//------------------------------//
// Part 4 of 4 
// Story: Air 
// by chrumsum 
//------------------------------//

“All units, be advised, suspect detained. Level One,” rumbled a static-laden voice. There was a brief hiccup of radio chatter in response. But Pound Cake couldn’t make it out with his muzzle pressed into the concrete. He blinked and tried to move. His entire body spasmed in pain, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth made his stomach turn.

“Verdict... old... squad... Copy?”

“Affirmative,” responded the ghost, not removing its hoof from Pound Cake’s head. “Administered... discretionary verdict.” Its voice never wavered from that same monotonous octave, hissing and low, like a threatening growl. The ghost’s hoof pressed down harder onto his skull, prompting another cough of pain from the stallion. It was like being crushed by a hydraulic press.

Another, more distant voice blurted something that sounded like “em-tab”. Slowly and reluctantly, the pressure on Pound Cake’s head lessened, and he could finally breathe again. He didn’t move. Not out of fear, but from gnawing mental exhaustion. He’d lost track of time. How long they’d beat him. It could have been for only mere seconds, the brutality of the blows stretching every moment. He could only remember it in brief, hot flashes, flashing lights, and muffled ringing. His leg twitched involuntarily, and the heavy footsteps slowly crept away from him. 

Slowly, he struggled to pull himself to his hooves, coughing. The reek of blood filled his nostrils. His muscles trembling with effort, Pound Cake just barely managed to pick himself up off the ground. Before he could move, a force gripped him around his neck, dragging him along the rough concrete floor. In the darkness, he found himself face to face with those eyes. Those horrible glass eyes.

“Almost forgot,” whispered the ghost, a furious edge in its distorted voice.

Pound Cake felt his midsection explode as the ghost slammed its hoof into his gut. His limbs went numb as his entire being retreated to his stomach. The stallion dry-heaved violently as the ghost dropped him unceremoniously to the ground. Pound Cake curled up on himself, eyes wide and drool pouring in a thin line from his gaping mouth. The ghost’s face came close to his, close enough to where he could almost see through the lens of its mask.

“That one was for G-squad,” hissed the ghost. The stale air spewed from its respirator like a toxic gas, asphyxiating him. With a sharp, military turn, the ghost spun and exited the cell. Without another look behind him, it slammed the door shut with a bang.

For a long time, nothing moved in the darkness. The only sound Pound Cake could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, and his pathetic, labored breathing. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his hind legs and forelegs close to his chest and forced himself not to cry. He promised he wouldn’t give them that. He refused to give them that.

His brain felt as numb and static as the ghosts’ voices, jumbled and indistinct. Every thought, every emotion was immediately suppressed by sudden jolts of pain. Slowly, he tried to fight it, starting with his hooves. Bringing them underneath him, he managed to stand up. Just barely. Taking only two steps in the obscurity of his cell, his head suddenly went light, and the nausea in his stomach spilled up his throat and onto the floor. Coughing and gagging, the caustic odor filled his nostrils. It took all his strength not to collapse into his own sick. 

Fumbling in the shadows, faint and desperate, he finally found a hold in the vacant darkness. A cot. Clambering onto it, his head fell weakly into the stiff mattress upheld with nothing but metal rods. And there he lay. For hours, maybe, he waited in the darkness for something, anything. A voice, a whisper.

He couldn’t feel a thing. Betrayed. The word gnawed at him like a parasite, chewing his guts from the inside out. He’d never had a chance. Not the slightest chance. He’d been played from the very beginning; he knew that now. All that hope. All that fighting, all that tireless running and struggling...

For nothing.

Pound Cake wrapped his arms around himself. And yet he still felt alone. So desperately alone. He was still that same little colt, huddling by the dumpster, hiding his face and his wings from the passersby. Pathetic, abandoned.

But there was no angel to save him now. No one at all. There wasn’t the slightest sound in the cell. Pressing his face into the pillow, Pound Cake broke his promise.


***


“He won’t make it,” muttered Scootaloo to Rainbow Dash. She was supposed to be out of earshot. But Pound Cake heard her, just barely, like a nagging whisper in the back of his skull. Rainbow Dash didn’t say anything.

But perhaps she was right.

Snorting angrily in frustration, the colt slammed a hoof against the concrete. It was a just a stupid vent. Just a stupid vent. He repeated this under his breath as he stepped away from it for the umpteenth time, motivating himself. The two mares watched him silently from a short distance on the rooftop, standing patiently on top on the rooftop staircase access.

Just a stupid vent.

Taking off, he sprinted full steam at the vent, eyes thin with focus. With a small grunt of effort, he leapt up from the ground. Too low. With an undignified clang, he collided with the hollow metal and slid down the side. He lay there, unmoving. 

Just... a stupid vent. 

Slowly, he picked himself up off the ground, wiping away a sniffle. The sun shining off the immaculate rooftops lashed at his eyes through his blurring vision as tears of hurt welled on his eyelids.

He screamed in anger and punched the side of the vent with every inch of his strength. It didn’t budge under his pathetic assault, the flimsy metal still strong enough to withstand the dismay of a mangy colt. This only enraged him more, and he struck the vent again, again, and again, until his hooves were completely numb.

It was just a stupid vent. But it was so much more than just that. He slammed his head into the side of the metal structure, gritting his teeth, and collapsed against the side. He buried his head in his hooves, not daring look up at the mares watching uncomfortably from afar.

“Worthless!” he could almost hear them whisper. “Pathetic! Dirty pegasus! What can you do right? No wonder your father left you! Your mom didn’t want you either! Filthy pegasus!”

The anger and hate and self-loathing boiled in his throat, but he couldn’t let it free. It stuck itself in a heavy lump, choking him. 

“Rainbow Dash,” whispered Scootaloo. “Maybe this was a bad idea. He’s just a kid, you can’t expect him to be able to pull off this sort of stuntwork at his age.”

“You did, didn’t you?” she snapped in return. “He’ll learn.”

“And if he doesn’t? What if he just gets himself hurt?”

Pound Cake drew a sharp breath. Rainbow Dash didn’t have to say a word. Because he knew. They both knew.

He would go back. Back down to that blank, hollow orphanage, back to watching from corners as his sister talked and laughed with others, holding herself back from playing with all the other earth ponies and unicorns so that she could look after her brother. Always holding herself back. For him. Always lowering herself to a dirty, pathetic...

Rising to his hooves, the rage died in his throat. The lump stuck there dissolved and boiled, spreading like fire into his muscles and tendons. He lunged. His hooves flung upwards and latched themselves on the edge of the vent. With a single, vicious motion, his body tensed, coiled, and propelled itself up and over. He didn’t hear Scootaloo or Rainbow Dash gasp in shock as he hit the ground.

Never. Never, never, never. The word pumped through his heart like an accelerant. It drove him forward, coursing over the concrete like it was all he was ever meant to do.

The thought that he might die never even occurred to him as he reached the canyon between the two buildings, and he threw himself into the air.


***


He awoke with a jolt, his ears ringing with a metallic echo. Pound Cake jumped upright, and the sudden movement set his head spinning, lights flashing in front of his eyes in the darkness. He fell to the floor, mumbling incoherently as the ground twisted beneath his hooves.

“Let go of me!” somepony shouted, “You bastards! Celestia-damned bastards!  I’ll tear you apart for thuh–” The outburst was silence with a muffled whump and a gasp of pain. Pound Cake recognized the voice.

“Sweetie Belle...” he croaked feebly, struggling to get upright. There was the sound of labored breathing.

“Malcompliance,” rumbled a robotic voice. “Citizen marked priority level 2 by OT. Disciplinary coded–”

The mechanized judgement was interrupted by the defiant sound of Sweetie Belle spitting. Another brief silence. Then another vicious whump, and a suppressed groan of pain.

“–discretionary,” finished the ghost. “Muzzle and clamp.”

“Sweetie Belle!” cried Pound Cake hoarsely, finally getting himself to his hooves. His eyes had accustomed themselves to the pitch black obscurity of the cell. He desperately felt along the walls. The sound of hooves and slamming doors was close by. Maybe she was near. His hoof slipped into a crevice, and he looked down in surprise to find a crack within the side of the wall. In what light there was, he could see a hold embedded in the side of the thick concrete, hardly any larger than the tip of his muzzle. He lowered his eyes to the hole, peering through to the other side, only to find it as black there as it was here. 

“Sweetie Belle,” he whispered through the hole, pressing his lips against it. The dust coating the walls dried his mouth, tasting like chalk. “Are you in there? Can you hear me?”

His heart soared when there was a shuffle from inside the cell, followed by hooves cautiously tapping against the floor.

“Who’s there?” somepony whispered uncertainly to the shadows. “Where are you?”

“Over here! Follow my voice,” insisted Pound Cake. “This way, this way. It’s me, Pound Cake. You alright, Sweetie Belle?”

There was no response, and for a moment, he was terrified that the voice he had heard in the shadows was only heard within his mind as it seemed to be plucked apart by the dark cell.

“Puh... Pound Cake?” came the voice again, cracking in disbelief.

“Yeah, it’s me. Over here.”

There was a sudden rush as hooves scuttled across the floor of the cell, coming to a halt against the wall. Hooves felt along its surface, and Pound Cake soon felt a light, warm breath coming from the hole in the wall.

“Pound Cake?” asked the voice again, trembling.

From this close, he recognized it instantly. Pound Cake felt his heart stop.

“Pumpkin?” he whispered.

He was answered in a sudden, gut-wrenching sob as his sister collapsed against the wall separating the two of them.

“Pound... Pound Cake.... Oh thuh-thank Celestia you’re alive. Thank you, oh thank you... Th-thuh...” She couldn’t say anything more, her words falling into choking and hiccups as she rested her forehead against the concrete and cried.

Pound Cake couldn’t stop the tears as they poured down his cheeks. He pressed himself against the wall, as if through sheer will he could break through them, just to touch and hold her.

“Pumpkin... I... Oh Celestia...” He closed his eyes, pressing the top of his head against the wall, tears falling from his face. “You’re alright. It’s fine. Everything is going to be okay. I’m here. It’s okay.”

“I was so sure they’d... That you were dead. Oh Pound, I... Oh, I thought I’d never hear your voice again. Thank you, thank you for being alive.”

He smiled slightly. “I’m fine, sis.”

There was a pause, and Pumpkin asked, “They didn’t... are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Pound Cake lied, nodding as if she could see him. “I’m just fine. And you?”

Pumpkin sniffled slightly. “Uh-huh. I’m fine. It’s just...” For a moment, it sounded like the tears would come again, but she forced herself to be strong. “It’s been... so long. I was so sure that you were dead. That they’d just left me to rot in this Celestia-forsaken...”

Her voice trailed off, and there was a slight shuffle as Pumpkin Cake pressed her muzzle against the hole. Her breath blew against his.

“I still... can’t believe you’re alive,” she whispered, her voice trembling once more. “Wha... What are you doing in here, Pound? Why are you here? How did they...”

Pound Cake bit his lip, adjusting his position against the wall so that the side of his head rested near where the hole should be. “It’s... We were betrayed.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“The others. The other runners and the rebels. We were coming to save you. I was coming here to save you. To get you out of here so that–”

“Pound...” she interrupted, but he insisted.

“It was my idea to come and get you. Just when we had a shot to–”

“Pound Cake!” Pumpkin said sharply, cutting him off. “Stop. Just stop. Please.” After a long silence, she added, “It isn’t your fault.”

“No. It is. They were so close, Pumpkin. Those documents we found, remember? My hunch was right. They were big. Bigger than I could imagine. Bigger than we could imagine. Pumpkin... I’ve learned so much. Everything we thought we knew is upside down.”

“I know.”

He stiffened, looking off into the darkness numbly. “What do you mean, you know?”

“Because I’ve met her. Lulamoon.”

Pound Cake felt his blood run cold. “Met... Lulamoon?”

Pumpkin Cake’s voice was hesitant. “She... asked me questions. Personally. About where you were. Where those documents you’d taken were. I never gave them a word, Pound. Never a word. Despite what...” She didn’t need to elaborate.

“I’m sorry, Pumpkin. I’m sorry. All this is my fault,” cursed Pound Cake. “You shouldn’t have had to–”

“Shut up.”

Pound Cake blinked in surprise, but before he could open his mouth, Pumpkin Cake’s hoof punched into the wall between them. “You don’t have to apologize for a single damn thing, do you hear me? I won’t let you. And you know why? Because you’re my brother, Pound. You’re the only damn family I’ve got left. You know that. Every blow they gave me, every question and demand and threat, I took it. Because I knew that if I gave them anything, even a centimeter, it could cost you your life. That’s what family does. I held on because I knew somewhere in my heart that as long as I was alive, and that they were asking me questions, that meant that you were somewhere still out there, alive and free. I held on for you, because I trusted you.”

Those three words punched him in the gut harder than any ghost ever could. Dazed, Pound Cake stared at the hole in the wall.

“Don’t you remember that? In that office? I... I was scared. I was terrified and alone. I could have called anyone, then. My pals back in Civil Defense. My superiors. But I called you. And even though we took totally different paths, paths that could even collide at some point, you came when I needed you most. You told me to trust you. And I did. With all my heart I trusted you when you said you would come for me. Don’t you get it, Pound Cake? Has this blasted city poisoned your head so badly that you can’t figure that much out? You’re my brother, Pound, and no matter what you do, I will trust and love you. And so I will not sit here and listen to you moan about how all this is your fault.” There was a pause, and she spoke with sympathy, “At least we’re both here together now, right?”

“Yeah,” whispered Pound Cake, his throat suddenly dry. “Thanks, Pumpkin.”

The two of them sat in silence for what seemed like forever. Neither of them spoke, neither moved. They simply sat there, with their heads pressed against the wall, listening the gentle sounds of each other’s breathing, revelling in how close yet far they were, how far they’d come. It seemed as almost ironic that fate had split them this way, separating them across massive spans of conflict and time, only to reunite them together as prisoners.

“Pound?” asked Pumpkin softly. He adjusted his position against the wall to indicate his attention. “All those years ago... when we were still in the orphanage. Mom was still in the hospital... Heh, you know, I only learned that later. The hospital. That place seemed so scary when we were just kids. I never thought it had a name...” Her voice trailed off in thought. “Pound, why did you leave?”

The question struck Pound Cake in a tender spot, a sore that he didn’t know he was carrying, blistering, on his mind. He licked his lips nervously.

“I... I don’t know.”

“Don’t say that. I know you do. It wasn’t just the teasing, was it? For being... you know. A pegasus. Those kids were so mean. I remember how they’d pick on you, and I’d always butt in to save your flank. Guess you’ve repaid the favor, huh?” She chuckled slightly, but Pound Cake remained silent. “Pound–”

“I was mad,” he said quickly. “I was... so angry. I... I didn’t know what to do. It was all the same insults, but...” He buried his head in his hooves, and his stomach twisted again. It wasn’t from the injury this time. 

“I was angry and... it hurt. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like... my brain was on fire. I didn’t know what to do... so I just ran. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore.” He bit his tongue. “It was just some punk kids trying to rile me up. Slinging mud. But I can’t forget it. Every damn word they said, I still hear them so clearly that sometimes it’s like they’re in the room with me. It’s just...”

He couldn’t think of how to explain it.

“You always were,” Pumpkin Cake said vaguely.

“Always were what?”

“Angry. I always wondered why, you know? When we were little. Even when no one said a single mean thing to you all day, you were always on edge. Like at any moment you might just lash out and hit somepony. And yet, every time I saw that look in your eyes, and I thought to myself, ‘this is it, he’s going to snap’, you never did. You would just hang your head that same way, and not say a word.”

Pound Cake didn’t say a thing, but even in his silence, they both knew that she was right. It had always been there, writhing in his gut. He could always feel it, like a taut wire between two hooks planted somewhere in his chest, threatening to snap and let loose something terrible that was never meant to leave its prison. The wire that had existed ever since he waved goodbye... to his father.

It just wasn’t fair.

He forced the sentiment back down his throat, where the thought bubbled darkly, biding its time.

“Yeah,” he answered simply. Pumpkin Cake didn’t press the question. She knew better. Suddenly, Pound Cake’s legs went numb, and he cringed as his legs prickled as if they were being stung. Standing quickly, he stretched his legs and trotted briefly about the room until the blood started to seep back towards his hooves. He could just barely see his way around the cell. There was no possible way out; it was like being sealed in a concrete tomb.

“What do you think is going to happen now?” he asked as he came to sit down, eager to change the subject.

Pumpkin Cake sounded surprised that he would ask her a question. “I... I don’t know. The guards rarely ever come. Only those... machine things.”

“Ghosts,” muttered Pound Cake.

“What?”

“They’re called ghosts. At least, that’s what most ponies know them as.”

“Never heard of them.”

Pound Cake remember what Applejack had told him. “I think they’re called... Subsidiary Task Force or something like that. STF.”

“Funny. Never heard of them either. Maybe they’re one of the newer sectors in Civil–”

“They’re not. They’re not on the government’s payroll. They work for Lulamoon Technologies. Like their own personal hit squad. They almost...” He hesitated momentarily, unsure if he should needlessly worry his sister. “They caused me a lot of trouble, back when I broke into Lulamoon Headquarters.”

Pumpkin Cake sighed heavily, running a hoof down her face audibly. “Luna help me... Secret police forces, breaking into government buildings... what in Tartarus have you been up to out there, Pound? I would never have pointed you out as a troublemaker.”

“Yeah. Silly me,” he answered, laughing weakly. The laughter caught itself in his throat, and almost came as a sob. For no reason at all, his eyes started to burn, and he pulled his head into his hooves as tears threatened to come.

Silly me. Scootaloo’s dead now, silly me. Rainbow Dash and Applejack, and all of them could be dead right now. There’s blood dripping off your face, and it isn’t just from–

“I’m here, Pound Cake,” whispered Pumpkin. Through the painful haze, he looked up to the hole in the wall. She spoke as if she could feel his agony, hear the doubt running through his veins and smothering his lungs. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happened out there. But I’m sorry.”

Pressing his head against the wall again, Pound Cake slowly outstretched his forelegs, pushing his hooves against the concrete, as if he could cradle her from the other side. He could almost feel her weight pressing against him.

“It’s alright. It’s alright,” she cooed gently, rubbing her hoof along the surface of the wall. “Oh, Pound... What have they done to you out there?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry...” he exhaled every word painfully.

“Shh, shh...” she murmured from the other side, so agonizingly close. “It isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. It never was.”

“I...”

“You were always angry, Pound. I knew it even as a filly that you weren’t angry at those kids, or at the orphanage, or at me. You were never angry at mom or dad, or anybody. There was only one person that you were furious at, the one person you could never outrun.”

“Pumpkin, please...”

There was a brief pause, but her voice did not falter.

“You were always angry at yourself. You ran away because you never let yourself hate others, because the world taught you to hate who you were. But it was never your fault, Pound. Never.”

“Guh...” He couldn’t even bring himself to articulate a word. It all fell apart in his mouth, leaving him a gibbering, whimpering wreck. “Why?” he finally managed to croak. “Why is it all so unfair?”

“I don’t know,” answered Pumpkin Cake honestly.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” said Pound Cake after he had finally regained himself. “I swear, if it’s the last thing I do, we’re going to go far, far away. Away from Canterlot, away from Equestria. We’ll run away, and never come back.”

“Just like that?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“And what about Canterlot?”

“What about Canterlot?”

“Are you just going to leave it like this?”

Pound Cake’s brow furrowed. The same question, always coming back to the same question. “Pumpkin, can’t you see it? There is no city anymore. Not for us. It’s just you and me.”

“What about everypony else, Pound?” insisted Pumpkin Cake. “The ponies like me... like you. They never asked for any of this either. They just want to live out their lives like everyone else, but look. Everything around them has been corrupted, destroyed, ruined. We have a chance to stop that, together. If we have that one, tiny little shot, we have to take it.”

Somewhere in his mind, his sister’s words rang true, painfully so. He could have been any other pony out there. He could have never run away, he could have never met Rainbow Dash. Where would he have been now, then? Somewhere adrift on those bleak streets, shriveling under the pitying, scorning glares of ponies as their eyes burned into his wings. He could’ve lived out his slow, pathetic life as another misfit in a city that was too lost to know anything was wrong. He would die never knowing anything better.

But that wasn’t what happened.

No, he had found better, whispered another voice, murmuring from its spot in the small of his back. Through his own blood and sweat he clawed his way to the rooftops to gasp for air that was clean when he never knew he’d been breathing poison all his life. He had refused to succumb to loneliness, and he had fought for purpose. Purpose. Where was that purpose, back when he had fallen into the cracks of the orphanage? Pound Cake had been made strong, and he knew it; he was not just any other pony. Not anymore.

“I can’t understand what you’ve gone through, Pound,” admitted Pumpkin Cake. “I could never understand what it’s like to be hated for something you never could control. I’ve used magic my whole life but you...” She stopped mid-sentence, trying to choose her words correctly.

“Pound Cake, have you ever flown?”

His body answered before his mind could. “No.”

“...Are you going to let them get away with that?”

He didn’t want to answer that. “I... Pumpkin, it isn’t that simple.”

Pumpkin Cake sighed heavily from her side of the wall. “I know. You’re right. I just... I don’t know. I don’t know a lot nowadays.”

“We’ll get through this, Sis.”

“I know. I trust you.”

That was all that needed to be said, he supposed. Leaning his head against the wall, Pound Cake closed his eyes, a sense of uneasy peace creeping over him. He let everything else fall away.

We will get through this. If I die trying, we’ll get through this. I won’t fail again.

A muffled clanging echoed down the hallway outside, heralding the heavy hoofsteps and rumbling radio chatter that followed briskly behind. 

“...OT request... Priority One. Advise all to...” the mechanical voices sputtered. The vibration in their throats slithered into Pound Cake’s veins, and he knew Pumpkin Cake felt it, too. There was the sound of cocking rifles and barked orders as locks were turned.

“Pound Cake?” whispered Pumpkin Cake urgently into the hole in the wall.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


***


Blindfolded, Pound Cake found himself ambling through shadows, the only hints of the outside world coming in shoves from any which side, tripping steps, and the sounds of guttural croaking and groaning from mechanized throats. He had stopped trying to understand where he was going long ago. Every now and then he would be stopped and then guided over some steps or through some hissing doorways. At one point he was forced into a seat and strapped down, and the sound of heavy carriage wheels grinding along the concrete brought him along to his unknown destination. Now, he was held roughly in place as he felt himself slowly rising in some sort of elevator. None of the ghosts had said a word to him, none that were comprehensible at least. Every now and again he managed to a catch a loose word, but their chatter seemed restricted to the same static sputtering that only seemed to be understood between them. Two letters kept coming up, though. OT.

He didn’t have time to start considering what it could mean before they tore the blindfold from his eyes. Immediately squinting in pain at the sudden change, he twisted his head away from the brightness overhead. When his vision finally dimmed back into focus, Pound Cake immediately wished that they had kept him blindfolded.

He found himself in an open lift opening on a short hallways with a high ceiling. Angular buttresses made of the same smooth white concrete that built Canterlot spanned the lengths of the walls, meeting at flourescent lamps embedded into the stone above. The floor itself was plated with black marblel tiles that seemed to absorb the sound of every step. Their pitch-black tint made it seem like he was standing above the mouth of a gaping pit, suspended in mid-air. 

Standing there made him feel unnaturally claustrophobic despite the high ceiling. It felt as if at any time the walls would cave in on him, the sharp corners of the buttresses grinding him to powder, like teeth. At the end of this black-and-white gullet was a single, massive metal door with elegant carvings and engravings. And lining the walls were ghosts.

For the briefest moment, they looked like silhouettes, their black body armor outlined against the blank white walls. But then the lights caught their red, glass eyes, and they glimmered in the dark. Staring straight ahead, none of them even looked in his direction. They were all perfectly motionless, their hooves planted into the ground and snapped close together. 

Looking to his side, Pound Cake’s heart throbbed as he realized that he was not alone. Sweetie Belle, her hooves manacled together, glowered defiantly at the ghosts standing at attention, as if daring one of them to make eye contact. The unspoken threat seemed almost pitiable with her mouth clamped shut by a painfully tight muzzle that cut into the bottom of her chin. Bruises under her eyes and the sides of her chest darkened her white fur. 

Beside her was Pumpkin Cake. She hardly looked like a pony anymore. Her eyes were lackluster, still blinking as they tried to cope with the light in the hallway which cast long shadows over her gaunt cheeks and brow. She barely managed a smile with her cracked lips as their eyes met briefly. 

That old anger boiled in him again, and Pound Cake suddenly felt blood rushing into his legs. Somepony would pay for this, dearly. Had his hooves not been shackled, and had there not been so many ghosts...

There was a sudden, crisp snap in the corridor as suddenly the rows of waiting ghosts came to life and saluted smartly. At the end of the hall, the massive door clicked, and slowly swung open. Pound Cake felt the cold tip of a rifle barrel press against the back of his neck. Without a word, he lowered his head and marched forward, crossing the hallway into the next room. It was as if entering another world, and they all felt it as the fur on the back of their necks stood on end from the sudden cold. But only Pound Cake felt his wings suddenly become heavier, and his feathers more numb. 

It was an office.

Here the ceiling was even taller than in the hallway, and it was dominated by a massive mechanical structure, constructed like a hemisphere composed of plates that turned it into a puzzle-piece globe. Running off the sides were thick cables and support struts embedded into the white concrete walls. Here too, the floor was of black marble. In the middle of the room was an elaborate desk, made of solid oak and decorated with ornate carvings and inscriptions. Aside from the multitude of papers on the desk, there was a large, stone claw held upright by metal mesh. In front of the desk were three uncomfortable-looking chairs. Behind it were massive windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, providing an awe-inspiring view of the city below, ridged and angular like a texture map. Pound Cake knew the rooftops below like the back of his hoof, and he immediately knew where they were.

Lulamoon Technologies Headquarters. Top floor. The executive office.

There were two other ponies in the room, silhouetted by the light radiating from the tall windows. One of them turned her head as they entered, flinching from the sound of the door as it slammed open. Pound Cake recognized her instantly. He felt his heart sink.

It was perhaps the first time in his life that Pound Cake saw Derpy looking back at him with both eyes focused on him. The mare looked like she was going to say something, her mouth hanging open. But she couldn’t. Closing her eyes in dismay, she hung her head and looked away as the three of them were escorted to the center of the room. The other pony noticed the distress of her companion, and turned to look over her shoulder. The light caught the side of her of her face, casting a long, sharp shadow across the middle of the room. Crossing into this blade, the coldness of the room seemed to amplify tenfold. Pound Cake gasped despite himself, the breath sucked out of him.

She didn’t need to say a word. Her elegantly coiffed mane, primly combed to one side of her face, the tight-lipped smile that oozed with vile knowledge, and those eyes... those bottomless, cold eyes spoke for themselves. There was no need for introduction.

“And these must be your friends, then, Miss Derpy Hooves,” Lulamoon cooed, her gaze going over each of them slowly, as if bored. “How lovely that they could join us. Please, have a seat.”

The ghosts were not gentle as they shoved Pound Cake into his chair, pressing him roughly into the seat and hitching the cuffs to its legs. Pumpkin offered no resistance, bowing her head submissively. Sweetie Belle, however, was not so wise. She pulled away from the ghosts as they attempted to restrain her, refusing to sit. All it earned her was a sharp swipe from the butt of a rifle, and she found herself anchored to the chair like the rest of them. Her emerald eyes burned holes back into Lulamoon’s, glaring in violent defiance. 

Lulamoon raised an eyebrow coldly, unimpressed. “I told you not to injure them too badly,” she chastised, taking note of the bruises smudging her white fur.

“This unit apologizes,” nervously coughed the ghost flanking her. “Suspect was–”

He was quickly silenced as Lulamoon raised her hoof impatiently. Casting a slow glance towards Derpy, who neither moved from her spot nor raised her head, she casually paced around her desk. The sound of her hooves against the marble tiles echoed in the massive office.

“Quite the catch you’ve netted me here, Miss Derpy Hooves,” she commented, walking past the three of them, as if they had lined up to be inspected. The ghosts did not move an inch. It was almost as if they weren’t even breathing. “A member of a rather ennuyant terrorist organization, and the pegasus who was irksome enough to help himself to my property. So that’s two.” She stopped suddenly, turning her head sharply towards Derpy.

“I like numbers, Miss Derpy Hooves. I find them to be quite relaxing, don’t you? There is no unexpected change with numbers. A one is always a one, a zero always a zero. Numbers are so very tangible. So when I see two ponies in front of me, when you clearly reported a total of six, I’m less than impressed. I don’t know if you find yourself an avid fan of numbers, Miss Derpy Hooves, but I’m sure you can agree with me when I claim this to be a rather unacceptable ratio.”

Derpy still didn’t raise her eyes, mumbling numbly as she stared at the floor, “I... I did as you asked.”

“No, Miss Derpy Hooves,” tutted Lulamoon, shaking her head. “Do you know where we would be right now if you’d done as I asked? If you’d done as I asked I would be sitting here... Right here,” she clarified, pointing at the large, leather bound seat behind the desk, “sipping a cup of tea as I worked out some accounts for the southern HVM line, which has been showing poor performance. You would probably be with your daughter. And do you know why? Because if you’d done as I asked in the first place, I’d have my documents in my hooves, because you’d have remembered to take them after eliminating the governor.”

Had Pound Cake not been sitting, he probably would have collapsed right then and there. His head suddenly throbbed furiously as it struggled to understand. That was... impossible. Derpy could never have it in her. Never. He knew her too well. The klutz of a pony, with a penchant for silliness that always seemed to transcend every bleak corner they turned could never take a life.

But then again, he had thought she would never betray them, either.

“Instead, I find myself here, Miss Derpy Hooves, with only three prisoners in my possession, multiple dangerous sociopaths on the run from the law who threaten the very stability of my plans and of Equestria’s well-being, and I still. Don’t have. My documents,” she hissed tersely.

Derpy shook her head weakly. When she looked back up, tears were in her eyes. “I... I know. I’m sorry. I... I can’t always. I... Uh... I fuh-forget things sometimes. My brain doesn’t... I...”

Lulamoon raised a hoof, cutting her off. “Yes, yes, I’m aware. Make no mistake, you’re not entirely to blame, Miss Derpy Hooves. You were selected for this assignment rather hastily, I’ll admit. But you were the only one available, the most secure link. I couldn’t risk any of my Subsidiary Task Force units being caught assassinating a governor, now could I? That’s very risqué, Miss Derpy Hooves. Bad business. I’m sure you understand that I’m all about business.”

“Puh... Please,” begged Derpy, her knees shaking as Lulamoon turned away from her, staring up at the metallic sphere on the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I tried, I tuh... tried my best. You have them now. The pony who stole the documents, everything. I... I just want my little filly back. Please!”

Lulamoon closed her eyes and sighed wearily, rubbing the tip of her hoof against her forehead. Finally, she turned, nodding. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she admitted, nudging the marble claw on her desk. “I will admit this, Miss Derpy Hooves; given your circumstances, you have proven to perform exceptionally under pressure. You’ve always responded quickly, acted without hesitation... I hear you even managed to wound the terrorist leader as they fled from my units. Despite your faults, you have shown yourself to be a valuable employee, one worthy of trust. I will uphold our deal. I’ll arrange it so that you may see your daughter again.”

Derpy broke down in tears. “Oh thank Celestia. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she wept, bowing her head. “Just... I... thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Miss Derpy Hooves,” said Lulamoon, smiling gently, her eyes focused intently on the claw. “I’m only fulfilling my end of the deal as you have fulfilled yours. You’ve done admirably.” She blinked suddenly, her expression becoming quizzical as she looked up towards the sphere once more, as if listening for something. Seemingly satisfied, she walked behind her desk and nodded to one of the ghosts.

“Amputate and cauterize.”

Pound Cake didn’t even see the pistol leave its holster. One minute it was there, the next it was hovering in front of the ghost. Squeaking in surprise, as if she had just found herself on the receiving end of a clever little prank, Derpy fell limply to the floor as a neat hole appeared in the middle of her forehead.

“No!” screamed Pound Cake, lunging towards Lulamoon. All he got was the vicious bite of the metal cuffs as they dug into his forelegs. Without hesitation, one of the ghosts guarding him raised the butt of its rifle and cracked it against the side of his skull. His head hanging limply as a trickle of blood ran down the laceration on his brow, he stared in horror as Derpy’s eyes, for the briefest moment, became lucid. Trembling, they froze, returning his gaze before going dark. “No...” he whispered, the strength leaving his body.

One of the ghosts trotted over to Derpy’s lifeless body, unceremoniously hoisting her over its back. “Amputate suspect 20-89, as well,” instructed Lulamoon coldly, flipping through some documents on her desk. “I’d hate to be made a liar on a business arrangement. Send N squad to administer.”

The ghost nearest to Pumpkin Cake snapped a crisp salute before hissing a distorted command into his intercom. Outside the cell, hoofsteps clattered along marble into the distance.

“Please,” begged Pumpkin Cake to Lulamoon, who looked up questioningly with a raised eyebrow. “She’s just a filly. She has nothing to do with this!”

“You’re right, suspect 45-27, she has nothing to do with this. In fact, she has nothing to do with anything. She’s an asset whose use has ended. A liability. As you soon will be. Now then–”

“You’re no pony,” hissed Pound Cake under his breath. 

Lulamoon blinked, mildly surprised. “Beg your pardon?”

“You’re not a pony,” he repeated, raising his head. His vision swam, his throat burned furiously. “I’ve seen true ponies. Ponies who lay down their lives for each other. Ponies who fight every single day against things like you. Machines.”

Lulamoon stared at him quietly. The ghosts tensed, their telekinetic grips on their weapons tightening as they awaited a command. It didn’t come. Lulamoon simply smiled.

“You... a pegasus. An illicit courier. A traitor to your kind and a coward hiding on the rooftops while ‘true’ ponies toil for their livelihoods and futures in the streets below. A murderer, not to mention a terrorist. A sloppy one, to boot. Pray tell, suspect 46-27...” She stepped out from around her desk as she spoke, and lowered her head close to his on this last phrase, “Who are you to give me your value judgements?”

In another time, a time long ago between a hole in the sewers and an orphanage, Pound Cake would have shied away, denied everything, submitted. In another time, Lulamoon’s words would have cut through muscle and shattered bone. But that time had passed.

“Because I’m the one who was told being a pegasus was wrong,” he hissed.  “Because I was the one who suffered from the ponies who you told that I was wrong. Because I was the one who was forced to fight against you, even if I never knew I was because I thought I was the only thing wrong with this world. And because despite all that... I’m going to stop you.”

Lulamoon smiled slowly, her eyes half-closed, as if in a trance. “Such strong words from somepony tied to a chair. I must admit that I’m even a little bit impressed that you’re so... vengeful. I respect that. I truly do. I wonder...” She paused for a moment, looking over him. With another grin, she brought her mouth close to his ear, and whispered, “How many of your friends have I killed?”

Pound Cake spat squarely in her face. Immediately, one of the ghosts raised the butt of its rifle to strike him down again, but it was halted by a terse gesture from Lulamoon. “That won’t be necessary,” she said calmly, levitating a handkerchief from her desk and patting it across her face. “Did you know, suspect 46-27, that I have a most peculiar ability? I can predict what the media will print tomorrow. In fact, I can see it right now.” She raised her eyes upward, squinting them as if reading a finely printed sentence floating in the air. “Right on the front page of every newspaper. The radio broadcasts too, I suppose. ‘Assassin of Governor Fancypants escapes custody, takes own life in a suicide bombing attack.’”

“You bitch,” spat Pumpkin Cake, glowering. “You’re disgusting, you coward.”

“Such a headline could be avoided, of course. All I need from you is one little thing,” said Lulamoon evenly. She suddenly slammed her hooves down, bringing her muzzle close to Pound Cake’s. Even the ghosts flinched. “My. Documents.”

“Why do you care?” asked Pound Cake, refusing to recoil.

“Those files are an outlier. They shouldn’t exist. Should they get out–”

“Should they get out, you’ll be known as the megalomaniac phony that you are,” he interrupted.

Lulamoon’s eyes suddenly sparked, and she struck Pound Cake viciously across the face with the back of her hoof. “The Great and Powerful Trixie is not–” she shrieked, eyes blazing, before clutching at her head. Turning away from them, she hissed violently under her breath. Sweetie Belle seemed to tense in her chair, having remained entirely immobile up until now.

Forcing her breath to even out and slow, Lulamoon leaned herself against her desk before smoothing her mane back into place and turning to face them. Her eyes briefly glimmered before hardening once more into a cold, lancing glare. “Unit,” she said gently, and the ghost she was addressing snapped to attention. “Have my secretary contact the GO and send her to my office. Tell her that I have a gift for her. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.”

“Ma’am,” crackled the ghost, nodding its head crisply and crossing the room to the door, leaving Pound Cake, his sister, and Sweetie Belle alone with Lulamoon and the two other ghosts. 

“It’s very strange, 46-27,” said Lulamoon, addressing Pound Cake, “how much looking at you feels like looking into a mirror. How very much like you I was so very long ago.”

Sweetie Belle mumbled something indistinct through her muzzle, earning her a disdainful glance from Lulamoon. “You see,” she continued, “I too for a long time felt as you did. Abandoned... and alone. It was quite painful.” Turning away from them, she looked out the window over the massive city before her. The building seemed to rise and bend their heads to look up at her. “In fact, I had somepony sitting in the very same position that I must be sitting in for you. An opponent. A rival. One who destroyed everything I could have been. With one fell swoop, this pony ruined my livelihood and turned me into the laughingstock of Canterlot.

“We both know that feeling,” she added after a brief pause. “To think that everything you are is wrong. For everyone to hate you, despise you, mock you. Neither of these two can understand,” she added, pointing gesturing at Sweetie Belle and Pumpkin Cake. “They couldn’t possibly understand what that feeling is. We do. That makes us similar. But let me tell you why we are different.”

She stroked her chin with the back of her hoof, staring blankly out the window. “You see... after this pony humiliated me, I struggled to move on. I scraped for every job I possibly could as a performer. Equestria wasn’t exactly a jobless place, but nopony wanted to hire somepony who had been humiliated and run out of time by Princess Celestia’s top student. It was shameful. Degrading. But eventually I found my way and landed a large job thanks to a very kindly... stallion.” She said this last line uncomfortably, clearing her throat. 

“It was a disaster. One of my fireworks misfired and destroyed part of a priceless statue, part of which I’ve kept ever since. In memory. Because you see, it was then that it hit me.” She turned rapidly, a glimmer in her eyes. “It was quite like being struck in the back of the head. The idea came from nowhere, but it had been so obvious that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. Fireworks. Pyrotechnics. Here I was sitting on top of a potential goldmine and I was using it to entertain the bourgeoisie. So I started small. Very small. I founded this company, Lulamoon Technologies, and began to develop new and incredible methods of building, of crafting, of constructing. It was...”

She stared at her hoof, as if something were written there. “It was amazing. As if every blueprint, every step and tool needed was simply being whispered into my ear. Do you know what that feels like? It’s like being the smartest mare in the world.

“But it was never enough. Not the machinery, not the weapons I developed in secret. I was still the laughing stock, still the mockery. But that was when it came to me. As it came to you.” She looked upwards, a manic gleam in her eyes. “It wasn’t my fault. I was a product of corruption. Of favoritism by a monarchic system. I realized that what I was attempting to do, to revolutionize Equestrian technology as we knew it, was worthless. Like trying to tune a gear in a machine when the entire system is a quivering, outdated wreck. I was trapped, a symbol of the failures of a system determined that its way was the only way. That this was as good as it could get, and that nothing more could possibly be added. But we’d been holding ourselves back, you see. We always had been.

“So I did what was needed. I began to plan. Everything fell into place as if I was watching a brick road being laid out before me. I got involved in politics. As Lulamoon Technologies grew, so did my wealth, and I had more than enough to spend it on. Bribing politicians and high-class ponies. Imagine that... The same ponies that had scorned and shamed me were now coming crawling to me, begging for campaign donations and support for their ‘extraneous expenses’. It was simple, unbelievably simple. Things are far less complicated when you break things down into numbers and pieces, you see. There was a hiccup, of course. Two, actually. Fancypants was the first. He was the top of the top, the créme de la créme in Canterlot society. A shoo-in for a position in the palace itself, especially after I paved the way for it. He was perfect.”

Lulamoon frowned slightly, pacing around the desk. “Too perfect,” she added. “An idealist. He couldn’t see the bigger picture like I could. Money meant nothing to him. But something else did... An affair. A rather nasty little secret that he kept out of his social life. Once I discovered that, of course, all it took was some pressure in the right places, and he was completely compliant. And of course, then there was the obvious problem: Princess Celestia and Luna. Marvelous ponies indeed. I had the chance to meet them, once. Strong, stoic leaders. A shame they were so archaic, and more importantly, in the way.” She walked behind the ghosts, her eyes distant in thought as she circled the ponies in her custody. “What was I to do? Stage a coup? With what forces? And how could a company ever amass the resources required to raise an army of that size and caliber? I realized it was impossible. Never could I get enough ponies willing to truly open their eyes and stand against their own nation. Impossible.

“Then... I realized I didn’t need to. There were other ponies, you see. The poor, the broken, the downtrodden. Those who had fallen between the cracks as I had and found themselves in the shadows, frightened, alone, abandoned. Ponies with nothing. So instead of raising an army... I created a squadron of the ponies on the edge, those who just barely existed on the fringes of society. I took them... molded them... and turned them into the most beautiful, ruthless, perfect fighting force to ever grace Equestria.” Her eyes grew misty as she stopped in front of one of the ghosts. She looked up at it, her slim figure framed by its massive bulk. “The Subsidiary Task Force. My blade and arm. Perfect and obedient. The kind of ponies Equestria needed, and the kind it still needs,” she murmured, pressing her hoof against its broad chest. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Pound Cake saw the ghost shiver.

“It wasn’t an army. Not even close. It could never stand a chance of toppling the Equestrian regime.” She turned to face Pound Cake, her eyes darkly lucid. “I don’t exactly remember where I heard this from but... somepony once said that the only thing that can change the world is a small, devoted group of ponies. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He didn’t respond. Somewhere in the back of his head, everything was starting to come together, all except for one piece. The one piece he refused to believe was true.

“A small, devoted group... in the right place at the wrong time. A single act, a single swift act that makes echoes and ripples, like a droplet of water in a pond. All it took was a single well-placed group of ponies to do it... and a stolen suit of armor.”

Once again she leaned close to him, her obsidian eyes boring into his. “Suspect 46-27,” she murmured, “Or... Pound Cake, yes? I think you and I can appreciate the humor in how a simple... arranged misunderstanding is enough to spark a war between two nations.”

“Oh, Celestia, no,” exhaled Pumpkin Cake.

“You didn’t. You couldn’t have!” Pound Cake whispered hoarsely.

“The conflict is exactly what I needed. Even as we speak, Celestia’s armies and the gryphons chip away at each other, weakening each other, and thanks to appropriate funding, I keep the war at a long, brutal stalemate. And meanwhile, while they weather away their armies, my forces only grow in strength. It doesn’t matter who wins this war, Pound Cake. Because either way, I’ll be the one in the lead.” She smiled dryly. “Not bad for the laughingstock of Equestria, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re insane.”

“Insane?” echoed Lulamoon. “Yes, I suppose, to you, I am. I must look absolutely mad. That tends to happen with those whose thinking is ahead of their time, displaced in both thought and society. But an ox never asked for the opinion of an ant, Pound Cake. That’s always been a problem, I’m afraid. Ponies, like you, who can’t understand the scope of events. You’re totally incapable of looking at time and the world in a broader sense. If you could, you’d be able to see how the ends are a justification to the means. 

“Ponies like you are very subject to acting... rashly. Which is why I decided long ago that the less ponies know, the better it is for all of us. One of the first buildings to be erected in Canterlot was this, my business headquarters. It was to be more than just an apartment; it was to be a symbol of strength, development. It also allowed me to enact and enforce the Civil Protection and Assurance Act, along with the Flight Retainment Regiment.

“In times of fear and crisis, the masses become so very easy to manipulate, and so very predictable. Instilling them with a fear and loathing of pegasi was quite easy, especially after the secession of Cloudsdale. I convinced them that the CPAA was for their own protection, and in a sense, I was telling the truth. Limiting flight not only protected Canterlot against gryphon agents, but it also protected it from potentially dangerous information escaping... or getting in.”

She looked snidely over at Pound Cake. “Runners such as yourself were always an inconvenience. But nothing more than that. I could have crushed you whenever I felt like it. But my patience rewards me. I felled not only one of the bigger illicit courier services in Canterlot, but one of its most dangerous terrorist organisations in one swoop.”

“You call them terrorists,” shot back Pound Cake, “and meanwhile you’re the one starting wars and eliminating ponies with a secret police.”

“And yet the beauty of it is quite simply that nopony knows. Because there is no flight. Control flight, and knowledge comes right after. That sort of thing would be inconceivable. Inconceivable! Pegasus flight in itself is a feat of magic. To restrain that would require magic far more powerful than any normal pony would be capable of creating.”

Lulamoon smiled slightly to herself, her chest swelling with pride. With a leisurely pace, she returned to behind her desk. Placing her hoof underneath it, she asked. “Would you like to see how I managed to make it possible?”

There was a loud click, and from above, the sound of heavy bolts pulling to the side drew their attention. The large metal hemisphere above split down the middle, the two halves slowly drawing apart and retracting into the ceiling. As they opened, the feeling of lead in Pound Cake’s wings amplified until it felt as if they might tear from his back. The retreating doors lay bare a twisted, gnarled net of machinery. Interweaving wires and pipes hung from bulky hydraulics and thick cables crackling with violet electricity, creating a glistening gunmetal spiderweb. Somewhere in the knotted electronics, barely visible through the plexiglass casings and straps, was a patch of purple fur.

Pound Cake could feel it, crackling in the heart of the machine. It was burden that kept him locked to the ground. It was the fear that choked him in his sleep. It was the ache in his wings and chest. It was the jeering of fillies and colts. It was the essence of all that had poisoned Canterlot.

The flight suppression field. This was its core.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” marvelled Lulamoon, inspecting the machine’s every aspect. “Weapons, construction equipment, optical technologies... everything pales in comparison. This is the pinnacle of everything I have accomplished to this day. The magical conduit that has made all this possible. It’s more than just that, though.” Lulamoon barked something like a laugh, but it was too cold and vile to have sounded anywhere near mirthful. “It’s a trophy case.”

“Do you remember, Pound Cake,” drawled Lulamoon, “that pony I told you about? The one who  ruined my good name? It’s amusing how she would not only be the pony to show me the possibilities I could reach, but one of the instruments to help me attain them. Oh, it wasn’t a given, to be sure. It took three Subsidiary Task Force squads and a great deal of manipulation and misinformation to eliminate her following and bring her here. As far as anyone of importance is concerned, she was captured by the gryphons in battle long ago.”

She looked up at the metal casket, and whispered, “Forgotten by the world. It’s only fair that she should know what it feels like, don’t you agree?”

He didn’t answer. Staring upwards, Pound Cake felt nausea twist in his gut. A thick, invisible current seemed to pour from the pony in the machine. It swirled around him, drowsy and oblivious, like a pack of sharks sleepily waiting for blood to hit the water. Tense with subdued anticipation, calm but expecting, he knew it could be on him in an instant. Never before had it felt so powerful. 

“Miss Lulamoon,” chirped an unexpected voice in the room. Turning towards it, Lulamoon pressed a button on the side of her desk, speaking into the intercom.

“What is it?”

“The Governess is here to see you, ma’am.”

“Good. Send her up,” she said before removing her hoof from the button. “In my line of work, I find it most advantageous when one can kill two birds with one stone,” continued Lulamoon to her prisoners. “And since you’ve decided to be uncooperative, suspect 46-27, and 45-27 has no longer any use to me as an asset, I intend to do just that.”

With a slow, venomous grin, she towered over Pound Cake, her eyes glittering cruelly. “I do believe I showed you what I do with useless assets, didn’t I?”

“You mother–”

“Muzzle them. All of them.”

Biting at the fabric being pulled over his face, Pound Cake could do nothing but mumble furiously as he was silenced. Sweetie Belle glanced at him sympathetically as Pumpkin was muzzled as well. He fought against the restraints, his jaw itching as he tried to tear the the thick fabric around his mouth. The ghosts, satisfied with their work, returned to their positions behind them. Just in time for the door at the end of the office to creak open.

The Governess made no sign of surprise as she entered the office. Neither to the machine hissing above, nor to the heavyset guards standing behind the three ponies bound to the chairs. In fact, everything about her seemed unnervingly detached. She entered with a dignified elegance, her carefully manicured mane barely moving as she walked, as if made of the same stone that constructed her rigid expression. Her eyes, though they may once have been glittering and beautiful, as indicated by the carefully applied make-up, were distant and lusterless. Nothing about her appearance was left up to chance, down to the lapels of her tailored suit and the curl of her eyebrows. Everything in place, nothing out of order. Her voice was as composed as her posture.

“Miss Lulamoon,” she said tersely. With a more subdued tone and a hasty upwards glance, she mumbled another quiet greeting that Pound Cake couldn’t quite make out.

“Ah, Governess Rarity. Always a pleasure.”

With a frightening burst of violence, Sweetie Belle lashed out against her restraints, lunging for the Governess. Struggling viciously, it almost looked like she would upset the chair she was held against. She screamed into her muzzle furiously before being silenced for the umpteenth time by a vicious blow to the side of the head from one of the ghosts. A trickle of blood staining her mane and rolling down the side of her face, her eyes burned with hatred, and she exhaled forcefully through her nostrils in rage. 

A good friend, once. Now she works for ‘them’.

Lulamoon blinked in surprise at Sweetie Belle’s sudden outburst. “Do you two know each other?” she asked quizzically.

She abandoned us, left us to fend for ourselves in Canterlot. Gave us up to chase her own dreams and betrayed us.

Not a flicker of emotion crossed Rarity’s face as she looked over Sweetie Belle, the way somepony might look over an insect, a test specimen. The smile that Pound Cake had seen in the photograph, miles and miles away, was nowhere to be found.

She gave up her friends... gave up everything.

Without the slightest tremor of doubt or regret, and an almost rehearsed disinterest, she raised an eyebrow and replied, “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Sweetie Belle stared down her sister with a look dripping with venom. Pained, caustic venom. Even when Rarity looked away, not from intimidation, but indifference, her gaze did not falter. Her eyes never moved, even as burning, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. But as if the weight of her stare was too great for her to bear, her frame crumbled and she hung her head.

Looking between the now-silent Sweetie Belle and Rarity, Lulamoon looked skeptic, as if she would press the issue further before the Governess interrupted her.

“Miss Lulamoon, I do believe you understand that I’m a very busy mare. Despite what you may think, I still do have a great deal of this city that remains to be run, even without your input. Now if you wouldn’t mind being so kind as to getting to the point as to why you’ve summoned me, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Reluctantly, Lulamoon let it go, giving the ghosts a quick nod. “Leave us,” she ordered. Without hesitation, the two stallions saluted crisply and trotted out the room, closing it behind them. Lulamoon paced around to her desk, sitting in her tall-backed chair. 

“Governess Rarity, I realize that you and I are not on... the best of terms,” she said vaguely, fiddling with the marble claw, “but I feel that your frustration is misdirected. It is only an unpleasant byproduct of your own grief. The death of the Governor was a regrettable affair. I’m truly sorry for your loss.” She said this with such convincing sympathy that it was hard not to believe her. “He was your fiancée, I believe?”

Rarity looked away in discomfort. “Nothing so... official, no. We were close.”

“Close?”

Pausing, Rarity mumbled, “Very close.”

“The grief caused by death of a loved one does not recognize titles, Governess. I’m sure that, wherever he may be now, he must be quite proud to see what you have accomplished in his position.”

“I... Thank you.”

“It pains me greatly, Governess Rarity, to see that the horrid taint of war has managed to leak from the front and strike so close to our hearts,” said Lulamoon, nodding. “Governor Fancypants’ assassination shattered the feeling of security in Canterlot. The streets don’t feel the way they did back then. What the people need now is a strong leader, a strong figurehead to look up to. Somepony who can guide them through their fear.” Lulamoon sneered in disgust.

“Especially given the... nature of the assassin. The gryphon spy.”

Rarity nodded mechanically, her gaze distant. “Yes. I understand she’s still in custody.”

Lulamoon caught the resentment in her voice, pouncing on it. “You have to understand that I couldn’t allow you to see her during the interrogation procedure. It would have been more than a security compromise, it... wouldn’t have been good for you. The assassin was... bellicose, to say the least.”

“Bellicose?” echoed Rarity.

“Yes. Arrogant. Prideful, defiant. Aside from her inane, spiteful rantings, she would often boast of her success, of how she had managed to bring ‘Canterlot to its knees by slitting a decrepit puppet’s throat’.”

Bristling at every word, Rarity’s eyes sparkled with repressed fury. Her facade of control and composure slipped with the severity of the venom at which Lulamoon described the murderer. Pumpkin Cake’s eyes were wide with horror, and a mumble of protest escaped her muzzle.

“It seemed that she had trained her entire life to achieve this. I’m humiliated at how long she managed to stay under the radar, contemplating such an abomination. That’s about as much as we managed to extract from her during our interrogations.” With a slow smile, dripping with malice, she turned her attention first to Pound Cake, then to Pumpkin Cake.

“Isn’t that right, suspect 45-27?”

Rarity’s body became taught, trembling, as she followed Lulamoon’s gaze, and with the intensity of a predator, fixated herself upon Pumpkin Cake. Her jawline twitched slightly as her teeth ground themselves together, and her eyes burned with the same white-hot flame that sparked within Sweetie Belle. It seemed to take her every effort to contain it.

“Why are you telling me this?” growled Rarity through clenched teeth.

Lulamoon pressed her forehooves together, leaning her forelegs into the desk. “I’ve been speaking to the martial board. They’ve informed me that there’s not enough evidence to get a valid conviction.”

“The news...”

“The news tells the people what they need to hear,” affirmed Lulamoon. “They don’t need to hear that their Governor’s assassin may escape the law due to red tape bogging things down. It would be so much easier if she were a gryphon. But a pony... The gryphons are clever. It makes things more complex.”

“We can overrule the judgement,” hissed Rarity, turning sharply. “We have to overrule the judgement. We can demand a second hearing. The martial board can’t possibly deny it. I won’t let them.”

Lulamoon sighed. “Even then, Governess, the court fees, the investigation costs... not to mention the misallocation of precious resources would only further hinder the process. Justice is just, but slow, Governess. You know that.”

“This is outrageous! What more do they possibly need? They have the murder weapon, for Celestia’s sake!”

“It proves nothing, Governess Rarity. As incriminating as it may seem, it’s a standard issue knife given to all Civil Defense officers. And I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are quite a few Civil Defense officers that are assigned to protect the governor. Many of whom have... inconveniently disappeared.”

“You fear foul play?”

“I do. Removing witnesses and testimonies to ensure a full testimony would be all the gryphons could need to avoid a conviction. We’ll have no choice but to release her, even if it means–”

“Never!” screamed Rarity, even taking Lulamoon by surprise. “I will not allow that to happen. I will do everything in my power to make sure this... treasonous, murderous sub-pony suffers the fullest extent of the law. There has to be a way!”

Uncomfortable, Lulamoon fiddled with her hooves, biting her lip nervously. Glancing at the locked door behind Rarity, she nodded slowly. “Well... There is one thing.”

“Please, tell me!”

“Governess Rarity, I don’t think it’s wise to–”

“I don’t care what it is,” pleaded Rarity. “I’ll do anything, sign whatever you want. Just...”

“Well,” Lulamoon said after a pause, “there could be an... accident.”

Rarity recoiled slightly. “An accident?”

“These cuffs are so old,” explained Lulamoon, reclining into her chair. “The suspect so... violent. Overcome with the kind of super-pony strength found in the mentally unstable. If we weren’t careful, she might break loose, and threaten your life in an attempt to rock the Equestrian regime once more, to spread terror across Canterlot. In the event of such a situation, we would have to defend ourselves. And such a brutal outbreak of violence could only end in tragedy.”

Listening carefully, Rarity became deathly still. Lulamoon’s words seemed to have a disturbing, transformative effect on her. The glimmer of life in her eyes seemed to be leaking out of her, and the same lusterless allure that dwelling in Lulamoon’s was overcoming them. She shook her head, as if trying to shake a fog.

“I... No, I couldn’t possibly...” she denied.

With a frown, Lulamoon adjusted the marble claw. “You’d have to be the one to do it, of course. I certainly couldn’t. Neither could my guards. I can’t risk the general populace becoming aware of my involvement, or even of this meeting. And besides, you do want to do it, Governess, don’t you?”

As she spoke, her horn glowed, opening a drawer in her desk. She brought to bear an elegant, pearl-handled revolver, proudly engraved with the Lulamoon Technologies insignia along the the barrel. Rarity’s eyes met the muzzle of the weapon, and something inside her seemed to be sucked into it. 

“Have you never killed somepony, Governess?” asked Lulamoon, telekinetically weighing the revolver in her grasp.

“I...”

“It’s quite unpleasant, the first time,” Lulamoon admitted, angling the revolver here and there, admiring the craftsmanship. Her craftsmanship. “It becomes much of an acquired taste. You never become quite fond of it. Merely tolerant.”

Straightening her grip on the weapon, she briefly seemed to aim it at Rarity. When she didn’t flinch, she smiled and rotated it, offering her the handle. Her horn glowed, and Rarity took the weapon into her own grasp. Her bottom lip was quivering, and her expression blank and hazy.

“You want me to...”

“I don’t want you to do anything, Governess, except what it is you want to.”

“What I want to,” echoed Rarity distantly, nodding.

Struggling in his chair, Pound Cake twisted his hooves behind his back, his heart pounding in terror. He had to break free. He had to. The cuffs were strong and bound his forehooves in such a way that he couldn’t get much leverage on them without feeling as if he were tearing them out of their sockets. But that didn’t seem like an option to accept as Rarity levitated the revolver and aimed it at Pumpkin Cake.

“What.... I want,” she repeated, her eyelids flickering.

Lulamoon grinned crookedly from behind her desk, sliding the marble claw between her hooves. “She murdered your loved one. Denied you everything that you fought so hard for. And she even has the audacity to brag of it.”

Shaking her head violently, tears streamed down Pumpkin Cake’s face as she twisted in her chair, as if she could somehow get away from the weapon as it came closer and closer.

“I’m not your enemy, Governess Rarity. You know this. We both know it. But there are many things you don’t yet understand, so much that I still have to show you,” whispered Lulamoon. “I’ll open the world before your eyes, and you’ll see everything the way I do. It will all make sense. But not until you do it.”

The trigger of the revolver trembled.

Pound Cake screamed in rage, his fury leaving him as nothing more than pathetic gibberish. Not her, he roared, not her. I’ll do what you want, tell you what you want. Just don’t–

“Once I have you, the world and more will be ours. We’ll be able to see the end of this world, and the birth of a new Equestria. But not until you do it. Do it!”

“I... I h... Ha...” Rarity mumbled incoherently, her grip shaking, the fog in her eyes thick and murky. Slowly, the trigger pulled back in the guard. Pound Cake thrashed with all his strength as Pumpkin Cake closed her eyes, looking down in acceptance, waiting for it to come.

A voice came from nowhere.

“Ma’am?”

At first it seemed as if it hadn’t even spoken, the single word freezing the horror playing out before his eyes. But then it came again, from the intercom on Lulamoon’s desk.

“Ma’am? This is–”

“For Pony’s sake,” hissed Lulamoon, jamming her hoof against the button beside it, “this had better be important!”

“Ma’am, it’s about the live radio broadcast.”

Lulamoon frowned. “What are you going on about? I haven’t authorized any broadcasts at this hour.”

“I know. It’s... well... Let me just...” the secretary mumbled nervously, flicking a switch.

Loud and clear, a series of voices came through the intercom, as clear as if there was a radio in the room with them.

“–Careful with that,” whined a mare. “There’s no need to point that so–”

“Move aside right now. Stop stallin’, ya hear?”

“I’m not–”

“Move!”

“I’m moving, I’m moving! Yeesh.”

The room was dead silent, Lulamoon’s expression contorted in confusion. Rarity, her aim never moving from Pumpkin Cake, shivered, as if a wind had passed through the tall glass windows.

“Are we on? Alright, good. Watch the door. We probably don’t have long now.”

The second mare cleared her throat, and there was the sound of shuffling papers.

“Ponies of... Uhm... Equestria. The time... Ah...” The mare sounded flustered shuffling through the pages in an attempt to read what was written there. She stopped and stuttered several times before, finally, she sighed heavily, either from fatigue or acceptance. “Ah’m no good at speeches. Ah don’t talk much nowadays. But if there’s any place I could begin, any place at all, it’s here: My name is Applejack.”

It was as if a curtain over Rarity’s mind had suddenly been ripped away. In a single moment, as that name left the intercom, the light suddenly returned to her eyes, and some malignant claw was tossed aside, powerless. “Applejack,” she breathed.

Lulamoon lunged for the button on her desk. She was too slow. Swiveling the revolver, Lulamoon suddenly found herself being aimed at by the same weapon she had created.

“Don’t,” warned Rarity. “Leave it.”

Raising her hooves away from the desk, Lulamoon backed away, seething with rage.

Not saying a word, Pound Cake, stared out the window numbly as Applejack spoke, a tremor of emotion in her voice.


***


“Ponies of... Uhm... Equestria. The time... Ah... Ah’m no good at speeches. Ah don’t talk much nowadays. But if there’s any place I could begin, any place at all, it’s here: My name is Applejack.

“Some of you may remember that name. If you don’t Ah’m not surprised. If you do... then Ah’m right ashamed to have taken so long... so long to get here. Long ago, Ah, along with five other, incredible, inspirational ponies, became a bearer of an Element of Harmony. Ah went from cowpony to defender of Equestria almost overnight. That was scary. Real scary. The kind of scary that leaves you staring at the ceiling at night. But that feels like right nothin’ compared to what I have to do right now.

“Those of you who remember me may know more. You may know about the times when the skies were full of pegasi clearing the clouds away, when the streets were full of laughter and smiles, and not fear and distrust. Ah still miss those days, desperately so. Ah want them back. Ah want the friends Ah’ve lost back. Ah miss them all so much.

“For so long, Ah thought that this was just the way things were, and that Ah had to buck up and deal with it. ‘It’s for a good cause,’ Ah told myself. ‘It’s to fight the gryphons, to protect ourselves.’ But sometimes Ah look at what we decided to pay for freedom and Ah wonder if it was really worth the price. And Ah have fought so long and so hard to get to this moment. Ah almost don’t mind the fact that none of us might get out of this alive. Because if this gets out, if you the simple pony, hear this message, then that means that we finally won.”

There was another crinkle of stacked paper, and a slight tapping as the edges of the stack were aligned against a board. “What Ah hold in my hooves is a record of transactions from Lulamoon Technologies, our benefactor, destined to an unnamed agent in the gryphon army. These documents were recovered from the desk of our late Governor Fancy Pants, whose integrity I once doubted. Many ponies have died, many ponies have been murdered and have been robbed of the ones they loved so that these documents could get into my hooves, and so that I could read them to you today.

“For the sum of two and a half million Equestrian bits, a transfer of no less than: 500 units Atlas Combat Rifle System, 300 units Pluma Fragmentation Grenade, 300 units Stella Concussive Grenade, 750 units Timberwolf v6 Armored Utility Vests (Retrofitted)...” She ran through the entire list, citing off weapons, armors, and ammunitions that had been provided by Lulamoon Technologies and funded by the gryphon forces. She went on, adding locations to which the deliveries had been made, with poignant cities like North Point or Trottingham, which lay on the edge of the conflict. Applejack finally stopped, drawing a weary breath. “That was the first page. I am holding a stack of documents consisting of exactly thirty-two pages, front and back. The same corporation which has so helped us build our city, security, and livelihoods has been extending the conflict with the gryphons for their own ends by arming them with the same weapons we use ourselves.

“It doesn’t end there. Lulamoon Technologies has made gratuitous payments to multiple members of the provisionary government, and has been pulling the strings in Canterlot for years, enacting laws and acts that have blinded us and forced us to submit. Those who would not submit were disposed of. My friends, my family, and even Governor Fancy Pants. All these ponies were cut down and eliminated because they dared to make a difference, to expose the rattlesnake that’s been coiled around Equestria. None are safe from its poison.”

Applejack fell silent for a moment, clearing her throat. There was an incomprehensible murmur from another pony. “But you aren’t blind anymore,” insisted Applejack, her voice gaining strength. “You’ve been handled with a ten-foot pole, lied to, and deceived because Lulamoon Technologies is afraid. And for good reason. You, the downed ponies, you, the scared ponies, you, the lonely and beaten and ignorant and happy ponies are stronger than they could ever be.”

There was a sudden, loud, banging noise from further away. The same voice that had murmured earlier spoke up again, more urgent. “Applejack, we’re running out of time. Fluttershy and Apple Bloom can’t keep that door up much longer.”

“Ah know, Rainbow. Hold them. Ah’m almost done.”

“Applejack–”

“Be strong, girl.”

“I am. I’m ready.”

Applejack resumed, a tone of finality in her voice. “Ah’ve done my part, Equestria. Ah’ve done my duty, as Ah swore Ah would. As Ah swore upon my friends, as Ah swore upon my family, and as Ah swore upon Equestria. Ah can’t do anymore. The truth can speak volumes, but it’s only a voice, and it means right nothin’ if nopony is listening. But I believe in you.”

The banging grew louder and louder, accompanied by a chilling, splintering sound. With tears in her voice, Applejack spoke one last time.

“My name is Applejack: Bearer of the Element of Honesty. Do me proud, Equestria.”


***


It was impossible for any of them to speak. With her final words, Applejack had stolen their voice, and had left it with nothing but her own. Staring numbly at Lulamoon, Rarity had to fight with all her strength to keep the revolver trained on her. 

“You... what have you done?” she said breathlessly. “All this time... all this time I trusted you because Fancy Pants said it was for the best. I believed that you had changed. That perhaps, with you, Equestria could be something different. Better. That we could end this war and bring things back to normal. You never intended that, did you? You’ve lied to me since the beginning.”

“How very perceptive,” said Lulamoon quietly, her eyes not leaving the revolver. “A shame, too, Governess... Well, just Miss Rarity, now, I suppose. I was truly hoping that I could get you to see things my way.”

“Your way?” hissed Rarity. “How dare you, you psychotic, dangerous, maniacal whore! What was your way? Letting more ponies and gryphons die for your own insanity?”

“For the greater good, yes.”

“And you pretend to know what that could possibly be?”

“Of course. That’s the point. The best for Equestria must be decided by one pony. Everyone else is too afraid, too stupid, or just to ignorant to see the bigger picture. Reforming the system takes only one pony, Miss Rarity. Not thousands.” Despite this, she sighed in disappointment.

“Canterlot is over, now, I suppose. There’s nothing further I can do here. And in the end, it’s only detrimental to Equestria. I suppose all that’s left for me to do is move on. Perhaps the crystal ponies...”

“You aren’t going anywhere, Lulamoon. I won’t let you get away.”

“Is that so?” asked Lulamoon, lowering her arms, a demeaning smile on her lips. Rarity menacingly pulled back the hammer on the revolver, and she quickly put her hooves back into the air.

“You’re forgetting who’s holding the gun, Lulamoon. Step away from your desk. Right now.”

Lulamoon looked at Rarity in surprise, then began laughing an eerie, cruel giggle. “A... A gun? And what, that makes you think you’re in control? Miss Rarity, you disappoint me. My most elite STF squad is waiting right outside of my office. The second they hear that gunshot, they’ll come rushing in through that door. My dear, you and everypony in this room will be dead before you even have time to turn around.”

Rarity’s furious expression slipped, but only a little. It was enough for Lulamoon to pounce on. “But by all means, my dear, shoot me. After all, you have one bullet, don’t you? So go on, then. I’m sure you’re dying to avenge your friends. After all, how many have I killed now? Three are probably dead by now, one died long ago, and the other probably wishes she were dead. What a win-win, situation, Miss Rarity. You kill me, avenge your friends, and then you immediately get to join them.”

The revolver wobbled.

“All it costs, of course,” she added, “is the life of three little miscreants. But let’s face it... no one would miss them, right? I’m sure their deaths would be worth it.”

Rarity barely chanced a glance behind her at the Cakes and Sweetie Belle, the latter of whom was still near-catatonic. 

“Or,” continued Lulamoon, “we could all be reasonable ponies. You lower the gun, I call my guards in here, you leave, I leave, and we all forget this nasty business. You’ll never even see me again. Don’t you think that enough blood has been shed? Hmm? And even if not, Miss Rarity... I think that as a politician you understand that not every battle can be won.”

She offered out her hoof, and Rarity didn’t try to stop her. “So, then. What will it be?”

There comes a time in every pony’s life when a choice falls onto them. It is not expected, it is not anticipated. It is thrust into their hooves and there are no possible choices where something or someone will not be hurt. Pound Cake had learned this, long ago. He’d been thrown at the wall and pushed to his limit, forced to choose between two evils, two horrors, two deaths. His arms weak in his cuffs, and his breath coming in slow, tired winds, Pound Cake recognized the look as it overcame Rarity. Acceptance. Realizing the corner, and knowing that in the end, only one thing really mattered in a choice, no matter how small: to choose, and to live without regret.

“Sweetie Belle,” murmured Rarity, her eyes misty and distant as she kept the revolver aimed at Lulamoon. 

Blinking in disbelief, Sweetie Belle raised her head to the sound of her sister’s voice.

“Sweetie Belle,” she said again, softly. “I know you... could never accept my apology. I don’t expect you to. You’re mad at me, furious. Even though I wish I could take back everything, start over from scratch... I... I’ve caused you so much hurt. You and everypony else. I’ve been such a blind, stupid fool.”

She laughed regretfully. “Even though you’ll never forgive me, Sweetie Belle... I want you to know one thing. I’m... so proud of you. So proud of how you’ve grown into such a beautiful, strong, determined mare. The kind of pony I always hoped you’d be with all my heart.”

As she listened, the beautiful, strong, determined mare couldn’t stop the tears that welled once more in her eyes. She pulled weakly at the restraints, stretched her jaw to try to speak, to try to move.

“I thought I could do everything to keep you safe and to make sure nothing could ever hurt you. But you were stronger than that. You ran away because you refused to believe your sister could be a coward. Despite all that I’d done, you still expected better of me, and I... I love you so much. Never forget that.”

Sweetie Belle screamed into her muzzle, begging her, pleading with her. Not that, anything but that. Pumpkin Cake couldn’t watch, looking away. Lulamoon could only watch in horror as Rarity raised the revolver.

She smiled, willing herself not to cry. “Maybe... one day you’ll see, too, the crazy things that we do for love... and for friendship.”

Taking aim, Rarity raised the revolver and fired a single bullet into the guts of the machine above, striking the pony buried within the metal coffin.


***


With a gasp of shock, Pound Cake jerked in his chair, the restraints biting into his arms and legs as his eyes went wide. His ears popped and rang furiously, and splotches of light flared in his vision. He didn’t hear a thing, couldn’t see anything as everything around him seemed to go dark. For a terrifying moment, he thought he would drown in the thick nothingness that swirled around him and poured down his throat.

Then, suspended there, he felt it.

It was as clear as the sensation of water running through his hooves. A heavy, syrupy wind rushed from behind him, as if his back were against the current of a river. And as it passed through his every cell, each one sparked and hummed and vibrated with energy and life. The current, pulling him towards that one single point above his head, into the machine, dragging something out of him as it returned to its source, slipped away like a toxic gas and left behind clean air. The blood in his back suddenly raced, throbbing and boiling, and shot down to where he hadn’t felt it before. To where he had never felt it before.

Every feather in his wings stretched and flared, trembling like a muscle waking from sleep. As if relieved of a burden, they lifted, raised, and uncurled. Tears welled in Pound Cake’s eyes from the agony as the veins and arteries in his wings swelled and found strength for the first time in ages, revitalizing and returning to him what was whole. And in a single, blurring instant, he became a pegasus.

The agony and wonder of the flare of life almost drowned out the slam of the office doors as the ghosts burst inside, weapons drawn. Lulamoon lunged away from her desk, sharply veering towards the exit with surprising speed.

“Kill them!” she shrieked in fury. “Kill all of them!”

Rarity turned, raising the revolver to fire again at the fleeing unicorn. She didn’t get far. She didn’t have a chance. With deadly precision, the ghosts opened fire, peppering her immaculate white fur with splotches of red.

Sweetie Belle screamed into her restraints as her sister fell. But her grip on the revolver never released. Collapsing to the floor, she fired again, gritting her teeth even as blood fell from her lips. One of the ghosts cried out in pain as it was hit in the shoulder, breaking formation.

Everything happened in slow motion. One of the ghosts raised his rifle. Another scream. A blur of motion and violence. And with a single, final breath, the pony in the machine closed her eyes, a solemn smile on her lips. The river stopped. 

Somewhere in the distance, there was a bolt of lightning.

They all stopped in their tracks. Far off, through the windows, the sky became split in two, cut straight down the middle as a beam shot from the top of a building in Canterlot. The beam travelled upwards, almost lazily from afar, but at a furious, violent speed towards the sky. Glittering magically, it escalated and curved slightly.

Then it exploded.

At first there was a burst of light, and all sound ceased to exist. With a deafening clap, it returned, and the flash vanished. In its place, rapidly spreading across the sky like a ripple in a pond, there was a massive, glittering rainbow. The ghosts watched in horror as the sonic rainboom blossomed in the wide, blue skies of Canterlot.

They never saw it coming. The bolt of rainbow light shot through the window of the office, echoing like a gunshot. It went right between Pound Cake’s legs, shattering the chair he was tied to, along with the others. One of the ghosts, just barely understanding what was happening, tried to raise its weapon. In the blink of an eye, the light smashed into his chest, sending him flying into the wall with an electronic scream. Ricocheting off its chest, the light pummelled the next ghost in the side of the jaw, throwing him to the ground. Bouncing through the air, leaving a trail of rainbows wherever it went, it aimed for the final ghost, throwing it upwards.

Stopping in mid-air with perfect, effortless fluidity, Rainbow Dash blinked into existence and bucked downwards with all her strength.

The ghost slammed into the floor hard enough to crack the marble tiling with its bulk. Croaking in pain, it went limp, unconscious. Panting, Rainbow Dash alighted beside it, sweat pouring from her brow. Her wings were flared awkwardly, her sides heaving, and scrapes on her joints matted her fur with blood. But it was unmistakable, as Pound Cake stared in wonder as her mentor shook off the fatigue as if it were nothing. She was stronger and more beautiful than he had seen her in his entire life. Free. The mare buried in those sewers beneath all that alcohol and pain had evaporated, and Rainbow Dash was born in her place.

“You make one hell of an entry,” he croaked in disbelief. She nodded wordlessly in response.

“Pound Cake!” He turned just in time for Pumpkin Cake to throw her hooves around his neck, squeezing him. “Pound Cake... Oh thank goodness. I thought...” She didn’t have to say anymore, and she buried her face into the crook of his neck. Relieved, he returned the embrace, holding her close.

Sweetie Belle tore free of what was left of her restraints and ripped the muzzle free from her mouth. With a scream of pain, she cried, “Rarity!” She galloped to her sister’s side, scrambling to her wounds. Rainbow Dash looked past Pound Cake, trotting over to the fallen mare. Sweetie Belle was frantically looking for anything with which to make a bandage, trying to revive her sister.

“Stay with me, Rarity,” she pleaded. “You’re going to be fine. You have to be fine!”

Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze distant and misty. They seemed to search around the room before finding Sweetie Belle’s face. She raised a blood-covered hoof to it.

“Sweetie Belle... Oh, I’m so...”

“Don’t talk,” she demanded, holding her hoof. “I have to stop the bleeding. You’re going to be okay! I promise!”

A shadow fell over her, and Sweetie Belle looked up to find Rainbow Dash staring down at them, her washed-out mane hanging over her glittering eyes. Rarity mustered what little strength she had into a smile.

“Forever the show-off,” she reprimanded quietly. “And yet still somehow late... How unladylike. But I knew you’d come.”

“Rarity...” started Rainbow Dash quietly before being cut off.

“I know, dear... There’s so–” She choked for a moment before regaining herself. “I’m sorry. I know it will never be enough. But I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Rainbow Dash, pressing a hoof to Rarity’s mouth. “And don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine. You’re a tough girl. You’ll make it. Sweetie Belle, go rip up the ghost’s uniforms. We need some bandages to stop the bleeding.”

As her sister ran off, Rarity sighed heavily, letting her head fall to the ground. “Oh dear,” she said dizzily, “Rainbow, darling, there’s blood getting into my mane... I won’t be able to get that...”

“Stay awake, Rarity. You have to stay awake.”

“Applejack... Where’s Applejack? Is she–”

“She’s fine. Fluttershy is alright, too. They’re waiting for you. You’re going to get to see them. I just need you to stay awake.” Rainbow Dash turned to Sweetie Belle, who handed her some strips of coarse fabric. “Hold still.”

“Oh, Celestia,” gasped Rarity as the impromptu bandages wrapped around her gunshot wounds. “Rainbow, I can’t... Do that. I can’t possibly face them again. Not when...” Tears welled in her eyes, but this time it wasn’t from the pain. “Rainbow, I couldn’t save her. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t even save her.”

Rainbow Dash closed her eyes, forcing herself not to cry. She couldn’t now, not for her friend. She had to be more. “I know, Rarity. And that’s why I’m not going to lose you, too.” She stood, and Pound Cake blinked in surprise. Rainbow Dash seemed taller than she had ever been.

“Sweetie Belle,” she said her tone steely. “Grab a weapon from the ghosts and get Pumpkin Cake out of here. The streets are going to be chaos. Every two-bit ghost and Civil Defence officer having second thoughts about keeping order in Canterlot is going to be out there trying to hold on to what little control they have from the rioters. Keep her safe, and get to the radio tower. Find Applejack and Fluttershy. Tell them what happened here.”

“But–”

“Sweetie Belle, Rarity is going to die if she doesn’t get to a hospital soon. I’m the only pony here who can get her there quickly enough. There’s nothing more you can do for her.”

Sweetie Belle, tears in her eyes, looked as if she would hold her ground. Looking between her sister’s barely breathing body and Rainbow Dash, she slowly nodded, whispering, “Alright.”

“Then go.” As Sweetie Belle scrambled for ammunition, not daring to look over her shoulder, Pumpkin Cake looked uncertainly at her brother, who was as perplexed as she was. 

“Pound Cake,” Rainbow Dash spoke again, a heated edge creeping into her voice. Pound Cake watched as his mentor carefully picked up Rarity, placing her over her back. When she looked him in the eyes with same passion and vigor that was in the pony he saw long ago in a lost photograph, he knew exactly what she would say.

“Lulamoon. Cannot. Escape.”

Pound Cake nodded solemnly. “I swear that she won’t. And Rainbow Dash!” he added, as she bent her legs to take off. “Thank you.”

With a worried glance at her unconscious friend, she shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet, Pound Cake. Canterlot still needs saving.”

With that, she flapped her wings once, twice, then vanished through the window, diving through the air with neither hesitation nor fear. 

Sweetie Belle pulled free a magazine from one of the unconscious ghosts, and slid it in place with a satisfying click.

“Let’s go, Pound Cake. We can’t waste time.”

“No we can’t,” he answered through clenched teeth as he watched her go. Spinning, he crouched, placing his center of balance low to maximize his downward motion and friction. With it, he kicked off his hind legs, launching himself into a full sprint in only a fraction of a second, barrelling for the door of the office.

Sweetie Belle grabbed Pumpkin Cake, and they took off after him into the hallway towards the awaiting elevator. “There’s the lift! We need to get down there as fast as possible!”

“She’s not down there,” realized Pound Cake as he came to a grinding halt in front of it.

She looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“The lift is still here,” noted Pumpkin Cake. “Nopony called it back up. Lulamoon couldn’t have taken it down. Then where...?”

A glint of metal caught Pound Cake’s eyes in the blank wall of the hallway. The rung of a ladder. Trotting over to it, he looked up to find sunlight pouring down into the hall through a rectangular gap.

“There’s a ladder. I think it goes to the roof.”

“Why the roof? She’s cornered up there,” said Pumpkin Cake in confusion.

His brow furrowed. She was right. It didn’t make sense. But there wasn’t time to sit around and think this over. Grabbing the first rung, he looked over his shoulder. “I’ll handle Lulamoon. You two get out of here.”

Sweetie Belle nodded confidently, keeping the rifle close to her body as she hopped onto the elevator. Pumpkin Cake watched her brother climb the ladder uncertainly.

“Pound Cake!” she cried out as his head was about to disappear into the passage. When he turned, she bit her lip nervously and blurted, “You’d better come back to me in one piece, or I swear, I’ll...”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Slowly, Pumpkin Cake nodded, then motioned at him with her hoof. “Then tear her apart.” There was a click as Sweetie Belle pressed a button, and Pound Cake watched his sister descend as long as he dared before returning his attention to the ladder. Rung by rung he rose, using each upward pull to his advantage, until it was almost as if he were flying up the ladder. As he grew closer to that distant square of light above, a sound echoed through the passage. He couldn’t place it as anything he’d ever heard before; at the closest, it was like the sound of rapidly beating wings. It became louder and louder still, and gusts of wind rushed past him, as if the building was desperately trying to inhale him back into its depths and swallow him whole. It wasn’t enough. With a final grunt of effort, he heaved himself over the edge, the sunlight stinging at his eyes as he emerged. No... not the sun. The wind.

Slowly rising off the roof was a clunky, wiry looking machine. It shrieked with a violent mechanical whine as a rotor on the top of it spun four, lengthy blades that chopped in the air and propelled it upwards away from the building. The cockpit was surrounded by a tinted glass, and the tear-drop shaped machine tapered in a long, fine tail that spun with its own rotor.
Then he saw her: Lulamoon. With a frustrated look over her shoulder, she rolled the door of the helicopter shut as the machine whined even louder and the rotating blades accelerated, pulling her away from the edge of the building and into the sky.

In awe, Pound Cake could do nothing but watch as it left him behind, his scream of frustration lost in the rushing, chopped air. He galloped to the edge of the building, but it was already too late. His mane whipped about his eyes, almost blinding him as the vehicle, and Lulamoon, left him behind.

Desperate, Pound Cake looked down, and his heart froze.

Standing on the very edge of Lulamoon Technologies HQ, there was nothing between him and the sudden, gut-wrenching drop down its sheer face and into the cubic map of buildings below. A fall like that, and he’d wear out his throat screaming before he hit the ground. But looking back up, Lulamoon’s vehicle was only widening the gap between them.

And she couldn’t escape. He couldn’t let her escape!

Slowly, Pound Cake backed away from the edge, and he felt his back go tense as his wing muscles instinctively flexed and stretched. Each feather tested and angled in the wind, and without quite knowing how, Pound Cake could almost see the currents of air flowing around him, gliding through his primaries and leading edges. His breath quickened as he lowered his stance, his heart beating faster. Blood pumped into his wings, and he gave them a test flap. For a split second, he almost expected to be electrocuted for that alone. But the air remained emotionless, simply gliding past him. For once, it wasn’t something to be afraid of.

His eyes went wide, and for a moment, as he ran, it felt as if he weren’t in this body at all, that it was all some strange, bizarre dream.

I’ve never flown before in my life.

The thought that he might die never even occurred to him as he reached the edge, and he threw himself into the air.


***


Teeth clenched, Lulamoon punched the back of the seat in front of her in frustration. The sudden gesture surprised the STF pilot, who looked back behind itself to make sure everything was fine.

“Keep flying!” hissed Lulamoon, roughly tossing a lock of her mane back behind her ear before sinking back into her seat. The pilot obliged, keeping itself focused on the controls. Although Lulamoon had never expected that she’d need to resort to this particular invention of hers anytime soon, she’d ensured that all members of her task force were trained in flying her personal helicopter. 

Always thinking ahead, a voice in the back of her mind teased. She shook it away. And yet here we are.

Sneering in disgust, she looked down out the side of the vehicle as the rooftops of Canterlot rushed past her. Where the grid-like streets and alleyways had once been orderly and pristine, they were now buzzing with chaos as violence broke out in the streets, funnelling itself towards her headquarters.

A shame. A blasted shame. She’d worked so hard and so long for Canterlot to get this far. Certainly, ponies had died in the process, but omelettes and eggs, and that sort of thing. In the grand scheme of things, it was all worthwhile. Well, it would have been. 

Anarchy. The word rolled off her tongue like a delectable syrup. But not just any anarchy. It would have been her anarchy. Not the chaos that was consuming the streets below, nor the rigid bureaucracy of the Equestrian regime. Pure, unadulterated anarchy, where the fittest survive and all only occurs through strength and cunning rather than social stigma and fear. Fair, balanced... and quite fun.

But that was over now. Never stop looking forward, after all.

“Ma’am,” crackled the pilot uncertainly. “Permission to enquire.”

Sighing defeatedly, she answered, “Granted.”

“Destination, ma’am?”

She stared out the window, mulling over her options. That was the big question, wasn’t it? Where to start all over again? Finally, she nodded waved her hoof impatiently. “Head for the gryphon border. I have an operation waiting for orders in a town near the–”

Lulamoon’s sentence ended in a cry of surprise as something smashed into the side of the helicopter, violently tipping it to the side. The pilot swore, fighting with the controls to keep the vehicle stable. Eventually, it levelled out once more.

“What in Tartarus was that?” demanded Lulamoon, struggling to regain her composure.

“Unknown, ma’am,” replied the pilot, desperately flicking switches in the cockpit to silence the blaring sirens and flashing lights. “Projectile on aft. All systems nominal and–”

The bashing sound came again, this time louder, but less powerful. Lulamoon flinched in surprise as the door of the helicopter dented once, then twice. The lock on the door blew inwards as it was met from a blow on the other side.

Gritting his teeth with effort, Pound Cake gripped the handle on the outside of the helicopter and ripped it open. Lulamoon’s eyes went wide with disbelief.

“You must be joking!” she snarled.

“Ma’am?”

“Straggler! Lose him!”

Pound Cake barely managed to hold onto what little of a grip he had on the outside of the helicopter as it suddenly veered to the side. The pilot looked over its shoulder in frustration as he anticipated every move it would make. Every inch of Pound Cake’s skin was on fire. Suspended in mid-air with nothing but his wings and and the helicopter keeping him aloft, everything seemed to work in slow motion. He’d never experienced it before, but it all seemed so natural. 

“Lulamoon!” he roared into the wind as the helicopter twisted once more, trying to shake him loose. It wouldn’t do. Clasping the frame of the door, he pulled himself towards the inside of the helicopter. He just barely heard a heavy click-clack nearly lost in the rushing wind. Pound Cake found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

On nothing but instinct, he released his grip on the frame, falling away from the helicopter. There was an ear-shattering gunshot, and he felt the pellets from the rifle zip through the tips of his mane. The feeling of suspension was suddenly lost as Pound Cake plummeted back down to earth. His body did all the thinking for him.

Spreading and angling his wings, the sudden alteration in pressure and resistance flipped him right-side up. They shot out, catching the wind like a tarp and throwing him into a glide. This... this was no different from running, he realized, arcing into a wide loop underneath the helicopter. The same precarious balance of momentum, speed, and friction. Only now the walls and pipes were invisible, existing only in a rippling force of updrafts and turbulence, obstacles that were not seen but felt.

Pulling with the same force and determination that had dragged him over alleyways and ladders, he forced his wings downwards, catching a spiralling gust radiating outwards from the helicopter’s propellor. This time, he aimed his hooves directly for the latch of the door, smashing it open with a single, fluid motion. Lulamoon, eyes ablaze with anger, turned to face him, struggling to twist her weapon through the narrow confines of the helicopter. She fired again. Pound Cake felt his foreleg explode in pain as the blast tore into the the side of his body.

Not good. Not good, not good, not good. For a horrifying moment, his head went light, splotches flashing before his eyes as his body slipped into shock. Blood trickling down the side of his body, he pulled himself away from the helicopter, beating his wings heavily. Pound Cake gasped for breath, pressing his good hoof to his wound.

No time to help it now. In the meantime, he was down to only three hooves. That, and he was bleeding more than he’d expected. 

Stay awake. No matter what, do not pass out. 

Fainting now would be instant death. Nopony would save him this time. The helicopter flew further away, leaving Pound Cake flapping his wings idly, trying his best to suppress the flow of blood. Biting his lip in anger, Pound Cake tucked his injured leg close to his body. He’d come too far and lost too much to let a flesh wound stop him. Using his remaining legs to balance himself as best as he could, Pound Cake tore after the helicopter.

He had to get rid of that shotgun before Lulamoon stopped missing and took his head off.

Destabilize your enemies, Rainbow Dash’s tutelage echoed. Keep your balance, and remove theirs.

Oh Celestia help him, this was going to be a stupid idea. And yet, genius tends to come from stupid ideas. That, or instant death.

Angling himself into a spiral, he veered away from the doorway of the helicopter, and aimed for the tail. With a scream of anger, he slammed his shoulder into it, tucking his wings closed. The effect was immediate. The sudden blow instantly set the helicopter spinning out of control.

Looking up, Pound Cake saw what he feared. The propellor of the helicopter whipped straight for his neck. Keeping his head down, he fell. The blades grazed his skin, cutting so close to his wings that feathers were sliced at the tips. Falling head first, he waited as long as he dared before he opened his wings once more, far from the propellor. 

Not done yet.

Pulling into an upwards spiral, he twisted once more to dive for the helicopter. Spinning through the air, the tail and propellor sliced at him viciously, as if screaming for revenge. Closing his eyes, he took a breath, and shot between the tail and straight into the helicopter.

Lulamoon, desperately hanging on to her seat and shouting for the pilot to pull the helicopter together, didn’t get a chance to react. Pound Cake slammed into her, throwing off her aim. Eyes wide with animalistic fury, her horn sparked as she tried to aim the shotgun at the intruder. Before the barrel could reach him, Pound Cake struck the weapon with his elbow, and Lulamoon fired blindly.

There was a loud crack and a muffled scream as the blast tore through the seat in front of her, spraying the pilot’s blood against the windshield.

No!

Pulling back a hoof, Pound Cake’s muscles contracted and trembled with anger. Then, letting all go at once, he smashed his hoof forwards, snapping Lulamoon’s head to the side. The shock was enough for her to lose concentration, and the shotgun lost its magical glow and tumbled through the air and out the helicopter. Unfortunately, it ended up right in the propellor. Shrapnel exploded outwards, lodging itself uncomfortably close to Pound Cake’s head. He chanced a glimpse at the pilot. 

It was slumped against the controls, blood flowing from spider-web cracks in its glass eyes. Too late. Slowly, almost lazily, as if the helicopter was falling asleep, it began to tip in the air, falling from the sky like a wounded bird.

Blood flowing freely from her muzzle, Lulamoon shrieked in anger as her horn flared, charging a spell.

“I’ll kill you!” she screamed hysterically. “I’ll kill you for this you filthy pegasus! I’ll turn you to ash and spray you all over Canterlot!”

The helicopter lurched as it fell, and a searing burst of energy shooting from her horn burned into the cockpit rather than Pound Cake’s chest. Planting his hind legs against the side of falling helicopter, he bared his teeth and smashed his hoof against her face, silencing her outburst with a grunt of pain.

“No. No more!” he hissed, his stomach twisted into a freezing knot. “No more! That was the last one, you hear me? The last one!”

Lulamoon tried to speak again, but was only met with a vicious kick to the gut. And as the helicopter fell, Pound Cake tore into her, one blow after another.

There was a meaty crack. That one’s for Derpy.

Crack.

That one’s for my sister.

Crunch.

And that one’s for...

“Scootaloo,” he whispered on a breath. His hoof raised, it stopped in midair as the world tumbled around him. Lulamoon breathed heavily, blood dripping from her muzzle, one eye blackened and the other swollen shut. Coughing weakly, Lulamoon gasped for breath, reaching out with a battered hoof.

She looked up at him with quiet resolve. Her eyes were not afraid. They were cold, steely. Daring him.

Take. That. Step.

He didn’t have a choice as the helicopter lurched in its freefall, tearing what little was left of Lulamoon’s seatbelt. Without so much as a scream, her eyes never him as she tumbled out of the helicopter, falling into the streets below.

When Pound Cake spread his wings and shot outwards of the helicopter, his body did not move of his own accord.

She murdered Derpy. Shot her in cold blood after twisting her and breaking her for her own gain.

He spun around a piece of debris, kicking it to the side as he dove downwards towards the rapidly approaching streets.

She took everything from you. She stole your wings, stole your parents, stole your sister.

It was coming fast. Too fast. The wind roared in his ears but he couldn’t hear any of it. Every muscle in his body was straining, and he was falling like a stone. Nearly there, almost caught up. He had to...

And Scootaloo. You lost Scootaloo and it’s all her fault. You lost the closest thing you had to a friend.

She was just out of reach. Floating centimeters away as the wind ripped at her mane, Lulamoon screamed in panic as the ground rushed up to meet her. Just a little bit more. He pushed with more strength than he had ever used in his entire life, every cell in his body screaming with effort and exhaustion.

Scootaloo’s dead. You couldn’t save Scootaloo so why save her? She died and you never even had the courage to tell her that you loved–

“I won’t let her die!” Pound Cake roared to the wind. He reached out, and grabbed Lulamoon’s midsection. Flaring his wings, he put himself between her and the ground. Spreading his body as much as he could to slow his fall, he felt the wind cut at his battered body. The helicopter exploded below him. And everything became silent.


***


When he hit the ground, he hit it hard. Slamming into the concrete, he opened his mouth to scream in pain, but nothing left his throat. Everything in his body seemed to turn into liquid, and his nerves became mercifully numb. Bleeding, broken, shattered.

With what little strength he had left, he managed to tilt his head upwards. Lulamoon was collapsed against his chest, barely conscious. He watched her immobile body in terror. Then, finally, it rose and fell in a weak breath.

Alive. She was alive, and so was he. Moaning in agony, the mare shuddered, then rolled off of him. Laying on her back beside him, she coughed heavily, and it twisted into a feeble laugh of disbelief.

“Un... Unbelievable. You just couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t bring yourself to do it, could you? After all I’ve done, and you just couldn’t even do it. Couldn’t even just leave me to splatter on some rooftop.” She laughed again, stopping as her body seized with pain. She turned her head to the side to look at him from behind her tangled, bloody mop of a mane. “Absolutely incredible. You truly are something else... Pound Cake. I almost respect that.”

Legs trembling, Pound Cake turned onto his side. Every muscle in his body was begging for him to lie down, to just close his eyes and sleep off the pain. He almost fell on his face accidentally pushing downwards on his wounded foreleg. But slowly, finally, he stood, legs bleeding, wings crooked. Alive.

“And he stands,” whispered Lulamoon. “I don’t believe it. What are you?”

Spitting a glob of blood out of his mouth, Pound Cake gauged his surroundings. A rooftop. He looked upwards at the sun, trying to figure out where he was. Nothing seemed familiar from down here anymore. He knew every last rooftop in Canterlot, and yet here he was, lost. Testing his wings, he stepped over Lulamoon. Gritting his teeth with pain and effort, he picked her up. Her battered body offered no resistance, and she moaned again in pain.

“I’m just a pegasus,” he finally said.

Pound Cake spread his wings. There would be a better view up in the air.