It had been an exhausting hike up the mountain, and the fact that we were running against the clock forced us to rush ourselves. I was scratched all over my lower legs. Luckily my suit was still presentable in spite of the considerable foliage that I had to wade through. The journalists sported hats and equipment that were worse for wear as a result of the walk. Only the guards looked pristine, not a single scratch could be found on the stark white coats of the Pegasus Guard.
It hadn’t even been a long hike: At most we’ve walked for some ten minutes. Still, it had worn us down significantly. As short as the trek was I couldn’t find the time to admire the panoramic view of the mountain. A shame, considering that Narodnaya was the last refuge for the untainted remains of the boreal forests in the Ural mountain range. If there had been a chance to truly appreciate the Ural wilderness before the barrier engulfed it, then it had already been squandered; all attention was now focused on the clearing up ahead.
Before the reporters and I could break away from the tree line we awaited for the scouts to explore the opening before proceeding. Another delay—another one and I wouldn’t find anyone up there.
Several moments passed before we were given the all-clear. Taking stock of myself for the final time, I left the forest. The trees gave way to a field of grasses and bushes. We were nearly at the top of the mountain, and the view of the range around me was breathtaking, the visible spots of the pinkish barriers notwithstanding.
But I had no time to be breathless, we’ve lost enough time already.
I moved towards the only things that were out of place with the scenery: a small orange-green dome tent along with the dying remnants of a campfire and a figure.
The man lay sitting by the fireplace clad in an old hunting vest with a khaki cap and with a solemn expression. He looked worryingly thin and tired, and even from this distance I could sense that he hadn’t bathed for several days. His brown hair had long since become ragged and greasy, his clothes indicated that they had been worn for too long, full of mud and dirt.
I approached the man with care, unsure if he had taken notice of me. The journalists crept up from behind, keeping a safe distance from the tent.
I faced the man and paused. Did he even know I was here? His eyes were cast downwards, to a metallic tool: a handgun.
Men with weapons were very dangerous, more so if they weren’t of police or military background, neither of which this man was part of. I knew it was best not to upset the man but with time becoming scarce I had to move things along, even if it did mean that there was going to be the risk that this could end badly.
“Mister Sokolov?”
The man took no notice of my voice and kept looking at his weapon, as if he were contemplating something.
I wouldn’t dare think what exactly he was mulling over.
“Mister Alexei Sokolov?” I said again, albeit a bit more loudly. Be firm but polite.
Once more there was no visible response from the man.
Whether or not he acknowledged me I was obliged to press on. “We have recently learned that you are the last remaining human being in this world.”
I braced myself for a bad reaction from him. If I have learned anything from humans is that they take any loss of their kin extremely badly, often allowing their emotions to take over and take actions that they’d otherwise deem irrational.
Instead of the expected outburst, the man’s head drooped even lower. He fondled his handgun, feeling the weight and shape of it, possibly deciding over something.
“Dа, tо, chto i ozhidalos,” he finally spoke in his native tongue in a murmur, still keeping his downwards gaze.
It was at times like these that I wish that humans had only one universal language. Their English was widely spoken but it was very possible to find someone who couldn’t speak a single word of it back in the day. I found myself hoping that I didn’t have to deal with one who wasn’t familiar with the human tongue I knew best.
Nevertheless I continued. “As the last human being on the planet, the Equestriani Crown has tasked me to offer you a choice: You may remain as you wish, or,” I levitated a vial of a purplish liquid out from my suit, “you can take this potion and ensure your survival.”
I kicked myself for saying that last part; I knew it as well as the ponies responsible for the potion that any man who drank it was turned into a pony. It would have the memories of the man, but it would never be the same as he was. It was as if the man died to give birth to a new being that had little to do with he who sacrificed himself.
But orders were orders. I had to recite the offer exactly as told and my own feelings wouldn’t get in the way, no matter how I felt about the situation.
A scowl grew on Alexei’s face, contorting his fledgling beard into a mess of hair and flesh. He handled his pistol a bit, ejecting the cartridge and checking its contents: a single lead bullet.
The sight of that miniscule projectile sparked a fear that slowly built up. It was a curious thing how such a small piece of metal could be so deadly. I had seen plenty of evidence of its effectiveness on organic bodies: Human and ponies. It was a sight that nopony —or nobody— deserved to witness. Regardless of my growing worry I maintained a straight face with the man.
Sokolov inserted the magazine back into the firearm and pulled back the slide mechanism. He now wielded a live weapon. I saw in the corner of my eye some of the journalists shuffling nervously. Even some of the guards exchanged hurried whispers: If anyone had to die today it would be the Russian, they’d ensure it.
A long, tense moment passed: all of the reporters’ ears were perked; all of the guards were ready to intervene; I was ready for the man to finally lose it.
“Tell me,” he said in a thickly accented voice, “who are you?”
I felt somewhat taken aback from the question. Once more the Russian had, quite fortunately, failed to meet my expectations. As a result however I found myself searching for an answer that wouldn’t come.
Alexei didn’t wait for me. “Your princess could not send her favorite student? That Sumerechnaya Iskra or Twilight Sparkler or whatever her name is. Too busy?” His words dripped with so much spite, more so than I thought possible even from a human.
Never averting his eyes from his weapon, his grimace changed to a malicious smirk. “I know the real reason: She wants to protect her little malishku so she could not see what really happens outside of her shell. Twilight would never believe that people really do not want to be ponies if their lives depended on it; not unless she saw it with her own eyes.”
I found myself blinking in surprise at Sokolov’s cool disposition. He had given the same reasoning that my superiors had given me for choosing me in this particular task. It was clear that he either had a good sense of the Equestriani politics that had been going back in Canterlot or had an incredible ability to deduce. Either way it surprised me how he came to this conclusion, considering how little of the inner turmoil back in Equestria managed to get out. It had been quite a feat for the court to suppress it as much as it did. A few demonstrations here and there and some ambassadors stepping down but for the most part the populace in the old Equestriani territories was quite unaware of what really went on outside the barrier. I wouldn’t discount that even the Bearers weren’t in the know, considering some of their... speeches.
Looking back at some of the presentations that the bureaus showed to newcomers before the process I couldn’t believe how insensitive the voice-overs from the Bearers had been; they caused more people to turn away from the bureaus than attract—a real disaster in public relations. Anypony who stayed and lived with humans for more than a few days came to realize that the Crown’s representation of humanity was grossly inaccurate and bigoted. Even the Bearers would turn against the court if they knew. If only…
I shook myself out of my temporary trance and focused on the Russian before me. “Regardless of who is making the offer,” I retorted, “it still stands: it is your choice.”
Sokolov’s body shook with a mirthless laugh sending some of the dust coating his clothes flying in the air. A few seconds of laughter later he finally turned to face me, bags under his dark, dulled eyes and his face full of cracks and wrinkles. While I was familiar enough with humans to guess their age, Sokolov proved difficult; his voice sounded strong and young but his face proved otherwise. Likely the last few weeks have been unkind to him and added several years to his face.
“Choice?” he mocked, letting out another short chuckle. “Da, vibor. A good choice: death by my hand, death by magic or death to give life to a besmosgly truten!”
Even without knowing the meaning of those two last words I could tell that they were less than polite terms judging by the tone. And as vulgar as he was, he was right. The choice offered by the bureaus was, in all essence, the same that I was offering him albeit more publicized. This was meant to be ‘the final conversion’, a media stunt schemed by the court to help quell the remaining outrage back home. The way they saw it, when faced with extinction, this Russian would yield his humanity and accept the conversion. That’s why there were so many journalists, they wanted to ensure that every possible picture could be taken, ‘the final rescue’; as disgustingly degraded as it was, it would’ve made for a good story.
I assumed a tall pose and addressed him. “Rest assured sir, I will not stand by idly and watch you die.” That was only half true: I really didn’t want him to die, though one way or another, this ‘choice’ would’ve brought one more death.
Alexei cocked his bushy eyebrow. “Oh? You mean to tell me that you actually care about me?”
I hesitated for a long moment—longer than I could allow. “Yes. Yes I do.”
“Erunda!” he spat, wildly waving his gun. “You lie! If you cared you would be crying not over my death but the death of my kin!”
For the briefest moment I feared for my life, as he drew various beads at my general direction with the pistol. The guards motioned each other to intervene but I ordered them to stand down. I doubted that Alexei would actually make an attempt on my life; I knew enough about humans that they were above senseless death.
He snorted at the reaction of the guards. “Do you think that I am afraid to die?”
Returning my attention to him I addressed him. “It is not my place to say,” I replied sharply, “but I know that that isn’t true: everyone is afraid of death, even you.”
Sokolov’s face screwed up into a sulk; I could tell I touched a sensitive spot seeing how he fell silent. The spell of silence didn’t last for long however as he directed his attention back to his handgun.
“It was my grandfather’s,” he said partially to himself, referring to the firearm. “Syem shyestdyesyat millimyetrov Samozaryadnyj Pistolet Tokareva obraztsa odna tisyacha dyevyatsot goda, or the TT-33. He was issued with this weapon during his service in the Second World War.”
The Russian paused, looking back at the gun in question. Quite suddenly he let out a loud, shuddering sob as he caressed and handled it with great care. Facing me once more I didn’t see the same face of before, that of a man who had nothing left to lose and who wasn’t afraid; no, this time I saw the image of a broken man, tears rolling down the cracks and creases of his chiseled cheeks.
“This,” he continued, his voice now adopting a shaky edge, “is the only thing left of my family other than my memories. Everything that was once my family’s has been lost, lost to that stena smerti of yours! And everything else as well: My nation’s history, culture, that of other countries. Thousands of years of history just simply erased! Razrushennyj! Stertyj! Do you realize that?”
“I do, and I am very sorry for your loss—”
“My loss?!” Sokolov yelled, rising from his sitting position to his full height: An impressive stance, even for a human. “This is a loss for you, for your kind, for this world, for this reality! Don’t you see? Never again, for the rest of time, will there be another humanity. If we died by ourselves something would have remained! Something always remains. That is why we know of our ancestors’ history and of their achievements, because something remained to make sure they would never be forgotten!
“But that”—he gestured to the barrier in the distance growing closer—“that will destroy everything. I am the only remnant of my kind. This gun, that tent, my clothes: They all have their history and they carry our legacy. And by the end of the day none of it will survive, no matter what I do. Can you even understand what I’m faced with?”
I do, a voice in me cried. I cannot imagine your pain, but I understand it.
I was working hard to keep a straight face and from tearing up; not only were we witnessing the tragic ending to an ancient species, but we were exploiting it for the Crown’s needs. To make a slightly moving story; to trivialize the death of a history several millennia old.
It sickened me to no end.
Blinking as much as I could to keep the tears at bay, I bit my lips. “M-mister Sokolov. I understand this is a very difficult time for you, and I realize that none of your possible choices are ideal, but trust me when I say this: None of us here wishes you to die a horrible death. We shall never forget you or your race. Your history shall survive in our memories. You will be remembered.”
Alexei’s eyes, glistening from his earlier tears, lit up, if ever so slightly. “Tell me,” he said softly, “what is your name little one?”
My name?
I gave it to him in a quiet whisper. I didn’t want the journalists to publish it if things went sour.
He gave a small nod. “It is a very nice name. Not original, but all of your names are like that.”
I could’ve sworn I saw a minute smile form on his face.
“Ma’am!” a gruff voice called—one of the pegasus guards. “The barrier’s almost here!”
With a new sense of urgency I quickly readdressed the Russian. “Your time is running out, you need to make your choice—now.”
In a stark contrast to my hurry he simply took the time to observe his handgun again. After what felt like an eternity he spoke up.
“I already know that I will not drink that yad, all I need to decide is how I shall die…”
Moments of inner deliberation passed before he shot another question my way: “Will those zhurnalisty”—he motioned to the reporters—“record whatever happens to me?”
I found myself stumbling for the right answer; yes, they’d write down everything and take pictures, no matter the outcome. Whether or not it’d become a public story however… that depended. “Y-yes. They will write of your actions. They will take pictures, no matter what.”
Sokolov nodded sagely, his gaze fixed once more on his weapon. “If that is the case, then I want to ensure that you all will never forget me.”
In one swift motion his arm swung back, winding up for a throw, and sent the handgun airborne. It flew through the air, eventually falling at the encroaching barrier. The metal weapon disintegrated as it passed through the wall of magic, disappearing into thin air. No trace of it remained, as if it had never existed.
Every pony present wore shock on their muzzles. Sokolov’s own expression conveyed resolution.
“I shall not give your princesses,” he spat, charging the words with as much malice as he could, “the satisfaction of a quiet death. If they want to see the result of their work, I shall oblige them!”
I couldn’t believe it. He chose the difficult death. Defiant till the very end. In a certain light it would’ve been seen as courageous. At that moment, I found the act insane.
“M-mister Alexei!” I cried out, “you will die a horrible death if you let the barrier reach you!”
His collected face radiated so much calm that it felt surreal. “I realize that,” he said cooly. “I’ve seen what happened to people who touched the stena smerti. I…” He cast his gaze away, eyes closed. “I still have nightmares of that wall… But I must do this.”
“B-but sir! You don’t have to do this, you don’t deserve to suffer anymore!”
“Listen little dyubimya,” he murmured, kneeling down to my eye level, “I shall suffer, one way or another. I have to do this. I must punish your princesses for their actions. I do not wish to punish anyone of you here, but it is the only way for me to accomplish it.”
Stroking my mane, he gently pulled me into a heartwarming hug. I returned the embrace and we felt nothing but our own hearts beating and our breaths. In a soft whisper Sokolov apologized: “I am so sorry little one. You do not need to see this. None of you do.”
That tore at my heart. It just went to show how amazing humans were. Even when we had taken everything that the man held dear to him, he was caring enough and had enough integrity to try to shield others from a gruesome sight.
As admirable as his thoughts were, my obligations forced my hoof.
“I… I must.” I sobbed. “I cannot walk away, none of us can. Those are our orders.”
I felt one of his tear drops fall on my coat as he pulled me in closer ever so slightly.
“You are a brave little lemi. I wish your kind was more like you.”
With a heavy sigh he finally broke the hold and stood up once again. He splayed his arms outwards, as if ready to embrace the wall, defiantly staring back at imminent death without a sign of fear.
I stepped backwards to give him the space he needed. He deserved to have his personal space respected for his final moments. I looked on sadly at the soon-to-be martyr, wishing for a possible alternative. He acknowledged my inner turmoil and gave me a sincere smile; the first real grin I’ve seen on him. I knew it was his way to ease my mind but it only tugged at my heart even harder. As beautiful as his smile was, it just tore me apart.
The barrier advanced up the slope and had already engulfed the guards and reporters. As it rose up from below my hooves, I felt a familiar tingling sensation, sending a shiver down the length of me. I took a deep breath and looked on, bracing myself for the worst.
It soon surpassed me and came up rapidly to Alexei. He gave a final, bold shout before it made contact with him:
“Da zdravstvuet chelovechestvo!”
Then it struck.
The magical energy surged from the grass, eating away at his mud-coated hiking boots and his feet. Much to my horror it was quick acting. Almost immediately Sokolov let out the loudest and most terrifying cry of pain that I have ever heard, his eyes widened in horror-struck astonishment and his arms making to grab at his destroyed feet.
He never would reach them.
With his feet literally disintegrating into nothing, the Russian’s body sank towards the earth, pulled down by gravity, bringing down the rest of his body to the deadly edge of magic that kept rising. His legs fell through and met the same fate as his feet. His hands and arms, still in the same motion to grab the now non-existent feet, were next. His torso and upper body fell victim as soon as the legs were completely gone. At this point his lungs disappeared, cutting the man’s scream short. He kept falling, and the last thing to fall through the barrier was his disembodied head.
The last thing that his terrified eyes saw were my own, his gaze of suffering and outright terror burned into mine. And then his head was gone. The whole process had taken no more than a few seconds.
Alexei Sokolov, the last man on Earth, had died.
I felt ill. I knew about the effects that the magical energies had on organic beings, but I had never witnessed it in person. In scientific and arcane terms, the process was of morbid fascination. In all other contexts however, it was a crime—a horrible, horrible crime.
I felt unclean. My conscience would never again rest easy, I felt responsible for his grisly demise, no matter how untrue it was. I had a chance to save him.
No, I soberly realized, I never had the chance to save him: what they wanted me to do was to kill him either way.
And I just accomplished that. Not in the manner that the Crown intended but I still did it. The only difference was that quelling the protests would be more of a chore.
The reporters spoke hurriedly amongst themselves: apparently one of them managed to capture the image of Sokolov falling through the barrier.
“There’s no chance in Tartarus that it’ll get published,” I heard somepony say.
“Good thing too, sweet Celestia, that sent shivers down my spine.”
“Luna bless him. He didn’t deserve that.”
I said nothing. I just stood there, tearfully watching the spot where the man stood. Nothing remained, not even his tent or footprints. Anyone who’d come up to this mountain would be none the wiser of today’s events.
And it wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair!
I collapsed onto the ground, crying away like a newborn foal. Some of the reporters came to comfort me but I wouldn’t acknowledge them. They didn’t know of the gravity of what they had just witnessed. They couldn’t, none of them had ever been with humans for a significant amount of time, not like me.
My shed tears would ultimately be pointless. There was no one to shed tears for; they were all gone.
Forever.