//------------------------------//
// Fried Dough 
// Story: A War 
// by Comma Typer 
//------------------------------//

A week later


"Hey."
Special Delivery looked up at the night sky.
"Hey."
Kept looking up there.
"Hey. Hello?"
Still looking up, putting on a dreamy grin.
"Hey!"
The mailpony snapped out of it, tore his head back down, faced the lanky mare before him as they stood before a small bungalow within the city.
A cold winter night. Snowing, crickets chirping, road lacking in vehicles in this hour.
"Are you trying to annoy me or what?!" she shouted at him, forming a snowball from her own front yard. "Because if you are, you're not gonna like what's happenin' next!"
Special Delivery gulped.
Slammed the letter inside the mailbox.
Took off and was gone.
The mare smiled. "That's better."
Looking off to the narrow, quiet road before her where other houses and a little store resided.



The mare trotted back inside her house, letter in mouth.
The first thing she saw was the dining room. Besides the familiar wooden table and the chairs, there were saws hanging on the walls. Normal saws, vintage saws, artistic saws with colorful handles—these had the spotlight, glimmering under the lamps hanging still above them. Sawdust littered about on the floor, coating the tiles in a thin, dusty coat of timber residue.
Sat down on the chair, unfolded the letter, and brushed away her double-ponytailed blue mane out of the table so she could see the contents of the letter without it being smothered by her hair.
She read.
"'Dear Crosscut McColt, how're you doing, you backstabber? We're writing to you from the Dragon Lands. That's right! We may have had to stay at the port for months, but it was worth it! Now, we're getting along just fine, me and Ma Hooffield! There is absolutely no fighting going on right now, not as I'm writing this inside my cozy cottage while eating fresh pumpkins farmed by the Hooffields. In fact, we're not just helping each other; the dragons enlisted us to give them extra food, and by 'food', they meant gems, and they were willing to give us a spare few in return! You were impatient and behold how that's worked out for you! Living in the city, trying to run away from your family...that ain't gonna work out in a few more years! You'll wish you'd gone with us and crossed the ocean!
"'From somepony who isn't your daddy anymore,
"'Big Daddy McColt.'"
Crosscut blew her mane away, hissing at the letter.
Turned it over.
Spotted the writing on the back of the paper.
"'P.S. This is Ma Hooffield. Half of what your Pa's saying isn't true. We're still fighting, the dragons are about to enslave us, and I still hate him and his family, but I can't help but take pity on you, youngin'. If you're wondering, I wrote this while your Pa wasn't looking. Whatever you're doing, do it well; it's best you stay out of this.'"
Crosscut looked at it.
Put the letter down.
Walked out of the chair.
Trotted to the open windows.
Closed the curtains.
Turned off the lights.



The next night, Crosscut found herself in a newspaper bar by the Thoroughbred Metro Station Hub. Outside was heavy traffic with carriages stuck in their lanes and drivers blaming each other in loud voices over who was the cause of this trouble. Of note was a stallion carrying a bag of snowballs which, when interviewed by police when his carriage was pulled over to the side, was claimed to be "for emergencies only". Although it was not exactly known by many what those specific emergencies were, it was well known that snowballs were nothing to sneeze at if used as a weapon on an unprotected and unsuspecting civilian, so he was detained and brought to the nearest police station.
Inside the newspaper bar, bright white bulbs in the ceiling drowned the establishment in enough light to ease proper reading. Newspaper clippings were taped or tacked to the walls, together serving as a wallpaper collage unveiling tidbits of history from decades ago all the way to the present—now, a cook was cutting out the headline of this Saturday's edition of the 'Moment's Notice' which read: "Appleloosa Falls! Fronts to Converge!" By those walls were racks and shelves of all kinds of newspapers, from the critical and rational "Equestrian Thought" to the sensational and dramatic "Style Eight".
The customers talked freely, half of them holding on to a newspaper or a magazine with a hoof or with a wing or by their magic. Some rose to debate and dispute, threatening to overturn the whole diner into a shouting match arena, but a sharp glare from one of the cooks proved sufficient to quell potential brawls.
Crosscut, donned in a fixed blue shirt complementing her blue coat and her blue hair, sat on the cushioned seats by the window side, reading a copy of that newspaper before a talking mare—both of them Earth ponies.
"...you have the pinnacle of frontier towns down and out, so what's next?" Raspberry Vignette went on with her scruffy pink mane. "It's not going to be long for them to take the rest of the desert and creep up on us."
Crosscut put down her newspaper beside two plates of donuts and coffee, showing off her freckles underneath her thick-browed eyes. "South is where most of the hard-workin' ponies are. They'll hold the line well."
Raspberry sighed. "I wish you're right, but we don't know what the situation is down there. Supply lines are up and running, so there's that...."
Crosscut leaned to the newspaper, scanned for something else.
Pulled her head back, laid a hoof on another picture. "'Torch refuses Princess Celestia's plea to join the war for the twelfth time.'"
The picture itself showed a vicious Torch negotiating with Princess Celestia at the bleak and dark Dragon Lands under an overcast sky mingled with clouds and smoke, both of them standing by the precipice of a rocky, yawning cliff.
"What about something on the lighter side?" Raspberry asked, curious and leaning forward to the newspaper, too.
"Hmm...."
As Crosscut's hoof raced through words and pictures and the occasional advertisement to buy a refreshing softdrink to ward off the heat despite it being chilly both outside and inside.
"We got...'the Princesses with record high approval ratings despite war'...'Steer Straight of the Crystal Pony Complex having early retirement'...'proposed national curfew considered by the Princesses'...'Mayor of Baltimare's been kicked out and replaced yet another time'..."
Raspberry yanked the newspaper out of her hooves. "Let me handle this, Crosscut."
She flipped the pages, placed it back flat on the table by their plates.
"They just updated the list of dates when Winter-Wrap Up will take place where," Raspberry said, pointing to said list which had a picture of a snowflake on it. "If you're tired of the cold, you could go to Metis Cotter. They'll be having it a full week and a half ahead on average."
"Except Metis Cotter is only seven miles away from Appleloosa," Crosscut mentioned.
Raspberry blinked. "Oh. Right."
Scrambled back to scanning the newspaper on the table.
"There's a cloud sale tomorrow in the classifieds and another one at the market. Seventy percent off. Do you, uh, want a cloud?".
Crosscut crossed her forelegs and cut Raspberry a glance. "What will I do with a cloud?"
Raspberry looked up, thinking. "Decorate it? Play with it? Show it off to your friends?"
"Sounds boring."
Raspberry sighed, flipping another page of the newspaper.
"What about sports?" Raspberry suggested. "Buckball's looking..." saw the appropriate section on the paper, "dry today."
Looking at a very blank sports section, seeing a few statistics, a few sportsponies, and a tiny article about how buckball player Time Out got an injury and would not be able to play for his hometown of Monacolt for a month or so.
Raspberry gulped. "Too bad. Did I miss anything?"
Crosscut said nothing, took a sip of her coffee.



It was morning the next day.
"Get yer' clouds here!"
Crosscut walked through the marketplace, encountering again the stalls that stood between her and the open paved path. Store buildings ranked in the background as stands and stalls had been set up in front of them, much to the annoyance of retail owners who wanted some exposure in a busy place where many ponies frequented.
But, today, there was not much to complain about when it came to frequent shoppers, for, other than Crosscut, there were only about a dozen or so buyers milling around. This prompted the sellers to scream all the louder, competing for time, attention, and money from who might be the last customers of the day despite it not being noon. Inventory and stocks were, according to traditional wisdom, reduced, so this marketplace looked less like a lively market and more like a dingy shopping venue with barely enough products to be considered a market.
Only casual hoofsteps crunching the snow, and vendors shouting, among other things:
"Get yer' clouds here!"
Crosscut's ears perked up again. Her eyes darted round until they landed on a peculiar stand gilded with clouds on almost every detail—including the wheels.
The pegasus there was blocking the way to a fast food chain, busy in the act of feverish discussion with his burger-and-fries counterpart.
"Buddy," the pegasus shouted, taking away his cloud-lined glasses, "I was here first! Woke up an hour before sunrise, made sure everything was in order, and my business was open right before everyone else was awake!"
"I don't care if you're early or late!" the fast food pony shouted back, wearing a purple apron stained with ketchup and sprinkles. "You're blocking the way, and I want you to move!"
"This is the most prominent place in the area!" the cloud-shop owner yelled. "I can't let an opportunity like this pass! What would I do then? I would have to close up shop!"
"Well, we serve food to everypony!" roared the fast food pony, straightening his apron as if threatening to pummel the pegasus down with it. "You're selling niche novelties! I could just ask a friend to go get a cloud for me!"
"But these are pampered clouds!" He grabbed one of the clouds and showed it to him. "They're of a vastly different quality than everyday 'cluds'."
The fast food pony spat on the ground. "Yeah, and I could pamper my friend's clouds with a comb and some scissors like a barber!"
The pegasus recoiled. "You dare insult my line of work, my occupation, my very source of livelihood?!"
"There's open space if you open your eyes!" Pointed to various open spaces around the marketplace, on the empty, snow-laden pavement. "What about you move for a change and give me something good for once?!"
"I shall stand my ground and have this argument a thousand times if it means keeping my lucrative position here!"
He stomped a hoof on the ground beside his cloud stall, signifying his "lucrative position".
The fast food pony grunted, shot him a mean look, and trotted back inside the fast food chain.



Joe took off the purple apron and put it on the hanger by the door. Trotted past the walls, past the clock, past the fridge. Plopped himself on the sofa which faced the window.
In his apartment room which smelled of scented honey glaze.
Leaning on the window was a broom and a mop. Hanging on the walls beside the clock were photos of himself in his white uniform, serving donuts with happy smiles on both him and the customer. A few culinary awards and ribbons, too.
Besides the sofa—a small carpet, a hanging light, a ukulele.
A bed by the door.
Joe looked past the window, gazed off to the distance, saw Thoroughbred itself in the night—its rising skyscrapers bright, its empty roads no longer a blight. He could see cranes and other construction machinery dismantle the stadium by one of the main avenues; over there, a house stood on its own against the forces of development and progress, existing precariously on a mound of dirt while frameworks of taller structures ascended at its sluggish pace.
Joe watched it unfold.



The next day was a Sunday, so Joe did not have to go to work.
Instead, he was inside an elevator with an operator inside.
Cramped yet stylish was the elevator, its fifty buttons indicating almost fifty floors for this high-rise. Shiny metal walls, floor painted white.
The number on the screen above slowly rising.
No sound but the hum of the elevator, the hum of wires and wheels rolling them upwards.
"You're in on the secret?" the operator asked, turning his red head slowly to him.
Joe shook his head. "What secret?"
The operator turned away, back to staring at the buttons. "The Majestic Tower is virtually abandoned. Less than ten ponies live and work here."
Joe raised an eyebrow. "But, the lights are always on. It's the tallest building in the city."
Without looking at him: "Have you ever wondered why it's closed for thirty minutes after sunset? And why it's always the last building to light up every night?"
Joe cocked his head a bit. "Maintenance?"
The operator shook his head. "I'm the one who runs around, turning on half the lights here. I have to do it—maintain the facade, so to speak. Otherwise, they'll start getting uneasy. A big building with no lights on it in the night? That's going to raise some rumors and gossips around. Good thing I never miss a night."
Joe nodded and looked up to the display.
Floor 28.
"You know how it goes around here. It's a story I'm sure you've heard too many times. This place used to be thriving with life, and we used to host the biggest parties, the largest meetings. We had big names come by here—Princess Luna herself came by to honor our 50th anniversary. Then, the Crystal Empire came, Sombra sent his troops across the border, and everyone became a lot more cautious. Even the ponies who still wanted to party or hold those meetings...their friends and co-workers had to go. The parties and meetings shrunk, leaving us janitors, guards, and operators to languish here because it's a safe job that pays the bills."
Joe kept silent.
Looked up again.
Floor 41.
"Both of my parents went off to be soldiers. My mother's dead; my father's alive, but...you never know if you'll get the letter first thing in the morning." Sighed. "Rest of our family was quite big. Seven siblings, not including me. Eight of us. All of them soldiers, too, or, if not that, in some kind of military capacity. I'm the only one who's here."
Floor 45.
Rumbling, shaking.
The two ponies were rocked off their balance, falling to the floor.
Joe looked up from his lying position.
Floor 45.
"What's going on?" Joe asked, anxious.
The operator coughed, struggling to get up. "Don't worry. It does that all the time. Management hasn't bothered to fix up the mechanism—getting a bit rusty there."
He stood up, pressed a button.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a hallway with the number "45" painted on in massive size.
He pressed another button.
The elevator doors closed.
Joe looked up.
Floor 45.
Floor 46.
"And that would be all, really," the operator said, without looking at him again.
Floor 47.
The doors opened.
Showing a similar looking hallway but with the number "47" instead of "45" on the wall.
"I'll be waiting for you here," the operator said as Joe walked away. "I don't expect anyone to call me down anytime soon—I once had a full week where I just sat here on the ground floor with nopony to talk to."
Joe trotted down to the end of that carpeted, polished hallway of plush offices. He was approaching the end of it where a glass door was, leading the way to a balcony where a good view of the entire city could be had and enjoyed.
Except he froze right before that glass door.
Joe blinked, took in his surroundings again.
Sensing the nauseating perfume sprayed on the walls.
Trotted back to the elevator.
The operator looked at him weird. "What's going on? Aren't you going to spend some time—"
Joe pressed the button labeled "G".
Doors slid closed.
He rested his head on the metal doors.
As he felt light-headed.
Looked up to the display.
Floor 45.
"What am I doing with my life?" Joe murmured, leg on the door and above his face. "First the donut shop had to change, then I had to move away from my home, and now...this."
The operator surveyed the flustered stallion, remaining silent.
Joe turned his head to him. "Do you have any good donut flavors in mind?"
The operator replied with a shake of his head. "Uh...maybe?"