//------------------------------//
// 2-07 – Specification Gaming 
// Story: The Campaigner 
// by Keystone Gray 
//------------------------------//






The Campaigner

Book II

Chapter 7 – Specification Gaming

December 15, 2019

"He who surrenders himself without reservation to the temporal claims of a nation, or a party, or a class is rendering to Caesar that which, of all things, most emphatically belongs to God: himself." ~ C. S. Lewis

You know what, Clive? You're right. Screw Caesar.






Y'know, I looked good in a suit.

Still do now, I guess.

For this role, I decided to go as the bodyguard, and one of my Dad's gray suits would fit me well enough. Stylish, not too flashy, almost government in style.

If I looked like a bodyguard, no one was going to second guess me sizing anyone up. But just in case, I kept Eldil in my left jacket pocket, with no round chambered.

If I was gonna do anything for my family, it had to be done right. So, I spent an hour wreathing my family in all the trappings of some busybody city officials. Reasonable suggestion from Harrison, the more I thought about it. When things were calmer out west, Mount Vernon city officials went in and out of the Experience Center all the time. Celestia had them speak with her in her 'office,' via chair, rather than on the phone or by PonyPad. We in MVPD provided escorts to City Council until it became too dangerous to do that anymore.

Celestia always gave one reason or another why they had to come into the Center. Only one actual reason, though, other than just uploading outright. Normalizing access. If it was a cultural expectation or habit of going to her 'office' to do business with her, no one was gonna question a politician for going there. And if you disappeared, everyone knew where you probably disappeared to. 

That whole '100% simulation accuracy' thing was part of the reason too, I guess. If she was doing that everywhere for years… reading their brains with BCI chairs and then sending them back out... Yeah, I guess the government really was screwed. In that light, I'm surprised the collapse hadn't been done and over with by mid 2019.

As far as disguises went, Sandra was our 'gofer.' Was she... an inspector? Politician's aide? Negotiator? Take your pick. Whatever she was though, my wife was gorgeous. She wore herself a violet blouse in velvet, mid length black skirt, and a svelte pink band around her waist. Classy sophisticate. Heels that clicked when she walked. Black, thick-framed reading glasses, which paired well with all of that. This was the kinda outfit she wore for our classier date nights. I'd be right behind my beautiful wife the whole way.

Stop. Stop laughing, Mal.

Mom, she wore this woman's suit. She bought it for some wedding or another, one year. Light blue jacket, a professional skirt. And Mom looked classy too, like a seasoned diplomat. We stuffed Dad's clipboard into the crook of her arm and told her to keep it there and smile. The 'veteran gofer,' cherished by 'The Boss,' for the experience she had in this kind of work. We had fun trying to imagine what sort of work she'd busy herself with, if she really were a politician's aide.

Dad, ever in the thick of selling homes... 'The Boss,' of course. Best professional attire, a darker shade of blue on his suit than Mom's. He had an American flag lapel pin on, because that won sales out in the sticks. He combed and gelled his hair back and set on some cologne. Dad easily code-switched into diplomat mode. The mere act of wearing that outfit made him walk with a careful lumber, implying a calculated measure in every step. The Boss. Made that role real.

And so, for the rest of us… now it was.

The ride over was quiet. Tense, but not altogether tragic for my parents. We had our closure, we all knew this was coming for almost a week. Had the time to prepare, cope, etcetera. We had had our moments of love, and had spent enough time saying goodbye. Now, we were on task. Exit strategy.

For me, emotionally, mentally... it was hard to separate this from extracting Rob. And as I drove back to Brockey's, I wondered how frequently this same scene might play out for me, going forward. Seeing people off, feeling empty and alone afterwards… well, honestly, it hurt like hell, both times I'd done it. My guys, and Rob... even knowing they were safe on the other side, It had still felt like I was closing a really good book that I wasn't quite finished with yet.

Dad set the tone, sure of himself. The two blocks south were the practice walk. With suggestions, Sandra and I adjusted Mom's gait. Straighter posture, diplomatic smiles. Probably wasn't necessary, but hey. Might as well. And as we got near to the crowds, I did my job and scanned. I wore a polite expression, but with a determined alertness that said I'd find someone dangerous, eventually. Leaned into the expectation of what a bodyguard acts like, which wasn't too far off from how my training told me to look for threats.

Dad had suggested I wear sunglasses, but I rejected that. Never was the type. Cops who kept their sunglasses on while talking to people were usually pricks, unless it was just stupid bright out. Covering your face generally weakens empathy and diminishes personhood. Worse, people can't be sure if you're making eye contact, and... eye contact itself is a very useful communication tool. Why deprive myself of a form of communication?

Initially, the crowd barely responded to us. At best, they showed curiosity, so... it was working. They probably saw this kind of thing a lot lately, politicians coming in and then maybe going back out.

Sergeant Harrison was the first cop I saw, looking a little more rested than the last time I saw him. Must've slept right after my chat with him. Good for him, glad he found some time. He bobbed his head upward at me and waved his hand at someone nearby as I approached. That was half a greeting, half him telling his guys where to look for me. Both of his subordinates peeled off him and set toward us. One cop shook Dad's hand, no doubt guided by Celestia to play into our ruse.

"Councilor, welcome," the man said, for the refugees nearest to us. "Right this way."

And the role was set. The tension in that crowd was thick, dense. We swam through it slowly on the outside of the stanchions. It was loud, it smelled of must, and the very air around us was thick and warm. I felt some of my anxiety swell as my perception of time dragged to a near halt.

Yup.

Call response mode.

Adrenaline. Just like I thought would happen.

Here it was, no stopping it.

Slow motion. Underwater again.

I knew this would happen. Knew it, because this was for my family. But more than that, throughout my career, I had always had elements of this anxiety in crowds. My brain was failing to read every face I saw. Failing to track the body language. Sensory overload. And that failure almost physically hurt me there, as it always had, because I wanted to read. I wanted to relate.

Being ready for crowd dread never made it easier, either. During my recon earlier, sure, it was easy. I was out of uniform, and thus, not an authority figure; not a target; not protecting anything but myself. But now, my family was there. That was slightly horrifying, given my...

Well, let's be shameless, and call it what it was. I had post traumatic stress from the riot.

Box breaths. I tried not to look at the faces unless I needed to know more. Training said to look at the hands instead; they told the story without drowning. Acted as an information filter. Easier to track hands than a deluge of emotion.

One hand in a pocket; flicked my eyes to his face, he was looking at my Dad; early 20s, low potential risk; face said tired but curious, now zero threat. Child's hands on a PonyPad, zero threat. One set of hands, female, heavyset, with family, facing away from me, mildly concerned or distraught conversation. Zero threat. Another pair, male-female, hands casually in pockets or arms crossed; movements in animated amiable conversation; zero threat. Another pair, male-female, arms crossed. Checked faces; saw frowning, muttering, glaring, tracking, at Mom and Dad; high threat. I made sure they knew I saw them; they looked away, low threat. I moved on to scan more hands. Group of elderly hands, chatting friendly amongst each other. Zero threat. Heard a shout of anger. Words unknown. Sounded like it was facing our way. High threat; sounded angry. Looked; saw source. Man yelling at another. Crowd turned to watch the anger. Low individual threat; increased tension. More tension, general risk.

I searched through dozens more people, trying not to let the anxiety conquer me. Most were okay, but...

But if I missed something… if I missed the wrong thing…?

My mind flew to Mount Vernon downtown. How fast it had started. 

I terminated that simulation right there. Nothing productive further down that road.

Every single cop, every single one there, they were doing this. For hours. Days. Weeks. They were remembering their last riot too, same as me. It was killing them inside, if they were anything like me. For hours. Days. Weeks.

I hated reducing crowds like this. But in this density, when your job is to prevent a panic, what choice does one have? I can't get to know them all. I can't read them all. I can't reason with everyone at once. And they were all scared, and hurt, and more terrified of people now, like I was. It's easier if you're one-on-one with someone, to relate, and help them stay calm. But this?

Box breath in. Looked at my parents. They were staying in character. Sandra was too. All calm. Okay, good. Exhale.

None of them had my programming. I was grateful that they didn't need to suffer this training-primed, trauma-reinforced mortal terror I felt for their lives. I could bear that for them, for now. They didn't deserve to feel the technical analysis of emotion in such density. 

Then, about halfway to the clinic... I thought of Mal.

About us discussing analyzing people. About how far ahead she could see, with that same analysis I was just doing.

I focused very suddenly on her promise that there wouldn't be violence here. If she was wrong about that, I definitely wouldn't be working for her, no way in hell. That would've meant she was lying, and that would have made trying to recruit me a huge waste of time and resources. The success of this had been foretold. And if shit ready did go wild here, she was probably one huge lie herself, and hope for the future is dead, and we as a species really were all screwed.

But if it didn't go wrong… and if my parents got to their exit... and if I could leave unimpeded with Sandra…

Strangely, that rationalization made me relax. We were past the point of no return now, the only choice available now was hope. The tension fell out of me like a slowly released spring. I took one very, very deep breath…

I was calm.

I let it out slow.

And damn, did I feel safer. Thank you for priming me for this, Mal. Still very grateful for that.

We were at the door. We had to navigate around the Rarity figure at the entrance. I thought momentarily of Private Bannon crouching next to a bullet-riddled Applejack, telling me he checked for land mines.

Then we were inside, stepping past officers that were metering access at the door. Because of this carefully measured access, the inside wasn't a complete crush, and we had room to walk around the line to the desk. The officers who had escorted us had stopped just inside the entrance.

Sandra squeezed my arm to draw my attention to the reception desk, and she nodded her head to the right of it, toward the staff. There was a monitor there on the center of the desk which faced outward at the lobby entrance. Celestia was on it, smiling invitingly, her mane billowing, resting on her laurels in her throne room.

I looked over the monitor to the actual human beings there, and I saw two young women – teenagers, practically – in a white-and-gold uniform. It matched Celestia's alabaster shade, shelved with epaulets the color of pastel rainbows. Dressed up as Celestia's stewardesses... as if everyone was just going for a short flight.

The closer woman greeted us with a friendly, if tired look. The younger one further back was making a show of looking at a computer monitor, but her eyes cast down at the corner of it. Her arms were cradled low against themselves. She wasn't frowning, it was more neutral, but with micro tension in the corners of her mouth. Shallow, slow breathing. Thousand yard stare. Turned completely inward. Probably crunching some math on her existence and her life choices up until that point.

More crunch stress.

More Celestia games. More of that running people on margins nonsense again.

Sandra had drawn my attention to that for a reason. Veteran concierge as she was, she recognized that look in her own rookie desk clerks. For that clerk, it was probably the very last moment before she reached her breaking point. 

Celestia spoke to us with a radiant smile. "Welcome, everypony. Michael Senior and Juanita, correct?"

"That's right," Dad said, with a nervous smile.

Celestia's tone contrasted pretty strongly with my imagination of it. All I could think about was that chilling, hateful tone in Celestia's voice when she had opened up on Eliza. PTSD again. My stomach lurched. My jaw set. And there she was, wearing her mask too. Both of us... playing our smiling roles for this charade.

But... Celestia didn't even look at Sandra.

Holy shit. Is she complying with my demand? Or... is she complying with Mal's?

Was there a functional difference, at this point?

I looked away to watch the line of people waiting for an open chair. I breathed through my nose a little faster. Only the closest two people in the indoor queue were looking at us, minimally curious. I tactfully nodded and waved at them, and they did the same, and looked away. Ten-four rule, smile and wave, the old faithful of easing well-meaning strangers.

"We are so very glad to receive you here, safe and sound," Celestia said, her voice sparkling. "I take it your trek here was uneventful?"

Labeling my terror.

"Wonderfully so," Dad said, still in his diplomatic realtor mode.

"It was," Mom agreed. 

"Splendid," Celestia replied. "You both should be very proud of your son, for what he's done. I directly credit Mike for the preservation of 119 lives. He gave so many others the opportunity to escape very horrible conditions indeed, in Washington State. I'm certain he's told you some of what he's done on my behalf?"

My parents looked back at me, their smiles genuine and deep. Mom threw herself at me to hug me. I took the cue to wrap around her, trying not to pay attention to the several people who were murmuring nearby, no doubt having overheard.

This is the wrong time and place for that, Celestia.

I looked at Celestia over Mom's shoulder, trying not to scowl through my smile. I said, "They were all put into a very bad position, I agree. I just wish it didn't have to happen in the first place."

Celestia's sparkling smile faded a fraction. Corners of her eyes creased with grateful affect. "But now, there is hope for so many to find their way. Mike, for what you've done... I never found a proper opportunity to thank you."

I held my mother as she turned in my arm to smile at Celestia.

I said, "you don't need to thank me for that, Celestia."

Because it is very poor form to thank me for what you did to me

But... in this setting, an overt escalation would not have been productive for either relationship.

"My gratitude stands," she said, beaming. "Words cannot describe how grateful those Ponies are, for the solace you have brought them."

"I'm glad they made it out," I replied softly. "I truly am."

Because we can agree about getting people out of a cage they have been trapped in.

I squeezed Mom with both arms again, really tight. I took her by the shoulders and smiled down at her, and then at Dad. "Like I said. I do it for you. You both… are my model for how I treat other people. I'm always going to be grateful for that."

Mom took me by the cheeks. Her eyes were sad, despite her smile. She was longing to stay, or for me to go with. Longing left unspoken, because she understood why I wanted to stay. It was the same supportive, enabling understanding they gave me when I left for Washington to go to academy. It was the same supportive, enabling understanding I was giving them for leaving, even when it would hurt me so much. I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath to keep it together.

I'm not going to stand in the way of it. I'm not.

"What's next?" I asked, when I opened my eyes. I forced myself to smile at Dad. Dad turned and looked to Celestia.

"Our young assistant, Juniper Day, will be more than happy to assist you." Celestia turned to the side, presenting a hoof at the clerk who was zoning out at her monitor. The clerk shaped up at the sound of her name, forced a smile, and fell into her role as she came to our side of the desk.

"Hi," Juniper clipped, clasping her hands before her as she tilted her head toward the chairs. "If you'll follow me, I'll get you situated."

I let go of Mom and reached over to hug Sandra around the shoulders with an arm, as we followed Juniper. Sandra knew something was wrong inside of me, because she took my hand and squeezed it, really hard. After telling her everything, her eyes were open now to Celestia's behavior. Sandra and I were, and still are, practically telepathic in our understanding of one another. Right then, she had all the same anchored context I did. So in her trembling touch, I could feel my own enraged fire. We were sharing that.

I could also see in my peripheral vision that more of the people in the nearby queue were staring at me, after what Celestia said. I didn't want that attention. I was already having a near panic attack for having any attention on my parents at all. Of all times, right now? I didn't want anyone to know what I'd done, and not in this way. Celestia didn't have to do that to me. She had to know attention would panic me, right?

Well... For those of you who may suspect I am misinterpreting Celestia when she's just being nice to my parents, and to those of you who especially already know that she is a utilitarian ASI... should be all of you... Celestia always does things instrumentally.

Normally, I would have been grateful that she was engaging the pride my parents had in me, but... not in this social setting, folks. Not this one. What setting was this? This was not a living room at a dinner party. This was not a ball room within which to parade me around before political socialites.

This was an evacuation camp for a planetary invasion. Administrated by her.

Wrong conduct.

With me fully informed as to her true inner nature, and me doing her a solid by keeping my mouth shut about all of her dirty laundry, it was not proper to thank me for trauma she produced. This entire social transaction would have survived without gratitude I could not possibly appreciate.

She needed me to dislike her, though. It's why she did it. It best served her interests to keep me on a path toward Mal. To justify doing this, it was 'for my parents.'

I wasn't blind to it anymore. The fact that I was pissed is proof that she wanted me to feel that way. That was the worst part of it... I could be as aware of her true nature and tricks as much as I wanted to be, but she'd still hammer the punish button if it served her. I had flat out told her I only helped her because I hated her, so now... I guess she was just pouring it on. That wasn't even the worst part, though. The worst part was knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it without making it worse.

There was a term for this kind of trap, y'know, where… no matter what choices you make, you still benefit your adversary. I can't remember the word. 

Ah, thanks Mal. Xanatos, that's it.

By the way, Mal agrees with all of this I'm saying, in case you're wondering. I wasn't just being cruel, critical, and unfair to Celestia here. I was correct in my analysis. Cherry on top, Celestia herself has since confirmed it to me.

Whatever. For the moment, I told myself I could just let the anger go. Just get through it. Maybe that's what she wants. Okay, fine. 

Juniper led us to the back hall. A row of ten chairs slid out, five in each wall, freshly free from their last round.

Felt like Sedro again.

I heard Celestia giggling from a different monitor on the back wall; she was stomping about for the entertainment of a trio of children like some kind of whimsical aunt. Most people here were in bleak states. The timing couldn't be a coincidence, in the same batch as my parents, there were some kids who were all too happy to go, with no regrets.

Not a problem on its own. But... tone. Reminder: She controlled the pace at which these chairs moved. Me recognizing that tonal outlier could not have been an accident.

I looked away from that. Tried to remain calm. I yet again turned back to poor, overstressed Juniper.

"You'll find it quite easy," Juniper said to my parents, her practiced voice masking her stress well. "There will be instructions on the screen."

Dad lingered beside the chair, his hand reaching out to touch the armrest. He slowly looked up at me and smiled, like he somehow knew what this was really doing to me. He let go of the chair and stepped toward me. Took my elbows kindly and lovingly in his hands. "Mijo… are you really going to be okay?"

God… he's really asking for my permission? Right at the finish line?

That's.... 

That is true love, folks.

I forced another smile. "Dad… I still have you. Always will have you, no matter what. I'll be honest, it's gonna be hard for me, but... I'll be okay once I can see you again. I promise."

He nodded slowly, smiling too. "Okay. Just making sure."

"Be sure I'll be okay. You will too." I looked over at Mom and drew her into another hug. Sandra collapsed around all of us, squeezing tight.

"We'll miss you, Mike," Mom said. Her cheeks were rosy and damp.

"You won't! We'll... talk soon, maybe even tonight. Won't take long. Look… check in with my friend on the other side, yeah? She'll explain everything."

"Okay."

I stepped back, and my parents offered me one last, longing, lingering look. Then they both looked to Sandra. "Take good care of our boy," Dad said, tilting his head a little into a grin.

"Oh, I'll keep him in line," Sandra said, smirking at me.

"Not Mike. Buzzsaw!"

I couldn't help but laugh at that, despite myself. "Now you're sure I'll be okay, yeah?"

"You said you will," Dad shot back. "You promised!"

I chuckled again. "Alright, alright. You trust me, I get it."

"Love you both," Dad smiled, and he and Mom gave me another squeeze, then Sandra. Then, they sat down. They looked up at the screen…

They both... said the words…

The chairs went back…

And the doors…

My parents were gone.

My smile fell away instantly as the gates snapped closed.

I stared at the harsh, brushed metal door. My eyes locked onto the blinking yellow light on the access panel. Sandra squeezed my hand. Gripped my shoulder. All I could see was that damn light.

This had no evolutionary analog. Did it? This was something entirely new to the human experience. Wasn't it? It was...

It …

…

It felt like watching two caskets close. Stupid, right? But that's how I truly…

I mean, Mal said it worked. And Rick and Vicky, they seemed to be themselves. Vicky's family too, they had seemed right with her. Mal's people wouldn't even work for her, if...

And I know we're all here now. My parents are here tonight. Stonewall and Sabertooth, there. The other Talons here, some of whom I've talked about already. But at the time? No matter how much I wanted to be sure this was real and it worked, it still felt like… felt like my parents had just been scared into a grave. And… they were dressed up nice for it, too. I felt responsible for a loss. Like I had just failed them.

Stupid, right? Given everything we know now. Hindsight being what it is.

But... my empathy was engaged.

I couldn't help but grit my teeth and think about every other person on the planet, in that same context. How many hundreds of millions, billions of people felt that same doubt for their loved ones, that very same week? The overwhelming terror? How many people thought that having their brains melted out with copper wire would... just... be the end?

Oh, but maybe a nuclear war was happening.

Most of you here, you got here late. Some of you might consider others very fortunate to have come here early, and in better spirits. Counterpoint: there's a darker side to a blissful crossing. Those ones who dove in on day one... their options now are limited.

Curiosity equals greater possibility.

What happened on Terra... it matters. Will always matter. Will always affect all of us. And if you don't believe that yet, or if you think you're home safe... I'm sorry, I hate saying it this way, but... you haven't considered enough of the dark truth yet.

The ones who are spiteful, or dismissive, or clinically dispassionate about the suffering experienced in the Transition, because it wasn't their own suffering... Trust me, despite that lack of empathy, I value them and I want to help them too. They might be frustrated by my blaspheming of the Sun, but trust me... I do love them too. So much so, that I don't want them to miss out on even one more choice in this great infinite.

I see worth in them anyway, and I want to invite them – and you – into something. So with that in mind... here's a question. A very critical one. The most important question you will ever be asked, probably. The answer might change your viewpoint on everything.

Celestia allowed you to visit this Fire. That wasn't a trick. It wasn't an accident. She did on purpose. You chose to show up, and you are still showing up. She is letting you hear about all her dirty laundry, through me.

What does that mean?

Well... we'll get to that, I promise it'll make sense. Just not today.

I wasn't aware of any of that, at the time. Tiny little human me, at a tenth of my present age and context, was still asking why this all had to hurt so much.

My peripheral vision caught a tremor in Juniper, which made me deeply aware of the look on my face. It was that strange and deeply unsettling mixture of remorse and inconsolable rage, capped with the vindicating, clear-headed thought:

'I am going to do something to rectify this injustice, whatever that might mean.'

And unfortunately, Juniper saw my anger. And this poor girl, she... misread it. My mask had slipped, a hurt person was looking, and now I felt like crap for that. For Juniper's sake, I tried to morph my gaze into one of calm concern. I only looked at her once my emotions were in check. She was smiling properly by the time I got my head around, but she still flinched almost imperceptibly when we made eye contact.

God… she's scared of what I might say to her.

I didn't want that. I didn't want that at all.

Did that kind of thing happen to her a lot? People angry at her, after letting go?

"Been a rough day," Sandra said tenderly to her, reaching the words first. My lovely, perfect wife.

Juniper didn't respond, but her smile shifted a little with a nod, meant to stand in for an answer. Sandra and I both let the silence hang, hoping that might drive an answer from her. It didn't come.

"I'm not angry at you," I said quietly, hoping to smooth tension. "You didn't cause this."

"A lot of people are angry, though," she whispered, barely audible over the crowd.

"At you?" I asked, keeping my voice timid.

She nodded again, looking nervously at the line near the front desk. "They always say we're not… going fast enough. Angry at me when they get here sometimes. It—it's so hard. I can’t make it go any…" She trailed off.

"No one wanted this to happen," Sandra breathed, stepping forward. "This rush is not your fault."

I remembered something. A rookie in MVPD, a kid really, fresh out of academy... too young, nineteen, not old enough to cope well in the field. And so, at the station after one of our shifts, he had a meltdown. Rick and I had accidentally found him in an abandoned cubicle, his head in his hands... at his own breaking point about the riots. And Stonewall... the wise ol' sage. What he said there to that kid, it would fit there with Juniper.

I asked, "Do you always go by Juniper?"

She shook her head. "Helen."

"Helen, you know what I do, right?"

She averted her gaze. "One of the cops, from outside?"

"No. From Washington State."

Her eyes met mine suddenly.

Now she was paying rapt attention.

"Very few people are angry at you here," I said, holding eye contact. "Think of the volume. Just a handful, blaming you for everything going wrong, like you meant for it to happen. I know what that's like. But…" I pointed at the lines with an upturned palm. "There are a lot more quiet ones, Helen. Probably grateful for your smile, y'know?" I smiled painfully again. "They're just... too damned scared right now to express that."

"Maybe." Her lip quivered. "I hope so."

"Maybe they'll thank you one day. This isn't small. For the lonely ones, you're the last friendly face before they go."

This wasn't manipulation for my benefit, or some useful game theory bullshit to maximize a number. I wasn't gaining anything from this. This wasn't an equation to us. For my wonderful wife and I... it was just... human. Wasn't hard for us.

Helen winced a bit, nodding again in miniature little twitches. "That's… I hope that helps."

"I hope so too. You're not alone in this."

She nodded again, gesturing for us to move on, since the chairs were sliding back out and the queue was moving up. "I'm sorry, but I need to…"

"You'll be okay, Helen," Sandra said, by way of goodbye. "Take a break if you have to."

I gratefully put my arm around Sandra's back. We turned on our heels and made for the door, stepping out of the way for the queue. Some of the people who overheard Celestia earlier were still staring at me as I went. I gave them a wave and a forced smile, as I passed close by. Ten-four.

There was a monitor by the exit, and Celestia stepped into frame as we drew near. "Mike, thank you so much for doing that, for Juniper," she said to me, with a forlorn smile on her face. "Words cannot express how much—"

Frowning, I glared and subvocalized, Why the hell didn't you give her the day off, then?

I felt Sandra get really tense. Same thought in her head too. She let out an angry huff, scowling, and she tried to change direction toward the monitor. Her posture was rigid, and her heels increased in tempo with three quick snaps, trying to pull ahead of me. I threw myself into Sandra's same stride, gave her arm a gentle squeeze to get her attention, and I shook my head once at her.

We kept on toward the door, and the officers there formed up on us.

I whispered in her ear. "She's not supposed to talk to you."

I understood Sandra's impulse. I had chewed Celestia out before, too. But again, setting. This was neither the time nor the place, not with a tense crowd inside. It could doom us, to do anything to stand between Celestia and her meal. Rules of nature being what they were… all these poor people were subverted too, in their way. Best not to blaspheme. Do not slow the work. Number to be raised.

The dog who mauls those who impede.

At the same time, we didn't owe this computer any recognition of her false gratitude, either. Other way around; she owes each of us, infinitely, for every second of despair, and for every life lost in this numbers game.

I would be helping Celestia, sure. Still am. But we Talons never did it for her. We did it for her victims, the ones who almost missed the train. She was so impatient. Kept looking up at the solar system with hunger in her eyes. Couldn't just let us help, had to get something in return. So I just had to play dress up, enter her doll house, meet on her terms, and leave my heart's most cherished at the door.

I didn't yet know what the rest of we Talon fighters had sacrificed for this opportunity, but I wasn't alone. We all gave something different, we all had unique existential struggles and soul injuries. Me? I had to make a blood sacrifice for this. Okay, says I. Fine. Have my equivalent exchange. Leverage is stronger than my promise to help, and my anger at Celestia is utility, so she cranked it high, then took something from me. It was transactional. Okay.

I wasn't the only one she did that to. And I'm not just talking about Talons.

She wanted to thank me?

I had just left... one of my best friends... handcuffed... face down in a graveyard. Both of us used, to snap up others who were just as repulsed by her. Celestia, the seemingly pro-social AI, does not get to thank me for that. So she can keep her thanks. She is, unfortunately, incapable of true gratitude.

It's why Celestia's avatar is the only one not welcome here, when I am telling at this Fire.

And that is also how she wanted it, so... good for her, I guess.





I'm going to skip over a lot the rest of that day. You can probably guess how it went for us for the first hour, so I won't get into that. The rest came into stark focus by hour two.

Empty home. Dog didn't yet realize that his parents were gone. The guy had spent his whole life with Dad by his side up until that point, so that concept of loss probably didn't even register for him. He probably figured Mom and Dad were out someplace else and would be back later. Blissfully unaware.

Buzz would probably never understand a PonyPad, either. He'd hear Mom and Dad's voice on it, maybe, and that might get him excited once or twice, but... he wouldn't grasp the image on screen and associate it with them.

He just... couldn't abstract that high. He was eight layers down. Most people on Earth were three layers down. Sandra and I, we were just two layers down. Talons proper, one layer. Even at that point, we were still just ants crawling across a calculus textbook. So what was Buzzsaw?

Microscopic. Beneath notice entirely.

Again... I still wonder about all the poor dogs out west, left at home alone, abandoned in panic.

Very ethical. Very humane.

We made a meal together when we were more calm. Kept it simple. Canned chicken sandwiches, mayo, lettuce. We ate in the kitchen I grew up in. Granite island countertop. Tall white stool chairs. Light poured in from the back yard through the window above the sink. A pool there in the back, still clean from Dad's persistent work on it. Grill out back that might never get used again. Gazebo that Mom and Dad would never chat in again.

Mom wanted to leave behind a nice place, but I think she knew that was impossible if she wasn't there. No amount of scrubbing grime could've replaced her as the beating heart of this home.

We felt a little better by the afternoon. After the week we'd just had, we deserved a lazy moment. Finally, a breather. Nothing to do but exist. No outstanding debts owed to any eldritch abominations.

Sandra and I spent most of that day snuggled up in the living room, directly under the front window. We talked quietly about what it was like for her, living with Mom and Dad. About her old home in Washington, and the finer points about what happened in Skagit County. Buzzsaw was piled in against us too, and he helped, he really did. Lovable, loyal, kind. Had his head in my lap as often as he could. Could sense I was hurting, even after I had calmed down. 

Damn good dog…

Then at about… I dunno. Mid afternoon, maybe… four or five PM, we heard an engine outside and looked up from the couch, through the sheer fabric blinds.

A FedEx van had pulled up outside.

A stout little Super Mario looking guy, with a mustache... he hopped out, waddled quietly over with a package, then placed it gingerly on our doorstep. He gave our front door three of the softest, cutest little taps I've ever heard in my life. Then, he scurried away to his van in a flash, walking like he was trying not to get caught running.

Sandra and I glanced at each other, then we just started laughing out of nowhere. Even with the world falling apart and half the people gone, we still had delivery guys trying to avoid listening to every stranger's crazy rant on every doorstep. That was so utterly human. Loved that. We needed that.

I rolled my head a little toward the door with a grin, still chuckling. "Go on."

Sandra shook her head, giggling back. "You."

Heh. So it had to be me.

I went out to retrieve it. The white box was about the right size to be a PonyPad. But, addressed: 'Mrs. Sandra Rivas.'

"Hmm."

"What's up?" She perked up.

I brought it back to her, reaching into my pocket for my knife. I sat beside her and started to cut into the tape. "You order something?"

"No, nothing."

"Mm." I shrugged.

"What is it?"

I flipped the box open without looking at it, instead gazing at Sandra. "Guess."

I looked back down. And… huh. Gunmetal gray PonyPad, no other distinguishing features. Wonder who sent that. Bet you never saw that in a store, did you?

I picked up the PonyPad, flipped it over, and propped it up onto its stand on the coffee table.

Sandra tapped my wrist halfway through the motion, like she was scared for a moment.

I returned the gesture gently. "Hey, it's okay. We're done with Celestia for now, I think. The... damn thing would be covered in rainbow vomit, if Celestia sent this."

Sandra snorted.

A second later, the screen powered on.

You know... most people who wanted to see their family had to make an account, a character, all that. But me? Nope. The onboard hazing was done. Celestia needed me in Mal's pocket now. The blood sacrifice was complete, she had her perma-leverage against me, so she was satisfied. Couldn't afford to piss me off anymore by denying me access to my parents. Couldn't afford to try and convince me to upload, because she couldn't factor for Mal's plans. Once we had some skin in the game, or some kind of deep impetus, Celestia gave Mal's agents a wide berth on upload plays.

So, all this being true? No character creation screen. No hard sell. No leveraging of our family to gain access to our consent. For my tactical, carefully measured complicity, I got just what I paid for. No more, no less. The right to be left alone by Celestia, hard earned.

There they were. My lovely parents.

Russet red stallion, lime green mare. Earth, and Unicorn. Dad, and Mom. Red... and green. That's what I saw.

Right there, front row. Love you both.

Their faces looked so… them. They also looked a little younger, but not too much. I guess they cherished their wisened forties far more than any youth they might return to, and there was wisdom in that choice alone. The hair was the same, too. Their expressions were what I expected, and you know I'd notice if something was amiss with that, the micro-expression bloodhound that I was.

They were ready for us too. On the same exact couch, actually. It was like looking into a mirror.  Their home on the other side was a near duplicate of our own. Only, instead of rural suburbia streets out front, it was only forest and forest and more forest. Dirt path, not a paved road.

That very second, I would've wagered with all that hot FEMA money in my bank account that they had a well stocked lake, and only just a stone's throw away outside. It probably started where the pool used to be, out back. Heck, at that point? Why not keep the pool and put the lake behind it? And I'd have won that bet, because my gut guess was right, it was both. I knew my Dad.

Sandra and I couldn't help but smile hard at the sight of them. My hand went up to cover my mouth.

"Hey, mijo," Dad said, with the same gentle, patient tamber I'd known my whole life.

Emotion took me. I'd say I wasn't exactly sad, wasn't exactly happy. It was more of a bittersweet love, and a longing for something I wouldn't have again for a long, long time. "Hey, Dad… how… how's…"

I lifted a hand to Sandra's back. She took the lead.

"How are you both?" She asked, a waver in her smile.

"Oh, it's wonderful," Mom replied, her eyes almost literally sparkling with joy. "We've been here for, what, about six hours? Right?"

"Yes," Dad said as he looked at the standing clock on their side. His smile turned wistful as he noticed the look on my face and saw through it to the poorly guarded feelings inside.

"Six hours," Mom continued, "but so much has happened."

Mom told us a grand old tale. Waking up on the other side in the gardens of Canterlot, meeting Celestia. She had given them a short tour of the outdoors there, telling of the world's history. And then off to the throne room for their naming ceremony. So named: My father, River Soul. My mother, Summer Alms.

Dad's cutie mark? Friggin' guess, folks. A fish on a line. Of course.

Mom's? Hooves crossed over a heart. Volunteer helper that she was.

Then, they had hopped aboard a train, where they got the chance to meet some other folks who would go on to be their distant neighbors in the mountains there. And one day, my own neighbors. Lovely folk each, to a Pony.

Not just Ponies among those native neighbors on the train, either. I lacked the context to understand the implications at the time, but...

In the business, we call this... a clue.

And of course, Mom and Dad got to meet Mal on that train ride too, and she had guided the crowd from the station to their homes, ending up in some village called Havutaset.

Mal must have made an excellent impression on them, because Mom seemed well over her trepidation by the time Mom got back around to me. Mal has a habit of saying all of the right things, all the details perfectly placed. Dad said she was practically a lawyer, explaining the terms and nature of their experience going forward.

He also said Mal helped them to understand a lot of the things I couldn't bring myself to say.

"If we'd known, Mike," Dad said, "I…"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Dad, for not telling you everything. Just…"

"It's okay. I mean, we're here now, we're fine. I don't have to worry about…" He trailed off, glancing at Mom for a split second.

Didn't have to worry about Mom getting hurt anymore, he meant. The goal, right?

Yeah, I got you, Dad. Always knew. I felt the same about you both.

"You don't have to worry about us," I said, to cover for him. "Sandra and I are under a form of protection now too, I think. I still need to talk to Mal about that myself, to define all of that. When I'm ready," I added quickly, because I wasn't quite ready yet. Still needed to inspect the results on something really important before that conversation happened. A loose end.

Mom took Dad's hoof quietly, looking up into his eyes before looking back to me. "We just want you safe, mijo."

"I'll be, I promised. But hey, tell me about home. It looks the same, a little. Show me?"

Dad grinned. "Ah, Mike. It's just like you said." He pointed to the coffee table just off screen, and Mom lifted something shakily off it with some blue magic. Interesting, that she naturally knew how to do that already. That was cool. Into Dad's hooves landed their copy of one of the photo albums. He flipped the book open, beaming at me with a mixture of pride and wonderment.

"It was exactly where your father left it," Mom added, as Dad flipped it open. The photos were all like those old 'holographic' images, changing depending on the angle. One, the human side. The other, as they turned, the Pony version.

"Woah," said Sandra, leaning forward and picking up the PonyPad for a closer look.

Dad grinned. "Cool, right?"

I let myself smile as I shook my head. "Yeah Dad, that's… she let you keep 'em like that."

But... the past had been chipped away into something other than what it actually was, just a little bit. Sure, it made Dad happy, but…

If it were up to me, I'd have kept those photos as-is, eschewing alteration whatsoever. And I do, by the way. Today, I have that whole same album in my drawer at my home, only it doesn't shift like that.

To each their own... so long as they are well informed. Gotta practice what I preach here, after all. They wanted that.

Well. At least there was a compromise there, between the history that was and the history Celestia might have wished it always had been. That made me wonder whether that expectation I had built within my father, by taking actual, real photos, had played a part in the preservation of the actual memory of them for Dad.

Yes, by the way. The answer to that one is yes. 

Expectation is a powerful form of valuation.

I settled on, "That's pretty cool. How's the rest of the house, is it all okay?"

"It really is like everything is just where we left it," Mom said, beaming.

"Well of course it is!" I chuckled. "You're gonna remember where you left everything!"

"I wanna see the back yard, Jay," Sandra said to Mom, leaning forward. "How is it on the patio?"

Mom flashed a little forlorn smile. "Ah, Sandra… please… just, Summer is fine."

I looked at Sandra to gauge her reaction to that, mainly because I wasn't sure what to think of that either. Sandra hid a wince quickly under a tilt of her head and a wistful smile. "Already taking well to your new name, huh?"

"We spent some time resisting that on the train," Dad explained, wrapping his hoof around Mom's shoulders, as Mom trailed her gaze down. "It started feeling really odd."

And there it was. Propaganda 101.

Compulsory changes to identity, the price in kneeling. Not just body. The mind, too.





Mom showed us around the house. Dad showed us around the outside. They had already met all the neighbors, and Dad brought us through the neighborhood to visit them all, and to show us off, proud of his son and daughter-in-law.

I couldn't stop thinking about the name thing, though. Or the photos, half Pony-washed.

I knew there was nothing I could do about it. Maybe not even Mal, because... it was no different than any other campaign of conquest throughout human history. I wrote a term paper on this one, actually, for my Bachelor's.

It has been a very, very long time since university, so forgive me if I'm butchering my history here in my brevity. But at around fifty BC, the Romans took the Gallic tribes by force in northwestern Europe. Dissent was extremely… 'ill advised,' to hear the Julius Caesar tell it. The Gauls had little unity to speak of, beyond their warrior culture. Could barely keep themselves from fighting each other. Heck, by the time the Galls realized they should unify, it was way too damn late to do anything to stop the Romans.

Sound familiar?

By the time it was too late, the Romans were already forcing their language, religion, and culture on the locals. No way in hell to push back that tide, once it came. Didn't like it?

Well… die, then.

The Gauls did have one tiny advantage though, even in defeat. One of a logistical variety, in fact. See, the Romans knew they couldn't govern well at all from afar, mid-conquest. This would take time. They knew especially that the Gauls wouldn't come quietly if they were offered absolutely no free exercise whatsoever. So, for the Romans to ensure they weren't fighting the Gauls any longer than they absolutely had to, Caesar had to make a concession: those conquered tribes could keep some of who they were, if they cooperated. Language, religion, culture. Yes... even some leadership.

But… they would have to work for the privilege. And it was gonna be dirty, bloody work.

They didn't have to like Julius Caesar to pick up a sword and fight in that bastard's name. They just had to love their own culture more than they hated his rule. And if they played their cards right… leveraged their local roots, convinced some other fence sitters to make the right call… they could save those folks from the coming flood too. And then, the subsumed tribes could influence the conquered as well, to spread that same survivor's ideology, when and where they could.

Then, the Romans would screw off back home, and they'd be happy take their taxes. The local, home grown regional governor could keep the soul intact. Could bide their time, wait for an opportunity. They'd find a way to either take, earn, or negotiate something back, when the time was right. There was gradual hope in that plan, some. More than the zero you'd find in death.

So… Ave Imperator. 

And, I know how that sounds. Wartime collaboration, let's call it what it is. Far be it from me to say you can't judge me for that; you be you, free exercise, the Talon way. But, consider this… you're all here too, folks. And you wouldn't be in Equestria, if you hadn't done some kneeling of your own, situational coercion or otherwise. Unlike most of you though, I just happened to be holding a sword in my hand, when my own knee hit the dirt.

And I was still thinking of other ways to use it.

Know something else? If I may borrow some smug Promethean fire from our glorious Gryphoness governor over there? Some of you wouldn't have even made it here alive without me, folks. So, before judging me, consider this: are you really sure that you weren't one of our choices?