Early Summer, 145 A.L.R
It was the million dollar view: the sun slowly rising over Central Park with its open green lawns, manicured trees, and slowly meandering sideways. The stallion took it all in from his lounging position on the city bench: just the park, himself, and his thoughts. The last he was trying to kill with his breakfast in a bottle.
The stallion took another swig, feeling the amber liquor burn its way through his guts. He really wasn't thinking of much of anything. It was why he drank, so he didn’t have to think. Thinking hurt. It also contained memories; memories he would rather not think about. So he drank. And sat on this bench in the early morning light, content to ignore those around him.
Once more he raised the bottle to his lips, but this time nothing happened. Raising the bottle up, he peered inside as if it would reveal some hidden reservoir of liquor that gravity was otherwise denying him. With a practiced motion, he sent the bottle spinning off into the void behind him. There came a crash and a tinkle in reply.
And so he went back to sitting, watching and waiting: waiting to stop thinking, to stop feeling; waiting to die.
Celestia’s sun, which had kept him warm these last few hours, was suddenly gone. The stallion inched open one reluctant and dirt encrusted eye. A pair of ponies blocked his view of the celestial body: matching blue caps and jacket, one mare, one stallion, with the mare before him and the stallion observing.
The mare wasn’t bad looking: white coat, pink mane, could have used a little makeup. Too bad she was a spike head or else he would have to take her seriously. Damn good thing she wasn't griffon. As it was, the mare kept shifting her weight between her back hooves, while her eyes held his gaze.
“Hello Sweetheart,” said the drunk stallion with a sly grin, “You dont look like the hooker I ordered, but if you’ve got the time, I’ve got the bits.”
“Sir,” she said in a sweet voice, “please go pick up your bottle or I will write you a ticket for littering.”
“Oh really?” The scallion slowly righted himself, planting his hooves solidly on the cement. He fixed his gaze squarely on the blue pair in front of him. “How about you go for it, tits. Probably pretty good at it from all the kitchens you’ve cleaned.”
The mane's reaction was subtle and immediate: her eyes narrowed and her weight shifting forwards as she bore down on the scoundrel before her. “Sir,” she started, the sweetness replaced with a hard edge. “I’m going to give you to the count of three.”
The stallion tensed, hooves stitched for a weapon that wasn’t there, hadn't been there in ten years. ‘Go ahead,’ he thought, ‘light that horn. Find out how fast I can put you down. Just like a Yule, that sick and twisted mare.’
Yule, with her white coat and green mane. Yule, with that cheeky grin that never quite reached her eyes. The same Yule that was staring right at him, eyes boring into his own, saying those same haunting words “sit back and enjoy that ride”.
The mare was talking, her lips finally syncing up with the sound he was hearing, “One…two…” She stopped as a hoof gently resting on her back. She glanced back into the face of her partner and his nearly imperceptible share of his head.
“Good morning, Hickory,” said the male officer in a low, steady, and threatening voice.
And like that, Yule was gone. Because she was dead. He had set the charge himself. No one had walked out of that explosion.
“Good morning yourself, um…” replied the stallion, as he peered through bleary eyes at the officer's shiny brass name tag. “Officer Core?”
“Be nice to the rooky,” warned the officer.
The second officer was a threat: a big earth pony with a lean body, broad chest, and clearly the tallest of the three of them by at least several inches. Unlike his partner, he looked ready to knock some heads. And a set of scratched and dented war shoes backed him up.
The stallion, now identified as Hickory, thought for a moment. It wasn’t easy, trying to work past the liquor and years of dependency, but it was there. A spark from two functioning brain cells led to a long, drawn out groan. Finally, Hickory learned back, visibly relaxing.
The mare cleared her throat and stood up as tall as possible; it was not very impressive. Eventually she said, “please move along, sir.”
“And where would you like me to go,” asked Hickory, almost disappointed as the tension started to fade.
“Anywhere but here.”
********************************************************************************************************
Many hours later, Hickory found himself on the finest cardboard furniture Manehatten had to offer. The twin layers of cardboard were stained, but otherwise serviceable. It did let him sit comfortably while reclining against the brick masonry of the little cafe behind him.
Traffic in this business district was modest. The ponies were generally compassionate and left him alone. The tin can at his feet clanked as a bit was dropped into it. Once the pony was gone, Hickory quickly transferred the golden coin to his pocket.
Sobriety was not-so-suddenly bucking on his mental door. The tasteless, odorless liquid wasn’t helping. If the blasted waiter in the cafe could bring him something else besides bottled water, he might be able to go back to enjoying what was left of his day. Unfortunately, judging by the weight in his pocket, he was only half way to his next bottle.
His can clanked again, but this time as someone kicked it; the tin went spinning across the cement and bounced off the brick wall.
“Go get a job,” said the offending pony over their shoulder.
“Go buck yourself,” hollered Hickory as the retreating flank. He raised his hoof in a rude gesture. The exchange helped a little, but did nothing for his sobriety. That could only be accomplished through bits. Other pony’s bits.
The can now sat well out of reach. Hickory flailed a hoof at it but to no avail. “Celestia damned punks, kicking my can,” the stallion muttered to himself as he started to get up. Then a fire bloomed in his back and he sat back down. “Oh, damn it all to Taurus”.
“I’ve got it,” said a mare and the can floated over in a blue ora.
Hickory only grunted in reply.
“You could be nicer,” continued the mare.
Hickory looked up to the pesky voice and its owner who just wouldn't go away.
The waiter who had been bringing him water was gone, replaced by this mare. She was cute with her teal coat and bi-colored pink and blue mane. She wore a white apron over a little pink blouse and dress. The mare was a little older than he preferred but gentle on the eyes.
“Well,” started Hickory, as he searched for something snappy to say, “I could be nice if I had a bottle in front of me.” He proffered his empty tin can with what he hoped was a winning smile. “How about it? Make me “nicer” for a generous donation of 15 bits?”
The mare only gave him a look: a mix of pity, understanding, and compassion. Hickory hated that look. It was the same look his mother would give him. Like he’d disappointed her or something.
“No,” she finally said, “I’ve seen too many good stallions drink themselves to death.”
Hickory grunted and went back to learning against the wall.
A moment of silence, as much as can be found in the city, ticked away between the two ponies. The mare finally said, “how about you come in. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
Hickory raised an eyebrow. “You sure? I’m not exactly customer material. Probably stink pretty bad too.” As if to emphasize his point, Hickory sniffed his own pits and grimmest as what his nose detected.
“I’m the owner, and I choose my customers, smelly or not,” stated the mare with a smile. “Besides, you can’t smell any worse than I did after the Battle of Mare’s Mountain.”
The cafe was small but open, with plenty of exposed red brick and rough wooden beams. Ten empty tables and assorted chairs filled the space. A lack of customers left plenty of spots to choose from. Hickory selected a seat with his back to the wall and a view of the door.
Soon enough a plate of cheese sandwiches appeared. The mare sat in the seat opposite with a cup of tea. Hickory took the sandwiches with a grunt of thanks and began to eat.
The mare took a quiet sip of her tea before saying “My name’s Cinabun. Pleasure to meet you mister…?”
Hickory chewed for a moment and then swallowed. “Hickory,” he said and went back to eating.
Another sip of tea, another question: “How are the sandwiches?”
Hickory paused with the foodstuffs halfway to his mouth. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? But she wasn’t and seemed to be waiting for his response. “It’s not a veggie brick,” he said flatley.
His comment elicited a burst of laughter from Cinabun. The mare shook and shuddered as she clutched her sides. Her teacup and its contents slothed while the mare precariously remained upright. “Not a veggie brick,” she heaved as she wiped the tears from her face. “That's a good one. Anything’s better than that. I had way too many in the service.”
Cinabun took a minute to compose herself: straighten her blouse, clean up her spilled tea and fetch a fresh cup. Once ready, she lifted the cup with her magic and took a long, delicate sip. “Did you spend time in the war? I served with the Hundred and Third Supply Company. Oh, the stories I could tell,” Cinabun said wistfully. With a sigh and another sip, she asked “what about yourself?”
Hickory looked down at his empty plate. He gently pushed the plate aside and instead doodled on the table with his hoof. Now came the part he dreaded. The part he knew was coming since the mare’s comment about being at the Battle of Mare’s Mountain.
That had been a hell of a battle: close ground and air artillery, crawling up foot by foot through exploding trees and sniper fire. Then finally holding the peak again repeated counter-attacks. And for what? To repeat it again, although much faster, several weeks later. Juniper had died on that shell blasted peak. Winter Breeze too. Too many good ponies had lost their lives trying to seize that mountain.
The stallion pushed his own feelings aside; he could marinate them later in whisky. The mare was looking at him in earnest. The day wasn’t getting any younger.
Somewhere deep inside a spark of his old self came to life. Some part that was still young and kind, and naive to the ways of war and death. The same part that had stopped him from stabbing his co-worker to death.
Hickory feld the heavyweight just inside his jacket pocket. He took a calming breath and eventually said, “I was with the Forty-Second Heavy Infantry Brigade.” This was followed by a pregnant pause, and Hickory continued, “and the First Green Cloaks.”
The teacup shattered on the stone floor; bits of porcellian scattered across the stone floor reminiscent of an aerial shell burst. But Cinabun didn’t notice her smashed cup, nor the mess on the floor. She hadn’t moved since his statement. Luckily she remembered to breathe.
It took nearly a full minute for the mare to pick her jaw off the floor. Her lips moved but nothing came out. Hickory nervously went back to doodling on the table.
“The Green Cloaks?” Cinabun whispered.
“Yes,” replied Hickory without looking up.
“The Green Cloaks who stormed the Port of Baltimore and drove the Griffins from the mainland? Those Green Cloaks? The heroes of Equestria?” The mare was nearly jumping out of her chair with excitement.
“I wouldn't call them heroes. At least not most of them.”
Cinabun realized she was standing and sat back down. She gave Hickory a long look. “The Green Cloaks,” she asked again.
“Yes,” repeated Hickory.
“The legendary Green Cloaks? Where you only got in by bravery or appointment?”
Hickory still wasn’t meeting her eyes, but corrected her all the same.“An Actor of Valor While under fire or by Princess appointment,” he recited.
Cinabun’s hoof poked at the empty air as if trying to touch something. “At the end of the war, um,” she said, thinking hard, “they had a big ceremony in Canterlot. They gave out medals to all the special units that fought during the war. Do you still have it?”
Hickory reached into his coat and pulled out the chunk of bronze and laid it on the table. He laid it on the table with a single clear note. The Seal of the Twin Sisters stared up at both ponies, worn and faded from much rubbing. The attached ribbon was dirty and frayed, even repaired with hoof stitching in some places.
More time passed in silence. “May I,” asked Cinabun. Hickory finally looked up and gave her a nod. The mare picked up the medal reverently.
Cinabun held the medal, turning this his way and that in the light. She turned it over and squinted at the inscription on the back. “Presented by Princess Luna,” she read slowly. “For exceptional acts while in the service of Equestria and the Five Monarchs, Special Unit Service, First Green Cloaks, Hickory Stump, “The Green Death”.”
She held the medal, slowly running her hooves over it as if to make sure it wouldn't vanish into thin air. They sat in the quiet of the cafe for sometime, broken only by Hickory as he slowly peeled the finish off the table with the tip of his hoof. The longer the silence, the more clear-coat was removed. Hickory was about to ask for his medal back when the mare spoke.
“Which was it,” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Which was what?”
“Act of Valor or Princess appointment,” clarified Cinabun as she handed the medal back.
Hickory tucked his medal safely away in its pocket. Finally he said, “Princess appointment.”
“Which one,” asked the mare.
“Princess Twilight Sparkle,” said Hickory, thinking back.
“What did you do,” pressed Cinabun
“Saved her life,” stated Hickory matter-of-factly.
“You saved a princess’s life,” Cinabun nearly shouted. Once more she found herself out of her chair. She plopped back down in her seat.
Hickory just shrugged, saying “she probably wasn’t in that much danger, given how she is a princess and all, but she was impressed and let me ask for anything I wanted.”
“And you asked to join the Green Cloaks.”
“Yes.”
Cinabun slowly shook her head. “I bet there is a Tatarus of a story behind that. Care to share?”
Hickory started to rise. “Look, I'm not nearly drunk enough to relive that, and I should probably get going. Need more bits before nightfall.”
A stack of golden coins plopped onto the table. “Is this enough,” asked the mare.
Hickory greedily eyed the gold. He felt the weight in his pocket. Could he? Yes, he could make it another hour without a drink. He was almost there.
The stallion reluctantly sat back down.
Cinabun pulled her chair forwards and there was a crunch of broken porcelain. She looked apologetically to Hickory, “Give me a minute. I need to clean up and I'll bring us more food.
She busied herself for several minutes, leaving a nervous and reluctant Hickory sitting alone. When she returned, she brought several scones, two glasses of water and a pen and paper. Cinabun asked, “you said you saved Princess Twilight Sparkle’s life. What happened?
Hickory sighed, grumbled a little before giving in; he had already pocketed the bits and the scones smelled so good. He picked up one of the baked goods and took a bite, hiding the grimace as he slowly worked his way through buried memories.
“Where to start? Where to start,” he muttered to himself. Some memories were easier than others. How about something easy, something less riddled with death and violence.
Cinabun stared at him from across the table, hanging on his every word. The paper floated beside her, pen already scribbling furiously.
“I learned to shoot at a young age,” started Hickory, almost with a smile. “Grampa Hemlock encouraged my talent. I thought it was fun: shooting apples out of trees, bits out of the air, and mistletoe out of trees. But then Grampa started to take me on pest control missions. Then, one morning…”