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// Prologue: Runt's crew 
// Story: Domestic Politics 
// by DontSweatIt 
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        His stomach growled audibly, interrupting his focus on his observations. It was so pesky, so demanding. His tummy's pain was ever-present and oh so inconvenient. He was beginning to really loathe the inevitable tremors that echoed around the cavity. His peeves aside, it would have to appeased at some point. The only thing more inconvenient than the constant hunger would be death. He hopped down off of his perch on the lid of a trash can and trotted from the alley.

The alley was a fantastic location to scout out all of the street traffic. Sometimes, bits of rotten food would even be hiding amongst all of the discarded wrappers and boxes inside the trashcan. Those were good days.

The streets were busy, packed with tourists and shopkeepers who yelled at the roaming customers to buy their many products, creating a din that fed upon itself as ponies tried to make themselves heard.

The little colt sauntered down the street, staying on the far left side so that he wouldn't get in anypony's way. He hugged a brick wall tightly as ponies in tropical shirts cantered past. Some wore aprons, indicating their status as business owners.

All of the shopkeepers in his immediate area already knew him; knew that he was a troublemaker and a thief. His dirtied brown coat contrasted with his bright blonde mane, making him easy to pick out among crowds and identify. The shock of sunny mane on his scalp was curse that he often loathed. It made him memorable.

Memorability was most definitely a problem. For example, somepony peddling fruit would be somewhat reluctant to sell him any after remembering that it was he who stole a good deal of inventory. Of course, he regretted being so greedy with his hooves - all the food had weighed him down enough to get caught. That had not been a good day, no sir.

So today he would actually have to buy his meal, with all the money he didn't have. Fixing that was at the top of his priorities.

Now, there are a few ways to get money as a street pony, and he was one of the best at acquiring it. As light and fast as he was, he excelled especially at the first method - pick pocketing. Some thieves believed it should be done by bumping into a passerby on “accident”, and making off with their wallet. The colt was neither big enough for that or convincing enough to pull it off. Besides, why risk confrontation when you can just slip a hoof into their bag and then back out without the drama?

Another method of retrieving bits was by begging, which he could have done well at if he were dedicated enough. He was young and small, attracting empathy and rich guilt everywhere he went. Trouble was, not everypony pitied him. One time, in the southwestern part of Canterlot, he had been begging for nearly 12 hours and had raked in some 20 bits, which was quite a haul. A couple of the other bums had thought so too, beating him, taking the bits and leaving him for dead. By his calculations, he had been about 5 years old then, and it had been only a year ago. He was probably still young enough to sustain himself with begging, but he just didn’t like it. It was boring and not nearly as rewarding as slight-of-hand was.

Stealing it was.

The many tourists that walked the streets were not accustomed to the homeless, and didn't know the mischief that followed them everywhere. He used their naivety to his advantage, carefully spilling open a coin purse here and a wallet there. It had to be slow going, or else he could get caught by the other pedestrians or stall owners by being sloppy. That had happened a couple times, and each time the colt had had to move to a different location.

He was small though, small even for his age. Yessir, he was small, quick, and smart. He knew who would be most vulnerable and the easiest to steal from.

Sometimes he'd follow a pony who was happily snapping pictures at the surrounding architecture, completely oblivious to the street culture surrounding them. They were so easy and stupid, he was almost sorry for them, but he needed the money more.

While the sightseer was looking through the lense of his camera or checking a map, the colt quickly -- oh so gently -- cut the pony's "secure" wallet from around their neck. In less than a second, the wallet was his, and he'd quietly slip away from the none-the-wiser tourist.

Or maybe he'd take special note of where a shopper stowed their bits after they made a purchase from a stall. He'd make his way behind them, quiet as a mouse, then take the money without so much as touching the sides of the hoofbag it was concealed in. He could only take small amounts though, or else the victims might tell the Guard that all of their money had disappeared and where it had happened, and then shit would really hit the fan.

So it was slow going, but he eventually had enough money to purchase a loaf of bread and some water. It wasn't much, but it would sustain him for at least a few days. After making his transactions with a more than suspicious vendor, the colt made his way back to the little trash can in his alley and hopped up onto it.

He first gulped down some of the water, as his alley that day was choked with the dust the heavy hoof traffic kicked up. The water was divine compared to the collected rain that he usually sustained himself on, so he made sure to take care in enjoying it.

Next was the bread, which would also be some of the first real nutrition that had reached his palate in some time. The colt feared that the more uppity ponies of Canterlot probably took this kind of thing for granted -- basic necessities such as food and water, that is. For the colt, however, it was about as common for him to taste real baked goods like this as it was for a new princess to be named.

In truth, he didn’t really pay attention to the princesses or the elite at all, so he wouldn’t know how often that actually was. The only government organization he kept an eye out for was the Guard, obviously. Besides, he had his own politics to look out for.

One of the most interesting things (he thought) about the street was the culture. Or at least, the culture of the ponies who lived like he did. Hundreds of foals, just like him, lived on the streets, and particpated in a most intricate system of government. Most were a part of crews, which operated a lot like gangs. They just thought they were above that title. Anyway, the crews had a very specific purpose.

In Canterlot, there existed numerous soup kitchens that provided stable, free food sources for those that could take advantage of it. Generally speaking, if a crew could take over the territory of any given soup kitchen, all of the food given out would be theirs for the taking. Based on how strong or intimidating a crew was, they could get either a large kitchen or a smaller one. The smaller ones lied in the territories of the weaker crews, and didn’t allow too much growth as far as strength goes.

Some crews though, managed to secure the major kitchens, places like Old Horn Church and Key’s, which could feed up to 100 a day each. Now, not even the most powerful crews could eat that much, so there was very often surplus. The smartest crew bosses had figured out that they could profit from allowing the smaller crews to eat at the big kitchens. By letting the small gangs eat there, they expanded their territory, influence, and could usually scalp a few good fighters or something from the smaller crews.

The geography of the city was pretty easy to understand. The castle, which was the main tourist hotspot, was in the Royal City, a very small section of the city in the northwest, about a mile square. Much of the north, however, was Dupont, a rich and vibrant community for fringe politicians and successful artists. It had grand architecture, with whitewashed domes and gold trims, all set against the castle in the background. 

To the direct south of Dupont was the Old Town, which pretty much explained itself. It was the historic section of Canterlot, with more browns and beiges than whites and golds. It was also where the colt ate and slept, though it would be a stretch to call it “home”. The border between Dupont and Old Town was Embassy Row, a wide avenue that held every embassy in the known world. Huge hotels and parks lay on the road, too, making it a prime hotspot for tourists.

To the south of Old Town was Bridgetown, through which the Patrino River ran. Bridgetown's namesake was a set of five bridges that crossed the river. This end of the city was the southernmost piece of real estate, as well as the poorest. Not exactly a shanty town, but less wealthy nonetheless.

To the west of the Old Town was the Financial District, and one can imagine what happened there. It was relatively small, only larger than (and almost as guarded as) the Royal City. Banks, federal bereaus, and towering hotels all made up the skyline, their glittering windows testament to a newly industrialized land.

Power was everything out here, and the colt did not exactly resemble power. He was malnutritioned and as a result his growth had been stunted significantly: he was shorter than the average 6 year old, and most foals were 8-12. Though he held prowess in thievery, the crews frequently had turf wars to gain more territory, and he represented more of a liability in a fight than anything.

As he chewed his meal and watched the ponies that cantered past, he allowed a few moments of blissful peace enter his mind. For now, he wouldn't be hungry. For now, he wouldn't be living from one second to the next, trying to take his mind off of his empty stomach.

"Hey runt, watcha got there? Food? You know, you really shouldn't steal." The pony that had entered the mouth of the alley unnoticed began tutting at the colt, apparently chastising him for stealing.

The colt found this rather ironic and snickered to himself. Scootaloo was one to lecture on being a good pony. She had bullied his food out of him from the beginning, giving it instead to her posse of street ponies. She always said that it was a partnership between them, an understanding of sorts, though she was faster to negotiate with her hooves than with her mouth.

She was the hot shot out here. She owned almost a third of the territory south of Embassy Row, which equated about three kitchens. Big ones, too. Scootaloo was the leader of an army of 200 homeless foals, not including the network of smaller gangs and individuals like him. Besides crew leaders like Boulder Fist, who led perhaps the most brutal group in Canterlot, she was the most powerful in the city. This is mind, she was very well fed. So why did she insist on ruining his meager supper?

She was always calling him runt, too. Was that his name? It had to have been, or else she wouldn't call him that all the time. He couldn't remember being called anything else, so he supposed his name was Runt.

The orange filly moved slowly towards the colt, who hadn't so much as breathed since his peaceful meal had been interrupted by the bully so rudely. She looked at the remaining half loaf in his hoof with anticipation, a glint of cruel joy dancing across her face.

"You know the deal, kid. Give me the food." Scootaloo reached out with her hoof towards the bread, but the colt backed away, refusing her this one time. If he didn't eat, he would die.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Give me the food, or I swear to Celestia you won't die from hunger!" The cruel expression on Scootaloo's face had grown even darker the instant the bread was refused from her. Runt kept the food from her reach though, looking towards the light at the end of the alley, calculating whether he could get past the bully faster than the inevitable beating.

Scootaloo saw him look, however, "Oh no you don't. Give me the damn bread, you shit!"

She lunged forwards with an audible huff, left hoof extended. It connected with Runt's jaw, sending stars across his vision and a hollow thump through the alley. He couldn't take a beating, not while he was so starving and weak. He fell heavily to the ground, grunting as the breath was knocked out of him. Still, the bread was held in the crook of his hoof.

As he gasped for air, floundering about on the ground, his mind raced and the cogs turned in his head as the 'fight-or-flight' instincts kicked in. He tried to think of how he could overpower her, but nothing came to him. Scootaloo had an easy head on him, and more muscle than Runt cared to admit. She was faster, too. Being a Pegasi meant she was much lighter on her hooves than an Earth pony like him. He had to try though.

It was fairly simple: if he gave up this food, it didn't matter how sore he'd feel in the morning from a brush with Scootaloo. Already today, the lack of food and water had made him dizzy and lightheaded, nearly preventing his adventure amongst the tourists' pocketbooks from earlier.

Scootaloo walked towards the sprawled colt, looking forward to the punishment he would most certainly receive. Runt watched through half-lidded eyes as she strode towards him evenly. His heartbeat filled his ear drums, sounding out a tempo that seemed to pacify him a little. Like a metronome, it leashed the chaotic desperation buzzing around his skull and allowed a few sensible thoughts to escape. A plan began forming.

When Scootaloo was parallel to Runt's trashcan, he saw his chance. Lashing out with his back right hoof, he kicked the container sideways at the filly. It hit her in the flank, making her stumble and fall. The few seconds she was on the ground under the can was all the time Runt needed. He got to his hooves and galloped out of the alley, feeling dizzy at the sudden movement, but he was also elated. His heart beat wildly, and his lungs screamed in agonizing protest at all the sudden action. He dodged a few ponies, careful still to hold on to the bread that had caused him so much trouble.

The vendors had begun to close their stalls and were taking stock of their inventory for the day, so the streets were quickly emptying of ponies. Runt had plenty of room to sprint as fast as his weakened state would allow, and he took the opportunity to snag a fallen apple from a cart as he ran. He briefly registered that he was heading north-west, based on the position of the setting sun. He was going towards Dupont, where he could find sanctuary from Scoot's crew. They would most definitely want his head now, considering the refusal of food and the physical retaliation against their boss.

Being as powerful as she was, anypony that messed with Scootaloo was usually found dead the next morning. That’s how she got so much power -- she managed to scare the living shit out of everypony else, so there was no more competition.

He had been running for a few minutes when he passed Washington Park, which had been an old haunt of his. He didn’t exactly know how long he should run, so he stopped at the familiar location to think out his next move. Panting, he looked around him. The shadows under the trees were getting longer, and the late autumn air was beginning to cut to Runt’s bone. Maybe stopping wouldn’t be such a good idea.

Runt took off again, his tired legs reminding him of how much of an idiot he was. Passing strolling lovers and self-righteous aristocrats, his mouth started to feel a little like cotton. He galloped for as long as he could, until his legs burned and a stitch had formed in his side. Runt stopped running for a moment to clutch at his ribs, grimacing when the pain didn't go away immediately. With every breath, in fact, it seemed to grow within his stomach. He figured that it was because he was still dehydrated, so he leaned down to take a drink from the dirty water inside a gutter.

After gulping down the polluted water, he looked around again. Runt was about 5 blocks north of his original alley, and he was finally near Embassy Row, which marked the northern edge of Scoot's territory. They wouldn't dare venture north of it for fear of the Royal Guard, which had launched a campaign to clear the streets there.

He never even looked back to see if Scootaloo had followed him, he knew he had escaped for now. Even better, he had food. As he had kicked out and gotten to his hooves in the alley, he had gripped the bread between his jaws, so now he had the apple in his hoof and the bread in his mouth. Though, it had been damned awkward running like that, and it made it hard to breathe.

Outside of the tussle with Scootaloo, today had been good. This would be enough food to last him a week, providing there weren't any more unwanted surprises.

***

Night was beginning to fall, and so the cold was setting in. Runt would have to find somewhere to sleep for the night, and somewhere warm. He had been running and moving for two hours total, having crossed the border into safe territory about an hour prior. He didn't especially think his body would mind getting some rest, even though it would probably be on the hard ground in an alley. Runt had half a mind to make a motto for himself that somehow involved alleys, but he was too tired to do much of anything besides walk.

Runt had made it to the more uppity side of Canterlot, where the museums and concert halls were all situated, just east of the castle. There were numerous cafes and bistros resting in the shadow of the towering white palace, but no stalls or carts where he could get food after the apple and bread would run their course.  And though the quaint corner bakeries and ice cream parlors were enticing as all hell, they were very nearly impossible to rob when the one doing the robbing was Runt.

To make matters worse, the ponies that frequented this part of town were of a higher class than he was used to dealing with, and he doubted pick-pocketing would be easy. He'd have to keep moving to better hunting grounds tomorrow.

Sighing, Runt made his way across a square with a large fountain in the middle and several high rises overlooking it. Ponies meandered about, toting shopping bags and snooty attitudes. It all made Runt gag a little. He decided to start looking or a decent place to rest, so he took a moment to study his surroundings.

In truth, the square he was in was more of a rectangle, which stretched 200 meters lengthwise and 50 meters width. At one of the far ends was an art museum and fancy restaurant. There was a bustle of waiters and waitresses running about in front of the establishment, where a covered patio was located. They were apparently setting the tables up outside for the night, and Runt found the seriousness of their hustle mildly entertaining.

At the other end of the square was an enormous building that left Runt momentarily breathless. At his previous residence in the poorer end of town, buildings like the one before him were only seen on postcards outside of knick-knack corner stores and the like. Which was not to say his last neighborhood had been run down or the slums of the city. It was the old district of Canterlot, and was home to the more cultured buildings that attracted the tourists Runt usually preyed on.

A sign in front of the massive structure read 'Canterlot Music Hall'.

Runt continued towards the building, which was squarish and painted a dull red, with beige columns all along the front. It had more columns supporting the central section of the building, which jutted out into the square. Runt knew he wouldn't be allowed inside, certainly not in the state he was in.

His coat was filthy and matted from the dusty Canterlot streets, and he did not doubt that his mane was disheveled with sweat. His curiosity was piqued, however, when he saw streams of ponies walking towards the building.

Much fancier ponies dressed in suits and ridiculous dresses were walking up the steps of the central section, where Runt supposed the entrance was. There must've been a concert going on inside. Runt trotted over to the left side of the building, where a small side street ran and less dressed-up ponies were gathering. They all wore black shirts over their fur, which led Runt to believe they were probably stagehands.

None of them seemed to notice Runt observing their movements as they rushed about in the side street, going to and fro with wires and microphones and the like. They were unloading all of it from two large crates parked next to a large doorway. Runt stood still and observed until they all had finished whatever jobs they had been performing, and in twenty minutes they had all gone inside. The access doorway was still open, so Runt moved towards it.

Again, he knew he could not go inside, or else he could get in trouble for trespassing. Instead, he stood just outside the doorway, listening for whatever was going on inside.

"...it is my honor to introduce the Canterlot Quartet, performing an original piece by their very own Frederick Horseshoepin, 'Uproar'!" Runt was taken aback by the volume of the announcer. He must have been right behind the stage! As soon as the polite clapping that followed the introduction ended, the crowd grew completely silent. After a few seconds of stillness, the music began.

A slow and mournful tune was layed out by two stringed instruments: a harp and another he didn't know. Runt's lack of formal education was really starting to irk him. The dreary duo continued for about half a minute when a piano joined them, its plinking keys ringing out over the hall. They all had at their somber piece for awhile, and just as Runt was getting bored, one of the stringed instruments took off in a flurry of notes, breaking through the underlayer of piano and the harp. The player was spinning a lighter melody, offsetting the rest of the piece.

It played faster and higher in a whirlwind of musical notes so complex it made Runt's head spin. It climbed higher and higher until, at last, it reached its peak and played its initial series of notes. This time, the piano joined it, its plinking keys ringing out across Runt's lobes. The instruments seemed to dance together, rising up past the dorrway and into the cool night air.

Then, another instrument joined the mix. A horn of some sort, deep and powerful, layed a melody that seemed to lift the piece even more. It sruck a deep rhythm, keeping tempo for the piano and that mystery stringed instrument. And when the song came to a great climax that nearly brought the hardened colt to tears, it all stopped. The music fell away very suddenly and the string instruments started their sad song again.

Runt groaned in frustration. He didn't want the depressing song, he wanted to hear the music really sing! Evidently, one of the stage hands heard his protest, because a large looking Earth stallion moved into the doorway towards Runt.

"Hey, what the are you doing back here? This is employees only!" The stallion chastised in a harsh whisper, closing the access door with the quietest bang Runt had ever heard.

Runt was off running the second the stallion disappeared behind the door, praying to Celestia he hadn't broken any laws or something by intruding on the performance.

He made his way back to the square, where he hoped he was actually allowed. The retseraunt he had seen earlier was now in full swing, with customers enjoying the nice evening with a glass of wine. Their laughter filled the rectangle, elevating Runt's mood once more. Between the musical high he had experienced at the Hall, this atmosphere, and his relative safety, he was feeling like a million bits.

Runt sat at the fountain, reliving the music he had eavesdropped on. He didn't replay the sad part, he didn't need that in his already gray (though admittedly lightening) life. Instead, he focused on the memory of the uplifting part in the middle, when all the instruments had stretched towards the sky and made Runt feel 50 feet tall. Made him feel on top of the world.

He sighed happily, stretching himself on the lip of the fountain's pool. He looked up at the night sky, wondering what life would be like for him far off into the future. Maybe one day he'd be looking back at the same stars, not as some nopony, but as an artist like the ones he'd just heard. He swore to himself that if that ever happened, he'd only play happy pieces, and he'd get famous for making ponies feel like they were flying towards the heavens.

His dreams for the future were interrupted by a decidedly unwelcome face.

"Hey, runt. This time you ain't gettin' away, right?" Runt looked towards where Scootaloo stood, and saw what she was talking about. She had brought her crew with her, 25 street ponies in all, and they quickly surrounded the fountain. They were a mean-looking bunch, some with torn ears and all of them had scars of some sort curving around their stomachs or faces.

This was very bad news indeed. If Scootaloo was willing to risk bringing a good amout of her gang up into the north part of the city, they really did want him dead. He had heard from another little colt that, following the Guard clearing the streets up here, the crew bosses on the south side were tightening security to make sure the royalty never got wind of their operations. This was ridiculous, though.

"You need your whole crew just to help take out a little guy like me? You're gettin' soft, Scoots." Runt's high, raspy voice caught scootaloo off guard, the sarcasm causing a cold fury to dance across her face. 

She walked steadily towards where Runt sat, and he noted that she enjoyed theatrics more than just a little.

"Figures, the first thing to come out of your mouth is shit. My crew ain't gonna do nothin', just make sure you don't run like last time." Scootaloo finished by spitting a thick glob of flem and saliva at Runt.

Thinking quickly, he threw himself back into the fountain with an almighty splash. The spit missed by a mile, landing uselessly on the cobble beyond him. Runt stood up dripping, acknowledging that his escape from the spit had just gotten him a more soaked coat. It was more of an act of defiance than anything, though, and boy did it piss Scootaloo off something awful.

He looked up under his sopping mane, and saw Scootaloo rushing towards him. He turned around and jumped over the lip of the little pool, just as Scootaloo hopped in after him, displacing more water. Runt allowed himself a laugh at her expense when she let loose a string of curses.

"What the buck?! Stand still, you shit!"

Runt looked at the ring of hostile ponies surrounding him, trying to spot any weaknesses. One of Scootaloo's crew was a little smaller than the rest, a chubby Saddle Arabian with a grimy mane and a gimpy hoof. It looked like Runt could get past him. While Scoot tried to make her way out of the bubbling fountain, Runt rushed the weakling. The pony flinched, but another larger one stepped in front of Runt.

"Where you goin', compadre?" He shoved Runt reeling back towards the middle of the circle, where Scootaloo was waiting, having finally gotten out of the chilly water.

"Stay still, runt." Scootaloo swung at him, but he sidestepped quickly.

Making another dash for the fountain, Runt took off. He made another splash, sending water in the direction of a very unamused Scootaloo. It seemed to be in vain this time, however, because she just stayed outside the lip and waited for Runt to emerge from his little sanctuary, while the circle began tightening around them. Escape was quickly becoming more and more unlikely.

The older ponies started to yell, and soon insults filled the air around Runt.

"You're nuttin' but a little shit!"

"Nobody fuckin' loves you!"

"Scoot's gonna kick your ass!"

Runt tried to shut it out, tried to replace their words with other sounds. He focused on the sounds of the city beyond the square, where all of the clubs and raves that were beginning to come to life. This did nothing for him though, because the city was also haven for fighting in traffic jams and ponies arguing about prices of food or taxi fare. That feuding brought him inevitably right back to the fountain, where Scootaloo was starting to close in.

Then it came to him. Runt closed his eyes tight and imagined he was back at the concert hall, listening to the quartet when they made their glorious climax and pushed him towards the heavens. It lifted him up, and at that moment, he was invincible.

It was exactly what he needed, to slow down and think for a second -- just like when he was back in the alley. He could always out-think these dolts. He looked down at the water he stood in and noticed the bits that ponies threw into the fountain for good luck resting on the bottom of the pool. Part of him wished he had known about the displaced currency earlier, when he was hungry, but he simply shook his head. He needed to focus.

Runt stooped down and picked up a few bits, rolling them around in his hoof.

"Oh, that for me? Thanks!" Scootaloo said sarcastically as she jumped towards Runt, her hoof heading straight towards his snout. He let the music fill him again, and he knew what to do. He ducked quickly so that he was under the outstretched form of Scootaloo, and then pushed off with his hooves. His curled right hoof connected with her ribcage, which sent her sprawling into the water.

Seeing his chance, Runt again moved towards one stallion in particular in the ring. The pony Runt was running at smiled, looking forward to hitting Runt back towards Scootaloo. Runt kept running at him, raising the hoof that held the loose bits. He aimed carefully, and waited until he was close enough to the pony and then let the bits fly. The stallion shrank away under the fire, but recovered faster than Runt had calculated. The pony lunged towards Runt, knocking him to the ground with an almighty thud and pinning him down.

"You fuckin' prick!" The stallion picked up his hoof and brought it down across Runt's face.

For a second, the colt had trouble discerning the lights that swam in front of his eyes from the stars in the sky. In a few seconds, his vision cleared enough to see Scootaloo once again walking towards the pinned Runt. This time, however, she wasn't going to give him any chance to escape.

She took a knife from one of the other fillies in the ring, flashing a smile, before making her way to Runt. He could see that he wouldn't make it out of this one, no matter how much time he had to think. The music filled his head again, though this time it was the somber part of the tune. He understood it now, why it was there. It comforted Runt on some basic level that he couldn't really comprehend, but he played it in his head all the same.

Moonlight  and stars flashed across the blade of the knife as it was brought down in time for the piano to join the stringed instruments, its plinking keeping away the pain in Runt's head as Scootaloo went to work on him. He knew exactly what she would do, since he had been watching her and all of her crew for entertainment and academic purposes since their beginning. They did the same thing to each of their victims, and it was a gruesome routine.

First, Scootaloo would severe the tendons in Runt's hind legs, leaving him immobile. Though the conscious knowledge that this would happen to him was certainly sobering, the pain caught him off guard on the same level as an electric shock. The pain was razor sharp and pulverized every other thought in Runt's mind. Lights raced across his eyes as bile made its way into his throat. It dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, making him choke and cough.

Runt began to slip into shock, and the music left him. The screaming pain in his lower body broke through every mental barrier he put into place, and darkness was filling his vision. To add insult to injury, Scootaloo wiped a forehoof under Runt's snout, which was covered in bile and snot. She made sure that her hoof was thoroughly covered before rubbing the mess into Runt's leg wounds, ensuring a raging infection even if Runt managed to survive the immediate trauma.

Runt screamed. Tears immediately filled his eyes, and he started lashing out wildly, trying to fight the iron hold on him. He lifted up his head spastically, smacking the stallion holding him down in the snout, making him clutch at his nose. Runt picked himself up and lashed out at Scootaloo, knocking the knife out of her hoof. He tried moving towards her, but found the only direction he could go was down, since his hind legs were all but rendered useless.

Now, a different song filled his mind, one that he had never heard before. It was a screaming melody that completely filled him with rage and anger. It was one of screeching horror, brought forth by the immense pain and suffering. His own cries accompanied the song as he started dragging himself and his now useless hind legs towards the slightly dazed Scootaloo. When she saw that he could only crawl, she seemed to gain some confidence, and a sick grin twisted its way into her face.

She made large strides towards Runt until she stood over him. She lifted up her hind leg and unmercifully, unceremoniously bucked him in the face. He cried out, collapsing again. His screaming and crying finally brought help, as one of the stage hands that Runt had seen outside of the Hall galloped over to see what all the ruckus was about.

The gruff pony yelled about calling the Royal Guard when he saw that it was a gang fight, and Scootaloo's crew scattered. Runt was left lying next to the fountain, blood dripping from his cut legs. He was panting heavily, and more blood was running heavily down his face. He looked back at the night sky, and the somber music filled his head again. Just as that string instrument broke through the melody, his world faded and the darkness closed in.