//------------------------------// // Orphans of the Fourth Balkan War // Story: All-American Girl: The Third Law of Motion // by Cody MacArthur Fett //------------------------------// “How is it that you can get the assignment of a lifetime and yet still turn it into a skating position?” Just News asked from the passenger seat of the Yugo as it rumbled down the streets of a nondescript Serbian town.  While he was sure it probably had a name, Serbian was harder to speak than Zebrabwean Swahili to him, even if it rolled off Mac’s tongue like greased fat. “Says the stallion currently having to take a ride from his friend in order to get to his destination because he doesn’t own a car,” Macaroni reported from the driver’s seat, his horn alight with pale grey energy, same as the pedals. “You. Own. A. Yugo,” Just said seriously. “I’ve known automobiles exist for precisely two years, and even I know that these things are dog manure.” “It’s not a Yugo; it’s a Koral,” Mac defended. “The Koral is the Yugo. You and Zavasta can change the cross-language marketing around all you want; it’s still the same damn car,” Just countered. “They’ve got character. You've just got to know how to treat them right,” Mac replied, patting the steering wheel of the car. “You’re delusional,” Just stated as if it was self-evident. “You’re a brute,” Mac responded in kind. “I’m a brute? Your last column praised the Greenshirts!” “Hey, I like results, and they got results.” “Oh my goddess, will you both shut up?!” Ardent Printer, a red-furred pegasus and wife of Fit Printer, said from the right backseat. “You two have been like this since we left the airport. Is it always like this?” “Yes, ma’am,” Mac answered. “Pretty much,” Just admitted. Ardent just buried her head in her hooves. From the opposite side of the car, Fair patted her on the withers. “Don’t worry, dear. I know it seems strange, but these two really do get along well and are some of our best reporters,” the lone earth pony of the group said reassuringly. “Why did I come here again?” she asked rhetorically. “Because you wanted to keep your husband safe while he looked for a European newspaper to buy up?” Just replied helpfully. Ardent just glared at him, leading him to decide that discretion was the better part of valor and that the road in front was really very interesting. Mac glanced at the GPS mounted in the dashboard. “We should be coming up on our destination. Or a fishery.” The four-door sedan slowed slightly as its occupants searched around for the place they were going to, or this mythical fishery. After passing a small crater in the road, the vehicle rounded a corner to find a red and grey building with a collection of children playing out front behind an iron bar fence. Mac stopped the car on the side of the street, and the whole group got out, for the first time in hours smelling something other than recycled air -- the Yugo Koral had, for reasons not explained by the previous owner, been sealed against gas attacks. The harsh smell of fires long extinguished clung to everything like dust in an unopened room, instantly resurrecting memories of their home city to the minds of the Equestriani travelers. The city of Manehattan had, two years later, still not recovered from the riots, and with the flight of significant parts of the city’s population, some were wondering if it ever would. For the three reporters and one artist, they had grown used to the smell, but being inside the car and breathing sterile air for hours had made them forget for a moment what it was. The reminder unconsciously put them in a worse mood. “It smells like home,” Fit Printer lamented. "Looks like it too." “So much for the utopia of human ingenuity,” Just News agreed. “You get used to it,” Mac said cheerily before turning to the pegasus stallion. “We’re here for your story. Might as well get to it.” The brightly-painted walls couldn’t hide the fact that the orphanage, tucked safely behind its high chain-link fences, looked like a minimum-security prison.  It was hard to tell, at first glance, whether the double-layers of razor wire were intended to keep the occupants in or intruders out. It still bore scars from the war, as well.  While the children had been evacuated, the building itself had weathered the fighting. One side had used it as a barracks. The other, naturally, had shot at it. Slightly mismatched bright paint covered the hastily-patched bullet holes.  They hadn't even bothered to paint over the cemented-in holes caused by tank shells. The east wing was clearly new construction, the previous occupants of that space having been all but obliterated by a stray shell from a siege howitzer aimed at a target that itself no longer existed. Like the building, the children were displaying a thin facade of cheerfulness which failed utterly at covering their emotional scars.  A gaggle of kids played soccer with a ball that had certainly seen better days, smiles on their faces while they played replaced by thousand-yard-stares when they were not chasing the ball. Other children were off in the corners, their faces huddled close to electronic devices that lit up their faces. That changed when they started to catch sight of the new arrivals. With a flap of his wings, Just News jumped over the sidewalk to land in front of the entrance to the building’s fenced in yard. Assuming it would be rude to fly right over the gate, he opted instead to hit the intercom button next to it instead. The children, it seemed, had no such compunctions and were running right up to the gate to look at them, with a few hanging back and most chattering away in what sounded like Serbo-Croatian but which was likely one or the other. “Who is this?” a female voice asked from the metal box over the intercom button. “Just News from the Manehattan Beugel with my coworker, boss, and the boss’ wife,” Just reported. “Thank you, sir. We’ve been expecting you.” With that, there was a loud click, and the gate swung back slightly, pulled along by the weight of the child hanging off it. With great rapidity, said children began to swarm around them, excitedly asking them questions and shouting out the name of their species and country of origin. Some of them even were speaking broken English, though these were mixed in with assorted other languages and hard to discern. A dark-haired woman opened the door to the orphanage and ran out, yelling in a manner not at all harsh to the children to step aside. They did so, but at a pace that was only rapid enough for her to graze their shoulders without tripping. “I’m sorry about the children. They’ve never seen an Equestrian before,” the woman said in accented English. “Have you?” Mac asked pointedly. “Well . . . No, but that’s no reason to be rude,” she answered, a fair bit more timidly than before. “Indeed, miss . . .” Mac trailed off, fishing for an answer. “Milunka. Milunka Stepanović,” the woman explained. “Thank you for having us, Miss Stepanović,” Just cut in, far softer in his words than Mac. “My name is Just News. I’m the one who arranged this visit and the interview." “I don’t mind,” said Ardent Printer with a wide smile as she flew over the children, putting in a little loop as she finished her sentence to the cheers of the crowd. “She’s always wanted foals,” Fit Printer explained to Stepanović, trying his best to inch towards the door. Stepanović looked uncertain before her eyes shot open from the flash of a camera. At least three new children were holding up smartphones and taking pictures of the ponies. Their minder shouted something that sounded remarkably like ‘no flash photography.’ “I can see that this is going to take a while,” Mac lamented. “We’ve got time,” Fit Printer told him. Half an hour later, the group of ponies had made it inside. There, they were met by the matron of the orphanage whom Just News would be interviewing. She seemed to have been hand-picked to fill the stereotype of an Orthodox nun, some wisps of her gray hair escaping her black habit, a large cross hanging from her neck, and she seemed to have lived a lifetime of being disinclined toward smiling. The children too young to be given run of the grounds played inside, with some having handmade old toys fashioned from wood; wooden blocks carved with Cyrillic letters or simple wood-and-twine dolls. Other children mirrored so many others of their fellow humans with eyes locked in rapture to the photoactive displays of their handheld computers. They were all watched over by a younger nun whom life had treated somewhat more kindly. “Are you Just News?” asked the matron, her arms crossed. “Yes, ma’am, I am,” the pegasus stallion answered in a polite but clipped tone, cap in hand. The matron gave a thin smile that might have been mistaken for an intense frown. “It’s good to that some from your world actually have some manners.” “An obfuscation, I assure you. We’re from Manehatten, after all,” Mac broke in jokingly. Just shot him a glare before turning back to the matron. “Shall we begin the interview then, ma’am?” “Yes, let's.” With Just News the one on site to perform the interview, the rest were left to their own devices. Ardent Printer had set up her painting supplies and a canvas for portraits, and Fit Printer was helping her along with that. Mac had decided to pass the time with what he did best: telling stories. “So there I was, facing down the changeling horde, their shambling bodies just barely buzzing along,” Mac told, pausing for a moment to allow one of the children who understood English to translate. “Now, changelings feed off emotion, and these ones looked like they had been starved their entire lives. Wouldn’t surprise me either. Their leader was a tyrant who stole everything from everyone, and if she had a shred of love in her for a single one of them, I would be shocked. “The state of them made it a sad affair in retrospect, but at the time, they were trying to kill us, so we did what we had to and slew them. A prospect easier said than done, for there were a great many of them. Many of my comrades felt faint of heart then, but at a crucial moment during a retreat, I took up the banner and changed. I took down a mere forty of them before my compatriots, buoyed by my success, took to the field to back me up. The princess herself arrived after the battle to reward me for my diligence, and it was a grand moment.” The children were mostly enraptured, those that could speak English anyways, and one was even recording the whole thing on his personal electronic telecommunications device. “Ah, but I’m probably disturbing you children with what you have no doubt experienced first hand,” Mac admitted. “Not really. Most of us were stuck in a bunker for the war. They wouldn’t let us do anything or talk to us about anything,” one of the children replied with an accent that was half-Serbian and half-viral video, before then pointing at one of his peers. “Nikica was out there though.” Mac looked to see a young boy with the thousand yard stare of someone who had lived through the worst fighting a war of the Eurasian continent. “He doesn’t talk much, no matter how many times we try to bribe him for good stories.” “Not surprising,” Mac deadpanned. “How have things managed to get this bad?” Just News asked bluntly. “To put it simply, we are overworked. There are a mere five of us, and dozens upon dozens of children. We do not have the ability to care for them all,” the matron explained. “But the sedatives in the formula . . .” “It keeps them calm, reduces the workload, and conserves our extremely limited resources. We do not have the luxury of full time care. Are the orphanages in Equestria better than us?” “Not by much,” Just News admitted. The Matron’s frown grew deeper. “That is . . . extremely disconcerting, considering you are at peace.” “Orphanages in Equestria have never been the best.” “A fourth of my sisters were killed by Bosnian einsatzgruppen, and another tenth lost to a Hungarian bomb blowing up the bridge they were on. The building we are in now had to be rebuilt after the Romanians were done with it. If we are able to get close to a major nation’s care with that going on . . .” the matron shook her head. “It is a cultural blind spot for us, I admit. I’m hoping chronicling orphanages here will get ponies interested enough in the subject that they will take a look at those in their own backyard.” “God willing, you will be successful.” “God . . . that’s a subject for another interview. Let’s get back to the subject of adoptions for now.” “So he was able to get them all out?” Ardent asked as she flew alongside the nun that had greeted them at the gate, her fur now covered in small splotches of paint. “Yes, I was so very proud of him when I heard the news, I have no doubt that . . . Zivko, don’t bite that bullet!” Milunka shouted at a far off child as she ran away. Mac trotted up to Ardent and her quiet husband, having just finished his story, and watched the scene. “Oh, these Serbians seem so brave,” Ardent said appreciatively. “You know,” Mac whispered besides her, “her brother was probably out killing civilians in their beds not three years ago.” There was a sharp intake of breath from the pegasus mare. “Just saying,” Mac said neutrally. “Let's change the subject,” Fit said diplomatically to his coworker and suddenly shell shocked wife. “To what? Babies?” Mac asked sarcastically. “Oh, would you like to go to the nursery?” Milunka asked, her left hand holding a 6mm wide metal pellet that was partially covered in saliva. “Yes!” Ardant said dramatically, ignoring those around her who were disgusted by the sight of the bullet, or more specifically, the stuff covering it. “Let’s go to the nursery.” The infant nursery was silent as a tomb.  Though there were perhaps thirty babies in half as many cribs, there was little to no noise coming from any of them. “Creepy,” Fit muttered under his breath. “Should things be so quiet?” Mac asked Milunka. “Babies usually make a lot more noise than this.” The nun look sorrowful for a moment, then shamed, before finally settling on on neutral. “Sometimes, to keep them calm, we put melatonin in their milk. It’s something our bodies make naturally, so it shouldn’t be too harmful . . .” “The other times?” he dug deeper. “Other times, we just don’t get to them in time, and after a while, they stop trying,” she admitted. “We don’t have the people to care for them, and far too few people are willing to become parents. If Sister Petra’s cousin was not the chief of police, I fear we would have child slavers crawling all over this place too.” “Hey, it’s OK, I’m sure things will get better. We’re newsponies, so we’ll make sure to spread your story far and wide. Hopefully, that will get this place more help,” Mac said with surprising comfort in his tone. “Thank you, Mister Macaroni. You’re a Godsend,” Milunka replied appreciatively. “You’re welcome,” Mac replied neutrally, glancing around to find that Ardent had flown off to hover over one of the distant cribs. Ardent Printer’s eyes grew wide and misty as she looked down into the crib at the two black-haired infants squirming. The male’s eyes locked onto hers, and her heart skipped a beat; they were the same dark brown as her own, but curious like her husband’s. The female latched onto her brother’s arm and tried to use it to shield herself, with those same dark eyes locked somewhere between fear and playfulness, an action that reminded Ardent of her sister when they were young. In that moment, their whole lives flashed before her eyes, and at every major turning point, she saw herself and her husband. “Fit!” she said excitedly. “Fit! Come over here; I found them.” “We lost one again?!” Milunka asked in confused horror and frustration over the thunder of hooves reverberating through the wooden floor. “What's wrong?” Fit Printer asked from his wife’s side after skidding to a stop. “Everything,” she told him with a gesture with her left wing towards the crib, “and nothing.” The female seemed to be more shocked than scared at the appearance of Fit alongside his wife, and she tried to reach up to touch his nose. The stallion had a similar reaction to his wife. His whole spirit lightening as he gazed upon the children. “Sister Stepanović,” he began, turning his head to address the woman besides them. “Ready the papers; we would like to adopt.” “What?” as the immediate reaction of all the adults present. Mac turned to Milunka and motioned her away. “Please tend to the filings; I shall talk them down.” Mac took both of them in his magic and moved them to a corner, speaking in whisper. “Are you two OK? You’re acting rather rashly.” “Yes, Mac, we’re OK. We’ve just got a certain amount of clarity,” Fit informed him in an equally volumed whisper. “Clearly, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve got from zero to minivan in ten seconds flat.” Fit blinked at his subordinate’s strange metaphor. “What would you have us do? Just leave them?” “I’m not doing that,” Ardent said bluntly. “I’m not leaving my little foals in a place like this. Slavers waiting in the wings? Crying that’s never cared for? Melatonin in the milk? Do you have any idea what that does to a growing human?” Mac for once was caught off guard. “Well, no, but . . .” “Well, I do,” Ardent said forcefully. “We adopting them, and that’s that.” “What’s that?” Just News asked, having flown back to meet them. “They’re going to try and adopt two of the babies,” Mac informed him. “Please tell them that things aren’t that bad here and that they don’t have to drop everything for this.” “Ah,” Just realized. “Well, things aren’t that bad here . . .” “Told you.” “They’re worse.” “What?!” “Mac, that interview was terrifying in what passes for normal here. I say get them out. Heck, these women might actually appreciate that most of all,” Just told him righteously. “It’s settled then,” Ardent said with finality before flying off to the crib where the children she was so enamored with lay. A short time later, the married couple were sitting in front of the matron in her office. “Well, there are a dozen things I would like to say about this, but I won’t, because we honestly need the workload reduced as much as possible,” the matron said with the scowl that seemed to be her normal face. “Just tell us what to do, and we’ll do it,” Fit Printer said earnestly. “Well, you’ve got the spirit down, at least. Truthfully, the fact that you’re Equestrians and the children you’re looking to adopt are from Hercegovina makes this a lot simpler than it normally would be,” the matron informed them, patting with her right hand a stack of papers at least two inches thick. “Hercegovina? How does that change things?” Ardent asked worriedly. “The children were left orphaned by a car bomb just two months ago. The only identifying marks of their family showed that they were from Hercegovina, a nation to the south which gained independence during the war. Further investigation by the police showed that they were the last of that family, no relatives. Why they were in Serbia, I cannot say; we don’t even know the children’s names. Because of that, they are without most legal protections afforded to citizens, though that could change in the future. It’s all in their file,” the matron explained, motioning to the thin manilla folder in front of the ponies. “In any case, the very fact that they are Hercegovinans will likely color their interactions with others as they grow older, and not for the better. National loyalties run deep for many. Blood and soil, and all that.” The two ponies seemed to grow paler at those words, but the pegasus quickly found the courage to speak. “They have names. We discussed this before. The girl is named Keytone Printer, and the boy is named Brisk Printer.” The matron quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? Awfully presumptive of you.” “It’s like my husband said: we’ll do whatever it takes.” I have been on Human Earth for close to two years now, and yet still, these creatures surprise me. Most times, it’s in good ways, but at other times, it’s in horrific ways. Nothing I’m not used to, being a combat veteran, but it’s unpleasant on the senses and sensibilities. Another one of those evident cases was made during my recent trip to Serbia with the owners of the Manehattan Beugel and my good friend and fellow reporter, Just News. Long time readers will no doubt recognize the nation of Serbia from the articles I wrote about buying an automobile (I know this, because I still get mail from ponies calling it by the mass market English nickname of Yugo instead of the proper name of Koral), but for those who don’t, I shall do a recap. Do not worry, for it is a short tale. The Fourth Balkan War was a conflict fought in the south central region of the European  continent on Human Earth shortly after first contact. The conflict started as an independence movement in the Vojvodina region that takes up the entirety of northern Serbia, but quickly spread to bring in Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Hungary, Kosovo, Macedonia, Bulgaria, and Romania, alongside the regional powers Poland and Russia. The conflict was short, with peace being negotiated soon after it started, and the end result of it was the Vojvodinan rebellion being put down, Bosnia and Hercegovina becoming separate countries, and the formerly extinct nation of Prussia being resurrected as a compromise negotiated by the United States of America between Poland and Russia over the territory of Kaliningrad and the ever growing population of ethnic Prussians fleeing persecution in Germany to there. The town we visited for Just News’s article (which I recommend everyone read) just so happened to be in Vojvodina, and as such, we got to see the aftermath of the conflict after many months of reconstruction. Remarkably, as long as you avoid falling into the stray bomb crater, it’s not that much different than Manehattan aesthetically, which many ponies will see as a downside. A town is more than its looks though, and here, the rampant crime rate of the region takes its toll, with people being disappeared into a life of slavery just as easily as they are found dead in a ditch. Indeed, it is a sad fact of the situation that the babies upon whom the adoption process has been started for our illustrious editor-in-chief would not have been orphans had their parents not been killed by an unexploded bomb, and the adoption process would not be as smooth as it is without the rules being loosened in an attempt to ease the strain on the system. It is also a sad fact that many children are exploited thanks to the very same reforms meant to help them by making it easier for false adopters to take them away to be sold to slavers and organ traders. My fellow ponies, this is a wretched situation, and so we must ask ourselves, what can be learned from this? We are not yet in a position to help, but the lesson to be learned from this is clear for our nation. We must not let our own nation fall to disunity and strife, as did the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the nation that fell to create Yugoslavia, the nation which in turn fell to create many of the nations that shed so much blood over petty differences that no one can comprehend, which has thusly led to foals being sold like chattel for their flesh. Equestria not only can do better, but it must do better. Unity within the state is a must. For if we do not have that, we shall all surely suffer.