//------------------------------//
// 9 – Who We Think We Are 
// Story: Follow the Worms 
// by argomiam 
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7th Definitely 5th May, 1023.





Like a moment where the brakes lock. Sliding is what it felt like. This was unavoidable; this was the culmination of his doing.

Eight years of work and its product, laid out neatly before his very eyes.

His eyes traced the envelope’s contents. Tanks had cut across from the south-east, and in a desperate manoeuvre to cut them off, General  had levied more than a hoofful of terrified ponies to act as bait to stall for the advance eastwards. They’d lured the tanks into heavy anti-tank fire, but they’d taken far more casualties than expected.

The military staff had tried to placate Light, saying things along the same sort of manner as ‘they’re militia, you can’t expect much’ and ‘these are the sorts of casualties you must expect from facing a superior enemy’, but that hadn’t worked to its full intended effect on him.

His gaze fixed onto the numbers on the page. 7,235. In two days. That was a ridiculous number. 7,235 ponies, who were alive just a week ago, who had friends and families, who, just a week prior, lived in a nation ignorant to war.

He then traced his eyes across the file, towards the crudely attached image of the General. He didn't know most of his military staff. A lot of them had been gathered very recently, and this was just another pony in the flurry of new talent that his leaders had procured. They were a terribly average looking pony. A snappy looking stallion that looked like it had ordered its fair share of hard decisions in war, with a cane and a face that one could have only ever imagined belonged to a general.

This was everything the Equestrian Liberation Front meant; its natural byproduct. There had to be a reason behind it all, though. The bloody hoof of some cosmic destiny had decided that this had to be done.

He pushed the papers to the side. It didn’t matter. He’d done the maths himself.

It had been five hours since the battle ended. The newly appointed Chief of Staff, Rocky Road, had delivered the message to him by hand. Clearly, she had intended this to be seen as a great victory. After all, they’d left almost an entire tank division destroyed or disabled, at only the cost of some of their least experienced troops. Half of them didn’t even have modern rifles; it was actually quite miraculous they'd even halted the tanks, a testament to the strategic skill of the E.L.F.

But life was not a massive game of chess, and Light did not appreciate the fact that seven thousand pawns had been sacrificed for four hundred knights.

The Second Battle of the Hoofhills, is what it would be called. Second, because a first had happened ten years prior with almost the exact same situation. It was almost ironic.

Light sighed, clearing his desk and really forcing himself to ignore the urge to reach into the oak drawer at the bottom of it and open the grey flask kept inside. That flask was likely older than half the soldiers that had been fed to the gun over the last couple of days. Stars, these ponies must’ve only been foals when the Great War started. That was gut-wrenching. They’d barely even known the Equestria he longed for, outside of cloudy foalhood memories.

Still, he reminded himself, it was a war, and he was a leader – a strong leader. Getting himself worked up over this was folly, especially when the worst was yet to come. He leant over, his chair reclining back to accommodate his movement, and switched on the radio, tuning into the Equestrian broadcasting service. A mare read the news calmly, delivering propaganda as if it was as certain as the weather.

“...and now back to the Hoofhills. A great victory has been had today. Equestrian troops have managed to destroy a large number of Changeling armour, with a relatively low casualty rate. We thank all our brave troops that have given their lives in service of their nation. The front has also moved – the Second Army has continued their advance towards Manehattan thanks to the service of the Twelfth Division, expecting to connect our nation within a matter of days.

“In other news, the Hero Commander has decided on the postponement of the Pony Rights bill, with major public agreement in calling it a waste of resources at such a critical point. He assures it will be picked back up once the time is right. Tune in for his speech at five.

“And now, for our heroes on the production floor: has a friend been acting suspicious lately? Have they been spreading anti-state rumours? They may be an infiltrator. Report them to your foreman, or to your local National Party headquarters. Remember: freedom is a collaborative effort.”

He turned the radio off, just in time as it started playing yet another patriotic song. It had been the third news article dedicated to him that day, and the third he’d been labelled a hero. It was starting to become a bit grating. His ego loved it, of course, but it made him feel so unsure of his capability, living up to the expectations painted of him. He stood up, stretched his legs for the first time that day, and stared up at the clock behind him. 2:39. He had a while before his speech, but maybe a good hour before his team swept him up and started playing dress up with him to make him look the most imposing he could look.

He walked to the door, looking to get a head start, and, as expected, the moment his hoof touched the handle, two guards were stood waiting for him. 

The increasing presence of security was not something that could go unnoticed. It felt like every time he moved, there was always at least two ponies flanking him, silently on patrol. It had been happening ever since his status as a figurehead grew, and despite its permanence, it had become something he had quickly learned to ignore.

He made his way to the canteen, giving a silent nod at the two black-cladden guards with unmoving faces that was quickly returned. His mind raced with what ifs, but chief amongst them was the question of his legacy. Every move he made, he built it up, and that would forever decide his place in history. It was a terrifying thought, especially being scrutinised so heavily. Every minute detail would go towards painting a picture of him that could very well last centuries after – after all, he was not a small figure in Equestrian history now.

The pony that stole the sun from Celestia, hopefully not the pony that flew too close to it.

The excitement of it had quickly withered and vanished, as was the fate of most joys these days, but it had its moments of greatness. His gambit, stealing the E.L.F. from the snot-nosed unicorns in Manehattan, had been immensely satisfying, and equally well rewarded. Within the space of a few weeks, he’d gone from a tiny entity in the grand scape of the political scene to a household name from Manehattan to Seaddle. Factories all over his domain blasted his words for all to hear, and despite the stoic demeanour he portrayed, the popularity was certainly appreciated. 

For once in his life, he had a say – one everypony had to listen to. That was under his merit alone.

The sunglasses quickly switched from pocket to face, covering his sunken eyes. There was no need for them in a place like this, it was dingy and grey enough as was, but it did make him look cool. Very authoritarian, but that was the goal, was it not? He hadn’t brought a movement this far just to go ‘well, hey now, why don’t we have a senate?’ There was absolutely no need to dilute his ideas across a council of ponies that just didn’t get it.

And so it was. Across the vast network of grey corridors, the commander’s procession continued. Ponies darted to the side to make way, tired, coffee-sustained young bureaucrats taking every opportunity they could get to watch Light move from place to place.

This is what stardom felt like. Once upon a time, before all the mess had happened, he’d enjoyed a little bit of status as a local ‘celebrity’ for his singing.

He supposed this was similar, only that vocal training was going to something properly useful now, not wasted on some pitiful band with some even more pitiful, dopey-eyed ponies. This was real status.

Of course, most recollection of that old singing had vanished – mostly on purpose about seven years prior when he chose to try and detach himself from any connection to it. After all, nopony wants a supreme leader that also does a bit of karaoke on the side.

It made him wonder where those other ponies had gone off to. Dead, most likely. Last he heard of the drummer, Chilli Pepper, he’d been flown away onto some air base in the Great War. He remembered him being a flight sergeant; he used to send him letters all the time. Light never returned them, however, but he was sure he’d be able to find the envelopes in a drawer somewhere. 

It’d make for some nostalgic reading one day: sitting in a villa in Prance, drinking champone and tipsily reading about the world of once-was. That’d have to wait, though.

For now, it was all about running around, putting out fires and starting an equal number more.

The canteen was filled with ponies, mostly the lower-ranking of the party. They chatted amongst themselves, an air of nervous excitement filling the room. One could even say everypony seemed quite hopeful, finally seeing a future coming for Equestria that was a bit brighter than the one they’d spent the last decade surviving. Heads turned as he made his entrance. 

He was an imposing presence to most. Clad in the darkest outfit in the room, two armed soldiers following him closely, his face stern and eyes obscured. The only break from the uniformity was his white fur, covered up by a black trenchcoat head to tail, with equally dark, polished boots. He was a tall pony, hardly Celestia’s size, but more than tall enough to stick out in a crowd. All of this helped to sell the act of a stern, militaristic leader – an act he was happy to play, for it had propelled him from an angry worker speaking at local pubs to what was essentially Equestria’s newest prince.

It was a deeply monarchical society they lived in, at the end of the day. Despite his loathing for royalty, any autocrat he was going to be would be associated in the minds of the Equestrian as a new type of royal. Whether it was greater or lesser than the last was up for interpretation, and that was unnerving.

He could feel hundreds of eyes boring into him, a hush descending over the room. In only a moment more, it erupted into noise. The tens of ponies dining stood to get a look at their hero, stomping in jubilant applause. He waved a hoof, giving a warm smile to his subordinates.

It would’ve been easy to get caught up in it, bask in the shower of praise he was being offered. Anypony else would’ve, he was sure, but he was above such petty acts. Also, he was actually feeling pretty starved, and every moment he spent enjoying everypony’s adoration was a moment he could be eating. He got onto his hind legs, standing above the crowd and making an ‘X’ shape with his front hooves, holding it high, prompting the crowd to applaud even louder and some to even start repeating the gesture.

It was symbolic of... something. Honestly, he didn't know where it had come from. Breaking binds, maybe? Realistically, it just looked cool to him, and so he did it.

He couldn’t lie and say it wasn’t at least a little amusing. He had worked hard for moments like these, was it really all that vain to just enjoy it a little? Sure, he would admit, he was just a little vain, but it wasn’t vain to be the centre; it wasn’t his fault these ponies loved him so much. He’d earnt that, he’d worked for nearing on a decade to earn their adoration, that was just the product of his work.

He continued down the pathway that had quickly cleared for him, entering a private room where the holiest of holies for the party could eat in relative silence. To his surprise, Gemstone and Roly were already there, the only two other than Gander that tended to stay in the party’s headquarters. Anthearea and Walkie were both likely in separate camps miles from here, and double the miles from each other, and Gander preferred to get one of his lackeys to take the food to him so he could eat alone.

Six guards stood at the edges of the room, adding to the security. The room was a lot nicer than the other canteen, separated by a short corridor that two more guards stood in. The fear of infiltrators had already taken hold, and this room was just a result. It used to be an armoury, once upon a time, for a now defunct Equestrian military headquarters, as evidenced by the anti-air platform at the very top of the building, in the part that sprouted up out of the ground. It was nothing that would survive heavier shelling, or, stars-forbid, a thaumo-nuclear device, but it worked in keeping the bureaucracy safe from the bombs that had, rather eerily, not come yet.

The room stank of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, as did most rooms Gemstone frequented. They were a loud pegasus, but mostly kept to a few different rooms that made him easy enough to find whenever he was needed. For the most part, as the sole member of the Equestrian Economic Committee, his days were spent devising business strategy and just how in Tartarus he was supposed to get half an army’s worth of guns produced over the space of a few weeks, when stolen stockpiles would run dry.

Light did not like him, to put it mildly. For one, he was a pegasus, which, whilst better than a unicorn, gave him a distinctly sour taste in his mouth, especially when so much of the work cut out for him was managing his fellow pegasi and how they fit into their new society. It struck him as a bit slimy, the sort of pony to have no ideals they sticked to. However, it couldn’t be understated just how crucial he was. He was intelligent, full of ideas, and had the heavy industrial backing they had needed at such a critical stage. That didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to sit with him at lunch, though, high school clique mentality be damned.

The two soldiers at his side peeled off, standing by the entrance to the room. He took his sunglasses off, comfortable enough to end the charade, nodding friendly to the two ponies taking centre stage in the room. He served himself a small portion of food, eating quickly as he took his leave, stuffing his face whilst he had the short window of privacy. The two soldiers rejoined him, and they made their way to Gander’s office at the other side of the bunker.

For the most part, the bunker was repurposed with a focus on simplicity. It wasn’t supposed to be grand and luxurious, because that wasn’t what a good leader like Light should have. It was to be practical and fit for military use, because that was a core part of post-friendship. Luxuries only inspired laziness, and this was a habit Light thought he fell into far too frequently when left to his own devices, so he’d stripped the rooms he occupied bare of any possible distractions, other than the flask of spirits, kept for ‘sentimental’ value and refilled for ‘sentimental’ value.

Gander’s domain was not the same. Progressively, making the walk towards his sector of the headquarters, one could notice things getting gradually more expensive. Tiled flooring replaced wooden flooring, decorations became increasingly less bare, and, taking a step into the Department of Post-Friendship Education and Enlightenment, it was like a whole new building, complete with chandeliers, potted plants, paintings, banners, panelling, all things shiny and extravagant. It looked like a young noble had just inherited a tidy sum and gone about doing just about everything to look their wealth.

Gaudy? Maybe. Light certainly seemed to think so. He had chastised Gander, saying he was spending probably just as much money on his own plethora of little creative pursuits as their military received. It was hyperbole, obviously, but he was the fourth biggest spender of national funds outside of the industrial and military sector. The third if you included his own private spending. 

This was the only place Light ever saw him, and that was probably a good thing. His department, or, more aptly, his little personal fiefdom, had the largest number of soldiers patrolling around other than the rare occasions when Walkie Talkie was present. He had the second largest number of personal bodyguards, only second to Light himself who had his own personal battalion that had swelled in size since he had taken over.

The offices of the Education and Enlightenment department had a completely different type of pony running about it. They all had an air of superiority around them, and it was certainly the most diverse of the departments. They were a different class of bureaucrat. They dressed the smartest, read the most, and were colloquially referred to as the bleeding hearts of the party. Backgrounds be damned, Gander hired and promoted based on personal liking, and so the offices had become a playground of whoever could curry the most favour from him; an army of little suck-ups.

Pushing through the maze of creatives, the ponies whose jobs were to keep books, organise propaganda and deal with press, Light made his way to a large oak double door, and knocked quadrice as per usual – any more would be begging, any less would be unbecoming of his status and the urgency of his presence. The doors swung open, and in invited Gander, a stack of papers clenched tightly in his hooves and a knackered but pleasantly surprised look on his face. 

His office was the largest and most well-furnished in the whole of the headquarters, and, for whatever reason, had a ridiculous amount of books, papers, and maps, stacked in shelves, across walls and in piles. It was almost a library in its own right, and the shelves were piled high for display.

As a foal, Gander was a lover of the arts. Poetry, prose, painting, music, dance, he’d always had an affinity for it, but all except his writing had never come naturally to him. And so he was, the mastermind behind all the party’s propaganda, new and old. Every poster, book, speech and slogan had been created in his offices, and whilst a lot of it was now handled via delegation, his work had still remained the most impactful. 

A lot of these books were from before the Great War, and whilst Light had painted many of them as un-Equestrian, unbecoming of the new ideology of post-friendship, it had served him as a treasure trove of information and inspiration. It was what really cemented Gander as his own type of genius in Light’s mind; not many had bothered to collect them up since the occupation, with many of them being burnt by the changelings. Even still, Light had been taught, and still taught, that friendship was dead, and that the information that these books held was irrelevant, and, frankly, useless. Despite this, a lot of these books had helped him greatly, and had even led to a number of key ideas and policies being formed, just that many of them had been the opposite of what these books told.

Gander was an interesting character, Light always thought. He had a penchant for being a little odd, a peculiar mix of pony that could either be immensely helpful or a huge hindrance, but, at the end of the day, Light enjoyed his company and found him strangely pleasant to be around. Over the years, Gander had proved himself as being more helpful than nuisance, and so he had stayed.

He had a knack for poeticisms and a natural ability to string words together beautifully in a way not even Light could. It was why he’d had him write his speeches for half a decade, his speeches were the best in the country, and likely anywhere. His way of making even the policy that would’ve been outrageous only ten years ago seem entirely necessary, exciting and new. Gander just seemed to enjoy the attention it brought him, stating drunkenly numerous times that he’d never expected his work to ever be so prevalent. On one occasion, he’d even compared himself to Marks. That statement was quickly withdrawn.

They sat opposite to each other, Gander on his throne-like desk chair and Light on a much more humble wooden seat.

Gander looked a little worse for wear. His mane was dishevelled in a way he never usually let it reach, and the bags under his eyes were deeper than usual.

“Afternoon, Gander,” Light finally greeted. “Everything alright?”

He looked a little confused for just a moment, looking at Light as if the question was bizarre, before quickly fixing his mane in realisation and answering.

“Yes, I think so, yes. I’ve had a busier night than usual, you see, but nothing outside the ordinary. Nothing a glass of wine won’t fix.”

Light chuckled, able to tell he meant it. Gander had a problem, and that problem was alcohol. But not the same sort of problem Light had, where once he started drinking he simply wouldn’t stop until he was slumped over a railing vomiting; Gander just always seemed to drink. Not excessively, no, he was never tipsy at work, but he would constantly drink throughout the day, sometimes even a glass an hour. His drinking was simply a necessity, in the same way one had to drink water. He had excellent discipline over how inebriated he would get, something Light lacked, but unlike Light, it was constant.

Light had a flask full of spirits that he saved for a rainy day, Gander had a glass bottle filled with a dark red liquid, or maybe two, that he would get through in a day.

“Well,” Light continued, pouring them both a glass from the crystal decanter, taking a sip and letting that warm thrill hit the back of his throat. 

“Ooh,” he knocked his head to the side, grimacing from the bitter sting of alcohol coating his tongue. “Strong today, Gander. Anyway, you’re in luck, cause I have an hour or so to kill.”

Gander looked delighted, eagerly taking a sip for himself.

They talked about just about everything, and simultaneously nothing of substance. The conversation flowed through a myriad of topics, their current work, jumping to their personal lives, and then reminiscing about the past. Gander had the rare privilege of knowing a lot about Light, even before the occupation, and so they found any opportunity to reminisce. It was the one time Light felt at ease.

He felt a warmth in his chest, one that wasn’t down to the alcohol, one that he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. It wasn’t love, per se, nor was it happiness, or joy. It was just a sense of belonging, a sense that, for a few moments out of his day, he could relax, and the weight of responsibility would lift ever so slightly. The clock on the wall moved more swiftly than usual, and in a blink of an eye, thirty minutes had passed, and the clock behind him read 3:23, ever so rudely reminding him of his speech at five.

Shifting the conversation away from its previous topic of wherever they thought Walkie got the view that changelings descended from unicorns, he moved it along to more useful matters.

“I’m assuming that new speech is ready?” he inquired. “And did you make sure to include everything on my list? You know, the whole unity thing. We have to make sacrifices for our friends, we’re the real Equestria, blah, blah, blah, unity. You have all that nonsense?”

Gander nodded, taking a long sip.

Light waited for his response, but when it became clear that no elaboration was coming, he rolled his eyes, smiling.

He took another sip, placing the empty glass down, the sound of glass clinking against wood sounding through the room. He leant forwards, crossing his forelegs on the table. He spoke with a lower, more sinister tone. He didn’t want to scare him, but he needed that authoritarian tone, and it registered. 

“You are aware of the casualties at the Hoofhills, I imagine?”

It was an uncomfortable question, one they both knew the answer to. It was an open secret at this point. Gander went quiet, his expression shifting slightly. It wasn’t the sort of thing they usually talked about.

“I want you to address it, please. In some way, shape or form, I need it to be addressed, and I need it to be made known that we understand these costs, and we will honour every last pony that gives their lives for Equestria, but there will be costs.”

Light took a moment to let his words sink in, letting the words linger in the air for just a moment longer like they’d soak through the mind. Gander was a good writer, but Light knew who he wrote for. These were the ponies that read his newspapers and tuned into his radio shows. They were the party faithful, the ones that already believed everything. He didn’t need to convince these ponies; he needed to convince the faithless, the hopeless, the ponies that wavered, that could believe but didn’t or were simply apathetic to their cause.

“We need to inspire some change. I want everypony to know that this is the most absolute of necessities, and this war can only be won through struggle. We need to start winning hearts. They need to understand what they’re fighting for. We need to make it clear that this isn’t a war for power, or ideology, but that this is a war for survival, and that we are the force that will keep them or their friends alive. I know this is very late to start making adjustments, but I need you to—”

Gander’s eyes seemed to light up, grinning and reaching down for his notepad, scribbling down a few notes.

“We’re winning this war, Gander. Manehattan will be ours in a few days. We just need to make sure they join us, and not some weird unicorn group that’ll promise everypony everything just as it was.”

Gander waved his hoof, shuffling the stack of papers and beginning to jot something down. “I’ll get it done in fifteen minutes. Stay with me for a moment, I’ll be done in no time.”

The next few minutes were spent in relative silence, only the occasional hum or sigh of discontentment with his writing, or scribble of a pen scratching out a line as Light waited for Gander to finish his writing. It was the first time Light had, in many years of doing this, fully spectated his creative process. He watched, not a word exchanged between them, as Light watched Gander build up a speech line by line. It was miraculous seeing how he just seemed to have the innate ability to tie each point together so quickly and fluidly, the way it just seemed to build up on each point, weaving them together seamlessly. 

Light was, if he had to admit, just a little jealous. If only he could put words together like this. Sure, he could strike up a brilliant conversation, or once-upon-a-time make a song, but this was different. It wasn’t the same at all. This was true talent he was witnessing, one that he couldn’t help but let himself feel a little envy for. This was his cutie mark. This was how it tied in with his life. Light’s was nothing but a useless traffic light.

It didn’t take much longer, Gander passing back the paper in less time than he’d asked for. Light quietly read it through aloud, nodding silently as his eyes flickered from line to line, finally giving a nod as he finished it.

“This is—”

“Great, I know right?” Gander beamed, a smile of self-satisfaction and a twinkle of pride in his eyes.

For a second, those cutie mark related jealousies almost forced him to try and knock him off his pedestal. He resisted the urge. He had to be better than that.

He let a smirk creep across his face, chuckling warmly and standing up. “Right, come ‘ere, idiot.”

He extended his forelegs, wrapping the now standing Gander in a rare hug. They stayed for a moment like this, wordless. It was an affection Light rarely gave, and one that Gander had certainly not expected. When separated, Gander looked at him with a mixed sense of confusion and pride.

Light backed off, seeming to realise what he’d done. Still, he couldn’t help himself from smiling. He wasn’t sure where that all came from – he usually thought about his actions a lot more than that. He sighed, straightening his tie and giving Ganger a nod.

“‘It’s perfect’, is what I meant. Thank you.”

“That was nice, Light,” he smiled, warmly. “I appreciated that.”

He could tell he wasn’t referring to the compliment. It had been nice, actually.

He turned back, making his way for the exit. Just before he left, Gander shouted ove—

“Light! Light, don’t forget the rally you have tomorrow! Make sure you have something to wear, okay? A proper outfit. You have a reputation I need you to keep, remember? It can be the same one as last time, if you can find it, but just—just make it look new, okay? It can be the same, I don’t mind, but I mean, it does smell a bit, and there’s blood on the sleeve. Oh! Oh, and—and don’t forget your sunglasses, okay? And smile a little, ponies love a smile—but not like a big smile, like a cocky half-smile sort of thing, I don’t mean your ‘three ciders in’ smile, I mean your ‘they don’t know what’s about to him them’ smile. That one. Yeah, yeah, that one. Oh, and have you been drinking before? I mean, we had a glass, but it’s affecting your eyes, and—hey, where are you going? Light, you aren’t even listening, are you? Hey! Come back! You haven’t even shown me what suit you’re wearing, Light. Light, I’m not finished. Light, you haven’t even shown me what you’re wearing yet? I need to make sure it works well with the sunglasses! Liiiight!”

“IT MATCHES!” he called back from out of the corridor. The two soldiers assigned to his guard shut the door behind him.

That was enough social interaction for a while, he reckoned.

Back into the maze they went, following a new path, a minute added on to avoid the extra social confrontations, a stack of papers folded in his inner jacket pocket. As he approached the exit, he heard a shout from further down the staircase. He knew who it was, and he wasn’t particularly in the mood to speak to them.

“Sir Light!”

He groaned, trying his hardest to ignore the nagging voice. He’d gotten quite used to it after all this time. After all, it had practically become a constant whilst working here. He kept going, nodding to the two soldiers to open the door.

“Commander! I need to speak to y—”

“WHAT?!” he shouted, exasperated. “What is it, Gemstone?! I’m not dealing with you right now!”

Gemstone finally came reeling to a halt, practically having to slide across the floor to stop in his hurry. His wings folded in, head dropping to catch his breath. “Commander… whew.”

“I told you. You’re not allowed to fly in there, Gemstone. You have a lot of nerve—”

“Sweet Celestia, Light! I don’t care! I don’t… whew… I don’t care what you think about me or my department, but I need you to bucking work with me, damn it.”

Gemstone was a hard-working pegasus, he had no doubts he had been working all night. He’d heard from Roly that his whole department, few as they may be, were barely sleeping, and the bags under his eyes said the same thing. His voice was ragged, his body slouched.

“Light, we need more guns. We need more explosives, and tanks, and ammo, and just about everything under Celes—sorry, the sun. And you’re not bucking helping me,” He prodded him with his hoof, speaking in a frantic panic. “I can’t fund your army through sheer bucking willpower, Light. I’m not even getting a quarter of the material I’ve been promised. Light, I have other industrialists breathing down my neck. I have the military breathing down my neck. And everypony needs more and more and more and I can’t bucking give them anything BECAUSE I’M NOT GETTING ANY STEEL!” he cried, hitting the ground with his hoof with every word, as if he was trying to hammer the words into the concrete.

Light sighed, throwing up his hooves in an exaggerated shrug. “What do you want me to do about it, huh? You’re the one in charge of all that. Fix it,” he responded, curtly.

“Fix it?” he repeated, shakily. “Bucking… fix it?! You think I haven’t been trying?! Stars, fine. I had a proposal, please.”

Light started to walk off, rolling his eyes. Gemstone quickly trotted to his side, following him closely.

“Hey, hey, no, come on, listen. I had a great idea. So, you know all these industrialists east, right? I say nationalise everything. I mean everything. I can run it. I might need some new hires, but by Celestia, or whoever I should be praying to now, I’ll get it all sorted. But I need bucking quarries, and I need factories, and I need raw bucking materials, because I cannot make rifles out of revolutionary fervour. And I need funds. I need a lot of bucking cash infusions, because some of these factories are death traps. I just need—”

“Send the pegasi to the mines," he blurted.

Gemstone blinked. “Wait. Light, what?”

He shrugged. “Party doctrine, is it not? Make them pay reparation for the dominion they held over us?”

“Light… hah… I’m a pegasus," he laughed, nervously.

“Perfect. Then you’ll know just how to get them to the mines. Buck off.”

Gemstone stood still, blubbering and making a strange, whiny noise. Light looked back, confused. He looked like a foal being chastised by their mother, in full nervous breakdown. It was almost shocking, but no, this was Gemstone. Light rolled his eyes and continued to walk towards the black car prepared to take him away.

Gemstone, after a few moments, seemed to realise this wasn’t a cruel joke, running back and calling over. “Wait, Commander. Light, wait!”

“Oh, what now, Gemstone?” He checked his watch with a long groan, eager to end the conversation as soon as possible. It was enough being pestered by Gander earlier about suits. It seemed like everypony always wanted something only whenever he was busy.

“Light, we’ve talked about this, we can’t just—” He gulped. “We can’t just send ponies off to mines, Light.”

“Of course you can!” He threw his hooves up. “It’s an issue of willpower, get Roly and fix it with her.”

“Light, please, come on,” he whined, running back up to his side.

Light sighed, stopping. “I am waiting, go on, what is it? Spit it out already.”

“Light, I can’t just send a group of ponies to the mines. I mean, yes, I could, but not without huge backlash, or a damn revolt. You can’t just—I can’t just make them mine without their consent, or a lot of convincing, we’re not the changelings, Light.”

Light let out a long exhale, hardly even considering his words beyond how much it was annoying him. “Fine. Get the unicorns to do it.”

Gemstone let out a long, stressed, cry of despair. “You can’t be serious, Light! You can’t seriously expect me to start shipping off groups of ponies to do whatever work we need, it’ll be a damn PR nightmare! It’ll completely ruin our public image! No, no, it’ll do more than that. It’ll be a disaster, it’ll be catastrophic! It’ll be—”

“Yes, Gemstone, I understand the concept of revolt,” he snapped, interrupting him. “This is ideological. You’re a businesspony, right? You understand the concept of debts, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, but—”

“No, no, no, no, no, no. Stop, Gemstone, no. Listen, they made themselves wealthy off of our backs. The entire system of old Equestria was built off of earth pony backs. If it wasn’t for our kind, their entire system would’ve failed. They’d have had no industry, no economy, no roads, no bridges. They owe us. This isn’t asking for much in a time like this, and it’s a fair repayment. It’s not bucking permanent. They’re already going to repay us, this’ll just expedite that whole process. Understand?”

“But, but, but, but… Light,” he tried to interject.

“And, and, and…” Light mocked. “Figure it out. I’m busy,” he said, opening the door to the car.

Gemstone let out another panicked cry, looking as if he was about to pull his mane out. Light ignored the pathetic display, getting into the back seat of the car.

“Light!” he yelled, sticking his hoof in front of the door to keep it from closing. “Listen, listen. I’ll work it out. I’ll talk to Walkie, I’ll get him to focus on the resource zone during this eastwards push. Just… I can’t do this whole unicorn thing.”

Light took off his sunglasses, making sure he was obscured from public view and the few ponies that walked the streets. “Then find out how you’ll get that steel, or you’ll find your economic committee a lot more diluted. We made a deal. That fancy bucking mansion of yours is paid out of my pocket,” he pushed his hoof out of the door’s way, shooing him away. “Good day. I have a speech to go to.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Gemstone outside cursing frantically, making another winged sprint back to the bunker. He’d have to reprimand him for that again, sometime. It was privilege enough that he was allowing pegasi to work in senior party leadership, given their heavy collaboration with the unicorn system.

He rubbed his temples, a mild headache starting to set in. Three soldiers from his personal guard already sat in the vehicle with him, sitting on the seats facing him in the back of the car.

As it finally set off, he enjoyed a well-deserved break from all the nagging he’d had today. The ride wasn’t a long one, it only took him to the centre of Bales for the venue of his speech. It was to be a heavily guarded service, hence the thick, tinted glass in the car. The soldiers were all silent, with unmoving faces and blank stares at nothing, but it was vaguely comforting to be in their presence. Not only did it make him feel very important, he trusted his life with these ponies. They were the best of the worst. All veterans, but mostly the ones that had gone into more shady careers following the Great War. Union busters, military collaborationists, private security forces.

It was a welcome peace, a momentary respite. As he watched the bland scenery pass him by through the almost blackened windows, buildings all blending together into one grey blob, it was oddly cathartic. These were his streets, his ponies, and soon enough, his country. Everything would fall into place, just as it always had for him.

His mind went quiet for once, the sounds of the road and the hum of the engine providing a pleasant ambiance. He didn’t dare close his eyes, knowing that if he did, he would almost certainly drift to sleep.

He blinked, and then…

The next time he opened his eyes, the car had come to a halt, and his time to think alone would be over. It was slightly daunting getting out of the car, mentally preparing himself for the sudden onslaught of thousands and thousands of ponies’ cheers and applause. It was a big ask of him, especially after a day like this. He took a moment to actually check to see if Gander was being truthful, if the alcohol really had gotten to him, but no. It was likely just Gander being paranoid again. He got that way pretty often over matters of presentation like that.

A small, speckled stallion was the first to greet him, excitedly gesturing for him to follow, pen and clipboard in hand. Light followed along silently, already straightening out his uniform. It meant nothing, he’d be getting changed into something new and even more dazzlingly intimidating for the show.

A new maze of brick awaited him, a large closed theatre. He was ushered into a changing room in the back, where a small group of ponies awaited him, already getting ready to prep him for the speech. He sat in a large, comfortable chair fit for an A-list actor, and a colourful pony with an equally colourful name held a pair of scissors and a comb almost immediately got to work in tandem with the makeup team. His mane was styled, as per usual; brushed out, straightened, and the ends given a slight trim to maintain a perfectly kept appearance all whilst his eye bags were covered and a few more imperfections hidden. A few outfits were all shown to him, mostly the same other than a few minute details, and he finally settled on the third, the ponies on his team all funnelling out the exit as he made his choice.

He wasn’t about to let them stay whilst he dressed. For most, they would stay, but Light had made it perfectly clear that he was not keen on letting five or six ponies stay, mostly out of the notion of showing them all his cutie mark. It disgusted himself enough. It was a ridiculous notion, really, and one that made him feel quite vulnerable. He’d spent far too long trying to hide it just to suddenly flaunt it for everypony to see.

The outfit he’d picked, like the last one, and the ones before, was a long black jacket with an even darker lining, matched with a long pair of trousers. The buttons were all polished silver, and the cuffs and collars were a fine black fabric, soft and smooth to the touch. Two long pairs of sheen polished black boots were on his hooves, and a black strap with a dazzling buckle rested over his chest.

He looked at himself in the mirror, putting his sunglasses back on. He felt a swell of pride coming over him, staring back at the handsome figure in the mirror. It all made him look very tall and broad, very important. A king in his own right, as much as he hated the comparison.

Satisfied with the amount of admiration given for the pony in the mirror, he stepped back towards the door, entering back into the corridor. It was not cleared, to his dismay. Ponies still scurried about, doing their final checks. He noticed a quiet young mare, barely out of her teens, staring at him. He turned to look back at her, noticing she wasn’t staring in quite the same way as everypony else did. It was an obvious stare, a hard stare, not a hidden one like most. She didn’t smile, brow furrowing, not quite in anger, but not in fear either. It was just a stare.

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, am I in your way, miss?”

She looked a little surprised, eyes widening a fraction, but her expression didn’t change. She had a certain hollowness in her eyes. She didn’t look tired, not physically anyway, but there was something that just wasn’t there.

The pony lurched, reaching into a pocket. His eyes widened, body freezing. He saw the faintest glimmer of metal. And then—

POP.
Thud.

The mare fell to the floor, a green magic glimmering across the wound. She yelped, clearly not expecting the violent force that sent her downwards, all wind stolen gracelessly from her lungs.

Two guards swiftly stepped over, barging through the crowd of panicked stagehands, and in a swift, violent move, both barrelled over, kicking the wounded mare, lacking the air to yell. He didn’t even register the horrible sound it made, or any specific detail of the gladiatorial choreograph they were performing. It was just a horrible sight. Thuggish, senseless, vengeful. Blood just for the sake of it. 

For him.

The gun fell to the floor, clinking as it hit the tile.

“Are you hurt, Commander?” a toneless voice spoke, its speaker indiscernible.

He never even heard it. He looked to the mare, eyes widening as the yellow fur began flashing into black carapace. Her face distorted, the muzzle shortened, the mane disappeared, two wings appearing at its side. The magic dissipated, large blue eyes losing their light in the puddle of green blood they lay in.

He didn’t even get time to process. He didn’t have the time to feel horror, or sympathy, or anything. There was just a cold stare as the body was dragged away, out of sight and out of mind. 

An attempt against his life had just been made. They actually wanted him dead. Of course, this was obvious, but the looming omnipresence of mortality shocked him to his core. 

He was not a god. He was alive only because some other pony had thought faster than him.

No time to think. Ponies rushed around him, some soldiers, some not. They all melded together in a technicolour haze, featureless and dim. He twisted his head, only seeing the same thing, mouth slightly ajar and eyes heavy.

He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t even frightened, just dazed. His brain moved as if his thoughts were clouded by a thick smog, waiting a long few seconds before forcing himself to turn away, stumbling slightly over his own hooves before marching off to the only place his mind beckoned him to go. The guards, those that weren’t occupied with a corpse, followed in rank, marching along with him, hoofsteps all in sync as they moved towards the stage, shouts and panicked screams fading into music, the sounding of the drums and horns that signalled his entrance, into the array of banners, flags and ponies; just another, different shade of haze he had to walk through. 

Tens of hooves extended to him, reaching out, a large crowd of his more devoted members of the party all backstage, trying to meet their Commander. He shook a couple, even crouched down a little to greet a young foal and her father that were present. The facade of regality and graciousness was the only one he could maintain. It was practised, it felt him, or at least, who he thought he was.

The party-logo-adorned curtains opened. He stepped up.

He heard a flood of applause from the colossal gathering, his mind moving on autopilot, soldiers peeling off to the side as he reached the raised podium, now going by only what was rehearsed, crossing his forelegs into another ‘X’ as the horns reached the intro’s climax. He'd done it so many times, but this didn't feel the same.

There were so many ponies. So many armbands. So much joy. So much hate.