//------------------------------//
// Visit 
// Story: A War 
// by Comma Typer 
//------------------------------//

Train doors shut.
Wheels turning, whistle shrilling, landscape slowly changing and shifting.
And the train was off.
Rarity, Sweetie Belle, and Cookie Crumbles sat on the seats; behind them were giant stacks of luggages and baggages, threatening to fall apart and block a passenger's way through the carriage.
Sweetie Belle ran off to one of the windows that faced Ponyville. She went up one of the seats and took a good look of Ponyville slowly fading.
One final look of Ponyville under the sunset. The sky, back in its orange, gave the town a feeling of farewell, as if the ponies there sent them off at a perfect time—the orange, perhaps, meant the end of life there.
At the train station, before they were gone from view, were Apple Bloom and Scootaloo. Waving, shouting.
Gone.
A sniffle.
She waved back.



The mailgriffon sat near the end of the carriage, that family at the other side with all the bags blocking a part of her view.
Gabby pawed her seat, looking at the family as the whimpers began anew.
A hug, an embrace.
Hills passing by, trees and grass whizzing by structures to be seen for a minute before they're gone, too.
"Ooh. That's not good." She opened her bag of mail, taking a peek and seeing some of the letters and packages inside.



As Gabby stood at the train station, her paws and claws on the concrete's edge where the railroad lay, she watched the train leave as it shrilled its whistle one last time before it was gone, disappearing into the night and far away from the city.
She gave a small wave and a poignant pout.
The griffon took flight.
The Trotton Transit Center was "the pinnacle of train stations!"—so it said on the wall with massive letters that went from one side of the hallway to another. The hallways were humongous as they held glass ceilings that reached high. Escalators and stairs stood side-by-side as ponies took both pathways up and down the floors.
After winding through a few columns and rounding some corners, she entered the grand hall.
A dry fragrance permeated the room. The floors were shiny and had paintings of trains on them, done with the utmost attention to detail. On the walls were more paintings of trains, framed in metal beside the schedules for each rail line; the walls themselves were adorned with ceramic planks and embellishments. Hanging over the center was the collection of all the schedules for all to see, all written in huge letters; underneath were counters where more than ten clerks and assistants entertained the questions and inquiries of various ponies and other creatures.
More creatures—mostly ponies—sat on the benches as they checked their watches, opened and closed their suitcases, talked with each other, read the newspaper or a book. Various staff, donning yellow aprons, walked about offering refreshments to those waiting at their seats...and most of their prospects declined, resulting in some groans.
Gabby flew through a pair of glass doors and flew outside.
A breath of cool, fresh air. Trees decorated the sidewalks as large double-decker carriages brought many ponies toward some place or another. High-rise buildings of steel shone through the many stories of lights; beside them were the humble commercial outlets where crowds gathered and conversed and purchased. To the left and to the right, calmer places were more common; these had grass and fences and yards (whether at the front or at the back). Over there was a park where some ponies relaxed and winded down.
Yet another double-decker whizzed by Gabby, barely avoiding her.
She went on flying, staying above the sidewalk as she flew above ponies trotting by in the middle of their own schedules. The bright lights that glared and dazzled did not faze her—she kept flying, past intersections and over more ponies, some of which shook their hooves at her, shouting at her.



Across a couple of rivers, flying over houses with simple grass yards and lit up streets, she landed in front of a house that stood above the rest.
It was an orange mansion four floors tall. Fountains and tables lined up the straight pathway to the entrance which was an enormous double door that was half as tall as the mansion itself. A group of butlers placed empty plates and utensils on to the tables, alternating between one set of refined forks and knives with another such refined set.
They all looked at the intruder.
Gabby smiled, holding an envelope with her claw. "Uh, I'm a mailgriffon. I've got some mail for a Mr. and Mrs. Orange."
One of the butlers walked up to her, levitated the envelope, tore it open, levitated the actual letter out, read it, and nodded as he walked the long way to the big entrance.
"Wow," she said. "That's rude."
And she lunged back to the sky, wings spread open.



The dining room was only one of several.
The walls stretched up the entire four stories to the ceiling way up there. Windows almost as tall as the wall had their curtains open, permitting the ponies there a grand view of the river that was streaming peacefully as boats floated by and another part of the city glowed in its many lights.
The table was almost as long as the room itself, having enough room to seat fifty ponies at normal capacity, complete with different kinds of plates, spoons, forks, knives, napkins, and fruit bowls—or, rather, orange bowls since the only fruits there were oranges and oranges. At the middle was a bouquet of flowers that gave off lovely scents.
At the side was a gray Earth pony mare who played a somber piece of music on her cello, arpeggios abundant in her lone symphony done in rich tones and notes. She had a pink bowtie.
Mr. and Mrs. Orange stood beside each other at the table: he was light gold in his coat and green in his mane, while she was a lighter yellow and having a sort of "stacked" mane; she wore a shiny necklace around her neck.
"This is a lovely manor," Mrs. Orange said, wondering at what lay before her; not only was the table there, but immense paintings just about covered the walls, depicting crisp views of landscapes laden with grass, trees, and rivers.
"It is," Mr. Orange replied. "We brought everything here and more. Who knew Trotton was a beautiful city for a Manehattanite? And, if we ever feel homesick, Manehattan is only one train ride away."
One of the doors opened.
"A letter, sir and madam," the butler said, levitating the letter as he walked past many chairs before he reached the Orange ponies.
Mr. Orange raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"
Mrs. Orange got the letter and read it. Then, a small gasp. "It's an invitation to the Apple family reunion—in three days!"
"That's Monday!" Mr. Orange blurted out. He cast a glance at the butler. "Surely, you've checked if it was clear or not!"
"The paper could have only come from the town of Ponyville, sir," the butler answered.
He placed a hoof on his head. "This is unprecedented." Then, coughed and straightened up. "Well, that would mean a slight change of plans, but nothing major has been derailed. The dinner shall go as ordered, and all the preparations must be done by Sunday."
The butler nodded and brisked his way out of the room, closing the doors shut.
Mrs. Orange looked at the celloist. "Octavia, you don't mind being here for an extra long time, do you?"
She nodded, still moving her bow, still playing.



Half-open eyes looked out the train window.
On the right, the sun rose over the vast Celestial Sea. Clear skies dominated the hour; a cheerful mood was setting in for those who were walking outside on the many grass plains on the left.
"We're entering Manehattan in one minute," a voice announced through the speakers.
Octavia groaned, the cello-shpaed bag beside her, and it was big, close to touching the ceiling.
A pony in uniform walked a small wagon to her side. "Ma'am, it looks like you need something more serious than a hearty breakfast." She levitated a tray of plates and floated it toward her. "This is all yours."
Octavia grabbed hold of the tray and saw the waffles, the pancakes, the vegetables, and a bowl of sour cream.
"Sour cream?" Octavia asked.
"It's a long story," the uniformed pony said with a laugh. "I wish I could tell you about Minuette and her group of friends, but we don't have much time." She gazed at the outside turning into the metropolis known as Manehattan. "If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have known that pancakes with sour cream was great and amazing! Unexpected, yes, but great!"
Octavia balked. "What a disgusting combination!"



The celloist carried the heavy cello, lugging it along as she looked both ways before crossing the busy street, squished by the many ponies who were crossing with her.
Then, safely at the other side.
She placed a hoof over her eyes, squinting as she looked yonder at a particular building.
There it was: a boutique of classical architecture, consisting of thin columns and arches beside straight rectangle windows.
As she trotted her way there, she passed by several other boutiques and fashion stores. There was a shoe store advertising the best shoes (or so it claimed) and, indeed, a couple of shoes were on display behind the front window at a 50% discount (so said the sign beside those fancy shoes). A jewelry shop glittered even at the door which was half-covered in precious gems; the display window had necklaces, bracelets, and rings with worthful diamonds and other beautiful stones...and then, there was the jewelry display outside the store where a small group of ponies were holding the accessories with their hooves, rotating them as they examined these displays of opulence. Also, there was a retail store known for its discount clothes, with racks of plain colored shirts blocking the view of the windows; there was a long line that stretched from the counter all the way through the door, to the outside, and even about to spill over to the street.
A carriage zoomed by.
Octavia covered her face as her mane swayed.
Then, she was right at the place.
"Manehattan Boutique," Octavia said, looking at the clothes on display at the windows.
These were dresses and suits of a single theme: minimalistic beauty. No frills; only what could make one pretty or handsome and nothing more. One dress had a neatly-trimmed piece of fabric propped up by a few ribbons; one suit had a coat and a tie that shone a bit under the sunlight.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
And waited.
Carriages ran by, ponies walked by. Wheels creaking, conversations going, orders given, bits exchanged, pegasi flying. A pony watering a potted plant at the store beside.
The door opened with a ring.
"Welcome to Manehattan Boutique!" Rarity greeted, extending a hoof open for a hoofshake as she smiled. "This is where every garment is chic, unique, and magnifique!" And she turned her hoof over her head, adding to her greeting.
"Wasn't I the celloist you asked for?" Octavia asked matter-of-factly.
Rarity groaned and slouched her shoulders. "I was enjoying the introductions, darling. Come with me."



"Finally, this is where you will perform. I've picked out the location myself and I think it's just right! All sound everywhere!"
Octavia looked at the small wooden platform that stood between two yellow dresses.
"Oh, I do hope that you aren't bothered with the arrangements!" Rarity said, panicking as her hooves quivered.
"I'm not bothered in the slightest," Octavia said, smiling as she put down her bag on the wall. "I've already memorized some pieces fitting for a shop like this. Give me a minute to set up."
"Perfect!" Rarity said, clasping her front hooves as her grin widened. Then, her eyes turned somewhere else. "Ooh! That must be another customer!"
She walked on the red carpet, walking with an elegant gai, slow but thought-out. After some rows and lines of clothes, she reached her customer.
The fashionista gasped.
"Hi, Rarity!" Plaid Stripes said, waving at her and smiling, showing her braces. "You must be the fashion pony who's renting this place out! Let me tell you: you did an excellent job at sprucing this dusty old floor up! Not even my Daddy could think of a way to make it decent, but you made it...uh, excellent!"
"Why, uh, yes!" Rarity replied, nodding slowly. "You don't need to state your name; your father has already caught me up to speed about you." She glanced to the left, doing her best to avoid looking at her—that pony she saw clothed in garish style such as plaid clothes and scarves.
Plaid nodded. She turned around to see once again the shiny red dress before her. "Wow! You must be good at fashion! May I touch the fabric?!"
And stretched her hoof toward it.
"No!" Rarity yelled, throwing herself in the way and smacking the hoof out of the way. She then stood up and dusted herself off.
"Woah!" Plaid exclaimed, taking some steps back. "That dress must be, uh, very good if you don't want anyone touching it!"
Rarity nodded, keeping up that forced smile. "Yes, dear! It's very good! I wouldn't want it to be stained by anypony, not even the pony who wants to buy it!"
Plaid blew out into a full-on cheek-to-cheek grin, displaying almost all of her braces. "Your world of fashion and clothes is so amazing, Rarity! No wonder Daddy would like you to stay here for high prices!"
Rarity flinched.



Hours passed and it was sunset again.
Rarity stood in the meager bedroom of wooden planks, old cabinets, dusty paintings, and inadequate beds that were definitely smaller than the bed back at home. It was brown in color and Rarity sighed, levitating a spoonful of ice cream before her mouth.
A knock on the door.
"Who is it?" she said, levitating a tub of ice cream away while she consumed the little serving.
"I haven't met him before," Octavia said through the door, "but he says he's Mr. Stripes and that he's here to check on some—"
Rarity opened the door, galloped past Octavia who tripped, almost crashed into one of the dresses, ran on the carpet and moving it about, and finally stopped before Mr. Stripes who stood at the entrance.
She could see the yellow sky out the window; it was clear skies, too.
"Rarity!" Mr. Stripes said heartily, about to burst into laughter. "Your store is doing well for first day! You are hauling in tons of bits because of your great clothes! That means more money for both you and me."
Rarity laughed nevously, shifting her gaze. "I h-hear that's good, right?"
"Certainly good!" he replied, smiling. "I am now considering loosening and relaxing my restraints on you. For now only. Don't be afraid; I am here to encourage!"
Rarity looked surprised and shook her head. "What?"
"You dare not accept my hospitality?" he said, changing into a threatening tone.
"I accept your hospitality, Mr. Stripes!" Rarity said, nodding her head again. "Without you, we might be stuck in some mill producing the same old boring uniforms!"
Mr. Stripes nodded as well. "I sympathize."
Rarity blinked.
"But, that is all!" Mr. Stripes stepped out on to the sidewalk. "Keep impressing me with customers and sales and we can talk more."
With that, he left.



Mr. Stripes walked up the stairs to his house once again, unlocking the door with the key, and going inside.
He closed the door and turned around in the hallway with its staircase.
A yelp from his mouth.
"Don't worry," the armored pony spoke kindly as he took off his helmet, revealing a yellow mane on his blue coat. "I was only doing my job of asking ponies what they're doing for the cause."
"W-What are you doing here?" Mr. Stripes stammered, looking behind him and noticing that there was nowhere left to run. "I've never seen you before!"
"General Radar," he said. "You've heard of me as the one taking care of the front right here. Well, here I am. Ta-da!" He spread a hoof, smiling awkwardly.
"But, I did not ask you!"
"I go around hoofing out flyers in my off-time," Radar said. "They're supposed to convince ponies to think more of the conflict that's a ride away from home."
"I am doing job, too, sir!" Mr. Stripes said, breathing faster. "I do not want to be going to the battle anytime soon!"
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Radar assured, smiling. "Know that I'm only walking around and hoofing out flyers. Nothing else but that, OK?"
Mr. Stripes nodded.
"Great! Besides, I was about to leave anyway. So...bye!"
Mr. Stripes stepped aside, shaking in his hooves as he watched the general open the door and leave the house.



It was nighttime, the starry sky and the moon above them once again.
Radar and a few soldiers were in the carriage as it was being pulled by several drivers galloping their way through.
As they journeyed on, beyond the river and Manehattan, he saw some ponies in stretchers—scarred and bandaged, carried by some nurses and paramedics.
There were holes on the ground, craters even; some more ponies were occupied in filling the craters up, shoveling the surrounding ground and dumping it in the holes to balance the ground out.
Cannons and trebuchets were lining up with many ponies pushing and pulling them forward and ever closer to the front but not before disappearing from their sight behind a few hills and mountains.
In the distance, thunder and muffled shouts.
Radar wore a smile as the wagon stopped.
All the passengers leaped off and landed on the ground.
Radar stood in front of several ponies in gray suits and armor. "Rock Troopers, am I right? You're doing good so far—better than expected. But, it's far from over; we have a lot of things to discuss."