//------------------------------// // Chapter II: Disce // Story: Ordo ab Chao // by Integral Archer //------------------------------// “In the Event of Death of the President, Resignation, or Impeachment, the Vice President shall assume all Duties that were formerly given unto him, until the impending November, at which Point the General Election should be held, regardless of Proximity to the aforementioned Condition or previous General Election.” —Article XIV, Section X of the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings Despite what the Unionists’ cider-ridden brains thought, they knew who he was quite well. Disce was the draconequus who had always sat in the back row of the United Party Debate Hall, his sharp gaze staring straight into the soul of anypony unfortunate enough to catch it. There was a general unspoken unease felt by every single pony taking part in the party debates; everypony assured themselves that it was because of all of the shouting and the arguing; but, deep down, they all knew that it was this firm, implacable eye in the back of the hall, silently judging each one of them and their actions and always coming to a conclusion about them that was a mixture of some parts humor—and most parts, extreme malice. There was an implicit understanding between the Unionists and him that, unless he initiated the conversation, there would be no speaking to him, and the only ponies that he spoke to were the unfortunate ones he had singled out—to whom, he did so only in hushed whispers during lunch hours. He kept his distance from his fellow party members in the corridors, but anypony who passed by him was immediately taken back by his incessant mumblings. There was something incredibly dark in his almost unintelligible words, such that anypony who was unfortunate enough to be within earshot of them would be plagued by the disturbing impressions expressed in them; and his words would linger for weeks in their heads as if they pierced straight into their very subconscious mind, implanting themselves, and never letting its victim have any mental peace. The only thing that varied and what was somewhat understandable in his cascade of unconnected thoughts was that, in the debate hall, if his mumblings could be heard over the shouting, anypony would certainly have heard something about the “COMTOIS” and “idiots.” At lunchtime, he would sit in the corner of the cafeteria, sometimes on his own, sometimes with other ponies. The ponies that did partake in his company would never mention the meeting and when asked about it would evade the question and change the subject. To the ponies that he did talk to, even though ostensibly he seemed nice enough, none of them would be surprised if one day they arrived at the United Party Debate Hall in Fillydelphia to see it ablaze; and, standing behind the flames, they would see a tall draconequus holding a kerosene canister in one of his forward extremities and stroking his white goatee with the other in a silent contemplation. One never would have thought that Disce was fit to be leader of the United Party, much less in the Horseshoe Office. His slender, frail body shuddered when anything with the slightest amount of force bumped into it. He walked with a hunch, since decades of walking through small doorways built for ponies made him think that walking erect was impossible. And his large tooth, that did not rest inside his mouth when it was closed, in addition to his strange accent, made everything he said seem to have ulterior motives. But all was not enough to detract a casual observer from his previously mentioned stare: even when he was clearly content and joyful, one would always feel those eyes as if they were staring straight into the depths of one’s soul, as if trying to decide if its target were its friend or its mortal enemy. When he was first seen in public following the announcement, a reporter snapped a picture of him to put into his newspaper article. When the paper was mass-produced, and when it made it into the living room of every single household in Equestria, the picture of those beady eyes forced their ways into the minds of every single mare, stallion, and foal looking at it, and it left two words as evidence of their presence: I disapprove. There is only one plausible explanation as to why this strange bipedal creature had managed to become the leader of one of the oldest parties in Equestria: the complacency affecting the majority of the Unionists prevented them from voting; and the young, eager, and bright-eyed Unionists, who still had a hope for the future, were the ones who were pulled aside during lunchtime by Disce and who had their hearts won over by him. And it was they who spearheaded his campaign, guiding him on the right path so that the masses of Equestria may feel the same love for him as they themselves did. They watched him during the first debate, and they were less than impressed at his performance. They expected him to amaze the audience with the few short and succinct words he had imparted to them during the time he had spoken to them in the cafeteria; but, oddly enough, he said next to nothing. He rested the elbow of his paw against the podium and lazily placed his head in his palm, his eyes drooping. The more the Royalists talked, the more he yawned and averted his gaze. When he was given the floor, he simply looked up, looked toward his opponents with a confused stare, produced a small maroon-brown pocket book—the words on its cover, written in a shiny gold lacing, saying “The Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings”—opened it up, and flipped through it quizzically, raising an eyebrow every so often. Eventually, he stopped on a page and stared at it for a while. Then, he looked back at the Royalist who had last spoken, gave her an incredulous look, and shook his head in a smug manner. This action, producing laughs from the audience, and even the debate’s arbiter, seemed to be the opposite side of the coin of debate tactics that his opponents were using: while his opponents liked to express themselves verbosely, speaking for many minutes at a time and somehow saying nothing, for twenty seconds, Disce said nothing, but his facial expressions and gestures spoke a novel. When he walked off stage, two of his supporters were there to greet him: a stout, stocky earth-pony whose firmly-defined chin was quivering—as if he was just itching to say something abrasive—and, behind him, a quiet, demure, and anxious unicorn, who nervously swayed her head from side to side and avoided eye contact with Disce as he approached them. The unicorn offered him a shaky hoof, while the earth-pony offered him a hoof-towel. Disce immediately went for the latter’s present and used it to wipe the sweat off his forehead and to polish his antlers, completely ignoring the former’s gesture. “That was . . . alright,” said the one who had given him the towel. The unicorn stood behind him, saying nothing and shyly nodding in agreement. “What was wrong with it?” Disce replied. “Well, I liked the pocket COMTOIS rebuttal, but—” “What rebuttal? I just wanted to see if Celestia’s point warranted a response from me.” The two ponies exchanged a startled and incredulous look with each other as they heard him say this. After a long silence, the earth-pony turned back to Disce and asked the nagging question that had been on his and the unicorn’s minds: “What—what did you say?” “I was seeing if Celestia was worthy of—” Upon saying the name, Disce was interrupted again. “Wait, what’s her name?” the same pony interjected. “Celestia?” “Why are you saying it like that, with the hard c at the beginning, and pronouncing it with only three syllables?” Disce shrugged his shoulders. “What’s wrong?” “The c is supposed to make the sound of an s, and there are four syllables in her name: it’s ‘Ce-les-ti-a.’” Disce scratched his head with his talons. “Why do you break up the last sound into two syllables? It sounds awkward. But more importantly, why do you say it as if it started with an s? I’m pretty sure that the c doesn’t make that sound: ‘Ce-les-tia’” The earth-pony put his face in one of his forehooves and rubbed his brow in a slow and strained manner. He rumpled his cheeks in pained frustration, and he said something under his breath—and only a few select consonants, which were uttered at a slightly audible volume, presumably for catharsis, indicated to Disce that the pony had just repressed an outburst that would have been spearheaded by a plethora of profanities. After this sort of repose and quarantine had passed, the pony opened his eyes and fixed Disce with a furious glare. “Are you stupid?” he said. “Are you really that oblivious? Have you never heard her name pronounced before? You’re wrong, and there’s no debate!” Disce looked around the room. “I—I could have sworn that the letter c never makes that sound.” he replied, his voice trailing off and his eyes beginning to wander aimlessly and independent of each other. Then, with a sudden jerk, they snapped to, as he said: “In any case, I was testing to see if Celestia’s points were worthy of my attention, using the COMTOIS as my guide.” As he said the name, his voice sounded strained, and the two ponies shuddered at how elongated he pronounced the soft c, such that he sounded like a snake posed to strike. “Yes, yes, you’re very smart and we’re all very impressed,” the earth-pony replied in a mocking tone. “But what I’m saying is that while you may win a few laughs now, they’re going to forget about it right when they get to the voting booths.” Disce looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?” “You didn’t address any of Princess Celestia’s arguments. You responded in a very immature manner—” “Am I wrong?” “No, you’re not wrong, but you seem to have this notion that you can win based solely on having the facts on your side.” “And you’re speaking as if that’s a bad thing.” “It’s naive—let’s leave it at that,” the earth pony said, frustration brewing in his voice. “And naivety, especially with that smug air that you like to assume, is not going to help you with the voters.” Disce groaned. “So what are you suggesting?” “We’ve all been thinking, and after the way you pronounce the leader of the Royal Party’s name it only reinforced this decision in our minds: we’ve decided that it would be best for you, for the United Party, if we hired you an image consultant.” Disce threw his head back and laughed in such a manner that it seemed to the two Unionists standing in front of him that the temperature of the room dropped by five or six degrees. “I don’t think so,” replied Disce, assuming a serious tone of voice after he had seen that the desired effect of his laugh had sunk in. “Go find some other pony to play your foalish dress-up games.” “You misunderstand our intentions,” the earth-pony said. “We’re not doing this to make fun of you. We’re trying to help you, and we plan to hire the consultant using part of the United Party’s budget. We’re using the money we get from the federal government, money that we may very well not get anymore if our support keeps slipping—which, I might add, may be partially your fault in the near future—to propel you to victory. And this is how you repay us—with offensive snickers?” “Plus,” said the unicorn, who had not spoken until now, “she can help you with your accent. It’s good that you don’t speak in public that much, considering.” Disce pulled his head up, assumed a grave expression and took a few steps toward her. His beady red eyes twitched as he said: “What exactly is wrong with my accent?” The unicorn took a step back and shivered. The earth-pony jumped toward his colleague’s rescue, figuratively in the sense that he began to speak, and literally in the sense that he positioned his body between Disce and the frightened Unionist. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he said hastily. “She’s not very smart and has a hard time putting her thoughts into words. What she means is that she thinks that the consultant can help you.” “I’m asking the citizens of Equestria to vote for my ideas, not for my looks or personality,” he replied. “Look!” the earth-pony yelled. His face was beginning to turn red, and he said: “We’re trying to help you. If you don’t agree to this, then you can campaign on your own, and you can let Princess Celestia take the Horseshoe Office without a fight.” Disce shifted all his weight to his left leg, crossed his forward extremities, and looked at this pony. When he saw that the pony was not intimidated by his height and was not going to relent, he shrugged and said: “Alright, fine.” “Are you saying that because you agree with us,” said the earth-pony, still fuming, “or are you only saying that so we’ll stop bothering you about it?” Disce shrugged and turned toward the exit; neither of the two ponies saw the self-satisfied grin on his face as he walked away. * * * Disce immediately hated her. She was a bright green unicorn with a blonde mane and a spring in her step. She insisted on her appointments with him in the United Party Debate Hall being early in the morning, and she would always come in to visit him while humming the most insipid of tunes and while levitating a cup of coffee in front of herself with her horn. When she would see him slumped over in a chair with his head leaned over and his eyes half-closed in fatigue, she would punch him playfully in the torso with one of her forehooves, and when he let out a surprised gasp, she would make the most dainty and childishly irritating of giggles. But what seemed to Disce to hurt him more was when, after she had made a dull and pathetic joke, she used a different kind of laugh: a laugh that was cacophonic and disproportionate in volume and duration to the joke’s humor value—which caused a horrible straining sensation in Disce’s ears. When this happened, he would wince and bite his teeth together to staunch the pain. He hated the way she walked back and forth, telling him what needed to be fixed, how she would ask him the most personal and offensive questions and then assume a look of condescension when he answered them. After each one of her pontifications, while her back was turned toward him in mid-pace, Disce’s eye would twitch as the most horrifying and twisted thoughts passed, although for just a fleeting instance, through his brain. “Now,” she began one day, “we need to do something about that dreadful speech impediment of yours.” “What speech impediment?” he asked, knowing full well what she was going to say next and knowing exactly how he was going to react to it. “You hear that? The way your s’s are elongated and how you sometimes slur syllables together? It makes you sound slimy, snakelike; it makes me believe that your words are hiding something from me. When I go to the voting booth and I see your name, you can be assured that I’ll be intimidated.” He stood up from his chair, a fire brewing in his eyes as he stepped closer to the consultant. She stood there with a placid smile on her face and received him. “A speech impediment!” he said. “What a thing to say! This is my accent, and it’s very natural to one of my species. Absolutely nopony has ever complained to me in the past about their difficulty in understanding me.” “That’s because you—may I use ‘thou’?” “No, you may not,” Disce snapped. She shrugged. “Like I was saying, that’s because you talk to nopony,” she continued. Disce started to breathe heavily. “And quite frankly, it’s your attitude that I’m trying to repudiate, the attitude that the founders tried to repudiate: Elitism. It’s elitism, and nothing more. It’s ponies like you that made life so unbearable for creatures such as me before Unification.” She smiled as he came closer, but she did not give a millimeter of ground as he bent his neck down right in front of her face. “You’re only reenforcing my point,” she said calmly. “All I see is some strange biped who, when confronted by somepony that disagrees with him, tries to intimidate her with his height and his strange figure. Because, Mr. Cordis, you know, even if you don’t care to admit it, that that’s where you derive your power. You think because you’re different, you can scare other ponies. You’re more of an elitist than I am.” “Impertinence!” he yelled, throwing up his forward extremities and then falling backwards into his chair. “This entire situation is impertinence! When my next debate happens, I’ll approach the podium in front of the crowd and tell them what I think; I’ll tell them exactly what I think is the best course for Equestria, and that will be it. They’re voting for my ideas, and this—all of what you do—is unnecessary.” “Whether you think it is impertinent or not is completely irrelevant. You’re giving the citizens of Equestria too much credit; and, whether you like it or not, they vote for the party whose leader is the most charismatic, the most charming. “Don’t believe me? Go ask the ponies who voted for you why they did so. How do you think you, a reclusive stranger to them, won the leadership of the United Party without even expressing interest in doing so? Because you talked to them. You didn’t win over their minds, as you insist you did; you won over their hearts.” Disce grunted and gave a juvenile pout. “In any case,” she said, “the vast majority of voters in Equestria are ponies; and if you don’t sound like them, then, as far as they’re concerned, you’re not one of them. “Now, repeat after me: ‘red leather, yellow leather.’” Disce sat up and smiled one of his smiles that were peculiar to him: his eyes narrowed; his nostrils flared, and he stretched his mouth so wide that the wrinkles lining his cheeks faded away. Not only did he see an opportunity to rid himself of this insufferable pony, he would have some fun while he was at it. He looked back at her, puckered up his lips, and said, in his best pejorative impression of her: “Red leather, yellow leather.” The image consultant clapped her hooves together in delight. “There, you see?” she said. “You’re a natural! As long as you’re willing to put the effort in, you can be anypony!” Disce slouched back down in his chair, crossed his arms, and his smug smile crept back upon his lips. Every day, she would have some new puerile nursery rhyme tongue twister for him to say; and, every day, he would respond in his most puerile and derisive voice—and she would smile and praise him in turn, but not without that sickening laugh of hers. Disce smiled too; there was few things he appreciated more in life than the last laugh. One day, after a particularly long session with the consultant, he was called aside by one of his supporters in the corridors of the debate hall, who had wanted his opinion on something trivial. Disce—who, for whatever reason, was feeling exceptionally good that day—spoke for ten minutes straight. The pony listened to him intently and nodded vigorously, a delighted smile growing slowly on her face the more he talked. When Disce was finished, the other pony was beaming from ear to ear. She gave Disce a firm hoof-shake and then continued on her way down the corridor. He was approached by many other Unionists that day, all of whom asked him about matters which concerned him as the leader of the party. He would stop himself and consider walking away, but when he saw the eager expressions on their faces, his heart would soften and he would explain what they wanted to hear in the tone of voice a parent would use to explain a trivial matter to a foal. In the evening, as Disce was preparing to walk home from the debate hall through the chilly nighttime Fillydelphian wind, he was stopped by an elderly Unionist, whose wrinkles and limp, in addition to his soothing voice and personality, gave off an air of sweetness and asked all to listen to what he had to say. He asked Disce how he was handling his position as leader of the United Party. Disce smiled and began to explain to him; but, after a few seconds of speaking and hearing his voice echo off the walls of the empty corridor, he stopped dead in mid-sentence and in such a striking manner that the elderly pony worried that he might have been afflicted by a sudden migraine. Disce was taken aback when he realized that he was enunciating his words in a peculiar manner—like he did when he was with the image consultant. He instantly terminated the conversation and walked away, rubbing his claw and paw together, while a cold sweat broke out over his forehead. When he got home that night, with the help of some chocolate milk, he gradually shook of this feeling of dread. He had been speaking in that odd manner all day; and, coincidentally, more and more ponies were willing to listen to him. * * * Disce had seen Princess Celestia debate thousands of times. He knew how to rebut everything she said by heart, and he knew that whatever he said, she would take it completely out of context in order to defeat him. He decided—to amuse himself, if nothing else—to speak in that odd manner that the image consultant told him to. He figured that the worst that could happened is that they would make fun of him for his voice—but they were going to do that anyway. But as he jumped in front of the podium, eager to speak and eager to show the citizens of Equestria what they wanted, he found that he was still cut off from his first words by the Royalists who enjoyed hearing themselves talk—Princess Celestia especially—and he slumped on the podium again while flipping through his pocket COMTOIS, as he had always done. There was nothing new in the text, nothing he had not seen a thousand times already and nothing that would mitigate the vituperations of the Royalists, who were now using their fallacious intimidation techniques with more glee than ever. He looked up from the book and looked at the faces who were speaking. Such a wretched bunch, he thought: the scum of society putting on expensive clothes and pretending to be its cream. Through his decades of sitting in the back of the debating chamber in the United Party Debate Hall, watching his colleagues closely, he had learned to read ponies: all it took was one look at them; and, at the clue of a shrug, a glance, or a tic, he knew their innermost thoughts. He knew the thoughts that they were trying to hide from themselves, the thoughts that each and every one of them buried in order to maintain that image, the facade, which poets called “society.” And it angered him. He looked down the length of the podiums, scanning the faces of each of the debaters. That one is cheating on his taxes, he thought. That next one plans to use his heightened position for favors for his friends. That one is a gambler. That one is an appeaser. That one needs to declare bankruptcy but is too scared it would affect his career. When he saw Princess Celestia, thundering away in front of her podium, he thought: that one is power-hungry. At this, he chuckled to himself as he realized how innocuous that was compared to the rest. Which one among them was not power-hungry? Why was each and every one of them there, if not to increase their position? When he was done dissolving his opponents, he turned to the debate’s arbiter, sitting in front of the stage: that one is contemplating suicide. Turning to the audience, starting with the first row, he counted their skeletons: That first one regrets having her family. That next one is thinking about committing insurance fraud. She is lying to her husband. He is about to spend his life-savings, in spite of his family, on hedonistic pursuits. And that one—he stopped himself when he saw this next face. There, sitting with a group of lesser-known Royalists was a large, navy blue alicorn. She sat up straight, regal and firm, and her head and horn blocked out the stage from the pony sitting behind her. She stared at the stage, listening intently and occasionally shifting her head in response to a word being spoken by one of the debaters. It was Princess Luna—Princess Celestia’s lesser known, recondite sister. What stopped Disce was not her physical size—although it was notable—but that there was nothing he could see from her. He saw no indication of guilt, no subconscious movement that betrayed her conscience, and no emotion in a single one of her features. Yet, there was clearly some intense activity occurring in her mind, which could be seen as it burned out through her eyes, but Disce could not ascertain as to what object they engulfed in their fire, as he could not see what was going on in the brain that propelled them. He stood there, mesmerized; and, for once, he felt that he was not one step ahead of the masses that he looked down upon. Like a gymnast who has an act rehearsed until he has it perfectly routine in his mind, that he can perform it without a second thought, Disce now stumbled as he saw a rat, an unexpected obstacle, that ran across his balance beam. In this alicorn, he had come across a puzzle that he was unable to crack, and until it was cracked, he would be unable to think of anything else. “Mr. Cordis?” the arbiter said. “Your thirty seconds for rebuttal have already started.” “Why . . . yes, I . . . I think . . . I know that . . . well . . .” he stammered, his gaze firmly fixed on Princess Luna.