And then it was Friday morning.
The sun hovered over the plentiful and vast fields of apple trees once more; many of them still had apples. On the dirt paths was nopony. Only the white picket fences that guarded the harvest. The scent of grass and other crisp plants permeated the air of Sweet Apple Acres. Birds chirped as they flew above, flapping their wings together.
The farmhouse still stood tall.
Inside the dining room and kitchen, Applejack placed a hot fresh pie on the table.
She glanced at the door to the outside, then at the window.
A sigh. "It's gettin' on my nerves now."
Knock on the door.
Her ears went up. "Huh?"
She walked to it and opened.
"Wha? Rarity? What are ya' doing here?"
Rarity sighed, looking down. A thoughtful face, a frown.
"What's goin' on?" Applejack asked, speeding up—concerned.
Rarity walked farther inside and closed the door with a blue glow.
"Come on, Rarity, tell me!" Applejack said, almost insisting.
Rarity gulped. A pause. "My father's going."
The farmpony opened her mouth. Didn't say anything. Only surprise.
Rarity sat on a chair. "He will be going out to battle when he leaves in the nine o' clock train. He's sent us more than enough bits to move to Manehattan and..." a choke. "Everything's in his bags now. All that remains are our goodbyes and farewells."
Applejack looked down, too.
"And, in a month, we won't be here," Rarity continued. "We'll have to live there. He is going to be at the eastern part of the frontline and Manehattan is only some miles away. Sweetie Belle will take up a new school; on the plus side, she will be classmates with your cousin, Babs Seed, right?"
Applejack nodded, forlorn.
Rarity let out another sigh. "A relief. My mother will establish a bakery to support the cause. And, me...?" Yet another sigh. "Uniforms and uniforms and uniforms and uniforms." A pause. "As much as I want to keep Carousel Boutique alive, as much as I love showing the beauty of ponies through fashion..."
Applejack waited.
"That must be gone, too. At least temporarily."
No words from her.
The sky was blue, the apple trees were still there.
"I wanted you to be the first outside our family to know." Looked at the pie. "No matter what our differences are, the fact remains: You've been a good friend after all these years, Applejack. Not just a good friend—a best friend."
Applejack adjusted her hat; her face, forlorn.
"It would not be good to tell your little sister today," Rarity went on. "I've seen her and Sweetie and Scootaloo. That...friendship. It would only hurt her if you told her now."
And Applejack just stood.
Rarity went out of her chair. "That is all, Applejack"—in a teary voice.
She left the farmhouse and closed the door behind her.
The pie remained fresh.
Applejack looked on at the door.
A knock.
Bon Bon opened the door. "Yes, Rarity?"
"We'll be leaving town soon," Rarity said, standing in front of the wide road, the flowers' fragrances wafting upward. "I don't know when we'll be coming back, but we will. Of course, I don't want to abandon my boutique, so I was wondering if you and your friend, Lyra, would be up to the challenge."
Bon Bon looked up, humming as she wondered.
"Who's that?" Lyra asked from the living room and out of view.
"It's Rarity," Bon Bon said, turning to her for a moment before turning back. A smile on her face. "Well, why not? If you want, I could move my candy-making business there, too."
"Actually," Rarity said, raising a hoof as if in a hurry, "on second thought—"
"I can't constantly run here and there the entire day, Rarity." She wore a serious expression. "It's either I move everything there or I don't move at all."
"I'm not absolutely sure about what you're thinking about, uh—"
"That or I don't help you."
Rarity looked up for a few seconds. Then, sighed. "As long as you remove everything that doesn't belong to the boutique when we're coming home. Am I clear?"
"Clear."
Rarity smiled. "I don't need much else, Bon Bon."
And she left, going back on the road.
"What did she want?" Lyra asked, still from the living room.
Bon Bon closed the door, trotting her way there. "Rarity and her family's leaving Ponyville."
Lyra fell off the couch. Scrambling to get on her four hooves: "W-Where?!"
"Manehattan," Bon Bon replied, grabbing the newspaper on the table and opening it up. "She asked me if we could staff the boutique in her absence."
Lyra, finally on her four hooves, looked incredulous. "But, we don't even have a talent for anything related to fashion! Or sewing!"
"Leave it to me, Lyra," Bon Bon said. "I know a thing or two."
"How?!" Lyra exclaimed.
Bon Bon shook her head. "There you go again, acting like there's nothing we can do to stop the advancing armies from reaching Ponyville. Look, Lyra—when I was bored one time, I took up some lessons on fashion. I'm nowhere near Rarity's expertise, but it's better than nothing."
"But, what about me?"
Bon Bon looked up from her newspaper. She dropped it. "I taught you how to make jawbreakers. I'm sure you can help."
"How could you be this calm?" Lyra inquired in a panicked voice. "Do you know something that I don't, even though we're friends?!"
"Yes, I do know something you don't—that we can win."
"'Can'?!"
Bon Bon sighed, looking at her friend from across the room and over a short table. "I'd rather say 'can' than 'cannot'."
"Do you know some kind of thing or what?!" Lyra rambled. She levitated the newspaper. "Is there an event in the Crystal Empire? Can we contribute? Can we escape or hide somewhere safe?!"
Bon Bon tore the paper away from her magical grip. "Lyra!"
Silence.
Her horn stopped glowing, her ears drooped.
"We are safe until we aren't. I'll let you know. In the meantime, make sure you're lying about, wallowing in terror."
Lyra stood there as Bon Bon opened the newspaper and read.
Minutes passed in that silence.
Lyra sat on the couch.
Bon Bon stood at the table, reading—on the front page, a picture of a walled village of several huts, corn fields, wooden statues, and wooly yaks in the Arctic North. Headline: "Yakyakistan Reinforces Defences; Anticipating Sombra".
"I'm sorry," Lyra said.
Bon Bon looked up again, smiling. "Don't worry. I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that. To be honest, I don't understand why you're scared...but, you are scared and..." looking off, "if you're scared, it's for a good reason."
Lyra nodded. "I'm sorry that I don't understand why you're not scared, Bon Bon." And she smiled.
Bon Bon kept smiling. "Agree to disagree?"
"You're going to get us out of here when it gets that desperate, right?"
"Yeah."
Inside the train, a bulky white stallion with a stubble sat on a seat, looking out the window as the green landscape shifted into the little town of Ponyville. He brushed his purple mustache as he loosened a sleeve of his sweatshirt.
The train decelerated to a halt, and the whistle shrilled forth.
"Argh! I'll be late for my duties for the second time!" Mr. Stripes muttered. "Those ponies think they can delay me arriving. They'll not be so happy when I come barreling through their doors!"
And the train's doors opened.
Sobs from outside.
Mr. Stripes looked up, seeing the first newcomer.
He was also a bulky white stallion, but a unicorn and not an Earth pony; his brown hair and mustache gave him a strange resemblance to Mr. Stripes himself. Carrying some heavy saddle bags and levitating a few more, he did not look inside the train. His vision was focused on the ponies outside.
Mr. Stripes looked out the window.
That unicorn's family. A wife with bunned hair, and two daughters: one with ribbony mane, the other with curly mane. All of them sobbing—crying, waving him goodbye, saying their farewells in muffled and choked voices.
He waved back. "We'll be together in Manehattan! Until then!"
Those voices again, unclear though piercing through.
Mr. Stripes looked on.
No one else was on the platform.
Then, the door closed.
Whistle shrilled again.
Wheels turned.
And the train was afoot.
Mr. Stripes stayed to the window, looking at the family disappearing in the distance—the final waves, the final shouts to be remembered before they would no longer be seen. Distorted faces of open mouths, closed eyes, and streaming tears—hugs, uniting those that remain.
They were gone and so was Ponyville.
On the left and on the right were endless grassy plains. Sometimes, a lone farm would appear, only to be gone in a second. At other times, a tiny village would appear, only to be gone so fast, too. Sole ponies journeyed about even if they could only be seen in a quick glimpse. Over there, there was a pegasus mending the clouds alone.
A loud sigh from across the aisle.
Mr. Stripes looked at that father, that husband, weighed down by the bags around him. "You're joining, no?"
Hondo Flanks groaned. "Why, yes I am." He held a bag with his hooves, gazing.
Silence aside from the shaking of the railroad.
"And you, mister...?"
"Ponies just call me Mr. Stripes," he replied. "Your name would be...?"
"Hondo Flanks." He placed a hoof on his head as if worrying, trying to recall.
Silence.
"You have nice family," Mr. Stripes commented. "They care a lot."
"Yes, they do," Hondo Flanks said, nodding his head, looking away from the stallion across the aisle.
"It must be hard on all of you to live in a town that announces who's going to serve without any opinion."
"No, no. It's not conscription or anything of the sort, sir."
Mr. Stripes eyes went wide. "Volunteered?"
"It's a call that must be answered," Hondo Flanks said, gruffer than before. "You could blame it on what Canterlot's been pushing with these posters lately."
"Ah! The propaganda?" He nodded in agreement. "There's so many in my hometown of Manehattan. Even pretty glass walls get plastered on."
"It's not just the posters." Hondo looked at him.
Yet another farm passing by in the background.
"What is it that made you decide, then?"
Hondo attempted a smile. "A bit of shame."
Mr. Stripes raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"I went to Canterlot yesterday to think about my decision. There's an elisting office or whatever it is there—none of that back in Ponyville. When I stepped inside, you know what happened?"
A pause; Mr. Stripes watched, waiting.
"One of the mares there gave me a hat and a tie and told me to wear it."
A long pause; one more farm and another town passing by. Several green hills and a mountain range coming up.
"So I wore 'em. Everypony who saw me as I waited in line—they jeered, laughed, teased me, calling me words like 'irresponsible' and 'scaredy-pony'. Then, I realized—I only realized it after I signed up."
"It is only a simple thing," Mr. Stripes interrupted, taking on a no-nonsense tone. "You were targeted."
Hondo sighed again, deeper this time. "I know. But, maybe...maybe what they said was right."
Mr. Stripes got out of his seat. "Mr. Hondo Flanks, serving Equestria is a noble duty, yes. But, you know other ways to serve, right? To still be with your family?"
Hondo looked at him. Then, away.
The train was climbing the ascent up the mountains; the plains were getting farther and farther, replaced by jagged rocks and cool trees bending and swaying under the chilling wind.
"I don't get it," Hondo uttered, eyeing Mr. Stripes with mistrust. "I've never met you before. Why are you caring an awful lot about me and my family?"
"I have a family," Mr. Stripes said. "A lovely wife and partner in renting industry. Of course, there's my little Plaid—" and a sniffle. "And, I've found ways to not be in danger and to stay with my loved ones."
Hondo turned away slightly. "You live near combat. One more loss on our side and they'll start their weather attacks on your home."
"So what?" Mr. Stripes said with a light laugh of his own. "If they destroy our house, we can run away together to any other city—I have good names in Fillydelphia and Baltimare, good friends."
Hondo drooped in his seat. "But, if they destroy my house..."
"Then, you cannot run away together because your family's not there."
Hondo set his hoof on the window.
A little more and the descent would begin. Up there, the sky was overcast, a blanket gray.
The two stallions got out of the train at Maneway Station. Past the stairs and escalators, they finally went outside after a flight down the stairs.
The roads teemed with carriages, most of them filled with military passengers of all kinds—dirty faces, injured limbs, fancy hats, shiny weapons, reflective medals; strained whispers, barked orders, low conversations, and silence. The civilian passers-by beheld the spectacle in front of their very eyes, the informal and unscheduled parade of soldiers and officers with no definite place to be. Some went left at the intersection, others went right or straight ahead. Ambulance carriages zipped past the food wagons full of bread and water.
Observing eyes behind the windows from the tall houses, apartments, hotels, offices. Pegasi flying over the roads, moving clouds to certain positions and locations. Earth ponies and unicorns speaking to each other at the stairs, at the doors, at the corners of sidewalks—fast, short, and then away. Only a few stayed to chat for some time.
A concrete smell.
The two stallions walked their way through the urban maze. Every turn yielded at least one poster on a wall—even a "pretty glass wall". One depicted a mare and a stallion bumping their hooves with the words, in bold font, "Join the Guard! A little of your time for many lives." Another showed a stallion wearing the famed yellow armor and helmet with these words instead: "For the defense of friendship and Equestria!"
Finally, they reached the Bridleway Theater District.
Towering high-rises, grand structures and edifices. Carriages cramming the large intersection. But, gone were the advertisements about the next great show to appear on Bridleway, or about another flavor of softdrink, or about some discount in some department store somewhere in the city. Instead, there were advertisements that spurned the heart, the emotions, to "join the Guard!"
Hondo Flanks gasped for breath as they stood in front of Bridleway Theater itself—the red carpet led to a group of glass doors inside. The glow on his horn disappeared and the bags that he'd carried all the way dropped to the ground.
Mr. Stripes looked at him. "You must be tired. You need water?"
"They have water where I'm going," Hondo said in an exasperated fashion. "I know the way from here." A pause. "You're still going?"
"No." He shook his head. "It would be good to be with you, but I have job, too. I'm late, really."
"You're late! I'm sorry for that, mister! I must leave! Thanks!"
And, his horn lighting up again, he crossed the street with carried bags, dodging the carriages all the way to the other side of the intersection.
Mr. Stripes walked up the steps to his house.
It was a normal Manehattan house, unlike most houses seen in the rural areas and even those in other cities. His house, like the two beside it, was a tall building but quite narrow—about four ponies wide. A short staircase led to the welcoming yellow door, as flower pots hung beside it. The small front yard overflowed with vines and bushes and shrubs; in one small corner, there were weeds sprouting. Some trees, too, grew in that yard, already towering over Mr. Stripes with their thick leaves and branches also providing shade and cooling.
Mr. Stripes brought a key inside his shirt's pocket and unlocked the door.
It smelled good—of roses and tulips, actually. Besides that, doors on the wall held rooms where noises and words could be heard: some clicks slamming away, a cello practiced and played, some quiet talks.
He went up the staircase to the second floor and approached one of the doors there.
Knocked on it.
"It's me, Plaid!" he declared, his voice mellowing.
And the door was unlocked, opened.
A teenage filly—orange with purple hair and bushy eyebrows; braces and a plaid shirt with a scarf around her neck. She gasped and grinned. "Daddy!"
The two hugged at the door; closed eyes.
Then, he let go—a step back.
"I wish I could stay, but I have super important clients to take care of."
Plaid Stripes nodded, grinning and showing her braces. "Of course!" Then, hesitation in her voice—"You'll be OK out there?"
"I've went outside many times!" Mr. Stripes said. "I will surely return! Be nice and have fun!"
And she waved at her father as he descended the stairs, his hoofsteps fading until a door opened and then closed.
Knocks on the door.
The room was a comfortable one. There were couches and bookshelves and carpets and refrigerators and stoves and toasters and plates and tables and chairs and even a radio. That was not all: plants both real and fake, and a desk, too, with its own chair. The windows gave one a grand view of the entire street—the other houses, the restaurants, the clothes store over there, too; food stands and newsstands also abounded along with the trees already on the sidewalk.
On the road was a long line of carriages all pulling wagons of bread.
More knocks on the door.
Silver Script groaned as he pushed a plate of oats and apples out of the way, leapt out of the chair, and flew to the door. "Who is it?"
"You know who this is!" the voice yelled.
He gulped and swung the door open.
Mr. Stripes stomped the floor, making a visible crack on it. "You're a month overdue! You're exactly a month overdue!"
Silver Script grabbed a plate over his head, shuddering. "Mr. Stripes, I know this sounds like I'm making excuses and—"
"Excuses are not excusable!"
"Agh!"
And he retreated to the table, hitting it. Glasses and plates wobbled.
"I haven't received my pay from my, uh, employer because he's running late, too!" He stood up, though still shivering.
Mr. Stripes walked over to the pegasus, each step powerful and cracking the floor.
"No! How are you—"
"It's my building," Mr. Stripes yelled. "I'll worry about my broken floors. You worry about paying rent!"
"I'll certainly pay the rent! Just, uh, not on time!" He grinned.
Mr. Stripes snorted. Then, he pointed at the open door. "Give me the money or get out. I cannot have immature ponies take up precious space! Only deserving renters deserve these rooms!"
Silver Script drew in breath to say something.
And he went down the stairs with a briefcase under his wing and with a head hanging down.
He did not mind what was going on around him as he walked on and flew over the sidewalks and streets.
He did not mind the countless carriages moving in and out, all bringing soldiers and supplies of all kinds—not just foods, but also new weapons as well including more spears and arrows and cannons. He did not mind the eager ponies who ran up to him to give him flyers and brochures about their services to the war—invitations to become a guard and fight somehow. He did not mind the ships of yet more soldiers coming in and docking at the port across the river, those ponies marching out in files and rows, in fixed and organized groups. He did not mind the taxis speeding by, the drivers in full gallop as they hurried.
What he did mind was the beckoning scent of some sandwiches.
By the time his order came about and set on the table, it was twilight.
The diner known as "Sandwiches and Other Food" had a checkered floor and some swivel chairs at the counter. The chefs and cooks took orders at the line and wrapped up the sandwiches for others to get.
The line was long and, by the anxious looks of the ponies there, they were hoping to get a seat.
Tables were full of ponies chatting while holding newspapers by hoof, wing, or magic.
It felt tense; what most of the conversations turned to, eventually, was the prospect of an invasion. Glances and pauses only made things more uneasy for Silver Script.
Beside the simple lettuce sandwich he got, there was also a typewriter and a stack of paper on his table. Some quills rested on those papers.
He took a bite of the sandwich. His face lightened up.
Incessant knocks.
Star Tracker opened the door. "Huh? What's going on?!"
"I'm Silver Script! You know—the guy who needs a bed to sleep on!"
"Oh! Let me turn on the rest of the lights."
A flick of a switch and Silver Script could see the entire room.
It was small but it was crowded with so many items. Past the furniture, there were photographs and autographs on the table and tacked to the wall, etching patches of memories. Memorabilia and merchandise also proliferated the room—hats, shirts, medals, paintings, books and more all having the face of some famous pony including even that of a Princess or two. The warm lamps gave it a yellow overtone.
"Pretty great, huh?" Star Tracker said, stepping aside as the pegasus walked inside and closed the door behind him with a wing.
He looked around. "Woah. You're quite the pony, Star Tracker."
"Eh-heh-heh, don't mention it!" He smiled awkwardly as he opened a shelf and took out a bag of chips. "It's what I do!"
Silver Script turned round to face him as the Earth pony tore it open. "You do...this?"
"Yeah! I'm good at it! I always find a way to get to a celebrity's shoulders." Then, he munched on the chips. "It's plain salted. Wanna help yourself?" He hoofed the bag to him.
"No, thanks." Silver Script smiled. "When I heard your name, I wasn't expecting much."
"That's alright," he said after gulping the first batch of chips down. "Bed's over there," and he pointed.
Silver Script looked.
Two beds on the side.
"So, how long are you gonna stay in my place?" Star Tracker asked.
"Don't know." He scratched his head, his smile disappearing. "Maybe until I...you know."
"Oh." And dropped a chip.