• Published 15th Dec 2017
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On Getting to the Bottom of this "Equestrian" Business - McPoodle



An exploration of the Equestria Girls setting in the year 1985, pitting Cold War tensions against Equestrian-inspired pacifism

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Chapter 14: Luna's Birthday

Chapter 14: Luna’s Birthday

Gus stood inside Canterlot’s bus station that night, awaiting the arrival of his family. He was staring at a large paper map of the United States that was mounted on one wall over a piece of corkboard. A small cup attached to the wall contained colored push pins, which visitors were invited to use to mark where they had come from to visit New Brass Sky’s capital city.

After staring for a few minutes at the map, Gus shook his head. “Not going to make it,” he muttered under his breath.

“Who’s not going to make it?” asked Luna.

“Oh!” shouted Gus in surprise, turning on her. She was the first person (after the ticket taker) that he had seen out and about since sunset. “You snuck up on me.”

“No, I just walked,” said Luna in a dull voice. “My sister is the one who lugs a brass band behind her every step she takes.” She was wearing dark clothing over a pair of rugged boots, and hanging from her shoulder was a large camera case.

“Ha, funny.”

“So who’s not going to make it?” Luna pressed.

“Canterlot,” Gus answered calmly, pointing at the map. “In the event of nuclear war, everyone in this town will be atomized.”

Luna looked incredulously between the man and the map. “Does part of your ‘smart-guy’ education involve memorizing who lives and who dies in every American city in the event of World War III?”

“Look, it’s simple,” Gus explained. “A ten kiloton nuke will kill everyone within a half-mile radius on impact. The radioactive fallout will kill anyone exposed to it within a year, unless you’re treated immediately. And that particular danger zone reaches as much as twenty miles from the impact site, depending on the prevailing winds. Being caught within a hundred miles in the first forty-eight hours is going to put you in…well basically the same boat I’m in, where you’re going to have to say goodbye to the last twenty or more years of your life expectancy.”

Luna stared intently at the physicist’s face, wondering how he could contemplate such horrors with a calm expression.

“In the case of a limited nuclear exchange, the latest theories believe that you should strike at population centers instead of the enemy’s arsenal. That way you can drive them to surrender or else cause the collapse of their command structure. So in the case of a five hundred warhead scenario, you’d spread out the missiles to take out this area, from Boston to Richmond.” He reached forward to draw a series of overlapping fifty-mile wide circles on the map with the tip of his fingernail.

In Luna’s mind, she saw the map as the Goddess’ eye view of the country. Each circle described by Pr. Guiseman fell into the core of the earth, revealing a blinding white circle of annihilation.

“From there you’ve got the remaining major cities of the U.S.”

Memphis, Nashville, Knoxville, Atlanta, Savannah. Huntsville, Birmingham and Montgomery. Tallahassee, Miami and cities up and down both coasts of the Florida peninsula. Baton Rouge and New Orleans, Little Rock and Oklahoma City. A dozen sites in Texas. Kansas City, Springfield, Chicago, Indianapolis, Columbus, Pittsburg. Minneapolis-St. Paul. Denver. Seattle, Olympia, Salem. A stretch reaching from Reno through Sacramento and down the California coast to San Diego. Salt Lake City, Los Vegas, Phoenix and Santa Fe.

“Looks like we survive so far,” Luna said in a shaky voice.

“Well, those are just the countervalue targets,” Gus explained. “In a full-scale war, you finally have enough warheads in play to hope to take out the enemy missile silos and command centers. So for example here”—he outlined a huge area around Cheyenne, Wyoming—“that would get nearly fifty missiles alone. There are also the silos here, here and here.” This took out western Washington and significant parts of Montana and North Dakota. “And in particular…here.” He stabbed a finger down just to the east of Canterlot. “One silo, one missile. Enough to poison half the town, and doom the other half.”

“So, we wouldn’t survive,” Luna said sadly. “What about you? What about your family?”

“Oh, we live in Glendale,” Gus said, pointing to its location. “We’d be taken out along with Los Angeles. But Miss Luna, you don’t understand—when it comes to World War III and the long term, there are no survivors. You want to be taken out in the first few days. Because what happens in the days and months afterward, is so much worse. Imagine the sun disappearing from sight for years. All the vegetation dies, and because the soil is poisoned, it never grows back. A winter starts that never ends. Everything would die.” He turned his head to see that the long-awaited bus had finally arrived. “Look, I’m sorry if I laid it on rather thick. Just…forget I said anything. This is definitely a case when ignorance really is bliss.”

Luna said nothing as Gus walked over to greet his family, her unfocused eyes pointed in the direction of an unending sea of nuclear-irradiated white as it slowly curdled into black rot.

It was the first time the darkness had ever betrayed her.

Excuse me, Miss?

Luna pulled herself out of her shocked reverie to face the young woman addressing her. “Yes?”

“Are you Luna? I’m Gloria Guiseman—the Professor’s daughter.”

Luna looked down at the extended hand before reaching out to shake it. “Nice to meet you,” she murmured.

Gloria gestured at Luna’s camera case. “So, are you a photographer?”

Luna looked down at the case. “Well, I try, but there aren’t many books in the library that cover the subject of night photography.”

Gloria’s eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement. “Would you like me to give you a few pointers? I find it to be a very interesting field.”

Luna took a moment to look around her, to confirm that a young woman who wasn’t all that much older than her was actually engaging her in friendly conversation…with Celestia nowhere around to force them to do it. “Yes, I’d be glad for any pointers. My main problem is holding the camera still enough to get a detailed image.”

“Hmm…what kinds of exposure times are you using?”

Gus walked by, pulling a cart containing the family’s luggage, and accompanied by his wife and son. “Be sure to catch up with us at the hotel when you’re finished Dear,” he told Gloria. “Are you going to be alright, Luna?”

“I will now, Professor. You raised a good daughter.”

Gloria blushed.

“I’m afraid that my wife did all the heavy lifting in that department,” said Gus.

Gwen stepped forward to grab the handle of the cart from his hand. “I accept your compliment,” she said cheekily. “And don’t take too long, Gloria.”

“I won’t!”

She turned to have Luna present her with her camera. “Well, what do you think?”

Their conversation went on for several more minutes.


June 23, 1985.

Zero minus 5 days.

Celestia watched the party develop from behind the second floor railing. People were greeting her sister as they entered the house, putting their presents with dark wrapping paper in a pile, engaging in relaxed small talk with each other—or visibly awkward small talk with her sister.

Luna…seemed happy? It was always so hard for Celestia to tell. The way she’d talk about speckled frogs caught by the light of her flashlight, or the shapes of far-off nebulas in the night sky: that was happiness for Luna. But she never raised her voice. On the contrary, she became even smaller and harder to hear when she was most happy, like she knew in her heart that showing too much joy would invite the retribution of the Goddess—usually in the form of some thoughtless action on Celestia’s part. A concert they all had to go to instead of a planetary convergence, a loud headache-inducing party because Celestia got insecure about whether she was a good person again.

Maybe she just…didn’t like people? Celestia knew what an introvert was in theory, but the idea was nearly incomprehensible to her. The love and adoration of the masses was to her like sunlight was to a heliotropic flower, and far more important than such boring substances as air, water or food. No, Luna just needed something to connect her with her legions of would-be friends.

Celestia turned and walked into Luna’s bedroom. It was OK—the door was open. She made her way over to her record player and collection of albums. (Funny thing—Luna’s turntable had a headphone jack, and she actually used it! Celestia on the other hand believed the purpose of a stereo was to share your perfect taste in music with the rest of humanity, which was why her speakers were pointed out the window instead of inside.)

Slowly, she flipped through the albums, then with a frown she went back and flipped through them again. Where was the metal? Where was the punk? Celestia knew the only reason Luna didn’t have any piercings was because Father Delver strictly forbade it before the age of 18, but surely she would have expressed her rebellion against the status quo via appropriate albums purchased from…but then she remembered. The only music store in town was run by Blue Note, who believed the only good music died with Buddy Holly, Big Bopper and Richie Valens in 1959. There was no way that he would let anyone buy any genre invented in the past decade, and it would be a few years before Luna would be allowed to get anything she wanted by mail order. Celestia considered letting her use her Columbia Record Club subscription, just once, as an extra birthday present.

(FYI: Celestia was completely ignorant of Luna’s actual collection of metal and punk, in the form of audio cassette recordings taken from distant radio stations and stashed in a shoebox under Luna’s bed.)

In the meantime, though, Celestia was stuck with a quite paltry selection of titles. Tarkus, by Emerson, Lake & Palmer—notable for the cover image of a giant armadillo that had spontaneously evolved into a tank. The Age of Plastic by The Buggles, with such song titles as “Video Killed the Radio Star” and “Elstree”, named for a forgotten British film studio (“Elstree, remember me / I had a part in a B movie … Now I work for the BBC / Life is not what it used to be”). Depressing.

There was one album that was already on the turntable: The Best of Blondie. Now that was more like it. Celestia turned on the player, donned the over-the-ear headphones, and dropped the needle at random. The sound of drums frantically pounding took her breath away. Debbie Harry sang of dreaming, and of a date with the man of her dreams: “I never met him. I’ll never forget him.” If the singer was Luna, the only lover she would ever meet would be equally imaginary.

Celestia had to lift the needle at that point. She didn’t know why she was crying.

& & &

After taking a moment in the bathroom to put herself back together, Celestia grabbed the Blondie record and went downstairs, making a beeline to the stereo system in the family room. She had no intention of playing “Dreaming”, but maybe “Call Me” or “Heart of Glass”—oh wait, “Heart of Glass” had “ass” snuck into the last verse—she’d probably get in trouble if she played that one.

She got the record started and turned around to see what effect it would have. What she saw was all of the children looking at the adults, who were all clustered around the television set. One of them waved a hand at her to turn down the music. With a sigh, she complied then walked over to see what the commotion was about.

This is Dan Rather with the latest news on the OPEC Crisis.

Less than an hour ago, the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries announced a complete re-write of their charter, putting them under the control of the League of Arab States. As part of this re-organization, they elected as president the mastermind behind the change, Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi. The states of Ecuador and Gabon announced their withdrawal from the union in protest. Here is an excerpt of the speech President Gaddafi made upon accepting his new position.

The video showed a room with two long tables extending away from the camera, joined near the back of the room by a short transverse table, behind which stood Muammar Gaddafi in a business suit. Behind him was a draped backdrop, in front of which were poles displaying the flags of the OPEC member states. Mostly balding men sat behind the two long tables, most in Western business attire, but a few in traditional Bedouin robes. All eyes were on the new president.

The camera cut to a close-up shot as he began speaking in Arabic, with subtitles appearing beneath him: “The era in which the Arab-speaking nations will tolerate the existence of the illegal squatter state of Israel are at an end. Henceforth, no petroleum products from any member of OPEC will be sold to any country that does not sign a pledge to forevermore abstain from defending Israel in any way from its Allah-foreordained destruction. The same penalty will apply to any nation that does not immediately cut all economic and political ties to Israel’s principal arms merchant: The United States of America!

Rather’s image appeared on the screen as he continued his reporting. “Parliaments in nearly a dozen countries around the world have called emergency sessions to seriously consider dropping all ties to this country in order to preserve their current petroleum rates. Martin Mussgnug, leader of the National Democratic Party in West Germany, declared that ‘considering that it is currently being run by a member of a bizarre religious cult, perhaps it would be best to abandon America until its people come to their senses and elect an atheist or at least a Christian.’

Domestically, economic experts have projected that the price of gasoline at the pumps could jump up to more than $5 a gallon.

An inset picture showed a white-haired man in glasses, identified as Senator Gravel of Alaska. “I have warned the American people for more than a decade of the consequences of not developing an Alaskan pipeline. The Markist-environmentalist lobby have blocked me at every turn, but now you can surely see the consequences of surrendering control of such a vital resource into the hands of a foreign power with interests opposed to ours.

Rather resumed reporting. “The oil fields of Texas and of the various non-OPEC oil-producing states are expected to make up the difference eventually, but with the historic low rates President Shooter negotiated with OPEC in 1980, production had been reduced so far that it may be five to six years before prices stabilize.

Speaking of the President, he was expected to address the nation on this crisis nearly an hour ago from the White House, but has remained strangely silent.” Rather then held aloft a reel of audio tape. “CBS News was sent this tape, alleged to be an unauthorized recording of President Shooter suffering a nervous breakdown on hearing the news. The identification of the voice as that of the President is highly suspect, and in addition it is laced with language utterly inappropriate for broadcast at this hour.” Consulting a written transcript, he continued: The recorded voice also declared that ‘OPEC has surrendered its right to exist as sovereign nations’, that they were all ‘agents of the Demoness’, and that he would ‘nuke the Islam out of them’. The European states considering abandoning ties to the U.S. were called ‘ungrateful wenches’ who should…” (he peered at the transcript in shock) “perform unspeakable acts on a daily basis in gratitude for America saving their…unmentionables in World War II.

I have known Far Shooter since his days as Governor of California, and he would never, under any provocation, utter words such as those. This tape in my opinion is a fake, a fake that I would not at all be surprised was created by the orders of Muammar Gaddafi himself in his never-ending feud with the President.

Well, until such time as we do get an address from the President, or any significant updates, we now return you to coverage of the Detroit Grand Prix, already in progress.

The party immediately broke up, with panicked parents grabbing the nearest child to rush out, buy a giant barrel, and “fill it up with enough gasoline to last through the Return of the Goddess.” Any words of wisdom that Father Delver attempted to apply to the situation were ignored. In the rush to grab everyone’s articles of clothing, the paper decorations of stars and planets taped to the walls were torn down, unopened presents were snatched up and taken away, and the throw rug ended up on top of the piano.

Luna looked around her at the remains of her party, and stormed up to her room, slamming the door loudly behind her. A few seconds later she stormed back downstairs, grabbed the Best of Blondie record with a glare at Celestia, and stomped back upstairs with an even louder slammed door.

Celestia sat down numbly in the nearest couch. She now had less than five days to save her sister from her imminent breakdown, a breakdown which, if previous cases were to be believed, might just involve trying to stop her from trying to massacre everybody in Canterlot.

Delver rested his hand on Celestia’s shoulder. “I’m sorry the party you organized so meticulously had to end like this,” he told her. “But cheer up. You’ll have a perfect chance to make it up to her when we fly to London for the conference tomorrow.”

The conference. The Markist Historical Society Conference. Celestia had worked out the itinerary just last week, trying to find time to see every London landmark she had ever seen in a movie or read in a book. The Peter Pan monument in Kensington Gardens was to be a highlight. All that London sightseeing was scheduled for June 27th. The early morning of June 28th was when Father Delver, his two personal students and two adored step children were expected to be sleeping their way across the Atlantic on a Pan-Am flight.

But that was the exact moment when Luna was scheduled to transform into a hockey-mask wearing, chainsaw-wielding psycho killer!

(Well, that was the way that Celestia was picturing Luna’s breakdown prior to getting that Luna [Adams] journal to study—she had seen way too many slasher films for her own good.)

Celestia had plans for how to Luna-proof their house. She doubted she could Luna-proof a jumbo jet.

Celestia looked up to her step-father with her most winning smile. “Yeah, about that trip…”

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