//------------------------------// // Nox Aeterna (Act One) // Story: Cigarettes & Gunmetal // by MonoGlyph //------------------------------// The numerous stars outside resembled nothing so much as grains of diamond on black velvet. Silver Spanner activated her neuro-optical interface and consulted the shuttle operator’s manual. The action was more of a paranoid tic at this point. She’d memorized the document in its entirety within a month of being enlisted into the Canterlot Underwatch. Few outside of the agency were aware of its existence and fewer still understood its purpose. Spanner surmised that the agency coordinated a wide network of services that were considered ‘deniable’ or ‘covert’ by the Equestrian government, though naturally she wasn’t privy to any of them. Even her own position in the grand scheme of things was largely a mystery to her and she was submitted to regular polygraph tests to verify that she remained ignorant. The Canterlot Underwatch was not a pleasant employer to work for: drug tests, fitness evaluations, cavity searches, the full suite. Her income was adequate, especially considering that she worked approximately three days out of every month, but in her idle moments she sometimes wondered if it was worth the trouble. She was tasked with flying a short-distance shuttle (short distance relative to interstellar space) to the moon every month during a specified phase, and depositing a shipment of supplies to a cramped-looking lunar base. The nature of the supplies was not disclosed to her, and neither was the purpose of the base itself. She imagined it was the site of a classified black project being conducted by the Equestrian government; maybe a testing facility for a new super-weapon, or a training ground for Space Program recruits. This latter theory didn’t gel with the fact that some of the supplies she was hauling were clearly radioactive. The shuttle interior was fitted with a Geiger counter and a lead hazmat suit whose equipping procedures she was thoroughly and repeatedly trained on. She hadn’t yet had reason to use the suit at any point, and she hoped to keep it that way. The crater-scarred face of the moon covered most of her displays. The lunar base was a diminutive speck on the horizon highlighted by a corona of reflected light, fast approaching. Spanner flicked a few overhead switches, activating the counter-thrusters and slowing her approach. She turned on the onboard mic to hail the receptionists. “Shuttle 307 arriving with monthly shipment. Do you copy?” The buzzing of radio static spilled from her speakers in response. Spanner frowned. Comms systems were wrecked by a stray meteor again. She flipped up the plastic cover from an array of communication macro keys and hit the ‘hail’ button. Her shuttle’s serial number, pilot info and shipment contents were immediately sent to be processed by the hangar computers below. This wasn’t ideal since it would take the machines at least a full two minutes to parse the information from her signal and cross-reference it with the database of permitted persons and vehicles. Not that a couple of minutes made any difference to her after an uneventful nineteen-hour flight. She reclined her seat and whistled tunelessly through her teeth as she waited. The slab-like airlock doors of the hangar slid open and the shuttle gradually impaled itself onto the landing rack inside, a procedure Spanner always found unsettlingly sexual. She released the locks and opened the hatch, waiting to be verified by the soldiers on duty. A minute passed. “Guys?” she yelled. No response from the LZ below. “I’m coming out, okay? Don’t shoot, I’m unarmed.” The hangar was dark. She could barely make out the crosshair patterns designating the LZ on the blacktop. The auxiliary lights were on, but predictably dim; the chain of halogen bulbs wired around the hangar left the center in shadow. “Hello?” she called out. This doesn’t look right, but… Shit, if I turn tail and head back to Earth and the welcoming committee was just out on break or something, I could lose my job. She crossed the hangar and hit a switch on a nearby console, opening the door leading to the interior of the facility. The hall beyond was pitch-black: even the emergency lighting wasn’t functioning here. Even if it had been, she wasn’t authorized to leave the hangar area. No. No way is this place supposed to be like this. I’ve gotta get out of here. She activated the flashlight built into her vacuum suit. The hallway split perpendicularly ahead, so the beam lit up the far wall without revealing anything useful. A click sounded somewhere behind her, making her jump. She turned slowly, nervously tearing her eyes away from the hall. Another click. Then another, then a few more, the noise resolving itself into an unpleasant gurgling. It was coming from the inside of her shuttle, she could hear it through the still-open hatch. It was the Geiger counter. The seals on her shipment were still in place, leaving one possibility besides: there was another source of radiation in her vicinity and it was steadily getting closer. She darted back to the console and instinctively shut the heavy titanium door. The electronic locks were offline, but the door was clearly intended to shut from the outside. The bolt looked primitive, and she was able to wedge it manually partway into the mechanism, damaging it and binding the door in place. They can take that out of my paycheck if I make it back to Earth in one piece. The crackling of the Geiger reached its climax as she raced toward the shuttle. Something was there; something was waiting for her in the dark. She collided with a tall equine shape. The ambient glow coming from the interior of her shuttle outlined the figure before her. It looked slender and malnourished, possibly from excessive radiation sickness. Its cheeks were sunken and the curves of its ribcage were visible through the thin, papery flesh covering its chest. Most striking of all was its mane, at once hair and the immense void, dotted with stars, nebulae and distant galaxies. Spanner felt as though if she were to take a microscope to that flowing mane, she might find a single insignificant yellow sun, orbited by a tiny blue-green planet with its own natural satellite. And were she to zoom in on this microscopic speck, she might find the lunar base where an infinitesimal version of herself was currently standing before this very mare, rooted to the spot in sheer terror. The mare regarded her with cold azure eyes sunken deep into their sockets. Spanner tried to say something, but her throat had gone dry and her larynx stubbornly refused to work. Nightmare Moon, for her part, did not speak either. Her foreleg, weak from two centuries’ abuse, didn’t waver as it pointed at the moored shuttle. And this was all that Spanner needed: she knew what the mysterious mare was asking of her. The infinite night outside was, as that mane, melancholy, silent and perfect. Rainbow eyed the holo-display projected over the counter. “…Equestrian generals and the chairman of national defense maintain that the nuclear detonation in Bridleon was not an Equestrian attack. Noted military analysts including one Copper Croix, senior instructor at the San Marturius police academy, are skeptical, saying that the shape of the resulting mushroom cloud is inconsistent with gryphon-manufactured Sekhnar warheads.” The cloud bloomed in slow motion behind the newscaster mare for what might have been the tenth time that night. The press had been running the story for several days now and with each subsequent iteration Rainbow heard nothing of value added. She looked down at the mug sitting in front of her. Her beer had gone flat. Hope Lightning made it out okay. “Largest fleet I ever fucking saw, that, fifty ships, moored together with cable and sheets of corrugated steel, tenders swimming back and forth like guppies…” Rainbow Dash got up from her stool. Deep Six looked up at her sharply. “What’sa matter?” he asked. “Got somewhere you need to be?” She smirked and waved her forehoof casually at him. “If you want to get in bed with me, swabby, you can stop recycling your stories. That shit won’t fly with any mare.” Turning away from the crestfallen stallion, she couldn’t help but let out a strangled snicker. Low standards. Leave it to a sailor to hit on a one-eyed, shell-shocked vet, huh Dashie? Despite the fact that she clearly recalled receiving a request from Toe-Tapper to meet her here, Applejack felt unsure as to how she’d actually come to be in this place. Her legs had carried her to the bar on auto-pilot without any input or conscious thought from her. And now here she was, sitting alone at a small table in the corner, nursing an empty mug some forty minutes later. Toe-Tapper hadn’t been the same since their barge, Consequence, returned from the distant Artemis II. Since they discovered half-way back to Earth that what they took to be his brother, Noteworthy, actually turned out to be a clever changeling sleeper agent. She remembered Toe-Tapper’s look of disbelief as Noteworthy’s oily black blood spilled from his open foreleg, freezing to sub-zero temperature near-instantly. In that moment, the creature knew that its ruse was for naught. It leapt for Maud’s stone-cutter laser, and Applejack fired the last two shells of her spreadgun into its chest. This didn’t stop it, of course, but it bought the diamond dog Spot enough time to skewer it with a Tremor drill he’d ripped from one of the engineering drones. He’d gotten off with several ugly scars where the monster’s icy blood splashed him, but killing it with the laser itself would have likely resulted in collateral damage to the hull of the Consequence. She could still hear Twenty-One’s silky, unmoved tones over the intercom in the silence that followed: T-minus thirty minutes to reentry into the Sol solar system. Noteworthy was dead, had been since before the launch. Toe-Tapper never recovered from the loss. Where is he now? She was roused from her memories by the approach of another mare. “Looking pretty dour there, miss. What’s wrong? Get stood up?” Six colors in her mane, an eyepatch over her left eye. Abnormally pointed ears, military-grade figure-eight speed braces coordinating the prosthetics on her rear legs. A similarly expensive-looking pair of anti-grav tri-fold wings was mounted on her spine. She looked like a veteran, and a decorated one at that. Applejack found it hard to maintain eye-contact. “I didn’t come here seeking trouble,” she muttered quietly. The mare grinned. Her sharp teeth looked more in line with carnivorous canines than ponies. “Hey, don’t worry. I wouldn’t harm a fly.” Applejack tried to match the mare with a smile of her own but her heart wasn’t in it. “Uh-huh. Sorry, I don’t buy it.” She motioned at the mare’s prosthetics. “You look… spec-ops. Or high-end military. And frankly, I don’t feel particularly patriotic right now. Let me be.” The mare nodded toward the holo-screen. “You’re right, it’s a bleeding mess. Glad they shipped me out of there before that happened. Name’s Rainbow Dash, by the way.” “Applejack,” she said reluctantly. “Hey, barkeep!” Rainbow beckoned to the bearded stallion manning the counter. “Top off my friend ‘Jack here! Your best ale!” With a solemn air, the stallion brought a small wooden keg to their table and carefully refilled Applejack’s tankard. Applejack nodded her thanks, took a sip and grimaced. “I prefer cider.” Rainbow elbowed her playfully. “Lightweight. I won’t be having any of my friends drinking that fruity shit.” Applejack chuckled. Rainbow’s amiable nature was proving infectious. “Then maybe you should go look for another candidate.” Rainbow chugged her own mug and threw a hoof vaguely toward the exit. “Tell you what,” she started. “Go ahead and finish that mug, right? I hear they’re rehearsing for the Celestial Festival at the Folk Bazaar.” “Who?” Rainbow cocked her head with eyebrows raised as if to say ‘I don’t fucking know’. “Anyway, be a hoot and a half to watch them fuck up over and over. You game? Or you’d prefer to waste the night away here waiting for your boyfriend or whatever?” Applejack briefly wondered if Rainbow meant to actively sabotage the proceedings. She checked her time readout and estimated how long she’d been waiting. She shot another evaluating look at the mare sitting across from her. She made a decision. As if I have anything better to do at this hour. Visions of circuit board patterns overlaid with psychedelic abstract shapes, morphing into one another ceaselessly, neon webs of light dancing around her. Something smooth pressed against her as she flew through the dreamscape. A familiar voice, grating like the sharp tones of an alarm clock. “Sleeping on the job again, I see. I must admit, I’m perplexed as to why Madam Rarity invested so much time and money in bringing you aboard.” The shapes and webs resolved into a network map suspended in front of her eyes by the display strip mounted into the twin ports on her temples. The pressure against her cheek became the hard, indented surface of the keyboard. A pattern of grooves and squares was imprinted into the side of her face as she lifted her head off of the keys and wiped the trail of saliva from the corner of her mouth. Eiffel was waiting at the door to her office, his face unreadable as usual. “Oh, sorry! It must’ve been the muscle relaxant.” Her voice was hoarse. She harrumphed, clearing away the film in the back of her throat. Eiffel tilted his head quizzically. “Muscle relaxant?” Her head felt heavy, difficult to balance on her neck; a ball of lead atop a needle point. “Yeah. You know, to fight the spasms I’ve been getting? Ever since you shot me…” Hard to think. Maybe that last point deserves an addendum. “…you prick.” For a brief moment, Eiffel looked genuinely hurt. “Miss Pie, I hope you’ll forgive my saying so but—” “Here we go…” she interrupted. “—but I think that these tremors may be more a result of your questionable lifestyle choices than that of a trivial gunshot wound.” Eiffel swam out of focus as she turned her attention to the map of the network. Connections flickered and winked out, replaced by new axons in new positions, an ever-shifting web of light and color. “Anyway,” she said pointedly, “Being a system administrator of a network that’s already equipped with a caretaker sprite is pretty boring.” “My thoughts exactly, Miss Pie,” Eiffel answered. “But I would also think that, given the conditions of your continued employment here, you’d be more eager to make yourself useful in any way you can.” Pinkie drummed on the tabletop with her bionic pianist fingers. She couldn’t feel the killer nanites coursing through her veins, but she had no doubt that they were there. Rarity didn’t seem the type to make empty threats. “In any case,” he said resignedly, “I didn’t come here to chastise you. Madam Rarity requests your presence in her office.” Pinkie groaned. “Again?” “I wouldn’t keep her waiting,” he said, bowing his head. Rarity glanced through her glass office door into the hall beyond—Pinkamena was waiting outside, displaying an impatience that bordered on insolence. She resolved not to allow the decker the satisfaction of garnering her attention, and instead turned back to Twinkleshine. “Are you certain you want to resume working so soon after your injury?” she asked. “I could put you on rehabilitation leave for as long as necessary. Celestia knows you’ve earned it.” Coconut’s spreadgun shell had bitten out a chunk of Twinkleshine’s foreleg, and the operation left her bedridden for a week thereafter. It was a standard cleanup and replacement tissue grafting job; she’d have trouble walking and standing straight for a couple of months, but she’d live. The nanny held her gaze, nodded. “I don’t think Sweetie Belle will take kindly to a replacement. She needs me. What’s more, she needs to see that I’m alright and stop blaming herself for what happened.” They heard a series of dull thumps as Pinkie started pounding on the door. Rarity permitted herself an exasperated sigh and offered an apologetic smile. “We’ll talk about this later. Please take it easy, Twinkleshine. For her sake, if not for yours.” “Thank you for your concern,” said Twinkleshine, getting out of her seat. Rarity gave a signal with her NOI and the office door slid smoothly open. “Oh hey, Twinkleshine!” Pinkie said brightly. “How are you doing?” Tightlipped and stone-faced, the nanny ignored her as she lurched out of the office, the metallic heel of her rehab crutch clicking on the waxen floors of the hallway. “Sheesh. What’s her problem?” asked Pinkie. “Well, it can’t possibly be the fact that a partner of yours nearly killed her and took Sweetie Belle hostage not a month ago,” Rarity replied icily. “Yeah! Partner! Not me! You can’t hold that against me personally!” “Evidently she can.” Rarity tore her disinterested gaze away from the cityscape beyond her window and set her NOI to record. “Let’s not delay. How exactly is it that your raiding party knew of Project Huehuecóyotl’s existence before entering our facility?” Pinkie made a face. “This again? Eiffel debriefed me when I first woke up in the ICU. He didn’t relay any of the info to you?” Someone leaked company data, to you and to Celestia. Until I determine who it was, it would be unwise to trust anyone in Carousel Industries fully, including Eiffel. Celestia’s courier dropped off a single page labeled ‘HARMONIA’ and instructed me to gather the six individuals listed therein. One of the names was my own. Her eyes narrowed behind her insect lenses. Another happened to be yours, Pinkamena Diane Pie. And what do you know, I just happened to have hired you half a month prior because your position was vacated with the apparent suicide of my previous datarat, Binary. Then there’s the relocation of Celestia’s apprentice Twilight Sparkle to Ponyville… Her name was also on the list, and she’s now within reach. And that handmaiden, Raven Four, knew the exact location of yet another member of the group, an off-grid mystic named Fluttershy. It’s all just too convenient. “Rare? You there? Hello?” “I’d like to hear your testimony personally,” she said finally. Pinkie shrugged. “I got an e-mail from some guy. Dunno who, there was no name. Said something like ‘Carousel Industries is writing a wicked sick new AI.’” She paused, sensing Rarity’s disdain. “I’m paraphrasing, obviously. Anyway, he said he’d pay me at least half a million for the prototype. Gave me an address to drop it on the tenth, but I woke up here on the eighteenth, so I missed my window.” “Don’t e-mails automatically include the Grapevine handle of the sender?” asked Rarity. Pinkie fixed her eyes on the ceiling. “Well, sure, they’re supposed to, but e-mails don’t work the same way as Grapevine IM, they’re not real-time. So in practice, any halfway savvy user can run the message through a third-party program and change the signature before sending it. Every successive Grapevine patch renders these exploits obsolete, but new versions are usually available within a couple of days. It’s a race the Grapevine devs have been losing since day one.” Rarity nodded, remembering that those very same exploits allowed Pinkie to anonymously send a Trojan into the Carousel network hours before her party infiltrated the building. “I see. And you just went along, risking your life for an unverified tip. Is that correct?” “It was the best I could do!” Pinkie said, throwing her forelegs up. “I was hurting for money and you know how expensive my hobbies are!” “Hmm.” Rarity considered this. “Yes. ‘Expensive’ is one valid adjective.” “Hey, I already got that line from Eiffel. I don’t need any more harassment from you,” she said, pointing with a stubby bionic digit. “How many cigarette packs do you exhaust on a given day, huh? How many lung replacement operations have you gone through?” “You know,” said Rarity in a conversational tone, “I considered replacing your pancreas while you were under—a custom job to bypass all the garbage you put into your system on a regular basis. But I suppose in the end I figured it wouldn’t be worth the probable penalty to your performance.” Pinkie shut up. Her jaw worked visibly behind her cheeks. Smiling, Rarity let the moment hang. And moved on, equally casually. “Now, speaking of your performance…” Twilight lunged, bearing her forehooves forward. He rolled with the incoming blow and she realized her mistake a split second too late. Her forelegs grazed past him harmlessly and she sailed after them, unable to stop. Her momentum was halted—jarringly—by a heavy oak bookshelf. Several volumes fell from their alcoves, clipping her on their way to the polished floor. She growled in frustration and, tapping into her magical amplifier, conceived a score of razor-sharp magical blades around the stallion. He sneered as a shining spherical barrier materialized between him and the knives, stopping them as they flew. Each one shattered and evaporated, leaving nothing but a trail of sparks and afterimages in its wake. “That’s not fair!” she yelled, stomping her hoof childishly. “You specialize in defensive spells!” “You’ve really got to learn to control yourself,” said Shining Armor. “We’re sparring, remember? Those could have killed me. Besides which,” he added as an afterthought, “pacing yourself in a fight can be the difference between life and death. You panic, you overexert yourself, you die, get it? “And seriously, Twily? Magic blades?” He shot her a scornful glare. “Is that the full extent of your imagination?” Her face felt hot with uncharacteristic shame. “Sorry.” She wasn’t certain if she was apologizing for nearly maiming her older brother or for making such an amateur mistake. Materialization was widely denounced by modern magical duelists. The quality and characteristics of a produced solid were dependent largely on the caster’s levels of concentration. In an active combat setting, where the caster’s attention might be split between conjured items, the actions of his opponent and his environment as a whole, such weapons tended to be light and brittle to the point of near-uselessness. It was much more efficient to manipulate existing elements of the environment to the caster’s advantage. Spike took advantage of this silent moment and cautiously peeked in from the next room. “Hey sorry to, uh, impose, but somebody’s here.” “What?” Twilight snapped toward the drake. “What for?” “To… check out a book?” Spike ventured. “Oh, sundamn it.” Twilight abruptly remembered that she was now the proud custodian of Ponyville’s Golden Oak Public Library. “Tell them we’re closed.” “No, I think that’s enough practice for this week,” said Shining Armor. “Hold on—” “That’s enough,” he repeated. “These self-defense drills are comparably low-priority. Anyway, you don’t seem to be making much progress.” The comment stung. “All the more reason to keep going!” she tried. “You’re not suited for combat,” he said. “That’s not what our parents enrolled you into Celestia’s school for.” Understanding hit her like a brick, and brought with it a sense of righteous indignation. “You’re only saying that because you’re used to training Royal Guard colts,” she said accusingly. “They take to fighting like a scarab takes to rolling up shit, they’re engineered for it. It frustrates you that I’m not a vat-grown meathead like them, doesn’t it?” Shining stifled a yawn with the back of his fetlock and she flared up at the sight of the dismissive gesture. “Star Swirl’s fucking beard. You sure as Tartarus don’t make it easy, Twily. We’ll keep going, alright, just not this week. Go see to your visitor.” Twilight knew her brother well enough to gauge when she’d gotten as far as she’d get with him. Shining Armor was, true to his name, stubbornly stalwart when he reached a decision. She waved Spike over and descended the spiral staircase—really should get an elevator installed at some point—to the main floor of the library. Some would consider Golden Oak Public Library to be ‘charmingly rustic,’ a hollow carved straight from a massive dead husk of an oak tree, augmented with added cubic compartments where the volume of the tree itself was insufficient. From the outside, this gave the impression that the tree had grown through and around an assortment of geometric solids, a mixture of the natural and artificial. The library used to be carved completely from wood before some progressive young architect realized that a dry wooden structure housing exclusively paper materials was a colossal fire hazard. The cynic in her theorized that a number of small fires occurred before somebody finally got the bright idea to replace most of the surfaces with fire-retardant materials like marble, perlite and plastic. The mare waiting anxiously in the lobby looked something like an industrial metal-head, probably a specimen of one of the countless subcultures that prowled the streets of Ponyville’s Residential District. A bomber jacket hid most of her body, probably new given the stiffness of the fur trim. Her face was covered by a heavy muzzlepiece composed mostly of assorted tubing, and as Twilight looked closer, she could make out a circular logo containing the initials ‘CI’ embossed into one of the larger pipes. All told, this mare did not seem the type to peruse a catalogue of antiquated paper works. “Yeah, what do you want?” asked Twilight impatiently. She heard Shining’s footsteps echoing down the staircase behind her. “Hi, I’m uh, I’m looking for information on Nightmare Moon? Alternatively, Princess Luna, please.” Her quiet, muffled voice was amplified by a microphone built directly into her mask. “Great.” Twilight turned to the drake. “Spike, get the mare her books.” She still hadn’t felt the need or inclination to fully grasp the decimal-based organizational system herself. “Is that it?” “Well, also if you happen to have any newspaper clippings regarding the terrorist group Children of the Night, I wouldn’t object to maybe getting a copy…” “Newspaper clippings?” Twilight scoffed. “What century do you think this is? Check the news archives on the Grapevine.” “Oh, uh…” The mare blinked at her. “Grapevine has… other functions? Besides instant messaging?” Twilight could barely keep her eyes from rolling. “Yes, actually. You want me to show you? What’s your NOI serial…?” She shook her head a little over-vigorously. “No, thank you, uh, I figure since I’m already here…” Twilight exchanged a glance with Shining. Can you really blame me for opting to go through the drills in lieu of putting up with this kind of shit? Spike stood to attention, holding a plastic saddlebag filled with several weighty volumes. Twilight couldn’t help but feel a mild irritation at the speed and competence the drake displayed in finding requested books. She brought up the new borrower ledger on her own NOI; a custom-built organizational tool she wrote to avoid keeping paper records under the reasoning that more paper is the last thing this place needs. The spreadsheet now obscuring her vision brought back uneasy memories of the young clerk manning the desk at the Canterlot Archives—the one who turned out to be the mobster-slaying vigilante that confronted her in an alicorn-shaped exoskeleton and nearly killed her. Shining told her that he expired shortly after being taken into custody: he’d poisoned himself with a dose of cyanide kept inside a hollow tooth. “I’ll need your full name,” Twilight told the mare. “Preferably on an ID of some kind. With contact info.” “Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” said the mare, sounding flustered. “I didn’t even introduce myself. My name is Fluttershy. And, uh, you are?” She didn’t seem to be getting the hint. I’m not here to socialize. Twilight sighed. “Sure, my pleasure. I’m Twilight.” Fluttershy looked distant. “Twilight… Sparkle?” “Do I know you?” She regarded the strange mare with newfound suspicion. “No… no, I must’ve just heard your name somewhere?” Fluttershy appeared to be regretting speaking up. “Where have you heard it?” Twilight pressed. A-a lady might be looking for you,” she said vaguely, fearing to commit. Twilight noticed peripherally that Shining had stiffened next to her, was no longer propping himself casually on a bookshelf. “Who’s looking for me?” she persisted. “She’s a… an executive. Corporate. She oversees Carousel Industries in the north wing. She said her name was Rarity. She had a list of names, and yours was one of them.” Twilight’s mind raced, reeled with the possibilities. Why would a blue-blood exec be looking for her? How did she even know her name? Twilight recalled her working theory in Canterlot: the mafia-hunting vigilante was corporate-backed. After all, how else could he have come into possession of a heavy exoskeleton with an anti-ballistic field? The bloody thing was essentially a war machine. What if this Rarity was connected to the case or worse, what if she provided him with the exoskeleton? What if she sought revenge on Twilight and Shining for foiling her plans? Shining filled in the silence, reading her mind or reaching the same conclusions independently. “What kind of list? Like a hit list?” Fluttershy was quickly growing more and more anxious. Twilight tried to edge toward the door and cut off her escape route. “Uh, I don’t know… Maybe?” Too busy admiring the floor, Fluttershy failed to catch Twilight as she neared the exit. “Two of the names were blacked out.” “I see. And what were the other names?” asked Shining. “I don’t know! I don’t remember!” The mic drew attention to her voice as it cracked. She sounded on the verge of tears. Twilight reached for the knob and stopped. A pale rabbit or hare was sitting on the front porch glaring daggers, insofar as a rodent could be said to be doing such a thing. As her hoof brushed against the knob, she saw the creature crouch as though it was preparing to pounce. She felt abruptly hesitant to make any sudden moves. The tense seconds wore on and were finally interrupted by panicked shouts echoing down the street. Shining pricked up his ears. “What’s going on out there?” She peeked cautiously from the doorway, still wary of the hare. The streetlights threw halos of synthetic light over the asphalt, casting the stampede of screaming ponies in sharp relief. The mob started to break apart as it neared and passed them. A stallion stopped by the library’s porch to catch his breath, only barely stable on his feet. “Hey,” Twilight shouted uncertainly at him. He jerked toward her, startled. “What’s all the running and screaming about?” “Something…” he started, stopped and took several cavernous breaths. “Something crashed… in the middle of the Folk Bazaar. Some kinda… missile… or bomb or something… I didn’t get a good look ‘cause it was like… matte black, hard to make out. Was some kind of symbol in silver on the top fin, like a parabola with a lightning bolt bisecting it…” He seemed to remember something and started looking around wildly. “Shit. I coulda sworn she was right behind me. Where’d she…?” He gave her a distracted little wave and took off again, head rolling back and forth as he repeatedly called out a name. “That symbol he mentioned,” said Shining Armor. “That sounded like the Canterlot Underwatch logo.” “Canterlot… Underwatch?” repeated Twilight. “Is that some kind of covert ops unit?” “Something like that. From the description our friend gave us, I think it may have been a shuttle or transport that crashed in the Bazaar.” Shining locked eyes with Twilight and then Fluttershy in turn. The second mare demurred again and looked at her forehooves. “Maybe we should go check it out. National consequence and all that. I, for one, am curious.” “We taking her with us?” Twilight motioned towards the other mare. “Do I… do I not have a say?” asked Fluttershy. “Sorry, miss.” Shining beckoned her over as he started toward the door. “We still have questions for you.”