//------------------------------//
// II - Overlooking the Obvious 
// Story: The Night Mare's Nightmare Night Nightmare 
// by Corejo 
//------------------------------//

	The Lingerlight District was so named for its unique place in Canterlot.  Positioned on the northernmost end of the city, it caught the final rays of the evening sun as it dipped between the peaks of the Splithoof Mountains across Canterlot Valley.  

The jagged shape of the southern peak allowed Lingerlight a quarter of an hour more daylight while altogether thrusting the rest of Canterlot into the crystalline beauty of night.  From her viewpoint in the topmost towers of the castle, Luna had the luxury of watching the scene unfold every sunset since her return.

The sudden enshrouding of Canterlot always played a smile on her lips.  It fed an almost primal aspect of her mind, that her night was cast upon the still-awake ponies of the capital, that they would see and relish its wonders in the final hours before sleep—her turn in the spotlight.  In counter, the fading sun over Lingerlight acknowledged a sort of restraint, a reminder that both moon and sun ruled.  Perhaps she gave Celestia too much credit for coincidence.  Or too little.

Regardless, it was a beautiful event to witness, and flying over the district in the daytime made Luna wish for the other end of the sun’s arc.  Windowpanes flashed, fountains shimmered, even the ground glass of the mortar between cobblestones sparkled like miniature suns.  It stung the eye worse than anything.  

She had tried acclimating herself since her return, though fruitlessly.  A migraine throbbed behind her eyes.  She would have to make this quick, or at least arrange a night meeting once she had gotten a few hours of sleep.

Luna passed over the district forum and its marble Summer Sun monument.  A hoofful of peddlers had set up shop around it, and already the crowds were thick.  To her surprise, a separate gathering clogged the Hackney House’s courtyard on the far end.

She spied picket signs and poster boards lining the façade of the building.  ‘Down with the PBWAYFC!’ some had been painted.  ‘PB-NO-WAY-FC’ others read.  Ponies ran amok, exchanging papers and shouting orders.  They each sported a simple blue uniform, though she used the term loosely.  Bandanas, t-shirts, even body paint—as long as it was blue, it seemed fair game.  Luna landed among the crowd, deciding a direct approach the most appropriate.  No point in skirting the issue.

Those nearby jumped in surprise at her appearance and either bowed or scurried off to whatever it was they were doing.  Luna stared down one particular pony who hadn’t run off in time, and she approached the trembling mare.

“Dear citizen,” she said.  “Where can I find Rhetorical Rhetoric?  We request an audience with him."

The mare perked up at his name and seemed more than willing to point out a rail of a pony on the other side of the courtyard.  Luna had never seen a skinnier stallion in her life.  A stiff wind could have taken him on quite the adventure.  

“Thank you, citizen,” Luna said.  The mare squeaked a ‘you’re welcome’ before dashing off.  

Ponies whispered amongst themselves, eyes wide at her passing.  Rhetorical Rhetoric noticed her coming.  A smile crossed his face, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before squaring his shoulders to greet her, pulling taught an already tight-fitting vest.  Not that it did much for his frame, but such confidence deserved its own respect.

“My lady,” Rhetorical Rhetoric said, bowing.  “My dearest princess.”

Luna returned it with a smaller, more formal bow of her own.  “Rhetorical.  I am told you are in charge here?”

“Yes, I am indeed so, your Highness.”  He closed his eyes, giving a small nod before letting his smile return warmly.  

Luna smiled.  A tautologist, indeed.  “Please, call me Luna.  It is good to hear you are at the helm of this operation.  Your reputation stands testament to my faith in the coming petition.”

A fluster overcame him.  He again bowed graciously.  “Like my father, and his father before him, I speak for what I believe true and correct.  And the P-B-WAY-F-C is far from either.  It is a horrible name.”  He shuddered.  “Simply terrible!  We stand in disgust.”  He gestured to the crowd and its preparations.  

If he had said they were preparing for war, she just might have believed him.  The ponies looked as though in battle formations, their signs weapons ready to plunge into the hearts of their enemies.  A hardened look had settled upon them, like they had endured the twisting, shambling things of their waking nightmares brought to life and lived to tell the tale.  There must have been more to business busting than she thought.

“I am glad to hear it,” Luna said.  She stomped a hoof, spreading her wings, much to the surprise of those around them.  “I stand by those that stand for what is just.”

Rhetorical had blanked at her sudden expanded presence, but recovered quickly.  “Thank you, Luna.  It means a lot to us, having your support, myself included.”  Indeed, those around them still gazed at her in awe.  Why she remained a novelty to them, she didn’t know.  Surely, the citizens should have adjusted after two years.

“Pay it no mind, Rhetorical.  It is thee that shalt surely win us the day.”  He failed to hide a blush.  “Thou art experienced with routing petitions, no?”

Rhetorical cleared his throat.  “Erm, yes.”  Confidence returned in full, his eyes closing above a smile.  “Correct.  We here at the SPCCPANA have successfully seen to the end of a number of poorly worded company names, Ambermane’s Better-Than-Kettlebottom’s Apothecarium being our latest victory.”

A store Luna had thankfully never heard of before.  Poor naming choices must really have become a pandemic during her imprisonment.  A shame the SPCCPANA went so far as to deny the actual establishment of the offending businesses and organizations.  No matter.  That was the exact kind of ruthlessness she needed this very hour.  

“And you are certain we can overcome this Fillies and Colts group and secure Nightmare Night’s preservation?" Luna asked.

Rhetorical chuckled.  “My dearest princess, have you heard of ‘The?’”

“‘The?’  As in ‘The’ restaurant?  Yes, I have.  Celestia and I have dined there on occasion.  It really is ‘the very best restaurant in Canterlot,’ if I must agree with their slogan.”

“Only a slogan and nothing more, thanks to us.”  His grin couldn’t have passed for anything but swelling pride.

Only a slogan?  Perhaps a tribute to a past restaurant.  “Right.  So we are in agreement, then?  This ‘P-B-WAY-F-C’ is to be dealt with.”

“And soon,” Rhetorical said.  “We will set out forthwith.  No name that long deserves to exist.  We won’t let it see the light of day.”  He blinked.  “Err, or night.  Night or day,” he added quickly.

Luna grinned, more in hopes of dispelling his embarrassment than for her eagerness.  “They are planning to request party rights at the Laws and Corrections office within the hour.  Surely, striking now will bring about a swift end to this charade.”

It was Rhetorical’s turn to grin.  He nodded at the poster boards many of the ponies had already hoisted into the air, proceeding toward the entrance gate.  They had taken up the chant: ‘No WAY!  It won’t stay!’

“We’re way, way ahead of you,” he said.  He lifted one from where it leaned against the wall, offering it to her.

Smiling, Luna took up the sign and marched after the crowd.


≈≈≈×≈≈≈


The chant echoed up and down the streets of Canterlot.  “No WAY!  It won’t stay!” shouted the crowd, poster boards raised high.  Ponies looked on from windows and doorways, those of select businesses taking every precaution to appear closed for the day.

Luna stood tall at the head of the pack, her own poster board floating high above her, a determined grin on her face.  Behind her marched an army, and, for all it was worth, it marched forward in her name.

The large, blocky face of the Laws and Corrections office grew nearer in her sights, its stone-and-glass façade a stately monument rising above the smaller buildings around it like a mother hen and her chicks.  The many suited business ponies halted their busy lives to stare at the crowd as it filed through the front gates.  They probably wondered how so many ponies would fit into such a crowded building.  Or perhaps that was just an afterthought of Luna’s once she stepped inside.

The building was surprisingly expansive, but every nook and cranny had been overtaken by cubicles.  Luna had the luxury of being taller than those around her, which allowed her to see just overtop the cubicles.  Not that it helped.  A maze would have been less daunting to navigate.  She wondered where, if in any of the cubicles, she would have found a slice of cheese awaiting her.

The crowd’s shouts hardly put a dent in the din that pervaded the office like a low-hanging cloud.  A hooffull of white-collared ponies poked their heads out from their little corners of the universe, phones wedged between the crooks of their necks, pencils in mouths, before ducking back in.

Luna paused, looking left then right for a sign indicating where they should go, but the crowd itself must have already planned their march, as they broke around her like water around a rock, Rhetorical Rhetoric III at the helm.  She followed, observant.

Excluding the initial peeks upon their entrance, not a single pony seemed to notice the mob storming through the office.  A mare at a copier stepped out of the way, yawning away the time and chugging coffee in quantities that would have sent Luna running to the bathroom all night long.  The pair of stallions bantering at the water cooler acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was stampeding past them.  One gave a ‘high hoof’ to somepony in the crowd, if she had that term correct.  A managerial-looking stallion even squeezed his way through the mob to change the ‘days since last incident’ poster on the wall from five to six.

The march came to a halt outside a small, nondescript door.  The crowd went unnervingly quiet, and the noises of the office regained hold of their element like birdsong after a thunderstorm.

Rhetorical knocked.  Luna glanced around, grasping for information.  No sign graced the wall as indication of who or what laid beyond the door, and the wall stood windowless from end to end.  As did the other three.  In fact, she didn’t recall seeing any windows since stepping inside, just featureless, white plaster.

The door opened on squeaky hinges, and the crowd erupted anew in shouts and chanting.  It poured through the opening and practically overtop the wide-eyed intern who had been unlucky enough to answer, sweeping Luna in with the current.  When the motion ceased, she found herself in the tiniest office imaginable.  

Really, Luna had been expecting an auditorium, or at least a conference room of some sort.  She wasn’t a claustrophobic pony—nothing of the sort—but sardines had it better than her.  And probably more interesting things to look at.  

If she had to decide, the ambience settled somewhere between grey slate and slate grey.  The desk in the middle would have turned less eyes than a dust mote in a dark room.  Pens and papers were lined in neat rows along the desk, beside two trays labelled ‘in’ and ‘out.’  Behind it, the first window Luna had seen—and probably only—in the building gave a wonderful view of the concrete wall next door.  The room’s only picture framed a greyscale of a brick wall, and beside it hung a clock too standard to bother with numbers.  There was a rather healthy-looking ficus in the corner, though.

The tight space magnified the crowd’s chants, and Luna had half a mind to command silence for the sake of her returning headache.  She rubbed her temples, teeth clenching tighter.  Three.  Two.  One.

The door opened behind her, and into the tiny room hobbled an equally tiny pony.  Luna had to do a double take to ensure what she saw was really a stallion and not a child in costume.

White hairs sprung from his mane as if he had been electrocuted.  A caterpillar of an eyebrow wriggled its way above squinted eyes as he stared head-on at the knees of those standing in his office.  He tightened his already far-too-tight tie and flattened the wings of his shirt collar with perfect creases.  A twitch of his moustache and he made his patient way through the quieting crowd, muttering words too muffled to hear.

Luna never realized how quiet a room full of ponies could get.  She could have heard a pin drop.  Every pair of eyes stared at the chest-high ball of fuzz parting a path toward the desk.  

And they kept staring.  His little steps were muffled on the carpet, and the clock ticked away what might as well have been hours.  His muttering lilted above the crowd, just loud enough to notice, but too quiet to understand.  The ponies on the right half of the room made way, and Luna noticed that one of them wore a particularly ugly houndstooth sweater.  

She blinked.  Pea Body?  There were others around her lacking picket signs, and they all wore different shades of green.  How many ponies were in this room?

A cough brought her attention forward.  The tiny stallion had taken his seat at his desk, and he wriggled his moustache again.  A second passed, and he straightened a wooden triangular block on the front of his desk, presumably jostled during the influx of ponies.  It read ‘Bushel Brow.’

So this was Bushel Brow’s office.  Though they had never officially met, they had corresponded in the past.  Nice to finally put a face to the name.  Or eyebrow to the name, more appropriately.  The thing looked poised to swarm the rest of his face.

He cleared his throat, and a turn of the head spanned yet another minute of abject silence.  His squinted eyes stopped somewhere to the right, where Luna noticed the intern who had been unfortunate enough to allow the mob entry plastered against the wall like a pony toeing a one-inch ledge.  Bushel Brow gestured toward the door.

The mare looked as though she had been relieved indefinitely from lavatory duty.  She scurried through the sea of ponies for the door as fast as her hooves would allow, head low, not caring for the papers falling from her folder.  She hadn’t accounted for Princess Luna standing in the way, whose polished silver shoes she had just noticed.

She froze like a child caught out of bed, and slowly glanced upward, trembling.  She had the widest eyes, and she used them to full effect.  That effect being terror-stricken.  Luna merely raised an eyebrow.  ‘Pencil Pusher,’ her name tag read.  She remembered the name from a nightmare a while back.  Something to do with audits, red ink, and student loans.

Luna shook her head.  She stepped aside, and the mare wizzed past with a speed that would have made a Wonderbolt blush.  The door slammed shut, and all eyes turned back to Bushel Brow.

In the span of a breath, the room detonated in an explosion of angry shouts and jostles.  The chaos heated the air, and Luna wouldn’t have been surprised if staplers and trapper keepers started flying.

Bushel Brow sat like a statue amid the dozens of ponies bumping into his desk, sending his pens and papers askew.  He stared down at them and their disorder, and Luna thought she saw the faintest of twitches in his moustache.  He heaved a large sigh.  Luna took in a breath of her own to silence the crowd on his behalf, but he raised a hoof, catching her short.

Instantly the room fell silent again, and everypony gazed on.

Bushel Brow took the moment to straighten his desk, then harumphed, nodding.  He turned toward Pea Body, extending a hoof, all eyes resting upon her.  Luna had expected she herself would have lead the argument, considering her standing as the Princess of the Night, but nopony seemed perturbed by this turn of events.  Defendant before prosecutor, she supposed.  Fair enough.

Pea Body cleared her throat, much the way a librarian would have before lecturing a foal for returning a book to the wrong shelf.  Luna could already feel her temple throbbing.

“Mr. Bushel,” Pea Body said.  Bushel Brow raised a hoof.  He set it firmly on the desk in her direction, his moustache dancing like a hedge in a windstorm.  Something resembling a mumble barely reached Luna’s ears, so garbled by the forest beneath his nose that she wouldn’t have believed them words had somepony told her.

“Excuse me—Mr. Brow.”  He nodded in approval.  “We, the Ponies for the Benefit and Well-being of All Young Fillies and Colts, believe it is time for a change.”  

Luna put a hoof to her temple.  Indeed.  High, trill voice.  Assertive, yet expectant.  If she started any sort of flattery, staplers and trapper keepers would start flying.

“Statistics show that there has been a two-fold increase in the incidence of foalhood diabetes, and nearly a forty-three percent increase in foalhood obesity over the last five years.”

A green-collared stallion raised a poster board for her.  A line graph—whose y-axis, as Luna noticed, conveniently incremented by quarter percents—depicted a blue and red line ready to leap off the board in their race for the heavens.

“And this is a chart comparing the prevalence of cavity-related dental visits over the last three years.”

The stallion raised another poster board, a pie chart, whose title read Pertinent Pi Day Pie Purchases.  Three quarters of the pie chart denoted the percentage of pies purchased on Pi Day, the remaining slice of those not purchased on Pi Day.

Pea Body snuck a glance at the crowd, confused by the blank expressions and hushed whispers.  Horror overtook her at the realization, and Luna made no attempt at hiding a chuckle.  “Why’d you even bring that one?” Pea Body hissed at the stallion.  He made a face of wide-eyed confusion and jerked a shrug.  He hid the poster and pulled out another pie chart, one correctly visualizing a number of reasons for foalhood dental visits.

“This,” Pea Body said, pointing robustly at the poster, “is a chart comparing the prevalence of cavity-related dental visits over the last three years.  As you can see, cavities are by far the most prevalent—nearly fifty-five percent!”  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, heads nodding at one another.  

“What’s worse, the figures are projected to possibly triple within the next two years.”  Pea Body stomped a hoof, puffing out her chest.  “And we simply cannot stand for such an unhealthy trend in society.”

The murmurs continued off the tail end of her closing statement, and it was a moment before they quieted at the gesture of Bushel Brow.  His moustache danced a jig on his face, muffled murmurs of his own barely heard over the crowd.  He waved his hooves eloquently, as Luna would have expected from any experienced orator.  But she didn’t speak ‘Mrphrlmrph,’ and it gave her quite the surprise when she noticed his hoof pointing directly at her, all eyes magnetizing to hers.

Her turn to speak, then?  A rousing introduction if she ever heard one... No matter.  It had been millennia since she had considered herself a novice at public speaking.  Here was her moment to give voice to a season that had none of its own.  And she had readied many words in preparation.  

She cleared her throat, but as she drew breath, Rhetorical placed a hoof on her chest.  The smile on his face practically screamed ‘leave it to me.’  Luna grinned.  Very well.  Let the professional handle it.  A slight nod.

Rhetorical turned his smile toward the crowd.  “Fillies and gentlecolts.  Mares and stallions...  I must first begin by saying that I admire your dedication for seeing through with what you believe is right.”  He cast a glance at Pea Body, who had only the nerve to glare back.  “And your commitment to doing good I applaud.  But there simply stands a gross wrong that you so blatantly ignore.”

The left crowd rumbled with agreement, their heads bobbing like leaves on water.  “Preach it!” one of them yelled.  “You can say that again!” shouted another.

“Our children deserve proper care and, as you put it, well-being.  They merit your—our—attention, simply for who they are: our children.”  

A fine statement, if Luna had ever heard one.  She could see in the eyes of both parties that his roots were taking hold, had softened a hoofful of stony faces among the PBWAYFC.  The more stubborn of the lot remained unfazed, but she could tell Rhetorical was just warming up.

“Love, patience, love.”  He gestured to the open air with each word, a wistful gaze fixed upon his hoof.  “These are things we all must nurture within ourselves, see that they flourish inside us, for they are the foundation upon which we lay the bricks of our children’s lives.

“We shape them based upon our values, all the things we hold dear to our hearts, not because we want to, but because we have to, we need to.”  His voice rose with his eyes toward something above that only he could see.  “They are everything we hold dear, deserve every fiber of our desire to see the world a better place."  

Rather flamboyant, but it seemed effective.  Tears welled in ponies’ eyes, some sniffling and wiping their noses.  Others tried hiding their crumbling masks of stone.  Had ponies always been so easy to compel?

“Therefore,” Rhetorical continued, “it is with great pride in our fine and glorious nation of Equestria that we stand against the abhorrence, the terror, that is ‘P-B-WAY-F-C.'"

Luna smiled, could feel her teeth sinking deep into the throat of Pea Body’s argument, all without lifting a hoof.  That’s right, Rhetorical, go for the kill.

The crowd had parted as little as it could to make room for Rhetorical.  His was a passion that rivaled even Luna’s, shone like the full moon in his stance—tall and purposeful.  “No foal deserves to live in a world so markedly criminal, where companies of such under-hoofed titling besmirch the goodness that is ‘Equestrian.’”

An odd statement.  Since when did ‘titling’ have to do with anything?  A glance around.  Everypony wore their hearts on their sleeves.  They lived and died by his every word.

“Children deserve concision.”  His gaze had returned to Equestria, swept between each and every pony in the room, a fire within intent on spreading.  

Expressionless, Luna raised a hoof, hesitation clenching her jaw.  He was getting a little off topic.

“What they do not deserve is excessive and unnecessary language.”

“Um, Rhetorical?” Luna said.

“We are the ones responsible for fostering a well-worded society.  It is our duty to see that they come to know only the precise and uncluttered language Equestrian is and is meant to be.”

“Rhetori—”

“And by this statement, we, The Society of Ponies Concerned for the Concision and Precision of All Names and Acronyms, cannot allow such an enormous and erroneously large title to stand head of your organization.”

“Rhetorical, we—”

“So what you’re saying is,” Pea Body said.  “Is that you want us to change the name?  And that‘s it?”

“Precisely.”  Rhetorical nodded, wearing a simple smile like a trophy.  “That is all we want.”

“Oh,” Pea Body said, suddenly rather satisfied.  “Well, okay, sure.”

“Excellent.”  They shook hooves.  Bushel Brow harumphed again and ink stamped the paper laying before him, declaring the no-longer PBWAYFC into legal existence.

“Say what?” was all Luna could manage before the room erupted in cheers and celebration.  Confetti burst from somewhere, and it fell thick upon the ponies marching for the door.  They took up a joyous tune in time with their march.  

“The P-B be no WAY no WAY!  
The ugly name is done.”

They bumped and jostled their way past Luna.  Her tiara jerked askew.  Somepony stepped on her hoof.

“The S-P-C-C-P-A-N-A!  
Concision it has won!”

The final stragglers slipped past her, and Luna found a chance to shake her head of the ruckus that had set her a-kilter.  She felt like a bride’s garter after it had been tossed to a crowd of bachelorettes.  Down the hall, faintly: 

“Equestria won’t have to hear 
A too-long name, won’t have to fear!”

Chairs lay upturned, the brick-wall portrait hung crooked, and confetti littered the carpet and desk, mingling with strewn papers and pens.  Luna felt a pang of guilt at the sight of the ficus.  Knocked over, dishonored by a careless society member, its leaves did its best to hide away the blanket of confetti, faithful to the last.

Amidst the chaos sat Bushel Brow at his desk.  Like a statue, he stared down at the mess of papers and pens, and his upturned ‘in’ and ‘out’ trays.  Luna had never seen a longer face.  Apparently he, too, had not expected even a shadow of what had just happened.

He gazed longingly around the room, barely managing to shake his head.  Luna took a step forward, biting her lip, unsure how to apologize on behalf of the others.

Bushel Brow looked up at the sound of her hoofstep.  He held his gaze upon her.  Though his expression hadn’t changed, she could see gears working in his head.  He tapped a hoof to his chin, and a light bulb went off, if she had the saying right.  A spin of his chair, and he opened a filing cabinet behind him.  He rummaged through it, his mumbling like a fly bouncing off a windowpane.  Spinning back, he held a folder before himself like some holy relic.

Out of it he drew a single piece of paper.  He tri-folded it, and after brushing from his desk all the confetti in hoof’s reach, he hopped from his chair and waddled around the desk toward Luna.  The paper squares of confetti crunched under his tiny hooves like newly fallen snow.

Not even as tall as her knees, he stared her in the eyes and thrusted the tri-folded paper at her.  There was an intensity to him, a sort of trickery unbecoming of a stallion with an office job such as his.  All the more reason Luna didn’t hesitate in taking the trifold.

He pointed at the calendar on his desk.  If she wasn’t mistaken, she could have sworn he just winked at her.  It was hard to tell, though, the way he always seemed to squint as if staring into the sun.  His little legs padded past her, and he had started a little tune of his own, in time with the wiggle of his moustache.  A pause to flip a door sign to ‘Gone Filing,’ and he stepped out.

Luna didn’t wait to open the letter.  For all she could make out, he had practically beamed at her when she took it.  The second she read the title, she beamed as well.

A requisition for privileges to petition for party petitioning privileges.

A sly one, that Bushel Brow.  Luna blew a flake of confetti off her nose.  If a petition he wanted, a petition he would have!  She scanned down the page, taking note of the labyrinth of boxes and dotted lines that crammed every inch like a minotaur’s lair.  Yes, yes, sign and date everywhere.  She had learned the game well enough since her return.  Why did the days of a stamp of the hoof have to leave her well behind?

She shook the thought from her head.  Prerequisites.  There had to be a list of prerequisites somewhere.  Ha!  Bottom left.  Three bullet points: Title, Reason, 10+ participants.  There was a note beside the participants bullet.  The more the better, it read.

Luna flipped the page over to check for any additional requirements.  None?  Truly?  “Huh.”  She stared at the page, as if to ask it ‘are you sure?’

The page stared back, unamused by such a silly question; it was one of Bushel Brow’s, after all.  Well then.  She had her work cut out for her.  Not that she feared failure.  She had overcome greater tasks.  Even the most coiled of political hang-ups was peanuts to Discord.

What bothered her most, though, was figuring out where to gather ten ponies willing to stand against this assault on tradition.  If an organization like the PBWAYFC held such sway, how many ponies out there would care enough to see Nightmare Night live on?  And the note on participants concerned her, like it was a hidden requirement that she have a substantially larger number of signatures at her back.

She hummed to herself, bringing a hoof up to her chin, giving the paper itself another once-over.  A title would come to her eventually, and the form would take some time completing.  But they were the easiest places to start—wrap up loose ends before they become a problem.  They would be child’s play next to finding signatures.

Luna looked up from the paper.  Child’s play.  A grin swept her face, and she let out a chuckle.  Oh yes.  Child’s play.  This petition would be child’s play, indeed.

She refolded the paper, and then folded it again to slip it into her silver shoe for safe keeping.  Out the door, through the maze of cubicles she strode.  The office ponies took no notice of her, their eyes glued to their glow-screens and spreadsheets.  Only one pair stared at her, and it took all her power not to grin as she stopped before Pea Body and the water-cooler stallions.  She allowed Pea Body the first word.

Pea Body wore a smug grin, like a hyena circling its prey.  “Nightmare Night is done for.  Children don’t need tummy aches and cavities.  I’ll make sure it’s stamped out for good.”

Any number of ancient and equally colorful insults sprang to mind, but Luna held them at bay, deferring her trouncing to the time of the petition.  More ammunition now meant bigger fireworks later.  “Life is a fragile thing, Pea Body.  That is why we celebrate the Nightmare Night season.”

“By slowly killing that ‘fragile thing’ with sugar?  Not my children, not anypony else’s.”  She grimaced as if she had gotten a whiff of the Royal Guard’s locker room.  “And who knows what else they put in those diabetic cancer treats.”

Oh... a parent, then.  Not just any parent, though—one of those parents.  The infallible, imperious child-rearer.  Wonderful.

Luna gave a reminiscent smile.  Deflect, don’t fight.  Goad with passivism.  “A symbol of life’s... sweeter moments.  Children find reward in candy.  There is nothing wrong with that.”

“Did you not hear a word I said in there?”  For once, her face took on a look other than scorn.  Concern?  “Foalhood obesity is up nearly—”

“Fourty-three percent,” Luna said.  “Yes, I was listening.”

Back to scorn.  “But you’re insistent on continuing this worshipping of junk food and your—" she grimaced, "—horrid past?”

Luna could have back-hoofed her on the spot.  She managed to restrain herself to only a glare.  “There are many lessons to be learned, and many more traditions to understand.  It is not about worshipping my past mistakes; it is about embracing them so that they are never repeated.  There is much symbolism to every part of it.”  She leaned in, electing for a smile that hedged the line between snide and condescending.  "Even the candy."

Her words seemed to have little effect on the mare.  She continued scowling as if she were still Nightmare Moon incarnate.  A rebuttal might have been ready on her lips, but Luna beat her to it, her time already too short as it was.

“Think what you will,” Luna said, stoic, straightening herself.  She slipped some magic into the air around her, dampening the light of the office, enough only for Pea Body to notice.  “The sun always sets, and there will always be nightmares.”

Her words wiped the grin clean off the mare’s face.  Luna set forth for the exit, having earned her desired effect.  Hopefully Pea Body would see reason before the layland convened, but Luna couldn’t leave the fate of Nightmare Night to chance.  Her heart was possibly in the right place, but her mind was in orbit somewhere around the moon.

The sun greeted her with its headache-inducing glory, but she spited it with a smile.  She took flight, south, over the rooftops of Canterlot, her gaze lying beyond the shimmering, glinting windows and water features.

Ponyville emerged from behind the final mansions of the Southern District, far in the distance, and it held her grin.  Because there in that little town awaited her brave, unsuspecting champion.