A War

by Comma Typer

Starting From the Donut Place

Monday had Joe, wearing his purple apron, walk from his apartment to his fast food job in an elated mood and an upbeat gait, about to prance around. Ponies gave him odd looks, wondering what was on his mind that made him smile so. At any rate, his smile was remarkable enough for passers-by to sling a glance or two at him.

On his path, one could see Thoroughbred's decline. While the skyscrapers were many, they did not jibe with the empty streets and the almost empty sidewalks full of snow and trash. Ponies were seen inside the shops, but it was as if they wanted to stay inside and never go out—suspicious turns of the head were not helping matters, some shrinking away at the sight of a surprisingly happy Joe.

Closer to the marketplace, abandoned businesses and houses could be seen in their deplorable predicament. Yards of fallen trees and broken fences, windows of wooden boards and graffiti complaining about some sort of city regulation, racks of rotten food and sullied clothes, holes of deteriorating walls and ceilings—a sorry sight, a sorry state to have; and, it was strange to live right next to these signs of collapse, as a family of five could testify with their clean home and their uneasy looks whenever they happened to see a neighboring house, their breakfast packed with eerie silence while they wore jackets and sweaters.

Finally, Joe reached the marketplace.

Passing by the stalls, walking on the snowy pavement, he ignored the boasts of his cloud-selling enemy, keeping up that warm smile as he drowned out that voice by the closing of a door.

Inside this fast food outlet, it was mostly unfurnished with an attempted theme at black and white with a hint of purple. Scant tables and chairs were half black, half white; the floor was a checkerboard of black and white squares; the counter was purple with black and white stripes running across it, and the cashiers and cooks wore purple aprons—it all gave off the feeling of an amateurish setting, as if there was not much thought put into it other than achieving the minimum requirements for such a business. The only object that disobeyed the rules of the color scheme was the chalkboard menu at the back with its green surface, but that was easily made up for by the white chalk used to write the menu out in the first place.

"You're here!" Long Shot said, sporting her baseball hat and greeting Joe as he trotted to the counter. "Good to see you!"

Joe nodded at her then at the rest of his co-workers who nodded back at him. "It's good to see you all!"

"You better have a good explanation about the new equipment," said Tropical Storm, a green pegasus, who pointed with a wing to the conveyor belt machine by the side of the counter, loaded with bottles of honey glaze.

"Plus the unexplained order of baking ingredients," said Snapshot, a beige unicorn with green stubble on his chin, as he was frying a bunch of fries inside an oil vat.

Joe merely smiled all the more as he trotted to the contraption. "It's something I installed last night. Most of our food's fine, but I couldn't stand serving up boring old donuts! I'm going to revamp our donut line and breathe new life here!"

Long Shot stomped the ground in applause.

Ceased stomping the ground when she noticed that no one else was joining her applause.

"I'll be the one to cook 'em up first," Joe continued, raising his voice and gesturing about with his hoof. "Then, I'll teach the recipes to you. By the end of the week, we'll bring the whole city down to their knees and let them know that hope isn't lost, that we're here to bring them happiness, that they can enjoy life no matter what day it is!"

"We're feeding ponies, not trying to be cheerleaders," Tropical Storm quipped with a bored tone.

"Why not be somepony more?" Joe said. "Why just feed ponies when we can go further? If we can encourage these ponies, I'll take the opportunity and make them smile! A better way to live out my life than just going through the motions, am I right?"

Snapshot raised a hoof. "I'll take that any day, Joe!"

Long Shot raised her hoof, too. "I want in!"

Tropical Storm rolled her eyes. "Fine. At least it'll bring us more money if you succeed."

Joe smirked. "Then, what're we waiting for?!"

---

By sundown on that same day, that fast food chain, known as "By Drive", was abuzz with activity. Long lines stretched out beyond the glass doors and out to the marketplace—much to the annoyance of that cloud-selling pegasus at first, but, when he realized that it brought in more potential customers for his products, he proceeded to shout louder than ever to that line; he was successful in bringing some ponies out of line to buy his clouds, and, therefore, made good profit that night.

But, back to By Drive: it was thriving and flourishing with an influx of customers. While hayburgers, fries, sodas, and chips were still staples, donuts soared to the height of being a recurrent choice, whether it was a glazed donut or a chocolate donut or a strawberry donut or a jelly-filled donut or a peanut butter donut or a lettuce donut—which was a glazed donut topped with small pieces of lettuce. It was a crunchy kind of donut, and it gave the eater a sense of satisfaction, inducing him to think that he was eating a healthy kind of donut.

As far as researchers knew, a lettuce donut might not be as healthy as one thought.

When By Drive finally closed its doors at eleven in the evening, the line remained though greatly shortened—yet, not a single pony was checking his watch restlessly or tapping his hoof in impatience. Because of them, Tropical Storm grumbled her way through, peeking at the clock as each customer got his order. Preparing the hayburgers, the fries, the ice cream—especially the donuts on their conveyor belts and in their heated displays....

The moment the last diner left the premises and trotted outside with a full stomach, it was eleven-fifty.

The four ponies looked at each other, their aprons now stained.

They smiled.

Jumped into the air, bumped each other's hooves.

"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about!" Snapshot yelled, shooting a hoof to the air.

"Friday, here we come!" Long Shot exclaimed, closing her eyes in excitement. "If this is what it's going to be on a Monday, I wonder what'll it be like on a Friday! Imagine it! We might have to order more tables to set up outside! We'll have the whole area to ourselves—'By Drive now covers all of Scallion Market!'" She emphasized it with a wave of her hoof.

Tropical Storm crossed her forelegs, flapping her wings above her peers. "Better than nothing, Joe."

Joe smiled. "I told ya'!"

They laughed under the bright lights and the messy tables and the snowy floors they had to clean up, not to mention the conveyor belt now grimy with brittle, dried coats of glaze that had to be washed off.

But, they relished in their cold air and in that wondrous time together, ending with a group hug.

---

As the week progressed, By Drive showed no signs of stopping. While the morning and the afternoon of Tuesday was lackluster, the evening brought in herds of ponies wanting more. Already, foreign newcomers and Thoroughbred veterans alike were asking for new flavors to be added to the menu and, most of the time, their requests were answered on the spot as Joe spent a minute or two looking for the correct ingredients, mixed them up, and made the donut sought for.

A curious request was made by a mare with a straw hat. She asked for a sunny-side up donut.

"What does that mean?" Joe asked over the counter.

"Why, ain't it obvious?" she replied. "It's a donut with sunny-side up eggs! 'Course, I'd like to have mine with a hayburger for a balanced meal—yes, sirree!"

A minute later, the customer was delighted to be eating a donut with sunny-side up eggs on it.

When Wednesday night rolled by, keen observers noticed something. On the tables, the donuts were maturing as a food choice, on the way to becoming a mainstay. There was a considerable number of ponies who ordered a donut only—maybe a softdrink and a bag of fries to go along with it—but the donut becoming a By Drive bulwark was undeniable, and, if one would think otherwise...why not try some? Surely, a donut outside the traditional range of flavors would be ample reason to have a go at it.

Thursday morning, before By Drive was open, Long Shot and Joe talked to each other inside as the other two turned on the lights and turned on the ovens and stoves, preparing for another day at work.

"I overheard this conversation by my room," Long Shot said, "and they were talking about a spice...that, there's this spice out there and this mare knew someone who could get a bit of it."

"Well, what's it called?" Joe said, enthusiastic and inclining his ear toward her. "I can't believe no one's asked for a spicy donut before. I bet they weren't talking about chili, though."

Long Shot shook her head. "It wasn't chili. It was...I think it was called 'The Speziato'."

Joe pulled back a little. "Oh? I've never heard of it before."

Tropical Storm, wiping a table, locked eyes with him—growing passionate, as if her lips and eyes were flaring. "The Speziato is a rare chili often said to originate from Ornithia. It's famous for being extremely fragile when used as a spice. Open a box of it, and you have around ten minutes to cook it in some way before it spoils for good."

Joe cocked his head. "Do you have any idea what it tastes like?"

She smiled. "Yeah. I've tried it once when I was very young. Parrot peddlers looking for quick cash were hawking us with Speziato. I had chili macaroni with it, and...it wasn't a pleasant experience." She closed her eyes, floating above the table now. "I survived, and I lived to tell the tale."

"It's that strong, huh?" Joe blathered. Turned to Long Shot. "Do you know where to buy this stuff?"

Long Shot shook her head again. "But, if you can give me just a half hour to find those ponies—"

She was off.

---

Friday night towed in a hefty crowd, swarming the market with so many hungry ponies, reporters were already talking about it and journalists were severe with their quills, scribbling as fast as they could about the latest craze coming over Thoroughbred: By Drive.

The sidewalk was where the line began, and whenever it moved, at least one other pony would move in, if not two or three more, under the streetlights. Hooves shuffled and shifted in the snow, ponies wearing more layers of clothes than usual. Chatter and chitchat increased, filling the market with excited warbles, speaking out expectations and hopes for a gratifying experience inside.

Vendors at their stalls were in full force, hollering the names of their products and services—over here, the cloud-canvassing pegasus was screeching above the fracas of the crowd, holding on to a megaphone and spreading his message abroad.

"Quiet down!" one called out.

"Yeah! We don't want your clouds! We're hungry!" another yelled.

Despite that, a few ponies who were not in line trotted to him and bought clouds of their own, much to the pleasure of that pegasus. However, when he looked at the bits weighing down on his stall's shelves, he stared blankly for a while. He blinked, and put down his megaphone, passing into contentment to relax and watch By Drive go.

Just outside By Drive, right in front of the glass facade, were additional tables and chairs on which sat the customers who were neither early nor late. Already, those still in line could detect the delicious aroma of grilling hayburgers even in the wintry outside, and a good distraction for them to wait it out was checking out the donut conveyor belt in action—heated donuts placed at one end of it, slowly rolled through a waterfall of glaze, then slowly rolled out of it, the glaze solidifying in seconds before being levitated by Snapshot at the other end onto trays which were then transported into the heated displays by the counter for all to see and peruse.

The line moved, and those who transferred from the outside to the inside felt the blast of cold, conditioned air—hearing everything inside clearly, from the conversations of diners to the brief exchanges and orders made by the staff to each other, those waiters and chefs speeding around but with a plan—no spills, no shaky eyes or lips, and no fumbling around for missing items in this organized situation.

Hearing the sizzles and the fizzles from the kitchen, too.

Another customer went up to the counter, seeing the starving stallion before her trot away holding a tray in his mouth.

"I'll have a plain donut, please," that plump mare said to Joe in a brusque accent.

"Oh, Chock-full Carafe!" Joe said, lighting up behind the counter. "It's been some time since I last saw you!" His smile disappeared. "Aren't you supposed to be back in Manehattan? Where's Babs?"

She glanced back, looking at the bleak and frosty outside. "Staying at the hotel with her Cutie Mark Crusader friends or whatever."

Joe picked up a plain donut from the display and plopped it on a plate. Levitated it to her.

Carafe nodded. "Thanks."

Trotted away, holding a tray in her mouth.

Joe prepared to face the next customer, maintaining that smile.

---

Joe kept smiling as he trotted down Thoroughbred's sidewalks past midnight, eyeing a small sack of bits on his hoof before pocketing it.

As he walked by various second-rate hotels and apartments with spent lights, along with various leafless trees—their branches sticking out like thick and sharp sticks ready to harm. Snowflakes fell harmlessly to the ground, sometimes on to him, but he plowed on. The snow did not hinder him; in his glad emotion, he treated the snow as a field of flowers to frolic upon, where laurels hung from the trees.

Wet and empty streets, snow shovelers in the distance doing their shoveling job.

A tap on the shoulder.

Joe turned around.

A pegasus—he could see her turqouise wings.

She grabbed him by the shoulders. "Ah, you!"

Joe looked her in the eyes, shoved her away, pawed the snowy pavement. "What do you want from me?!"

The pegasus looked about, flopping her yellow mane about. "The name's Lightning Dust. It's bad for me to break protocol, but I'm part of the RSRR. We work together with the S.M.I.L.E., and we just figured out you've been victim to a malicious plan."

Joe stared at her, putting on a defensive position. "Look, lady. You're pulling a scam on me! You gotta do better than that to—"

Lightning Dust took out an ID card, grabbed his hoof, put it there, and smacked him on the face with his own ID-holding hoof.

"Now, do you feel better?" she asked, serious—her shades glittering under the night sky.

Joe rubbed his head, floating the card to his face as he did so. "Y-Yeah...but, what's going on? I-Is there—"

"You didn't receive a shipment of exotic chili," Lightning said. "You've received a shipment of illegal weapons."

"Weapons?!" Joe repeated. "I h-haven't opened the box yet, but...weapons?! Come to think of it, they were heavier than I expected—"

"That's because they're secret, classified weapons!" she whispered rough to his ear. "Straight from the testing labs in Canterlot! Their plan—" coughed "—their plan on you is to frame you as the head of a riot, a rebellion against the Princesses themselves."

"Me?!" Joe repeated once more, wiping his forehead. "I'm just a pony who serves donuts and—"

"That's more than enough for them," she chimed in. "You've caused quite a stir with renewing ponies' lives with nice food. However, your enemies don't like it—they want everyone to stay down where they are to prepare for something worse. They want to enforce the law, make sure everything runs smooth—agh!"

Grabbed him by the shoulders again.

"You've got to go with me now! Your life is at stake, and I have to protect you before you get hurt!"

Joe rolled his eyes. "Alright, but if I smell any funny business, it's a punch to the head and you're out."

Lightning smiled. "Good! Let's fly!"

"What?!"

---

"Agh! Put me down! Put me down!"

As Lightning Dust carried a screaming Joe through the night sky, his mane flapping about as Lightning let him see Thoroughbred with its towers now a patch of remote thorns from so high up—letting him feel the wind, the speed, the energy, the clouds.

Also the fear of heights.

"I don't wanna die, please! Couldn't they send a unicorn to teleport me away?!"

"Quiet!" Lightning shouted above the rush of the wind. "I need to concentrate!"

As they flew.

"Watch out—we'll be facing turbulence in three, two, one—"

Angled down.

Flew down.

Fast.

"No! Lightning Dust, are you trying to kill me?! Is this how our reconnaissance unit works?!"

"Not so loud! You want them to reveal our existence?!"

Except Joe was so loud at screaming.

Louder.

Faster.

Closer to the ground.

Then, stop.

Floating above the facade of a closed, gloomy By Drive.

Lightning dropped him.

He fell to the ground, slightly cracking the concrete and scattering the snow.

Lightning Dust flew straight to the door, kicked it, and shattered it into a thousand shards with a noisy crash.

Joe got up, leaped above the shards, galloped inside.

"Get to the inventory!" Lightning Dust said, twirling her head about. "I'll be standing post here, see if I could catch the crooks!"

Joe ran.

Jumped over the counter.

Ran deeper, into the kitchen.

To the back.

Various boxes.

He glowed his horn.

Saw the labels.

Scanned them.

A box with the label "Speziato".

Opened it.

Glowed his horn brighter.

In the box, crossbows with yellow arrows.

Hoofsteps marching outside.

Joe whirled his head round.

Blinded by the light.

Heard a baritone voice shout:

"You, sir! You're under arrest for harboring classified weapons! Put your hooves in the air!"

Joe closed his eyes.

Felt the light's bright heat on him.

Raised his forehooves.

---

Lowered his chained forehooves.

As he sat inside the carriage of a train, guards sitting on his left and right, watching him with sharp eyes. At the corners of the carriage, more guards, each taking turns watching him. The lights inside were off save for the one in the center, leaving the rest of the lighting to the stars and the moon outside.

There, a river ran parallel to the train tracks, an ever changing watercourse flashing white all over in the moonlight.

Joe felt the sweat going down.

Panting.

"W-Was she r-really lying?" he asked, stuttering, turning both ways.

The guard on his left shook his head. "We've known Lightning Dust for some time. She's a criminal in her own right. Tried to set up her own thing, attempted to shake various cities into chaos with her ability to provoke ponies into a rally under different names. She's usually cautious, but I think she got too confident in her own skills."

Joe blubbered. "But...but what about me?! You know I didn't buy these weapons! I wasn't sympathetic!"

The guard only smiled. "Even if you're not, the evidence stacks up against you. We found your hoofprints and your magic signature on those weapons, we've found correspondence between you and other rebel lowlifes, and you've sent a letter to one of your burger buddies hours ago about how you're going to do something drastic soon—that's ominous."

Joe ruffled his mane, becoming unkempt and undone. "I didn't do any of that!"

"That's what a criminal mastermind would say," the guard to his right said before he chuckled.

Both guards laughing at that little joke.

Joe shivered, looked outside at the hilly landscape.

Then, the door at the end of the carriage opened.

Joe raised his head to see the mysterious figure.

That cloaked, goggled stranger.

Joe's eyes widened. "Wh-Who's she?!"

All the guards stood up and saluted the approaching stranger.

The stranger stopped by Joe's escorts.

Saluted those two guards. "You may sit down."

The two guards sat down.

That stranger examined Joe, slanting her head to the left, to the right.

His voice faltered, his eyes dilated, he breathed faster, could hear and feel his heartbeat at the sight of her glare.

"I got wind of your exploits," she said, turning her frown into a smirk. "You ponies must know your place."

The stranger turned to the guards.

"I predict that he will get at least a month in the dungeon. It is lenient, I admit."

Grinned.

"I shall lobby for a longer punishment, hm?"

Joe gasped. "Twilight—"

"Twilight Sparkle is dead," the stranger said, growling—goggles glinting under the moon. "It is disrespectful to call ponies by dead names."

With that, the stranger walked off.

Leaving Joe shuddering between his two guard escorts.

In the train, traveling through the night.