The Shadowbolt's contempt came through loud and clear with every word he spoke: “What's your business crawling out of the ghetto?”
The sullen ochre stallion lifted up his leather messenger bag and showed the embroidered postal service logo. “I'm a mailpony, in case you couldn't tell.”
“Since when did they let dirt-eaters be mail ponies?” a Civil Force soldier off to the side jeered. "Can any of you even read?" His compatriots laughed.
“Papers,” the Shadowbolt captain said. “Now.”
The stallion glanced around the checkpoint, and at the hostile, mocking eyes ringing him. He wasn't worried, though; the only hostile eyes that did worry him were the ones a pony can't see, not until a spear is sticking out of a buddy's back. Slowly, almost leisurely, he dipped his face into his bag, took out his passport by his teeth, and let it flap open. The Shadowbolt tore the booklet open. His every muscle tensed up as he got ready to drag the stallion away. But as the captain read through the passport, his jaw slowly dropped open.
“Oh, I'm-I'm so sorry, Sergeant Sentry,” he stammered. “I didn't realize you were one of-of....”
Filled with loathing, he finished the captain's thoughts: “One of us?”
“Wi-without the wings, I-I just assumed....”
The Shadowbolt reminded Flash of his younger self, and Flash hated him all the more for it. The minion wore horseshoes far too big for him, just to prove how important he was in society at large, by lording it over some little checkpoint at an insignificant intersection. A big shot in a small pond. Flash wanted to twist around and give the Shadowbolt a taste of his hind hoof, but he reined the impulse in. He had a more important mission to accomplish, and he couldn't jeopardize it.
“Go right on through,” the captain said generously, stepping aside.
Without a word, Flash snatched the passport back and slunk through the checkpoint. The Civil Force soldiers and Shadowbolts saluted him.
And why not? He was a veteran. A hero of war, like on the recruitment posters he spent his childhood idolizing. Brave pegasi out to defend the homeland from the degenerate hordes tearing down pony civilization. He hadn't met any degenerate races in the coat before he shipped out, but he heard about them on the radio, both in the news and in the action serials he loved, so it must be true. Those big, bold words, 'ENLIST NOW', were a simple enough command to his colthood self, and a real pegasus always obeys orders, no matter the cost.
He approached the March of Triumph, the enormous roundabout that circled the grassy park with the colossal Arch of Triumph, built to commemorate a war Equestria had unquestionably won. When he came home, the High Castle hustled him and the other rescued POWs into convertible autocarriages to parade them down that very same street and under that very same arch. He had waved at the cheering crowds, allowing the civilians to wring some small victory from the unmitigated disaster the Grazembezi war had turned into after fourteen long years. For the first time, Flash had felt like a hero to the adoring ponies of Equestria, and it was intoxicating. Now he walked the empty road alone, with only a distant memory of the cheering crowd to fill the empty space. He passed a work detail tending to the trees, under the stern eyes of pegasus overseers. The earth ponies' orange vests and earmarks glinted in the rows of lamps along the cobblestone March. Suddenly Flash didn't feel like a hero anymore.
He noted how bold the stone pegasi on the colossal Arch looked. But then, they had been shaped to look that way, just as he had been shaped by this city. Born in '72, right at the start of the rush of optimism that followed the Griffon war, he had grown up in an age of unbridled economic prosperity. The Empire's overseas holdings were finally secure, there were plenty of goods to go around, and a vibe of optimism and joy gave life to the world. Everypony felt so bold and invincible that when the High Castle announced in '79 they were marching into Grazembezi to combat degeneracy, everypony cheered. The Empire of the Moon had weathered the war with the Griffons and come out stronger for it. That was how societies stayed fit, they said. And as the war went on and on with no end in sight, that spirit of optimism made them turn a blind eye to the cracks that slowly appeared in the economy, the Empire's foundation. In the end, the golden age was eroded away and revealed as nothing more than gilding.
Of course, he was no better. Back then, the only thing he was worried about was his generation's war ending before he had a chance to prove himself a real pegasus, like his father had during the Griffon war. Flash enlisted the moment he turned eighteen, eager to prove himself to a nation reeling from a monumental stab in the back by the Winter Brigade. He had gotten his wish. As they drove him down the March, he finally felt like a hero. All it cost him was a pair of wings.
He passed beneath the Arch and came out the other side. Atop the buildings at the far end of the roundabout, he spied a billboard for Croup Steel. 'The Backbone of Equestrian Might,' the slogan said, over a heroic-looking picture of tanks rolling over a hill. The Grazembezi war only ended six years ago, yet already they had started putting the gilding back on the city and declaring it gold.
And meanwhile, the bodies were still rotting away on the far-off savannah: gassed with Chemical BLUE, sprayed with chemicals to speed up decomposition, and left to rot in the harsh eternal glare of the sun. Decomposed over the past six years into chemical heaps to make way for the eventual settlers. The zebra wanted their homeland back, he thought morosely. Well, now they're part of it. Permanently.
Flash Sentry shrugged the weight of memory off his shoulders and patted the mail bag at his side, reassuring himself that both it and the precious cargo it contained were still there. It was the only weapon he had left, the only hope for the city. They made him give up his service weapon when he came home, and with no Canterlot bullets what else could he do?
He walked away from the Arch of Triumph.
The adorable little animals in the window watched Fluttershy from their cages. There wasn't much else to do in their cramped little terrariums. Each layout had only a single decoration: slithering snakes draped themselves over fake deadwood; squawking parrots stood in plastic leafs mimicking the dense and leafy foliage; chittering squirrels scurried through woodchip undergrowth; brilliantly scaled fish darted through artificial coral reefs. Just one little manufactured piece of the long-gone wilderness they had thrived in, now all torn down for massive tracts of farmland, plotted out in blocks and grids, with no untamed wild forest to break the orderly rows. There weren't many critters that could survive in the brand new Equestria. Insects and rats, for the most part. It took a lot of work to raise pets in captivity, and price tags hung off the terrariums with some heft.
But it was alright. Fluttershy had checked and double-checked her math, and she only had to work for six more months, living with a fair amount of frugality, to afford the adorable little bunny she'd set her eyes on. Something to cuddle with and care for, that would cheer her up when she was down. Wouldn't that be nice? she asked herself as she listened to the pet sounds muffled by the plate glass window.
When she entered, the bell over the door rang. But Perky Pet's owner didn't appear. Alone in the shop, she walked between the aquariums and terrariums and vivariums and birdcages. Barking and yipping came from a slightly ajar door marked 'Employees Only' on the far wall, behind the counter. She slowly approached the bell on the counter, but the narrow opening caught her eye. Feeling like a trespasser, she looked inside and got a brief look at a gaunt and scrawny brown dog. Its legs were splayed out and its tongue hung from its muzzle as it panted.
"I've sunk too much time and money into you, you mangy mutt, for you to quit now," the owner said. There was a sharp thwack and a high-pitched whine as a rolled-up newspaper smacked the dog's skull, and Fluttershy cringed in sympathy. The owner said, "You don't get the food until you learn how to be a guard dog, got it?" But the pitiable little dog just whined and shrank back into the corner. "A killer instinct, you don't have."
The owner was about to hit it again when Fluttershy quickly slammed her hoof down on the little bell. The hoof of fury paused, its shadow on the wall hanging over the terrified dog. She was overcome with the urge to run into the back room, scoop it up, and take it home with her. But it was beyond ridiculous. She could barely afford a rabbit; a dog would break her bank account. The door creaked shut, and then there was another whine and a thud followed by the click of a cage door shutting.
He just threw that poor doggie into its cage, she thought in dismay.
She could just barely hear his harsh whisper through the door. "If you don't shape up, Winona, then one of these days I'm going to break your neck and throw your flea-bitten carcass into the trash. No, the trash is too good for you. I'll throw you onto the highway and watch you become roadkill."
The door swung open again and he he stepped out of the back room, flashing her a smile. He looked almost normal. "Hello again," he said.
"Um, hi," she mumbled.
"Come back for another look, huh? Got a great deal on a turtle, if you're interested. Just imported from overseas."
"No, that's alright," she said. "I know who I want to take home with me."
Shrugging, he said, "Your loss."
He ducked behind the counter and came back up with a terrarium and laid it on the countertop. Unlike the others, this one was in a very sorry state. The glass was dingy and dusty and its walls were no more than one foot by two feet. The only prop was a fabricated hollowed-out tree stump that stood alone in the center. Fluttershy smiled as she leaned in close, until her muzzle pressed against the glass. “Come on out,” she cooed. “It's alright.” Erect white ears and an adorable little bunny face poked through the hole atop the tree stump, his jaws working as he munched on carrot chunks. “Aw, you little angel,” Fluttershy said. The bunny threw a bit of carrot at the glass, then scampered back inside the safety of his tree stump.
"I don't know why you want him so much. Of all the rabbits that passed through here, he's by far the worst. Bad tempered and badly behaved. I've spent years running this place, and I know for a fact that animals are just born the way they are. No amount of training can change them." His voice turned bitter. "No matter how much you try."
Having listened to him earlier, she had no doubts about exactly what he meant. But she knew, deep in her heart, that the bunny was just scared and lonely.
"You'd do much better with something smaller," he added. "More manageable."
"I'll be happy with him, thank you."
“In that case....listen, kiddo.” His voice went weighty, his expression grave. “I'm sorry to tell you this, but he's eating up retail space. I have a very valuable mongoose waiting to come in and nowhere to put it. Now, I've been keeping him here because I like you. I think you're a nice filly. But I can't keep him here forever. I'm sorry, but if you can't pay for him by the end of the month, I'll have to put him down. I can't hold it off anymore."
Her eyes refused to leave that innocent little bunny, so blissfully unaware of what would happen to him. Made bolder by his plight, she said, "Could you maybe lower the price a teensy bit, then?"
With a sigh, he explained, "I'm sorry, but I have to be firm here. If I start giving you discounts, everypony will start asking for them. You think this business makes money? Animals are a luxury, and they're not exactly flying off the shelves. If I start slashing prices, I'll be in the red. And I'm the only pet import/export business left in town, too. The others all closed up shop after the crash of '86. I can't afford to go below market value."
"But if you're only going to put him to sleep, then why don't you just....give him away?"
His eyes went cold, and she knew she had crossed a line. The offended owner asked, "Excuse me?"
"Um, I only meant--"
"Do I look like a Griffon to you? I fought a war to keep those degenerates from getting their grubby little claws on this city, and now you think I'm just going to give him to you? Without earning it?"
"I--I only--" Her eyes switched rapidly between the stern owner and the little bunny in the cage. The innocent little critter who would soon be pumped full of chemicals until his heart stopped. Or, more likely, have his neck snapped. His white fur would be stained red with blood, and so would she. His innocence gone, he would turn black and wither and dry up and decay, all because she had failed him. Fluttershy failed everypony, sooner or later. What a useless guardian she was, and a poor mockery of a pegasus. Great big tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn't care anymore. She turned and galloped out of the shop.
As she left, she called out, “I'm sorry,” although whether it was to the store's owner or the rabbit, she couldn't say.
By the streetlamp's glow, Scootaloo stared at her reflection in the storefront window. Her image was faint, hovering like a ghost in the middle of the foals fawning over all the toys: unicorns magically playing with pegasi soldier action figures; gawping at big cardboard books about the Empire of the Moon's glorious founding, with a drawing of the princess of the night dramatically leading the charge on the cover; little pegasi with toy drums and toy mounted machine guns and model helicopters. And all around the toyshop, their parents. Watching over all the foals, giving them encouraging smiles, opening their wallets to buy them their toys.
None of those foals would ever go to sleep on a hard cot in an overcrowded orphanage with bare, barren walls and peeling motivational posters. None would be shepherded by a hoofful of strict matrons and patrons struggling to manage hundreds of foals at once, and who could barely remember their names. None would ever wonder who their parents had been, before they died in the Winter Rising. None would have to endure taunts from the other orphans about not being able to fly, or worse, listen to them make up lies that she was the foal of earth ponies. A degenerate, unworthy of the name 'pegasus'.
She ground her teeth so hard it felt like they'd crack.
But it was alright now. All those taunts had just made her stronger. Look at her now, with her astonishing black uniform. All her life, she'd seen Shadowbolts walking so proudly as they wore the black and purple. And here she was, with her very own uniform. The black fabric, the purple trim, the beret tilted to one side. She couldn't believe it; her life now felt like some kind of fantastic dream after the nightmare of the orphanage.
But a sudden trickle of terror crawled over her skin. What if she woke up and found it was all gone? What if she was stuck back in the orphanage as just plain Scootaloo, and not Junior Cadet Scootaloo, Shadowbolt?
This is real, Scoot, she reassured herself. She nursed delightful thoughts of strutting back into the orphanage and flaunting her success, maybe even lining a few of the foals who'd bullied her up against the wall so she could have her revenge. Not one of them, not even the biggest bullies, would dare fight back against a pony wearing the black and purple. She dug her hooves into the sidewalk, savoring the imaginary impact on those pathetic ponies' faces.
But the more she thought about it, the more she realized she had no desire to set hoof in that place again. She just wanted to put her tail to it and never look back. Move on to bigger and better things. She had better and bigger things to do, and those miserable foals in the orphanage could hear about her on the news and get even more miserable, knowing that she had blazed right past them. For her, the sky was the limit, and the uniform was her wings. It marked her as part of a long and proud tradition of guardians, responsible for keeping the eternal night eternal. She wasn't about to let the Land of the Eternal Moon down.
I'm a Shadowbolt now, she thought. It made her want to cry tears of joy, but only foals like the ones inside the toy store cried. She, a Shadowbolt, was no foal.
“Cadet,” a voice called, “if you're done admiring your reflection, maybe you'd like to get back on duty?”
Scootaloo twisted around and snapped to attention, stomping her hoof on the concrete sharply. Standing by the blockade, the chestnut Major Caspain stared down her white-striped muzzle at Scootaloo, who inwardly cursed at herself for drifting off. She hadn't meant to daydream, but nopony had given her anything to do for twenty minutes now, and there was only so long she could stand around looking serious.
“Yes, ma'am?” Scootaloo asked, eager to prove herself.
Caspain nodded up the street. “Go get me a coffee.”
“Yes, ma'am!”
Scootaloo trotted up the sidewalk, squeezing past one of the idling armored personnel carriers parked across the road. Its rear ramp had been lowered onto the sidewalk, and she peeked inside. In the cramped interior, between the cages full of equipment and the radio console, two mares and a stallion in gray fatigues exchanged battle stories while waiting for the call to action.
Action, she thought. I'd love to see some action!
Past the checkpoint, the road split apart to ring the Arch of Triumph. When she was very young, she remembered the orphanage taking her and the others out here, to see a parade of heroes home from the war. After the disgrace of the Winter Rising, the city worked hard to make its heroes feel welcome and respected. Just a tiny foal, she had pushed against the sawhorses, a tiny part of the surging and roaring crowd, waving her little flag up high. That beautiful and beautifully simple indigo flag with a large round moon, dead center. The flag all those heroes fought for, every pegasus pony who put on a uniform. Everything the Empire of the Moon stood for was contained in that flag, and it was a sight to behold.
Spitfire was neck-deep in the expenditures reports when the record player came to her favorite movement. She pushed away the pile of paperwork and drew her mildly warm coffee cup close as the voice of Palfried soared out of the record player in her office. Oh, the power, she thought. He can really bellow. His razor-sharp voice was raised in a plea to the heavens that rose above the thunderous brass, begging the warrior-goddess for favor on the eve of battle, for the prophesies said he would soon fall on the battlefield. Such a simpler age, when all a pony's enemies were right in front of them and heroes rode out to meet them with valor. Completely unlike the cloak-and-dagger that was Spitfire's stock-in-trade. If only she had a warrior-goddess to beg favor from. Well, there was Luna, but it would take her weeks to get an appointment, and she would feel not only foolish but incompetent if she had to ask the princess of the night for advice about her job.
The angelic chorus of the shield-mares rang out in answer, and in her mind's eye Spitfire could practically see the light of the moon breaking through dense clouds, to fall upon the warrior in his gleaming armor. "Oh, son of the moon," they sang, "no enemy's blade shall fell you tomorrow, and no enemy shall ever do you harm."
And it was true, no enemy did him harm.
He was betrayed by his vassal.
The coincidence struck Spitfire rather suddenly, and it hit her so hard she shivered. This was her favorite opera, so why hadn't she remembered that before she put the record on? Palfried's sworn vassal had been his first and most staunch bannerpony, yet when Palfried gave command of the western host to his rival, he put his spear through Palfried's flank when they started to ride into battle. A chill went down Spitfire's spine. She got up and turned the record player off before it could unnerve her further.
She walked to the window and stared out at the city. She first saw the opera in the mid '80s, right before the Rising. In the prosperity that followed the Griffon war, all sorts of foreign culture from the settlements became in vogue. Like those discotheques. She herself was indifferent to them, but some ponies far more traditionalist than she pushed back. A huge wave of traditionalist revivalism swept through the city. The Tale of Palfried astonished her. All the fury and tempest of the stage, the heroic endeavors, and the ultimate tragedy, all of it washed over her and swept her away. She loved it.
And then, not much later, the Winter Rising broke out and cut at the heart of the city.
I remember now. They said the Winter Brigade stabbed us in the back because the opera was on everybody's mind. We all felt like Palfried that year, trying to fight a war while being betrayed from behind.
The opera happened first, and then we shaped real life around it.
Just like some ponies could sense rain in their joints, Spitfire had attuned herself to the atmosphere of Canterlot. She could sense trouble ahead. Something about the night felt wrong, but she couldn't put her hoof on what, other than Colonel Dash's off-putting behavior.
She sighed and told herself she was just being superstitious. The expenditures still needed going over, so she went back to her desk and plunged back into the stacks of paperwork.
Source 'Witchcraft'? she thought, reading over the details. 'Trixie Lulamoon, archivist, Canterlot Archives'. What is Miss Lulamoon doing to deserve all these bits? She cross-referenced the agent with actionable material and came up with nothing. The Treasury is already on my tail about going over budget. If they audit us and see this money being sunk into a source who isn't giving us results, they'll hang me out to dry. Who's her handler....?
Ah, Colonel Dash. I should've known.
On a hunch, she got up and crossed to the file cabinet, pulled a drawer open, and pulled out a red folder. She flipped it open and checked the file inside. 'Shining Armor. Born: 965. Deceased: 998. Formerly Director of Midnight Guard.' Sure enough, after she scoured the pages she found, 'Next of Kin: Twilight Sparkle, sister. Born 973. Archivist, Canterlot Archives.'
Dash!
She threw the file back into the filing cabinet and slammed it shut with a swift kick of her hind leg. Over on the desk, she scrawled, 'Cut expenditures to Source Witchcraft, immediately'. She downed the last of her coffee, which had gone from warm to lukewarm, and spat a few loose grinds back into the cup, gagging at the bitter taste. She set the empty cup down next to a little statue on her desk. The pegasus taking flight caught her eye, and made her wonder when the last time she had flown was. Far too long. She spent most of her time here working, or at home with a big pile of red folders. She didn't have the time.
An irrational urge to jump out the window and soar into the eternal night crossed her mind, but she balked away from it. She was in charge of defending Canterlot and would never abandon her duty. Not even if it meant dismissing the mare she once considered a daughter from the service.
What happened to you, Dash? she thought, leaning back on her haunches. Is this my fault? Did I steer you wrong somewhere? I wanted you to sit in this chair when I retired, and maybe that....blinded me somehow. Did I not teach you right?
No, it's the unicorns. They're the ones who style themselves the leaders of society, pass themselves off as paragons, yet all they do is squabble amongst themselves and condescend to us pegasi trying to keep harmony in this city. They make power plays and grant favors to the ponies who agree with them, and that is the toxic attitude that is filtering down to my cadets. The unicorns are turning them against me with all this talk of racial superiority and degeneracy.
She gave a long and weary sigh. Nothing to be done, except the best I can do.
There was a knock on her door. She looked up and saw a shadow through the frosted glass.
“Come in,” she said.
The handle swung down and the door creaked open. “Director?” asked Soarin, his tone anxious, “It's, uh....the liaison from the Midnight Guard is here.”
Great. Just great. She groaned and then said, “Tell Cadence to wait. I'll be there in a moment.”
Soarin mumbled something and closed the door again, leaving Spitfire alone with her memories again. Cadence. Another pony who had turned against her. Was that her legacy? A string of failed proteges who hated her guts?
After shuffling around red folder and delaying long enough to give the impression she was knee-deep in data analysis, Spitfire pushed herself up from her chair and walked out onto the bullpen floor. And there in the center, standing prim and proud and impervious to the staring eyes surrounding her, was Cadence, as tall and slender and graceful as Spitfire remembered. Her demeanor was aloof and professional, wrapped in a stiff and severe business dress.
“Cadence,” Spitfire said with fake enthusiasm. “Not just dropping in on some old friends, I take it?”
"No, Director-General Spitfire. I'm here about your office's wanton contempt for the Midnight Guard.”
Spitfire felt a headache coming on. What did Colonel Dash do now?
But Cadence instead asked, “Tell me, if you would, why didn't you inform the Guard you apprehended an infiltrator?”
Spitfire cocked her head. “I did. I sent out a government-wide memo.”
“Three days after you apprehended it. Need I remind you of Subsection 36? Each and every interrogation session must have a representative of both our agencies present if the threat--”
“I know what Subsection 36 says. But that only applies to threats that involve both our jurisdictions. A foreign spy isn't an ideological matter, therefore the Midnight Guard have no claim.”
With an arrogant air, Cadence said, “On the contrary, we have an important claim.”
Spitfire scoffed. “How, exactly, is this ideological?”
Cadence strutted forward. She lowered her voice and sharpened it into a razor's edge, intending to cut to the bone. “That Changling was here to meet somepony. Am I right so far? Or is that something that slipped past your entire analysis wing?”
“We're ahead of the Midnight Guard. As always. We haven't gotten a name yet, but we will soon enough.”
“And while we're waiting for the Directorate to get its act together, the whole Empire is on edge. You're focused on finding Changlings, and that's admirable. Anything more might be a little too taxing for you. But you see, our burden is greater by far. We have to deal with the demoralization Changlings invoke. The wellbeing of our society depends on a certain mutual trust in each another. If that trust disappears, so does society. Everything breaks down, and chaos reigns in Canterlot. Now do you see how this is an ideological matter?”
What are they teaching her over there at Obelisk House? The fine art of splitting hairs? “Changlings may be able to mimic forms, but they can't mimic memories. Our safeguards work well enough to keep saboteurs out of sensitive areas and the higher echelons of Canterlot society.”
“That may be, but sometimes the shadow is more frightening than what's casting it. You said apprehending enemy agents is your job, and I agree. But dealing with the threat they pose to our ideals, that's our department. Now, if we're done squabbling over our individual purviews, I'd like to interrogate the prisoner.”
Spitfire remembered when Cadence and Dash joined the service. They went through training together, and grown into capable Shadowbolts together, and all under Spitfire's watchful eye. And now, both had left the shelter of her wings and struck out on their own paths, and Spitfire didn't like what she saw. The unicorns were getting to her cadets, stealing them away from her. Her thoughts turned to all the other ponies she trained. How would they turn out? The same? Was this her fault after all, for not doing a better job teaching them? She wasn't old, but she certainly felt it. Old and weary of this life, of seeing everything she tried to shape for the better turned to ash by the ponies above her.
Too tired to argue anymore, she said, “I'll see to it you have get you need.”
“Major Caspain wants a coffee,” Scootaloo said.
She was a Shadowbolt now. Defender of the city. She could've barked the orders, taken what she wanted. She had surely earned that right. But when all it took was a word and a uniform to get the same thing, it made her feel so much more respected. Powerful, even.
“You got it,” the beefy stallion, 'Joe' by his nametag, said. “One coffee coming right up, on the house. Anything else I can get ya?”
“Uh, yeah. Lieutenant Scootaloo wants, uh, a jelly donut. And a hay smoothie.”
The unicorn turned to the shelf of donuts behind the counter. “Coming right up.”
“Thank you, citizen,” Scootaloo said with a low, rumbling, firm-sounding voice. “Your cooperation is appreciated.”
While she waited, her eyes wandered across the donut shop, passing over the unicorns and pegasi eating at their tables. Everything looked neat and orderly, which she chalked up to her presence. But there was one solitary pony in a corner booth who caught her eye. He sat in a booth next to the window, taking bites from a veggie sandwich and occasionally glancing outside. What she saw about him made her blood run cold. The stallion had neither wings nor horn, and yet he was here with the good ponies. Well, she thought, we'll see about that. She straightened her uniform before stomping over to him.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
The pony, whose coat was almost the same orange shade as her own, froze in mid-chew. His eyes slowly swiveled around to look down at her. He swallowed slowly, almost deliberately, and when the food had gone down his throat he said, “Eating.”
“I see that. But why are you here? Earth ponies are under strict ration.”
He dropped the sandwich and faced her, his eyebrows rising incredulously. “How old are you?”
The lack of fear and respect put Scootaloo off-guard, made her acutely aware she didn't have a truncheon or any other weapons. Made her feel like a cadet, instead of a real Shadowbolt. Her eyes darted to the other patrons, most of them unicorns. Some were watching her, watching her respect drain away at the hooves of this arrogant earth pony.
“Old enough to be a Shadowbolt,” she declared to him.
When he glanced down at her cadet's uniform, she took a good hard look into his eyes, and for the first time she saw a distant, haunted, stony look in them. They returned to her own eyes, so utterly unimpressed it gave her chills.
“I fought zebras in Grazembezi,” he said casually. “If you want to intimidate me, you'll have to do a better than that.”
“How did you--?”
Before she could finish, he planted a foreleg on the top of the head and dragged her closer. She struggled, feeling the flush of shame rush through her, but she was powerless. He was gaunt and lean, but despite that his grip was like steel. It swiveled her head around until her eyes forcibly fell on the ugly scars that stretched across his back.
“Take a good look,” he said. “That's where my wings used to be, until a zebra with a machete hacked them off. Had enough yet?”
“Yes,” she shouted.
He released her, and she staggered backwards, flustered. Her eyes darted sidelong around the diner, taking in the mares and stallions mocking her with their slight smiles. She adjusted her uniform while he returned to his sandwich. But the more she looked at him, the more pity took hold of her. She felt ashamed for getting mad at him, who had sacrificed so much.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't think--”
“Yeah, that seems to be a problem with ponies in Canterlot,” he muttered, not caring she had no idea what he was talking about. He looked at her once more, calmer now. “Don't ever take your wings for granted, kid. Not for a second.”
She dropped her gaze to the checkered floor, the words tearing straight into her. “They don't work,” she said softly.
“Huh?”
“My wings,” she said, climbing into the seat opposite him. She hung her head. “They're useless.” Longing to hear words of advice from a fellow crippled pegasus, she started telling him her story: “The foals at the orphanage, they said my parents were earth ponies. Most of us were orphaned by the Winter Rising. When it was over, the High Castle sorted out all the foals by race. But sometimes, they say that if ponies have ancestors who broke the law and mixed races, sometimes a foal will be born as a different race. And since my wings are too weak to let my fly, I might as well be the foal of worthless dirt-eaters.” She looked up to him.
The pegasus started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut by pure strength of will. His lips roiled in disgust, his jaw worked furiously. Finally he asked, “And what about me? In your eyes, am I no better than an earth pony?”
“That's not what I meant! I mean I'm not a true pegasus because I could never fly in the first place.”
He leaned forward, over his plate. “Listen up, kid, because I'm going to tell you a secret: it doesn't matter if your wings work, it doesn't matter if you even have wings, it doesn't even matter about what's in your heart or whatever the inspirational junk on the radio says. There's only one thing that determines who's a pegasus pony and who's not.”
“Oh?” she asked, her eyes widening. “What?”
He pointed out the window to that remote fortress where the princess watched over them all. “What the High Castle says you are. If they say you're a pegasus, you're a pegasus. If they say the Shadowbolts are in charge of state security, the Shadowbolts are in charge of state security. If they say this shop is owned by Donut Joe, this shop is owned by Donut Joe. Whatever they say, on their reams and reams of paperwork, is the truth."
"What about the truth that comes from the moon?"
His voice went lower. "Have you ever talked with a moonbeam? Be practical. Stop thinking so much about higher ideals or righteous duty, and start thinking more about where your position in this society comes from.”
“But,” Scootaloo said, “there has to be something more, that we have a duty to. If there isn't, then....we're no better than earth ponies.”
He cast his eyes out over the other patrons, possibly to see if they were trying to overhear him. But instead of answering, he nodded at the counter, where Donut Joe was magically lifting up a cup tray with a coffee and a hay smoothie alongside a plastic bag with a jelly donut in wax paper.
“I think your order is ready,” the other pegasus said.
She slipped off the seat and trudged towards the counter. Her hooves hit the floor loud and sharp in her ears. But she hadn't gone more than five feet when the pegasus called out after her. She looked back at him, sitting in thought, thinking of one last thing to say before they parted forever.
“I stood up for the Empire," he said. "I did my duty...." There was so much he wasn't saying, but he gave no hint of what it was. His lips curled up in a smile. "Once."
She let that sink in, then half-heartedly thanked him with a short nod. Then, more commandingly, she stood up straight and gave him a salute. He only stared at her with his gaunt face and haunted eyes. Scootaloo took the order from the stallion behind the counter, balanced the tray on her back, and left the little donut shop. Though not without one last look at that lonely soldier, who had returned to eating his food in a heavy and brooding silence.
The street outside was nearly empty. This was near the city center, and the checkpoints were backed up so that only a trickle of pedestrians could get through. The bag she threw in the garbage. She crammed the jelly donut in her mouth, chewed it a few times, then swallowed it in one gulp. Facing the Arch of Triumph again, she clutched the smoothie in one fetlock and sipped it while she worked her other leg double-time to make a good pace. She reached the road ringing the park and took a right, circling around the Arch that stood guard with its legs planted firmly in the ground. It could never be pushed over, not ever. It was too solid and strong. Just like the pegasi, and the Empire of the Moon they served.
'Once', he said. He did his duty 'once'. What did he mean? Did he mean he served his Empire, and we disrespected him so much that it wasn't worth it?
Yes, Scootaloo was sure that was what the stranger meant, and it made her feel ashamed. She comforted herself by swearing she would never let a degenerate go unpunished.
Fluttershy had stopped in at Perky Pet to lift her spirits, only to have them crash and burn instead. Now, she walked down Broadcrest Street with an ache in her body that tensed and knotted her muscles. When she stood still, she thought it would hurt less if she moved. But if she moved, all she wanted was to stand still again. She was uncomfortably outcast in her own skin, slinking through the neon-lit eternal night.
A pegasus pony on a recruitment billboard loomed over the world, wings fanning out majestically to shield Equestria. A pair of stoic eyes judged Fluttershy, like all the other pegasus ponies did, every single one of them. She looked away from the billboard, across the street, but the same picture stared from a row of posters pasted to a construction site fence. Over and over, the same mare, with the same wings shielding the same world. Everywhere and everything. She was the only pegasus besides Fluttershy who existed, but unlike Fluttershy, absolutely perfect.
A block down the street, there was a buzz of commotion from the checkpoint cordoning off the road. A line of autocarriages idled in the street while ponies waited on the sidewalk in a ragged line to pass through. All four of her knees shook at the thought of all those eyes falling on her and finding her lacking. She made up her mind to abandon the show and go home, by herself, alone and unwatched in the dark, surrounded by empty walls that once held up pictures of fit pegasi now gone bare because she couldn't overcome her weakness.
No! she thought. Those ponies, with their staring eyes, terrified her, but staying cooped up in her apartment was worse. Trapped in-between her four walls, thinking of that poor old Granny Smith, as the misery slowly crept in until she couldn't breathe. She had to make it to that show.
After making sure she had her passport, she walked the long and lonely stretch of sidewalk to the back of the line. Past the storefront display windows with ponnequins that stayed eternally fit. Past bookstores with covers featuring tearful lovers parting in airport terminals, one of them off to war. Past music stores with records sleeves showing perfect formations of soldiers marching to the beat of old brassy parade standards or valiant opera heroes like Palfried riding into battle. After awhile, Fluttershy bowed her head and put her eyes on the cracked sidewalk, just so she didn't have to look at all the pegasi surrounding her.
She drew close to the checkpoint. Don't run away, Fluttershy thought. If you look like you're running, they'll chase you. You've done nothing wrong. Just walk up to them, show them your papers, and be on your way.
But still, the checkpoint unsettled her. All those Civil Force soldiers in riot control gear with grilled helmets and body armor, or the Shadowbolts in black uniforms with purple berets, were alive with an electric current of energy. She felt it too, but it wormed itself into her nerves and instilled in her a mad, instinctual urge to bolt. But she was more scared of them hauling her off for questioning, so, with her heart beating heavily, she swallowed her fear. She got in line behind a unicorn and focused on keeping her body from shaking.
I'm a good pegasus, she thought. The Bureau of Harmony gave me a duty, and I carry it out. That makes me a good pegasus.
The line behind her swelled faster than the ponies at the front could be waved through. Soon they were pressing at her tail, jostling her, chatting to each other quite happily. The haphazard line became ragged and messy, like a wriggling centipede. She was almost at the front, near the crossed APCs, when the line shuffled forward and she heard something hit the ground at her hooves. A passport. The unicorn ahead of her hadn't buckled her saddlebag very well, as one side hung open like a slack mouth, its contents drooling out.
“Excuse me,” Fluttershy said softly.
The unicorn didn't hear her. The line pressed at Fluttershy's back, jostling her forward, derailing her train of thought, and all she could think was that the unicorn would be arrested without a passport. She stooped down and picked it up before she knew what she was doing.
“Excuse me,” she said a little louder.
She tapped the unicorn on the side, making her spin around. Fluttershy caught a whiff of hard cider on her breath and craned her head back slightly as she held the passport up. The unicorn's eyes were large and and watery, like there was a harsh wind blowing in her face but she couldn't look away. Fluttershy avoided looking her in the eyes, until her visions hovered somewhere around the mare's chin. She shrugged so her hair would fall in front of her face.
“I, um, I think you dropped this.”
“Hmm?” the unicorn said. She patted her saddlebag, her foreleg movement exaggerated and uncoordinated. She noticed the bag wasn't buckled. She mumbled, “Thanks,” though she didn't sound very thankful.
Just as the unicorn reached over and swiped the passport, a shrill whistle pierced the night. Fluttershy and the other mare flattened their ears against their skulls and winced at the sound. I was just trying to be nice, she thought. They'll understand, even if it is technically illegal to handle another pony's papers. They have to understand that. Two Civil Force soldiers thundered over, riot gear jostling as they hustled in front of Fluttershy and splayed their legs. The other ponies in line backed away from Fluttershy and the unicorn very, very quickly. A Shadowbolt officer swiftly strode between the gendarmes.
“Step out of line, please,” he said.
Fluttershy wanted to reply this was all a big misunderstanding, but her lips and vocal cords wouldn't obey her. They simply blubbered at the steely-eyed ponies in riot helmets and body armor.
It was just a mistake, Fluttershy thought. All a mistake. They'll believe me.
The unicorn didn't seem all that scared, though. Coldly, she asked, “What's the charge?”
“It's a crime to handle another pony's documents. Come with us for questioning.” The Shadowbolt turned to Fluttershy, whose stomach twisted in knots. “Both of you.”
“Since when do you care about the law?” the unicorn muttered, though it sounded more like a thought she hadn't meant to say out loud.
The officer froze. “Excuse me?” he asked, his voice as cold as hers. He pulled a truncheon from his belt and held it loosely in his folded fetlock. "What did you say?"
“I am a unicorn,” she said, voice rising in drunken confidence. “You wouldn't dare use that on me, because I am superior to you, featherbrain. We run this city, when all you degenerates try and do is tear us down. The Midnight Guard are twice the ponies you thugs are--”
The longer she rambled, the more the stallion's grip on the truncheon tightened, until he raised it and brought it down on her head, quick as lightning. The thunderclap of the impact drew a hushed gasp from the crowd. The dazed mare clutched her head, staggered back into a storefront, then bounced off and slumped to the ground.
“Oh, no!” Fluttershy squeaked.
She reared back in alarm. Her wings fanned out and started flapping to propel her backwards, but she overshot, lost her balance, and fell to the concrete. More Civil Force soldiers swarmed over. The crowd yelled and screamed, ducking away from the stampede of pegasus ponies. Gendarmes rolled Fluttershy over and wrestled her to the ground, forcing her wings closed. She didn't have it in her to resist; she went limp and let them hustle her over to the ground next to the unicorn and threw her down. The other mare let out a groggy moan as her half-closed eyes rolled around under their lids.
“Shining Armor,” she mumbled, “he'd take....all you on....”