Ordo ab Chao

by Integral Archer


Chapter VI: Vox Populi

“The Right of the Writ of Habeas Corpus shall be upheld in all Cases, except on Order of the President through his Powers of War.”

—Amendment XI to the Constitution of Meeting Tribes of Immediate Siblings

At exactly four p.m., the double doors to the Congressional Chamber flew open, and the delegates swarmed out, desperate to get some fresh air. For the past hour and a half, they had been suffocating underneath an atmosphere thick with speeches that had been brief, but moving; facts that had been presented in the harshest of voices which they did not want to believe, but were not any less true; and the president with his unctuous manner, like always, but who was nonetheless firm and implacable in his will and who still urged them to take more extreme measures against Los Pegasus. With all this in mind, it was becoming harder for them to maintain their mental evasions; and each one of them knew that, sooner or later, they were going to have to come to a decision—a decision that, more likely than not, would lead to a worst scenario than the one that they had to deal with at this moment.

Los Pegasus had still not acknowledged the congressional orders, and the ranks of their unauthorized militia were now reaching around forty thousand.

Princess Luna, who saw Enforcer taking the precise second of the conclusion of the congressional session to drown the president in papers and took it as a reason to excuse herself, exited through the double doors along with all the delegates, her head spinning as much, if not more, than the rest of them.

She stared at the delegates meandering in the lobby: each one was carrying a private conversation, attempting to keep them in hushed tones, but they could not hide their apprehension; and a confection of anxious conversations turned the lobby, which usually saw deliberate, calculated explanations of policies to be presented in the impending session and rational, calm recollections of the previous session, into a sort of bomb shelter for politicians—where the prevailing mood is one of near panic. She looked at their mouths and saw their teeth chattering up and down, and she began to feel her own do the same.

Then, one mouth caught her eye: In the corner of the lobby, by the coat check-in desk, was an old, brown earth-pony. He was leaning against the counter with one hoof and was twirling his slick mustache with the other. His royal blue uniform was impeccably pressed and washed, and on its lapel could be seen a silver brass button in the shape of a rising phoenix—the unmistakeable mark of a colonel of the Union Army. Underneath the insignia were a multitude of colorful decorations, each one hanging loosely and swaying freely as their bearer shifted his weight from one hoof to the other. With each undulation of the threads of the medals, the phoenix quivered; and it seemed to Princess Luna that the phoenix was eagerly waiting for one more heavy laurel to be placed in its talons—so that it could finally combust, engulfing itself in a plume of smoke, and fall to the ground in a pile of ash. But Princess Luna thought that this phoenix, unlike many of its less ambitious colleagues, would not rise from the cinders in its old form; it would emerge as a single, shining five-pointed star—the only pet worthy of a brigadier general.

The owner of the phoenix was Colonel Buckner, and his mouth was not moving at all; it had the most sublime pout of contentment. As Princess Luna approached him, he did a double-take, saw her coming, and then immediately planted both hooves on the ground to face her, the pout quickly turning into an awed smile of respect.

She stopped three feet away from him, and said: “Colonel Buckner.”

Taking this as his cue to begin his formalities, the colonel gave a sharp bow, saying: “Vice President and Her Grace Princess Luna! To what and to whom do I owe the pleasure of being graced with your presence?”

“To me, as a friend who wishes to speak to her friend over a matter that he had experienced alongside of her.”

He gave a large smile of the mouth without showing his teeth, and his mustache twirled up, seeming to smile too. “Very well,” he said. “Would thou like to talk about something in particular?”

“Well, there seems to be a lot of disagreement with the president over his uncompromising condemnation of Los Pegasus—to that, I will say he’s right, as provided by the COMTOIS, and nothing more—but . . .”

“Yes?”

“I really wanted to know thine opinion.”

“My opinion!” Colonel Buckner gave a friendly laugh. “Look at thee, Princess Luna, coming to the little old colonel for his opinion! My, my, how the tables have turned.”

“Yes, thine opinion,” Princess Luna said, just as coldly as before, and not laughing along with the colonel, “not only about the situation, but also . . . also what thou, and the rest of the Royalists, think about the president’s stance.”

“Well,” Colonel Buckner said, followed by an amiable snort, “on the account of the Royalists, I say that thou should know as well as I do, considering the fact that thou are a Royalist as well. But, given the increasing volume and the tone of the conversations around us, I think thou are already aware of not only the opinion of the Royalists but also the opinion of the Unionists.”

Princess Luna sighed with a hint of humor. “Of course,” she said.

“My opinion?”

“Yes.”

“Like thou said, the president is right; he is right to condemn the secession as illegal, and he’s right to want to respond with force, militarily if necessary. But I will say that he’s right only in the technical sense of the word. The COMTOIS fully supports him to the letter, and the law dictates him to undertake the course of action that he suggests. He’s technically right, as he’s technically within his power as the president of the Union.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What he technically must do is very different from what he ought to do.”

Princess Luna stopped noticing the buzz of voices around her. She remained staring at the colonel, whose mustache sat satisfyingly on his lip after he had said this last sentence.

“Elucidate, please,” said Princess Luna.

“He fails to realize the fact that the president’s duty is, first and foremost, to protect the lives of the Union’s citizens. Any powers he has is granted to him along with this duty. He could easily send the Union Army into the streets of Los Pegasus, and their protest would be over within the hour—but would their voices be silenced? Would the rest of Equestria ignore, not only the violence that the Union Army would no doubt wreck, but the name of the cause which their fellow Equestrians gave their last breaths to utter? What’s to stop others from following in suit, and what’s to stop the Union Army from marching into each and every one of the cities? How long until the only way order can be maintained for any extended period of time is from the point of a rifle? How many could band together at once, before they could actually topple the Union, out of outrage for how the president had treated them?

“The president is blind to the reasons why Los Pegasus feels that they have no choice but to break the sacred contract of the COMTOIS. If he never sees, then it’s only a matter of time until the protest turns into a full crisis.

“If it were up to me, I’d listen to what they wanted. I wouldn’t grant them everything, and I’d make sure they understood that I was in charge, but at least they would feel like they’re being heard. That’s all this is, isn’t it? They’re like misbehaving foals, who commit acts of destruction and insolence just to make sure that their loving parents are still watching them and still holding them in their care.

“In any case, regardless of whether you agree with me or not, I ask thee—not as serf to a princess, not as a Royalist to a fellow Royalist, not as a delegate to the vice president—I ask thee, as a friend to a friend, to tell the president to keep his big mouth shut.”

“Excuse me!” said Princess Luna, partly out of outrage and partly out of confusion.

“Every time he opens his mouth to the press, no matter what he says, somehow he manages to make Congress, all of us, look bad. Could thou simply ask him to refuse to deign to reply to them? This is an extremely volatile situation, as thou no doubt can see; and the last thing Congress needs right now is for it to assume an extreme position, alienating even more citizens, who were once undecided on the issue, toward the other extreme. Just tell him to give no comment. Tell him that he’s too important to answer their questions; he’d be satisfied with that.”

Princess Luna gave a laugh. “Thank you, Colonel Buckner.”

The colonel gave another bow. “My pleasure, Your Grace.”

Princess Luna turned, and began to make her way through the crowd, back to the Congressional Chamber. She pushed her way through the crowd—who, for once, did not even notice her presence, too wrapped up in their own nervousness—when she nearly ran head-on into Princess Celestia on the way there.

Princess Luna was surprised to see that her sister had her tiara and her outdoors cloak on, as if she intended to leave.

“Thou still here?” said Princess Celestia, incredulous.

“I don’t understand what thou mean,” Princess Luna replied.

Princess Celestia sighed. “Didn’t thou hear? The president has told all the delegates to go home early today, just now, a moment ago. He said he wanted us to get home safely, before the streets are overrun.”

“I still don’t understand. In any case, I’m staying. Thou may only be a delegate in Congress,” Princess Luna replied, puffing out her chest and standing as tall as she could, “but I am vice president of the Union. I have a duty to both my country and my president.”

Princess Celestia, whipped her mane around her neck and, with the condescending scoff of an older sister, said: “Thou honestly have no idea what’s going on, do thou? When was the last time thou picked up a newspaper?”

“Since I counted more than five fallacies in one sentence a week ago.”

“Oh, Luna, thou were always so naive and oblivious. No matter. I’m heading to the family mansion. I know things have been complicated between us, doubly so between thee and the family—but, as thy sister, who will love thee regardless of any circumstances, I still ask thee: would thou like to come with me? I’m sure the family will be glad to see thee after they’ve been away from thee for so long. In any case, thou should trust me: thou should get out of the city while thou can, at least for tonight.”

The offer was way too tempting, Princess Luna thought. She looked back toward the doors to the Congressional Chamber—through which she could see the president tossing some papers angrily in the air and then proceeding to march indignantly out through another door on the opposite side of the hall, and she closed her eyes, overwhelmed with exhaustion and melancholy.

She had not experienced this kind of caring and affection from her sister for a long time, and she had not talked to anypony in the family for months, so, when she learned that they missed her—and since she did not feel like chasing the president across the Hall of Congress—she did not hesitate.

Princess Luna followed her sister toward her carriage, a heavily decorated barouche, and they both climbed into it and sat on the cushions, facing each other. The mansion was on the outskirts of Canterlot; and, despite the fact that it was a few hours ride away, it was experienced in complete silence, with both sisters looking wistfully out at the landscape. Neither of them minded; the sharing of the solemnity of the circumstances was sufficient to constitute a bonding experience.

* * *

If the average pony had learned about Princess Luna’s ignorance concerning the matters of that evening, it would have no doubt been used as an argument against the government, as it would have been used as a reason to claim that they cared nothing for the ponies that were beneath them. In Ponyville, Los Pegasus, Fillydelphia, and Manehattan, or any other city with a significant working-class population, there was nopony who was not aware of the significance of that night.

For the past week, there had been constant communication, constant rallying, and constant planning, and it had been mostly overlooked by the news of Los Pegasus’s act of protest—or, rather, if one is to adhere to the terminology used by the conservative delegates of Congress and, more importantly, the president—act of insurrection. Each argument against the president, with varying degrees of validity and soundness, were building upon each other a device of extreme emotion that held the powerful feelings of injustice from every single dissenter who contributed to it. With every single speech the president gave, with every single meeting in Congress, with every single action he took, this device got became more intense, made more powerful by the increasing number of fervid engineers of the working and middle-class. Upon hearing the entire city of Los Pegasus cry out in pain, the device was filled to its brim and was armed. And, upon hearing this news, upon seeing the last remaining seconds of the bomb’s timer tick away and seeing that there was no possible way to disarm it, the president prudently dismissed Congress early, hoping to get them safely out of the blast range until the malicious fallout of feelings had settled. These feelings, this maelstrom of passion, were contained in a four-word phrase and was echoed through every single medium of communication that existed at the disposal of the citizens of Equestria. This angry, vicious phrase pounded in the mind of the president, as if all of its speakers were smashing into the conscious part of his brain upon every hearing of its instance.

March on Mane Street.

March on Mane Street: this phrase was shouted across the country in response to the increasingly destitute calls of help from every single pony suffering from economic disparity. They pointed toward Canterlot: to the city full of the richest and most successful ponies in the country and the home of the president and his administration, who increasingly sought sanctions for them.

In the thousands, they hiked to the capital of Equestria, where the cause of all their problems lay. In the backpacks and haversacks of each and every one of these warriors were the essential belongings and the weapons they needed to kill the beast that breathed poverty upon them and their households. The snow-lined streets, while hazardous and impeding to the carriages of the Canterlot bankers, presented merely an annoyance to protesters, as they held their scarves to their snouts with one forehoof and their walking sticks with the other.

And on the morning of December the eleventh, 182 BC, the president watched the sun’s rays dance across the sublime face of President Platinum in the Horseshoe Office. He ignored the rays that missed her, which instead shone past the Presidential Mansion and onto the backs of the protesters and down the concrete of Mane Street, as if the sun itself were a medallion of truth, illuminating the path of justice to anypony who saw it.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” said a voice to the left of the president. It was the chief of the Canterlot police, who the president had summoned to his office.

When the president turned around to face him, the chief removed his hat and saw only the president’s stage face: it was the president’s most amiable face—the one that had the most reassuring and friendly of smiles and which only the vice president knew to be completely fake.

“Ah yes, Chief, of course! Please, sit down,” said the president, as he gestured at a conveniently placed chair facing the one that sat behind the president’s desk. The chief sat down, while the president remained standing.

“So, Chief, are your officers ready?”

“Of course, sir. As soon as we were informed of the protest, my officers were outfitted with the appropriate gear, and they touched up on their crowd control abilities.”

“Perfect, Chief. Now, listen closely, as what I’m about to tell you is to never leave this room. In fact, if you ever breathe a word of this to anypony”—the president approached the chief, his blood-red pupils swelling and focusing right on the chief’s own eyes—“my denial of it will be the least of my reproaches toward you.”

The chief used the sleeve of his uniform to wipe the sweat that was beginning to form on his brow.

“Now,” the president continued, “the protesters are going to be lining Mane Street, where all the major bank headquarters are and where the Hall of Congress sits to, no doubt, wave their picket signs and to make a bit of noise. That’s fine; that’s their right, as outlined in the COMTOIS, so long as they do not interfere with the rights of their fellow citizens. However, it’s not unheard of for protests of this scale to escalate quite quickly; and I’m sure that the last thing you want is for any of your honest subordinates, who are only trying to uphold the law and make an honest living, to get hurt.”

The chief leaned closer, drawn by the captivating gaze of the president. His heart pounded furiously in anticipation.

“Therefore,” the president concluded, “I am authorizing you and your officers to use whatever force necessary to uphold the law and to protect themselves. When presented with a threat to their lives and the lives of their comrades, the last thing I want is for your officers to worry about the negative repercussions they may experience if they retaliate. You need to go tell them that their safety and their well-being comes first, above all. I would feel personally responsible if any of your officers got hurt, because I did not properly quell the feelings of apprehension that they had.”

The chief stood up, his blue collar now completely soaked in sweat. He swallowed painfully, as his throat had gone dry, and he said, his voice raspy and weak: “Mr. President, while I greatly appreciate your concern regarding my officers’ safety, you must be aware that, if we operate under your rules of engagement, we cannot guarantee the safety of any of the protesters.”

“I’m quite aware of that, Mr. Chief,” replied the president, while smirking condescendingly. “In fact, I’d even go so far as to say that I’m more aware of that than you will ever be.”

Never had the chief in his entire life felt any more uneasy than he did now under the president’s unwavering gaze. Excusing himself as politely as possible, he gave a sharp bow and, with a nod of the head, said, “Sir,” as he showed himself out.

* * *

December the sixteenth, 182 BC, was a bright, crisp, cloudless day. After the clouds had exhausted themselves the previous night with an impressive show of flurries, the weather team up in Cloudsdale had cleared away every single one in sight, allowing the sun a complete command of the earth. But when it graced the protesters with its presence, their teeth chattered more so at the fact that they could not feel its warmth than at the fact that the temperature was frightfully cold.

The president ordered the snow on the roof of the Hall of Congress be melted and its patio be salted before the delegates arrived in the morning and before he got there. As tensions between the protesters and the police grew more fervid, the spectacle was becoming more entertaining; and, since the march was supposed to pass in front of the Hall of Congress today, it could only get better.

In the afternoon, he finally found some time to himself. The president went to the roof, and was surprised when he found that his orders were carried out to the letter, without protest or hesitation.

Despite it being a cold winter day, the president didn’t bring a coat; the stuffy and humid corridors that lined the Hall of Congress made one feel as if they escaped from a dungeon upon breathing the cold winter air. All the president brought to the roof was a fold-up lawn chair, a bag of popcorn, a newspaper, and the most ostentatious of bright red sunglasses. In the cold December air, without any insulating garments, he sat there as comfortable as he would have been in the finest of beds; not a single chill passed through his steel nerves.

From the roof, he could see the square in front of the Hall of Congress, the skyscrapers, the disheveled protesters, and the police lines that had formed on all sides of the protest. He took a deep breath and sighed with contentment, as he opened the newspaper: its headline said that, on the previous day, three protesters had been killed and twenty had been injured; to finish off the casualty list, one officer had been injured.

He made a scoff that expressed disapproval. “Oh, that’s unfortunate,” he muttered to himself. “I hope the officers aren’t getting complacent.”

The protesters did not think so. For the past five days, they had been, in a single mass, using the little energy and ambition they had left to make themselves be heard, while slowly walking down the length of Mane Street. Some yelled their plights at the top of their lungs, while others banged on trashcan lids with their hooves, while a few more broke the windows to some of the smaller stores. To this last group is where the policeponies got involved, and the violence that ensued resulted in the most iconic pictures taken of the event—which showed the densely packed crowd of shivering protesters pushing desperately against the snow beneath their hooves, to hold back the line of policeponies armed with riot shields.

There was such cacophony, activity, and emotion in the square that, if any bystander happened to be in anywhere under a kilometer’s radius from the event, they would have certainly been bombarded with the paroxysm of emotion, which the protesters were transmitting from that square all across Equestria.

The president’s ears perked up, for he thought that amidst the shouting, he could hear an voice as if it were speaking through a crudely made amplifier. Indeed, if he listened harder, he could discern it:

Mr. President!” the voice resounded. “We know that you can hear us! Too long have we suffered while you sat back and did nothing! Too long have we cried out in destitution while the bankers on this street bathed in their gold. We, the ponies of Equestria, tell you that we have had enough! We are the mares, stallions, colts, and fillies of the masses, and we have this to say to you: this is the time that the elite of Canterlot falls and the common stallion rises!”

The response from the crowd was a sonorous, defiant cheer that could be heard across Canterlot; the response from the president was a happy crunch of his teeth on a kernel of popcorn.

* * *

The president found each subsequent day, up until December the eighteenth, 182 BC, to be more entertaining than the last; and, after the protest had moved from in front of the Hall of Congress, he tried, in vain, to find ways he could still view it in relative safety.

How small the protesters looked, how impotent they were, how much they complained, and how easily the police beat them down with their shields!

Each evening, before the delegates went home, Princess Luna would find the president in the Horseshoe Office reading every single newspaper that covered the protest. Anything that she had to say to him would vanish under a single, terrifying thought, which would take a walk through the entire length of the Presidential Mansion to rid her brain of. When the thought finally vanished, she would sigh, and then tell herself that the protesters knew what they were getting into well in advance, and that the president was hardly the one who could be blamed for the violence. Then, she would return to the Horseshoe Office and say what she had needed to say.

December the eighteenth was the day when the protest reached its climax.

On that day, the protest was reaching the end of Mane Street. The officers on the police line kept their distance, backing down the street, facing the protesters as the protesters marched toward them. The lieutenant overseeing the event was not intimidated; in fact, she was surprised at how relatively peaceful the protesters had been so far that day, compared to the previous days.

This continued until about two-twenty in the afternoon when the protesters suddenly stopped: they stood at the bottom of the stairs of the Equestrian National Archives, with the only thing standing between them and the door being the police blockade.

All of the sudden, the yelling and the noise that emitted from the protest suddenly died away. For about thirty seconds, the protesters stood at the bottom of the wide staircase, looking up at the police who, still holding their shields at the ready, glanced at each other, wondering if something had gone wrong.

Then, somewhere in the crowd, a lone voice was heard simply yelling: “Now, my brothers!” The protesters made a battle cry that made each officer on the line tremble in fear, and they stood in horror as thousands of protesters with sharp sticks and blunt instruments charged straight at them.

The lieutenant yelled an order to dress the line; and the policeponies regained their composure, dug their hooves into the snow, and assuredly hoisted their shields. They had ran the drills; they knew exactly how to deal with an angry mob, and they were determined to be and act like soldiers of the law.

It was a shock when the first wave of protesters slammed their bodies against the shields; but the officers, working in unison, absorbed the blow, and, together, pushed the line back. The first ponies unfortunate enough to hit the riot line, fell back against the stairs, many of them hitting their heads firmly against the pavement.

The police, standing at the top of the stairs, had the clear tactical advantage, as they only had to stand there while the cold, shivering protesters worked their way up the stairs only to be pushed back down again.

Then, the protesters pulled out their homemade explosives: these were made from common household supplies and fuels; and when they were thrown directly behind the police line, they exploded in brilliant, deadly fragments.

The policeponies, while reading the manuals on proper riot control and appropriate ways to deal with makeshift explosives, had felt certain that they could preform the actions outlined so clearly and so simply in them; but, like in any stressful situation, their minds immediately went blank as they saw the fire crawl toward them, the snow powerless to extinguish its raw fury.

The line crumpled, as many of the policeponies fell to the ground. The remaining officers tried to fight back, but many of them were simply shoved aside or beaten to the ground by the protesters.

The lieutenant ordered the line to fall back and wait for backup. As the police scattered, she turned to look back and saw the protesters beating with their instruments on the locked door to the archives.

* * *

At four p.m., Enforcer came into the door to the Horseshoe Office and found the president sitting in the chair behind his desk and thoroughly absorbed in a small blue book with no cover art.

“Mr. President?”

The president looked up from his book, and he did his best to look surprised. “Ah, loyal Enforcer! What brings you into my office on this fine day?”

“Unfortunately, sir, it is under the most undesirable circumstances. I’ve just received this telegram,” Enforcer replied, as he pulled out of his jacket pocket a small crumpled-up piece of paper. He unfolded it and said, in an uneasy voice that was filled with fear: “On December the eighteenth, at approximately two twenty-seven p.m., March on Mane Street assaulted the police blockade and broke into the Equestrian National Archives. In the conflict, thirty protesters were killed, forty-two were injured, and six are in critical condition. Eight officers were injured and one . . . was killed.” Enforcer bowed his head to the ground, partly in mourning, but mostly because he was afraid to see the president’s expression.

“There’s more,” he said, still looking at the ground. “I am extremely sad to say that . . . once the protesters had domain of the archives . . .” He sighed, still with his head bowed. “The original copy of the COMTOIS, signed by our beloved founders, lies in ashes on the Archive’s floor.”

He looked up, but did not look at the president; instead, he looked back to his piece of paper and said: “The municipal government of our neighboring city of Ponyville has expressed their condolences, their sympathies, and their full support of the actions of the protesters. We’ve received a message from their city hall: they’ve declared secession from the Union, breaking their affiliations to the United Republic of Equestria to join Los Pegasus in what they’re now calling the ‘Friendship of Equestria.’”

Enforcer looked up from his paper, held his head erect and, like a soldier, stared directly at the wall behind his commander, not making eye contact. “Sir,” he said, his voice monotone and devoid of emotion, “I await your orders.”

After a few seconds of standing at attention and hearing nothing in response, he finally looked at the president: unlike most of the time when he brought the president undesirable news, the president’s face was entirely placid, as if he felt nothing. Enforcer was surprised: the document that the creature before him swore to uphold to the best of his ability lay in cinders, crushed beneath the hooves of the disheveled protesters. He expected a reaction, a shock, to express the indignation he no doubt felt. Instead, he saw nothing, as if the president did not care.

The president took a deep breath and, in his kindest voice, containing no traces of hostility, anger, incredulity, or frustration, said: “Enforcer, please call the delegates to Congress; I need to address them immediately.”

Enforcer gave a tentative bow and turned to leave the room. As he was slowly walking with his head bowed to the floor, he did a double-take, expecting to notice something he had missed the first time. Seeing nothing, he continued his funerary march.

As Enforcer was about to exit the threshold of the room, he looked back sadly at the president one last time and still saw nothing of note. As silence prevailed, his heart started to beat faster and louder in order to fill it; it was if his heart was uncomfortable that there was no word of protest spoken and as if it would not stop sending adrenaline through his veins until its body had said something.

Enforcer put a hoof over his chest in a sort of gesture of patriotism, but mostly to assure his heart, which was beating so fast that it felt like it was going to explode, that its cry for a eulogy would not go unanswered. “Mr. President,” he said, his voice austere, “the animals have destroyed paper, nothing more. The word and spirit of the COMTOIS lives on in our hearts; and the protesters’ simple minds thought that by destroying a piece of paper, they could destroy the eternal document’s meaning and its pertinence, when, on the contrary, it was never more pertinent to us than right now, and their actions have only increased our awareness of the paramount importance that it is upheld.”

At this, the president sat up, and gave a look of paternal assurance, his body and mind devoid of any fear or hesitation. “I know, Enforcer,” he said. “Please go gather the delegates.”

* * *

For the first time in the history of the current administration, the delegates entered the Congressional Chamber to not find the president already there. As they shuffled into their seats, they spoke frantically to one another, as most of them had been informed of the disaster only moments ago.

Eventually, they heard the main doors through which they had entered swing open and bang against the side walls, and they all turned to see the president, who had just arrived.

Instantly, the entire hall became silent. They all got up from their chairs and stood as he walked to his place at the front, the only noise in the room coming from the few sheets of paper that he carried under forward-left extremity rustling in the air. His brow was furrowed, as if expressing resolution; his mouth and nostrils accompanied his appearance by adding the looks of anger and anxiety respectively. Only his eyes conflicted with the rest of his countenance, as they darted back and forth, as if thousands of extreme and precise calculations were firing every second in his brain.

If the delegates were not aware of the disparity of the situation when they entered the room, they were now.

The president assumed his place and began his speech, which was written out on the papers he was carrying. During the speech, the delegates, along with the president, bowed their heads in reverence and mourning; whether they were Royalist or Unionist, they all understood the sorrow that came with the destruction of one of Equestria’s oldest and most revered monuments.

After the beginning of his speech, which consisted of the obligatory platitudes of sadness, he looked up at the delegates, with a sort of fire in his eyes, as he began the part of his speech—which was the real reason he had called them all to this meeting.

“Ponyville has joined Los Pegasus in defying the Union,” he said, as his tone of voice changed from that of a weeping relative to that of a merciless judge. “And the COMTOIS has been destroyed in actions that both municipalities explicitly approved of, and this act is unequivocally one of insurrection. It’s your fault, all of yours, for disregarding me when I had foreseen this calamity, and it’s your fault for not allowing me to take more firmer actions toward the secessionists—which could have prevented a disaster such as this.

“Well, listen to me now: Los Pegasus’s insurrectionists are now armed, and they’re ready to fight, tooth and nail. The time for appeasement, the time for waffling, is over. If you wish to not see any more damage befall our cherished Union, you will vote in favor of the motion I am about to propose. I move that the protest be crushed and the debaters arrested. I move that compromises and concessions to Los Pegasus be ended and that quick and forceful military action be taken against the insurrectionists, which will only relent in the event of the unconditional surrender of the city to the complete control of the Union Army.

“Finally, I beseech you to vote in favor to extend upon me the Powers of War, as provided by the document that has just been destroyed in physical form, but whose spirit still lives on and which I will fight for using its provisions.”

Perhaps, in less emotional times, a greater number of the delegates would’ve voted against this course of action; but, at that moment, every single delegate was overcome with sorrow and despair; and, with only five percent of Congress dissenting, the president’s motion was passed, and the Powers of War were enacted for the first time in the history of Equestria.

Within the hour, the Union Army was in the streets of Canterlot, and they started by firing on the protesters with small arms. Over the period of the half an hour that ensued, eighty protesters had been killed, around twenty had been injured, and two thousand had been taken into custody.

And on December the eighteenth, 182 BC, at five thirty-nine in the afternoon, Equestria was at war with itself.