In the headquarters of the Convocation of Countries, at one of the lower floors, a griffon looks out the window: a vista of Manehattan under reconstruction splayed out; dots represented creatures speeding away to get the city back up again.
In his suit, Gestal—President of the Republic of Griffonstone—lets out a sigh. Sunlight rains on his glasses.
He hears little, nigh undetectable flaps. Whirls his head around and sees the suit-wearing breezie hovering his way. A tiny angel, he rests on the window.
“Seabreeze?” inquires the griffon. “I thought you’re still duking it out with the others.”
A loud click of the tongue is the response of Gaothlub’s head of state. “That shouting match is going to kill me at this size. In fact… I thought you stayed; I know how immovable you are with your stances. Took me a while to notice you disappeared.”
The griffon feels a weight put on his shoulders. “Cooler heads must prevail. When it comes to something as simple yet as important as our slogan, I am astonished that only you’ve followed my example.”
To take the weight off for a moment, he looks outside.
Pegasi and hippogriffs scout the city out from above, the former controlling the weather while they’re at it. Earthbound creatures on the streets: buying and selling, helping each other out, teaching each other how to pony or how to griffon or how to hippogriff. How to whatever else they became.
“To think the Convocation was making much progress: no wars for almost a century; proxy battles dropping off cliffs; our arbiters doing everything to keep the world from falling apart and, somehow, the world didn’t. We were on the way to world peace, and it’d take a worldwide tragedy to undo everything.”
His claw falls toward the window. A shrug with a beaked groan.
“Then this happens. Just to think we might finally unite humanity, finally have everyone getting along just for once, this happens. Can’t even unite under the same species anymore. As if bringing different nationalities together is hard enough….”
A claw on the head. Feathery forehead: rub it with those scraggy talons to nurse the headache away.
Realizes he’s almost hit Seabreeze.
“Sorry about that.”
“Agh… it’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it.”
The breezie sits on the window.
He too lets the weight off his shoulders: Horse-drawn carriages pass by on these calculated roads; they’re most likely from that other world. By their side, somepony trying to start up his car: definitely from this world.
The pony drops his tools: no horn, apparently. Keeps digging his head under the hood, biting the tools once more.
“At least I won’t take this lying down.”
Makes Gestal look. “What do you mean?”
“You and I know we don’t want to fight… well, not a lot, but, still, fighting’s bad.” Rubs his eyes: tired from beholding his opponents on the other end of the table back there. “What I’m saying is… you’re not alone, and it’s not just me being with you.
“I know this because deep down, we’re all just trying to survive this without going mad. Trust me: I now know what it feels like to be on the other end of my showboating.”
Gestal taps his chin. A light bulb plugged to the socket but no one’s turned on the light yet. “Right. Weight of the world or at least the nation on our shoulders. Well, that and then the additional sapients too.”
“Ah, yes, them too….”
The light bulb turns on, but above Seabreeze: eyes widening to the size of thimbles.
“Ah! We’re stupid all along! Why haven’t we included them in this? Argh… I’ll tell that Celestia or the other one about this and—“
An imaginary crack! The bulb shatters as a smile breaks out on his tiny face.
“I guess that’s a new slogan choice to add to the poll, Gestal. Can’t believe we’re all overthinking this... how blind we nincompoops could be!”
The idea still escapes the griffon, but it draws him in. “What could that slogan be, then?”
Painters and engineers come over to the headquarters on the next day. The old slogan must go: this is their job.
A globe on a pedestal is the Convocation's logo. The slogan lay underneath. Truth, Freedom, Justice: To and For All Humanity.
As tasked, they remove the last word.
They pack up and leave, much to the surprise of the watching crowd and the press.