//------------------------------// // Homeland Oracle: Chapter 1 // Story: Homeland Oracle // by StoryForge //------------------------------// It was a cold winter night, the journal entry read, and the six of us were taking a walk around Ponyville. It was rare enough that we had time off, even less common that all six of us were able to get together in such a way.  As we walked, Applejack pointed out a small group gathering on the arch of one of Ponyville’s many bridges, staring up at Canterlot. The group swelled and grabbed at the attention of ponies passing by, the amount of them multiplying like cells undergoing meiosis. We looked to see what the commotion was about. Hovering above the high-society city of Canterlot loomed an ominous, swirling rain cloud threatening it. One of the ponies shouted about the whole town being engulfed in ice.” It was true. We watched in fear as chaos broke out around us, consuming any semblance of sanity in the hearts of the confused ponies. We stared at the epidemic of the unnatural ice that was consuming all of Canterlot. By the time the ice had at least slowed down, Canterlot looked like a fly being engulfed inside of crystal-colored amber. “I believe it may have been the Windigoes." The quality of writing was starting to get worse and worse, and the writer’s lack of legibility made it clear she was panicked. "It seemed to be the only thing that made a lick of sense. Why would they be here, though, hundreds of years after the founding of Equestria? They’re just some old pony’s tale, after all. Feeding on the emotion of another pony doesn’t make any sense, it’s not scientifically possible, it’s an emotion—” “Forget it. It doesn't matter. Something was there and froze everypony. The whole town. I don’t know what happened to Princess Celestia, or the Orange residence, or—” The writer clearly had multiple trains of thought going at one time. It was evident that she struggled with herself, and attempting to stay on topic. It didn't look like she had any time to go over what she wrote so she started a new line every time she penned down her branching, disoriented thoughts. At the end of this previous line, it looked as though her quill slipped off the page. Her hoofwriting suddenly turned shaky and jagged. “I was doing research on these ancient Windigoes when a pony I’ve never seen before barged in the window of my library, holding a knife. I was absolutely mortified to see the pony was covered in streaks of blood, and looked at me as her next target. Panicked, I dealt with her the only way I knew how. I levitated a book off the shelf and knocked the blood-encrusted mare out cold. Upon closer inspection, I, I...” “I noticed the mare was actually a filly. I looked at the unconscious body of the filly and noticed she had bloodshot eyes and seemed to—” The final journal entry ended with a whisk of the writer’s quill, running off the page, almost tearing a hole into it. I closed the book down and set it on the cot I was sitting on. This journal of the past had always given me hope, but the last entry the author jotted down always gave me the chills. Well, it wasn’t the absolute final page she wrote down. It was the last in my possession, as there were many, many torn pages from it. I was almost certain that this very disaster of unknown origin was the reason why Equestria is the way that it is, and I assumed everyone else thought the same way. The whole book wasn’t really all bad, despite its short length. It told of good times they’ve had, but every page skipped months at a time, for multiple pages had been torn out of it. The journal’s original owner went by the name of Twilight Sparkle, and she wrote of adventures and good times she had approximately one-hundred and fifty years ago with her five other friends. They weren’t just ponies, though. They were heroes. According to the journal, the last entry I had was dated January 24th, L.C. 1022. L.C. stands for Luna’s Containment, when Princess Luna was sealed up in the moon by Celestia due to her wickedness. According to the L.C. dating system, Luna’s actual sealing would be L.C. 0. The current date is May 2nd, L.C. 1178. An upsetting amount of information was stripped out of the book, leaving questions I couldn’t answer and lots of paper in the book’s binding. I’m guessing only a seventh of what was in the journal one-hundred and fifty years ago is still bound to it. I looked out the window of our broken down, dilapidated shack, and through the barbed wire that lined the top of the fence of where I resided in Industead. I didn’t focus on the fact that the fence kept us here like some sort of smog-covered industrial prison, but I looked outside. I looked at the barren landscape with the occasional dead patch of grass poking up out of the dirt—or sand, I can never tell—looking for water and love. I imagined as though this dirt-sand was spread onto the landscape by Celestia herself as if she were a pastry chef, lifting her frosting knife here and there to create small dunes and ripples. The wasteland is a nasty place, I am told. I have never experienced it for myself, as I grew up in this small, ozone-ridden industrial town of Industead. My so-called 'tutor' comes over every few days to teach me the core subjects as well as the dangers of the area outside of town. Knowledge of these things are required by The Mayor. He calls himself The Mayor, but he's the supreme dictator of Industead. He glorifies this little town and makes the desert out to be inevitable death. The tutor never comes over to talk about what you want to do when you grow up. He never comes over to teach a wide range of subjects. Just how to work in a factory. Or how to guard a caravan. If you were lucky, the tutor taught you how to fire a weapon and then you were stuck in The Mayor’s battalion, where you would serve the bastard for the rest of your life. You were never taught any sciences, no history. You were never taught how to get along or be kind. You were never taught about friendship. Friendship. The word hit me like a slap in the face. I was surrounded by ponies where I worked at the lumber mill, but none of them wanted anything to do with me. I was shunned. Nopony wanted to talk or even work with me,  and for two main reasons. One of them was that I was a unicorn. The town typically stigmatized unicorns, since they were magic-users. Industead was founded by earth ponies and each one of them worked day and night to get what they needed done. It was a pride issue when a unicorn just walks up and starts casting spells. But, they really don’t have to discriminate. I don’t even know how to use my magic, other than telekinesis that even a young filly knows. The second one is a little different. As they would say, my barn door swings the opposite direction. Sure, I was a mare that was interested in other mares. But they don’t have to be so judgmental. It’s just sexuality. There is no problem in it. If The Mayor found out, he would surely have me killed just for that. That’s not really a problem at the moment, though. Only a stallion I work with knows, and that’s just because he caught me staring at an older mare’s flank. He started poking fun at me for it, but I just denied it and told him I was looking for the next load of lumber. Of course, that just fueled the fire, and more ponies joined in, making fun of a socially fatal mistake.  I just don’t understand what the hell everypony’s problem is. I just wanted a friend. I wanted someone I could relate to and talk to. I wanted to be able to laugh and have fun with someone that could be my light in the smog, metaphorically speaking. Or even better: a special somepony. I can settle for a friend, though. However, this oppressive town ran by The Mayor and his goons won’t allow it. There is no room to be free here, and a large percentage of ponies living in Industead don’t even have their cutie marks. Oppression and industry were the orders of the day here in Industead. You worked yourself to the bone, and got paid peanuts—metaphorically of course, but sometimes you were actually paid in peanuts—until you died. You didn’t have the choice to leave. You didn’t have any say in what you wanted to be. You’re born, branded with a job, and that was it. If you did your job ‘wrong’, you were beaten or you had a ‘discussion’ with The Mayor. You were then forced to work the rest of the night, as well as the day after with no pay. Not only was this unhealthy, but a majority of the time you were working in a factory, with moving parts and saws that would turn you into stew in a matter of seconds. So if you fell asleep or made a mistake, the pony marked with the job of janitor would have a long shift ahead of him. ---------- I woke up, sat up, and my eyes scanned our shabby home. Located next to my cot, was my brother Flake’s cot. The headboards of both of our beds were lined up with the wall, meaning the opposite of the beds were pointed inward, towards the opposite wall. Centered on this wall was my parents’ bed. My mother, Crystal, sat on her cot rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and Flake was still passed out.  He didn’t go to work quite yet, he was too young. Each pony in the family was entitled to their own cot and a small footlocker, containing any personal items that belonged to them. The walls were boarded haphazardly, and Flake and I were constantly ‘reinforcing’ them with nails we found on the street.  In the corner of the shack furthest from the door was a refrigerator and a counter. I couldn’t help but to glance over at the empty space in Crystal’s full-sized bed. That’s where my father, Sleet, used to sleep. He left town as a caravan guard about two years ago carrying some goods up through Ponyville to an eastward city called Manehattan. He told us the trip would only take a month, tops. However, he left about two years ago and still hasn’t returned. By the third month, Flake and Crystal decided that he must’ve been killed and they’ve mourned silently for him ever since. However, on the other hoof, I know he’s out there. I thought it may have been the first stage of accepting a loss, but I’ve had this gut feeling that he’s still out there, and for whatever reason the feeling keeps getting stronger and stronger. I finally got up out of my bed, and looked at the clock on the wall. Six-twenty. I should be heading out the door. I picked up my saddlebags, ready from the night before, and looked into the fractured mirror above my bed to make sure my mane wasn’t too bedraggled. After fixing a few ends here and there, I took a step back to look at myself in the mirror. I had a nice pale blue coat, and my navy blue mane was naturally somewhat spiky and messy. Through my mane my horn showed, and made contact with a lavender stripe that faded into the back of my mane. My eyes shifted downwards and stopped at my flank. No cutie mark. I never had one, and if I continue to live and work here, I never will have one. “R-Rain?” my mother mumbled, still waking up from the long night she spent in her half-vacant, full-sized cot, “Could you pick up an apple or two on your way back from the lumber mill? We’re running low.” “Consider it done, Mom.” I trotted over to the refrigerator. Using the weak form of telekinetic magic I had, I opened it and peered inside. To my dismay, there was only three-eighths of an apple left. I took one of the slices for lunch, skipping breakfast, and dropped it telekinetically in a bag. I then stuffed the lunch bag into my saddlebags. I walked outside into the intoxicatingly polluted air, and looked up at the sky. I knew the sky was normally nice shade of blue, but not in Industead. Our misshapen shack stood on some rather sturdy stilts that lifted it up into the air a good two and a half meters. We lived right next to the Arms Assembly Co. building, which obviously made weapons of all sorts. It relieved itself of a frightening amount of ozone and carbon monoxide, as well as many other pollutants. Factories like this one were all over Industead, pouring ozone into the atmosphere where it shouldn’t be and blanketing the whole town in a brown haze. I telekinetically pulled out a mask from one of my saddlebags and placed it over my muzzle to try to conflict the smog covering the town. I then picked up an aluminum bat and placed it in my saddle strap, in case an encounter with street thugs goes wrong (I've been running into them at least twice a week). Navigating down the steps, I trotted towards the lumber mill, where I worked. There were many other shabby shacks scattered around Industead, seeming to only be there because factories wouldn’t fit. Factories and other industries made up the bulk of our town. Most of them were weapons factories or parts depots, and some were even factories that created machines and parts to make more factories. Go figure. ---------- "Eight Bits?!” This psychotic mare was charging me eight bits for an apple probably infused with nitrous oxide that should cost maybe two or three bits. I counted the bits I possessed: a whopping eight of them. I stared down at them as they sat in my hoof. I had earned that much after three days of working at the lumber mill. I was not about to spend all of it on an apple. Before I could object and try to bargain with the unattractive mare at this apple stand, she impudently snatched the money right out of my hoof and shoved an apple into my shoulder. I was unsure which she bruised, the fruit or my shoulder. I carefully put it into one of my two saddlebags, and slumped away from the bazaar. As I began walking away, I saw an earth pony about my age walk in my opposite direction towards the apple stand. He plopped two bits on the counter, and the mare gladly gave over her largest apple with a smile. She gave him a smile. It just wasn’t fair. ---------- I managed to make it back to the only place I could call home, avoiding an encounter with the street thugs by taking the long way. Celestia decided to ruin my day even further by forcing rain down upon Industead. Acid rain fell, due to the nature of the skies. A torrent of polluted, ozone-ridden water drenched everything in the city, including me. It would’ve been perfectly good water if Industead wasn’t a Luna-damned gas chamber. I threw open the door harder than I intentioned, startling my younger brother and my mother. They could clearly tell that something was wrong when I pulled Twilight’s old journal out from one of my saddlebags—those of which I had previously thrown on the floor—and hugged it close as I dropped myself onto my cot. I rolled over in my cot, attempting to get comfortable. As I clenched it tighter to myself, tears began to roll down my cheek. More tears took shape, and by the time I fell asleep, I think my pillow was soaked. ---------- “AAAAAGH! HELP!” I was working at the lumber mill when I heard that shriek. I looked up from where I was arranging wood slabs on the conveyer belt and saw a stallion’s tail caught in a moving piece of machinery. “Somepony, help me!” The machinery was dragging him onto the conveyer belt, which was pushing him towards his certain doom: a sheet metal flattener. Oh, merciful Celestia. I dropped what I was doing and thought as hard and as quickly as I could. While doing this, my eyes scanned the room and found nothing of use but a lever. Using all of my strength, I yanked the lever out of its socket. I telekinetically hurled it at the machinery, and the lever wedged itself into it, bringing the large piece of metal to a screeching halt. I was wiping my head with my forehoof when I realized that some of the workers were smiling at me. Some didn’t even care about what I just did; especially most of the ones that usually pick on me, but some were smiling and saying ‘Good job’ or ‘Nice going, kid’. It was good to see a smile contrary to the normal comments such as: 'It looks like a raccoon lives in your mane, why don’t you go see Rarity for a makeover?' A smile. It felt pretty good. On my way back from work, I was contemplating the nice—nicer, anyways—comments and the actions that just took place. I wondered if The Mayor was going to have my head for vandalizing the factory. The lever was probably a mangled piece of scrap by now, and the sheet metal flattener’s internal gizmos were trashed, too. Not to mention all the wood I ruined while I was yanking out the lever and shoving it into the flattener. On the bright side, I was glad to have those nice comments directed at me. Even if the others disregarded the fact that I saved that stallion’s life. During my deep contemplations, I foalishly walked headfirst into a large stallion wearing a black and green-lined leather jacket. I was halted physically and mentally as the shadows of the ponies slowly creep toward me. Their hoof-steps made soft, muted clopping sounds against the concrete. I slowly and nervously looked up to see a stallion looking at me with somewhat evil, ominous eyes. Thugs.