The bedroom, a ransacked mess. The bed, cut across like the stuffed toy of a whiny brat. The floor, splattered with drops of blood. Plastic bags contain potential evidence to be processed by the forensics department within the next two hours.
Lying limp at the far end of the room, the cold blue body of a unicorn. Above him, a message written in his own blood: Thus to Traitors.
“We received a report of inexplicable loud noises ten minutes ago,” speaks Knocks Forte, the officer who spoke to Spike outside. “We arrived at the scene while everything was still hot, but by then, the murderers had gotten away. Almost no eyewitnesses: no one within ten blocks could report anyone resembling… hmm, three robed unicorns. Our witness didn’t see the horns, but she said that it oughta’ be a unicorn ‘cause they were performing spells when they disappeared. No hoofprints or other signs of escape, coupled with the signature magic residue recorded here, means they teleported out of the scene.”
“Do you have any suspects?” asks Zapp in disguise, glancing at the corpse. “Anyone that matches the profile, or—?”
“It’s the robes, ma’am. They cover up everything. Cutie mark, tail, mane—she couldn’t even get a single coat color. All she knows is that they weren’t dwarfs or giants, and that all three were unicorns.”
“Any reason why somepony might kill him in the first place?” That’s Spike, his eyes never leaving his pen pal. Meeting him at a convention once in a while, writing letters back and forth and sometimes getting old Power Ponies stuff from back in the day: now he’s gone.
“It must be a personal grudge if traitors is of any indication. Space Beat’s got no criminal record, and as far as the neighbors told me, he was a pretty decent stallion.” Meanwhile, other officers write notes and collect evidence in hoof gloves and sterilized magic fields. “Wouldn’t be long until we tell his friends and family the terrible news.
“Now unless you need his body or something, I’m afraid you can’t do anything here.” She scribbles a few lines on her clipboard. “This is fresh so we’ve got no smoking cannons for the case yet.”
Spike’s shoulders fall limp. “I see. Sorry about that.”
A cute smile graces Knocks’ face. “I don’t know what history you’ve got with Space Beat, but I can tell you knew each other well enough. If you want, we can keep in touch, and I’ll let you know.”
The revelation is enough to get Spike jogging out of the apartment once they’ve exited the room. Not running—that’ll attract too much attention—but it’s not walking.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Spike huffs in between puffs, strafing around one or two passers-by. “I have a bad feeling about all of this!”
“And what say you about all of this?” asks Matter-Horn who keeps good pace with Spike.
“His death, the letter, the leak to me, the official notice I showed you back in the castle?! The—“
“It could be them!” whispers a running Fili-Second that isn’t moving at the speed of light. “The enchanters, the—“
“If they’re stooping so low as to kill,” says a flying Rager, “then… wait, what if they know we’re out on the loose? To think the murder happened while we’re in the same city as them! We were in a convention of all places!”
“They may still be in the city.” Radiance lights up her horn, producing a pair of binoculars and scanning for any sign of robed unicorns. “Our disguises may tip the scales in our favor, but clothes do nothing in a no-holds-barred beatdown.”
Another carriage whizzes by. It rings ear-piercing bells ordering everyone to get out of the way. Onlookers never get a close look at its passengers past their tinted windows.
“That murder must’ve been quite serious,” Spike says, hesitating a bit and almost wobbling. “Rarity said they only pull out the regional police if it’s a big case. Chiefs and honchos and the mares in dark suits… maybe even a direct line to the Royal Sisters if things get real bad.”
“That spells nothing good,” Radiance adds. “For all we know, we might be up against a conspiratorial cabal. Who knows what they want to do with us?”
Matter-Horn breathes a sigh. “Nothing we can do but keep moving. Spike, keep leading the way.”
So Spike does, passing by more towering skyscrapers. As the trip goes on, high-rising buildings grow taller still. Apartments and row houses give way to lofty hotels, and cheap offices unfold into spiraling headquarters. Traffic speeds up in these commerce-busy sectors, carrying late-night shifters home, bringing graveyard shifters to work, and stringing along day larks early to set up shop way ahead of schedule. Not to mention the 24/7 convenience stores found everywhere in Manehattan, fitting for the city that bills itself as The City That’s Always Awake.
One more corner to round, and there: soaring over their visitors of destiny is a lone brick building. It’s antique compared to its modern steel-glass neighbors, and its twenty floors can’t hold a candle to their hundred-floor statures, but the big letters above the main door don’t care and they proclaim: Clockwisely Comics!
Mare-velous reads a nearby streetlight clock. “It’s only two in the morning. Are you sure anypony’s home?”
Spike takes a cautious step toward the door. “Only one way to find out.”
The ponies follow suit, entering the headquarters’ reception hall. Sitting on sofas and waiting seats are the few ponies with late-night business here. Portraits of important comic contributors hang on yellow walls while finely-made cutouts of franchise characters usher guests onto sacred ground, the control center of multiple fictions.
“Oh, hello! What can I do for you?” inquires a happy receptionist despite the early hour.
The unicorn levitates a stool to Spike so he can stand over the desk. “Is the president here? I’d like to speak to him pronto.”
A frown snaps into place. “President Excelsus, you mean? He’s here, but he’s not to be disturbed past his normal business hours.”
Sweat drops onto his claws. He taps on the counter nervously. “What we’ve got here is very urgent. He’ll understand.”
“I’ve heard that excuse many times from desperate clients. Unless you have a meeting scheduled with him at two-thirty A.M., which is highly unlikely since those are outside his business hours, I cannot let you in.”
A faint light comes on with Matter-Horn’s magic. A photocopied notice floats from her coat pocket to the counter for the receptionist to read. “Spike has managed to obtain this correspondence thanks to a contact here. He would like to follow up the matter with President Excelsus.”
The receptionist gets the note and reads it. Her eyes fly wide open. “Beat Space? But he just died!”
“News sure moves fast around here!” says Spike in dread and wonder.
Ignoring his outburst, “Are you private investigators?”
“You can say that,” Fili-Second replies. “We’re under serious pressure along with maybe a brutal time limit, so we need to meet with the president right away.”
“Alright, alright! Just hold on.” They watch her scanning eyes, flickering left and right as she re-reads the notice and takes everything in. “Oh. Oh, no!” She wrests herself away from the notice, all bug-eyed at her latest customers. “H-how do you know? I don’t think I’m supposed to know this!”
“Need-to-know basis, and this need-to-know basis tells us that a meeting with your president is required ASAP. We can help because we’re investigators with the necessary skills to track them down. Got that? We’re going for the president himself because we figured shooting way up and going top-down is better than going bottom-up. Now can you buzz us in?”
The receptionist stands still for a moment. “Wow. You talk fast.”
“We’re just tired and emotional,” says Rager, holding up a hoof to check a watch she doesn’t have. “It’s the early hour.”
The receptionist slowly nods. A press of a buzzer and she leans her head toward a microphone. “Mister President? There’re some guests who want to see you.”
A wall of static. Then in a haggard accent: “Who’re they? Can’t they see I’m up late?”
“They have knowledge about Beat Space’s… situation.”
“So it’s the police? Okay, let them in.”
“They’re not the police.”
“Private eyes?”
“Yes. They also know about some enchanter problem. I’m guessing it’s an internal affairs issue in the Enchanting Division. Could be related to Beat Space’s death.”
The other line goes silent.
Said silence is cut by Spike. “Hope we didn’t lose—“
“Get them up here. Now.”
A shudder comes on. She leans again into the microphone. “Will do, Mister President. They’ll be up lickety-split.” A press of a button to turn off the microphone. “Looks like you know something even he doesn’t. Sounds way above my league. I haven’t heard Excelsus this agitated in years. Whatever the problem is, I hope it’ll turn out alright.”
She beckons them to follow her. Hallways line the path with ground-floor offices behind closed doors, sometimes occupied by an overtime clerk. At the far end of the building resides a roomy elevator, and they go in.
Spike clutches the railing inside, careful not to scratch it with his claws. The lonely receptionist allows a dour face on her muzzle. The Power Ponies wear neutral expressions, cool as cucumbers, about to meet one of their makers.
Ding!
Elevator doors part. The receptionist and her entourage walk on sleek vinyl floors flanked by dinky little potted plants. Pinned beside fancier doors to fancier offices are plaques for VP, CEOs, CFOs, and other serious combinations of letters while air-conditioning produces the hallway’s chill.
The final door is the least gaudy of them all: a simple wooden door. Its plaque is the only symbol of the owner’s stature: PRESIDENT EXCELSUS OF CLOCKWISELY COMICS.
The receptionist comes up to the buzzer above the plaque and presses the button. “Mister President? They’re here now.”
A chortle of static later, “Good. Thank you kindly, Happy Trails. Door’s unlocked so let them in.”
“Oh… uh, yes, I will.” To her visitors, “But you already heard that, didn’t you?”
After good-hearted farewells for the receptionist, Happy Trails makes her way to the elevator, leaving the Power Ponies and Spike to their fate.
Matter-Horn puts her hoof on the door’s handle. “Here goes nothing.”
She opens it and they step in.
The room is big, but grandiose it is not. More portraits line the walls, but they are not of past presidents nor of other famous ponies in the comic industry’s history. They are of comic characters from across the years, painted in oil like a long-dead artist would’ve done for Princess Celestia. Below those paintings hang photos of delighted fans and staff in a convention or some open grass field.
Bookshelves, drawers, and one plastic work desk make for an unremarkable workspace. The pony sitting behind that desk is only presentable enough to look like he works here: a polo shirt and no pants, topped with shiny wax in his mane. The jowls in his cheeks show, hiding his once-youthful vigor as he reads a couple hastily-written letters and papers.
Excelsus looks up from his reports and acknowledges the visitors. He quickly stands up and shakes their hooves before speaking. “Good to be seeing you. Detectives like you have been on the case, but not in a group of six. Or seven, but I don’t think you, Spike, are a detective.”
Idly, “You could say that.”
“But you’re here with them; must be a good reason why they need you!” To Radiance in the group, “Say, I didn’t expect you to be here, Rarity. Your boutique here does not open this early from what I recall. In fact, I’m surprised any of you Element-bearers are here… much less you lying to me about being detectives, but you must be very desperate.” He takes a little bow before them. “I am honored to be in your presence.”
Matter-Horn bites her tongue. “Uh, sir? We’re not exactly—“
“So I take it this is a friendship problem, then?” he asks after standing up. “I mean, Spike here with six ponies? Nice disguises, by the way! Onto a friendship problem, eh? Although the language does not begin to describe what has happened. Friendship problem is a pretty euphemism for cold-blooded murder.”
“Mister President? May I please—“
“As you know by now, Beat Space worked for us. Joined the company when he was just twenty, fetching coffee for the higher-ups. His last job was co-writing the noir series The Inquiry. Have any of you read it? It’s one of my favorites over the last five years or—“
“Excelsus!”
That shuts his mouth, a dumbfounded expression on his face. “Oh, I’m sorry about that. That’s me rambling again, isn’t it? Alright, I’ll tell it to you straight, ma’ams and sir: Beat Space was only the tip of the iceberg for this whole Enchanting Division debacle. I take it you are doing your best to find the AWOL enchanters, yes? We’ve contacted their friends, family, and neighbors for some time, but we’ve got nothing. As for me—” he points a hoof at his desk’s paper towers “—I’ve swamped myself with reports and sightings: everything under the sun, but they’re all false leads.”
Matter-Horn draws out one long breath. Her partners in crime-fighting receive her frown. They nod to her in reply.
“Mister Excelsus, we’re not the Element-bearers.”
His eyes bulged open, his mouth grateful that it had no water to spit at his guests in surprise. “Wait, you’re not?”
Nervously shaking her head, “I… well, we’re not just not the Element-bearers.”
A glow from Matter-Horn’s horn envelops all six ponies. In a blue flash, their disguises vanish. Costumes all too familiar to him dress up their coats, their manes and tails and coats’ true colors shown off to the bewildered old stallion. And the weapons and accessories they bear: goggles, lasso, amulet...
Excelsus chokes on a gasp, reduced to hacking and coughing. Falls onto his chair. His heart pounds furiously.
Fili-Second quickly rushes to his side and checks his pulse. “A bit high for somepony your age, but you’ll be fine!” In the meantime, Rager and Zapp fly to the windows to shut up the panes and draw the curtains.
“You’re… you’re not going to hurt me, right?” he rasps, losing all casual informality.
Matter-Horn shakes her head, holding up a warm smile. “No, we won’t. It wouldn’t do to hurt what may be our founder in this world.”
Excelsus gulps. “B-but… y-you’re… the Power Ponies? The one from that rogue breakaway of enchanters?”
With a frown, “Yes, but we’re here thanks to Spike,“ and the baby dragon takes it as a cue to come forward, shaking with both excitement and worry. “We’re here looking for answers. Information about our world, on the enchanters, on who Verumarendi may be: anything to save our reality from falling apart.“
Excelsus chokes at that. “The… Verumarendi, you say?”
The Power Ponies stand back and gasp. “She’s real and she’s here?!” shouts Zapp.
“No, she’s not. At least so far as I know. Though it’s quite possible that they’re open to making her real in this world and...”
The president waves further gasps off, leafing through the papers on the desk. “But let’s settle this quickly. You came here for information, then? About your world… your real-as-anything-else world?” A nod of seven heads. “I have to say, I wish I could be happy for you. Happy I could finally meet all of you right here, to tell you that you are a force for good in more ways than one. That’s all true—”
“Yeah, can you get to the point?” asks Fili-Second to the annoyed glares of others.
The president stares at the interfering mare. “Yes, yes, I’ll get there.”
He returns to his chair, holding his forehooves together. Rests his head on them, staring at the wooden surface of his desk. Seconds of silent breathing, silent contemplation, silent reeling from meeting real-life masked superheroes.
Excelsus lifts his head. “Did Spike tell you about me and this company? I know Spike to some degree: writes letters to us every once in a while. You do know, then? Okay, I’ll spare you most of the details, but stop me if I sound like a broken record.
“As you know, Clockwisely Comics began some forty years ago. In this world, comics had about the same longevity as they’ve had in your world. When they got popular about sixty years ago, it was all quite simple: simple hero stories and adventures, fighting the baddies and always winning. Idealistic but not much else. That disappeared over the years as ponies wanted more complex stuff, but then things got too dark. The truth about ponies is that they shy away from excessive gloom and doom. They want to see heroes. They want to relate to ponies who face familiar obstacles and win.
“After a few failed start-ups, my own comic company nailed a good concept. We scoured ancient legends and myths, and… well, we came across those old stories about the Pillars of Equestria—then, of course, Twilight Sparkle and her friends showed up, the six of them just like the Pillars, so that must’ve been why I mistook you for the Element-bearers myself. Now you know why there’s six of you and not five or seven or some other number: the Power Ponies, six special ponies with completely different personalities and abilities, united by a common duty to serve and protect the city of Maretropolis from nefarious entities. That was a breath of fresh air for many ponies in the market, ‘cause let’s be honest: would you buy some apple juice advertised by Mistress Mare-velous or The Judge-Jury-Executioner Emperor?”
“That’s not a hero, right?” asks Rager.
“Eh... the less you know about J.J.E., the better. Edgy black-and-red alicorn antihero galore. Bombed itself a decade ago, and we’ll leave it at that.
“Speaking of a decade ago: imagine the HQ ten years back, a bastion in the comic industry. Ponies chose us and love us. I’ve read the letters: how we helped them through rough times, how we were able to show them more to life than just existing—by seeing heroes like the Power Ponies struggle and conquer foes without and within. However, we didn’t want to stagnate. We wanted to innovate, find something new readers could benefit from and enjoy. One day, we had an idea: enchanted comics!”
A wince flickers into existence. “Alright, they had an idea. I got on board later on, but I had suspicions at first. It’s foolish to experiment on the go, to say nothing of their fully working prototype in the earliest stages of negotiations—or rather, they had no fully working prototype. No matter how much they promised about fulfilling readers’ fantasies of immersing themselves in Maretropolis, I remained a stubborn dinosaur to the very end for ethical reasons. One wrong misstep and we’d be in a moral quandary! I wouldn’t want to explain to some foal’s parents why he’s filled with scars and bruises from turning a page. Or, just as bad, having strangers materialize out of nowhere, wondering about the nature of their existence.”
He stands up to pace around the office. His gaze lingers upon the strangers who materialized in Spike’s bedroom, wondering about the nature of their existence. “They convinced me when I finally went through the spells. For an Earth pony like me, that’d be a nightmare, but I understood them well enough: The characters they’d enliven would be sentient, not sapient—on the level of a worm or otherwise a highly complex spell, living but unable to think for itself, only life-like after you feed it enough reactions and actions and conditions. Life-like but never alive: that was their pitch. I finally gave them the green light, believing that there’ll be no harm done under our watch. Next thing I knew, they’re printing them in droves, and though production cost a neat penny due to enchantment expenses, enough fans bought our enchanted editions and lived their dreams of helping out the hero… or better yet, being the hero!”
His merry smile washes away. “But…”
“The rogue enchanters kicked off their plans, didn’t they?” asks Matter-Horn.
“Yes.” His head hangs for a while, barely masking his shame. “It’d been going on for a few months before everything exploded. Some absences scattered here and there across the Enchantment Division, ranging from sicknesses to deaths in the family. That’s what they told us, and back then, that’s what we knew. But when they did go to work, something was off: suspiciously glad to work overtime, and super eager to complete their workload. All and good, but just what happened? Were they trying to work off the stress? Did they have really good therapy? Just what?”
A weary groan creases his voice. “Then somepony got careless and left evidence of their true work: several comic books yet to be published, enchanted beyond reason. I heard one got sent out to an unknown pony—“
Spike blushes with a lifted claw. “That unknown ‘pony’ was me.”
That stops the president’s pacing. “Really? Well, I take it that you didn’t ask for illegal enchantments in your comic, did you? Then now I know for certain how these Power Ponies came to be. It is fortunate that they fell into the hooves—er, claws—of a fan. If they went to the wrong hooves…” He shivers and not from the air conditioning.
“Anyway, like I’ve said before, we contacted their loved ones and their neighbors to see what’s going on. The police became curious and got involved only to find the suspects’ houses empty and abandoned; combing through their friends’ and neighbors’ homes turned nothing out too. It’s been three days now, and the only thing we’ve got to show are houses beginning to rot and much of the Enchantment Division’s inventory and equipment missing. That’s where we stand now, with the enchanters on the loose, and I don’t like the look of it.”
Silence holds between the creatures in the office. The Power Ponies look here and there, sometimes at Excelsus, sometimes at Spike. Spike himself looks confused. They couldn’t be found, and they could be anywhere.
“That’s the dreadful thing about it. They’re out there, armed with trade secrets and more knowledge about enchantment than the average cum laude from Celestia’s Gifted School. It’s no mean feat to get you into this world, so it’s entirely possible that you’re a test run to them, a prototype to something far more sinister. I’m sorry that it’s this way, but...”
Excelsus takes one long look at them. A wooden ocean, his desk, lies between the two of them.
He slowly trots around the grand ocean, eyes ever on the Power Ponies. The air around him cools. Cold sweat pops up on his lined forehead. There’s something on Matter-Horn’s face. Something wrong.
He holds her by the withers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this had to happen to you… to your city.” A pause to take in a mountain of guilt. “To your world….”
She stares out. Sees nothing but curtained windows shielding her from the world outside. No thought to the rogue enchanters or the existential crisis: only here, only a pony to comfort.
She hugs him back, closes her eyes and imagines. The warmth in her embrace: a smile, a gift to melt his heart. To be hugged by his own creation.
“Don’t you worry,” she says, feeling the others pile in on him with their own reassuring hugs and pats on the back. “You didn’t mean it. You didn’t mean any of it. You didn’t know. It wasn’t your fault; it’s theirs. They were the ones who made all of this happen, who—”
Opens her eyes.
The rain pitter-patters on the window. It’s raining outside complete with thunder in the air and lightning reflected by the glass skyscraper across the street.
“Wait, why’re the curtains open?” asks Zapp. “It’s not like the wind could’ve flapped them up. I thought the windows were closed!”
From his angle, Spike can see the open window. On that glass skyscraper, a window-washing platform sways in the sudden gale. His eyes squint to see more than just a platform, a figure—
“We’ve got company!”
Ponies teleport into the room, wearing cloaks, robes, and masks—horns, wings, without. Gemstones hang around their necks; nothing else can be seen apart from the colors of their eyes.
Matter-Horn paws the ground, and a hot snort leaves her nose. “Team up, every pony! They’re aiming for Excelsus!”
The strangers fire magic lightning bolts blazing toward the startled president—
Fili-Second yanks him to the far side of the room, and the bolts hit empty air.
Matter-Horn freezes patches of the floor and watches ponies slide and stumble on thin ice. More strangers charge her way, their numbers falling as her freeze beams chill them stone cold. She’s too distracted to detect the ambush springing up on her from behind, but Zapp kicks them with lightning and thunder.
Others beeline to Excelsus, but their juicy target is yanked away by a lasso from Mare-velous. With Fili-Second free, the insanely fast mare dodges jabs and projectiles, annoying the enemy with her barrage of one-liners. Against the cloaked pegasi’s heavy wind gusts, Radiance conjures up energy shields, soaking the damage before turning those shields into blades for hacking and slashing. At the corner lies Saddle Rager, her eyes an irate red as bulking transformation rips her suit. It all leaves Spike alone by the wall, the Power Ponies doing their thing.
“Alright, fellas!” and Mare-velous cracks her hind legs. “Get a load of this!”
She bucks a pony charging at her, sending him to the floor. Only he rolls over and gets back up to charge at her again. A couple other ponies join in the charge, and she parries each jab and kick before bucking them down in quick succession.
Above Mare-velous, Zapp strings the cloaked pegasi along with clouds and lightning, zapping them constantly but to little avail as they keep racing after her. She resorts to punches, kicks, and wing wrestling to throw them off her trail. Right under her, Radiance’s attack-construct shield protects Matter-Horn ice-beaming incoming foes, but said beams bounce off their coats, and the enemies’ own beam attacks stress and crack said shield even as the grunts keep going down just to keep getting up.
Even with Fili-Second blurring past them, whirling ponies around until they get dizzy—until they aren’t and they keep swarming her. Even with Saddle Rager and her hulking size and power: she growls at constantly flicking ponies away like ants and flies that just happen to be immortal. They won’t stop.
Mare-velous gallops around and bucks another pony in the face, having him careen to the wall, but he hops right back onto the floor and charges at her again. Readying her hooferangs and lasso, “Girls! There’s something suspicious about these mooks!”
A gray-green blur catches up to knock the stallion down for a second and halts right in front of the Earth pony. “Yeah! They should be exhausted by now. I mean, these are normal ponies, right?”
Zapp electrocutes another pony to little effect. “Those freaks are wearing strange clothes and weird jewelry. These are not normal ponies.
A semblance of a fight rages on, but Spike turns away from the battle. His eyes go straight at Excelsus: a few ponies galloping to him as one combined force, rushing past their comrades distracting the Power Ponies from the true prize.
No one sees Spike.
It gives him an idea.
Spike blindly grabs something from the shelf at his back: a camera. A devious smirk takes over.
“Hey, birdbrains! Get this!”
Cloaked ponies turn to see the foul-mouthed dragon only to be dazed by a camera flash. Though it doesn’t stop others from charging straight at the dragon. “No one must see us!” shouts a strained voice.
Spike rolls away, letting ponies crash into the naked wall. The nimble fire-breather runs around, riling up more invaders to run after the photobomber.
Magic surrounds him and levitates the dragon away from the floor. An invisible rope constricts his neck and turns him upside down. Before him is the face of the unicorn responsible for his current misery. “You little jerk! Who do you think you are, interfering with our calling? When we’re done with our little game here, we’ll show you how we deal with meddlers like you!”
His lungs working too much: the choke gets tighter, squeezing the life out of him. Another pony steals the picture and camera from his claws. “Any last words, you little shrimp?”
Despite the lack of air, Spike displays a fanged smile. “Good luck?”
“Wha—?“
“Raaaagh!”
Amid flashes of lightning and roaring thunder, a huge shadow looms over them. Saddle Rager, in her muscular and terrifying heights, overlooks the puny ponies beneath her.
The cloaked ponies pelt the titanic mare with punches and kicks and winds and spells and even blunt and sharp weapons, but they are pebbles against a mountain that swats them away like flies.
With the attackers over-occupied, Mare-velous rushes in to Radiance’s side and lassos her friend at the distracted mooks. Radiance reacts with screams and fast reflexes to surround herself with a shield, turning into a bowling ball to strike down pony-shaped ten-pins. On the other side of the room, Zapp and Fili-Second team up: the latter rides on the former’s lightning, faking an attack with the bolts before going in for a Fili-Second knuckle sandwich of a dozen punches per second.
Spike dodges a swipe from a pony, getting a second good look of the giant Rager. On her head stands Matter-Horn, the wizard sniper for her angry pony vehicle, mowing down the trespassers with the deadly precision of her highest-powered beams, shouting, “How do you like them apples?!” One magic bolt after another downing each and every enemy in her path. “Are you with them?! Are you the ones who caused the chaos in our world? What are your plans?!”
She teleports to one of the unicorns, cutting his escape short. The unicorn flies a hoof at her, but she twists it and breaks a bone. A blood-curdling cry later, he charges his horn, but she kicks at his knees. The stallion crumples, descending into agonizing moans. Dead silence overtakes the room while the Power Ponies’ leader stares.
“Tell me!” Her breath, ragged. Most of the invaders are unconscious or otherwise without strength to do anything. Much less the stallion lying limp before her. “Who are you? What have you done to us? What do you want?!”
The stallion only laughs. Looks up with bloodshot eyes. “Nothing much in the grand scheme of things, masked mare.” A voice as smooth a butter, deep and booming enough to send chills down the mare’s spine. “You’re only a stepping stone, another brick in the building of our grand plan. You will know when you see us again!”
A press of the gemstone wrapped around his neck: he disappears. Flashes overcome Matter-Horn and everyone else: every stranger disappears.
It is quiet. Shock writes itself on the Power Ponies’ faces. It writes itself on Spike too, but it is erased when he sees Excelsus: hiding under his desk, dropped there by Fili-Second at the last minute.
The room is ransacked, blotched with evidence of a superheroic battle with the damages to prove it. A battle between the Power Ponies and their foes.
Spike bites his lips. Their foes are now his foes, and he’s painted a target on his head.