Never before in his life had Brighteyes felt more confused and afraid. This was worse than the changeling invasion years ago. He had barely qualified as an adult back then. Did he now? As a husband and established shop owner, he liked to think so.
The changelings were a clear enemy, twisted creatures to whom nothing was sacred. But this turning of pony on pony, this… this civil war was something that scared him countless times more than an army of black insects.
He wasn’t the only one who was overwhelmed. Tiffin Treat was being very quiet as they walked back to their home street, and it was odd to not hear the suave mare talk for once. Using the narrow alleys, which somehow looked even darker and nastier now, Tiffin did nothing to keep up appearances. She moved in a lazy shuffle, dragging her hooves over the uneven cobblestones.
Tiffin’s brother Tea Treat was already waiting for them. The lime green unicorn stood in front of the Tea & Tiffin, head held high, his curved ears flicking back and forth in a rapid fashion. They immediately pivoted forward when he spotted his sister. “Bad news, I take it? Vanhoover as well?”
The caramel mare only nodded, waved Brighteyes goodbye and continued inside her and her brother’s cozy tearoom in a lethargic gait.
Brighteyes, a goodbye on his lips and not sure how to continue, remained in the middle of the street. He liked the siblings, they were good neighbors and honest businessponies, but he was not nearly close enough with them to invade such a situation. Waiting for the other stallion to approach him, he had to keep himself from shivering in the icy autumn breeze, having left the house wearing only a button shirt and a vest.
With a flick of moss green telekinesis, Tea Treat smoothed out his embroidered suit collar before he cleared his throat and addressed Brighteyes in his clear Grittish accent. “She has a lot of school friends in Las Pegasus, and our parents are currently attending a symposium in Vanhoover. New findings about antidotes and sera, I believe. Mother is one of the speakers.” He let out a nervous cough and took a deep breath.
Brighteyes nodded and, in a voice heavier than he intended, replied, “I’m sorry to hear that. Them being trapped in the city, that is.” Now it was his turn for nervous coughing. He adjusted his window glass spectacles and continued. “Prince Blueblood did not go into too much detail. For the better, I suppose.”
Tea Treat raised an eyebrow. “Prince… Blueblood, sir?”
Glad to be able to leave the awkward exchange of formalities behind, Brighteyes began recounting the conundrum that had happened what felt like hours ago in minute detail.
Indeed, he and many of the other younger ponies in the crowd had been surprised to see that not one of the princesses or Prince Shining Armor, but his colleague Blueblood had come to inform and console the public. The stallion had shown none of his trademark demeanor, no scoffing, no complaining, no air of hubris and superiority, just a professional composure, albeit a dead serious one, which had only been appropriate for the information that he had brought.
The prince had confirmed that the telegraph had gone dead, a truth that he had admitted most of the citizens of Canterlot already must had figured out themselves, and had promised that the crown’s technicians were doing everything in their might to fix the problem.
What still sounded too horrible to be true was the confirmation that the major cities suffered major problems. Fillydelphia, Baltimare, Las Pegasus, Vanhoover and above all, Manehattan were experiencing severe economic, social and industrial troubles like power cuts and mass evictions.
Prince Blueblood had ended on a determined and confident note, both ensuring his audience that the crown was working to repair the damage and expressing his trust in the ponies of Canterlot to keep a level head in this time of trouble. How that was possible for anypony in the crowd who had relatives or friends in one of the affected cities the prince had neither told nor did Brighteyes know it himself.
When Brighteyes finished his report, Tea Treat rewarded him with a slow nod. After a moment of thought, the tea sommelier spoke up. “Thank you, sir. For everything. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thanks. I’ll manage”, Brighteyes replied and hoped he was not lying.
“I’ll go and console my sister then. Again, thank you, sir. Until then.”
“Take care, Mister Treat.” With these words, Brighteyes turned around and began heading towards his store.
While unlocking the front door and entering, he could not keep his thoughts from circling around the issue at hoof. Why had this happened? Who had allowed this to happen? Could it even have been prevented? Could he himself have done something to prevent it?
Prince Blueblood had not outright confirmed Mister Mariner’s involvement in the happenings, but he had hinted at it. The rumors painting the businesspony as the villain of the situation had not been so far off after all. Brighteyes knew from the newspapers that Mariner was a tycoon of sorts who possessed a little bit of everything, but the thought that his might enabled him to schemes this grand was concerning.
However, the fact that he had indeed acted upon it left a burning feeling of anger in Brighteyes’ chest. Leading a business brought responsibility. Products and service were supposed to help the public and not make them susceptible to blackmail and violence. A pair of glasses prevented horrible accidents and bad school grades, and sloppiness on his part could endanger the future of his fellow equines.
But this was not sloppiness, like one could claim in case of the trial, where Mister Mariner had not been involved directly in the press incident that had sparked it. No, this was intentional harm inflicted upon ponykind, causing a disruption in their trust and their sense of security. It sounded more like something that the Spirit of Chaos would once have done.
All this had left Brighteyes feeling stupid. Everypony seemed better informed than him. While the gathering had been dissolving after the announcement, he had heard ponies discussing the inevitability of the situation.
Some nobles had only sneered at the fact that maybe an uncouth social climber like Mister Mariner had caused this, but others had brought forth valid arguments. Or so Brighteyes thought, as they had talked in economic terminology that he did not understand. He knew how to draw balances, how to get the best purchase prices and how to calculate in supply and demand, but some of these turgid terms were ridiculous.
It was strange, really. He read the same newspapers that everypony of his status read, royalist papers that supported the crown, the nobility and the citizens of Canterlot. None of them had mentioned anything about the extent of Mariner’s empire or the possibility of this sort of blackmail. Or had they, and he had failed to catch it?
He entered the back rooms of his store and climbed the narrow spiral staircase that led to the apartment. Had his friends known? None of them had expressed much concern, only support for the crown’s decisions. Peafowl had dozens of newspaper subscriptions, national and international, and the pegasus made no secret of his despise for capitalism.
Scramble Patch favoured environmental papers and journals, especially those published by Miss Tree Hugger and her associates. Those would have a negative view on somepony with a large business empire and no care for society as well, right?
But now that he thought of it, there had been this one night. His wife had already gone to bed, and he himself had been cleaning up in the kitchen when Peafowl had come home drunk. While Brighteyes had fixed him some of the coffee that his friend kept hiding between their large collection of tea, the pegasus had rambled about how fragile the future was and how scared out of his mind he was sometimes. Or so Brighteyes thought, as Peafowl had been mixing several languages into one crude lingual construct. Whatever this... incident had been about, Brighteyes had not taken it too seriously, as his friend liked messing with others on occasion and had been quite soused on top of that.
He let out a graceless snort. He had tried to take his thoughts off his wife’s and his friend’s situation for the past half hour and now failed with flying colours.
Maybe they even weren’t in Manehattan. Yes, maybe they had taken a day off and ventured into the outskirts of the city before the tragedy had struck. Maybe they were enjoying a short break and a walk through the East Equestrian countryside. Maybe they had stopped by Peafowl’s relatives in Ponyville. Ponyville was a safe place. Princess Twilight Sparkle watched over it like a dragoness over her hoard.
Struck by these thoughts, he climbed the stairs another time to the attic and his dovecote. They had already sent the pigeon back with a message of their off-route location for sure. There was no way they had not heard about the situation, and Patch was always a thoughtful one, she would remember to send a message.
Surveying his pigeons, he searched for the one his friends had taken. The big, sturdy specimen named Montblanc was nowhere to be seen, but the bird had been bred for stamina, not speed. Maybe he was just a tad late. Or his dynamic duo was caught up in some other plan of theirs and had not had the time to scribble silly, tiny notes.
The two got sidetracked so often that it was almost comedic, at least to them. Not to this poor stallion who had to rearrange their schedules every single time though. Yes, Scramble Patch was responsible, but if something had happened on their way to Manehattan, she would not have ignored a plea for help. His beloved earth pony mare never yielded, even in the face of eternal night or a changeling invasion.
Brighteyes closed his eyes. Which was exactly why they were in the middle of the trouble in Manehattan with certainty.
Their schedules weren’t filled with trivialities, but projects they cared about and would not desert. His wife had wanted to meet several politicians and ranger colleagues about the possibility of the expansion and better protection of nature reserves all across Equestria. Peafowl had been ecstatic at the prospect of promoting his fabrics, designs and mixtures to the small and independent manufacturers of Manehattan.
And even if they had been miles away, his friend had the inequine tendency to run towards the dangers that his strong pegasus senses pointed out to him rather than away from them, and it would have torn his sweet, brave wife apart to abandon both her friend and those who might need her.
The anger that had been building up in his chest flared and rose up his neck to the tip of his horn. For a moment, he had half a mind to grab the ornamental rapier from the wall in his parlour and run off to Manehattan. Or at least find the scum who was responsible for this and introduce them to the cold metal of the heirloom weapon. Mister Mariner seemed like a good candidate.
He shook his head. While both blade and spell had been useful in defense against a few changelings, his magic was nothing to boast about, his fencing skills were rusty at best, and even if he could reach Manehattan, he would only distract those with ‘stiff upper lips’.
He let out a frustrated snort as he left the attic for his office in the back rooms of his store. That phrase. These three words Peafowl, Scramble Patch and some of their visitors flung around from time to time. Those letters from Manehattan that made his head hurt when he tried to concentrate onto them for longer than a second. He had no intentions of invading anypony’s correspondence, why did they have to be so vicious?
Patch had not wanted him to get involved. For his own safety, she had said. For the neighbors’ safety, she had said. To many of their visitors, he officially was only a receptionist, an uninvolved intermediary. What good was that now? He did not know what to do, who to approach, where to turn next, nothing at all.
Just when he picked up a stack of paperwork, he heard a loud knock on the front door, accompanied by Tiffin’s nasal voice. “Mister Brighteyes? Are you there? It’s important!” With a grunt, he smashed the documents down onto his desk and went to answer the door.