//------------------------------//
// From Friday Morning to Saturday Noon 
// Story: A War 
// by Comma Typer 
//------------------------------//

Crusoe stepped off the train with most of the passengers and walked on Ponyville soil.
He looked up and saw some pegasi patrolling the sky. He then looked behind him, seeing the boxes of sand that he was carrying on his back. "Still safe," he muttered.
Then, passing by the same houses and walking on the same streets, he entered the town hall.



The circular room in the middle was a formidable hall. Tall windows let in the sunshine, the soothing morning sunshine; lockers and metal cabinets with numbers on them lined the walls; banners hung royally, colorful and complicated in their designs and stylings.
As he entered the room, Crusoe's eyes laid on the big table at the room's center and on the ponies surrounding it. Mayor Mare was there and Rarity was standing beside her; a few soldiers in their yellow armor and uniform stood firm, not giving Crusoe their mind.
And then, there was the ironclad unicorn. His white coat and his blue hair shone a bit under the sun's rays; his purple and yellow armor was not full as he held a hard helmet with one hoof.
Whatever hushed talk was going on stopped at the arrival of Crusoe.
All eyes were on him.
"I've brought the sand you've ordered," Crusoe said, hesitating.
Silence as they looked at each other.
"Ah, yes," Mayor Mare said as she trotted her way over to him and then obtained the boxes. "These will certainly be of good use."
Crusoe smiled then, noticing the white unicorn, he bowed a little. "And, thank you, Captain Shining Armor."
The officer smiled back.
And then Crusoe was out.
Everypony at the table returned to looking at it, specifically the map that was on it.
It was a detailed sketch of Equestria and its surrounding territories. A solid line showed the boundaries of the Crystal Emprie. Then, a dashed line went in front of it. There was yet another one a bit farther East, and the another one a bit farther West. A few more dashed lines were scattered here and there in the northern part of Equestria.
"Where was I?" Shining began, looking around. "Right—" half-closing his eyes and making them appear set "—we've gathered enough intel to know several important points about Sombra's strategy."
"What would that be?" a soldier asked beside him.
"One, he has become dangerously shrewd in less than a week. We've only failed the First Battle of the Hessian Mountains on Tuesday because we underestimated his state of mind. Nothing more and nothing less." Then, he put his hoof on a line a bit closer to Canterlot, though still far away. "But, he somehow maneuvered his troops over here, past our frontlines. Granted, the trenches were not even half-complete and maybe we didn't have enough time to mobilize the necessary troops, but we gave Sombra the benefit of the doubt until the very end so we have nothing to blame on that part."
The mayor glanced at him awkwardly.
"Then, we've received attacks from random points here—" pointing to one dashed line "—here"— and then to another one "—and here—" pointing to yet another dashed line.
Everypony else considered the land and the forces represented in those small lines.
"It confused most of us, even baffling high command. There was no rhyme nor reason to his 'unplanned' offensives—a lot of them did not have plenty in terms of population, natural resources, or even much historical value. They were just empty plains or, otherwise, little villages.
"And then..."
He hurled his hoof toward a big city straddling the western coast of Equestria. It was in its North-West, only hundreds of miles away from the arctic regions. The name given to it was: "Vanhoover."
"You've read the mid-morning newspapers, all of you, right?" Shining said, his voice becoming sterner.
"Vanhoover's been taken," the mayor answered—solemn.
Shining sighed, looking at the map below his head. "He distracted us from the real threats. We thought his forces were very few. It turns out that they were only enough to make sure that Vanhoover would fall to the brunt of his army. We were deceived and placed the majority of our soldiers on those 'random' frontlines instead of important areas like Vanhoover.
That's the other side of the story."
The mayor breathed in a quick breath. Rarity brought a hoof around her neck, showing sympathy in her closed and downcast lips.
"I don't know how long will it take for Sombra to realize that we've known a part of his strategy," Shining said. "But, we must take advantage of it while it lasts—that we know that he wants to confuse us and, when we're confused, strike at an unexpected place."
"We'll open our doors!" the mayor suddenly exclaimed.
Rarity and the soldiers looked at her, bewildered.
"Where will the poor Vanhooverites stay if not anywhere else but here?" She pointed at the ground, her passion-filled eyes lit up and amplified behind her glasses.
Shining nodded. "You're a good mayor." Then, taking in another sigh—"Listen closely. We'll talk about Vanhoover later, but listen closely...."
And everypony leaned over the table.



Davenport was leaning on his wooden chair, a leg dangling over and another one on the counter where a cash register was on.
He was opposite the front door and also sleeping.
The space that was between Davenport and the front door was occupied by the two products that his shop capitalized on: quills and sofa. On his left were the sofas—purple, gray, black, and white were the colors to choose from although their different forms and patterns made up for the lack of hue variety; rugs and abstract paintings completed this half of the store. The other half, the one on his right, was where the quills were stored and put on display alongside extra wells of ink on the bottom shelves; some quills came in bundles all grouped together into sleek vases and jars, while others came individually as they lay there almost perfectly straight with labels describing them, their history, and their value—for example, one yellow quill over here was described by the label as "from the plumage of a Dragon Lands phoenix".
Then, the door barged open.
Davenport, startled, almost fell off the chair and then stood up.
"Sir," the soldier said, outstretching a hoof at him, "are you Davenport, the owner of 'Quills and Sofas'?"
He shook his head, shaking off the drowziness. "Yes, I am. What do you need?"
"Half of your sofas," the soldier replied.
Davenport blinked. "Did I hear you correctly?"
"Yes, you heard me correctly. I wouldn't know, though, until you repeat what I've just said."
Davenport glanced at the outstretched hoof inches before his nose. "You'll pay me a handsome amount for that—you know that, sir."
"Not immediately," the soldier said, hoof still outstretched and now gesturing for payment. "Also, I won't be paying. The Princesses will."
Davenport glanced at the lone feather below the counter. Then, he closed his eyes for a few moments.
"What is wrong, sir?" the soldier asked. "Are you getting sick?"
"Not exactly," he said, a faint smile appearing. "I was...taken aback by this unforeseen request for so many sofas."
"That includes half the sofas in your inventory," the soldier said, "not just the ones you have here outside." With that, he lowered his hoof.
Davenport pushed the chair aside and grabbed a quill from the top of the counter. "We'll make this official, yes? I'll get some parchment." He walked over to the door behind him when he stopped and turned around. "May I ask why the Princesses need so many sofas?"
"It's for the guard," the soldier replied.
"You're going to use...sofas?"
"We'll split them up into pillows and beds," he said. "Hurry up—it's already dusk and some more batches will go out—"
"Dusk?!" Davenport yelled as he ran to the counter and looked out the three big windows that gave a pretty view of a road beautified with flowers on the sides.
The sky was indeed orange.
And then Davenport opened the door and rushed inside, leaving the soldier in front of the counter—waiting.



Later, in the evening, that same soldier had joined his comrades in pulling several wagons crammed with a peculiar selection of items: besides the sofas that had been purchased, there were caged birds, blank scrolls, quarter-precious paintings, soda bottles with their soda caps, old clothes, even a decaying bench—by the looks of it, it was uprooted, since the metal bolts were rusted and damaged.
Some of those wagons passed by Canterlot Boutique; some of those windows had bright lights on, their own pony-made rays of light emanating forth on to the dark grass patches and dirt roads—armor glimmering.
Sweetie Belle's head popped into view.
Inside the bedroom/workplace, one could see the bed furnished with an elegant cover of refined timber. There was also the shelves of fabrics and textiles of several kinds, sticky notes on the wall, mirrors, mannequins, yarns, spools, sewing machines—
Rarity came inside.
"There you are, Sweetie Belle!" she said, a reassured smile washing over her face. "For a minute, I thought you had gone back with our parents!"
Sweetie Belle turned away from the overlooking window. "I'm here!"
Rarity's smile grew bigger. "Yes, Sweetie, you're here!"
Sweetie scampered to her sister. "What was the hubbub in town hall about? It must be very serious if you came home only now."
"'Hubbub'?" Rarity repeated. Then, rolling her eyes and holding her mane: "That's not important—the word. Well, the 'hubbub' concerned how the conflict's going so far. The Captain of the Royal Guard himself arrived in Ponyville to hold a meeting here—a private meeting, mind you, but it was a meeting nonetheless."
"It'll be over soon?" Sweetie asked—eyes asking as they gazed into her eyes.
Rarity choked—laughed a little, a bit haughty. "What made you doubt that it won't be over? It's only a hoofful of setbacks. It's our fault that we didn't prepare ourselves sooner."
A pensive pause—a harrowing silence only broken by the marching hoofsteps and the squeaking wheels. "When do you think it will end?" Sweetie then spoke.
"Oh, it will be over before you know it, Sweetie!" Rarity said, almost laughing that sentence out. She paced to her bed, grabbing a sleeping mask with her magical grip, her horn glowing. "What day is it? What season?"
"You really don't know?" Sweetie asked, tilting her head—perplexed.
"Of course, I know! Spring just started. If it hadn't been for that grumpy king coming back from a thousand-year slumber, I would've rolled out my 'Springsition' line by now!"
Sweetie glanced at the window.
She walked to the bed, to Rarity's side.
"What will you do now, Rarity?" Sweetie asked—her voice quieter.
Rarity sighed and placed a hoof on her sister's shoulder. "Work. There's an awful lot of work to do—chiefly, soldiers to clothe and to protect." She glanced at the window, too. "It's getting late, Sweetie."
She walked over to the door.
"You better sleep," Rarity said. "Tomrrow's a Saturday so you could wake up later than usual."
"I know that, Rarity!" Sweetie whined as she levitated a sleeping mask of her own. Then, she stopped—floating it in mid-air as a look of awareness was on her face. Then, she faced Rarity again—the door was already open and she was half-out the bedroom. "Why did you tell me that?"
Rarity scrunched up her mouth. "I assumed you changed your habits now that there's a...war." An awkward pause. "Goodnight, Sweetie Belle. Sweet dreams!"
"Goodnight, Rarity," Sweetie said back, levitating the sleeping mask closer to her.
Rarity flipped the light switch and the door closed.
Now, it was dark and Sweetie Belle got up to bed, wearing that mask, and slept.



By late morning, Saturday, that same soldier walked a twisting path that led to the outskirts of town and beyond. By the time he halted, he cast a long look on Ponyville down below—a curious sight yet a familiar one, with its homely houses that harkened back to the so-called 'simple days' that had no idea that there would be hotels and offices made of fifty floors and more.
The soldier took in a deep breath of fresh air—sumptuous to his senses, almost tasting with his tongue that delectable air.
"You're the one who's gonna inspect the sandbags?" a voice questioned.
Alarmed, he jumped and whirled around to see a stallion whose most unique feature was a stubble.
"Are you?"
The soldier nodded. "Yes."
"Brilliant. I'll show you the way."
They approached a small booth beside a stone statue of a pegasus standing guard. The sound of rushing water increased in volume and the soldier could see the dam in its entire extent: light purple in color, concrete and stone in composition; some Tesla coils could be seen at the bottom—glass spheres held up by cones which were surrounded by rings of the actual metal coils. The river was split into two—the higher part before the dam, the lower part after the dam. After that, a rocky waterfall.
The stubbled pony opened the door and gave way to the soldier.
He skipped the controls and the instruction manuals on a desk and looked straight at the pile of sandbags stacked atop each other.
"Unless we had the entire pegasus population of Ponyville or some unicorns with raw talent in magic," the stallion broke in, "we can't stop even limited flooding if the Crystal ponies harm the dam."
"What about some trenches?" the soldier quipped.
"Easier said than done." The stubbled pony gave a mocking guffaw. "We should've upped security here years ago. Last month, we've had a catastrophe on our hooves when a colt played catch and ended up throwing a boulder at the dam. Good thing it didn't break, but repairs were needed and..."
He stopped, the soldier noticing that the stubbled pony had placed a hoof on the door frame, supporting himself on that hoof.
"Go. Do what you have to do." He waved the soldier off as he walked away. "Thinking about it...I need to go to Sugarcube Corner."



By noon, the stubbled pony had entered the bakery.
There was that recognizable scent of sweet sugar. Several ponies chatted as they ate their desserts—or full-course meals of desserts.
Meanwhile, Mr. Cake and Mrs. Cake pored over the one-page letter that rested silently on the counter.
"Sweet Apple Acres is doing as much as it can," Mayor Mare said, standing in front of the couple and the letter. "In spite of that—I'm sad to say—it might not be enough. We're receiving packs of displaced Vanhooverites—we'll house them, give them temporary shelter until our construction crew is finished with Chillwater."
"I've never heard of that place before, mayor," Mr. Cake said, looking away from the letter.
Mrs. Cake looked at her, too. "Is that where you'll move them?"
"We began construction yesterday," the mayor informed. "Only five miles South—far enough from the Everfree Forest, if you were wondering."
Mr. Cake quivered. "And you're saying that we can help out by—"
"Offering less sweets and more plain bread," the mayor completed.
The couple gulped, wrapping each other with two hooves as they looked at the mayor—and then the letter with a quill beside it.