Five days later and it was an icy Wednesday night in Manehattan. Snow and sleet had covered those wide roads, but shovelers were hard at work, digging out the excess snow and scooping it to bottle-like purifiers connected to wagons filled with more of that snow while they poured out torrents of fresh water into plastic jugs.
Although the lights of Manehattan rained their rays furiously upon the snow and shaped intangible glitters on the ground, not many ponies were there to appreciate the illumination extravaganza the metropolis was known for. Gone were the plentiful tourists who snapped pictures with reckless abandon, gone were the vendors and retailers hawking their produce and products to all who passed them by as they vied for attention, gone were the outgoing Manehattanites themselves who brisked about and exchanged words in the span of half a minute. In their place were bare snowy roads and the shovelers forging fresh water out of the snow.
Wading her way through the thick snow was Chink Cling, still in her cumbersome armor yet not a complaint could be seen on her face. Instead, she had a happy smile, carrying a bag of posters and tape rolls sticking out from their huge purse.
Every once in a while, she would stop by the wall of some structure. It did not matter if it was a lowly newspaper shop standing out by virtue of its singular floor of if it was the stately Crystaller Building itself with its abundance of floors and its steel-glass state-of-the-art architecture. To her, a wall was a wall, and if it had enough space, there a poster would go, adhering to the wall by "Mega Mighty Tape!"—for so was the name of the tape's brand printed on the rolls.
The posters, though of different styles and of different subjects, portrayed a single theme summed up in the words of the first poster she set up which was by the entrance of Maneway Station:
"Leave your house, save your home! Join the E.U.P. Guard right now!"
Such posters characterized the Equestrian Guard as valiant soldiers of peace and prosperity, decked in their polished armor and in their smiling faces calling out for liberty, and these same posters presented the Crystal ponies as obviously evil with their black armor, their treacherous glowing eyes, their menacing frowns.
These posters crept up on Manehattan, Chink Cling slowly putting them on every block in her weary jog, but most ponies would not know that it was a weary jog, for instead of a grimace that whined of being the only pony at the moment doing this important job in such an enormous city, it was a smile she wore and kept on her face despite the oppressive cold, the husky snow, and the sloshing noise of purifiers doing their job.
But, barring the shovelers, she was alone.
Alone in snowy, dark Manehattan.
A carriage or two would occasionally spring up to spatter Chink Cling with freezing water, but they disappeared as fast as they arrived, almost always leaving round the next intersection.
About an hour after that first poster was propped up, the armored mare found herself in Bronclyn's Fashion District, seeing for herself all the clothes stores out there on the streets.
All the closed clothes stores, actually.
Windows boarded up, signs saying something like "Will be back soon!", dresses and mannequins absent, displays unoccupied and empty. The only ponies there other than snow shovelers were workers in gray uniforms, trotting away from the riotous factories and mills churning out more uniforms, their smoke wiping out the stars from view—the moon shining through but dimly.
Chink Cling proceeded to continue her job there, putting up posters on the walls of these fancy clothes stores—these once-renowned focal points of the fashion world, now crude vehicles of recruitment messages for the army.
Only a few minutes of Cling posting posters later and she heard a shrill whistle.
Turned her head to the left.
It was hard to discern the details, but, at the far end of the road, coming out of one of those uniform mills, was a line of ponies wearing the same clothes—those shabby uniforms with their shabby caps tied up in a simple knot.
As they drew nearer to her, she could see the look on their faces—their sullen looks, their tired expressions, eyes only half-open and yearning for rest. The workers chatted in low sentences, stingy with their words, leaving their friends in a silence dotted by many hoofsteps. Their manes—drooping, sagging, tainted with dust and dirt.
Most of them passed the poster pony, withholding their looks from her and crossing the street without stopping to look left and right.
She could not hear a single carriage rolling about.
Then, near the back of the line, a mare strayed from her fellow "fashion associates", walking parallel to them at first. When she reached the bench across where Chink Cling was, she sat down on it, let out a drained sigh and an overworked groan.
Facing the wet street with its water and snow, ignoring the disquiet of the factories still busy, the purifiers still working.
The line went and scattered, everyone going to their homes.
Except for this mare on the bench, hearing the whirs and the hums of mills and machines—with them, the unmistakable noise of shovelers digging up snow as well.
Chink Cling, about to place another poster on another wall, stopped.
Stared at that uniformed mare sitting alone on the bench.
Cling let the silence continue for a while, watching if that pony would make any sudden moves.
Then, she put the poster back into her bag, walked to the bench, and sat down beside her.
Those two mares alone by the street, observing that wet street immersed in cold water and embellished with coarse snow.
Silent.
Cling looked at her, seeing her white face, her cracked purple mane, her coat polluted with soot. "Are you OK?"
Rarity groaned again. "What does it look like? Do I look OK to you?"
Cling balked. "Woah, sorry! I didn't mean to do that. I was just wondering...why are you here and not with them?"
Rarity glared at her. "Can't a pony have some peace and quiet these days?!"
Cling raised a hoof, about to say something.
Only to let it fall.
Rarity grabbed her own mane.
Brought it to view.
Saw its rough, faded strands.
Rarity sighed, turning slightly to Cling. "If you must know, I'm here because I'm getting sick of it—too sick of it to go straight home."
Cling eyed her, saw her forlorn face, her pursed mouth. "What are you sick of? Work?"
Rarity closed her eyes, facing away. "There's that. It's not work. It's mere drudgery. It numbs the mind, it deadens the senses...it's the same thing everyday. It's not something to look forward to if there's no challenge to it other than doing the same steps faster."
Cling nodded, placed a hoof on her back. "I see. I can sympathize with you."
Rarity moaned, opened her eyes. "At least you have the opportunity of changing your locales. You get to put those posters in a variety of distinct places. I'm forced to stay here—to work in the same spot in the same room on the same floor, and the same windows are closed, too."
Cling scooted closer to her. "Well, you have a home to go to. Why not relax with your family?"
Rarity choked, took a sip of water from her bottle. "Don't you know what time it is? It's eleven-thirty! Most of them's asleep, even my precious Sweetie Belle—and, I'm not sure if they'll let us have tomorrow off to celebrate New Year's Eve! I missed Hearth's Warming to work in the factory for five days straight...it wasn't even my choice!"
Slammed the bench with her hoof.
"You heard me right! Five days—it's either that or I cut off half of our income! Of course, I slept and they fed us, but we had to sleep right beside each other and we had to share pillows, and the soup tastes like flavored water! The biscuits are soggy, the carrots were rubbery—the only thing that was passable was the water!"
Grabbed Cling's shoulders.
"I can't leave!" Rarity shouted. "I will never leave until they let me go. Oh, how I wish they could hire somepony else to take my place, but I just have to sew those uniforms together! I've gotten so used to it, that my desire of getting out has withered away...here, stuck inside a factory until when? When the war ends? If we win? What if we lose? Then, I'll be a laborer until I die, never seeing a dress for the rest of my days, much less create suits and dresses gratis for all! But, I know they'll not be at their best without me doing something for them!"
Raised a hoof to her forehead, closed her eyes.
Screamed in an echo piercing the roads of Manehattan awake: "What shall I do?!"
Midnight.
Rarity plodded her way home, her hooves heavy on the sidewalk now clean of snow. Passing by the last apartment standing between her and slumber, she reached the glass doors of the bakery.
Entered it and overlooked the "Closed!" sign hanging there, catching sight of her mother reading a newspaper by one of the tables and under all the lights at the ceiling.
"Mother, you're up this late?" Rarity asked, shocked and trotting up to her.
As Cookie Crumbles and her daughter hugged each other.
"You must be very tired!" Cookie said, ruffling that dirty mane on Rarity and dropping the newspaper to the floor. "I can't imagine living there for a full work week, so you gotta give yourself a treat!"
Rarity smiled.
As they both removed themselves from each other's embrace.
"But, why are you up so late?" Rarity repeated, floating the newspaper back to the table. "Shouldn't you be sleeping right now?"
Cookie laughed. "I got the keys, remember?"
Rarity fumbled in her clothes' pockets.
While Cookie levitated the keys from within her hair. "The stress got to you."
Rarity sighed as if defeated. "Yes, that is the case. I'm sorry if you want to talk about it, but I really have to go to sleep on a real bed—"
Cookie blocked her path before Rarity had lifted a hoof.
"What are you doing, mother?"
Cookie motioned towards the door and floated a hot cup of tea into view. "Why don't you take a drink? I got something to show you upstairs in your room."
Rarity blinked, almost took a step back. "A surprise?"
Rarity opened the door to her room with her hoof.
Wrapped boxes of gifts resting under the Hearth's Warming tree, bells hanging from the painting frames and the window, table of boiling and sizzling pots of delicious and good-smelling food with a chocolate cake to cap the feast off, overpowering aroma of mint and strawberries, festive music playing at the vinyl player sitting by the wall—
With Hondo Flanks and Sweetie Belle, donning those soft red hats, greeting:
"Happy Hearth's Warming, Rarity!"
Rarity stood there, taking in all the sights and sounds and smells.
"Now, don't just stand there, silly!" Cookie said, moving in from the hallway outside and pulling her daughter into the room.
As Rarity walked closer, she could only make out strange syllables, blown away by the Hearth's Warming decorations around in her very own room.
"It was Sweetie's idea!" Hondo said, gesturing to the grinning little filly. "We told each other to not open our presents until you got home—and, perfect timin', too! You'll be celebratin' Hearth's Warming and New Year's on the same day!"
Sweetie galloped up to her sister.
And they both hugged, though Sweetie coughed at encountering the remaining dust on the uniform.
Rarity was silent in that embrace.
"Oh, and another thing as well, Rarity!" Hondo yelled, holding up a piece of paper and hoofing it to her.
Rarity levitated the paper and read it.
"Looks like whoever's runnin' the mill wants all of us to know that everypony's free for today—includin' you!"
The mare stopped reading.
Folded the letter neatly with her magic.
Floated it to her father.
A tear welling up.
"You were generous with all of us," Sweetie said, walking up to her. "It's amazing how you never got angry at us even though you had lots of late nights and nerve-racking work. You always told yourself that ponies out there need the clothes you make. Well, war or no war, it'd be unfair for us to not do anything about your unselfishness, so we did this to return the favor...to let us be generous with you."
Rarity stood there.
Silent, unmoving.
In her room, under the lights, hearing the music.
She hugged them.
That family all in one uniting hug.
"Oh, thank you!" she cried out, her sonorous voice giving way to joy past the tears. "What could I ever do without all of you?"
And, for one minute, that hug lasted. Not a word was said, and the only sound that meandered to their ears was comforting Hearth's Warming music.
"Alright!" Hondo shouted, letting go and loosing his tight grip. "We're gonna have us a serious dinner here, everypony! Rarity, did you know your Mom cooked all of this by herself?"
Rarity smiled, trotting to the small dinner table with her family.
As the music played on the vinyl player, filling the air with hearty songs and cheery tunes.