Scootaloo sat alone by the train station.
The platform was a crippled, frail thing—holes, cracks, nails about to get loose. Before it was the railroad, still in good condition but it has seen better days as could be evidenced by the rust emerging, its shiny metal sheen fading and giving way to decay. Before that were the grass fields, fighting valiantly against disheartening resignation to the whims of the wind, against the coming of autumn.
It was windy, so it was cold.
Scootaloo shivered, hugged herself and clamped her teeth down.
Overheard a couple of ponies on the other side of the platform—the stallion carrying a ton of bags on his back, the mare fixing her glasses in front of him.
"Could you believe it, honey?" he said, tipping his hat to her as if by force of habit. "The changelings were overrun by the Crystals! Now, just how did they get there all of a sudden?"
"General Spearhead said they teleported in," she replied, now curling up her pink mane. "Huge teleportation skills. The hive didn't see it coming."
"Eh, what's the use of it to us?" he said, eyeing the wobbling stack of bags on himself. "It doesn't say much to me if they're changelings or ponies. All I want to do is rest—this is becoming a ghost town, and what shall I do? Pull out thorns? Become a full-time gardener?!"
"How stubborn the rest of them are, though. Just look at the ponies who insist on staying here in this dreadful place!"—eyeing Scootaloo.
"Now, now, don't you harp on with your insults and your depreciating words. They've had it as hard as it is—where else could they go?"
"Where we're going, Cut Check."
As the three of them felt the rumble of the platform.
Heard the whistle of an incoming train.
By a wayside diner at night, alone in yet more grass fields and howling gusts with pegasi operating the winds and clouds above, Cut Check sat with a hunched back, sitting on a chair that could not swivel, picking on his hayburger and fries.
The diner's aesthetic was classic but not classy. On the contrary, it was a run-of-the-mill kind of rustic with that all too familiar heat and smell of steam and smoke, of grilling fires over a checkered floor and under the glaring lights, all attended to by aproned cooks getting their folksy uniforms messy with splotches and stains.
Cut Check was overhearing the conversation of another customer like him and a waiter, the both of them a seat to his right.
"They're burning everything," the waiter reported. "It's wholesale burning—what they're doing. There's rumors and gossip, too, about them planting firebombs underground and it works like this," at which, he placed a hoof up in the air and moved it around, mimicking a march: "they step on it and blam!"
He wiggled it down below the counter.
"Up in flames they go, and there's upsurges of burn wards and ponies skilled in anti-fire defenses and what not. Gives them upper hooves in everything—first crystal walls, then ice arrows, then gas bombs, and now...firebombs. Or fire landmines. Yeah, that's the word...."
"A big scar on Equestria, isn't it?" the customer replied, showing off a geled mane, shining—perhaps shining too much and too bright. "What happens if they get me in high command? I'll show them all I could tell you!"
"Before they kick you out?" the waiter said, chuckling afterwards. "Why don't you ask to be made general over the Canterlot Front? They've been changing names left and right. Poke Nose won't last a month, and I'm betting on that."
The customer smiled. "How much are you willing to give up?"
The waiter felt his pockets. "Fifty bits."
"I'll double mine to a solid hundred! How many days left until it's a one-month tenure?"
The hapless waiter glanced at the calendar behind him. "Twelve days."
"Hah!" The customer took up his greasy paper bag and walked out of the diner, keeping an eye on him. "We'll see about your 'smart' betting in twelve days!"
And that bold better was off outside.
The other better, the waiter himself, shook his head, slumped on the counter, ignoring his fellow comrades who were whipping up fast food on plates faster than usual, and murmured, "What did I get myself into?"
Roasted Snow, the waiter, woke up to yet another day in Capriole. After doing the usual routine of dressing up for yet another day at work to meet and serve customers yet another time, he hurried out of his house, and passed over the trimmed grass of his lawn and that of his fellow Capriolians—which, on its own, was probably a pompous term to bestow on them for, according to the town sign by the bridge over the wide river sided by thick trees and wild shrubbery, Capriole only had a population of one hundred.
As he walked the bridge and crossed the river, he levitated a few things: a shaver for cleaning his stubble-ridden face, a toothbrush with corresponding toothpaste to freshen up his breath, a comb to revitalize his mane with a frosty style, and a mirror to visually confirm that he was putting his best hoof—and his best face—forward.
Coming into view, small in the horizon and growing bigger in his sight as it neared him, was a yellow taxi carriage pulled by a solitary driver.
He pulled up by the hygienic unicorn, swerving around in a u-turn—almost bumped the poor waiter out of the bridge and down the river.
"You need a ride?" the driver asked.
The carriage rolled on in the countryside. There was not much to see, but what was there was breathtaking in its own right. Countless hills with tons of flower fields to frolick upon, thickets of trees to have a picnic or take shelter under, brooks and creeks where fresh water cascaded in a seemingly infinite loop, a seemingly unending cycle of curing quenched throats.
All shining, even if just a little, under the manageable warmth of the morning sun.
"I'm glad you got me up," Roasted Snow said above the sound of ambling hoofsteps on the path, putting his toiletries into a small bag. "I usually come in late because the taxis are always late." Paused, bent a brow. "Is it true that the Guard's using up space at the station?"
Cheese Fly nodded, this driver enduring the heat of the day and the rough of the road—galloping on. "Sad, but true. Most of the surrounding towns and villages...whole area's caught up by the order."
"There's an order?"
"You haven't heard? Our side's making breakthroughs in the center every nine hours or so, so they're telling all the farmers and their factory counterparts to speed up food production—they also managed to get a hold of the Royal Sisters' approval."
Roasted Snow let out a little laugh. "Less than a week after the invasion, and we're chasing them out of here. A bit on a streak here, huh?"
"I expect that we'll keep hitting that streak until we hit a brick wall by the Crystal Mountains," Cheese Fly said. "Good news is we're getting a fourth of Equestria back from their grip. Bad news, it's not exactly a fourth."
"Because it's all ruined and destroyed by the Crystals, I guess."
"Well, there's that, but who's gonna live in them? You can bring back the mares and the foals, but the young stallions out there...that's something else..."
He galloped on, pulling the taxi carriage, leaving both Roasted Snow and himself in thought as they hastened past the fields.
Cheese Fly sat alone at a wooden table, eating corn and carrot soup at night.
It was a mild and humid outdoor dining area on the open grass in the park. Not so far from skyscrapers with their brilliant dazzling lights and the hubbub of carriages and wagons bouncing everywhere on the streets amidst the clatter of other carriages and wagons, the ponies eating out here were having a decent enough time, satisfying themselves to grilled fruits and vegetables on sticks—tasty onion and garlic topping the night off with a savory finish. A little farther to the left was a small parking lot where carriages lined up by hungry drivers out of shifts or on midnight break.
Despite the abundance of taxi drivers here, however, a few ponies not related to the transportation business of fares and meters were participating in the feast. In fact, they were welcomed by the regulars here and were encouraged with hoofbumps and cordial talk.
Overall, this park was a cheerful park, full of hard-working ponies filling up their stomachs with well-deserved food, chatting with each other as if they were the best of friends—and, usually, some of these were the best of friends.
Behind it all was Variety Spice, a bearded stallion wearing two aprons on top of each other, directing his subordinate cooks while grilling food sticks of his own over hot charcoal. Over the counter, he and a starving patron or two would exchange a few words and some laughs over a joke.
As he ended yet another bout of laughter, turning his head to the blazing grill, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Two taps.
Variety Spice trotted away from his grills and his chefs and his happy customers, away from the lights hanging over the tables, brought his bag, and trotted into the darkness of the park.
Variety Spice stood by several trees, their bark dark in the night. The lampposts were off, and the only light he felt was the glow of the moon above.
Then, that tap again.
Two taps.
He turned around, teeth shivering, backing away. "Miss! I didn't know you were coming at this time!"
The cloaked stranger tilted her head, smiling as her red goggles reflected the moonlight. "I have the element of surprise. It keeps my hired hooves in check—don't want them wandering off the plan, right?"
He nodded, blubbing a bit. "Wh-What do you want from me now?"
She levitated a sword. "Just one more thing from you, and you can conclude your business with me."
Spice eyed the weapon, jumping back. "What's that thing?!"
The stranger sighed. "It's a sword. Haven't seen one? Go read a dictionary!"
She glowed her horn.
A magical dome surrounded them.
"And, if you try to escape and call for help," she said, "well...too bad."
Spice touched the dome, knocked on it, struck it with his hooves.
Falling on his knees.
Failing.
"Somebody! Anybody!"
The stranger rolled her eyes. "Don't be so obnoxious, Variety Spice. I promise I won't give you an early death. Just do what I say, and you'll live out the rest of your life."
He turned round, gasping for air, seeing her smiling face. "Alright! What is it?!"
She chuckled. "Close up shop."
He nodded fast. "OK, miss! How long?"
"Forever."
"What?!"
The stranger hovered the sword forward, at the tip of his snout. "Do what I say, or else."
"But, why close up shop forever?!" He glanced back, at the faraway display of lights—hearing laughter and guffaws from the tables there past the dense trees.
"There are too many taxiponies and not enough warriors," she answered, putting a hoof to her head and within her cloak. "My contacts can pump out numerous vitamins and minerals to keep citizens healthy enough to not need taxis or any form of transportation within their cities. I wish that they would all either join or die, but, I have to get used to the second best."
He grunted, unzipping his bag at the blade of the sword.
She eyed the bag. "And, what would that be?"
"Argh!"
And his sword matched hers, clinking.
His under hooves' grasp, hers within horn's glow.
"It's useless," she said, smiling, holding on to her sword. "Even if you kill me, I've already urged Tipweight's mayor to call for an emergency draft by morning. Everyone will work for the cause, whether they like it or not—no more entertainment, no more fun and games. Only what can be done to let us win!"
"But, what are we ponies without happiness?!" he yelled back.
Swinging his sword at her.
Blocked.
Pushing each other, legs giving way and turning up dirt.
"I thought I could stand you, miss! I thought I could live without minding you, just doing this and that for you, hoping you'd leave me alone and out of your crazy plans! But, this is too far! I won't go down without a fight, for an Equestria I once knew!"
"Then, you're the crazy one!" she shouted, slowly turning his sword down with hers. "I'm fighting for an Equestria I once knew as well! An Equestria free from outside harm! Why do you think I resort to all sorts of ways to end this war soon?!"
"That's because I'm doing what's right no matter what!" he shouted.
Charged at her.
Bumped her off balance.
She fell.
Her sword fell.
Goggles knocked off.
Dome dissipated.
She bared her teeth in pain, hissing.
Her purple eyes under the moonlight.
Feeling the dirt and its grass.
A sword aimed at her, at the tip of her snout.
"This ends here!" he screamed. "The madness ends here! I don't care anymore if this war goes on until I die! I want to say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I have done nothing wrong to help my dear Equestria!"
She groaned, winced.
Then, smiled.
Her horn glowed.
Levitated a button out of her cloak.
Blasted him with a beam.
He fell down.
His sword fell.
Twilight pressed the button.
Boom!
Felt the earthquake rattling the ground.
Leaves falling, rustling out.
Saw the park light up in yellow.
Above the thick foliage, above the trees, a mushroom cloud.
Dust hurtling in, smashing against the two ponies on the ground.
Felt the heat of the flames.
Twilight Sparkle moaned, stood up against the dust and the heat.
Picked up her goggles.
Wore them.
Levitated her sword.
Placed it right before his face.
His shivering, tear-drenched face. "Y-You...what...did...you do?"
Heard the screams and shrieks.
Twilight smiled. "Made sure you'll live out the rest of your life."
Turned the sword around.
Pummeled him on the head with its grip.
Beat him up on the chest.
Kicked him down.
His whole body fell.
She waited.
Hearing again the screams not so far away.
Leaned to lift up a lifeless hoof, checked his pulse.
No pulse.
She smiled, giggling.
Levitated him.
Threw him far above the trees, towards where the explosion had been.
"And I didn't tell him that all of them will survive," she said, grinning. "They outlive him. Funny."
She looked at a dark lamppost by the path.
Glowed her horn.
Turned it on.
"That's better!"
Dusted herself off.
Twilight trotted away, leaving the outdoors establishment in a smoldering wreck as ambulance carriages and medical ponies hurried to get the injured out of the burning scene—tables broken and blackened, food splattered around, bodies strewn about with some lying on the tables and others by the grass—scars, scabs, wounds, burns—sirens and policeponies galloping—civilians watching, some trotting to help—others with eyes closed, unconscious—shouts, screams, words.
As the night continued.