It’s a strange thing, rulership. The fabled sword of Damocles, the precarious perch of one’s position and of the entire realm, is just the largest burden. It’s the trifles—the policy luncheons, the rolling meetings, the public events—that overwhelm rulers. And, of course, there’s the opposition. There are nobles and aristocrats, the class of usurpers; officers and militia, the class of glory seekers; and merchants and tradesmen, the class of malcontents.
And not one member of one of these knows how to charge a phone.
So, the prince of darkness, that scoundrel upon the stolen throne, that unfortunate mook in the sharp suit, Anonymous, gathers his court for an important quest, one rivaling the Holy Grail form his world. They are to find a charger, or at least something that serves the same end.
Celestia, good girl number one, is wary of the Emperor’s plan. After all, she argues, there are more pressing matters. The court is the ruler’s immediate circle; a web of confidants and advisors who, like extensions of his limbs, carry the functions of government across the land. Should they be preoccupied, there could be disorder. Provinces and populations would have no recourse, no communication with the sovereign. Anarchy could break loose, and the state’s delicate order, ever a hair from the edge, could topple. There could even be…
A coup.
As happened anyway, Celestia’s administrative acumen notwithstanding.
But the Emperor is nonplussed. He and good girl number two (ever a servant of duty, Luna took quickly to her new role) plan the Grand Expedition.
For the truth is, as it ever was, that Anonymous has no interest in governing. Once he’d proven immune to magic, the two sisters, sure they were in the presence of some unstoppable fiend, surrendered. Their surrender was unbidden. In fact, it was another day before Anonymous realized they were serious. He promptly refused the title, but was by then in too deep. The government had collapsed. Most of Canterlot’s ministers, sure the two sisters were dead, had abandoned their posts and, if not fled the city, at least hid, sure mass executions were coming. But Anonymous, ever the clever sort, didn’t know horses were even capable of government.
The conundrum is that pony society has stood for so long. How has some becrowned fool, say with a black coat and stupid looking, red-tipped horn, not simply marched into the throne room unopposed prior to this?
But these thoughts are far from Anonymous’ mind. More immediate is his cellphone’s hunger, and more still Luna’s brushies; for if she goes without, she gets cranky.
So, upon his Iron Throne, brush in hand, Luna’s forelegs splayed across his lap, and Celestia a few cautious feet away, Anonymous receives his briefing from Spitfire, commander of Equestria’s air forces. Ever loyal, and carrying out, like the government’s other, few, still functioning organs, the abdication degree, her firm allegiance and eternal services are bound now to the Dark Lord.
“And that,” Spitfire says, smacking her diagram of the Canterlot catacombs hard enough that the easel wobbles, “is how we get the Rings of Brontes. More than enough juice to power your, uh, thing, for the next thousand moons.”
“An intriguing plan,” Luna says, tail bobbing lazily every brushstroke. “Though deploying so many resources for one lead is surly folly. We must distribute our attention, so as to increase our chances of success.”
Anonymous rubs his chin and nods. It’s an imperious nod: one possessing great confidence; one of a man capable of leading armies, of felling great warriors; one of someone who tuned out five minutes into the presentation. “What do you think?” He asks Celestia.
“Equestria is doomed,” she says.
“Then it’s agreed!” Anonymous bellows. “Gather your forces, Spitty ol’ girl. Half will support the third division as it searches the mysterious Everfree Forest.” He wiggles his fingers for dramatic effect. “And the other half will look for those rings with the fourth division.”
“A sensible proposal,” Luna says.
“Yes, sir,” Spitfire salutes.
Once she’s left, easel under wing, Anonymous stands, confident his problem’s one stretch from solution. He casts his imperial gaze across the throne room and decrees:
“It’s time for lunch.”
“Lunch?” Celestia asks. “Right now? You have a meeting in five minutes, and after that there’s—”
“Tut, tut,” Anonymous says, lifting a finger. “Don’t you worry your pretty mane about all that. I’ve got top men on it.”
“Who?” Celestia lifts her brow.
“Top. Men.”
But by men, he means mares. And by mares, he means the curious mailmare who’d brought the post that morning, Derpy Hooves. Some might say it was a poor choice. Why, after all, would a pony whose entire world is stamps and packages know how to govern? But that would be a dumb question, and those who propose it dumb for asking.
Luna follows Anonymous out of the throne room. Celestia, forlorn and begrudging, soon follows too. They are unaware—for none are psychic, though Luna does enter others’ minds at night, and Celestia does get premonitions at awkward times (once, while in the privy, she foresaw the collapse of the ceiling to water damage; there was quite the mess to clean up after she’d fallen from her seat)—that the expeditions have already floundered. The Everfree, after all, commands its airspace too, and appreciates intruders no more for flying. And Brontes’ rings are an artifact from the obviously fallacious Daring Do novels. Obviously.
But failures far from mind are hardly failures; they’re as yet uninterpreted events. And if one is clever—or maybe it’s unscrupulous—any event can be spun as a success.
Take Anonymous’ ham and cheese sandwich for instance. When he’s gathered his ingredients, layered his four-cheese blend, and added, plucked from his suit jacket, his personal brand Hot Sawce! (trademark pending), one can say “but there’s no ham on that sandwich”. Average thinking is so constrained. Instead, rethink what “ham” means. That’s right: Havarti, aged cheddar, and mozzarella. And the fourth? It’s just cheese. Some random, unnamed cheese. Therefore, ham and cheese sandwich.
But that’s the kind of flexible thinking, maverick-like maneuvering, duplicitous flip-flopping, that separates ruling Chad Anons from the Virgin princesses.
And as Celestia watches, put off by Anonymous’ unique flavor combination, and confused by her sister’s apparent indifference, she is reminded of an Old Ponish saying:
While mares must weather
the harshest of storms
The ice cares not
To it, it is warm
Though it sounds better in Old Ponish, and has a better rhyme scheme too. She intuits then what is, to some degree, the case. Luna’s passivity is a product of what the elder sister has always suspected: this desultory rule is how the younger saw Equestria’s previous government too. The fitful decrees, the nobility’s rampant corruption, delegating the entire realm’s defense to six civilian mares, only one of whom has military experience—for Luna, the current state of affairs is little different from the former. And at least Anonymous puts the military to use, and much of the nobility has fled to their estates.
And so Celestia mopes while Anonymous regales Luna on his cellphone’s capabilities. Luna asks the occasional clarifying question: what is the internet? How does one chat by snapping? Why would anyone throw a book at another’s face? Is this “ree” a kind of war cry? At least she immediately understood the last of these.
But before Anonymous can give his crash course on bants, the chancellor of the Equestrian Assembly, head of Their Majesties’ Government, Equestria’s third most powerful pony before the fall, Fluttershy’s Mom, enters the kitchen. She approaches the Emperor.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Shy says.
Anonymous turns toward her, arm raised mid-theatrics. “Oh, hey. Uhh… ?”
“Yes, Chancellor Shy? How may we help you?” Celestia steps forward, compelled by a thousand years’ habit, a trained and ingrained instinct to take charge. Also, the first time Anonymous had met her, he’d thought Mrs. Shy was the gardener.
“Yes, um, well… Your majesty,” she says to the Dark King, “the assembly anticipates your State of the Realms address.”
Celestia takes a rattled breath, as though stabbed in the lung. “That’s right! The State of the Realms is tonight. All of Equestria will be awaiting word of your legislative, domestic, and foreign policy agendas for the coming year.”
Mrs. Shy nods. “Yes, and we’re all eager to know the,” she swallows, “new administration’s policies.”
Anonymous, Beelzebub’s own, horror of horrors, The One Who Would Bleed Every Land, kneels before Mrs. Shy. She flinches and squeezes her eyes shut, and then squeaks a desperate squeak, certain of her end.
“Aren’t you just the most adorable little thing?” Anonymous says, stroking her mane. “Even got little thick rimmed glasses.”
Now, this behavior toward a sitting chancellor is unheard of, and least of all toward Chancellor Shy. Her direct, honest, tough leadership style earned her the nickname “Green Mum” in the assembly. She is known to speak her mind, to be principled and unyielding. Even the princesses, it is said, revered her as their voice. So, this kind of behavior, as it is against every norm and protocol, demands appropriate response.
She giggles and pushes at his arm with her hoof. “S-stop. Your Majesty, please!”
“Who’s a good girl, huh?” Anonymous says.
“Ahem.” Luna lifts her nose. “I believe the title ‘good girl’ belongs to my sister and I.”
“Oh, right,” Anonymous says. He removes his hand from Mrs. Shy’s mane.
She sighs, relieved. “Your Majesty, the speech?”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t know. You give it.” Anonymous says, then takes another bite of his sandwich.
Celestia clears her throat. “That won’t do, your Imperial Highness. As head of state, you must give the address yourself. It’s one of the few functions of government you can’t get out of.” She looks aside. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Gotta step up to the plate, huh?” Anonymous asks, shaking his sandwich for emphasis. “Alright, guess I’ll do it. Not like I’ve got anything else going on tonight.”
He does, in fact, have other things going on that night. But he’s forgotten them already. The yaks are known for patience though, and border disputes resolve themselves. Natural boundaries and such.
Mrs. Shy, reliable public servant she is, takes both pad and quill from beneath her wing and props herself upon the marble countertop. “If you’d like, your majesty, dictate your speech to me. I can edit a final copy for you.”
“Good idea, cutesnoot,” Anonymous says past his last bite of sandwich. He swallows. “Ahem. I was born on a Tuesday…”
What follows is the most brilliant, insightful, confusing speech ever given on Equestrian soil. Mrs. Shy, nose near the uncapped Hot Sawce! bottle, weeps; Luna swells with patriotic pride, or maybe from her cheese allergy; and even Celestia is gasping for air by his penultimate paragraph.
It turns out that last cheese was a very spicy pepper jack.
And when Anonymous, that King Slayer, that Lord of Want, that fashionable mad lad, finishes his speech, all present are stomping their hooves.
“Magnificent!” Luna says.
“Remarkable,” Celestia shouts.
“I ran out of ink mid-way through, but my running mascara was enough to finish,” Mrs. Shy says, further smearing her makeup when she wipes her tears with her wing.
“Yeah, I do a pretty good horse impression,” Anonymous says. “You should hear my dog, too.” He looks at the clock on the wall: Half-past squiggle. Equestrian writing is not like English, possibly because two-thirds of Equestrians write with their mouths. “But it’ll have to wait,” he continues. “I’ve got to get back to the throne room for my debriefing.”
And with a sweep of his cape—because he’s wearing a cape now—Anonymous leaves the kitchen, good girls one and two close behind. When he arrives at his golden seat, his Imperial Perch, and sits, Derpy is waiting, one wall-eye on a clipboard, the other toward some unspeakable future.
“I spoke to the councilors like you asked,” Derpy says. “They seemed really nice at first. They even gave me muffins!”
“That’s wonderful, er… Dinky, is it?” Celestia says, sitting upright on her comfy pillow. It’s pink laced, embossed beneath with a hoof-stitched sun. “But what about the realm? I’m sure news of Canterlot’s fall has sparked panic. Did they mention the situation in the regional capitals?”
“No, they didn’t say anything like that,” Derpy says, ears dropping.
“Then surely they have spoken of civil defense,” Luna says. “News of our defeat will no doubt inspire Equestria’s enemies to action.”
“Um… well, no. They didn’t talk about that either.”
“Did they get my letter?” Anonymous asks.
Derpy perks. “Yes, sir! They said your,” she squints at her clipboard, “sell-you-la-ray towers are all approved. They were really excited about them, too.”
Anonymous slaps his hands together. “Great. Oh man, you hoof monsters are gonna love this. Coast to coast coverage, and the best connection outside of Seattle.”
How this is to work when ponies lack even a public switched telephone network is a mystery to all but Anonymous himself. Or, to be precise, since even the concept of a telephone is foreign to Equestria, even this mystery, qua mystery, is an unknown.
But the Emperor knows. He lifts an imperial arm, imperial finger extended, and points toward the imperial ceiling imperiously. “Mark me,” he says, “No filly, colt, or mare will go without coverage again. I decree a new day is dawning for horse world—”
“Equus,” Celestia says.
“Gesundheit. And from here on, whether native or visitor, all will have access to the fastest 4G LTE network ever!” His cape billows. For years to come scholars will argue about this royal breeze’s origins.
“That’s great, your majesty!” Derpy says, flapping happily. “Everypony will be really excited to hear that tonight.”
“Oh? And did the council say what they expect of the Emperor?” Celestia asks.
“No, they just did a lot of complaining. They said some really nasty stuff about me too…”
“Like what?” Anonymous asks, flopping into his seat.
Derpy lowers her head. “I don’t remember everything, but it was pretty mean.” Then she perks up again. “But don’t worry! I told them they were wrong and that you had confidence in me!”
“Good for you, Derps,” Anonymous says, nodding. He’s proud of her—as he should be. Standing up for oneself is a hard thing, and to do so in a principled way is the mark of a noble soul. And doubtless when the janitorial staff find the bodies, they will remark to themselves “here, beneath this table, smeared across these walls, and stuffed into the waste paper basket, noble hooves did work”.
And so, that afternoon’s business attended, Anonymous prepares for his speech. Good girls one and two coach him on the finer points of statecraft: Always pretend to know what you’re doing, say “Machiavellian” and “realpolitik” when you mean caprice and indifference, and for every cited expert opinion, there is an equal and opposite expert opinion with which to make your case.
“But most of all, have fun,” Celestia says while adjusting his tie.
And later, by the time of the speech, the entire assembly is abuzz. Rumor, quick bugger it is, brings word of a big announcement; a drastic policy change, perhaps, or a declaration of some slew of irrelevant national holidays. Either way, everyone anticipates big things.
Anonymous is equal parts anticipation and anxiety. Taking helm of an equine nation is a beach upon which no man has before floundered.
And when the time comes, Anonymous’ arrival, flanked by Celestia and Luna, is announced by Chancellor Shy. He enters the Great Hall of Herds, a magnificent chamber with hundreds of seats arranged like an amphitheater around a central dais, to stomping hooves and braying. As he walks, shoulders back, head high, through the aisle, he waves to and bumps hooves with lawmakers from across Equestria. Some crowd and push, others buck and cajole—all eager to see the Emperor. Others still, those of the older generation and from the reform faction, watch him like he’s worms in their oats.
As Anonymous nears the chamber’s center, one young mare squeezes from a near row. She’s a timid, gentle looking thing with a pink mane and fuchsia coat, oddly wearing a trabea. Anonymous approaches her and kneels.
“Ohmygawd, you’re so adorable,” he says and pets her mane. The mare averts her gaze and blushes. And then her eyes widen and she scowls. She turns toward The Immortal Emperor, reaches into her tunic, and withdraws a dagger.
“Sic sempra… Sic siempe… Sic… Screw it. Die!” She plunges her dagger into him.
Someone else screams, “They’re trying to kill the Emperor!”
And then it’s chaos.
A stallion tackles the assailant. The riled assembly breaks into open hoof-to-hoof struggle. Horns bolts fly; the fray becomes a blinding, confusing whir. Bangs, moans, shouts—the hall is a war zone. It’s a struggle more intense than the Storm King’s invasion produced. They should have sent the politicians to fight his forces. No matter who won, Equestria would have benefited.
And through it all, Anonymous lies, face up, on the carpet. Red stains his suit. His stares blankly at the great, vaulted ceiling. A century from now, a great painter, descendant of Fleet Admiral Rainbow Dash, will recreate this scene. It will become one of Equestria’s greatest artworks and a national treasure.
Celestia and Luna, deaf to the anarchy, look mournfully down at him.
Celestia speaks, voice crisp, ethereal, over the cacophonous chamber, “A tragedy and triumph in equal measure.”
Luna shakes her head. “He was a strange, great, terrible creature, sister.”
They share reverent silence.
Then Luna says, “So… should we toss him in the trash pit or…?”
Anonymous gasps, startling both sisters. He coughs; a rattling sound, like fingers dragged against a phlegm-covered grate. He puts his hand against the red patch on his suit, observes it, and frowns.
“You live?” Celestia says. Her voice mixes surprise disappointment, an inflection that would later earn her a “good girl demerit”, putting Luna firmly in the lead.
Withdraws his bottle of Hot Sawce! from his suit jacket. It’s shattered, leaking its pungent contents on the carpet. Then he stands. He looks across the chamber. Ponies are rolling, kicking, biting, and bludgeoning each other with staplers. His eyes shine, glorious and terrible, like a distant, approaching flame in a dry forest. He lifts his arms, dark, red-flecked pillars, and says,
“STOP!”
Except the voice isn’t his. It comes from the chamber’s entrance. There, in her military jacket, medals displayed, is Spitfire. Her voice announces marching hooves and clinking armor. The fourth division fills the assembly. Four guardsmares form a protective square around Anonymous, Luna, and Celestia while others units restrain agitated delegates.
Spitfire enters the chamber. She approaches Anonymous, the Blight of Civilization, evil in a fitted suit, and lowers her head. “We found it,” she says, then from beneath her wing pulls a blindingly bright ring. She offers it to Anonymous. It’s palm-sized and cool to the touch, though radiating warm light.
“Oh, cool,” Anonymous says. For he knows, as do good girls one and two, and Spitfire herself, that with such power, the world is his. That with a thought, or even a misdirected intention, he can level cities, annihilate species, and cleanse the realm itself of the unfit.
“So, it’s like a battery, right?” He asks.
“What’s a battery?” Spitfire says.
They share a confused look.
So, the assembly is brought to order, though Anonymous skips his speech.
That night, the would-be assassins’ seventeen conspirators are rounded up and executed. They die singing the diarchy’s praises and cursing the usurper. Anonymous, after trying for an hour and by various means—rubbing it against the screen, tapping the two together, leaving the two next to each other with romantic music—to send energy from the Ring of Brontes into his phone, gives up and brews another batch of his world famous Hot Sawce!™.
Also that night, Celestia, succumbing to curiosity, takes her turn for brushies. They’re great.
And, oh yeah, Twilight showed up. She seems agitated.
Probably should have mentioned that sooner.