The sunlight doesn't shine in the southernmost wing of the Canterlot Castle. It's corridors have no windows. Dank and depressing stretches of corridors, only scarcely illuminated by torches, give off an almost dungeon like appeal to it. Not surprisingly, it proves to be a barren and empty wing of the castle. Save for the Royal Sisters, the hall is traversed by only a handful of castle guards.
With only the sounds of their staccato breaths, a cold shiver runs down the spines of those who find their way here.
A lone guard stands watch by one of the doorways at the end of the hall. His armor and sword lie scattered across his feet. Slouched against the wall, he drifts in and out of sleep. He stands ‘vigilant’ over the cob-webbed door. A door that seems like it may fall off it’s very hinges from the years of neglect and misuse Curiosity all who were stationed at the southernmost wings of the Canterlot Castle. Dozens of doors and passageways strew about the corridors. Many of which remain a mystery to even the most seasoned guards.
It was a dull night And just like any other guard, the initial sense of curiosity has long sinced passed. He couldn't care less over this god-forsaken post. Lulling in and out of sleep, he does his best to pass the time. He stares blankly and the empty hallway. His mind wandering somewhere else. Anywhere but here. His face flusters as he imagines the young mare he’d met at a ceremony not too long ago.
Such a beautiful mare.
What was her name again?
He shifts his weight around his hooves as he rattles the thought in his mind. She had an odd name. But one that oddly became the center of his mind.
Dusk?
Dawn?
Or maybe. Twilight?
However, he quickly snaps to attention as his ears perk up.
He hears something.
Footsteps.
And they're getting closer.
Quickly, the young stallion dons his armor and sword. An act he’s come to master over the countless hours. He strikes a tall pose and stands in formation.
As always, Celestia travels down the hallways with grace and refinement. Her very presence bringing a bright aura to the dank and seemingly empty halls. One that brings a smile to the young guard's face.
“Good morning, your highness.” he chirps. Offering a slight bow.
“Good morning, Flash.” she smiles. A small moment of silence passes between the two. Celestia’s mind seems to be elsewhere. Our guard is the first to break the silence.
“This post is somewhat of a lonely one, your highness. I don't see many ponies come down here during my shift. So I didn't expect to see anypony today.” Flash chuckles, “Much less someone such as yourself. If I had known, I would have at least polished my armor this morning!”
Flash offers somewhat of an awkward smile. Celestia offers but a slight smile, as she gives a slight cringe as the boy's words pierces daggers into her heart. She envies the lad. She envies his youth and his happy-go-lucky nature. Flash opens the door and bows as Celestia wanders inside.
“Princess!?” the guard blurts out.
Celestia stops in her tracks, only to glance back at the young guard. He twiddles with his hooves against the floor.
“Yes?”
“Ah. It's just...” the guard nervously pecks at the floor. Hesitantly, he pauses for a moment before continuing. “I've been stationed at this post longer than I can remember.”
“And?” Celestia curiously asks.
“.. It's just, no-one's ever told me what I'm guarding, or why I'm guarding it.”
Celestia cracks off a warm smile and glances back at the young guard. He shuffles stances, regretful of even asking in the first place..
“You're guarding what little remains of the unsung war.” The young guard gives off a confused look.
And before he has a chance to say much else, Celestia struts inside and shuts the door behind her.
Celestia's horn glows with a soft aura as she casts a spell. Instantly, the pitch black room is lit by various candles and torches. She glances around for a bit, and steps inside. Much like the rest of the castle, this room is adorned with various pieces and artifacts from times long ago. Dozens of sets of armor are set on display throughout the room, giving an almost museum-like aura in the room.
However, unlike a museum, these pieces have been neglected, dented and scuffed. Upon closer inspection, one would find that these pieces of armor are primitive, and nothing like the pristine golden clad armor of today's guards.
These are simple outfits. A few pieces of hammer shaped copper sheets are bound together by thin pieces worn leather. They offered the wearer little protection, if any at all.
Yet, one can't help but feel a distinct aura of pride from age coming from these suits. Armor so ridiculously old, it's a miracle it's still in standing. Celestia grimaces as she passes them by, careful as not to disturb them.
But as she passes along the room, she pauses. Her eyes set on a single set of armor. Celestia runs her hoof along one of the green copper plates. A thick coat of dust has begun to accumulate along with other imperfections.
“Has is really been that long?” Celestia whispers almost inaudibly.
It then begins to dawn on her the sheer length of time that has passed since she’s payed tribute to this makeshift museum. Suddenly she feels an absolute horrid sense of shame well up in her gut; a deep shame that can only be conjured via centuries of neglect.
She looks around again. Scattered swords and spears are set behind dusty glass tables. Each one of them rusted and broken in some sort of way. As Celestia passes each one of them by, she takes a moment to pause and recollect on her thoughts.
Her expression is one of disturbance. Her gaze goes beyond the armor suits.
Beyond this room.
She recognizes these suits. Tears well up as she digs deep in her mind for distant memories. Ones that had been all but locked away. She knew the people who donned these suits. She knew them all too well.
She remembers each one of their young, shining faces as they trained through the academy. She remembers their sense of eagerness as they graduated into full fledged royal guards. The bright smile on each of their faces as she appointed them as her personal guards. She remembers their personalities.
Their names.
Their faces.
Their voices, still all clear as day.
She remembers it all. Celestia rubs a temple as a flood of memories are rushed back towards her. She remembers the dark magic that corrupted the once sweet and verdant Luna into a monster. Night Mare Moon.
Celestia winces as she searches her memories for those unfortunate days. She remembers pleading her sister for understanding. Pleading for forgiveness. Pleading for a second chance. But Nightmare would have none of it.
At the time, she was young. In-experienced.
And above all...
Soft
Cursed with a gentle soul she couldn't dare harm a fly. Ultimately, she was unable bring herself to wield a sword against her own blood. A decision that would soon prove to be costly. As the days raged on, hope drew thin. Times were desperate. And she ultimately feared for the worst. She had tried reasoning with Nightmare. She pressed for any kind of diplomatic solution. But was hard pressed to find any.
Celestia wanders over to a set of doors at the far end of the room. She presses her horn against the door's lock and casts a spell. The door's tumblers rattle and creak. A thick coating of dust shake off the door. And the hinges give off an uncomfortable creak as it's opened for the first time in centuries.
Celestia scurries down the corridor and into another chamber of the room. There, she finds herself face to face with more rows of armor suits. But not just any armor.
These are entirely different.
Celestia gasps for a second. She feels the very air sucked out of her gut as she’s hit by an unmistakable aura that permeates the very room. One of honor and courage. As Celestia walks up to one of the suits, she can't help but feel all that and more radiate from the armor.
These suits of armor stand taller, and prouder than the rest.
For it was not an Equestrian made piece.
It was not fitted for a stallion.
It was Human armor. Crafted by a man, and made for a man.
It was armor far more advance than any found in the other room. Where Stallion armor was built of simple copper plates, these pieces were hand crafted by only the most talented blacksmiths. Each one composed of dozens of intricate pieces. All forged from milled steel.
Mankind.
They were but a small faction settled off on the outskirts of Equestria. They were amongst the smallest, and weakest species to roam the earth. But collectively they were a tremendous force to be reckoned with. Whilst the rest of the world relied on brute strength and magic for survival, mankind had to rely solely on it's wits. Unlike the rest of the world's species, mankind had no outstanding physical traits of their own.
They could not fly.
They could not run very far.
They were not very strong.
And above all, they were not able to cast magic.
But yet, one could argue they were the most gifted. And that they were the best off. Armed with an unsurpassed intelligence, they quickly became master of their surroundings. They showed an incredible mastery of all trades, one that surpassed all other races. And above all, they always displayed an impeccable sense of pride in their work.
Lest one wanted their lands in ruin, one did not wage war against the small faction. The comfortably positioned themselves at the top of the region's hierarchy. Envy and jealousy ran rampant throughout the rest of the world.
They were respected out of fear. They were hated by many. And were labeled outcasts by nearly all. They were a solitary species. Relying on no-one but themselves to solve their own problems, man found companionship with themselves.
But somehow, they remained a docile bunch. One way or another, they had become allies with Equestria. The two traded goods and welcomed each other with open arms. For as long as Celestia could remember the humans had remained one of Equestria's few allies. Trade between the two flourished. Lasting friendships were forged. And an everlasting trust was formed between the two. With open arms, they shared with each other a new world of commerce and culture.
But it all proved to be short lived. For quickly after Nightmare Moon took power, this was all shattered. Ponyfolk scattered like cornered rats. Confusion and fear spread like the plague. She was left with no means of a solution. And she was hopeless.
But during what was Celestia's darkest hour, the small faction of mankind crested upon the horizon. Their warriors brazen and ready for battle, they bore arms in the name of their ally.
When everyone else seemed at a loss.
They guided the way.
When everyone else cowered.
They stood firm.
Emotionally unable to wield the Elements of Harmony herself, Celestia sent her royal guard into battle. She remembers the look of strength and determination as they marched into battle. Proudly, they marched against a seemingly unstoppable foe. Fighting a way against an unstoppable enemy, all in the name of their home. She remembers their final parade, knowing very well that they marched towards certain death.
But her little ponies were not alone.
They were backed by the strength and power of mankind.
She remembers seeing her stout stallions march side by side with the towering humans.
She remembers their faces of pride as they marched out of Canterlot, towards the field of battle.
But above all, she distinctly remembers seeing her little ponies stride a little bit taller that day.
---
Celestia pulls herself away to the armor. She clenches her eyes shut. But even in the darkness, she can still see the human's faces. She can still hear their voices. She can still hear their cries.
They were no match for Nightmare Moon.
No one was.
And just like that, they were slaughtered. In an instant Nightmare had reduced the world's mightiest warriors to dust. For the next morning, the bloodied armored suits of her bravest warriors were sent back to Celestia's doorstep. A taunt.
But it didn't end there. Nightmare Moon was no fool. She knew Celestia had conscripted the aid of an ally. NIghtmare didn't take kindly to having been attacked a neighboring faction, and as a result she quickly swept in for a counter attack.
Nightmare's only goal in all this was for a personal vendetta against Celestia. And she knew the best way to break Celestia. Nightmare's counter attack was well coordinated and swift. For it was not aimed at Canterlot. Not at Celestia. Not even at Ponyville. No.
Instead, she took aim at the outskirts of Equestria.
To the small human settlements scattered about just outside the borders.
Nightmare's attack was merciless. Engulfing each settlement in an aura of impenetrable dark magic, she extinguished the lives of thousands in an instant. Sparing none in her ruthless genocide, she quickly wiped mankind off the face of the earth. She lauded them as fools for having taken a stand against her. And she treated them as if they were as common insects, lining up for extermination.
It was a crippling blow for Celestia. One that finally brought her over edge. After witnessing a sacrifice so great, she gathered what little courage she had to face her sister.
A soft weep fills the room. Celestia's tears drop effortlessly onto the stone floor below. She falls to her knees. Weeping at the foot of a suit of armor, she breaks into hysterics.
She looks up to the suit of armor. Still standing proudly to this day, it's a constant reminder to her careless mistake. One that caused an entire race to vanish.
She paces the floor. Her mind racing with a topic that's been weighing on her mind for a thousand years. It's her fault.
Had she only used the Elements of Harmony earlier.
Had she only drawn a bit of courage the humans had shown.
Perhaps…
Perhaps they'd still be around today.
She shuts her eyes….But it's no use.
She can still see their faces.
She covers her ears….But it's no use.
She can still hear their voices.
Dozens of them.
And among them all, one in particular stands out. His voice. Anonymous'.
Her mind races at the thought of the sole human. She can only imagine the confusion within him. The lost soul. Damned to live the rest of his second life in shame. With the misery of his past trials trailing behind him.
How can he still stand?
How can he still smile?
Her mind races back to the throne room. To those few moments where they became one. Disgust seeps through her very soul. She clenches her heart in agony, for she was stricken by a deep pain. An emotional pain that pierces the very essence of her soul. The sheer reminder of what that man endured was enough to bring her to her knees.
A pit of nausea seeps in her stomach as she recalls the experience. Violence, and gore ran rampant during those city streets. Cities burned down by the fires of hatred and liberation. Truly, she’s witnessed the worst of humanity.
But...
In that very instance, she also became familiar with the very best. For Anonymous had not acted alone. Countless others who took up arms with him still echo in her mind. She can only imagine the courage it must take to risk everything to join the resistance movement. And she only wishes she could have summoned a fraction of that courage Driven by Anonymous’ actions, a deep sense of admiration wells up inside Celestia.
Armed with little more than sticks and stones, he faced a Goliath. With the entire world watching, he marched onwards, towards his death. Just like those who faced Nightmare Moon. Celestia ponders it for a moment. It seems humans across all walks share the same sense of courage.
Celestia looks up at the armor suit one last time. She glances up to the opened helmet. Only to have Anonymous' face staring back down at her. She can still see remember his warm smile on that fateful day.
“P-Please.” she whimpers. “P-Please. I-I'm begging you.” She slams her hoof against the floor. >The empty suits of armor rattle against themselves.
“Accept my apology! P-Please!” she cries out. “F-Forgive me!” She falls to the floor, her knees scraping the crickety wood floor. Celestia holds a hoof to her temples. Her ears start to ring as indistinguishable voices begin to flood the room. Their faces start to appear one by one.
Celestia shuts her eyes tight, desperately trying to escape their gaze. But it’s no use. Even in the private confines of her eye lids, she finds herself face to face with her fallen comrades. And it’s not before long that those voices start to clear out. The blabber and gibberish transforms into sentences and phrases. Much to her dismay, she focuses her hearing, picking out their voices one by one.
“How you doing, Celestia?”
“Ah, Celestia! It’s been a while!”
“My princess! My dear princess! How I missed you so!”
“Your majesty! It’s been far too long!”
“Celestia! Just the person I’ve wanted to see!”
“Princess! What’s Luna been up to!?”
And before she knows it, Celestia is struggling on the floor. Desperately trying to grasp at any fathom of reality before. The heart in her chest pounds at an alarming rate. She whimpers to the men before her. She crawls to the feet of armor, gazing up to the toothy grin of Anonymous once more.
“I only brought you here so you can say it....” Celestia starts. Her voice broken by whimpers and sobs.
“Please! I-I just need you to say it once!” Celestia cries out “P-Please! J-Just once! P-Please!”
She smashes the suit of armor with her hoof. It collapses to the floor and dissembles itself. And with the illusion of Anonymous gone, she whimpers to the floor.
“Please...” she whispers. “Just once...”
Unable to drown the voices of her fallen allies, she breaks into hysterics.
--------
The sun is holding high above the city streets. It's healthy light brings a warm glow to your skin. People scurry about the city streets, many going out and about trying to go about their lives as “normally” as possible.
You lean idly against the car door. Slightly adjusting the driver's seat to your liking, and only sulking even deeper into the seat. The soft aroma of coffee wafts into your nose as you sip from your styrofoam cup. The soft taste of fresh coffee flows into your mouth.
You pause for a moment, recognizing the taste of a foreign brew. It's nothing like the local stuff you've come accustomed to your whole life. It’s almost enough to make you gag.
You sit parked in front of an old bakery as you have for hours. A gentle breeze carries the rich scent of fresh baked good into the car. It's enough to bring your mouth to a water.
You've been sitting for hours.
Watching.
Waiting.
A loud horn rips through the street. Glancing down the rear view mirror, you can make out the silhouette of a half-track caravan. The low rumble of military vehicles are still ever present. As you idly sit by, various Estovakian trucks pass the street in front of you. The officers riding on the trucks seem to be having a good time with each other. Cracking jokes and smoking cigarettes, they take the moment for what it is. One of them makes eye contact with you. He looks young. Almost too young. It makes you wonder at what age the Estovakian’s begin drafting.
You ponder the subject for a moment, and decide it a best topic for another time. None the less, you maintain an ever vigilant watch over the street. You sit inside a bright yellow taxi cab, it's windows tinted a deep limo black. Dressed in an outfit typical of modern day cabbies. Baggy jeans, ruffled shirts and jackets, and a small burgundy cap. A crude fake cabbie's I.D sits pinned across your chest, along with the fake name: Christopher Bagston It’s a deep red color, with the Estovakian Flag visible in the background.
You can’t but help feel a distinct sense of disgust while wearing the badge.
Donning the flag of the enemy? Unthinkable.
Yet. As you glance around, you see dozens of others wearing the same badges as you. The militarized zone is a busy place. It's occupants hustled about the city streets in a hurry, scurrying from one building to the next. Life continued as normal inside the walls of the zone. This place was an oasis amongst the desert. In here, you were relatively safe. There were no raids. No bombing runs. No shootouts.
Nothing.
Armed soldiers march down the same sidewalks with the former Emmerian civilians. Such citizens donned a small red I.D across the chests, just like yours. I.D's that were only given out to citizens who pledged allegiance to the newly raised Estovakian flag. People who live in this zone chose to live in a lap of 'luxury'. Living in what simply was a facade created to whisper sweet nothings into the ears of the people.
They happily accept the scraps from the Stovie war machine. Gnawing on the excrements of their former lives, these 'citizens' live happily nestled in their new homes, away from the fighting and gun fights. Away from the war. Away from their countrymen.
“Fools.” You mutter.
People here signed away their freedom for an illusion of safety.
Defectors.
Traitors.
Rats.
The sheer thought of this place gives you nausea.
You check your watch. High noon.
The shouts of a young boy selling newspapers ring throughout the streets. You flag the boy down, paying him with the loose change left over from your coffee. You glance over the paper. It's blatant propaganda. But it still doesn't cease to amuse you.
You flip through the paper some more. It's headlines boast over the glory of the Estovakian armed forces. They flaunt the glamour of the Estovakian lifestyle. And they belittle the once proud Emmerian people. And all in all, it warrants little more than a sensible chuckle from you.
Your eyes shift from the paper to across the busy street. A small restaurant is nestled between a post office and an even smaller convenience store. It's red brick store front has seen better days, and little more than a humble sign above the doorway states it's presence.
It's there a certain person catches your attention. A young man, seated by the window of the restaurant. He idly munches on a slice of pepperoni while flicking at his smart phone.
He's a stoic man. Handsome. Tall. Brown hair, brown eyes. A Strong jaw line, and soft skin.
All features you've long since committed to memory.
His name is Vladmir Andreavich Your target.
Closing your eyes, you start to clear your mind. Setting you focus entirely on the mission on hand. It's a simple mission. One that should go on without a hitch. You play back the events in your mind like a play. Focusing on key moments, over and over again.
The execution of these key elements must be perfect as to not arouse suspicion to yourself and the others. You give a soft sigh to yourself. Tossing the odds in your head only leads to worry. For you of all people should know that there isn't a single plan in the world that doesn't meet some form of resistance. The eye of your mind wanders to bag of automatic rifles stashed underneath the passenger seat. And you shuffle around the seat, feeling the weight of the Kevlar armor vest on your shoulders. Should things turn ugly, there's Plan B.
There’s always a Plan B.
The cellphone set besides your coffee starts to ring.
You quickly pick up the phone and reply with a quick “Hello?”
A stark and powerful voice replies through the phone. Mac's voice.
“Anonymous?”
“Oi.” You hastily reply
“It's time. I've already told the others.”
The others. You think back to the mission briefing. Back to the half dozen or so people who were there with you. All of whom were probably scattered about the street right now. Ready to act on a moment's notice should the mission go awry.
Piercing open your eyes, you search for him.
“Are you ready?” Mac asks over the phone, the sounds of the city streets echoing through your earpiece. You continue searching for Mac until you spot him outside the pizza parlor, just a few dozen feet from Vladmir. His tall and gruff build is easy to spot amongst the spineless citizens of the zone.
“Ready as I'll ever be.” you reply.
“Good.” he remarks, his voice full of confidence.
You check your watch. Quarter past noon. You find the keys to the car and start her up, filling the cabin with the rhythmic chugging of the old engine, a serene sound that has always brought a sense of peace to you.
You quickly begin to ponder. Why?
Perhaps it’s a sense of nostalgia from your boyhood days? You always lent your father a hand with the mechanics work.
Or perhaps it was simply the inexplicable sense of reliability that came with the rhythmic chugging of the engine. The chugging of the old engine was something you could count on. You knew what to expect from the engine when the key was turned. A stark contrast to the unpredictable day to day life in the war. Perhaps your mind had subconsciously associated the sound of an engine with the sense of reliability and predictability. A result of your mind and life being constantly flung into a state of suspense and randomness that came with the war.
Whatever it was, you decide to find out later. For now, you focus your mind, and put yourself into action. Doing your best to emulate the plan you had set forth in your mind. Pulling out of your spot, you take the cab into traffic. You flick a small red switch on the dash, turning on the “ON DUTY” sign atop your cab.
You glance at your watch. Twenty past.
You pull the car back to the street you were on. This time, parking directly in front of the parlor. You wait a few moments before glancing out towards the pizza parlor.
Your palms start to sweat. Vladmir exits the parlor, a slice of pepperoni in one hand, and a briefcase in another. Glancing at the clock, you give a slight chuckle. Looks like intel was spot on with this one. He ran his daily schedule like a machine, precise and punctual. All of which only made your job easier.
Vladmir makes eye contact with you, to which you don't break away. He cocks his head to the side before making his was to your cab. The hairs on your end stand on end. He stands outside the passenger window and knocks on it a few times.
You lower the window, letting the cool A/C out, and allowing the blaring heat inside. Vladmir leans in on the door and pokes his head inside. His expression shifts a little bit as he feels the cool air against his skin.
“Hot day, isn't it?” he begins. His foreign accent is thick. You glance over the man, and acknowledge his statement with a simple nod. You both pause for a moment before he breaks the silence.
“Is this cab free?” he asks, peering around and glancing towards the back. You look at him. And look past him.
Mac is standing but a few feet behind him. He gives a slight nod.
You cough a few times as to not let your voice break before putting on the best Northern accent you could muster.
“Yeah, the cah's open. Need a lift?”
Vladmir nods and replies, “I need to go to 57th street. Up over to the square.”
“Yeah. I can take you.” you announce. You unlock the rear door before amiably asking him to hop in. Vladmir doesn't think twice and opens the door to the cab. You see his expression soften as the cool air of the cab soothes his skin. He tosses his bag and carefully climbs inside the cab, as to not stain his outfit with the greasy pizza slice.
He was about to close the door when Mac scurries to the cab door. Mac jams his hand between the door and car. He re-opens the door and pokes his head inside
“Mind if I share a cab with you?” he playfully asks, “These guys are just so damn expensive, it helps to save some money, you know?”
“I do.” Vladmir spitefully replies.
Mac's expression changes little as he climbs inside the cab, paying little attention to the Estovakian's remarks.
“Thanks again.” Mac laughs. “You know, you're saving me a fortune here.”
Vladmir expression changes from disgust to disbelief “This cab is taken.” he angrily replies. “Please leave.”
Mac closes the door behind him and locks the door.
Mac gives you a glance in the rear view mirror. He exchanges a slight nod of understanding with you. You lock all the doors from the inside and roll up all the windows. Turning the “ON DUTY” switch off, you pull out of the street and start speeding down the road.
Vladmir shifts his attention from Mac over to you.
“Excuse me? I didn't agree to this.” he loathe-fully snarks, “Stop the cab. Immidiately.”
You paid him no attention, but instead only increased your speed. Vladmir panicks, and tries to open the door.
No dice.
“Are you deaf!” he shouts. “Stop the cab!” Vladmir drops his pizza and reaches for something in his shirt pocket. You see this in your rear view and reach for the sidearm holstered against your body.
However, Mac was quicker to react than you. Mac acted on instincts and pulled out a small revolver from the small of his back. He grabbed it by the muzzle and beat him with it's butt.
There was a small struggle in the back of the car, it occasionally rocks the car to and fro. Your eyes constantly shifted from the road, to the rear view mirror. Carefully monitoring the situation, and keeping your free arm at the holster against your leg. Ready to draw it our at a moment's notice.
But as soon as the skirmish started, it ended. A soon bloodied and beaten Vladmir lied against the carpeted floor of the cab. Mac's knee pressed hard against his head, with a gun drawn against the base of his skull for good measure.
“We've got him.” Mac triumphantly announces.
“Thank god.” you sigh.
“Call it in.” Mac orders.
You give a slight nod. With your free hand, you dial a number with your cell phone. A young woman answers the phone, and with baited breath she asks on the status on the mission. You can just hear a wave of relief pass over her as you share the good news. Content, she explains your next set of orders.
Hundreds, if not thousands of people found residence within the militarized zone. Most of them were Estovakian soldiers, drifting around the city streets during their off shifts. Civilians and armed personnel mingled with each other on the city streets. And although promised security, a majority of defected citizens chose to stay boarded up inside their homes. Hiding under the covers from those who grant them their 'protection'
You guide the car along the freeway. Occasionally slowing down for a caravan of tanks or jeeps that pass you on the road. Under normal circumstances, driving this close to the enemy would almost guarantee a certain death. But the disguise seems to keep up. Hidden amongst the dozens, if not hundreds of cabs, you shift your way through traffic.
“There.” Mac points out, “Take the next exit.”
“You want to take the toll bridge?” you question. “That would take us out the zone.”
Mac leans up towards the front of the car and squints his eyes.
“Ah, you're right. Sorry.” he apologizes, “I think it's the one after.”
“Towards the Market District?” you ask.
Mac snaps his fingers repeatedly and bobs his head up and down. “Yeah. Market District.” he snaps, “That's the drop off point.”
You nod, and quickly change lanes as not to miss your exit. Occasionally, you hear a muffled yell erupt from the back. Despite being held hostage, Vladmir continues to put up a fight. He's a determined one. You'll give him that. But determination alone can only take a man so far.
Annoyed with Vladmir's struggles, Mac lands a quick blow to his gut. Whimpers of pain soon fill the car. One’s that you quickly drown out with the radio.
“Just keep driving.” he mumbles. “We'll get there soon enough.”
You feel a heavy hand on your shoulder. Meeting Mac’s eyes in the mirror he starts, “It’s only been a few days since your discharge, I know.” his voice hoarse, yet sincere. “But I need your help now more than ever.” He pauses for a moment or two. “I’m sorry for pulling you back into the shit so early.”
“Hey.” you reply. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m glad to be here.”
“That’s a first. I’d give anything to get out of this shit.”
“Even your own life?”
“Maybe not my own, but I know a few Stovies who are more than willing.” Mac chuckles, all while pressing the pistol against Vladmir’s head.
“If anything, I should be thanking your ass.” You chuckle.
Mac gives a hearty laughter. “Oh yeah?” he blurts “Why’s that? If you like being in the shit so much, I’ll send your sorry ass to the front lines.”
You brush off Mac’s jesters.
Instead focusing entirely on the road and it’s drivers.
A few minutes pass before you bring the conversation up again.
“The nurse told me what you did… Back in the hospice.” you start,
“I fucking hate the hospice.” Mac grunts.
“There aren’t enough beds for everyone, so to compensate, they churn out patients as quickly as they can get them.”
“Hmph.”
“If you’re unlucky enough to land in there, the maximum stay anyone can get there is a few days, tops. And once they reach that time limit, the doctors pull the plug on em’ Recovered or not.” Mac glances at you and glances out the window.
“I heard you vouched for me, strong armed the doctors to let me stay as long as I needed...At least that’s what the nurse told me.”
“I just called in some old favors, is all. Nothing special.”
You scoff. “Well, whatever you think. I want you to know I’m grateful. That’s the second time you’ve saved my sorry ass.”
Mac bursts into laughter. “And I know for a fact, it won’t be the last!”
An eerie silence fills the room. A silence so deep and punctuating, it makes one's ears feel like they've been filled with cotton. Rarity and Twilight stand side by side over the sleeping human. His face shriveled and terrified. His breathing short and acute. And his skin soaked with a cold sweat.
Anonymous breaks into a dull murmur. His lips speaking something soft and barely audible. Twilight perks her ears and tries to listen. But she quickly droops them back down.
“I- I don't understand what he's saying.” she whispers.
“Do you think he's alright?” Rarity asks.
“I don't know.” Twilight replies.
Rarity trots over to her own bed. She paces around for a few steps before turning back to Twilight.
“Why was he crying just a minute ago?” Rarity asks. “Why was he screaming? Why doesn't he wake up?”
Twilight shakes her head.
“I don't know.” she solemnly replies.
“This isn't normal, is it?” Rarity asks.
Twilight take a moment to collect her thoughts. Her mind racing back to just yesterday. She recalls asking Anonymous the same question. > And she also recalls the solemn “No.” that was given in response.
“I don't think so.” Twilight adds.
“Should we call someone?” Rarity asks.
“No. I don't think it's a good idea.
“Why not?” Rarity replies, “He looks like he's suffering!”
“It's probably just a nightmare. He'll get by it.” Twilight says, her voice meticulously unsure of herself.
A few moments pass.
“He's stopped.” Rarity paused. She takes a step closer to Anonymous. She studies him in his weakest state. She presses her hoof against his head.
It’s hot. Too hot. She glances back at Twilight with a worries look.
Running her hoof along his arm to his hand. She feels his hand weakly grasp her hoof, and she can almost feel a sense of relief pass over the both of them.
“Whatever it was.” she whispers, “I think it's passed.”