//------------------------------// // Chapter The First // Story: That One Time Anonymous Conquered Equestria // by HeideKnight //------------------------------// Anonymous. The very name is a scream in the night, a blood-stained mattress, an uncanny valley. The legends say that he emerged from murk. Suit and tie like black tar, shirt crisp white like fresh-picked bones, shoes polished like… polished shoes. Ponies fear him. Monsters cower in his presence. Even the great Everfree was said to recoil when first he walked its gnarled paths. Gryphon legends tell of a creature, this hoo-man, that lived long ago. It was at once a sorcerer, a warrior, and a most scoundrelous rogue. It ravaged Equus for millennia, erected iron towers around which all died, and then vanished. When hoo-man returns, they say, it will be as a king from regency. Anonymous visited Gryphonstone once. No pony has heard from the gryphons since. Actually, that was last week. Now, as Canterlot’s ponies busy themselves shopping, eating, and playing, they know their lives are a myopic flit between empty activities. They know they’re living in diversion, trying to forget. Even the princesses, they say, are sequestered behind castle walls, afraid of the creature stalking their lands. But time is short. Patrols pursuing sightings have, one by one, gone missing. Detachments deployed to fortify capital defenses return routed. Special operations teams ordered after the creature’s head all report: It is impossible. It is unstoppable. We are doomed. Celestia knows these are Equestria’s final days. She has seen it in her sleep. She’s spent years preparing Twilight Sparkle and her friends, in the vain hope they could stop it. Maybe… If she had more time… But no. As she looks over her balcony, toward her realm’s horizon, she knows powerlessness. Metal against marble—a guard approaches her. “Your majesty,” he says, voice a quiet tremor, “the outer walls have gone silent.” Celestia remains an impassive monolith; the goddess her subjects expect in dire times. But, though the guard, too absorbed in his own fear, is unaware, she is shaking. Beyond her divine gaze, walking Canterlot’s streets as a murderer toward a cornered victim, Anonymous thumbs his device. A sell-fone he calls it. He is annoyed; something he’s felt often since arriving in Equestria. Here, too, atop a mountain, he has no signal. One option remains: the castle. The gilded structure has taunted him for miles from a distance. Equestria’s highest point, not counting the inaccessible cloud cities. As he travels the main thoroughfare, ponies duck, dive, and flee. Before, he would call to them, attempt to calm them, try petting. But, despite the similarity between their spoken language and English, his words were ignored. Now he has accepted their terror. He chuckles as a mint green unicorn trips over her hooves mid-scramble. To him, it’s cute. To them, it’s the apocalypse. He arrives at the city’s interior wall. He is unaware of the many eyes, two of them royal, observing his approach. When he reaches the portcullis, the guards fighting the seldom-used and rusted lever responsible for sealing it are facing away. “Hello,” Anonymous calls. “What’re you guys doing?” “Seek shelter, civilian” one says between grunts, metal-shoed hooves dragging along the ground as he pushes against the antiquated contraption. “The castle will not fall so long as the royal guard stand.” “Hear, hear!” The other says, applying oil to the rusted gear. “If you say so,” Anonymous says. He passes beneath the portcullis and squats behind them. “Need help?” “Your assistance is not required,” the first guard grunts. Anonymous hums. He rubs his chin and knits his brows. Then, like lightening in a dry shrub, an idea sparks his mind. He understands the guards’ folly. He stands, a proud figure, reaches past the first guard—who, surprised, halts his strained pushing—grips the handle, and pulls. The portcullis slams shut; a cacophony that echoes through the courtyard. The guards are stunned speechless. And when they turn toward him, they are just stunned. “You’re welcome,” Anonymous says and waves. And then he continues, possessing all the cheer of a child ripping butterfly wings. He fooled them, and now he has trapped them. One of the guards weeps; a silent sound, and a wish for hearth, home, and mother. But a hope remains, and she knows she is Equestria’s last. Vengeance eternal, she readies her guard—Equestria’s most elite. Anonymous, the fiend, the end of days, crosses the courtyard. Though still incapable of calls, his sell-fone has an indispensable function: he snaps pictures of the courtyard’s varied topiary, statues, and fountains, flash enabled. Equestria, after all—this magnificent civilization, unrivaled by any other known across the five seas—is home to the greatest artists, scientists, and philosophers. Its culture is a beacon to the world, and a reminder that reason, the superficial manipulation of the forms of thought, requires no wisdom. Like a raven upon a field mouse, princess Luna, that scion, that Empress of the Night, death’s most beloved mistress, lands upon an empty pedestal, splintering it to the base. She casts her hate filled gaze upon the intruder, the breathing nightmare who dared invade her home. Anonymous stops, sell-fone up, eyes wide. Luna is majestic. Her coat, soft blue like the night sky; her mane, a whirling cloud like the cosmos; her eyes, a deep crystal lake. He snaps a picture of her too. “Hear me, creature,” Luna’s voice is like heaven itself speaking, “thou art a plague upon this kingdom, and we will tolerate thine presence no longer! Night Guard!” As though emerging from shadow, bat ponies, mares and stallions, coats mixed from grey to eggshell white, clad in armor like onyx, surround Anonymous, wings raised, fangs bared, and shod in bladed horseshoes. A few hiss, others bray, but all come to attention when Luna lifts her hoof. “Attack pattern alpha. Fly!” Luna says. The night guard obeys; they stab forward, a dark pincer, a noose around their target. But before impact, they break or fly past. Their ring becomes a swarm of leathery wings, clanking metal, and shrieks. Luna smiles. Attack pattern alpha is meant to confuse the target, and this, team Umbra, is the best at it. “Neat,” Anonymous says, posture relaxed, smiling like a circus patron. Luna holds her hoof aloft. Their target, still awed, is even more disoriented than she hoped. She readies like a commander steadying a disciplined line. She imagines how she’ll brag to her sister that her night guard handled easily what the solar guard has botched every occasion. And when a passing breeze shifts a degree to the north, she drops her hoof. Team Umbra parts upward, each at a sharp angle, and then banks toward their target, killing intent palpable, hooves back, claws deployed, eyes slits. Anonymous lifts his sell-fone toward a mare and snaps a picture. “Hiss!” The flash disorients her. She crashes sidelong into the next pony in formation, who tumbles forward and over Anonymous, and collides with his antipodal teammate, who, entangled, crashes as well, and… Well, the attack splinters. When the hissing, clattering armor, yelling, neighing, and ground-rocking thuds have subsided, one, confused, cream-colored batpony mare remains airborne. The others are strewn about the courtyard like corpses felled by an overaggressive tilt-a-whirl. The remaining bat pony lands too and chitters apologetically. “Uh, oops,” Anonymous, that villain of villains, says. Luna stands awed. Her best forces are broken, routed like mere recruits. She scans the courtyard, the injured and disoriented bodies, like a proud general devastated by a failed up-hill charge. She must retreat. Her darting eyes find Anonymous, who, idly scratching his cheek, is watching. Luna takes a step back, but her hoof meets open air. She tumbles from her pedestal, and hits the ground. Luna’s head buzzes a moment, and then stills. And then she feels it—what must have sent her sister’s most elite retreating in terror. The helplessness, the vulnerability, death’s imminence. Anonymous is standing over her. “Hey, you alright? Man, you ponies must have some vendetta against gravity.” It is then she knows she has to flee. Capture is unthinkable, unacceptable. Celestia will need her; they will hold the throne room together. She channels magic, holds her breath, and flashes from the courtyard. “That’s new,” Anonymous says, looking around. “Are all these horses trained stage performers?” He looks at his device. It still reads zero bars. He holds it up and sighs. The courtyard is insufficient. He turns to the castle’s large, ornate doors. Inside, Celestia paces before her throne. She is alone; she’s dismissed the guards and castle staff. If she’s fated to fall, she’s resolved that her ponies have another day. Luna appears—a bright flash and a ripple, hallmarks of hasty teleportation. She is on her back still, and her breathing is labored. Celestia hurries to her sister’s side and helps her stand. “I have failed, sister,” Luna says, avoiding Celestia’s eyes. “I know,” Celestia says. In her heart she weeps, but she steadies her expression, adopts the smile she wore for Luna when they were young, when the days blinded and the nights chilled. But the look long ago lost its comfort for Luna. She sees it seldom these days, but its meaning is unmistakable: despair alone remains. Despair is at that moment walking the castle halls, examining the nightshade adorned wall sconces, inhaling the light, buttery aroma of a pancake breakfast left to stale on the dining hall table. Despair waves his sell-fone high. The screen reflects many hues, light dyed by the hall’s stain glass murals. And when Despair reaches the throne room, doors shut, but unlocked—for surly nothing so simple as a lock can stop one so powerful—he pauses and knocks. Celestia gives her sister one more look; reassurance, maybe, or maybe she wants to remember her face. And then she faces the door, defiant. “Enter!” Anonymous pushes his way into the throne room. There are dual seats at the far end, like sun and moon, and dual princesses, one for each celestial body. The polished marble is like a god’s painted smile, and everywhere gold trim and satin embroidery fleck the corners of pillars, cloth, curtain, and carpet. Anonymous stops, paces from Celestia and Luna. He points to his sell-fone. “Hey, you guys have reception in here? I’ve been all over the place and can’t find a bar to save my life.” Celestia lifts her eyebrow and examines the rectangular device. She suspects it’s some kind of mirror—the intricacies of human technology beyond her comprehension. It’s not just a mirror, but a two-way mirror. She levels her horn. “You have cut a swath of destruction through my country, yet you expect aid? Have you no remorse?” “Remorse?” Anonymous asks, eyes to his screen. “For what?” Celestia and Luna share concerned looks. In other situations, with other enemies, perhaps they would have tried talking, tried to understand. Twilight’s methods, such as they were, have saved Equestria multiple times. But they know, by force of oracle and premonition, how today ends. Still, Luna has one remaining question. “What is this ‘reception’ you speak of?” Anonymous looks up. His expression reads disbelief, as though Luna has asked him whether a blue ball was indeed blue. “Cellphone reception,” he says. “You know, a signal?” Again, Celestia and Luna share confusion. Celestia speaks this time, cautious and diplomatic, as though addressing foreign dignitaries. “And if we can provide you with this ‘signal’, you’ll leave?” Anonymous shrugs. An honest gesture. In truth, a signal is the least of his concerns, and in the coming days and weeks, the greater of these will become apparent, though none in the room know this. But for now, his expression, his indecisive movement, kindles Celestia’s hope. Luna, however, trusts far less. She speaks next, and does so wearing her classical role as high inquisitor—a position long abolished, but a spirit still nourished in the younger sister. “And when you receive this signal,” Luna steps forward, “just what will you do with it?” Again, Anonymous looks at her as though the answer is obvious. “Call someone. Tell them to come get me.” Luna’s eyes become like blue saucers. “There are… more of you?” “Yeah. Why wouldn’t there be?” “And you intend to bring them here?” Celestia asks. That hope, barely sparked, wholly unnourished, dies. “Obviously,” Anonymous says, then lifts his sell-fone once more. ‘Obviously’. Know it or not, it was an apt word. Many things become obvious to the sisters then, but none more than this: Even if his implied intention to leave is true, others of his kind in Equestria is unacceptable. The sisters nod to each other, then lift their horns. “I am sorry it has come to this,” Celestia says, magic gathering in her horn. “I am not,” Luna says, widening her stance. Anonymous, devil of devils, stands amazed. He’s witnessed unicorns’ power before, but this is the closest he’s been. Their magic swirls and blends, like dancing blue and gold fire. They come together inches before the sisters. Celestia lowers her head slightly. She feels genuine sorrow that she’s forced to wield her magic this way, but her abiding concern for her realm overpowers compunction. And then, together, the sisters release their energy. Like a great tide, it rushes forward and over Anonymous, the floor, and the door behind. A sound like churning stone in an echo chamber splinters their ears and shatters the windows. But they persist; even as marble peels away like scraped tissue paper and the door behind their target leaves its hinges. And when their power fades and the debris is settling—leaving dull ringing and the occasional clatter of some toppling, obliterated fixture, and a smell like an empty pan left unattended on a flame—the sisters wait, cautious but optimistic. “Could he… have avoided it?” Luna says, gasping. “Not unless he is as adept at teleportation as you,” Celestia replies. She relaxes and lifts her shimmering mane. She narrows her eyes, and then dread strikes. As the dust settles, first a shadow, and then an outline, and then a whole figure remains. Anonymous stands, unscathed. Behind him, splaying like refracted rays, is a widening strip of undamaged floor, as though the devastation—scarred marble and stone, torn and burning carpet, crumbling wall and doorway—hit him as a stream of water might a knife’s blade. He is scratching his cheek, looking impressed, though confused. “That was really cool,” he says, then waves away some lingering dust. “But what did it do?” The sisters’ jaws are agape. Their shock evolves different ways. Celestia’s becomes despair; an abiding feeling all is lost. But Luna, she is not cowed easily. It was she, after all, who banished the Crystal Empire after Sombra’s victory; she who had pushed the gryphons across the sea; she who had dared try unite diarchy into a universal monarchy. With one flap she is upon him. She lifts her head, horn alight, then levels a beam like a laser into his face. Its energy sparks and screams; its force and focus superheat her horn… And it deflects harmlessly off his forehead like scattered light. Luna stills her horn and lands. Her face reads like a children’s storybook: shock, terror, and the half-resisted urge to pee oneself. “How?” she asks, maybe to him, maybe her sister, maybe herself. “How could our magic have failed?” “Magic?” Anonymous asks. He’s admiring Luna up close now; much closer than he’s been allowed to get to other ponies. They all ran before he had the opportunity. He puts his forefinger and thumb to his chin, eyes sharp. “It’s easy,” he says. “I don’t believe in that stuff.” Because that’s how that works. And so Equestria falls. Days later, debris is being removed, structure being repaired, new doors hauled inside. Order is restored where days ago there was panic. The castle staff have returned. Guards are again at their posts, and the portcullis lever has a new sign indicating in which direction it’s to be pulled. Inside, much of the marble floor, either too scarred for refurbish or destroyed entirely, is being replaced. The red velvet carpet leading into the throne room is absent—out for replacement too, as the previous carpet was incinerated. And in the throne room itself, lined up on either side, guards stand, spears high, eyes forward, in salute of their new emperor. Where there were two thrones, there is now one. And on that throne sits Anonymous, eyes on his screen, head tiara topped (his crown still in production). He holds his phone aloft and looses a wistful sigh, longing for the days of 4G or even the fabled 5. “I don’t think this fits quite as well as I’d hoped,” Celestia says. “Hush, sister,” Luna says. “The vanquished must not speak freely.” On either side, necks chained, are Luna and Celestia, former rulers of Equestria, current “good girls”. Anonymous looks at his screen… And then his face lights. For once, the dark one is overjoyed. He stands, a triumphant move, and lifts his fist. For today, the greatest of all, one that here forward will be marked by celebration—that will forever more be a national holiday in Equestria—he has discovered one bar! Oh, but what gods could know, in all their creation, that such a simple thing, over all the fragile beauty of revealed being, could inspire the highest praise. No, further, that all of sublimity, and even the Idea itself, could smile on that occasion upon such a simple man, at a humble pass. The princesses watch him weep joyful tears, and even his guard’s presence fails to perturb his boundless satisfaction. Because, for these moments, men write endless verse, whether song or prose or poem, and sculpt, and paint, and film cheesy indie movies. Because, for these moments, for that brief period when lover and beloved unite, mortal is transported into eternity, and all of creation bows before the majesty of the Event. And then his phone dies.