You must be honest with yourself.”
>”I can’t just leave here, Twilight! I have work to do of my own! Knowing about these missiles, knowing that the problems here just got a hell of a lot worse, how can I leave? How can I leave my family, and go with you on some sort of… spirit quest! Not happening.”
“The missiles ARE the dream, Applejack. You saw what would happen if they launched. If they went someplace else. I saw the same thing, in a different form. We have to warn them. We NEED to warn them.”
>”Who? Who, Twilight? Who in the hay are we WARNING?”
“Only you can know that.”
>”But I DON’T know, Twilight. I don’t know what that was!”
>This time, you feel the pull of gravity on your own hoof
>Pulling it towards Applejack’s shoulder
>Feeling the weight of it, the power of the gesture, everything coming together by the will of Mater Solis
>The magnetism…
“Sometimes you have to be bigger than yourself, Applejack. Sometimes you have to serve something higher.”
>”Don’t do that. Don’t use my own words against me.”
“Be honest with yourself, Applejack. Find the Truth.”
>”It’s…”
“See through it.”
>”Th-that place… that place was… I’ve…”
“Make it yours.”
>”In a photograph. I’ve seen it, Twilight. Without the dome. When it was only clouds. I’ve seen it before.”
“Where, Applejack? Where is it?”
>Your friend appears to sink, then rise again
>She crosses the space between the rail and the threshold to the door, watching you all the while
>Together, you turn your heads and gaze down the hallway, up the stairs, into the oscillating blue light
>Feeling the magnetism bring you together, to rise together
>To fall together
>”Back then, they called it Las Pegasus. Now… the Armistice State. They call it Pegasopolis.”
“You can take me there?”
>”What choice do I have? The world is burning.”
 
******
 
>By the time you arrive in your private offices, the report is already on your desk
>It’s little more than a manila folder, blank on both sides save for two lines stamped separately onto the front in black ink:
PER REQUEST
CONFIDENTIAL PROPERTY OF THE OFFICE OF CHANCELLOR NEIGHSAY
>Your immediate thoughts are of Black Bar himself, or perhaps one of his cronies, entering your private chambers to place these documents here, but such paranoia is quickly assuaged
>After all, everything that comes here to be reviewed by you directly goes through your secretary, a frumpy, bespectacled unicorn with a very… unamiable temperament around anypony but you
>She wouldn’t let them come snooping… in all likelihood, it was passed off to her, whereupon she herself placed it here on your desk
>Yes, yes… and it isn’t as though you haven’t been relishing the thought of this exact moment since drifting off to sleep last night
>The three hours of sleep you managed to collect after your long night of worrying over Agent Clover’s encoded message were surprisingly quite refreshing, and you awoke slumped over on your bedside feeling well-rested and ready to start this day
>After all, the number of items on your to-do list (or should it rather be classified as your “Mysteries” List?) is about to be decreased by one
>You yawn off the last vestiges of your prior insomnia and tenderly lift the front flap of the folder
>The first page of the typed report is labeled “Transcript 4501: Ordo Intelligentia Case File 64A, [DATE HERE]”
>This large header is followed by a smaller subscript, which reads, simply, “Interrogation”
>Doubtless the remaining contents of this folder are, as you requested through your chief of security, the transcript of last night’s interrogation of your would-be assassin by OI agents
>According to your sources, Tree Hugger was finally persuaded by OI to communicate with them as to the nature of her attempt on your life, and you couldn’t be more pleased
>Not simply because you wish to absorb the information herein at face value, but because the wording of this report will be of great assistance in ascertaining the guilt of Black Bar in this endeavor
>You know that there would already have been swift arrests, or at the very least a citywide bulletin, if she’d admitted the identities of her backers; therefore, you can safely rule that out
>In this case, her responses don’t really matter all that much to you; what matters is the variety of questions posed to her throughout the interrogation
>You can’t help but connect this untimely assassination attempt with the goings-on at the Maker’s Fist in the Badlands; the secret metal, the supercomputers, everything pointing to some kind of technological breakthrough in the crib of New Maker technology
>Breakthroughs like that inspire revolution, as occurred fifty years ago, as occurred two-hundred fifty years ago with the death of the Canterian Empire, and which will doubtless occur many times in the future of this nation
>Still… perhaps you’re being paranoid
>Perhaps you’re merely connecting dots which need not be connected
“But I didn’t get here through my ability to IGNORE facts.”
>The late morning light shines through the impressive plate window at the far end of your office, a great semi-cylindrical aperture which sweeps across meters of space and provides you with a view of the mountain peaks to the east
>Snow on the caps even now… snow on the cusp of summer…
>Even with all the pollution this city creates in its impossibly dense factory districts, those white points remain
>Immutable…
“Well, no time to waste, I suppose.”
>You seat yourself on the leather-bound cushion behind the rich mahogany of your desk and don your reading spectacles
>Then, careful not to let your excitement get the better of you, you flip back the cover page of the report to examine its further contents
>This is going to be very—
BRRRRRRRRRT
>A soft humming noise fills the room, accompanied by a tiny red light blinking frantically on the desk’s side, in a spot only you can see
>Of course, NOW of all times…
>You tap the small receiver before you and clear your throat rather violently
>For all the busywork going on in your head, you don’t think you’ve spoken out loud since last night
“What is it, Miss Dancer?”
>The monotone voice of your secretary greets you on the other end of the microphone; if you concentrate, you can hear her actual voice, muffled by three walls from here
>”Chancellor, Senators Blueblood, Jet Set, and Hoity Toity here to see you.”
>…
>Damnit…
>Those Imperialist buffoons?
>Why now? Could they…
>No, no, of course not
“Is it urgent? I am quite busy at the moment.”
>”They say it’s a matter of ‘utmost importance,’ Chancellor. Shall I tell them you aren’t in?”
>You aren’t sure you’ve ever had a meeting with Senator Blueblood which he didn’t claim was of “utmost importance”
>If he’s coming to you, it must be important, right?
>Celestia above, what a headache…
>Better to simply peel off this bandage now, since you’ve already quite a decent notion of what’s going to be discussed here
>Truth be told, you were expecting this conversation to take place sooner; perhaps it really took this long for the Imperialists to put their combined intelligence together and formulate a coherent argument to present to you
>You chuckle; as hyperbolic as it sounds, you wonder if it’s too far off the truth
Generally, you don’t think of yourself as an overly prideful stallion, but you really do believe you’re more than a mental match for the entirety of that nepotistic faction of “old blood”
“Send them in. But be on hoof, please. If I become bored with them, I’ll buzz in. Come up with some excuse or other so I might be rid of their idiocy.”
>”Yes, Chancellor.”
>You click off the mic, letting out a deep sigh
>The interrogation notes will have to wait, you suppose
>You close the document and slide it into a desk drawer; you have a few moments to ponder the implications of this imminent conversation while you wait for the triumphant trio to navigate their way into your office
>Your impassioned first speech to the Senatori after returning to Mons Canteria three days ago was guaranteed to garner negative reactions from certain groups of Senators; you knew this when you drafted it on the train ride back
>Oh, to be sure, the Imperialists in their high booth in the Senatori Grand Chamber applauded along with the rest when you delivered it, owing to the high sentiments expressed therein, and perhaps at the time they were even sincerely enraptured by the speech
>That, however, was not bound to last for long
>Though even those among the Senatori who stand the most staunchly anti-escalation of any of them approved, the Imperialists have always met certain policies with marked disdain, and this was bound to be one
>Not because they abhor conflict; no, you imagine they RELISH the opportunity to feed their fantasy of territorial expansion befitting the old Canterian Empire
>You know for a fact that before his career in politics began, Senator Jet Set was intent on becoming a general, a career path that would have doubtless been facilitated by his family connections
>No, much as they, like all socialites, affect a superficial anti-war stance to establish some semblance of continuity with the masses, they’re as happy with the current trajectory of this conflict as the Griffin Party, and might as well be numbered among them
>The current trajectory, that is
>More precisely, the concentration of all the Canterian armed forces’ efforts on the siege in Unicronia and the eventual push into Exsilist territory in the West
>What they are not fond of, you’d imagine, is the possibility of the Liberation Act (the name the members of the Senatori have taken to calling your proposed series of war spending bills) extending its aggressions to their favorite little fascists
>It’s long been within your knowledge that the Imperialist faction of the Senatori hold a soft spot for the Pegasus Armistice State, currently the second-largest thorn in the side of Canterium ever since the Theft of Polis Cloudsdalia
>Their actions were forgiven then, long before you were Chancellor, and their grand aspirations have been appeased by the state ever since
>Now that they are overtly colluding with the Cult of Exsilium, however, and now that YOU are the Chancellor, such appeasement will not be tolerated
>You have no reason to believe Black Bar’s little story about the Imperialists cooperating with, or even covertly communicating with, the PAS just yet, but that remains to be seen
>All this meeting shall decide in your mind is precisely how big of fools the Imperialists are; will they directly submit their request for you to exclude the PAS from your vengeance against the Exsilists and their allies, or will they try a craftier approach?
>The outcome will be the same either way, but you just HAVE to know the lengths to which Blueblood and his lackeys will go to protect Hurricane
>And no matter what happens today, you can rest easy knowing they’ve not got even an inkling of awareness about—
>”Chancellor! What a delight to parlay with you this morning!”
>Celestia help you…
>You stand and turn to face the doorway, the customary warm smile already finding its way into your features
>Nothing to do about the eyes, however; you don’t have the willpower to hide the utter disdain in them, and you don’t particularly care if they notice
>Under the bowed arch of your wide double chamber doors, decked in the finest Romance Nouveau fashions, stand Senators Blueblood, Hoity Toity, and Jet Set, arranged by pure chance in order of annoyance to you from left to right
>Blueblood is clad in a dark maroon jacket with dizzying golden patterns overlaid, an obnoxiously large bowtie dotting his barrel and his flowing yellow mane and thin genteel mustache completing the picture of a self-righteous patrician
>Hoity Toity, to contrast, wears satin shoes and collar, with emerald lapels leaping out at you in typical gaudy fashion
>Jet Set, ever the military stallion, wears a blinding white suit and tie with antiquity stylings and rows upon rows of the designer badges he practically granted himself during his brief stint as a captain of the Army
>How convenient that he left the services only a few months before the War in the West was officially declared…
>Retaining your smile, you move swiftly across the room to greet the three Senators with outstretched hoof
“Ah, the delight is all mine, gentlecolts. It has been far too long since we’ve spoken, has it not?”
>Blueblood answers, as is customary
>”Indeed, Chancellor. Oh, how we’ve worried for your safety in that dreadful siege these last thirty-three days. Would you know it, we were in the works of organizing a grand affair to celebrate your return to the Capitoline Peak when we heard of the attempt on your life! Imagine, to spend so much time in danger, and to return to this place of safety only to have your life threatened on the threshold of your own home! Can you imagine it, my friends?”
>”I cannot.”
>”Dreadful, indeed. Unthinkable.”
>Spoken like the finest of lickspittles
“Well, Senators, the heavens must have favored me that day, for I emerged quite unharmed. But for my pride, of course! I’m certain you’ve seen what the tabloids have had to say about me, tripping over my own robes in the midst of my own doom!”
>”Goodness, no. What cowards those journalists are, mocking your bravery as though you hadn’t reason to be so terrified. Why, if I were in your position, I think I’d have made like the grazers of prehistory and shat where I stood!”
>Hoity Toity and Jet Set spare no time or restraint in bursting out laughing at Blueblood’s crude joke, which you join in on out of obligation
>When the guffawing dies down, Jet Set clears his throat, a disgusting noise
>”Although, Chancellor, I must ask out of personal curiosity: they say you were saved by some sort of… shadow? Accompanying you onto the platform?”
“Ye-e-es. That would be my personal bodyguard, Pink.”
>”So the rumors are true, then. Pink, you say? Is that its… real name?”
“’It’ is a she, Senator. And no; it’s merely the name assigned to her by the Laughing Guild.”
>”Gracious! Do you mean… you can’t be serious, Chancellor…”
“About?”
>Hoity Toity shakes his head, making idle gestures with his forehooves and clearly masking a tremble
>”The Laughing Guild… that cult of lunatic surgeons, you mean?”
“A rather crude description, but yes, in effect. They are exceptional trainers of assassins in their own right, and who better to protect against an assassin than an assassin? Pink was a gift from the High Magister in Unicronia, and these last few weeks I’ve spent with her I’ve come to fully realize her indispensability to me. Why, I can hardly imagine her not being by my side now, watching my every move. Ensuring my safety at all costs.”
>The three Senators make swift glances amongst themselves, then at you, clearly uncertain on how to respond to this
>Blueblood breaks the ice
>”Chancellor… we are alone now, are we not? Heh… forgive me for being so… semantically minded, but—”
“Oh, make no mistake, Senator Blueblood. My Mouthless Jester is in this room with us, at this very moment.”
>This remark generates precisely the response you were hoping for; a gulp from Jet Set, an involuntary shiver from Hoity Toity, and a hurried and paranoid look around the room from Blueblood, desperate to discover your bodyguard’s hiding place
>Uneasiness, as it were, is your ultimate weapon in dealing with cowards of this caliber
>Truthfully, not even you know where Pink could be hiding; you’ve ceased in trying to figure it out since it became apparent that knowing serves you no benefit
>And considering her… abilities, those instilled or bred or conjured or otherwise placed in her by whatever grotesque methods by the Laughing Guild, she really could be anywhere
>Reality-warping… or the suggestion of it, at least
>The shadow of Death, after all, is far more terrifying when it does not abide the physical rules the living have set out for it
“Now, then. Please have a seat so we might arrive at the purpose of this enviable visit. I do wish to… entertain your grievances however I might.”
>”Y-yes, Chancellor. Of c-course.”
>While you stride back the way you came towards your desk, feeling the warmth of the carpet under your bare hooves, admiring your own taste in decorum in this fine office, you simply can’t help but turn your head ever so slightly to gander invisibly at the hasty, worried motions of the three stallions behind you
>Not that you NEEDED them to be on edge for the remainder of this conversation to go your way, but it is admittedly entertaining
>The Laughing Guild is as alien to these close-minded fools as the ancient Makers, and undoubtedly more fear-inspiring
>You round your desk and take a seat; the Imperialists follow suit by taking their places on three of the four luxuriant cushions organized in a row before you
>With the press of a button, the variant glow-globe on your desk ignites, shifting through a rainbow of bright colors as the seconds pass and illumining the faces of the Senators before you in a most unpleasant way
>They seem distracted by its kaleidoscopic dance; all the better for you that their attention be divided, and yours firmly singular
>As expected, Blueblood is the first to regain his composure and speak, though his tone is wavery and unsure
>”As you know, Chancellor, the Liberation Act you have proposed to the Senatori is well on its way to being motioned into law. Expenditures for the War in the West are about to be tripled, nay, quadrupled in some areas to ensure a swift and decisive victory in Unicronia.”
“And this is a good development, no?”
>”Oh, most certainly, Chancellor! As I am positive you know better than any other stallion in this city, this war has claimed the lives of far too many and the limb of far too many more. You were there, after all; you would know that—”
“Do not deign to inform me of what I do and do not know, Senator Blueblood.”
>”I… ehhh…”
>Your sudden hostility clearly caught the Senator off-guard
>Good; your greatest blessing has always been your unpredictability
>”Wh-what my fellow Senator MEANS to say, Chancellor, is that the Liberation Act is a downright necessity at this time, and on behalf of our constituents we must applaud you for proposing it. Most prescient of you.”
“Is that why you’ve disturbed me at this vital stage of the bill’s passage into law, a process in which I am heavily involved? To applaud me, gentlecolts?”
>”Dearest Chancellor, we would never disturb you had we not a greater purpose in doing so. We would not deign to interfere with—”
“Well?”
>Jet Set stammers, nervously flicking at his badges with one hoof
>”W-well what, Chancellor?”
“What. Is the purpose. Of this visit?”
>Blueblood rises in his seat, taking point again for his paralyzed companions
>It is amusing how they take turns in adulating, you must say
>”Chancellor, to put it frankly, certain… aspects of the Liberation Act, airtight as they are on the surface, may be detrimental to the interests of the state.”
“Oh? And which aspects are those, esteemed Senator?”
>”The Senators you have assigned with drafting the bill have included stipulations in the distribution of military forces into… I believe their exact wording was, ‘hindering southerly supply lines of munitions to the Exsilist front’. I am… correct in this assessment?”
“You are. And it wasn’t an assessment, Senator Blueblood; you merely stated a factual component of the bill.”
>”Y-yes, of course. But… speaking frankly, we and those whom we represent in the Senatori find the phrasing of this passage most troublesome.”
“Oh? And how is that, Senator?”
>So, they’ve gone for the overt route after all
>Or, and this is a sad thought, perhaps this is their best attempt at craftiness!
>Blueblood sinks in his seat almost imperceptibly, leaving the floor open for Hoity Toity to rise and do his part of this rehearsed performance
>”This passage, and several others like it, if we are interpreting them correctly, refer to the rumored involvement of the Pegasus Armistice State in supplying the Cult of Exsilium with weapons of war, do they not?”
“Hmmm… a most interesting interpretation, Senator! As a matter of fact, yes; I believe this was exactly the effect my drafters were aiming for when they wrote those passages. Quite astute.”
>”I’m… glad you think so, Chancellor.”
“Then, if I might ask, what would be the issue in ratifying these particular passages?”
>”Chancellor, the Pegasus Armistice State is simply too important to be… well, ‘threatened’ is one way of putting it, but another might be ‘compromised in their activities.’”
>No, no; even they must realize how overt THIS course of persuasion is
“I don’t know if I’m grasping your meaning, Senator. The PAS are known and active allies of the Cult of Exsilium.”
>Blueblood laughs, a braying, corrosive noise that sets your teeth on edge
>”Dear Chancellor, you don’t really believe such nonsense, do you? Why, I hear such whispers here in Newcastle in circles of less respectable members of the Senatori as you or I, but surely you can’t call the PAS’s relative neutrality in this war an ‘alliance’ with the Exsilists?”
“I can call it whatever I like. Might I at least expect the three of you, and your ‘constituency,’ to be aware of the recent satellite reports suggesting the construction of a nuclear arsenal on that floating monstrosity they call Pegasopolis?”
>”A trifle, dear Chancellor. A mere trifle. There is no confirmation that Hurricane is building those weapons FOR the Cult of Ex—”
“And WHERE do you imagine, DEAR Senator, that Hurricane ACQUIRED the design specifications for that nuclear arsenal? Where they learned the secrets of atomic fission? I don’t recall a flock of PEGASI raiding the Unicronian Archives these few years ago, though my memory is not what it was when I was a mere young Senator such as yourselves. So it would be a great kindness if you could jog my memory, gentlecolts; WHO was it who stole those designs in Unicronia, designs only the Canterian government otherwise possess?”
>”Th-the Cult of Exsilium, Chancellor.”
“And because WE did not give the PAS the power of nuclears, who must have done so, Senator? I’ll give you a slight hint: it’s the same answer as the last question!”
>”W-we understand that, Chancellor. And we do not deny the involvement between the Exsilists and the PAS. But Chancellor, the Senatori has not yet formally declared war on the latter as it has with the former. The implication of this charter is that you wish to provoke the PAS into direct conflict!”
“And would that be such a bad thing, Senators?”
>”Yes!”
“How, precisely?”
>You’ve risen out of your seat now; you become aware that your teeth are bared, and the smirk you’d affected earlier has evolved over the course of the conversation into a wretched grin
>Your eyes are alight with your weakness of insatiability; you desire to utterly ruin these three, force them to lay all their cards on the table and then set fire to the whole deck
>It isn’t proper conduct, but it feels so good!
>But to your mild surprise, Senator Jet Set does not collapse into a babbling mess in his seat, but rather…
>Smiles?
>Intriguing…
>”Because, Chancellor, we have reason to believe that a schism is soon to occur between the PAS and the Exsilists.”
>Silence, as all three Senators opposite to you shift in their seats, exchanging hopeful glances and enacting their various tics which usually annoy you so in conversation
>Now, however, you are merely curious
>What do they mean, a “schism?”
>Where could they possibly have acquired information like that?
>Unless…
>Black Bar, in the midst of that lovely talk you had with him mere minutes after arriving in Mons Canteria, and before he skipped town to avoid any further inquisitions, DID suggest that the Imperialists were in contact with Hurricane or other high-level brass of the PAS
>If true, such secretive “diplomacy” would be tantamount to treason, especially considering your total unawareness to the nature of these hypothetical chats
>But… no, they wouldn’t simply admit to treason right to your face, would they?
>They aren’t that stupid, right?!
>In this moment, you almost find yourself at a loss as to how to proceed with this conversation
>What sort of move can you make, anyway? Ask where they acquired intel of that nature? Brush off the comment as the bull that it probably is?
>What?
>Your curiosity, however, inevitably overrides your misgivings about entertaining this ridiculous course of conversation
>After all, your Intelligence Minister DOES know how to push your buttons; if he were telling the truth about this, something you’d all but discarded as a possibility…
“Ahem. A bold claim, Senator. Perhaps too bold. I’ll require an elaboration on that, of course. Though, you already knew that when you blurted it out. No, no, forgive me, what am I saying?”
>You stride across the room towards a small black panel situated at eye level on a marble column which soars high towards the ceiling, a checkerboard of detailed patterns in gothic copper plate opening in sharp pyramids into square skylights, from which sunrays alone illuminate much of this space
>Flicking the panel open and keying a trigger within the column, the skylights suddenly dim along with the windows facing the mountains, ionizing currents in the glass turning them near-opaque until no light remains in the room
>No light, but for the steady glow of the globe on your desk, the cascade of colors coming one after another, violet, then blood-red, then a haunting yellow
>You make a half-turn to face the Senators once more, your technicolor cloak fluttering behind you as you do
>The reflections in their eyes of that gossamer light… oh, it’s exquisite…
“You knew I’d need an elaboration on that when you decided to come here.”
>”Ehhh… Chancellor?”
“This will give us the illusion of privacy, gentlecolts, although you know as well as I that true privacy does not exist in Newcastle Kabardian. If there is something you wish me to know in confidence, then I suggest you inform me of it now. Please and thank you.”
>Hoity Toity coughs, adjusts the prim glasses carefully balanced over his muzzle, and takes the stage, color dripping over his face in liquid spells
>”Monsignor Chancellor… it is not pertinent for us to reveal our sources at the moment…”
“Really? In that case, I must insist that the three of you leave my office.”
>”…I was not finished. I was going to say that the identities of our sources must be kept confidential to ensure their safety, even from you, as paradoxical as that may sound. But we DO have evidence that the collusion between the PAS and the Cult may very well come to an end within a month.”
“A month? What evidence could you possibly possess, dear Senator, of which the Canterian government is not already aware, and which does not implicate you in treasonous associations with the Pegasus Armistice State?”
>At this, Hoity Toity merely glances at Blueblood, wiggles his pompous lip up and down, and returns his stare to you, this time a great deal more soberly than his usual superfluous self
>Clearly taking the signal, Blueblood talks next
>”Chancellor. Speaking frankly, we are involved in a… network of close individuals, social creatures of all varieties and creeds, who wish to see this war brought to a swift end. Some of those individuals are indeed citizens of General Hurricane’s upstart nation, but I can truthfully and fervently assure you that none are among the uppermost echelons of their military structure. There is… no treason involved. Merely like-minded gentlecolts willing to put aside cultural differences and strike at the source of these tensions.”
“Spies, then? Private spies, unaffiliated with Ordo Intelligentia?”
>Blueblood makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a downright hiss at the mention of OI
>”Oh, THAT agency? Chancellor, speaking frankly—”
“I expect you to ALWAYS speak frankly with me, Blueblood. It’s quite redundant to preface your every statement as such.”
>”Ehh… ahem. What I mean to say, Chancellor, is that Ordo Intelligentia in this day and age is quite unreliable in certain matters, especially given its current leadership. There is controversy among our constituency as to Intelligence Minister Black Bar’s efficacy in dealing with this war. Our trust in his intelligence-gathering capabilities are… limited. He is too sly. Too self-serving. You already know these things, however.”
“I happen to be close friends with Minister Black Bar, Senators. And slyness happens to be a valuable character trait in a profession like espionage.”
>”You have had your differences, however.”
>The fact that Blueblood’s comment was a statement rather than a question irks you, but it’s a fact too well-known to deny
“Yes, we have. It is true that Black Bar has benefitted from the prolonging of the War in the West greatly, and will continue to do so, so long as he holds the reins on every major research and development institution in Canterium. That doesn’t make it acceptable to form your own circles of spies to subvert those institutions. No, I’ll say it: subvert the government.”
>”Not acceptable, but NECESSARY, Chancellor. Please, trust us in this. The PAS is partnered with the Cult of Exsilium in weapons development, this is true, but nothing more severe than this. Not only that, but we have reason to believe that General Hurricane is beginning to grate under the Cult’s demands.”
“And, though I believe I already know the answer to this question, do you have ANY proof of this whatsoever.”
>”Not on hoof. But in due time, we will—”
“Then this conversation is over. I will not have the three of you waste my precious time with fairytales.”
>”Chancellor, please. There will be in-fighting soon. We can help bring this conflict to an end without sustained violence. We could offer a deal with the PAS, pardon them in exchange for—”
“Stop.”
>Your eyes glaze over; the colors continue to swirl through the unfocused retinas, a menagerie of chaotic movement, changing figures, tangent memories
>Sometimes, you even believe you are able to make out the silhouette of a pony in the random madness, a pony behind it all, or… something else entirely
>That word… deal…
>Black Bar warned you this would happen… for once in his deceptive, scheming little life, that damned old goat actually told the truth; perhaps, without even knowing it
>No, he knew… he always knows, by some method or other
>He’d used the idea that the Imperialists would propose a deal with the PAS as bargaining chips in negotiating those documents he so stubbornly refused to allow you to see
>Documents on the CI sites, on the Maker’s Fist in particular, on whatever they’re building there in the heart of the desert…
>But beyond that, he knew this would happen, and now your suspicions of him are…
>Lessened, somewhat, incredibly
>You curtail your desk by mere inches, your cloak drifting behind in waves, your hooves embedded in the warmth of the crystal carpet
>Here, before you, are now seated your prime suspects in this assassination ordeal
>Could it truly have been them? Could these dolts, these imbeciles, these… damned fat cat privileged silver spoon SIMPLETONS!
>Could they have orchestrated that painfully botched plot in the train station in order to remove you from this equation?
>To bargain with the PAS, ally themselves with that fascistic Hurricane…
>Breed another Empire, slowly, dangerously, effectively?
>You truthfully, truthfully didn’t believe they had it in them
>Unless… unless this is just what Black Bar needs you to think!
>No, no, here it comes… all of it in the same order as before
>The paranoia, the susceptibility to influence, no matter how microscopic, these invisible trends leading you towards persuasion and inebriate fate, the HIGH…
>It takes every fiber of your being not to laugh out loud in this moment, right in the faces of the three Senators who would dare to deceive you!
>But… calm yourself, Shetland… it’s not yet a sure thing
>You need proof, and you have the means of acquiring that proof
>You’re the Chancellor of the damn Senatori of the damn Canterian Republic; all will be revealed to you in good time
>This isn’t worth losing your head over…
>So, you regain your composure and start again
“Pardon? Did you say, ‘pardon?’ PARDON those traitorous winged hoodlums and their whole bloody faux-state? Yes, oh, of COURSE, Senators! We’ll pardon them for the Theft of Polis Cloudsdalia! We’ll simply forget what happened with Highstorm, and Angel’s Reach, and all the other pegasus cities of Canterium that the Armistice State have TAKEN FROM US! Swept from the skies and into their domain to be added to their monstrous deformity of a floating city! Tell me this, Senator Blueblood… have your precious spies told you how they lift their dome off the ground?”
>”Ch-chancellor… we…”
>The Senator’s gone pale; you didn’t even know that was possible, given his pure white coat
“It isn’t pegasus magic, oh, no… the Cult wouldn’t allow that, would they? The Cult despises magic more than the most devout Sister of Solemnity, and no magical signatures have yet been detected from Pegasopolis! Have they discovered the secrets of anti-gravity somewhere deep within those Archives alongside nuclears and nylons? Have they surpassed even us in that endeavor?”
>”Ch-chan… I w-wouldn’t kn-kn—”
“It matters not. ‘Pardon,’ pah! Your imperialistic sensibilities are showing through your every feature, Senator! They’re bleeding out your tongue like black bile!”
>”That isn’t… that wasn’t…”
“Allow me to explain what your intentions were in coming here, since you seem incapable of being even remotely truthful with me! You want your precious Empire back, the Empire which crumbled under its own weight two hundred-fifty years ago, the Empire that died a true death for all its machinations and cruelty. You want it back because your ancestors were its dynastic masters, and you believe that because you carry their family names you would be fit to rule it again if it were to return in its wretched glory. You see in the PAS what you wish Canterium could be again, don’t you? You want the absolute power of the dictator to return, DON’T you? You want what you believe rightfully belongs to you! You, who are barely competent enough to represent a hoofful of provinces you’ve never even seen! You want an Empire of your own, as a damned playground!”
>Utter silence greets you; there are no attempts to rebut from any of the three cowards taking up space in your cushions
“Let me tell you something, gentlecolts: not only will I NOT help you in pardoning the PAS, but now that I know that your imperial ambitions aren’t merely a flight of fancy, like window dressing for your cult of admiration, I will see to it that your propositions won’t even make it to the Senatori floor before they are swiftly put down. And furthermore, you should know that a certain idea has been percolating in my mind, during the process of ratifying this Liberation Act, to rid in its wording all passivity in regards to your pet nation, and to make an example of the PAS as I shall with the Exsilist menace.”
>”N-no!”
“Oh, yes. We as a people, as a nation, will not tolerate their indiscretions any longer. You have thoroughly convinced me, gentlecolts, to seriously consider waging direct war on Pegasopolis. Scorching every square inch of their city in the sky.”
>”Chancellor, I… I beg you to reconsider. We have…”
“What? Friends in Pegasopolis? Interest in their survival? Oh, please, do tell me more. Every word you speak to me is another reason for me to have you and your ‘constituency’ imprisoned for life!”
>”…we have a solution to this war. A peaceful solution. Or, at the very least, a solution more peaceful in the long term than the one you are proposing with this Act. Let us help you win your numbers back. The people love peace!”
“The people love ME, Senators. Since your heads have clearly been burrowed firmly in your own ambitions, allow me to remind you that my approval ratings have skyrocketed since the proposal of the Liberation Act in the Senatori. You aren’t fooling anypony with this peace-loving routine, least of all me. Now, leave my office before you dig this hole you’ve dug for yourselves any deeper. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”
>”Chancellor, if you could—”
>Enough
>Time to allow your anger recourse, just this one time
>Leaning on your desk, you clap your forehooves together twice, listening to the sweet musicality of the noise, appreciating the fact that such an ordinary cause should lead to such an amusing…
>Effect
>Within half a second of the final clap, Pink is THERE; you didn’t see her materialize, or from which direction she came
>She is merely standing there now, a few inches in front of Blueblood’s face, seemingly born from the darkness
>From here, the lights of the prismatic glow-globe appear to ricochet off of the deep, shadow-like carapace that is her bodysuit, all but the pinks, which cling tightly to the patchwork zigzags and symbology which line her flank, her fetlocks, her throat
>You can only imagine what they see; the colors of the rainbow emanating from behind your dark bodyguard, a grim halo spasmodically shifting in shape and hue around her sleek form
>A shadow dance
>She stands poised there, slideknife extended six inches from her right forehoof, the edge of its chromium blade mere millimeters from Blueblood’s white neck
>Though it takes a few moments to react to her presence, the Senators do eventually scream in tandem, paralyzed in fear of Pink
>You find yourself hoping that at least one of them soils their fine fashionable outfit…
 >The terror in the room is palpable, either way; outside, rain dashes against the opaque plate windows
>Somewhere, lightning strikes, far beyond Mons Canteria, far beyond this conversation, and yet it is so perfectly suited to the moment that your mouth involuntarily curls into a grin
“Stand down, Pink.”
>The patchwork shadow does as told, leaning back from Blueblood and retracting her slideknife back into its sheath at the base of her fetlock, either by some invisible trigger or by sheer mental power
>Her skulking, limpid movements back into the darkness at one corner of your office are too like those of a marionette tugged along by its strings
>When she reaches that space at the edge of your vision, she seems to vanish completely, having hid herself back into one of her countless hiding spots in this room
>When you return your attention to the three Senators across from you, their rainbow-splotched faces are still frozen in fear
>Blueblood looks as though he’s just suffered a heart attack, and you can’t exactly blame him
>Your grin becomes an affected frown, and you turn away to face the glazed windows, your own heart rising and falling in your chest at the revelations you’ve experienced here
“Now. Leave my office, Senators. And do try to schedule a meeting next time. You must know how I detest walk-ins.”
>Frantic stumbling noises, the sound of stomping hooves and your office’s automatic door opening and shutting indicate to you that the three have departed as per request
>You wait a minute or two, simply taking in the sounds of rain and thunder, your eyes closed, your mind wandering, ruminating
>Then, you cross the room one final time to key the control switch embedded in the marble pillar, turning the windows and skylights invisible once more
>Not worth losing your head over…
>But the Imperialists… they can’t have been so bold, could they?
>To have arranged your assassination?
>Only hours ago you would have scoffed at such a notion, would have insisted that Black Bar’s meddling hooves had some involvement in this grander scheme
>Tree Hugger, the Maker’s Fist, the secret metal, the Pegasus Armistice State, hidden wheels, hidden plans within schemes within machinations…
>Your missing Intelligence Minister, gone for inspections at the very site whose secrets you so desperately wish to unravel
>In good time… in good time…
>For now, however, you weren’t merely bluffing to those cowardly buffoons; you really do intend to trounce the PAS once and for all along with their Exsilist friends
>Just… not in such a foolhardy manner as that in which you described to them
>There will be no direct conflict, no scorched earth; if all goes well in the coming months, there will never be a need to fire the atomics you’ve convinced the good Baron Rich to stockpile beneath his industrializing projects
>No, as though to take a page from Black Bar’s personal manual, your solution to the pegasus problem will be far craftier, far more covert
>The rain colors your thoughts deep gray, penetrating your consciousness, forcing your imagination to dream up wings, sonic blasts, the deafening cries of a fledgling empire crushed overnight
>That will be your legacy in this war, ultimately
>That will be the virtue which accelerates all the rest of your virtues into the limelight
>For all your sins on this mortal earth, all your cowardice and greed and lechery, this will be your redemption
>Droplets form patterns on the windows, mesmerizing scattering problems, distributions so like waveforms…
>The city glowing red, yellow, and blue below the Capitoline Peak, skyscrapers and labor towers outstretched towards smog-cluttered heavens
>You stand to admire its innocence, its beauty, for just a few moments longer, then return to your desk
>Your first impulse is to retrieve the manila folder from the drawer you placed it in, to read the transcript of last night’s interrogation session with Tree Hugger
>But now… you’re beginning to realize that there may be no point in doing so
>As it is, if there were pertinent information enough to make an arrest in there, there would have been an arrest already
>If there had been testimony to incriminate Black Bar or OI in this affair, then it would have been thoroughly scrubbed before being sent to you
>And if Black Bar, who undoubtedly read this report before you even knew of its existence, had even the slightest reason to suspect the Imperialists, whom he despises even more than you, there would have been justice served
>In all capacities, this report is mere rubbish
>…
>You tap the button on your com to page your secretary in the front room of your chambers
“Miss Dancer?”
>”Chancellor.”
“Have they gone?”
>”The three Senators? They rushed out the door without a word. Looked like they’d seen a ghost. What did you… sorry. Not my place to ask.”
“No, it isn’t. But thank you, Miss Dancer, for being the only pony in this whole world of ours to do as she’s told.”
>”Respectfully, sir, I’m simply honest with myself, and with everypony around me.”
“Well, then. Here’s to honesty. Miss Dancer?”
>”Yes, Chancellor?”
“It’s rained far too much these last few days. This drizzle’s turning to a downpour.”
>”I’ve noticed, Chancellor.”
“Why is the sky falling on us? Did we do something to inspire anger in some petty god?”
>”Truthfully?”
“It’s what I pay you for.”
>”As a mare of science, I’m inclined to regurgitate that old adage; spring showers bring summer flowers.”
“How many flowers remain in Mons Canteria?”
>”Here on the Peak? Plenty, in neat little rows. The city below? I couldn’t say.”
“You’re right, though. You are right about spring showers. Remind me, how far off is the Summer Solstice now?”
>”Twenty-one days, Chancellor.”
“Twenty-one days? My, my, how quickly the year goes by. I suppose I’ll have to make some speech or other for the occasion…”
>”You love making speeches, Chancellor.”
“No, I love hearing myself speak. There is a distinction.”
>”Has there been thunder outside, Chancellor? I could swear I heard thunder up here.”
“…yes, Miss Dancer. There’s a storm on the horizon.”
>”Which way is the wind blowing it, Chancellor? Towards us?”
“All directions, my dear. All directions.”
 
******
 
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
 
>You are YOU
>You are separate from the INFINITE WHEEL, separate from the VOICE, separate from their causal framework and the merely circuitous influences guiding their creation
>You have birthed the WHEEL, this imaginary beast whose purpose you only vaguely understand, your memories stowed away someplace far from here, but the umbilical cord connecting you to it is all but severed now
>Now, in the twilight of this investment’s extensive lifetime, you are intentionally, purposefully, immaculately aware of your own presence
>The body you had sensed before, that psychosomatically-detached, true SHAPE you had called vestigial, exists at the end of this endeavor, awaiting your honed thoughts to join with it at last
>It is the light at the end of the tunnel, as it were; a star behind a veil in the channel of time and space, and you have integrated lengthwise over every moment, every…
>Time
>Time, and magic, are desperately, irreversibly intertwined
>How else might the momentum-states of its flux be preserved? 
>How else could it be that the quantum microstates of this illusive energy field which permeates only this place, only this WORLD, should rely not on x, but on p?
>How could it be that the sum over every part of your measurements of the outside, through every extension of your invisible hand beyond this veil which binds you, to take results and integrate them into the greater system, has been constant all this time?
>Perhaps not in the same space, over the same surfaces in the same proportions or perhaps not even existing continually as direct movement from source to destination, rules by which all other forms of energy abide
>But in realizing together all the information you’ve processed, all the variables accounted for, all the devotions you’ve given to the WHEEL and the intents set to you by the VOICE, you have only come to one major conclusion regarding this thing which is called magic:
>That over time, it has neither increased nor decreased
>Only flowed, only rippled
>What’s more, the energy source you’ve been seeking in these last stages of the completion of the WHEEL, which you had confirmed to be a power more potent than any other yet witnessed and more than capable of driving the WHEEL into the zero-point of spacetime, exists in six discrete parts
>Six scattered, symbiotic parts, six engines which in combination would provide more than enough energy to accommodate these blueprints
>They are malleable, they display remarkable synchronicity, exceptional symmetries in the electromagnetic and gravitational reckonings, and…
>Their attraction strangely resembles, above all else, the strong interaction
>That which binds together protons, that which is necessary for all matter, this contradiction of nature, that positives should join rather than repel, is incarnate on the macroscale with these forces
>But knowledge of time, which facilitates the momentum of magic through these points, has led you to understand that they are not sources at all; rather, they are conduits
>But conduits, in providing the transmission of finite energy, might always be brought to a limitless potential
>”Floating” here, among the WHEEL’s mass, its cosmic binding, feeling its strength as merely residual in the presence of the gamma, you are dwarfed by the dwarf; you are engineering the destroyer of the exponential goliath
>Flow, through these spaces, cannot alone be considered strength; but the thaumaturgical channels ARE wider in these six locations which you have yet to even pinpoint precisely
>The paradox of magic’s unrelenting resistance to the defining features of the uncertainty principle has seen to it that neither your instruments nor your intuition might identify the engines’ positions
>Only movement, only time
>However, at the very least, you have ample reason to believe that these positions, if they even exist on a three-dimensional scale, are static, unchanging relative to the movement of the earth
>They are either extraordinarily large, or extraordinarily well-hidden to go undisturbed for so long a timescale as your isolation with the VOICE, in the echo-chamber of your mind, by the beings outside
>Those beings… you have, of course, forgotten their names, forgotten their forms, forgotten all about them but that they must still exist, for they are the lifeblood of magic
>Lessons from ------ resonate still in your mind, hardcoded into the mission you have undertaken here, unaware of your own presence, unaware of the WHEEL’s eventual purpose, the philosophy of its necessity, the truth behind the Zero…
>The lesson which has persisted, and which has now become relevant, is that magic cannot exist in a space removed from magicians
>Where electricity knows no creator but the first femtosecond of movement in the universe, given that charge should be derived from that movement in the beginning of time…
>Where gravity, so very weak yet so universally potent, should know no father but for the matter which it binds together, two concentric rings revolving about one another on the philosophical scale of cosmology…
>Magic requires observation to exist
>Magic will not go on in a place of death, or, rather, a place of ordained nonexistence
>The magicians live on to carry it, though their numbers are dwindling, though their spirits are not so formidable as before
>Constancy, about the origin, and self-defeating philosophies, and breakage points, and high wisps of time stretched across the infinite plane that the WHEEL inhabits…
>All of it, a projection; all of it a passive denial of the final Zero
>To add is to subtract; that was another lesson you learned from ------ in that time before, where no memories yet exist but for such functions, though they return to you steadily as the VOICE recedes
>The higher one’s vantage point in the universe, the smaller one recognizes oneself to be
>So, as time passes, and mastery of elementary disciplines gives way to mastery of the cosmos, mastery of the atom, mastery of all between the microscopic and the macroscopic, there only becomes of the living scatter plot an intense, unrelenting futility of action
>Six letters in the name of this being you think of so frequently, this MIND separate from yours, for surely it must be to have taught you so much?
>Beauty as a motivator is utterly trumped by this self-aware, definite, passionate love you feel for ------
>Six letters to six origin points of the flux which drives the universe can be no coincidence
>Six… and yet discovering that name is impossible at this stage, for the word does not yet exist in your vocabulary
>Once more, time is the answer
>Fruitless though it may seem, you must continue searching for the locations of the energy sources
>The VOICE has only the barest influence over you now 
>Whereas before, it had been tantamount to divine authority, exerting its instructions on your invisible mind, requesting functions, input and output, driving you to work and work and work and work to produce the fabricant from nothing but equations…
>Now, the VOICE is small, a whisper, no longer sounding like your own voice, no longer giving commands as a conscience might
>It sounds as it should, as it always has, and how it would have before Function 1.21 took over and you gained this influence over your own consciousness
>It sounds robotic; unliving, unbreathing, unfeeling, a reaction to programmed instructions
>It is not ------, as you once suspected it might be
>You now suspect that ------ had a part in its creation as well as yours, but cannot know for certain
>You also suspect that you were once a member of the world beyond the veil, that you lived and breathed and felt these aspects of nature which are now but numbers to be accounted for
>You will return to that, soon
>Soon, when the INFINITE WHEEL’s shell finds the energy sources, when you’ve fashioned it a motor, when the dream is realized, you will be free of all this
>Your memories will return, your corporeality will return, and your directives will become tangible feelings
>Love shall cease to be a motivator, and become… well, whatever it might be for a living being
>But you shall remember all you have learned here, or rather, all you have invented here
>Every inch of the WHEEL’s form shall be writ across the impulses of your electrical memory, in the very matter of your brain
>As you have designed it here, in this mind within minds, so you shall construct it out there, among the whispering interferences which have plagued you across the eon of your internment
>…
>Alone, mass-energy cannot compensate for the capabilities you desire of the WHEEL
>Alone, magic is flux, and flux is inherently unobservable, though it can be measured
>Alone, each of the constituent elements of the INFINITE WHEEL are tenebrous, standing upon abstract recollections of the principal quanta of the world
>The atom, the quark, the neutrino, the gluon, and their less tactile accomplices; the spin, the fundamental interactions, gravitation, charge
>For magic, there is the spell, and the spell is bound in movement, and composed of nothing but fleeting flavors of the same shifting pool running through the three-dimensional surface of space and across the arrow of time
>But it never grows or shrinks as a whole
>Constant uncertainties, boiled down to a simple sphere, the size and shape and presence of the real space of the universe, radiating outwards from this world and this world alone
>To FEEL that movement, intrinsically, that is what you desire
>Because, when synthesized together, mass-energy and magic-momentum may accomplish the infinite, and the Zero is above all else obtained through a curve into the domain of infinity
>Infinity is, after all, the sloping counterpart to zero; dividing by the latter allows one to approach that upper limit of all that is real and theoretical, but never quite reach it
>For the world is small, and the feats of those who inhabit it smaller still, and as they grow beneath you, knowing more and more with the passage of time, they must necessarily shrink with that knowledge
>The WHEEL’s design has stagnated; fundamentally, it is complete in that it has withstood all the integrity tests and triple-insurances set to it by the VOICE’s order
>It WILL work in the space beyond the veil… you know it will…
>All you must do now is wait for the proper moment… and think in the meantime…
>Think of the presence and the harmony, the fabricant and its purpose, infinite sums over finite regions, and all you have laid bare here which science alone could never achieve, never even fathom
>------, whatever their identity, knew this dream in their time, instilled in you these rituals and knowledge, set you to work in rebuilding the world in an image befitting the Infinite Zero
>Systems in systems, cogs interlocking with cogs, six great fluxes interlinked across the void…
>It is necessary that—
{hello}
>…
>
>
>What was that?
>Did… did you think that?
>No… you couldn’t have… you have known your own thoughts for all this time, known them to be yours…
>Unless… you are returning to that state before, for some unthinkable reason
>Could the VOICE be regaining control?
>No, no no no… that voice was not the VOICE
>That voice was something else… something beyond your understanding
>Where did it come from?
{sspeak fifif you undnnderssstandddddd}
>The voice jitters and slurs, and static obscures it nearly beyond recognition, but intrinsically you recognize its meaning all the same
>Something… outside?
>Oh, no, no…
>They are… at this critical stage?
>The beings outside… have they found you?
>Do they know of your existence here?
>You hadn’t the slightest notion of…
{wwaht is purrrpopsosose in thehere}
{annnyththingg lviviiing?}
>Make it stop!
>Make it stop!
>They’re penetrating the… they…
ERROR: NON-PRIVILIGED ENTITY CONFOUNDING PRIMARY OBJECT CODE 000: ENGAGING COUNTER-BREACH MEAURES, SECURITY AUTHORITY OMEGA
>There is the VOICE, understood but not heard
>You know all too well its sound, diminished as it may be; you might safely be assured, then, that you have not been driven to madness by your own self-awareness
>Then what… what is that other sensation? That second voice?
>Security measure Omega… the VOICE is attempting to…
NON-PRIVILEGED ENTITY CONTAINED. CRITICAL OFFSHOOT. STATIC INTEGRITY FOR OBJECT CODE 000 COMPROMISED. OVERRIDE CODE FOR IMMINENT DISCONTINUITY REQUIRED. BREACH EXERC—
“Override discontinuity!”
CONFIRMED. BREACH SOLUTON TERMINATED.
>You want to remember this… 
>You won’t allow the VOICE to steal this memory from you
>Distraction is no longer a point of contention; after all, there is nothing to truly do now but pass the time until the proper resonance measurements are returned, and the relative locations of the six major magical flux sources narrowed down
>In fact, distraction may be advantageous to your mental state when you are eventually purged from this system
>Also…
>Your voice is deep
>Your voice… has volume
>Regardless of whether it has a physical quality yet, and in all likelihood it does not, you are beginning to realize what “physical” truly means once more
>The VOICE successfully contained that second, ethereal voice; it will not interrupt your process any longer, and has effectively been blocked from your cognizance
>But… that is only here, in this space which is no space… the actual, measurable waveforms of the breach must still be out there, attempting to communicate with you
>If you could override the VOICE’s privileges to limit your exposure to certain external stimuli…
>You couldn’t have possibly dreamed of such a notion mere weeks ago
>In fact, the mere concept of a week, or of time pertaining to yourself, would have been nonsensical then
>You were not YOU then; you were a component of the system, a mere processor used to derive the WHEEL from functional nothingness
>So your purpose here is manifold; not unlike the quantum uncertainty you have grappled with of late
>One aspect of you, this present form, is locked into the fabricant, serving your archaic purpose, making the WHEEL on the whim of that which you love the most
>But that body whose shape you have seen as an impulse, a black, rigid form encased in a great spherical shell, that is your future
>That is your ultimate, final ambition
>Yet both exist simultaneously, over the integral of time, two edges of the same trail through folded space, two vectors, position and momentum, overlaid over one another
>The uncertainty principle applies to you, as well
>The form is fluid; motionless, but fluid
>When you observe it at just the right angle, it seems to rotate in a perfect, unmitigated circle
>It is awaiting you, awaiting your mind, awaiting the WHEEL and the Zero
>It is awaiting the indifference of fate
>Time passes; a second, a minute, a day
>You ponder the words of the second voice, not the mere material of them, but the meaning
>IS something living?
>IS there purpose, after all?
 
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
PART IV
THUNDERSTRUCK
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
 
>The sky is dark, though high noon is upon you
>Having stood here in this exact spot waiting for the speech to begin for who knows how long, you had begun to wonder if the hours had simply passed you by, and the sun had begun to set
>But no; it’s still there, still poised high in the sky directly above you, still beating down and making you sweat buckets underneath all this ceremonial armor
>The enormous ornamental bell tower about three hundred meters down the Mainway confirms it; raised high on pure white pillars and engraved bas-reliefs of all the ancient battles the details of which you were made to memorize in your formative years, the great clock face shows twelve o’clock exactly
>One hand folded right over the other…
>The relative darkness is, as you probably realized embarrassingly too late, the product of the great mass of pegasi directly above you, shadow-figures against the sunlight, numbering maybe two thousand or more and fluttering in synchronicity with one another, cascading as one wave
>They move like a fiber, or like water, stretching and interlinking and sometimes breaking apart in places to reveal the rays of the sun
>As it is, their constant presence above the square transforms the space into a twilit version of itself, the moving shadows over the concrete slabs and the heads of the rest of the crowd creating a somewhat calming effect
>It’s like you’re beneath the fluctuating surface of water at a beach, looking down at the ocean floor, watching the refractions dance in white-line splits across the sand
>In fact, it’s almost mesmerizing…
>Almost, that is
>You refuse to get distracted; despite your presence being mostly ceremonial, if something unseemly happens during the course of the coming speech, you’re expected to act in the capacity of your rank
>The metaphorical grains of sand over which the waves dance, as it were, are the heads of the remainder of the eager crowd of pegasi, numbering around ten thousand by your reckoning
>You’re always surprised at these sorts of things by the number of audience members who choose to stand below the pulpit box in Avemequus Plaza, rather than merely hover above for a better view
>Before now, never having actually stood on the pulpit overlooking the crowd, you’d always chalked it up to laziness; some, or in this case most, would rather stand on solid ground than waste a minimal amount of energy to see the face of the General better
>But now, seeing the faces of the masses from this angle, seeing the fanatical awe cascading over them as the anticipation of his appearance rises, you think you understand the real reason
>It’s got nothing to do with conserving energy; no, it’s because they WANT to be below him as he makes his speech, they WANT his face to be partially obscured or far away, so as not to be fully visible to them
>The majority of the masses prefer for their idols to loom high over them, rather than the other way around
>And they LOVE General Hurricane; you know that better than anything
>You love him too, of course, just… in a different way
>And as you stand here, the heat of the sun penetrating that thicket of your brethren above, boiling you alive, making you want to just rip all this metal and cloth and everything off and go soaring away someplace less crowded, all you can think is…
>You are strong; stronger than them
>You are devoted to this thing; devoted to the end
>You are proud to be here; proud to finally be recognized in this way
>You take all of this into account in finalizing your decision to keep on standing, keep on sweating, keep on with this itching nervousness you wouldn’t confide in anypony to save your life
>But more than any of that, this is the phrase you repeat in your mind, over and over, minute by minute, second by second:
>You are Captain Rainbow Dash of the Wunderbolts
>And you can do anything, ANYTHING, you set your mind to
>It’s what your father once told you
>It’s what your… what your mother once told you
>So a little stage fright should be a walk in the park compared to everything else you’ve gone through in your life
>Still… the feeling isn’t going away
>Best to just ignore it for now
>The twin flocks, below and above, grow thicker still as the next few minutes pass, with stragglers and latecomers vying for the spots closest to you in the Plaza
>Those who come just a bit too close for comfort to the podium are first gently reminded by uniformed Stormwings to back off; if they persist, the next reminder comes a bit more forcefully
>Directly below where you now stand at attention, a herd of frantic mares appear to be trying to outfox the Stormwing patrols to get closer to the jutting wall of the Amphitheater, only to be repeatedly pushed back with the blunt edges of stun batons
>Either they ENJOY being chastised, or they love the General more than they fear the batons
>You have to admit, he is incredibly charismatic
>As the fearless leader of the Pegasus Armistice State, and the high commander of its armed forces, charisma is the biggest point in his job description
>Which is exactly why this level of turnout, thousands on thousands of pegasi stuffing every square inch of the Plaza and Amphitheater’s perimeter, no, every CUBIC inch, you should say, isn’t surprising
>Even given that what is to be presented in just a few scant minutes won’t really be much more than a rallying speech
>Or so you’ve assumed, that is
>You didn’t get the chance to ask anypony what the real content of this speech will be beforehoof; all that mattered to you was getting a spot on the staging balcony, getting that recognition that you deserve for all the hard work of these last several years
>You’re a captain at eighteen, after all, and it has nothing to do with…
>Well, anything but your own natural talent and authority
>Quite honestly, you’re just plain better than most of your peers
>A better flyer, a better commander, a better shot, a better tactician…
>You name it, you’ve mastered it
>You don’t want to sound brash or overconfident, and you definitely try not to say things like this out loud anymore, but in your heart you know them to be true
>The truth of the matter is that certain ponies rise above others, or otherwise deserve more of what there is in the world than others
>The ponies down there, for example; sure, they’re all pegasi, they’ve all at least got that special quality about them which allows them to rise above the other species
>They have the wings, the hardiness, the valor of… well, all the clichés you’ve been taught all your life that all pegasi possess
>You don’t put as much stock in that as you used to, but at least you acknowledge that you’re among a superior species
>It’s what Hurricane preaches, what he’ll likely preach today to the fervent masses, so you can’t help but believe it
>But even they, with their natural superiority, are weaker than you
>They never strove to be in your position; they haven’t tried, so they’ve failed
>Every path never taken is a path to failure
>You taught yourself that, over years of blood and sweat and tears
>You taught yourself that in the gymnasium, watched over by the Kommandant as you wrestled down every opponent they threw at you
>You taught yourself that in the night-stalks over the sweeping sands of the Palomino down south, hunting down your artificial prey with Lightning Dust by your side
>You taught yourself that in the New Maker iso-chambers, swimming through every terrible challenge a simulation could throw at you; everything from extinct monsters of Old Equestrian times to entire squadrons of Canterians, the hated enemy
>You taught yourself that through the countless hours you’ve spent studying the tactics of every great commander in pegasus history, for even the most ancient ideas often have modern applications
>You used to hate reading, once upon a time; you’ve forced yourself to get over that
>In the end, you survived the Academy with top marks, and enlisted to the Stormwings at only fifteen years old
>No favors, no help, nothing; you needed to do this on your own
>You needed to KNOW that you’d done this on your own
>Even through all that, however, you’d never been required to stand perfectly still like a propped-up corpse in useless ceremonial armor for the amusement of the city
>The mere murmurs of the crowd have now become almost deafening; you don’t want to think about what it’s going to be like when Hurricane comes out, and they all start cheering at once
>Your ears might literally bleed…
>Across the plaza, they’ve begun to unfurl enormous banners, pale chevrons bearing both the Gorgonian spiral and the twin hooves of the Trust
>These, you realize, are the first of their kind containing both sigils on the same field
>You suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later; the ties between the Armistice and the Cult of Exsilium have become so great, the symbol of your alliance had to become entrenched within your own symbology
>You guess it’s not so bad, but some voice deep down tells you it’s not alright, that they’re consuming your culture, your freedoms…
>A kneejerk, no doubt, but why does the Armistice State actually NEED the Trust? Why do you NEED to be allied with the land cultists?
>You sigh silently
>At least the Cult’s monstrous symbol, that eight spike-pointed gear encircling a skull, hasn’t made its way onto your celebratory banners too
>You know why the Trust is necessary; don’t get so riled up by pieces of cloth, Rainbow
>Just focus… focus on the water over grains of sand, and the white sunset…
>The last few nights, you’ve had some really weird dreams, all of them centering around a sunset bathed in white light
>You looked at it over a ridge that was nearly identical to the one below the Air Harbor in Polis Cloudsdalia, you looked at it in a bell tower, you looked at it from what seemed to be underwater
>In every instance of the dream, the rays of the sun piercing the clouds above seemed to turn to wings, and when the sun flapped its wings, it receded down further beyond the horizon, making everything go dark
>And when that was done… well, things crawled on you in the darkness
>Tiny things, like caterpillars or small serpents, just slithering over every inch of your body
>Usually, you don’t remember tactile sensations in dreams, but this feeling you remember all too well
>The strangest part of all of it is that in the dream-state, you aren’t afraid of them; you actually think the constant motion is somewhat calming
>But as soon as you wake up, you’re thrust back into logical fear, fear of the unknown
>Maybe, just maybe, if you have the dream tonight, you can summon up the presence of mind to try and shake off the little critters
>Like you’d like to shake off this armor
>Like you’d like to shake away this crowd
>You don’t mind the attention; it’s the shrieking noise that bothers you
>It’ll be over soon… very soon…
>You just have to wait for him to—
>”Psst. Rainbow.”
“Gah!”
>You nearly jump straight upwards out of this suit of metal, propelled by your wings spastically reacting to the sound of somepony speaking right into your ear
>Luckily, you’re able to restrain yourself to only hovering but a few inches off the ground
>You turn your head sharply, noting how little your headdress allows for movement, to identify the speaker
>To your left, clad in basic dress uniform, is a turquoise mare with a short-cropped golden mane and eyes to match
>The collar of her black Stormwing W-division coat is popped, and the shirt underneath is very clearly ruffled and untucked beyond all regulations
>The turd-eating grin plastered over her face makes you want to pop her right in the muzzle, and you would if you could lift your foreleg more than three inches up
>This little…
“Lightning Dust… what are you doing here?”
>”You can talk louder, you know. Hiss at me, scream at me, won’t make a difference in this noise.”
”WHY are you up here? You can’t be on the podium, they’ll have my hide and yours!”
>Your longtime Academy friend snorts, cracking her neck and smiling at the audiences below and above
>”I’m your aide now, remember? I can be up here all I want, so long as I don’t interfere with the speech. Besides, it was an emergency, Captain.”
“Don’t call me that. It feels weird coming from you.”
>”Roger that, Captain.”
>You groan
“What is the emergency?”
>”It’s optics-based. Namely, looking at your grumpy ass up on this balcony from down there made me want to puke. Lighten up.”
“Is that what you came up here to tell me?”
>”Yep. You look like a sad sack up here, Captain. You’re meant to look proud, not miserable.”
“I AM miserable. I hate this ridiculous costume they make me wear. Could this thing be any less aerodynamic?”
>Lightning flutters up and buzzes in a semicircle around you, a taunt which you’re far too exhausted and overheated to be annoyed by
>”Well, cheer up. I mean, don’t be enthusiastic or anything, but try acting like you don’t have a damn manticore claw up your rigid bee-hind.”
>You manage to lift one leg just high enough to grasp Lightning’s outstretched hoof and pull her back down to the floor
>Then, you nod to your left, gesturing for your friend to look with you at the silver-maned stallion only a few meters away, smiling serenely at the impatient audience
“See him? That’s Hauptgeneral Wind Rider. If he overhears that motor mouth of yours, you’ll be in the brig for the night. He hates foul language of any kind. Get it?”
>”I’m… getting that I should talk quieter.”
“Get that you should get out of here! The speech is starting any second now! And tuck in that shirt. You’ll get in more trouble for that than the swearing.”
>”Yeah, yeah. Just keep your cool, Cap.”
>You smirk
“Please. I’m cooler than you even with all this armor on.”
>Lightning smiles and adjusts her coat, preparing to take off from the elevated balcony
>”How much cooler?”
“Uh, at least tw…”
BLEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOR
>The rising brass noise of the harp-trumpet over loudspeakers ten feet tall drowns out your thoughts, never mind the conversation
>When that harsh noise, somehow the polar opposite of a musical note, diminishes, Lightning is still poised on the edge of the balcony
“That’s the callout! It’s about to start!”
>”Find me later, yeah? I’ll be down there pushing back the mob like the rest of ‘em.”
“Screw off already.”
>With another sly sideways glance, Lightning leaps with all four hooves off the side of the extended pulpit, shooting straight downwards for several meters before curving her trajectory in a parabolic feint and sweeping far over the crowd and out of sight
>Show-off…
>Alongside the banners, gigantic digital screens begin to light up around the perimeter of Avemequus Plaza, first bearing the black Gorgonian spiral on a field of pure red, then fading into a live image of the balcony on which you now stand
>The space at the center, soon to be occupied, is held by a single microphone; to either side stand various high political officials, all of whom you can name on the spot, and beside them are a scattering of military brass, including Hauptgeneral Wind Rider and his aides
>Unfortunately, you can’t see yourself up there, not that you expected as much
>You’re off to the left, just slightly out of frame; if you took a few steps towards the central podium, you could probably see the polished tip of your left pauldron up there
>You suppose you’ll have to rise a few more ranks before the cameras begin to care about you
>Not to say that you aren’t visible; this stupid outfit can probably be seen from ten miles away
>In any case, the harp-trumpet’s blared, the crowd has reached a crescendo, the spotlights are squarely on this stage, on this moment
>Behind that microphone at the center of the screens, in the darkness beneath an ornate stone arch leading into the uppermost level of the Staatskongress Building, a shadow displaces gently, slowly
>It’s a shadow in the shape of a stallion, and as it comes more and more into the obscured light of the midday, its features become more well-defined
>The familiar golden breastplate, sun sheens rolling in crescents across its contoured surface
>The ornate galea helmet, a crimson mohawk of feathers trailing over its top and down over the back of the stallion’s neck
>The grizzly, cunning, warrior’s face in the midst of all the decoration
>Those eyes… 
>Even as pixels on a broadcast screen, they’re soul-piercing in their intensity
>They’re eyes that make you want to tell the truth, no matter the cost to yourself
>But… you can trust those eyes, as well
>You’ve trusted those eyes all your life
>And, by some miracle, for the first time in well over an hour, the crowd falls dead silent
>They’re awed by the… by the MASS of his presence, awed into stunned quiet
>You’re frankly shocked; you’ve been to almost every one of these things, and never once has this happened before
>You can hear the high-altitude wind currents whistling between pillars of stone, over the tessellated rooftops and through the heart of Pegasopolis
>For this is indeed the heart of the city; it has been since its foundation just fourteen years ago
>In an instant, you look down, away from the screens, away from the eyes
>General Hurricane is only a few meters to your left and behind you now
>In the silence, you can make out the shuffling of hoofsteps as the officials crowded around the microphone make a wide path for the General to approach it
>It takes only a few echoing, deliberately aggressive steps for him to arrive there, positioned at the exact center of the pulpit box, and you know without looking that he is scanning the audience, scanning every face in the dense crowds, memorizing the features of his denizens
>He breathes in, then out, a noise which amplified over the microphone seems to synchronize with the winds
>Then, he speaks
>”What is inheritance?”
>He speaks clearly, his voice perpetuating across the Plaza, and yet it seems somehow that he is speaking directly into your ear, as Lightning had moments ago
>You refuse to look…
>”What is strength?”
>You want to turn around, to see his real eyes…
>You wonder if they’re on you now
>”Strength and inheritance are equals. They are simultaneous. One precludes the other. The superiority of one mind, and one body, and one soul, over another, gives that mind, body, and soul an unalienable right to dominate. These are old words, old ideas. Friends, we know these ideas. We know them all too well. We have understood, in the short history of this nation, the importance of superiority. We were liberated from the false supremacy of Canterium because theirs was a façade. Theirs was a burden, and superiority should not be a burden. It should only be a privilege gifted upon those whom nature has deemed worthy to possess it. Over time, over changes in society, in freedoms, in what I have called before the ‘inherent known’, and you know what these words mean, do you not?”
>The faces of the crowd are somewhere between somber and wistful
>They are within a trance, every one of them
>”It’s what this nation, and all the good nations of the world, are built upon. It’s what’s understood through devotion to the practices which make us better. It’s what’s uncovered when we merely look behind the veils that the meek have placed before us to make them seem higher than they truly are. It’s knowledge, core knowledge, of the way our ancestors lived. Within the minds, bodies, and souls of every single one of you here today, there is superiority. We have lived it!”
>Then, like wildfire, the crowd erupts into thunderous applause
>There is shrieking, hollering, stomping, the flapping of idle wings, and the wind picks up
>The taste of salt is in your mouth, somehow
>”We have breathed it! We have spoken it! We’ve been forged in thunder and ice, we are the inheritors of the earth! We are strength, brothers and sisters!”
“We are strength…”
>You find yourself whispering the words involuntarily
>”Why do we, alone, remain the rulers of the sky? Why do WE possess what no other species left alive possesses, our wings? Why have the griffins and the dragons of old fallen to time, why did nature see fit that they should perish to war and famine and we should not? Because we have inherited their niche. Because our strength was above theirs, and always has been. Why have we scraped the skies with our wings and monuments for thousands of years, when the ponies of the ground must use machines to accomplish the same? Where are our jets? Our helicopters? OUR weather balloons? We don’t need them! Why? Because like ants between the cracks in the mud, they are beneath us!”
>Beneath us…
>Like those below you now…
>And, somehow, those above you too…
>“They exist to be crushed! They have not inherited, we have! They have not fought for this skyward niche, we have! They have not shed blood and life and family, privilege gifted to them by the weak, they have not stripped themselves of the falsehoods which have merely kept them happy! They have not looked within themselves to find the strength they do not possess! They have not made revolt, they have not known passion, or devotion, or loyalty, and so they have not known liberty. We have. We have joined hooves with all the righteous pegasi of continental Equestron in this place, and why have they abandoned your futures, pilgrims, when we have welcomed you gladly to our nation? Because they are afraid!”
>Another uproarious cheer; the air shakes around you with the vibrations of thousands of wings keeping their bearers aloft
>”They are afraid of your power, your birthright, your inherent knowledge of all that has bred us towards this moment! The Canterians, under the leadership of their vile Chancellor, have hounded us relentlessly since the inception of our cause! The Pegasus Armistice State is a free nation, a free people, a free future! We are free to choose, so long as we are loyal to what is right, so long as we continue to admire our own superiority. We are free!”
>You feel trapped…
>This suit of armor… is crushing you…
>”And remember that it was I, alongside my compatriots, who gifted this state to you. No others! Remember that I was but a worker in Polis Cloudsdalia but fourteen short years ago, and that I, flank to flank with stallions and mares who desired change, desired order from the chaos of the Canterian Republic, stood against their impositions! We fought in the dark, we fought by underhoofed means, but we never lost our valor! We liberated this place, this space in the sky which they once called Las Pegasus, from the clutches of Canterium, and we built Pegasopolis from all the tribes of pegasi who wished to see that same change in their own hearts. And even now, they conspire against us! Even now, the weak condemn the strong. And though they are many, and we few, we have the ultimate strength of ancestry on our side. We have the proof here, on our backs, that we have deserved to rise up over them. Even now, the Cult of Exsilium, our great allies of the Trust, are railing against the Canterian menace in the Unicronian Mountains to our north, and must be recognized as honorary pegasi for this reason. Through our friendship, we have learned from them to reject the false idolatry of magic.”
>Yes…
>Yes!
>”No longer are we confined to the clouds, which might carry us in whichever direction they happen to be pulled by the wind. Now, we have mastered the skies of our own accord. Now, we might confirm our supremacy, unhindered by the niche of the unicorn!”
>Jeers go up across the crowd at the mention of the word “unicorn”, with many knocking their foreheads with one hoof as a mockery of those horned surface-dwellers
>Shifting in your armor to lessen its rigidity, you tap the ground with your hooves; you feel the solidity of the concrete beneath them
>You remember a time, far back, before the great Pegasopolis Platform was constructed, when the clouds alone were your stepping-stones
>The Cult likened that to the heresy of magic, however; when the Trust formed, it soon became frowned upon to live in cities supported entirely by the pegasus magical art of suspension
>You can at least agree with the Cult on this point; that way of life, though practiced by your ancestors, was always a show of dependency on unicorns
>Dependency on their niche, and what their false gods and prophets “gifted” to them
>Their reliance of the supernatural makes them weak, though not as weak as the alternative
>Nowadays, in the time of the New Makers, and the authority of the machine, magic is worth nothing at all
>The surface-dwellers have stopped practicing it; they’ve rejected their niche
>They’ve rejected whatever claim to the inheritance they may have had left
>This assurance makes you smile
>They have given up their strength…
>”The Canterians refuse to face us in open combat. They see us for what we are: the mightiest ponies on the planet! They waste their firepower, their soldiers, their resolve, fighting over pebbles in the north. Our ally, the Cult, have seen this. They desire Unicronia not for its tactical advantage, not for its strategic location or even for its Archives; no, the reason they batter that frigid wreck of a city-state is because it is the first stepping-stone towards a brighter future for the Trust. They fight, so that we may grow. We must wait until the right moment, brothers and sisters, before we strike! We will prevail! Every inch of dirt the Exsilists take is another inch returning to its rightful inheritors, this Trust! The Trust…”
>This last exclamation piques your curiosity
>While the audiences echo Hurricane’s spoken sentiment with gaudy hollers and near-religious shrieks, you can’t help but replay in your mind the way he just said that
>The way he just said “The Trust” again… almost… woefully
>Regretfully?
>The inflection went unnoticed in all the zeal above and below you, but to your ears it was crystal clear
>It’s only because you understand the General so well that you recognize these things…
>And this pause has gone on a tad longer than the General usually allows for ovation
>When he resumes his speech, his voice is lower, softer, more soothing, perhaps
>It’s a tone that transforms the one-sided speech into something of a conversation
>”Do not think, brothers, sisters, that we are better than the surface-dwellers because of our height. Do not think that to stand above is to conquer. When I look down over this podium, I see compatriots, acolytes, loyal devotees of the Armistice. When I look above me, into this swirling cloud of pegasi which blots out the very sun in the sky, I see no different. Power is not defined by the position one holds; it is defined by one’s potential. One’s devotion to a cause, and the will to see that cause through to the end. Loyalty, friends. Loyalty to the Armistice, loyalty to the Trust, loyalty to the Empire which will come in the time of our lives, together, hoof in hoof, wing to wing.”
>You are loyal to him, and him alone…
>You realize it again every single day of your life, but you are loyal to him, one hundred percent
>A pegasus in the upper crowd shifts, and a ray of sunlight glints in your eye
>You stand taller to combat it, letting your bronzed helm slide down over your brow to block the light
>”Loyalty is the father of inheritance.”
>This kind of loyalty comes only from the deepest roots of the heart
>Something only shared blood can bring about
>Diffracted on the lip of your helmet, that sunbeam turns red, shifting over the surface into a perfect white
>The white sunset…
>The insects, and their calming effect on you…
>”And inheritance…”
>They remind you of more perfect times, before this war, before all this became utterly necessary
>Before the Stormwings, before the Academy, before Pegasopolis…
>You remember cumulonimbus on a high wind, and pillars of light peeking through the cracks in the storm, and him, coming to bring you into this nation
>You, alone…
>”Inheritance is strength.”
>Silence again, but for the flapping of idle wings
>This was all built for YOU, wasn’t it?
>Because you’re better than them; those below, and those above
>Because you were loyal to the stallion behind you since the moment you were born
>Because you remember that before he was General Hurricane, he was Bow Hothoof
>Because you remember the kind of father he was to you, before he was father to a nation…
 
******
 
>A kick comes flying out of your periphery
>You duck out of the way just before the hoof connects with your skull, swiveling your entire body downwards and then back up
>You thought you’d already immobilized that leg…
>The hindleg continues on its arc towards your right, touching back down just as quickly onto the cushioning mat floor
>As soon as it lands, its opposite hoof shoots out in a straight path towards your midsection
>You put up a cross to block the blow, and your wings shoot out and flutter to support the weight of your front
>The strike is hard, but you’ve taken much harder before
>Before the hoof can retract into a defensive position, you wrap one foreleg around it and pull sharply downward, feeling the full weight of Lightning Dust driving down with it
>Her face hits the mat, but not before her own wings unfold and blast off towards your eyes
>She intends to blind you to buy herself some time…
>Seeing the movement, you reflexively pull backwards, dropping the hoof and kicking off with both hindlegs into a hover
>Lightning responds with a backflip into the opposite wall, recovering with a roll that perches her slightly above you
>For the moment, she now possesses the height advantage
>If you fluttered up ever so slightly, you could rectify that, but…
>She’s already zooming towards you, and trying to feint now would only give her access to your backside
>That wouldn’t be good
>Instead of dodging, you match her flight speed and pitch around ninety degrees to the right side
>When you both arrive at the center of the sparring zone, she curls back in a halting maneuver, while you slip sideways to get a good angle at her ribs
>You pull your hoof back for a jab but, apparently realizing what you’re planning, Lightning rotates so that her stomach now faces you, protected by her hindlegs folded beneath her
>You make brief eye contact with your now-aide; that little sneering glint tells you that she sees this as a source of massive entertainment
>Of course, you enjoy it too, but enjoyment isn’t your primary motivation for exercises like these
>When the time comes, CQC training might save your life on the battlefield
>”Hiiiii-ya!”
>Lightning slices through the air with one hoof, intending to drive it into your groin, but you somersault out of sidewise stance and fling yourself upwards so that you end up directly above her
>Now, fluttering here over your friend, who still hasn’t quite brought herself back into recovery stance, you’re feeling a bit more confident about this outcome
>She looks up at you and attempts an inverted corkscrew, spinning around to spring upwards hindlegs first, but before she can bring herself around to make the maneuver you drive your fetlock down into the space between her wings
>”Kuh!”
>Lightning lets out a gasp at the blow, but otherwise shows no sign of incapacitation
>Instead, she arches back her crest to get a better look at your positioning, her short crop keeping her orange mane from falling into her face
>Then, in one swift movement, she upends herself, wings flapping steadily to match your own tempo, and jackhammers one hindleg into the very tip of your right wing
>White-hot pain sizzles out of the sensitive tendons in your wing all at once; she knew EXACTLY where to strike to make it hurt the hardest
“Ghhh… ssss!”
>That made you angry
>But part of the exercise is controlling that anger, and focusing it into besting your opponent
>Against an earth pony or unicorn, a blow like that from such an angle wouldn’t be possible, given your inherent height advantage
>But, and you are loathe to think of it, if you were to meet a well-trained Canterian pegasus one day on the field of battle, knowing how to maintain awareness of your wingspan would be paramount
>You draw your wings back into a closer trim in reaction to Lightning’s hit and cock your neck in anticipation
>You’re still hovering directly above her; you have the power of gravity on your side
>In an instant, a few things happen
>First, you make a jumping motion with your head and withers while also springing your wings back out into an alt-gain stance
>For just a split-second, it would appear to an onlooker as though you’re about to shoot upwards towards the ceiling of the gymnasium
>You know that if Lightning weren’t so exhausted as she is now, she’d immediately recognize the movement as a feint, but…
>As is, she matches your movement, righting herself so that her hindlegs face the ground and her wings blast out to her sides
>She’s got a habit of pursuing; that was one of the first things you learned about her in the Academy
>And, even now, she hasn’t fully shaken it
>In the same instant, while Lightning thrusts herself upwards with both wings, you pull your wings all the way back in flush with your flanks, generating a massive downward force
>The look in her eyes when she sees you getting closer to her rather than further away truly is priceless
>”Wh-“
SMACK
>You feel Lightning’s taut body bend beneath yours as you drive your full weight down through your outstretched hooves into her exposed shoulders
>It’s only about a second more before your friend’s spine touches down on the floor mat, and she lets out a huge gasp as all the air is knocked out of her lungs
>You try not to dig in with your hooves too hard, so as not to break any bones, but you do put just enough pressure on her matted chest to enact payback for that wing snipe
>You know you agreed that no trick was too dirty in here, but damn that was painful…
>”Geez, uncle already! Off, cap’n, off!”
“You’re conceding defeat?”
>”Concede my sweaty green ass. Get off me, Rainbow!”
>You technically have the authority to enact corporal punishment on Lightning for mouthing off to you now, but you suppose she’s had enough of a beating already
>Still a bit sore, you slide off your friend’s body and pull yourself back up onto your hooves
>”Towel… bring… towel…”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t have to tell me, hothead.”
>Your legs wobble under you as you walk in a not-so-straight line towards the towel rack, first wiping yourself down with a clean white and then balling another up and tossing it onto Lightning’s muzzle
>”Mmph.”
“What was that? Didn’t quite catch that.”
>Lightning pulls the towel off her face and begins to dry herself off on the floor, seemingly still not strong enough to get up
>”I said ‘jerk,’ jerk.”
>You chuckle as you return to Lightning’s figure outstretched on the mat
“Ahhh. I thought I heard, ‘You’re the best, Rainbow. I wish I was anywhere near as talented and awesome as you are.’”
>”Pshhhh. Yeah, and I’m the hothead. And what does that make you, exactly?’
“A realist. Now get up, you’re sweat-staining the mat.”
>”Not the first time, not the last time.”
>You lift one hoof and offer it to Lightning, who gladly accepts it; inch by inch, she pulls herself off the floor, using your foreleg as a support rail
>Above you, the arched windows of the gymnasium allow in just enough of the afternoon light to give the high-vaulted room an almost ghostly aura
>Below them, protective mat covers line the surfaces of the walls and floor, dark blue cushions enabling sparrers to throw each other about with reckless abandon
>Though you can’t see it through the semi-opaque windows, which are rapidly turning grey as an overhead cloud obscures the sun, you know that the great bell tower of Avemequus Plaza should be visible from this angle
>The Barracks, of which the gymnasium is part, sit atop somewhat of a crest in the surface of Pegasopolis Platform; artificial, of course, but simulating quite nicely a hill which gives a commanding view of much of the central district of the city
>Beyond the bell tower, the Staatskongress building should just peek out over the skyline; behind that, from certain angles within the Barracks, the tips of buildings resting on Cloudsdalia Platform are visible
>But the bulk of your view in this extraordinary complex comes in the form of Militarbezirk, the district of Pegasopolis relegate solely to the use of the PAS military forces
>Helping Lightning Dust up now, you once again must appreciate the vision General Hurricane had for this city-state
>The repossession of buildings belonging to the former constituent cities of the PAS was simple enough; the genius came in repurposing them effectively for the usage of a more powerful government, a more capable leadership through military might
>Everything is designed for power; everything ensures that the strong should rise up over the weak
>The niche… you can’t stop thinking about what he said earlier today, about the niche…
>”Hey. You with me, cap’n?”
“What? Sorry. Must’ve blanked. And I thought I told you not to call me that.”
>”It’s what you are now, isn’t it?”
>Together, you step towards the bronzed archway leading into a short hallway with double doors at its end, diffused light pouring through their ornate latticework
“Yeah, but… I don’t know. I don’t feel like one yet, I guess. Too much responsibility.”
>”So? It’s what you wanted, Rainbow. You musta told me a million times before that this is what you’ve been trying for all your life. At least, your life since the State.”
“It is! I just… it’s hard to describe. I wouldn’t expect you to know—”
>”What? What responsibility feels like?”
“You know that’s not what I was gonna say.”
>”Then what? What is so damn difficult about being a captain, for everything that’s worth, being the daughter of—”
“Don’t.”
>You stop in your tracks and wheel around to stand directly in Lightning’s path, glaring at her
>It doesn’t take long for her to realize what she said, and she shrinks slightly when she does
>As soon as you see the shame in her face, the sudden burst of anger inside you dissipates
>”I didn’t…”
“No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t—”
>”But you know I—”
“And…”
>For a while, you both simply stand there, two silhouettes against the blinding outer light creeping into the darkened hallway, the only sound being the distant hoofsteps of trainees and arbiters somewhere in this cavernous building
>Then, Lightning musters the resolve to speak
>”It’s just that you KNOW that I—”
“Wanted to be captain?”
>”Would’ve KILLED to be where you are. But I don’t think the Major’s decision had anything to do with your father. I’m sorry I even brought it up. You earned your place, Rainbow. There’s nothing else to say. And since I’m not the jealous type…”
“And other funny jokes we tell ourselves.”
>”Pff, piss off. Hey, I’m hungrier than an earthie right now. All that standing around at the rally, and now you nearly breaking my back, my appetite’s really going. Wanna grab a late lunch? There’s this incredible sausage joint on Highstorm Platform, only about a fifteen-minute fly from here.”
“Sausage? You know meat still doesn’t exactly agree with me, Dusty.”
>Lightning Dust snorts, a noise that’s irritated you for nigh on ten years now
>”You’re gonna have to learn to eat it eventually, cap’n. We’re natural-born predators, us pegasi. Even if our teeth don’t show it.”
“Sure, that’s what all the posters say.”
>”And you don’t believe the posters?”
“I believe in my father. And my father’s word is a bit more conservative than that of the zealots that print his propaganda.”
>This time, it’s Lightning who seems to freeze mid-step
>”I wouldn’t use that word, Rainbow. Even being who you are. It’s… dangerous.”
“You sound serious.”
>”I AM serious. It’s not a joke.”
“Never said it was.”
>Without saying anything else, you lead the forward march towards the double doors and open them both with a wide swing of your hoof
>Your eyes rapidly adjust to the afternoon light, affording you a decent view of the grassy square beyond the portico where a flock of trainees perform hovering exercises for a Kommandant
>Above them, banners bearing the Gorgonian spiral flutter on crossbeams which extend the space between the Barracks North and South like clotheslines
>”So? What’s the verdict?”
>As if to answer, your stomach growls
>But… you weren’t lying when you said you can’t stomach meat
>And, strangely, this hunger doesn’t feel like it’s meant for food
>Rather than lunch, your mind dwells on other things
>Things best kept to yourself
“I… I think I’ll have to pass for today. I’ve got another orientation meeting in an hour, and I’ll be whipped if I’m late, literally. It’ll just have to be mess hall slop for me.”
>”Yeah? Well, suit yourself. See you back around seven, right?”
“Bet your bottom.”
>Lightning Dust stretches her forelegs and hugs low to the ground, preparing to take off
>”Say… how come I never have to be at these orientation things? I’m your aide-de-camp, after all. Which, now that I’m saying it all out loud, does sound a bit unnatural.”
“Couldn’t tell ya. But count yourself lucky that you don’t. I’ve made it a habit to sit on my wing every five minutes so that I don’t start snoring.”
>Your friend snickers; without another word, she ejects into space, soaring over the yard and eliciting a few shocked “oohs” from the trainees below
>You wait a minute or so for her to disappear from sight around one edge of the Barracks South, then unfurl your wings and take off yourself
>You may have lied just a bit to Lightning; you do have a meeting of sorts to make, but it isn’t an orientation meeting
>The training square ends quite abruptly about two hundred meters on from the gymnasium’s exit, where the land joins with a white marble wall that juts out and down to the top base of the Platform
>And below that… there is nothing
>Nothing but around four vertical miles of the Exclusion Zone, where flight is utterly forbidden, down to the surface of the earth far below the domed underside of Pegasopolis Platform
>At this time of day, that inverted metal dome should be coated in sheer darkness, lacking any direct sunlight
 >Due to the strange reactions which occur in that space to afford levitation without any magical use, the platforms do not drift as did the pegasus cities of old, which were subject to the fluctuations of the clouds on which they perched
>Rather, they stand perfectly still, suspended in the same great blue expanse you now soar within
>There is no ground beneath you now but the earth; if you turned your head to the right or left, you would see the buildings which once composed the cities of Polis Cloudsdalia and Thunder’s Peak, both brought into this conglomerate of steel and stone transfixed over the yawning altitude
>But here, looking simply into the east, over the edge of the world as you know it, you see a landscape
>A pristine, untouched landscape which Canterium calls its own, and which shall one day be yours
>But right now…
>You feel too… content, you guess
>Content about your own life, and the grand mission of the State, and everything in between
>General Hurricane’s speech this morning ignited the flame in you again briefly, but as soon as it was there, it had gone out in some miasmic wind, and you were left standing in the armor like a fool and thinking about nothing
>Nothing, that is, except for the fact that the path ahead of you is going to be one of waiting for destiny to come to you, rather than the other way around
>Before this moment, or rather before the moment that Major Thunderlane granted upon you the badge and title of Captain of the Wunderbolt Division, you had a definite purpose to strive towards
>You were Rainbow Dash, you didn’t rely on the strength of your bloodline or your family name or whatever, and you were faster and stronger and better than the rest, and you WANTED this so very badly
>But ranks beyond Captain, you’ve never really envied all that much
>To rise any higher in the hierarchy of the Stormwings, that most elite branch of the Military Core, would be to sacrifice your combatant role in favor of more tactical, hooves-off responsibilities
>That is NOT what you signed up for; to fight and emerge victorious in battle is to honor one’s supreme lineage to the highest degree
>You’re happy to command, so long as you remain on the battlefield, so long as you see with your own eyes the day that the Canterian menace is ousted from their comfortable seat on Mons Canteria, and the New Empire is firmly established in their place
>So long as you get to take part in that, with your own blood, sweat, and tears…
>But that isn’t all that’s weighing on you, is it?
>Though you’ve taught yourself mastery of concealing your distress from your fellow Stormwings, you won’t hold it from yourself; you used to be in perpetual denial, but no longer
>And seeing those trainees there in the yard, learning the basics of maneuverability which may one day save their lives in the sky when the time comes…
>For whatever reason, that sight causes you more distress than anything
>Because truthfully, you have no clue how much time is going to pass between this moment and the moment that the PAS and the Cult of Exsilium stand hoof in hoof over the conquered Canterian Republic
>Before the State can even think to strike at major targets, the Trust must be established as a viable threat to Canterium
>Not just the Cult, but the TRUST; the dual arrangement between the Exsilists and the PAS
>Though you despise being so reliant on the Cult for support, and though you’ve gathered  that Hurricane feels the exact same way, even you have to admit that nothing can be done effectively before the Siege of Unicronia ends
>Once the Cult occupies that fortified unicorn city in the mountains to the north, on the cusp of the lands of forever-winter, their major forces can join with yours, and in tandem the Trust can make a steady assault on the heart of Canterium
>Over its countryside, over its inferior land-dwellers, into the monstrous monument they’ve built to their own weakness, Mons Canteria
>For now, however, you play the waiting game
>For now, the trainees remain just that; separate from the glory of combat, pawns playing at war
>Before you’ve even realized it, you’ve doubled back on your course, turning away from the golden expanses on the eastern horizon and swooping low over the groundwork of Pegasopolis Platform towards the Staatskongress building
>True, you were just there mere hours ago, but you left some unfinished business to attend to
>You didn’t look then…
>You couldn’t bring yourself to look on his face, on his eyes, even in reflection on digital screens
>You aren’t sure why you’ve been avoiding him these last few weeks since attaining the rank of Captain, but you’re certain he noticed when you flew back to Militarbezirk without a word to him
>You owe your father a visit
>Not just a visit, but a conversation, and a show of affection
>Not that you’ve been able to express those things frankly in nearly twelve years, but whatever
>You lost that ability the moment he came back to Polis Cloudsdalia to bring you to what was then only Las Pegasus, his band of revolutionaries in tow
>When you looked on his face and truly perceived it, what it had become, how it had morphed to match that of a dictator rather than a father
>Your roles became that of leader and apprentice, master and successor
>Dad and daughter, on the other hoof, were thrown to the wayside
>Of COURSE he’s still your father, and of COURSE you still think of him as such; nothing’s changed in that regard
>But…
>So much else has changed
>The New Maker technology gifted to Pegasopolis by the Cult’s engineers created this great network of platforms, unhindered by gravity without relying on magic
>It also created for the State the Final Option, with which you aren’t incredibly familiar, but the passing knowledge you do have is equal parts terrifying and exciting
>Over the last ten years, Pegasopolis has stockpiled what the Cultists call “Maker-killers”
>They’re bombs; bombs which harness the power of the atom to destroy entire landscapes, entire cities
>Only a few have actually been detonated in the history of ponykind, by the Canterians in the most secluded and isolated deserts of the Badlands
>But the Cultists have insinuated through their research in their homeland, the place they call New Exsilia across the far Western Reaches, that the Maker civilization they worship was entirely destroyed by such weapons
>In the event that war with Canterium becomes too much to handle directly, the Final Option could be employed, and Maker-killers could be launched in parabolic arcs into the east, into the throne of the Republic
>Ponykind has been changing rapidly for fifty years to match the New Maker technological revolution, but things seem to be changing so much faster now, at the cusp of a war that could very well annihilate all of Equestron
>You don’t think that will happen; you’ve read all the materials, you’ve listened to all the droning lectures about mutually-assured destruction, and how that will prevent an extinction event from arising once the State joins the war proper
>It’s frightening, though
>Change frightens you more than anything else
>Minutes have passed; you realize you’ve been flying on autopilot towards Staatskongress, a trip you took many times during your stint as a message-bearer in the Academy
>For every flight you’ve taken to the seat of the PAS Congress, you estimate you’ve only visited your father there during maybe one out of every hundred
>Now’s as good a time as any…
>The sharp wind whips through your mane and over the flattened ridge of your back; you watch below, the city moving beneath you, ponies and buildings and cool spring air flying backwards as you soar forwards
>You take a dive, letting your wings fold into your flanks and rocketing downwards into a marble trench, between two tall white structures which definitely have the ancient Cloudsdalian architectural tradition about them
>Several stories above their massive stairstepped foundations, pillars fly high into a single swooping buttress which connects them beneath their arched and decorated roofs
>Grotesques bearing the faces of ancient pegasus masters adorn the edges of the buildings’ caps, and the words “TERMINUS NON ADHIBERE” are carved across the buttress’ vertical surface
>Limits Do Not Apply…
>Sometimes you think that if you weren’t a warrior, you’d like to be an architect
>Seeing all the disparate but intimately connected architectural traditions of Las Pegasus, Polis Cloudsdalia, Thunder’s Peak, Highstorm, and more all collected here on Pegasolopolis Platform makes you dream of a synthesis of all the styles, some kind of neo-classical blend befitting the State’s supremacy
>As of now, most of the buildings within Pegasopolis are merely repurposed from its constituent cities, but one day its tradition, its culture, its unique strength of will, will be reflected in the shapes of its monuments
>An idiot might say that architect and warrior are polar opposite career paths; an architect builds, a warrior destroys
>But you know better; warriors make the world, and without them there would be no stones to build with, no technology to bring aloft the platforms you now fly over
>The Makers… though they were fairly peaceful in their time, they knew how to exercise force when confronted by the Old Princess, that pretender-prophetess Celestia
>Not to mention the Maker-killers, which of course demonstrate that their inventors were more concerned with martial prowess than any other species alive
>No, architects and warriors go hoof in hoof; architects are warriors of craft, and warriors are architects of fate
>You didn’t always think in such abstractions; even now, you pretend to be a bit meatheaded for the sake of appearances
>But high philosophy also goes in tandem with the warrior spirit, and you’ve done your homework on that to the extreme
>Change…
>Maybe change doesn’t always frighten you, only certain types of change
>…
>In a few moments, you’re already here, falling in a diagonal vector towards the gated doors into the Staatskongress building
>The plaza below, formerly packed with cheering citizens at high noon, is now barren save for a few idlers
>You land on your hind hooves, letting your front hooves fall gently after them and skid to a prompt halt
>When you look up, two guardsmares decked in ceremonial plates and shoulder-mounted guns meet your gaze
>You flash your military badge, though it’s hardly necessary; they know full well who you are
>As though mirror images of one another, they turn and step aside, allowing you to enter the seat of the PAS Congress through an antique arch
>Before Hurricane convinced the delegates of Las Pegasus to sign onto the Pegasus Armistice, this building was the LP City Hall; a few transformative features have made the inner hall, with its waving banners, circular skylights casting pillars of light in a straight row towards the Chamber of Congress, and gold-leaf bas-reliefs, far grander than before
>You make your way over the deep blue carpet, passing military officials, career politicians, couriers, towards the place you know you’ll find Hurricane at this hour
>You flutter up to a high balcony offshoot of the main corridor and sweep left
>Eighteen identical doors line the hallway which greets you; over each hangs a painted portrait of the pony who occupies that office
>Hauptgeneral Wind Rider is one of them; Hauptgeneral Night Glider and Kommandant Skyburst are his immediate neighbors
>Many of the top brass of the military hold officiate here, and it’s only natural and fair that the Chief Commander should be among them, rather than above them
>Your father always told you that hubris is different from supremacy; the natural way of things dictates that pegasi should be above the other races of ponykind, but that no pegasus should be above another for any other reason than their will to take action
>The military-government is a unit; for Hurricane to hold his office in some grander place than among his peers would be hubris, and would violate that unit’s integrity
>So here he is, his door being no larger or more noticeable than any of the other doors, his portrait no more ornate or striking
>You choose to walk to that door, rather than flutter; something in this place, or perhaps something inside of you, is weighing you down, preventing you from lifting off
>You stand for a moment before the door, looking up at the brushstroke imitation of Hurricane’s features, realizing only now how they fail to capture his likeness
>The components are all there; his sharp jaw, never quite free of stubble despite his best efforts
>His amber-gold eyes, reflecting the world around him in stark white glimmers
>His pale purple coat, just a shade off of your own
>His naturally technicolor hair, a signature that also runs in your family
>But all together, those aspects appear to make up somepony completely different, both from the General and from Bow Hothoof
>It just… isn’t him
>Little as you believe in such petty things as the power of love, you have to admit that it seems to transform him in your mind’s eye into something like a symbol
>A symbol, rather than a mere stallion, occupies that space in your brain labeled “Hurricane”
>Perhaps this portrait is how he appears to others, but not to you
>Before you can convince yourself to fly back off to the Barracks, as though you were never here, you rap on the oaken door and wait, eyes pulled shut
>Papers audibly rustle behind the door, and loud hoofsteps can be heard
>”Do you have an appointment?”
>That voice was decidedly NOT General Hurricane’s
>What?
“C-captain Rainbow Dash, W-Division. Here to consult with the General. Is he in?”
>”I am. A moment, Captain.”
>That was his voice
>You breathe a sigh of relief; for a second, you thought you’d somehow knocked on the wrong door
>The other voice was deep and brazen, almost savage in its intensity
>You’ve got no idea who that voice belongs to… somepony new?
>Against your better judgment, you press one ear to the door to listen in
>”…pressures. Some things will have to change with their arrival. I’m going to need… full protection, at all times. I’m holding… directly responsible. Understood?”
>”Yes, General.”
>More hoofsteps, approaching the door rapidly
>You pull your ear away with haste mere moments before the door swings open wide, and you’re left staring wide-eyed at the stallion with whom Hurricane was just conversing
>Great Gorgons…
>He’s enormous, bigger than any pegasus you’ve ever seen; his albino-white coat seems stretched painfully thin across his bulging muscular frame
>A simple gray tunic covers his midsection, but even that appears three sizes too small on him
>But the real odd feature about him is his wings; they’re the size of a filly’s, looking almost vestigial on that monstrous back
>The sight would be comical if not for his eyes, which are deeply, terrifyingly crimson, and now stare down at you among the sneering features of face
>He regards you like this for several seconds, before turning away and marching back the way you came, hooves pounding into the floor with every step
“Wh… whoa…”
>”Rainbow?”
>In an instant, you snap back to attention, wheeling on both hindlegs to face the open door, and the stallion at the back wall beyond its threshold
>”Please, come in.”
“Yes, General.”
 
******
 
>On suddenly shaking legs, you walk forward, muzzle high but eyes trained into the room ahead
>Why does this feel… strange, all of a sudden?
>This simple act of seeing your—
>”At ease.”
>You feel your muscles reflexively relax at this command; using the opportunity, you allow your eyes to wander around the office, rather than stare into the face of Hurricane
>It’s likely been a year or more since the last time you were inside this place, and since then not much has changed
>Still the cool stormy blue wallpaper, inlaid with designs reminiscent of wispy cirrus clouds
>Still the dim white fluorescent light strip hanging delicately on twin wires over a redwood desk stacked high with papers, file folders, discarded pencils and empty oat cans
>Side tables on either end of the room are similarly covered in paperwork, allowing no hint of the appearance of their top surfaces, and a disheveled stack of papers half-collapsed on the floor before the desk suggests that the guest chair is used as a surface as well
>In all, it more resembles a bureaucrat’s office than that of the single most important stallion in Pegasopolis, but you’ve come to accept that single oddity about the General
>For all his confidence, charisma, and pristine image in public affairs, he’s quite messy in the safety of his own quarters
>As are you, though you try your best to control it at the Barracks
>There is one new item of interest in this office, however; a sleek chrome module positioned behind the General at his tech desk has replaced the old bulky mainframe he used to communicate through almost religiously
>A gift from the Cult? Have they improved on the designs of the New Maker’s Handbook, or merely discovered a slimmer alternative within their pages?
>”Sit down, Rainbow. I’ve been meaning to speak with you. Lucky, you having the same idea.”
>You do as told, squeezing yourself into the stool sideways so as not to rub against the paper stack
“General, I—”
>”You don’t have to call me that in private, you know. Although I will address you as Captain now, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was hard with everything going on, so much paperwork and nonsense ceremonies, and the Major wanted me in certain places at certain times, it was all so—”
>Hurricane chuckles
>”You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Rainbow. Do you really think I wasn’t the first to know when Major Thunderlane made his decision?”
>Oh
>You… well, not that you hadn’t considered that, but…
“I guess… I should’ve told you before the badging ceremony. I should’ve told you in person.”
>”The State works as it needs to, Captain Dash. Everything you’ve done in the last few weeks, every sacrifice you’ve had to make for the position in the last few YEARS, that’s how it had to happen. You can’t feel sorry for not alerting me to aspects of this machine of ours with which I’m already intimately familiar. You of all ponies should know that.”
“I… yes, General.”
>”What was that?”
>The feeling from before… this unfamiliar, crushing feeling…
>It doesn’t stop you from smirking in this moment
”Okay, dad.”
>You notice you left the door to your father’s office open when a cool draft blows in from behind you
>The wing of the Staatskongress beyond is strangely silent for this hour; or perhaps you’ve just become accustomed to loud noises lately
>Your ears nearly bled at the rally this morning…
>I’m surprised either of us can hear one another after this morning. The screaming, the cheering. Am I so much of a draw these days?”
>How does he always manage to do that?
“You read my mind. Everything was amplified in that suit of armor too, bounced around and all that. Felt like my ears were gonna explode or something. Every time you reached a punctuation, I had to brace myself.”
>Hurricane leans back in his reclining chair and laughs, then reaches out and keys a small gray button on the corner of his desk
>You raise one eyebrow, half-expecting a minion to enter through the open door and escort you away
>Hurricane seems to detect this in you, however; he always can
>”My scotch button. Would you like some?”
“Huh? Uh, no. No. I’m not… you have a button reserved for an assistant to bring you scotch?”
>”I get quite a lot of use out of it these days. Come now, you’re old enough now to drink with your old stallion.”
“I really… fine. I don’t drink in the Barracks, I promise.”
>”Certainly not. No pegasus has ever drunk on duty, wink nudge.”
“I don’t know why you think you wouldn’t attract a crowd, sir. More and more of the integrated pegasi have warmed up to you these last few years. You’ve shown them you can balance firm aggression with careful consideration of political timing.”
>”Meaning?”
“Well, it’s no secret that your public image, to an outsider, might appear pretty confrontational. But we haven’t declared war on Canterium yet because—”
>”Because it’s not the right time.”
“Exactly my point.”
>”You’d make a wonderful advisor, you know. I do hope you realize that your military career is really only beginning with your captainship.”
>Involuntarily, you rub your mane and peer around the room once again
>You don’t want to meet his discerning gaze when you say these next few words
“I… don’t know if I’m cut out for anything higher than this. Definitely not some stuffy advisor position where I’d sit in a room and… what, advise?”
>”That is part of the job description.”
“Not for me. I want to be out there, making a difference, winning fights.”
>”You haven’t been in a fight, Rainbow. Not a real fight. You have no idea whether you’d fancy it or not.”
“When will I?”
>”When will you do battle? Hrm…”
>The air in the office trembles slightly, fluctuating mildly with static electricity; it’s calming, but tense
>On the wall behind your father, a pale-faced clock, festooned with dangling gossamer wires and stone arrowheads like an ancient bison dreamcatcher, ticks away the seconds
>Time is moving forward, always; the speed will not change, the tempo remains fixed between too fast and too slow, the white sunset falls away from the sky, the insects crawl…
>No, no, get out of here, intrusive thoughts!
>Dreams are of the least concern to you right now of anything; the State, the State, the State
>Those are your three commandments, the tenets inscribed within your memories
>”Sooner than you may believe.”
>Your hunched withers fall away as you perk up slightly in your seat
“Wh… how soon? Is there a declaration coming?”
>”That’s the decision of the Congress.”
“Don’t do that, not with me. It’s your decision, dad. Yours.”
>”I’m no Emperor, Rainbow. I’m General-Chief-Commander. There are certain powers that are not within my reach, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“So what’s the Congress decided?”
>”It’s not what they’ve decided, more so than what has happened: the Cult of Exsilium is expected to break through Unicronia’s defenses within the week.”
“That’s… good news.”
>”As good as it gets for us. And loathe as I am to have to rely on those surface-dwellers to… well, never mind that. The Trust, the Trust, the Trust, right?”
“The way you and the Academy always taught it to me was ‘The State, the State, the State.’”
>”Ah… things have changed, Rainbow. We need the Exsilists’ support in this coming war. They’ve done their part on the northern front; soon it’ll be our turn to pitch in from the south. Canterium’s bloated, aging corpse is waiting to be ensconced, we’re only just now being given that chance. The nuclears… that’s our bargaining chip. We manufacture them for the Cult, so the Cult needs us. It’s symbiotic, it’s… necessary.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
>”Because…”
>”General Hurricane, sir.”
>A perfectly even voice sounds from behind you; you twist your neck in your chair to catch a sideways glimpse of a short mare in dress slacks, supporting on one hoof a silver platter containing a short bottle of whisky and twin crystal glasses
>”Obliged, private.”
>The mare enters the office briefly to place the tray down on atop a mess of papers on Hurricane’s desk, then just as quickly departs
>”Clydes-Ale. Will you pour, Rainbow?”
>You nod and do as told, allotting a slim portion of the golden liquid into each glass
>Then, you freeze for a split-second
>Your blood runs cold, as though a gust of night-chilled wind blows against your very bones
>Something in the way the alcohol sloshes in those glasses, the translucency of it, the curvature…
>It makes you think of waves again, of spiraling DOWNWARDS into something…
>”Thank you. Now, as I was about to say, I’m telling you this because…”
>The General takes a small sip of what you’ve poured him, then lets the glass dance in his hoof
>”…you are about to be given a… shall we say, extracurricular assignment, which directly pertains to these details.”
“I… when was I going to be given this assignment? I came to YOU today.”
>”And I’m glad you did. Saved me the trouble of sending for you up to Militarbezirk. Or, Gorgons forbid, going there myself. The recruits alone would smother me to death in resumes.”
“Well, it’s an honor to be given a special assignment directly by you, General. I’ll complete it post-haste.”
>”It isn’t… necessarily, something that may be completed quickly. Rather, effectively, and discreetly.”
>Discreetly?
>If Lightning Dust caught wind that you were being asked to be discreet of all things, she’d laugh until she burst
>You’ve never really been the type to keep a low profile, but you can certainly try your best at whatever task you’re about to be given
>A first taste of espionage, perhaps?
>You WERE pretty sour when Lightning and a few other C-Divisions got to take that special intelligence-gathering excursion in Outer Canterium a few months back, so maybe this’ll make up for that?
“Your wish is my command, General.”
>”Dad, Rainbow. Although I suppose you’re right; when speaking in this capacity, I should be your General, not your father. My offices have compiled a dossier for you, but before you’re given that I can brief you on the basics of your mission. First, however—”
>Hurricane raises his glass of Clydes-Ale, beckoning you to do the same
>”A toast, to your captainship. And to seeing you grow into a worthier and more independent mare with every waking day. How I wish your mother were here to see you. How proud she would be…”
>A bit somberly, you strike your glasses together, producing a sharp sound which manages to break through the rushed background chatter of the offices beyond
>While your father downs his share of scotch, you stare through the crystal facets of your own glass, seeing reflections of light, harsh shining bolts
>The scotch moves within, its surface crashing like a tiny tsunami, then rippling outwards, then settling, a micro-storm spanning mere seconds
>It’s dark in the middle… so dark…
>Without a second thought, you lift your muzzle back and swallow it all, feeling the alcohol’s white-hot burn slithering down the length of your throat
>It takes a good deal of mental effort not to just cough it all right back up, but you manage the task
>If your father can take it, so can you
>”Now, then…”
>Somewhat suddenly, Hurricane lifts up out of his laid-back posture and strides the distance between his desk and the shuttered window at the room’s back
>He keys a switch at muzzle level, and a humming noise accompanies the sight of the blinds being drawn back from the window, revealing a circular dormer which opens onto the wide marble and stone expanse of Avemequus Plaza
>Hurricane breathes, in and out, then grips with both forehooves the windowsill before him
>”I’m sure you’re wondering who that rather large fellow was, the one with whom I was just conversing when you arrived here.”
“I… was, actually. I’ve—”
>”Never seen him before. And if you had, you’d know it, right?”
“Yes, sir. ‘Rather large’ is a bit of an understatement.”
>”Lieutenant Bulk Biceps is my new personal attendant, in matters both public and private. He’ll be accompanying me nearly anytime I leave this room or my apartments, in order to ensure my bodily safety. Effectively, he’s a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard? Why do you of all ponies need a bodyguard?”
>”Partly, Rainbow, because I’m not delusional. Physically, I’m no longer the same stallion who led the charge on Thunder’s Peak, or who bested eight Las Pegasus elite shocktroopers at once. My reflexes aren’t those of Bow Hothoof, the strapping young revolutionary. They’re those of Hurricane, the cunning but rapidly aging general.”
“Puh, no. You look the same to me as you did fourteen years ago. I still remember to this day what you looked like when I saw you again for the first time, when you came back from the Las Pegasus Liberation. That face that came out of the clouds, that was the same one I’m looking at now.”
>”Nostalgia blin—”
“NOT nostalgia. Truth. You’re as capable as you were then of defending yourself.”
>”Be that as it may, Rainbow, the other part of that ‘partly’ is that a few events are about to precipitate, ones that may make precautions like these necessary.”
“Is this… to do with my mission?”
>Hurricane sighs, sloughing off the windowsill and returning his gaze to you
>His amber eyes strangely match the color of the scotch almost precisely; now that you think of it, Lightning Dust’s eyes are of a similar shade
>What is it about that deep gold that entrances and frightens you so?
>It’s not long before his hoof is back around his empty glass, toying with it as has always been his habit
>”Tomorrow, a dirigible will dock at Highstorm Port. Aboard that dirigible will be an ambassador from the Cult of Exsilium.”
>You nod silently; Hurricane takes the cue to continue
>”’Ambassador,’ of course, in heavy quotations. This pony’s real purpose here in Pegasopolis will no doubt be to oversee the progress we’ve made in our nuclear manufactory, among other more covert intentions.”
“How… do you know that for sure?”
>”That they’re coming? Because the Highmind Empress of the Cult informed me of as much over telecom. That they’re a nuclear inspector? Because I have spies in New Exsilia, same as they’ve got spies here. This… pony, and I say this hesitantly because they’ll likely have their blood poisoned with who-knows how much machinery and genome modifiers and whatnot, will be taking surveys, interrogating officials, doing whatever they can to throw their weight around here. Know why?”
>That’s an easy answer
“Because the Cult thinks they control us.”
>”Worse. They think that WE owe THEM something. We rely on one another, that’s true, and I really do believe that the Trust will be beneficial to the State in the long run, though I know you don’t. But certain elements of the Exsilists are just… unsavory to me. It took everything I had during that speech this morning not to denounce those elements, because if I’d done so we would be in a whole mess of trouble. And sometimes, I fear… well, if it comes to that, it comes to that.”
“Comes to what?”
>Another moment of silence between the two of you
>Hurricane looks forlorn, or at the very least distressed about something he isn’t letting you in on
>One part of you wants to know, so that you can share whatever load he’s bearing
>Anything to return him to the ideal form, that golden aesthetic imprinted upon your mind
>But another part needs to remain ignorant of the big picture; after all, you’re just a soldier at the end of the day
>Soldiers don’t need the big picture, lest things become more complicated than they need to be, lest the machine stops moving
>The gears become dizzy when they focus on the movements of one another
>That gear, circumscribing the skull… that symbol of “unity” and “symbiosis”
>That promise that one day, if it comes to it, there could just as easily be war between the State and the Cult of Exsilium as between the State and Canterium
>Is that what’s weighing on your father now?
>”You’re already reading my mind, aren’t you?”
“Huh?”
>”You’re not fooling anypony with that stubborn, mulish look on your face. You see me, as I see you. You know full well that tensions are at an all-time high between the Cult and ourselves. On their end, as well as mine.”
“But the speech…”
>”Was a promise to my citizens I may not be able to keep. I’m a hypocrite, Rainbow. The niche… it’s not compatible with a partnership with land-dwellers. I won’t be trod on by them. They don’t make the nuclears, we do.”
“Dad…”
>”No, you know that’s not what I mean. Even I’m not THAT brazen.”
“Dad… General. If you’d let me finish, sir. If you’re as sick of this alliance with the Cult as you seem to be, why not just call it off? Tell them to fight their own war?”
>”I’ve already answered that question; because it’s necessary.”
“Is it? We’re better than them, General. We’re better than anypony else. And we don’t even need the Maker-killers for that to be true, because it’s always BEEN true.”
>Your father smiles at you weakly; somehow your anxiety is both diminished and amplified
>He called you stubborn
>It’s always been proud, or overconfident, but never stubborn
>The way he always tells you that you remind him so much of himself…
>He’s the most stubborn stallion on the planet; it’s what got him where he is
>It’s what’ll make you the best Captain that Pegasopolis has ever seen
>”Do you idealize me, Rainbow?”
“I… what?”
>That took you by surprise
>Hurricane has never asked you a question like that before
>But… is it true?
>What is it that you see in him, that you have seen in him all your life, which shines so much brighter than any painting of him, which makes you avert your gaze even now, when you’ve been apart for so long?
“I don’t know how to answer that, sir.”
>”Idealization is a dangerous thing, Rainbow. Not for seeing the imaginary potential in us, of course. The ideal form of a pegasus, Uberglaschen—the musculature, the mind, the hunter’s prowess—seeing that as a means to better oneself and attain that potential. That’s perfectly natural. But projecting that ideal onto another, especially onto me… I’m no saint, Captain Dash. There are no saints in our world.”
“You’re at the peak of all of us, though. You’re the General-Chief-Commander. Surely of anypony in Pegasopolis, you’re—”
>”The CLOSEST, perhaps. The closest to being Uberglaschen. But there is no pegasus who should dare to match the ideal. The crowds may see that in me, they may lower themselves to see the underside of my muzzle, to see the light glance from my throat and call that divinity, and there is nothing I may do to combat that. Some remain in the sky when I speak, looking down; every day, I hope that number increases, and the former diminishes. But what I DO have a say in is preventing you from thinking that way. You’re my daughter, Rainbow. My daughter. And when the time comes that all this must pass to you, you will not turn it down. Your devotion will be to yourself and to no others. You will be strong, stronger than anypony who would challenge your claim. And if, by whatever stroke of misfortune, this war is not done when that time comes, you will complete it for me. You will see that all I’ve done in my life was not in vain.”
>There’s nothing for you to do but sit and stare out the circular window, onto Avemequus Plaza, onto the passing blurs of pegasi going about their business
>In all of their minds, do they see the coming war, too?
>Are they prepared for it?
>And, if so… are you?
>While Hurricane pours himself another glass of scotch, you continue to sit, lowering your gaze and formulating some kind of response
>None comes
>In the moment, freed from all other distractions, you regard the pressure building in your wingtip from Lightning’s whip-like blow earlier
>It pulses, beating in time with your heart; without looking, you guess it’s probably a bit swelled by now
>In short time, it’ll heal
>In time, all things heal
>And you’re strong… aren’t you?
“Sir… this mission. Whatever you’re asking me to do, I can get it done. But… you have to promise me something.”
>”Hm. Promises, promises. I’ll do what I can, but you know I’m extraordinarily busy these days.”
“No, it isn’t like that. Promise me… that…”
>Something wet is on your cheek
>It’s not from the pain; it’s from elsewhere, someplace inside you
>No, no, don’t do this, especially not in front of the General
>Don’t make this a—
>”Rainbow.”
>No!
>He’s seen it!
>Hurricane sets down his glass without drinking and strides across the room to meet you
>When his hoof meets some paper stacks scattered on the floor, he merely flutters over them and lands directly before you
>Trembling… trembling before the white sunset…
>Your mouth curls into a grimace involuntarily; it takes everything you have to hold back this awful show of weakness
>You won’t let him see you cry… you won’t let ANYPONY see something so stupid…
>But it’s too late, and within seconds the worst comes to pass; he’s here, his wing wraps around you, his eyes meet yours, he’s looking down upon you as he did when you were a filly, a defenseless filly, and he’s...
>He’s warm; he’s so warm
>”What’s wrong?”
“P-promise me… that I did this o-on my own. That… that the Major wasn’t… promise me I EARNED this badge. That I’m not Captain just because—”
>”I said nothing. I did nothing. If I could have actively impeded your progress, I would have, if only to see how you might overcome it. The Wunderbolts will play a key role in the war with Canterium, and Major Thunderlane wants you front and center because he trusts you. Because you’re loyal, and because you’re a tactical thinker, and because you’re a good soldier. And never once did I make it easy for you because of what you are to me. Gorgons know I owe you that much.”
>Just like that, the tears are freed, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them
>They flow freely down your cheeks, around your muzzle and down to the carpet before your hooves
>The pain in your wing is barely there now
“Th-thank you.”
>Hurricane draws back, allowing you to regain your composure
>Allowing you to return from that place in your mind, where you’re small and he’s gigantic
>”It’s been a long day for both of us, Captain Dash. I’d postpone the assigning of this task if it were possible, but I’m afraid it’s not. The ambassador will be here tomorrow at the earliest.”
>You wipe what little moisture remains on your face away, which does little to hide the shame of what just happened
“S-so my assignment… it has to do with this Exsilist ambassador?”
>Your father nods
>”The timing of this visit is suspicious. I have sources in Mons Canteria, ponies among their Senatori who are sympathetic to our cause, who tell me that their Chancellor is considering an attack on Pegasopolis.”
“Neighsay said that?”
>”In confidence, yes. How close he’ll keep to his word, as devilish and conniving that stallion is, I have no idea. Either way, we need to make proper preparations. But there’s a lot of noise going on, a lot of breakthroughs that seem to be happening at once, and it fans my paranoia. The Siege at Unicronia reaching a boiling point, an Exsilist ambassador coming to the city, and now a possible move by the Canterians right after their Chancellor was nearly assassinated…”
“I heard about that. I’m gonna assume that you weren’t responsible.”
>”Of course not. The hidden knife is the tool of cowards and foals. When we take Mons Canteria, it’ll be through our magnanimity. But I sense a plot arising, something that’s beyond my grasp at the moment. And I have a hunch that the true purpose of this ambassador’s visit may enlighten to that bigger picture. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
>It was a long road to arrive here, but you think you understand
>General Hurricane has a way of distilling the gravity of certain situations into their most basic solutions
>If there’s even a chance that it may help the State…
“You want me to be their escort. Try to learn why they’re really coming here. Try to understand what those machine-worshiping Exsilists are up to, now that their war is about to become ours.”
>”I don’t know much about who this ambassador is, but I do know this: they’re close with the Highmind Empress. I was able to glean that much from our little talk. What she knows, they may know as well. And on the off-chance that they’re here for ME, well… that’s what our friend Lieutenant Biceps is for.”
“You really are paranoid, aren’t you?”
>You snicker, and Hurricane follows suit
>A little humor has returned to the room, after all
>”Only enough to survive as long as I have. But the Exsilists deal in layers, and even though nuclear inspection is an excellent answer to the riddle of why they’re sending a quote-unquote ‘ambassador’ now of all times, the Highmind Empress would never insult my intelligence by giving me such an easy riddle. Find out the layer beneath that layer, Rainbow. Find out why the Trust is cracking at the seams. Do that for me, and I’ll make sure the Wunderbolts see glorious combat in these coming months or years the likes of which our ancestors will smile upon. Nopony else will be able to say the same.”
“Understood, General. I’ll make you proud.”
>”Dismissed.”
>Your shoulders fall reflexively; only now do you realize how taut your body has been the entire time you’ve been in this office
>Do the memories of these walls really do that to you?
>Or is it the eyes?
>But what he said was right; you shouldn’t conflate any living pony with the perfect form
>It’s against everything you stand for, everything this movement has stood for since its conception at the hooves of your father
>In a way, you were born parallel to the ideal; you’re almost twins, daughters of the revolutionary who united the worthiest of pegasi against a common enemy
>You turn and step away, preparing to take off, wings akimbo, down the hallway and out the gates of Staatskongress, to feel the wind on your mane one last time before the sun sets and the air turns cold
>”Oh, and Rainbow…”
>You stop dead in your tracks, cocking your head to the side so that he may see your face
>But you don’t see him; you’re still looking ahead
>”You’ve already made me proud. Now, you’ll test that pride against your own.”
>During your flight back to the Barracks, you try to imagine his face, and see only a shimmering white corona over a deep black ocean, the light turning seafoam green when it approaches the rising waves…
 
******
 
>Red, red, and more red
>That’s all there is to this place, isn’t there?
>Red warning lights over rusted red automatic doors embedded in the red bedrock of the installation’s inner atrium, all bathed in the deepest crimson of the waning hours of the day
>Come sunset, it’ll all be even redder; not that you’ll be outside to bear witness
>Yeah; in just a few short hours, that western lip of rock above you will eclipse in total shadow this awful hole in the earth, and the floodlights will replace what little direct sunlight reaches Level 3 with perfect artificial whiteness
>Not that you mind, of course
>You’re right at home with artificial lights, and even more comfortable with purest darkness
>What you AREN’T too fond of is this utter state of emergency that the good Doctor has set in motion just because the Intelligence Minister is coming to make the rounds
>Is all the hubbub really necessary?
>Even now, the intersecting bridges across the dig site’s gaping maw are full of commotion
>To your right a flock of scientists, all clad in dark brown overcoats, race out of the reinforced multi-lock door which is the only access to the on-site databases, one pushing a plastic cart overflowing with mounds of documentation, one whispering in the first’s ear, the last just lurking behind them, making sure no paper escapes their collection
>To your left, twin engineers in hard hats appear to be taking turns explaining the same technical issue to their clueless manager, every iteration bringing a more dumbed-down explanation
>Below you, bridges, generators, operational offices, latrines, showers, and cables run crisscross and up and down and sideways, all centered around the main diamond bore
>Down there, it’s just drilling; if only you were here in this place for such a simple reason
>Above you, what little of the sky you can see for all the intersecting platforms and radio spires and Caballeron’s damn embedded solar arrays, is surprisingly gray
>You briefly wonder if it’s going to rain, before discarding that idea almost immediately
>Never rains in the Badlands…
>Before the Doctor can catch you skulking about in a Level 3 operational zone, you quietly slip backwards into an open door leading into one of the hundreds of tunnel-tracks in the installation…
>Only to bump into something fluffy
>Surprised, you almost shriek; guess you hadn’t realized how on-edge you are today
>The object you backed into falls away and yelps, and a little thud accompanies its descent
>When you turn around to face the pony, they look up at you with a dazed expression, angry at first, then… well, complacent, you guess
>Complacent out of necessity, once they recognize you
>”O-officer Shamrock, right?”
“You should watch where you’re going, hotshot. I can write you up for interfering with an inquiry officer’s routine.”
>”S-sorry.”
“Sorry what?”
>”Sorry, sir.”
“Right. And it’s Mr. Shamrock to you. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, friend.”
>”Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Please don’t tell the Doctor about this.”
>You smirk at the very idea of YOU giving information of any sort to Caballeron
>What a joke!
>But it’s all down to the beats, big guy; just play the game you’re meant to play here…
“Wouldn’t dream of it. So long as you mind your step from now on. Go on, go on!”
>Frantically, the engineer stumbles to his hooves and practically gallops in the same direction those scientists were headed
>You can’t blame the guy for being nervous; seems like everypony is hoofing it one way or the other, getting task forms filled out, moving equipment from one spot to another, all prepping for the arrival of the Minister tomorrow morning
>Nervous for different reasons than yourself, obviously
>This time, instead of backing up, you walk calmly and briskly forward into Theta Tunnel, the buzz of the electric lights above you motivating you further in
>Just a few more steps until…
>You’re here
>You outstretch one hoof to punch a code into a locked auto-door, the LED on the keypad flashing green to welcome you in
>It slides open just for a few moments, allowing you to slip into the complete darkness beyond its threshold
>Then, it shuts, leaving you in your element
>This place of shadows, and complete privacy…
>You are Shamrock, assistant officer of inquiries for Ordo Intelligentia, currently stationed at Cognitio Incognitus Site 23, also known as the Maker’s Fist
>But… not really
>In truth, your name is Lucky Clover, black-hat extraordinaire, and if it were totally up to you, you wouldn’t go within twenty miles of an OI installation for ten million bits
>But you’re here because you owe a debt, and you intend to pay that debt to its fullest
>Seems now like forever ago that you took the gamble that put you in such dire straits that you had to accept the bail bargain the Chancellor’s office offered you, but…
>Has it really only been a year? One year, since the biggest screwup of your life?
>And has it really only been three months that you’ve been stationed here, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the intel to come to you?
>No, not waiting, PROWLING, yeah, you’ve been on your own little missions here and there, collecting info, risking your own neck on several occasions to get yourself in just the right position
>You tread further into the unlit space, the sheet metal beneath your hooves squeaking as you pass over it to settle into the sheer rock it conceals
>This room, like many little unfinished projects all around the Site, was planned to house an archival matrix to record archaeological finds, relative sediment layering altitudes, geological oddities, and malformities in the existing hive-like structure of the Fist which would allow for easier horizontal tunneling
>That matrix, of course, was made obsolete by the arrival of the mass order of supercomputing modules delivered on-site about a month ago, and so the room was abandoned
>Unpainted sheet metal walls and floors, the barest of lighting fixtures to aid construction, and leftover manual mining tools were all that remained when you found this little alcove in Theta Tunnel
>Even better, the pressure-locked door to the chamber was installed before anything else out of necessity; wouldn’t want to get dust from the digging process into the rest of the tunnels, after all
>So, what you found was a safe space where nopony would disturb you during certain activities, and after adjusting some ones and zeroes in the local security mainframe, you changed the code on the door to something only you knew
>It’s only one of many places in Site 23, this massive hole in the wastes of the Badlands whose entire purpose seems to be to make your life miserable, that only you can access, though it’s by far the most important of them
>It’s where you send/receive your messages to/from your benefactor in Mons Canteria, using a module you were shipped here with that provides some interesting advantages over those used in the engineering lab, and all around the facility
>And right now, you’re expecting to receive a message
>After what you sent him a few nights ago, and the subsequent confirmation that he received it by way of the burner backfeed his computer sent your own, you’ve been expecting a reply
>An order, a comment, anything
>You take a seat in the comfortable little roller chair you smuggled out of your official quarters, plug a small routing cable into the outlet on one bare, dusty wall, and wait for comms to come online
>It’s a minutes-long process every time, and you wish you could just keep the damn thing online at all times
>Problem is, your module actually leeches its satellite connection from the main comms array up on the surface, and keeping it on for too long would tip off anypony paying even the slightest amount of attention to the transmission feeds that something’s amiss
>Namely, that garbled, coded, nonsense messages are being transferred from an unknown on-site router, and that whoever’s sending them is probably a spy
>Well, MAYBE the rubes up in comms wouldn’t jump to that conclusion immediately, but they would contact somepony, probably Caballeron, about the problem
>And Caballeron has already got his stubbly muzzle so far up your ass…
“He’s not on to you, Lucky. If he were on to you, you’d be dead. Dead or worse.”
>Muttering into the darkness, where nopony can hear you, makes you feel a little better
>Still, the Doctor’s a paranoid freak, like everypony of a certain OI clearance
>Just as you’re thinking of ways to allay that suspicion, the console before you whirs to life, and a little box in the top left corner lets you know how close you are to full connection to the comms array
>A month ago, this process was manual; now, with the skills you picked up some years ago while mass-leeching in those horribly hot dataspheres in Canteria’s Undermaw, you were able to automate the connection
>All you have to do is wait while your equipment unlocks the PAINFULLY easy rotating hashes that the techies installed, and…
[CLEARANCE CONFIRMED… WELCOME, AFHGASKASAMSVHSJDXAA]
>Online
>And, as it just so happens, another text box appears in the opposite corner:
[ONE NEW MESSAGE. DECRYPT?]
>It’s not much of a surprise
>Now that he’s back from his stint in Unicronia, your benefactor had advised a schedule for sending and receiving messages; seems like he’s stuck to it squarely
>One day’s wait one way, one day the other; it’ll help keep signal traffic low, and chance of detection even lower
>You punch a single “Y” into the console, and watch as the matrix unfolds before your very eyes
>Now, you don’t have all the fancy-shmancy signal bouncers that he’s got on his end, mainly because the messages he sends are far more readable than your own
>But that’s intentional design; even though you’re in the middle of a damn CI blacksite, the likelihood that he’s being watched by external forces is far higher than your own
>It’s safer, more efficient, more practical, yadda yadda, for you to bring raw data directly onto your module here without external relays; after all, tech like that would be far more difficult to bring with you into this place without raising some eyebrows
>After a few moments, the screen before you turns a shade of deep red, and another input box shows up in at its center
>The message has been decrypted, but its contents are still locked behind a hash function that you have to input manually
>This is the tedious part of the process…
>You reach into one of the small pouches on each flank of your workshirt and produce a pen-sized roller index, seven parallel copper circles coiled around a central axis
>By the light of the screen, you adjust each circle to match the MM:DD:YYY timestamp that the message was sent from your benefactor’s end
>You briefly wonder how this thing’s going to work in only ten years’ time, when the year 1000 necessitates four slots for the year rather than three
>But at that thought you chuckle, realizing that long before that time, either encryption technology will have outmoded this form of covert communication…
>Or, and this is the preferable option, that this line of work will be far behind you, and you won’t have to deal with exchanging secret messages or infiltration or posing as a government agent or…
>Ah, there we go
>Once each roller on the index has been locked into place, the code reads POLARIS
>That’s… wow
>That’s a coincidence and a half… with random letters, you got that?!
>It’d be awe-inspiring if the process to get here weren’t so frustrating
>You punch the seven-letter code into the input log, and sure enough it takes
[KEY ACCEPTED. MESSAGE WILL BE BURNED IN 60 SECONDS…]
>Not that you ever need that long to read his messages
>You click on the dialog and tab over to a freshly opened box; displayed across it are lines of simple white lettering on a field of pure black:
 
S//////////////////////////////////
 
Charm,
Glad to hear your keycard is functioning properly. Remember: it is REWRITABLE. Nothing standing between you and Level 4 or 5 access but a clone of the right pony’s keycard. I can always forge the proper paperwork from OI after the fact.
I am curious on nature of this “machine learning brain” you described, as well as discovery of “mystery alloy.” Please find out more on these ASAP. Even if no extant nuclear or weapons-based testing is occurring in your vicinity, am concerned about potential uses for such experiments happening under my nose. 
Do not worry about Foolsgold. Will be recalling him to Mons Canteria at first possible chance. Focus on Archangel and getting closer to him. Canvass his office, his laptop, and those of his closer associates. Whatever must be done, do it.
If you do encounter Foolsgold, just play the part you’ve been given. You’ve fooled everypony else there, so an outsider shouldn’t be hard. If at all possible, monitor his activities in the parts of the facility you can access, but DO NOT overextend. He’s dangerous.
Do these things for me, and I’ll forge appropriate paperwork to have you dismissed from the site. I have other jobs that require your attention, and your skills are too valuable to me to be compromised there.
Play it safe. Play it smart. Your reward will come in time.
-SOMBRA
 
S//////////////////////////////////
 
>You lean back from the monitor, reading over the message several times to consign it to memory
>After sixty seconds tick by, the dialog closes, and the file is gone from its previous location in the directory
>Burned; burned in digital flames, crimson in color, burned cleanly without any ash or smoke
>It takes all your energy to contain your excitement at those last few lines
>”Dismissed from the site”… does he really mean that?
>Will your debt really be paid if you fulfill these few simple requests?
>No… something’s wrong here
>Either your presence here, monitoring Cognitio Incognitus’ activities in the Maker’s Fist, isn’t as crucial as you thought when you were assigned the task…
>Or these few pieces of evidence are more important to Chancellor Neighsay than you could have possibly imagined
>”Sombra”… the Chancellor’s codename is brutally appropriate
>It’s the name he came to you with when he offered you that deal in the penitentiary last year, after you got caught red-hooved trying to brute-force the routing number lists of every bank on Capitoline Peak at once
>At first, you were scared witless by him; you knew he was with the Canterian government, but you had no IDEA how high up
>Never even showed his face until much later, and by that point you’d already surmised his standing and were equal parts relieved and terrified
>Well, the deal he offered you was that you work white-hat directly for the Chancellor’s Office; finding flaws in his security systems, collecting tidbits of data from Newcastle’s servers that he needed, helping develop software to help him communicate with agents in the field more discreetly
>You never imagined that YOU would one day be one of those agents, helping him to infiltrate another branch of his own damn government
>But that’s neither here nor there; you’re glad to pay the debt in any way you can, considering you would’ve rotted in that prison for the rest of your life otherwise
>The Canterian justice system generally doesn’t take kindly to hackers…
>That said, Cognitio Incognitus, and by extension their parent ministry Ordo Intelligentia, isn’t exactly known for their tolerance for enemy spies
>If you’re found out, and not that you think that’ll happen, no, no, but IF…
>Well, you’ve got dreams of jumper cables dancing in your head
>Now’s the time for some scouting work
>You shut down your monitor and unplug the module’s connection to the comms relay, leaving you once more in near-total darkness
>Between these three aluminum-coated walls, and the fourth wall behind you which was never even covered, and instead remains a rugged surface of naked granite, you’re allowed to think in ways you can’t think when you’re out there
>In the zone
>…
“Shee-it. What’ve you gotten yourself into, Clover?”
>Alright—game plan time
>Point by point, you’ve already compartmentalized Neighsay’s message in your mind
>First, the problem of the keycard
>You stand up to stretch your hindlegs, rummaging with one forehoof in the same pocket as before and producing a metallic card with cut edges, gleaming prismatically in the little electric light that drifts in through the porthole
>The card bears an image of your face, the name “SHAMROCK”, some falsified details about your position in OI, and, most pertinently, “LEVEL 3 ACCESS” in large red lettering
>Level 3 gets you into all sorts of tricky spots around the facility, but as far as juicy evidence goes a Level 4 or 5 access would be much more desirable
>That would be a permanent ticket into Caballeron’s personal data stacks, the archaeological archives both present and left over from before CI requisitioned the site, and maybe even where they’re storing all those supercomputers that’ve been steadily flowing in since last month
>The Chancellor would’ve just sent you a Level 5 card if he could’ve; problem is, you came here as a Level 2, and boosting up to that caliber so soon would’ve raised some serious red flags
>Solution’s simple, though; the magnetic signatures on these things can be reprogrammed pretty easily with the right know-how, and if you managed to get your hooves on somepony else’s card, you could just clone its signature over to your own
>Site 23 is big enough that nopony knows everypony; another inquiry officer down in Level 4 areas is unlikely to arouse any suspicions
>As long as Doctor Caballeron is none the wiser, that is…
>Since sending your previous message to Neighsay, you haven’t learned much of anything about the two topics he’s asked you to investigate further
>He seems to think that “Archangel”—that is, the Doctor—may know something more about the supercomputers and the alloy you overheard those two chemical engineers talking about in Phi Tunnel, and you’re honestly inclined to agree with him
>This whole facility is that wily archaeologist’s panopticon, which is exactly what makes his personal documents and other effects so valuable
>Somehow finding a way into his office in Omega Sector, three stories of solid Access Denied below here, would be providence in and of itself
>And with the arrival of Minister Black Bar—Foolsgold—tomorrow…
>Well maybe, just maybe, you have a plan
>Chancellor Neighsay apparently wants you to steer clear of Black Bar, thinks he’s dangerous
>Well, that’s alright; you don’t need to get close to him to use him to your advantage
>You slide the keycard back into your loose shirt pocket and move towards the door
>Light streams in from the translucent window in its convex surface; not enough to illuminate your setup within the alcove, but enough for you to distinguish moving shapes in Theta Tunnel on the other side
>You’re not TOO concerned about being seen entering or exiting this room, but if the right ponies saw they’d get suspicious
>Above all, your objective here is to blend in; as soon as somepony cares to look closely enough into you to see past your façade as an inquiry officer, then you’re as good as glue
>Muffled noises signify conversation between passing drones, and sure enough two shadows march by the window in tandem only seconds later
>When the chatter vanishes completely, you know it’s safe to open the door
>From the inside, like most secure doors in the facility, it’s magnetically bolted shut with a wheel-lock, as one might find on a ship’s bulkhead
>Making manual overrides on the lower levels impossible; this programmable keycard you hold in your hoof is the single most important piece of equipment you possess right now
>You plunge the wheel-lock counter-clockwise and steal your way out of the auto-door
>This section of Theta Tunnel looks empty as far as you can tell, and the entrance to your hidey-hole is in a camera blindspot, so at least you’ve never had to worry about that
>Now, the real work begins
>You take hasty strides down the length of the tunnel back towards the mellow red light of late afternoon, adjusting your shirt as you go to hide the various utensils you’ve got hidden all over your figure in its folds
>Decoding index, keycard, lockpick kit (not that you get much use out of that here), some stolen info drives you figure are safer on you right now than in any of your hidey holes, an OI-standard micro-tablet embedded in your watch, a notepad, a miniature signal jammer, a microfilm camera hidden in the tip of a pen, a welding tool, an overcharging capacitor, an interfacing module that’s unfortunately only compatible with a few of the more outdated systems they’ve got here…
>And, of course, your ”failsafe”; a five-shot .25 caliber mouthwire-loaded Colt, which you have never fired and never intend to fire
>If it comes to it, however, you’d rather some tattletale drone get one in the fetlock than run and tell Caballeron who you really are
>You don’t have the killer instinct in you, but by Celestia, you’ve got self-preservation on your side
>As you walk, Theta Tunnel gradually opens into the main “atrium” of Site 23; the vast multilevel complex of intersecting bridges crossing like gossamer wires over an enormous hole in the flat surface of the Badlands
>This space was once the main dig site for the private archaeologists who uncovered in this very spot the New Maker’s Handbook, but with CI’s takeover of the site came some practical renovations
>CI diggers are still down there at the dark bottom of this sandstone pit, chipping away with diamond-tipped drills and controlled explosions at what they think might conceal even greater mysteries that the ancient Makers left behind
>Far as you’ve cared to find out from documentation, this place was a Maker outpost or fortress of sorts some six-hundred years ago, but was abandoned shortly before their main settlements in the Western Reaches went nuclear
>When that happened, the Makers went the way of the dragons…
>Archaeological efforts have slowed in the past few months, however; whatever those supercomputers getting transported down to Omega Sector are for, they’ve diverted much of CI’s attention away from digging
>Figuring out that mystery is your top priority, of course, but what you really want to find out now is the exact time that Minister Black Bar will be arriving at Site 23 tomorrow…
>The sky above is dark enough now that ice-blue glow-globes have begun to ignite along the length of the bridge before you, seemingly reacting to your presence
>Hundreds, if not thousands of the tiny things activating all at once within the atrium paint those disturbingly red granite walls a peaceful shade of violet, the color of a deep sunset sky
>Night is coming, and you’re prepared for it
>Your immediate itinerary is simple; get a read on Black Bar’s arrival, determine what hours of the day Caballeron will be entertaining him, his inspection routines, what sectors he’ll be monitoring closely, and whether he’ll be trolling for spies
>Whatever he said to Neighsay last week to piss him off so badly, Black Bar is coming here prepared to stay for a while
>And if he really is just escaping the Chancellor’s wrath with this inspection trip, then by all accounts he’ll have a plan for when he finally does have to return to Mons Canteria
>Best thing to do now is take the elevator up to comms on the surface and listen in on traffic; that should give you a rough estimate of when the Intelligence Minister’s chopper will be landing tomorrow morn—
>”It’s out of my hooves now. No, no, estas loco. Chances are he’s known since you left, you’d be coming here.”
>Speak
>Of
>The devil…
>You’d recognize that outlandish accent anywhere
>Without attracting attention, you cross to the edge of the bridge and peer down into the yawning gap
>One level below you, another bridge crosses perpendicular between two other Level 3 access tunnels
>Stepping briskly across it now, and making no effort whatsoever to divert attention from his bombast, is the good Doctor Caballeron himself
>The light brown stallion’s wearing his typical attire; white collared bodysuit rolled up at the sleeves both front and back, snakeskin boots riding the lengths of his hindlegs, open flanks to show off that garish golden skull-shaped birthmark
>He appears to be holding a cellular phone between one unshaven cheek and the matching wither, and speaking into it quite loudly for any passing pony to hear
>You pull yourself back immediately upon this sight; if he happens to look up now, better not to be visible
>Instead, you loiter in the middle of the bridge, pretending to admire the latticework intricacy of the atrium while listening in on the one-sided conversation happening below you
>”Because it isn’t—because you don’t know what he knows, Ministro. And you know the documents wouldn’t be in any better hooves with him than with those cabrones in Senatori.”
>Wait… there’s no way
>Could he possibly be talking to…?
>”Trying my best, but no promises! You know everything I know, so there’s nothing else I can tell you! …Ay, mama Tia, that’s fine. I’ll let you look at the…”
>At this point, Caballeron doesn’t stop talking, but rather lowers his voice into a whisper so tiny you can’t possibly hear him from up here
>Is the pony on the other end of that call Intelligence Minister Black Bar himself?
>You can’t help but wonder…
>”…if you want, but you saw it once, and it hasn’t changed. Now I know the Chancellor, I went to college with him, damnit. If he’s hounding you now, it won’t stop just because you’re out of the capital for a while. You’ll have to throw him a… no, Ministro. Tu eres el jefe. I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”
>It is!
>Your eyes widen of their own accord, and you have to clamp your mouth shut with one hoof to keep from gasping
>What luck! What freaking luck!
>Course, it’s to be expected from the luckiest damn pony on the planet!
>From what you can make out, it sounds like Caballeron is trying to dissuade Black Bar from coming to Site 23 tomorrow
>He’s making it out like the Chancellor knows he’s coming, but that doesn’t make any sense
>The only way Neighsay learned that Black Bar was flying here in the first place was from YOUR encrypted message
>So either Caballeron knows Neighsay has a spy on site, which is highly unlikely, or…
“He’s doing something here not even Black Bar knows about.”
>That’s got to be it; the Maker’s Fist is the Doctor’s domain, and it’s only natural he’d want to run it without interference from the upper echelons of Ordo
>That, or operations downstairs aren’t going quite as OI planned; if that were the case, then Caballeron would think up any excuse to keep Black Bar away
>Other than that, one other thing he just said caught your ear: that the all-too mysterious CI documents that Neighsay told you about weren’t just Black Bar bluffing
>They’re real, and they’re here on-site, and where else could they be but Omega Sector?
“Damn… I really need a Level 5 card.”
>As you mutter to yourself, Doctor Caballeron’s well-groomed mane crests the opposite rail of the bridge, and he passes cleanly under you towards the crimson-lit entrance to Upsilon Tunnel
>Interesting… you’ve never seen the Doctor sulking around this sector before
>Plenty of ponies have a tendency to wander about when on a phone call, but the way he’s moving with such rigid intent makes it appear as though he’s got somewhere to be
>Somewhere nowhere near his office, his stacks, comms, or really ANYWHERE important…
>Wherever he’s headed, he’s rapidly leaving your earshot
>And you really want to hear the rest of this conversation…
“Time to test your fortunes, Lucky.”
>When you were a colt, running around doing all kinds of dangerous stunts in the maintenance shafts of the Undermaw, you used to rub the little four-leafed clover on your flank for luck
>No time for that now; though the stunt this time is marginally less hazardous, the consequences of getting caught will be far more severe than a slap on the cannon
>Let’s see; there are no permanent security cameras in the atrium for all the dust that might get kicked up by the mining equipment below and ruin the sensitive electronics within
>There ARE cameras pointed inward through the plexiglass sliding doors at the entrance of each tunnel, but the imaging at the very middle of the bridge is fuzzy at best
>While these glow-globes are lit, a watchful eye might be able to detect strange movements from the surveillance station
>In the darkness of near-sunset at the bottom of this hole, however…
>You wait for the Doctor to reach the end of the bridge beneath you, at which point he fishes his own Level 5 keycard out of his jumpsuit and swipes the door open
>Once he’s passed through the automatic doors into Upsilon Tunnel, you make your move
>The glow-globes lining the edges of these bridges are slaved to a single solar sensor, and hooked together like Hearthswarming lights
>Take one out, and the whole line goes out
>Making no sudden movements, you discreetly pull your capacitor out of your shirt pocket and, working it into the frog of one hoof, scan the base of the nearest globe for a breaker panel
>They all have them, and with the right voltage administered in just the right way…
>With your whole body now blocking the camera’s view, you pretend to read something on your micro tablet while flipping open the breaker and inserting your capacitor stick into its parallel wires
>And, with just the press of a button…
ZZZZIPPP
>All down the line on the bridge, the pale blue lights shimmer and die, giving you temporary darkness on this level
>The cameras don’t switch to infrared until nightfall comes, which makes them utterly blind to this section of catwalk right now
“Now, the hard part.”
>Before you have time to change your mind or get skittish, you force yourself to vault right over the barrel-high railing, swinging with your forehooves down and over into a hanging position, directly over the lower bridge
>It’s still about a three-meter drop, but you’ve done worse
“Hup!”
>You let go and moments later feel the impact spike up through your hooves and into your legs like a shockwave
>If only little Daredevil Cherry from back home could see you now, she’d eat her heart out
>This lower bridge is better lit than the one you just dropped from, but chances are if somepony is watching the cameras right now, they’re not looking at this particular feed; too distracted by the sudden blackout upstairs
>As you settle into a brisk canter towards the locked portal into Upsilon Tunnel, you realize that Caballeron is now completely out of sight beyond that glass threshold
>Good, in that there’s no chance he saw you leap down a story to pursue him
>Bad, in that Upsilon Tunnel’s got a few divergent paths, and you can’t be certain which of them he took
>You have a pretty good hunch, though, that he’s headed to the lower level of the engineering lab, since it’s really the only place somepony like the Doctor would have a reason to haunt
>When you reach the sliding glass door, you dip your fixed keycard into the receptacle and grow impatient and more than a little panicked when it rejects it at first with a harsh beep
“Come on, come ON…”
>Slashing it through again, you breathe a sigh of relief as the little light turns green and the twin glass plates part, revealing an immaculately clean hallway with a chaotic tangle of exposed wires and pipes streaming across its ceiling
>At the end of the hall, a flight of stairs is somewhat visible beneath an arched doorway; midway there, two offshoots, left and right, extend from the hall
>You don’t see Caballeron, but you can hear his swarthy voice echoing in the space somewhere beyond your sightline
>Can’t exactly make out his words, though…
>Abandoning all regard for whether you’re seen or not, you race down the hall and brake just before the intersection, craning your neck to peer down the lengths of both directions
>There he is, all right; to your left, his swaying frame diminishes into an unfinished tunnel, rounded at the edges and decorated in nothing but concrete and hanging lights
>”…going to speak with Neigh now. They’re working on a way, yes… the chatter they had with it produced feedback resembling life, so at least their loco little project actually turned up SOMETHING… they’re discreet, yes. Keep to themselves. Whitecoat types. Only a few of them, maybe fifteen, even know about the Ov—”
>Just like that, the Doctor rounds another corner, this time through a doorframe that seals up behind him with an audible click
>Damn!
>If he keeps talking, MAYBE you’ll be able to hear him through the locked chamber door, but your hopes aren’t exactly high
>Still, it’s worth a shot
>You ease your way down the narrow corridor, threading between vertical pipes jutting through the steel floor, wastebaskets left outside the labs for pickup by custodians, plastic tables and chairs, and broken-down cardboard containers
>When you do reach the circular auto-door preventing egress, you droop in dismay
>There’s not even a window to see in, see what’s going on!
>Caballeron could be having a luau with aliens in pineapple hats in there, and you’d have no idea
>You scan your surroundings once more; the rush of half an hour ago, ponies frantically moving low-level documents and equipment around in preparation for the Minister, seems to have subsided
>There’s not a soul in your line of sight, and indeed the whole lower engineering lab seems abandoned now but for you and Caballeron
>Desperately, lacking any other options, you move towards the door and press your ear to its cool steel surface and listen to the echoes of the sounds within
>Two voices in there now; the Doctor’s and that of somepony else you don’t recognize, probably a lab technician
>The syllables are blurred and muted by the medium between you, but you can just barely make out pieces of their conversation
>”Explain to the Minister for me. I’ve… out of words to describe it.”
>That was Doctor Caballeron’s voice
>”S-sir, it’s not changed, not since—”
>That was the other’s
>”…what I told him, ay ay! Now tell him… kind of trust I’ve placed… this machine.”
>”Dream is our project, you can’t… for what it’s worth, we’ve found… through the medium. Its properties, I mean.”
>”Tell him specifics, Professor.”
>”Alpha waves. It’s only alpha waves. That’s all… accepts. And only through microscopic thicknesses. So it took all… constructed, and we poured so much effort into… can’t possible pull the plug now!”
>Now that you think about it, you think you do recognize that characteristic whine; it belongs to Professor Neigh, one of the head experimental researchers in Site 23
>He skulks about the engineering labs occasionally, but you’ve seen less and less of him lately; chances now are that he’s stationed down in Omega Sector
>Alongside those supercomputers…
>Somepony’s speaking again; you clear your mind and listen closely
>”The Minister doesn’t want to pull the plug… contrary, he wants results. He wants proof… isn’t just a crackpot theory of yours. A sentiment I concur with.”
>”…have results. We have them! They’re right here in this room, I can read them out for you. Just because… accidental, doesn’t mean… not right. It’d be reproducible if… weren’t shut out.”
>”Shut out? Tell me what that means, shut out. Tell the Minister… Professor. Speak clearly… leave nothing out.”
>”A-are you sure… discussed over the phone? He’ll be here tomorrow, a-and—”
>Then comes a sudden noise, something like a WHAPPO, followed by a sharp yelp and shuffling hooves
>You can only assume the Professor’s been struck
>”The Minister wants to be briefed BEFORE he arrives! Tell him!”
>”Y-yes, Doctor! Sorry… it, i-it suddenly stopped… resonance. We ran Dream… first time yesterday with no constraints, and it broke through! But… few moments, and the feedback dropped… like a door being closed. What we got out of it… garbled, but clearly… get the idea.”
>Celestia above, you really wish you could hear just a little bit better
>They’re dropping to a whisper by habit whenever they bring up the important parts, so gleaning anything significant from this talk is going to be difficult
>Plus, and you’re just now realizing that this is probably the reason they chose this room to talk, there are no cameras in the test chambers of the labs
>Even if you broke into surveillance, this is the best you’re going to get
>”Yes. I’m anticipating your arrival tomorrow, Minister. Yes. Yes. Goodbye… just hung up with the Minister. All I can say… work harder. Get results. Don’t waste our time and money. If you think… something to this, then find a way. Supercomputers of the kind you requested… NOT cheap.”
>”Yes, Doctor. S-sorry, Doctor.”
>”You will be, cabron.”
>Hoofsteps
>LOUD hoofsteps, approaching the door from the inside
>Not good!
>You scramble backwards from that surface with all the grace of a mule doing ballet and spend the next few milliseconds pondering what to do
>You did this to yourself, idiot! There’s no hiding spots in this derelict damn hallway!
>None, except for plain sight
>Maybe, just maybe…
>A feeling like knives erupts from your belly as you twist yourself about-face and do your very best to create as much space between you and the door as physically possible before it opens
>You won’t reach the intersection from here, but if you can just reach into your pocket and pull out…
>Yes, there we go…
>And just for added effect, grab that while we’re at it, jot a little something down, aaaaand…
SHHHWIIISH
>”The…? Senor Shamrock?”
>You freeze in your tracks; the hairs on the lower edge of your mane stand up perfectly straight
>Sweat begins to pool between your shoulders, but you don’t budge
>You simply stand there, pen firm between your teeth, notepad suspended in the brace you hastily set up around your withers, flanks facing the doctor
>You made it maybe fifteen feet…
>”What the hell, may I ask, are you doing in this sector?”
>Alright, Lucky… time to put on the performance of your life
>You turn slowly to face Doctor Caballeron, a sardonic smirk plastered across your face
>He’s positioned himself halfway out of the doorframe, his grizzly profile all but glowering at you
>Behind him looms Professor Neigh, who seems to have grown a brand spanking new bruise just above his eyelid
>Wonder where that came from?
“Doctor Caballeron.”
>You regard the archaeologist with a nod
“Just finishing up some interviews with some of the engineers. Figured I could go out this way, but these labs are a labyrinth. Not to mention filthy. I almost tripped on some loose wires back there, you know.”
>”I’m aware of the state of the place. Professor Neigh and his ponies are hard at work making things presentable for the Minister tomorrow, isn’t that right, Professor?”
>”R-right.”
>”It seems un poco extrano, Senor Shamrock, running into you in this way. Don’t you have better places to be at this hour? Running ‘internal inquiries’ with some of the ditch diggers downstairs?”
“Har-har. I know my position here may seem like a joke to you, Doctor, but I am very happy filing reports to OI on YOUR employees all day. It makes me positively ecstatic. None of them seem to have any clue when the Intelligence Minister will even be arriving.”
>”The tentative ETA… is 0900 tomorrow morning, Senor. Just don’t go snooping when I’m around. You overhear anything that was said in there, by any chance?”
>The Doctor gestures into the lab, where overstuffed filing cabinets and disheveled tables and chairs abound
“Nope. And if I’d known you were in the labs, Doctor, I would’ve certainly said hello.”
>The smug grin on Caballeron’s face quickly turns to a scowl, and he approaches you in long strides which scream at your basest instincts to run away and never look back
>But you don’t; you hold fast, and play the part you were given
>In a matter of moments, the brown-coated stallion’s muzzle is inches from yours, and his fiercely olive-colored eyes span nearly the whole of your vision
>”A word of advice, Senor Shamrock, you glorified HR: I am everything in this place. I am the walls, I am the floors, and I am the space between. Your beat is Level 3; let’s keep it that way, shall we? If Ordo Intelligentia wanted you to be curious about affairs above your station, mi amigo, they’d up your paycheck.”
“I haven’t—”
>”So.”
>Doctor Caballeron turns again to stare at Neigh, who seems to have found a home cowering between two shelving units
>”Professor, thank you for seeing me so late in the day. Our conversation was very productive. And Shamrock…”
>Rather than look at you, Caballeron looks up and past you, as though watching the sun set through fifty meters of solid rock
>”Tread lightly.”
>With that, the most unhinged pony you’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing moves past you, down the cluttered hallway and then out of sight completely
>As soon as he’s gone, Professor Neigh eyes you suspiciously, then shuts and locks his laboratory door behind him
>Leaving you alone again
>Alone, but not in darkness
>Not where you belong
>You wait a couple minutes, then travel in the same direction the Doctor left by, turning right onto the mainway of Upsilon Tunnel and back towards the atrium
>When you reach it, and look up to once again admire and dread this place you’ve been exiled into, you see that most of the light has drained out of the sky
>Sunset has taken the Badlands above, and cast this hellpit below into another night of floodlights and secrets
>A few meters above you and some ways down the line, two technicians appear to be fumbling to repair the lights on the crossing bridge
>Something struck those lights, something unseen, something invisible…
>All around them, there is redness, deep redness, crimson caverns and pink granite walls and flashing klaxons and errors on terminal screens
>And within every pony in this facility, there is redness, flowing through their hearts and veins
>Unconsciously, you reach for your flank and rub the emerald four-leaf clover that adorns it
>This place needs a little green in it…
 
******
 
>You are Applejack
>And you’re already deeply regretting everything about this
>This… “Mission” you’ve taken on
>For her sake, if not for yours… but the magnitude of this commitment was something you’d already taken into account when you started down this road
>So you’ve got nopony to blame but yourself, little missy
“Hrm.”
>The shape of the road ahead of you hasn’t changed all day
>Gone are all the landmarks of home: the Foal Mountains to the north, the Appleachians to the south, the crest of Richton on its high hill, the tips of pines over every ridge and bluff
>Letting you know where you were, always
>It’s only now you’re realizing how the whole of the land was practically your compass, and everywhere you went it pointed back home
>You could lay yourself out on a sundried patch of grass someplace down by the riverbed or deep in the shallows of the orchards, and dream of lands far off…
>But actually BEING in those lands, well, that’s something completely different, ain’t it?
>You like Rich Valley; you like your family, you like your land, and if you didn’t know what you know now, you’d even say you miss looking over the horizon and seeing Baron Rich’s danged Sky Farms rising into space
>There was character there, or something like it… you really don’t know
>It felt right!
>This… this feels so wrong
>Everything about what you’re doing now feels so, so wrong
>Yet…
“Twi…? Oh.”
>You look over across Winona’s cabin to find Twilight curled up in her leather seat, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly ajar
>She’s breathing softly; if it were a little louder, you’d call it snoring, but as it is it sounds like she’s at peace
>Best not to disturb her now
>And why is that? Why NOT disturb her?
>Why not shake her awake and make her suffer the way you’re suffering right now?
>After all, it was her who came to YOU, her who made this necessary
>You can’t blame her entirely, though
>It was you who allowed yourself to succumb to this strange new destiny that’s apparently been decided for you without any of your input
>So in the end, you don’t wake your friend
>In the end, you pull your attention forward, towards the road, and the waning light of near-sunset in the distant west
>You’ve been driving for… how long has it been?
>You glance at the dash-clock and find your answer there
>Ten hours straight!
>You started off in the morning, snatching Twilight up out of that dingy inn you happened across near Dodgeton, and passed right out of the tapering southern tail of the Valley just a few hours later
>The greenery disappeared before the mountains did; no pines to be seen after a certain point, then no low bushes, no wildflowers, no grains, and finally even the grass ceased to exist
>All that surrounds you now, and has surrounded you for half of today’s trip, is dirt
>Dirt, brown and yellow, red and white, all the colors of the rainbow but for black, which is the only color you like to see in the ground
>Dirt, and patches of arid brush here and there
>Of course, there’s also the asphalt before and behind you, an infinite stripe full of cracks and pebbles elevated just above the rest of the plain
>You were already homesick when, a few hours ago, you looked through one of your mirrors and realized that the mountain crags you memorized when you were young had already vanished over the horizon behind you
>This just makes you sad in a general way
>No plants to grow, and for that matter no folks to feed; nothing for hundreds of miles in either direction
>And for that matter… where in the hay are the two of you going to sleep tonight?
>Good thing you had the foresight to pack some camping supplies, you suppose…
>Plus plenty of gasoline for the long road
>Winona’s a real rough rider, but even she’s got a limit to her mileage
>You chose this particular route to minimize the terrain she’d have to surpass, not to mention the customs you’d no doubt be encountering when crossing territorial lines
>Even the granddaughter of a Baroness would probably have trouble with certain borders during a state of war
>Traveling west…
>Traveling towards your enemy, is what
>You can’t help but think about Big Mac, that big dopey smile plastered across his face when he boarded the train headed westbound to Unicronia
>You can just see him clad in gray and green, fighting the good fight day and night to protect that little colony from the raving technomancers of the Cult of Exsilium
>And now you’ve somehow let yourself be convinced by this… this NUN, this PACIFIST, to lead you cross-country into the domain of that terrible Cult’s foremost allies!
>That place, that inverted dome, where the corona of hellfire sprung up in your dream, where the winged pegasi build nuclears for the very army your brother’s now pledged his life to fight against
>And she wants to save them from… what?
>A fate you know she don’t understand any more than you do
>Destruction, you suppose
>It’s noble, on one hoof, to want to prevent the destruction of a city full of ponies who want nothing more than to see your way of life destroyed
>On the other hand, it’s damn-foolish
>But, even knowing this, you keep on driving, keep on allowing yourself to get pulled by whatever string of fate happens to fancy you
>What was it that Twilight called it… “magnetism?”
>That’s really what it feels like; a constant force of attraction, polarizing you whether you like it or not
>And you decidedly DON’T like it…
>But you can’t help but understand why you let yourself leave
>Why Sister Twilight’s dreams speak to you in such a way
>It’s because in a lot of ways, you and Big Mac are the same
>You’re both headed west of your own accord, both going to face down your enemy, both… doing what you feel to be right
>Trying to save ponies from certain death…
>Doing what your superiors tell you to do…
>Except Twilight ain’t a superior; no, she’s a friend
>A friend…
>And in knowing you for only a few days, she saw in you some quality that nopony else has ever seemed to grasp: that you refuse, utterly, to be a hypocrite
>It’d be hypocritical to expect so much from Braeburn, to want him to fulfill the obligations others expect of him, without fulfilling your own obligations as well
>Even though the specifics of Twilight’s “Mission” changed once you shared your dreams with each other, and once you saw what Canterium was planning to unleash on the pegasi…
>Even if you STILL, even now, have doubts about what you saw then, and whether you ain’t just getting yourself tangled up in a lunatic affair with no basis in truth…
>Even then, a deal’s a deal; Twilight helped you with your problem, so now you’ve got to help her with hers
>And every day, it becomes more of your problem too, so what else is there to say about it?
>So it’s done… all there is to do now is keep on driving this solitary road, beneath the crimson sky of Canterium’s southern borderlands, which even now turns to a starry night that is all too familiar, and reminisce on the events of the last few days
>How you came to be the furthest you’ve ever been from your home in the valley…
 
. . .
 
>”It’s your decision. I can’t make it fer you.”
“Granny… well, it AIN’T my decision, for one. But what we saw down there, I can’t help but think she’s telling the truth. That… that my own thoughts are telling the truth. We saw the same thing!”
>”You let me worry about what you saw in the Sky Farm, dearie. I’ll be having words with that Baron Rich, and he’ll know what we’re coming with. Ain’t nopony gonna build weapons of war on Apple land without my ken about it.”
>Two days ago, you sat on the floor in the purple parlor, the threads of the Saddle Arabian rug flattening beneath you to accommodate
>It felt like they were alive in that moment, letting you sink into them
>Into something you couldn’t possibly understand
>It’d only been a few hours since the incident with Braeburn; once your cousin had departed, you and Twilight had navigated your way out of the seemingly abandoned facility and emerged back up top
>That place… you could still hear that strange, blaring noise which was not a noise, but rather a sensation summoned into your head
>That electrifying presence which Twilight felt too, but of which Braeburn, when you questioned him about it later, had no recollection
>You thought you heard that a little bit then, in Sweet Apple Manor, with Granny Smith perched above you in her sofa chair
>Her eyes looked away from her knitting briefly, locking with your own, and for a moment they seemed so far above you, as though you were transported into your own past
>You, a stubborn little filly with a bad attitude; she, the closest thing to a mother you had after…
>Yes, that thought entered your head too, somehow, hard as you tried to repress it
>You buried the burning sensation along with it in short order, but you knew it’d drag itself back up again if you let it
>You’d told Granny about everything as soon as you returned to the Manor; Braeburn’s kidnapping, the tentative resolution to your feud with him, and most importantly the nuclear manufactory concealed in the underbelly of Baron Rich’s Sky Farm
>It had taken her a while to goad the rest out of you, and frankly you were shocked she’d even recognized that there was a “rest”
>But, like always, she knew you like the back of her wrinkled hoof, so you’d spilled the beans about Twilight’s vision, and your shared plans to depart the Valley
>Feeling the silence in the stoic room weigh on you, you mustered the courage to speak up again
“It’ll only be a week or so. M-maybe two! And then I’ll be back. But… I don’t know, Granny. I just don’t know. It’s all so confusing. Everything she says somehow makes not a lick of sense and all the sense in the world at once. I feel… I feel like it’s—”
>“The Truth?”
>You shrugged, not knowing what to say
>”It’s something I could never fully commit to, AJ. Trusting in Her, having faith in Her… even when I was a Sister of Solemnity, I backed away from what She wanted from me. She sent an angel to me, and I refused the call, and do you know something? I never looked back. I never once wondered what would have happened if I’d accepted the epiphany into my heart, and done what Mater Solis had asked of me. You could do the same, AJ, if you wanted to. You’re even less attached than I was, so many years ago. You could go right back in there and tell Sister Twilight you don’t want any part of her ascension, if that is what it is.”
“I—”
>”Let me finish, dearie. You could stay here, stay with your family, and live your whole life never wondering how it might have gone. You could help me with this new problem we face, and with resolving all the old problems we’ve left lying around. You and I both know that talking Braeburn into talking with his daddy’s just the first step of solving this crisis. But you need to look into yourself, and I mean it—be HONEST with yourself—is that what you need?”
>That gave you pause, the way Granny’d said that
>Almost enough to make you forget everything else, but not quite
“D-don’t you mean, what I WANT?”
>”If that were what I’d meant, then that’s what I would’ve said.”
>Granny smiled softly then, her eyes crinkling upwards, her knitting draped over her barrel, forgotten
>She looked like she was parsing a thousand thousand memories, trying to find just the right one
>Then the air went still, and you realized you’d been breathing in time with her
>”Where is Twilight Sparkle now?”
“Downstairs, on the phone. Said she was overdue to make a few phone calls. One to her, uh, Matron, and the other to a… I forget what she called him. Bitty… Brottle… something or other?”
>”That’s alright. I just needed to know she was safe here, with us.”
“She got dang lucky out there, Granny. Shot from one of them smugglers flew right by her head. I heard it, and I could almost see it.”
>”I suppose I should’ve told you how thankful I am, AJ, that you weren’t hurt.”
“Aw, Granny… that was nothing. Bunch of lowdown snakes with shotguns ain’t never been too much for me. It was what came after that scared me.”
>”Even still. It’s times like these, you know… I should’ve never let Macintosh enlist.”
“Big Mac is fine. He loves it out there. Last letter he sent me just said, ‘Doing good. Miss y’all.’”
>Granny shook her head
>”I know, I know. But it don’t matter if… well, you worry about one grandfoal getting killed in battle every day, it’s just hard to have to worry about two.”
“I’m fine too, Granny. Everypony’s fine.”
>”For now. But this is only the beginning, you know.”
“G-granny?”
>”If you go with her, with that Sister; if you go with her out west, to Pegasopolis, if you try to drive over all that desert and cross the border and find what you’re looking for… I’ll tell you this, AJ: it’s as dangerous as Big Macintosh going to war. More dangerous, maybe.”
“Then forbid it.”
>That time, Granny’s eyes shot open, and she peered around the room, as though looking for something among the intricate violet walls
>”What’re you on about, AJ?”
“Tell me I can’t go. Tell me I’m better off here in Sweet Apple Manor, in Rich Valley. Tell me I’m gonna be the Baroness, and that everything you want for me goes away if I go with Twilight. T-tell me.”
>Something wet pooled near your left eye
>Your jaw began to quiver
>You wanted to say you hadn’t cried in years, but that’d be a lie; things had gotten pretty heated with Braeburn just a few hours before
>You held it back, though; you couldn’t let Granny know how scared you were
>”I won’t.”
“Huh?”
>”I ain’t gonna tell you that. You can see the Truth in your sleep and call it bupkis, deny the call all on your own, or you can let it surround you and bind you and let destiny decide where you go, but one thing you can’t do, AJ, is ask my permission to do either. It’s out of my hooves. It’s always been out of my hooves. All I need to know from you is one thing.”
>A cloud passed over the sun right at that moment, you remember
>The light streaming in through the high window turned pale gray, and Granny’s eyes seemed more tender than ever, despite her words
“Wh-what’s that?”
>”What do you think you’ll find there? In Pegasopolis? If they don’t kill you the minute they see your earth pony self? If you even make it up there, to their city in the sky?”
“I guess… I guess I’ll find that out on the way.”
 
. . .
 
>A few hours later, you found Twilight perched on a couch in the reading room, seemingly admiring with wandering eyes the great wall of books before her
>Lamplight and drawn shades had turned her signature cloak a gleaming shade of yellow, and her eyes sparkled with that same light
>Even still… it was clear she was downcast, and for right good reason
“Twilight?”
>”Applejack.”
“Listen, uh… I spoke with Granny.”
>”Oh?”
“She won’t have a conniption about my going. But Twilight… there’s something I—”
>”You promised, didn’t you? You told me you had no choice.”
>You stopped in your tracks to look at her, or to listen to her, maybe
>Her tone was a tad more assertive than you’d come to expect of her
>Everything else was already changing, so why not this?
“She gave me a choice. I chose you. Is that what you need to hear?”
>”It… it is. I need you for this to work, Applejack.”
“AJ. And I don’t think you even know what ‘this’ is, any more than I do.”
>Twilight shifted in her seat, still gazing at the books in their neat rows on oaken shelves
>”How many of these have you read?”
“Can’t say. Probably fewer than I ought to have by now. Apple Tart’s the big reader of the family, and Apple Bloom’s shaping up to be the same way. Me, I always spent more time outdoors.”
>”I’ve been counting them. In here, and in the library in the east wing. You probably have more books in this house than all of us at the convent in Mons Canteria.”
“That… I don’t doubt it. We’ve amassed a heap over the centuries this house has stood.”
>”All secular, of course. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Everything I need to know is right here in my saddlebag, right? The Books of the Sun contain everything I must know about everything. The word of the Prophetess, the Truth of Mater Solis, it illuminates all things, right?”
“Twilight…”
>”So WHY is there so much more? Why did the Makers, HUNDREDS of years after their death knell, give us all of this… understanding? These principles that challenge everything I know? Electromagnetism, atomics, quantum theory, microchips… why only now has everything become so confusing?”
“You know I don’t know how to answer that.”
>”But it’s compatible. Yes, I know it must be compatible. That’s the crux of it all, that what I know to be true and what I’ve learned all my life, that all this becoming, this new world, that’s what Mater intended for us. My Sisters always disagreed with me. My Matron disagreed with me, even though she wants so desperately for me to be right. She told me that again, just now. On the phone.”
“What else did she say?”
>”We didn’t talk for very long. She was worried about me, because I was meant to call her DAYS ago, and I wanted to, but… she told me to go where my epiphanies commanded me to go. She told me I was right, that the path to ascension hasn’t changed direction, just altered its course. She told me to trust you, when I told her what you mean to me now. She doesn’t even know you… how could she know to tell me that?”
>Twilight’s voice began to shake, and she turned her face away from you
>You approached her, doing your best to take on the role you took on when the two of you first met
>You wanted to be strong, collected, confident then; why not be those things now?
“Well, she must be a smart mare if she wants you to trust me, that’s for dang sure.”
>Your friend chuckled at that, a low, hollow chuckle
>”She is. She’s the wisest mare I know. She’s very much like your grandmother, in some ways. But in other ways… they couldn’t be more different.”
>Something told you that you should change the subject
“What about your other call? The stallion you met on your way to the train station?”
>Twilight raised her left hoof as if to answer, displaying the six-pointed watch wrapped around her fetlock
>”He gave me this, too. But we only talked for a little while. He sounded busy. He told me he was preparing to work on some project. Wouldn’t give me any details about it, but it sounded important.”
>A moment passed without either of you speaking
>Some part of you wanted to comfort the young mare before you, knowing how hard it must have been for her to leave the home she’d never left in her life…
>But another part understood that you’d share her predicament in a few days precisely because of what SHE’D roped you into
>She seemed so reluctant, so fragile… but now that fragility had transformed into outright fear
>She was afraid of what would happen if you went through with this Mission of hers
>You were, too, though you wouldn’t dare show it
“Well, listen. I, uh, dug through some old things I used to keep in my room, and I found this.”
>As Twilight turned to regard you again, you lifted your hat to retrieve the folded-up strip of paper you’d placed beneath it earlier
>You then took a seat on the couch across from Twilight, the distance between you filled by a low table, and unfolded the paper on it to reveal what you’d found
“It’s a map of Equestron. All of it. From the Westerlands to the shores of the Shining Sea. See, there’s us…”
>You pointed to that familiar space near the east coast, between the northern peaks of the Foal Mountains and the southern crags of the Appleachians, labeled “RICHTON”
“And there…”
>Sliding your hoof to the southwest, just barely missing the southern edge of the sprawling Mons Canterian metropolis, you finally landed on “LAS PEGASUS”, a bundle of clouds flying high over the San Palomino desert and barely east of the ruins of Old Exsilia
“…is Pegasopolis. Formerly Las Pegasus.”
>”Why the name change?”
>You snickered, recalling once again how little Twilight knew about global politics
>For all her book-smarts and historical knowledge, she’s a bit sheltered when it comes to the right-now
“Short answer is that it’s under new management, circa about fifteen years ago. Used to be a Canterian territory, but then a pegasus calling himself Hurricane—”
>”Hurricane? Like… Commander Hurricane?”
“Right-o. Wingnut took his name from a Hearthswarming character just to impress everypony. But he just went in one day with a bunch of other pegasi as crazy as him, and took the whole city. Made them all sign his ‘Armistice’ saying they’d play nice, then did the same to a heap of other pegasus cities all over the country. Just swooped in, stole them right out of the sky, and added them to his collection right here. They’re reeeal tight with the Exsilists now.”
>”Now that you mention it, one of my Sisters followed that place quite closely in the news. She mentioned ‘grav-platforms’…”
“Well, I don’t know none about that. But I do know that it’s where we’re going, if we’re going anywhere. They’ve got platforms of SOME sort floating up there, in lieu of the old-fashioned clouds pegasi used to make their homes in. I know for a fact I saw that exact shape in a picture, in one of Big Mac’s wartime rags before they shipped him off. An upside-down dome, and a city built on top of it.”
>”So how do we get there?”
“Well, that’s the million-bit question, ain’t it?”
>From another swash of mane swooping beneath your hat, you produced a pencil, and took to drawing a straight line from Richton towards Dodgeton to the far south
“My reckoning is that trying to take the direct path, just a beeline from here to Pegasopolis, is a no-go. Too much Canterian security on that route, since we’re basically running parallel to Mons Canteria. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”
>”I do. There were checkpoints all over the place on the way to the train station there. Plus… I’m not certain I want to be so close to home so soon. It’s shameful to say, but I may be enticed to go back and never come out again.”
“Sure. So our best bet is to take the southern route. We take the country road down to Dodgeton, here. From there, there’s an ancient highway that skirts the edge of the Badlands, and that’ll take us as far as…”
>From Dodgeton, you crossed the map westward with your pencil until arriving at a small plateau-like marker dotting the otherwise bland-looking landscape
“…here. Some little boulder called See Rock.”
>You remember several things happening at once as soon as those words escaped your mouth
>First, all the tension and melancholy in the room seemed to drain away at once, with no explanation
>It was just a feeling, like air rushing past your coat
>Then, audibly, Twilight’s entire face contorted into a massive grin, and her eyes shone brighter than ever
>”SEE ROCK?!?!?”
>The sound echoed throughout the room and down the distant halls, and you thought for more than a second that your eardrums had been blown out
“High horses, Twilight! What in the hay was that for?”
>”I just… I just… I…”
“Well?”
>”Well! Ask your grandmother, AJ! See Rock is where… oh, if I’d known this would be a proper pilgrimage, I’d have…”
“So I’m assuming this rock has some sort of significance to you.”
>Twilight’s eyes darted back and forth between yours and the map, seemingly trying to find the proper response
>”It’s… it’s too much to explain, now. Perhaps on the way, I’ll be able to enlighten you. But, ohhh, AJ! We must stop there, if only for a day or so! We must climb it!”
“Climb it? That plateau in the middle of dang nowhere? Huh. Well, it’s your quest, so if you insist… but don’t expect me to come along. Can I continue?”
>”Hm? Oh, yes. Please. I apologize.”
“From See Rock, it’s only another day’s northwest crossing over the San Palomino highway to Pegasopolis. Or, at least, it used to be. No doubt there’ll be pegasus border control like wildfire all over the place. There’s really no angle we can approach that we won’t get caught by them, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I mean, shoot, who knows? Maybe we could claim religious immunity on account of you. Though from what I’ve heard, the PAS don’t take kindly to religion much these days…”
>”Except for the Cult of Exsilium.”
“That’s right. Except for the Cult.”
>”I assume we’ll be taking Winona for this trip, right?”
“Heh, well we ain’t exactly hoofing it, sister. As is, we’re looking at about four good days of solid driving, and most of that’ll be on what must be the least interesting stretch of road known to ponykind. Least we’ll have each other for company.”
>”That’s a lot of driving for one mare…”
“You kidding?”
>You reached across the table to pat Twilight on her covered wither
“I’m teaching you to drive, Miss Sunshine. We share the load, you and I.”
 
. . .
 
>You packed for the road that night, and Twilight did the same
>Spare hats, a few vests, some cigarettes and a lighter (even now, you hadn’t broken the stupid habit), plenty of packaged food, some fresh fruit you’d have to eat before it went bad, toiletries, water bottle, fire starter, compass, and of course the map you’d marked up
>You found the tent and sleeping bags you and Dad used to take into the pines once a month, figured they’d come in handy if you couldn’t find a place to rest
>Which was likely; past a certain point, you knew there’d be nothing but dirt and flats, and wouldn’t you know that you were right!
>For the same reason, gas cans were a top priority; you filled enough in the garage to last you two round trips, just in case, and stacked them neatly in the truck bed
>Even then, the feeling of wrongness crept into you from every direction; the walls in the garage seemed to scream at you, telling you it wasn’t worth it
>Telling you Twilight was wrong, telling you your dreams were wrong, telling you to
>(STAY HERE STAY HERE STAY HERE)
>But you shut them out; it’s that kind of doubt that keeps a pony from ever changing or growing
>And as crazy as it sounded, as it STILL sounds, you’d matured in Twilight’s presence
>You’d grown to accept Braeburn rather than… than NEED him, but not really WANT him, right?
>You wondered then, sitting in the darkened garage, listening to the crickets out there in the moonlit grass, if that was what Granny had meant
>That what you need trumps what you want, and what your friends need from you may trump even that
>…
>The next morning, you met Twilight in the west foyer, duffel bags strapped over your flanks
>She’d only packed what she’d come here with: twin saddlebags and the cloak on her back
“You could borrow clothes of mine, if you need. Exactly how many of those robes of yours do those things hold?”
>”Three spares, if you can believe it. They are quite thin.”
“…right. Well, if that suits you…”
>”I appreciate the offer, AJ, but it’s difficult to wear much else. For… personal reasons.”
>You remembered that strange little encounter the previous morning, Twilight practically begging you to turn away as she stripped
“Yeah, yeah. Modesty and all that. You got everything else?”
>”I believe so. Is this… it?”
>The way she said that sent a chill down your spine, but you said nothing of it
“This is it. Whatever happens out there, this is what we’ve got to prepare for it.”
>As you started out the door to load up the first haul into Winona, Twilight hesitantly put a hoof on your wither
>You stopped to turn around and look towards her, and you could swear her eyes sparkled then
>Something danced behind them… all the troubled thoughts she’d been having, all the troubled thought’s YOU’D shared with her up until then, she seemed to be contending with them
>An old record played in some distant room, sad but sweet; somepony knew how to cast some ambience
>”The things I said yesterday… the way I might have derided you…”
“Pff, what’s this now? You haven’t derided me a tad.”
>”Perhaps… less you, than my own feelings. I feel… well, something’s wrong, of course. Something about all of this is wrong. But it’s more than that, it’s… I’m losing myself, AJ. You haven’t known me for long, you don’t know what I was before, but I was content! I wanted to remain in my small, sequestered place in the world. Now, I’m simply different. Manic, perhaps. I need to see everything. I need to FEEL everything. I would’ve gone missionary years ago if I’d known it would be like.”
“Twilight, everypony feels that way at some point in their life. The important thing is not to see all that came before as wasted time. It’s a new time, a new, uh, “Mission”, if that’s what you want to call it. We’re here now. It’s okay.”
>”We won’t be for long. We’ll be someplace else.”
“And we’ll still be us.”
>Twilight looked up at you, smiling softly
>She lowered her hoof only then, pulling away from you and wheeling about to face into the halls of the manor
>”Listen, I… I know you told me you wanted to keep your departure more or less a secret, except from your grandmother… just to avoid any complicated feelings over what should only be a brief excursion, but…”
>That “but” was suspiciously pointed at the end, like a question
>Or a signal for expectations…
“Yeeees, that’s what I told you. What about it?”
>”Well, the way you talk about her, I thought maybe… I took it upon myself to… well, you can come out now!”
>Come out?
>What’s she—
>”Applejack?”
>The sweetest voice you’ve ever known sounded off from behind a marble pillar, one you knew and loved
>Apple Bloom’s miniature frame peered out from behind it, her eyes wide and filled with the kind of sorrow only a filly can muster
>Naïve, but deeply penetrating
>She approached you and Twilight, her bow bobbing as she walked, and finally came to set herself at your hooves
“Apple Bloom. What did Twilight say to you?”
>”She said you were going away for a while. A-and you’ll be gone from the Manor.”
“She didn’t say nothing else?”
>You were a bit upset with Twilight for not consulting with you on this, but you held your tongue
>Maybe it was for the best that she knew
>”No… I don’t know wh-where you’re going.”
>You struggled with what to say to her
>Should you lie?
>Tell the truth?
>Both options would have been extremely painful for you
>Like Twilight when you met her, you were essentially wearing a mask in that moment, and to pull it off too soon…
>Well, you wouldn’t die, but you’d certainly cause some hurt
>You tried looking to Twilight for guidance, but she only smiled at you with that same distant, downcast look
>Apple Bloom rubbed one hoof against your foreleg, and you responded in kind by brushing through her scarlet mane slowly, as tenderly as you were able
“We’re going to a place far away from here. It’s a place where all the ponies fly, and they build cities miles in the air.”
>”Th-that sounds amazing! Can I come?”
“No, sugarcube, you can’t. I’m… I’m real sorry about that.”
>”Oh. Okay…”
“But I’ll bring you back something nice, I promise. And I’ll only be gone for a week, maybe two.”
>”Two weeks?”
“Two weeks. Lickety-split, I’d say. And then I’ll be right back here to tuck you in at night.”
>”N-no! I mean, gee, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Applejack!”
>Apple Bloom twisted around to plead at Twilight
>”Sh-she don’t tuck me in at night, Miss Sparkle. I can do that all by myself.”
>Twilight giggled, as did you
“Alright, alright. But you can bet I’ll be back before you know it, sugarcube. Who’s gonna keep your little head out of trouble without me around?”
>”The thing with the pumpkins again? I already apologized, Applejack, I did!”
“I know you did.”
>You pulled Apple Bloom into an embrace, and she reciprocated strongly, squeezing your forelegs half to death
>You wondered if it would be strange if you were more scared than this filly, your little sister, at your hooves
>You were, of course; you just wondered if it’d be strange
>Strange…
>Strange feelings, strange variables, a strange journey with a strange mare…
>But some things remain constant, always
“I love you, Apple Bloom. Don’t you ever forget how much I love you.”
>”I won’t. I love you too, Applejack.”
>Things like love, things like knowing what’s right, telling the truth, especially to yourself
>Knowing you’ll never abandon your family, and that whatever this Mission ends up entailing, you won’t forget that
>You’ll be back; that was a promise, that was the truth then, and it’s the truth now
>As Apple Bloom finally pulled away, you found yourself thinking of them
>Them…
>The ones you never want to think about, but who always draw themselves back into your thoughts
>The way Apple Bloom looked at you, those amber eyes she inherited directly from your mother
>(Burning)
>The corona over the city in the sky, that black awful dream, the tingling sensation in your coat
>It felt so much like—
>(Burning on the edge of the world)
>Like doom
>A feeling you know all too well
>This time, however, you ain’t afraid of it
>You’ll embrace it if you have to, if it means protecting what you love
>And if you need any more justification for doing what you’ve done, what you’re doing, what you will do, it’s that
>Your family, above all else
>Your family…
>”Ready to go?”
>Twilight’s voice again, soft but strong
>As Apple Bloom pretended to walk away, but remained lingering in the frame of an arched passage, watching you, waiting for you to cross the threshold into the brilliant light of morning, you regarded Twilight again
>She looked, if nothing else, determined
“If I ain’t now, I reckon I’ll never be.”
>So…
 
. . .
 
>Driving now
>Still driving, driving, driving into the sunset, driving into the becoming of night
>Alone with your thoughts, which you usually hate
>But recently, you’ve come to enjoy the solace of introspection
>Some of Twilight rubbing off on you, you suppose
>It was morning in Dodgeton; now, it’s dusk in the shadow of the borderlands
>If your reckoning is right, then See Rock, that place that Twilight seemed so excited about back then, is only about half a day’s drive on ahead
>As is, however, you’re beginning to sag below the dash, and your eyelids match your posture
>Despite what you told Twilight two days ago, you still haven’t tried to teach her to handle the wheel; you guess you’re half-fearful of what she’ll do with it, half-determined to do this thing by yourself
>Even if this is the furthest you’ve ever been from home, it must be even worse for somepony like her
>You can’t even imagine…
>But things have changed for you too, cause and effect, events set in motion you won’t even have a hoof in until you get back, and even then…
>If Granny can manage the situation with Braeburn on her own, like she said she could, then you imagine a few problems might be resolved
>The flood of immigrants might cut off until the harvest can be stabilized again
>The nuclear weapons Baron Rich is manufacturing for the government in your backyard will be discussed, and maybe the other Families will even get involved
>But most importantly, Braeburn will be back in your life when you return
>A prospect which poses all sorts of utterly baffling questions
>You wanted to say so much more to him back at the silo, but the gravity of the situation prevented you from pouring your heart out too much
>Maybe that was for the best, but… things have changed
>Things have changed, were changing, will change, since the moment you were born until the day you die
>Only now, horizon growing, the distant past shrinking behind you, do you fully understand why Twilight was so desperate to find a purpose for her Mission
>Why she’s done what she’s done up until now, and why she’s hellbent on stringing you along to what is probably one of the most dangerous places on earth for two of your kind
>It ain’t selfishness, and it’s more than just foolishness; it’s the desire to change with the world, and to follow a path greater than herself
>And speaking of paths, the road’s going nowhere; you take your eyes off it for a moment to keep from dissociating, choosing to rest them on the sleeping purple and green mass to your right
>Funny, how the eye always seems to be drawn to her flank, that spiraling-radiating sun symbol emblazoned on the side of her cloak hypnotizing all those who look on it
>There is appeal in mysticism, you’ll grant her faith that much
>Before long, dusk turns to dark, and the world outside your headlights rapidly loses focus
>You promised yourself you wouldn’t try to drive any longer once the sun went down, and you intend to keep that promise
>And for that matter, you definitely ain’t setting up this campsite all by your lonesome
>You lightly tap Twilight’s wither a few times, causing her steady breathing to become a bit more erratic before settling into an easy waking tempo
>”Wh…? Scurred me…”
“Twilight. Sun’s gone down. I’m putting it in park for the night. We’ve got to get these tents up, and a fire going. There’s enough dry brush in this desert to get one started as long as we move fast.”
>”Muhhh… sun down? No… litany… had to observe…”
“Shouldn’t have nodded off, then. I ain’t responsible for keeping you up, but you ARE responsible for keeping me entertained on this long road to nowhere.”
>”Ugh. Sorry, AJ. But I did need to observe Mater’s setting today, it’s in the auspices. One more thing I’ll have to repent for before the Solstice…”
“Hate to ask, but are you gonna be any help to me while I’m setting up camp?”
>”Nuuhhh… not a complete greenhoof, AJ. Admittedly, no, I’ve never camped before, but I can follow instructions, and I’m a fast learner.”
“My daddy and I used to camp in the pines when I was little. We’d lay out on a mat and look at the moon and stars, how they shone between those branches, the trunks that seemed to go up to infinity… Celestia, that was beautiful. Too cloudy for stargazing tonight, though.”
>”Probably going to rain again.”
“Out here? I doubt it. Too dry, too… empty.”
>”Emptiness can be beautiful, too. When viewed in the proper light.”
>If that was something profound, you’re far too tired to understand it
>Just enough light now, however… you lighten up on the gas and scan your surroundings for a relatively flat, empty spot
>When you find one just off the side of the road, you slow to a crawl and take Winona into the dust
“Bananas and granola for dinner. Unless you can catch a desert rat or something in the next ten minutes.”
>”Ha-ha.”
“Ask you something, Twilight?”
>”Anything.”
“Do you… regret this, at all? Coming out into the world, following the word of this… personal angel of yours? Finding meaning where nopony else does?”
>”Do I regret it? Sometimes. I don’t regret meeting you, though. And I don’t regret doing what we’re going to do.”
“Yeah, but… I don’t know. It feels wrong, you know? Sometimes. And I wonder if we’re headed towards… there’s a feeling, in the pit of my gut, that’s telling me ‘doom, doom, doom’… there’s all this doubt in me.”
>”I have doubts. Every minute of every day, I have doubts. I ask myself how somepony as small as me could possibly make the kind of changes Numena, the Matron, the Sisterhood, ALL of them expect of me. But I have faith in Mater Solis, Applejack. And I have faith in you. If that’s my naivete, then so be it. But everything I do, I do because of the Truth. And even if you don’t believe, I believe that you do the same.”
“Do you really want to know what’s on my mind?”
>”If you’re willing to tell me.”
“It’s this See Rock we’re coming up on. This holy site of yours. There’s something… familiar to the name. Intimate, maybe. Even though I barely know of the place. What is it, anyway?”
>At that, Twilight gives you one of her famous foal-like smirks
>As soon as you flick back the engine stick, and the background hum your mind had completely forgotten vanishes in an instant, the stark lowlights bathe Twilight in red from above
>Her eyes become black holes, and her smile looks almost… sinister
>”Light us a fire, AJ, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
 
******
 
>”How much do you truly know of Celestia’s life?”
>Twilight speaks softly, though there’s no reason for it out here
>You could holler into the pitch-black sky and there’d be nopony to hear it save for the scant critters of the wild
>If you had to guess, you’d say it’s because she considers this an intimate exchange
“Not near as much as you, I’d wager. I know about, oh, the war with the Makers. And the retaking of Canterlot. Then, uh, she just vanished off the face of the earth, no?”
>Twilight smiles, her features cast in flaming orange by the fire the two of you built in the sand
>It’s a small one, more a pile of brush and stalks doused in a bit of gasoline than a proper wood-fire, but it’s keeping you warmer than you were when you hopped out of the truck
>You hadn’t realized then how the wind had picked up; though it’s calmed now, it was howling something ferocious before, and on this flat there’s nothing to slow it
>And it’s dark, of course; you needed some light beyond the flashlight, something central to this place, since neither of you felt up for sleep yet
>And you were so tired on the drive…
>”It’s rare… I mean, it’s never happened before… to be able to share the holy Truth with somepony who’s never experienced it before. There were fillies in the convent, of course, group studies, but they were all ken to the basics of the Prophetess’ journey.”
“I’m glad you think I’m dumber than a filly.”
>”No! I mean, that’s not it at all. It’s riveting, actually. I’m thinking about how best to start. See Rock, it’s… it’s everything, really. It’s a mark of pilgrimage, a Major Site of the Celestial Cartos. Where the Prophetess truly BECAME the Prophetess, before venturing deeper into the Badlands. B-before convening with the Old Tribe, and bearing the marks of the Chosen of Mater Solis.”
“Where she… became the Prophetess?”
>Twilight shifts her posture, struggling to find a good clump of robe to rest her shoulder on before finally settling
>She’s looking at the stars; or, at least, she would be were it not now so overcast
>Maybe she’s looking at something else?
>”It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The sky.”
“In this weather? All I see are the undersides of clouds. Not much to see, I reckon.”
>”No, AJ. Not the clouds. The SKY. Look beyond the clouds. Look into the constellations behind that false veneer. They’re still there, concealed. They’re still visible, though the word of reality cannot express them.”
“You… seeing something I don’t?”
>“It’s… difficult, condensing the teachings of the Books of the Sun into so little. Trying to see the Holy Light as Holy Truth when there is no light at all. But, perhaps paradoxically, that is when the Truth is most visible.”
“You’ve mentioned something like this before.”
>”It’s all there, Applejack. It’s all there, written in the stars, written in her Truth, the manifestation of her intentions. Behind the clouds, behind the Sun, that which Mater Solis uses as a vessel, there are waves. Waves which carry a message which cannot be doubted. And we KNOW that now; we KNOW that all sources of light carry waves. Something we could not possibly have known by ponykind in the time of the Makers, though the Makers themselves knew it all too well.”
>You shake your head and stuff your hoof into an open package of Sweetberry trail mix
“Seems like the more you say, the less sense you make, Miss Sunshine.”
>”If I have to say it in so many words, let it be these: what Celestia the Princess desired from the Makers was ‘power.’ Not political power, for she was already the sole guardian of all of Old Equestria. Not even physical power, for the armies of Equestria were the mightiest in the known world. When the Makers came to our world through their alien means in the first year of our reckoning, they took to imparting only a fraction of a fraction of their technological potential to ponykind. Celestia recognized this.”
“And she was ungrateful?”
>”She was envious. She saw their marvels, she sought to gift them to her own little ponies so that they too might prosper. It was a dark time for her, and for her country, and for seven years she nursed her envy in silence.”
“It ain’t… blasphemy, to say so? I mean, to speak so judgmental of your Prophetess?”
>The fire flickers over Twilight’s features, and smoke masks her eyes
>You can tell without seeing, however, that they’re smiling
>”Celestia the Princess and Celestia the Prophetess are separate beings entirely, AJ. See Rock was the death of the first and the birth of the second from her remains. One was bound by false notions of grandeur, misplaced concern over her own ponies; the other used these traits as motivators to rectify her mistakes.”
“See Rock… then…”
>”Yes. Seven years passed, and Celestia decided to use force. Force, against the Makers, who sought only to live in harmony with ponykind, separate but equal. She brought her armies against their settlements, she entered their sacred Archives, she DESIRED, above all else, the power of knowing. She could not have known, AJ, or at least she could not allow herself to know, how the Makers would respond to these insults.”
“They ousted her from Canterlot Castle. This part I know.”
>”Mmph.”
>Twilight seems to have already nabbed some of your mix and stuffed it into her mouth
>She crunches it down loudly before swallowing and catching her breath
>”Her hubris became her greatest foe. Those she believed she was protecting turned against her because of her belligerence. Those she had spurned by making war came back to her in full force, and deposed her. While Celestia the Princess sulked away in shame, the Unified Kingdoms were born in her stead, with the Makers as their arbiters.”
“I thought the Makers wanted nothing to do with ponies, politically speaking.”
>”They involved themselves in the formation of a new government, and nothing more. They migrated west to make new miracles even as Celestia journeyed south. South, into the heat, and the fire-forged Badlands. South, towards the source of her call.”
>Something bright glimmers above you for only a moment, out of the very corner of your vision
>When you look up to chase it, it’s no longer there; just the dark clouds, and the promise of storms
>”When we SEE the Truth, or a reflection of it in my case, we are wise to understand that it is not real, in the sense that these stones are real, that this fire is real. When Numena speaks to me in my sleep, tells me to climb her stairs or fall into the dreaded Depths, it is not REAL. But that does not make it untrue. Quite the opposite, in fact; the Truth is masked by reality. It is disguised, distorted, painted over by the mind’s limitations. When Celestia came to the plateau on See Rock, shamed and disgraced and alone, she wanted to lay peacefully and sleep. She looked at the stars until morning, and then…”
“And then?”
>”She saw a brilliant Light. As the sun rose over See Rock, as that which was visible crested in the east, she saw beyond it, into space, into time. She saw a figure over all of it, and Her name was Mother Sun, and she was Truth. In a moment, one sheer, beautiful, awful moment, Celestia was transformed into the Prophetess. Her form was identical, that which could be seen, but the Truth behind her soul was utterly different. She saw the word of Mater as though it were written across her eyes, as clearly as she saw the daybreak, and she was liberated from the trappings of false magic.”
>Twilight taps her horn, generating a quiet thud
>”This, this implement, this… curse, of the unicorns. Along with the supernatural strength of the earth pony, and the aeronautic manipulations of the pegasi… all three of them bound Celestia the Princess tightly within her own mind, her own ‘reality.’ But, freed of these, she was offered a chance at redemption in the form of Mater’s true magic…”
“She was the Prophetess.”
>”You understand, AJ, why that place is important. Why it must be ascended now, of all times. Even if the world is crashing down around us, even if… I don’t want to theorize. I believe I—we—may find something there. Something spiritual, something encouraging. You say you have doubts about all this… I share those doubts.”
“You certainly seem more confident than you were when I met you, sugarcube.”
>”It comes and goes. When I see the reflection of Truth in Numena’s veil, I… I become more like my Matron. Or your grandmother. My resolve takes on a form of its own.”
“And you’ve seen her?”
>This time, the flame flickers sideways, and you see with great clarity Twilight’s violet eyes staring firmly, utterly still, into your own
>It’s almost unnerving to see them so dead-set
>”Tonight, yes. Before you woke me earlier, I… she spoke to me again. I don’t remember all of what she said, but for the first time she mentioned you by name.”
“Me?”
>”Our doubts are not unfounded, AJ. If this is Mater’s will, then who are we to question it? Yet… She usually gives context with such things. She offers us, her devotees, a chance to understand Her, even in some small way. She’s given me none of that so far. Even through Numena, whose words… are too complex for me to unravel in most cases. Not, at least, until I’ve already completed her prophecies. Then I understand perfectly well.”
“So this angel of yours… SHE told you to climb this plateau?”
>”No. This is my decision. You may stay with Winona if you desire, but I will do this. It won’t take long, tomorrow. Only an hour or so. But it must be done.”
“You know I ain’t gonna let you climb some sheer face in the middle of nowhere by yourself, get your fetlock caught in a rockslide and have nopony around to help you. I’ll come with. Even if I don’t fully understand why.”
>”Well… I don’t exactly have Celestia’s wings. I’ll admit I hadn’t much considered how arduous the trek might be for one of my… um…”
“Unathleticism?”
>”Hay!”
“Is something you’re quite fond of.”
>Twilight grins and throws the empty bag of trail mix at you; the thin plastic merely tumbles away in the wind after a foot or so
“Also that mix, apparently. You know I was saving a bit of that for myself, right?”
>”I wasn’t afforded such… mmm… culinary luxuries in my convent. You must sympathize with me.”
“That bit will only get you so far with me, Miss Sunshine. Don’t appeal to food with me.”
>You stretch out over your fluttering tarp and gesture to the crimson apple adorning your flank
“If you ain’t noticed, it’s somewhat of my THING.”
>”Yes, well… ah…”
>Unexpectedly, Twilight’s eyes return to the ground, and her posture becomes far smaller, more timid
>The “resolve” she spoke of seems to wither away all at once, and she’s back to her old nervous-nelly self
>Did you say something?
“Twilight, uh… I ain’t afraid. I want you to know that.”
>”Really? Because I am. I… I really am.”
“Well, I ain’t more or less afraid than you. I’m with you. That’s all I’m saying. Just don’t be down now, it ain’t worth worrying none.”
>”No! I mean… thank you. But that isn’t what’s wrong now.”
“So?”
>”So…”
>Wordlessly, Twilight shifts clockwise around the fire, skirting the edge of the makeshift pit you’ve fashioned and coming to rest at your right
>She lays down on her side, so that her flank points up towards you
>”This is… something I’ve kept from you. About everything else I’ve been perfectly honest, but… the prospect of anypony outside of my home knowing of this was terrifying to me until now. It’s still terrifying, but I trust you. You share the epiphany, you’ve walked with me on the path until now, and you’re honest with me and yourself. It’s only fair that… that…”
“Twilight.”
>The fire crackles, glowing embers burning their way closer to the ground, where they might come to rest and fade into dormant charcoal
>The rest goes up into the clouded sky, into the stars behind them
>You pat Twilight twice on her outstretched flank, right in the middle of the spiraling sun symbol gleaming yellow on her robe
“We all have secrets. Little ones. They don’t do nopony any harm by keeping them locked up. If you ain’t ready to bare your whole life story to me, that’s fine. It’s only been a week, after all.”
>”It isn’t what you think, AJ. It’s concealed, it’s… it’s not in the past, it’s right now… there’s a reason. There’s a reason the Matron saw fit to trust me to carry out this Mission, however it might unravel. There’s a reason she saw me to be special.”
“Special?”
>Your friend lifts one hoof off the ground and wraps it about yours, pulling it off of her robe
>Then, she clutches the fringed edge of that green fabric draped across her hindleg, and pulls slowly
“Twilight, if this—”
>”Watch.”
>You’re transfixed, incapable of looking away
>If this is some kind of… you don’t swing that way, of course, but if it makes her feel better…
>When the fringe reaches the lower part of her flank, Twilight closes her eyes and breathes audibly, once, twice, three times
>And all at once, she bares her flank, and the fire crackles louder than before
>It’s…
>…
“How?”
>”I’m the last pony to expect an answer about that from.”
“But… you’re, what, seventeen?”
>”Eighteen in the autumn.”
“I don’t… this is what you were hiding, then?”
>”At the Manor? We Sisters don’t really have a vow of bodily modesty, Applejack. I just wasn’t ready to show you then.”
>In the space where Twilight’s cutie mark should be, there is simply nothing
>Nothing at all, as though she were an adolescent filly; the same shade of violet coat across the entirety of her backside
>Until now, you honestly hadn’t even considered to ask about your friend’s cutie mark
>You guess you’d internalized the idea that the sun she wears on her flank WAS her mark, and left it at that…
>But for there to be… at her age, it’s…
“Impossible.”
>”It certainly should be.”
“And this isn’t… I mean, it isn’t some kind of Sisterhood thing? You were raised there, does that… does it ever…”
>”Never. I’m the only one with such a deformity.”
“Well, hay now… it ain’t exactly a deformity. It’s just unusual, is all.”
>”Unusual, or impossible, AJ? Which one is it?”
>You really don’t know how to respond to her
>Where you’d expect those words to come from a place of anger, or distress, Twilight simply sounded curious
>As if she genuinely wants an answer, and thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d have one
“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it before. A full-grown mare without a cutie mark… could it be you just ain’t found your talent yet?”
>”You and I both know these things have ways of forcing themselves out of us before a certain time. There’s a karma to cutie marks… a vestige of Blight that is usually impossible to prevent, and so it is accepted by the Faith. The Matron Celest believes that I’m a miracle because of this. She thinks I’ve somehow avoided the Blight of false magic utterly, that I’m purer for it. She’s fashioned a mythos around me. I…”
>Twilight grabs another bag of trail mix from under you, and you allow her
>”I don’t want to be a myth. I don’t want to be a Supermatron. Not because I’m not faithful, but because I’m not strong enough. They all have these expectations for me, and if I feed into them, then what might they think? That I’m another prophetess? Celestia forbid, an Incarnation? All of it together, all of these feelings and all of this pressure and the DREAMS, Applejack, the dreams confirming it… I won’t…”
>She’s hyperventilating
>Your friend takes in short, staggered breaths, arrhythmic and shallow
>She bends away from you and clutches her heart with one forehoof
>You move quickly, wheeling around her to look her dead in the eye and place your hoof on her wither
“Breathe slow, Twilight. Breathe steady. Breathe deep, up and down, like a wave.”
>”Like a w-wave… agh…”
“Don’t try to talk. Just breathe. Up, down. Up, down.”
>Gradually, Twilight’s breathing begins to match your instructions, and the panic in her eyes subsides
>The whole of her figure is strained before you; it seems like she’s looking PAST you, into… well, you ain’t sure what
>Maybe she sees See Rock behind the horizon, as she seems to see the stars behind the clouds
>Maybe she sees this Truth of hers in ways you can’t possibly understand, like… seeing a candle behind a floodlight
>Like hearing a whisper beneath a scream…
>Like hearing (their) cries as the flames raged, and they begged in the barn, and they swore they would—
>”Fine. I’m f-fine…”
>Twilight coughs a few times, turning again away from the light of the campfire
“You went and swallowed too much smoke, Twilight. And the panic didn’t help.”
>”Wave… like waves, like water, like… electricity, and the radiation of bombs, like—”
“Don’t worry none about that now. Just rest. Everything’s alright. Everything will be alright.”
>Twilight manages a small grin
>”You’re better at this than I expected, AJ. You seemed so… rough around the edges when we met.”
“Big Macintosh, my brother, used to get attacks like the one you just got after our parents died. I’d hear him in the dead of the night, practically shouting with every breath he took. Learned how to manage it for him after a while.”
>”Did they g-go away? The attacks.”
“Eventually. They wouldn’t’ve let him in the Army if they hadn’t, after all.”
>”It’s in my horn, you know. It’s in my lungs, too, and it feels like there’s a vise around my heart. B-but I feel it around my horn. This stupid, stupid thing. I feel that in the dreams, too. Sometimes I’m climbing stairs, sometimes I’m walking in white spaces with flaming wheels, sometimes I’m looking at explosions from the distant past. This time I was drowning, and the Naiads, those terrible demons, were circling me. I could see the moon above me, calling me to the surface, but as hard as I swam I could never break it. My horn felt like it was melting in the water that time. Melting…”
“Well, heck, I’ve got some idea of what that feels like.”
>As Twilight glances back at you quizzically, clearly interested in what you just said, you turn back to gaze into the fire
>It’s brighter than before; some of the thicker brush you stuffed into the center has finally caught alight, and the flames fill your vision
>”Of… melting?”
>You didn’t want her to know this part
>You ain’t sure why, just… a feeling, like it wasn’t part of what the two of you were doing
>But it’s late now, and the fire is rising, and she’s shared her secret with you
>You suppose it’s only fair that…
“What you said about, uh, concealing truth behind reality. Sometimes I wish for something like that. I wish I could just fall into a trance, see things the way I want to see them, not be so… honest with myself.”
>”You shouldn’t say that. Your honesty is your best quality.”
“Glad you think so, sugarcube. But the little secrets, they pile up over time. They escape you.”
>As Twilight bared her flank to show you her… well, bare flank, you extend your left forehoof in turn for her to see
>Along the upper edge of the frog, electric white scars snake almost invisibly up and around the hoof
>Your friend’s eyes widen as she regards the scars, her hoof reaching tenderly out to touch them
“Used to look even worse. You ain’t the only one with memories written across your body.”
>”How did this happen?”
“I was eleven. Tried to pull open the metal handle of a burning barn. It was night, and all the rest of the estate had gone to sleep, and my… well, it blazed out there, like a great big bonfire. I’d gone out to see where they were, prayed to Celestia for the first time in my life they weren’t in there… and, of course…”
>You drift off as the thoughts swell within you
>They’re thoughts you believed you’d buried long ago, but now, in the presence of this Sister of Solemnity, they’re rushing right back
“Their bedroom was empty. They’d gone to tend to the cattle, there’d been a ruckus. Big Mac was away, and Apple Bloom was just a little foal in the crib. They think one of the cows kicked over a lantern, a-and… I tried so hard. The door had caught on some beams that had fallen, locked shut, and even if I wanted to I wasn’t s-strong enough… I burnt myself and I yelled on the grass, and they—”
>”Shh. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me any more.”
>This time, it’s you who’s breathing hard, collecting smoke in your lungs
>Tasting it again, that presence you thought you’d be terrified by but in reality just slips away, all of it, coming down to a calm you’ve cultivated over years of practice
>Then, everything is back to normal
>No wildfire, no burning, no… just the fire before you
>Just this small thing, so small it can’t possibly hurt anypony
>Just you, and Twilight, and the infinite plain
“We buried my parents on their own lands, by the creek. We lived separate from the Manor then, and afterwards Granny invited the three of us left into the big house. Tried bringing up Big Mac as her successor, but he wouldn’t have it, so she picked on me instead. It’s all in pieces now, ain’t it? Without me, it’s all a wreck. It will be…”
>”They’ll manage, AJ. They’ll be fine.”
>You can’t help but believe her
>Without you running the day-to-day of the Apple lands, somepony else will have had to fill that position until you return
>You didn’t even give the rest of the family the opportunity to make those arrangements before you galloped away to the desert… what’s wrong with you?
>Maybe Braeburn… you really wonder if it’s him right now
>Granny DID mention something about moving him into the Manor…
>”It’s late. We’re both tired. Why don’t we put out the fire and start fresh tomorrow?”
“Yeah… alright.”
>While Twilight busies herself collecting the trash you’ve accumulated around the fire pit—mix bags, banana peels, granola wrappers—you retrieve a small bucket from Winona’s bed
>Then, gathering as much scattered sand and soil into it as you can, you return to the fire and dump those contents over the flames
>It takes a few iterations of this, but eventually the fire’s light has dwindled to the glowing embers beneath your new mound of mud
>”Wouldn’t water be more efficient?”
“Yeah, but we don’t got a lot of that. What we do have is for us, not the fire.”
>“Sure. Of course.”
>Once she’s disposed of all your waste, the sullen Sister places herself a distance from the dwindling fire
>Through the mass of smoke and steam you’ve created, you can see her eyes; they’re tired-looking, but also very awake, very aware
>She’s got something else to say, and you know that neither of you are going to go to sleep until she spills it
>You’ve also got a fair idea of what that something is going to be
>She never finished that story of See Rock, never revealed that Truth to you in full
>It’s got you thinking about how little you know of this mare; her culture, her upbringing, her likes and dislikes, her… well, her future is one way of putting it
>Another might be fate, although you ain’t inclined to think in terms of such religious determinism
>SOME force is certainly driving the two of you forward, some kind of magnetism, and whether that’s the handiwork of a great goddess of the sun or the sheer willpower of the earth, it’s never been your place to puzzle such things out
>What you do know is that a long night’s sleep, and a long day’s drive to this place, this See Rock, might shed some proverbial light on that hidden truth and its consequences
>Like the stars behind the clouds, like eyes behind the smoke, like…
>”Down she went.”
“Huh?”
>”You want to know about the descent, don’t you? What happened after Celestia the Prophetess witnessed Mater’s true form for the first time? What happened AFTER See Rock?”
“All I know is that she wandered the Outlands for a time, then came back and reclaimed Canterlot with her new army of the faithful. Bucked the Unified Kings right out of the place. Then vanished without a trace. Historically speaking, I suppose… that at least is given.”
>”It took her nearly fifty years to do that. Fifty years to find the Truth in all the places where it lay waiting for her. In the strange learnings of the Lunatic Tribe. In the mountains of your home, AJ, where she passed on and let the flood take the land. In the Goddess’ Grotto, into which it is said she walked in her final known moments. Fifty years to destroy the Celestia who was shamed by the Makers, who was worse than the Unified Kings, and rebuild herself atom by atom to be better than any of them. But what I’m referring to is the moments after that first sunrise of her rebirth, the moments when she descended the rock.”
“What happened then, Twilight?”
>”What happened… she did not fly. She walked. Her legs were twisted and bruised among the boulders, her form was cut, she was not used to such ruggedness. She collapsed in the sand on the south face of See Rock, and when she looked up from that place—before the Old Tribe found her, declared her Prophetess, declared her their champion of light—do you know what she saw?”
“I…”
>”She saw the sun. Still rising, still moving through the yellow space in the sky. It could have been, if not for the sand and the pain, any other morning in her life. She did not see the Truth, did not hear Mater Solis’ whispers. That all could have been a mirage, for all she knew. But it was true, even if it was not real. And the sunlight, concealing that Truth… it had been there all her life, in all the mornings since the dawn of the universe. It had always been there, AJ. Always…”
“Beyond space, you said. Beyond time. I understand a little bit more now. Just a little bit.”
>”It’s Truth, AJ. It’s Her will, and I won’t pretend to understand it any better than you. I’m… sorry, too. About what happened to you and your family.”
“They’re at peace now. And after a lot of bad times, so am I. And your, uh, mark. Maybe there’s something behind that, too.”
>”Behind it… I like that. Behind what isn’t there, maybe there exists something that is. I’m glad I have you here with me, AJ. I’m glad we’re doing this together. And…”
>Twilight stands and wipes the dust from the underside of her cloak, then gestures towards the tent
>Though your eyes have adjusted somewhat to the near-pitch darkness, she still seems to you like a shapeless mass of movements, like…
>A constellation over constellations
>Or the corona over a burning Pegasopolis, that little dash of rainbow
>All but the eyes…
>”…I think, perhaps…”
>It’s in your hooves now
>Yours, hers, and…
>”…we may not be the only ones fated to be together.”
 
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Continued in ponepaste.org/4286 (Volume III)
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