//------------------------------//
// 17. Nightmare 
// Story: Nation Shall Speak Peace Unto Nation 
// by Dan The Man 
//------------------------------//

(Finch gripped his pounding side tightly as he dragged himself through the high grass of Canterlot’s bleak Palace Park. His head was still spinning, full of voices and memories, reliving his last known whereabouts. 
His clothing was drenched in mud and soil. He froze. Even though it was the middle of summer. His wound felt like a hole to the outside of a Siberian log cabin. If he listened very closely, he could even hear it whistle.
He wearily looked around the partially razed park to find at least some orientation. 
Over the edge of the balcony-like plateau of the completely abandoned garden, he could see Ponyville in the distance. A few, lone black smoke columns had silently risen out of the ground in the centre of the town, and ascended into the sky, darkening the clouds that rotated in the deserted heavens above him. The atmosphere was practically silent, except for the occasional moderate wind. Once and a while, a roar would emanate from above the clouds, and roll across over the horizon as quickly as it came.  
Finch turned around.
Before him lay - what had remained of - the magnificent castle of Canterlot. Were it not for the countless missing windows and the nonexistent keep, it would have looked just as inspiring as... before. The colours had faded. All the colours had faded. The grass that reached up to his thighs seemed to be getting greyer by the second. ‘Must be the the fallout’ he thought.
Bearing the heart-like beating in his kidney not a moment longer, he slowly lowered his battered body into the moist grass. He tried to assort the thoughts of what had happened before he passed out. He was... on a stretcher, wasn’t he? Trying to stand up.... the soldiers... where were they? What were their last words again?)

·Cartwright: Distance, 3000 feet! Coming in at 50 mph! Two minutes until impact! Should we find cover, sir?
·McIntyre: Cover, Cartwright? … A toffee apple and not a glory hole in sight…
·Atkinson: Sir?
·McIntyre: Has an arty strike been ordered?
·Cartwright: No, sir.

(Yes. Yes, that made just  sense. But what exactly happened then? Was that all? What about... Twilight? The purple unicorn who was at his side until the end. What did she say again?)

·Twilight: Is it really bad, Mr. Finch? It looks like a spell to me...

(Poor girl. Never knew what hit her, as they say. 
Speaking of which. Equestria, as a whole. What an awful shame, he thought. A country with so much potential. It was something that many people could have considered to be the one thing closest to the Garden of Eden. With such a rosy future, had one certain somebody pooped the party for everyone.
Equestria, the rose which withered right after its bloom. Equestria, found and lost, lost and found. Oh, the kitschy irony.
It was crazy what nonchalant and mundane thoughts one could come up with the eve of despair and failure. When he had the shrivelled remains of an entire culture at his feet, with possibly the only thing still standing, per se. Everything was burning and wasting away as he lay there. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if that other big castle tower over there would come down any moment. It looked rather despaired.
For now, that was certain, it was all gone for good. All the potential, all the paradise. And all those innocent denizens. 
Shame. 
And he just lay in the grass, and didn’t feel even a smidge of melancholy. After all of this... mess... 
Should he considering that a miracle? A good sign? Or simply as a sign for the horizon of empathy? Or maybe an indication that he turned into a sociopath? Has he gone crazy? 
Quite possible.
Then, his wound began signalling him again. The cold air was streaming out (or ‘in’, it depends), as the skin around began... expanding? 
What was happening? His wound, it suddenly behaved all like a suction cup. Wounds don’t work that way, that he was sure of.
Then, also the throbbing pain returned, slowly but gradually. He quickly pulled his coat over the wound opening, in a desperate attempt to seal it off)

·Voice: What are you waiting for? Hold him tight!
·Finch: *smugly* Pah, what do you think I’m trying to do the whole time?
·Voice: *ignoringly* Hold him while I take care of the projectile.
·Finch: What? Projectile? Aah, right, I remember. Quite a feat, getting shot and all, eh? *wincing* Oy, ouch! Watch it, will you?
·Voice: He’s flinching. It seems like he is coming to. Just hold him for a few more seconds, its nearly out.
·Finch: I don’t know who you’re talking to or what about, but you better stop it. Ow!
·Voice: His arms! Hold his arms! It’s almost over. 

(With one pull, followed by a scorching yet iced trail of pain, Finch flinched horribly. The greyish grass around him exploded. For a moment, he felt as if he became trapped in a combine harvester, with the leaves and twigs lashing at his entire body. 
Then... for just a split second... nothing. 
He opened his eyes, and was received by a white, sterile ceiling staring down at him. His head felt like a motorbike engine, yet he could faintly move it left and right. To his left, he saw a orange-maned pony in a white suit and a stethoscope dangling around his neck, restraining his numbed arms to the bed with his hooves. On the left side, there stood a field surgeon in a camouflage shirt. He sported a small, bent, soiled and reddish piece of copper with a moderately big pincer. He smiled acknowledgingly has he pressed a white lump onto Finch’s pounding kidney)

·Corpsman: You see, sir? Isn’t that a great way to start the morning? By removing this little bugger from your nodule? *places the pincer on the desk* Oh, good morning, by the way, Mr Finch.
I hope the operation didn’t affect your dreams too much. I can tell you, I was sweating when I woke up this morning. A nightmare beyond compare. Never had anything like it.
·Finch: *weakly* Whatonearthareyouonabout?
·Corpsman: You have slept for almost fifteen hours, sir. You’re one of the last ones to wake up.
·Finch: Butwhathappened? WhereamI?
·Doctor: Nursehoof Central Hospital, Ponyville. Enjoy your stay. You can find your suitcase on the table to your left.
·Finch: *unsure* Thanks? *to the surgeon* Whereiseverybodyelsecorpsman?
·Corpsman: Here. They’re all in this room. Just look around.
·Doctor: Don’t think that you’re the only one to have received the full broadside by Princess Celestia. With that spell of hers, she practically overdid herself this time. Don’t you think?
·Finch: Leavemyhandsalone.
·Doctor: *lets go of his hands* Whoopsie. Sorry. It’s just, while you slept you were wriggling like a fish on a hook.
·Finch: Sleep? Iwasasleep? 
·Doctor: Yep. 
·Finch: *he closes his eyes with deep relief* Thankgod.





(Concluding Music Cue)