Follow the Worms

by argomiam

10 – A Little Help From My Friends

I think it’s June. I think it’s June 1023.

---

Is it vain to think of myself as the centre of Equestria, when I simply am? I don’t think so, personally.

It’s been getting warmer, I think. I don’t really know, it's just what I’ve heard. I’ve sort of lost track of days as of recent. Night and day really have no distinction underground. It’s unhealthy, no doubt, but ironically it is the most safety I can promise myself.

I have a physician now; a personal one, which is rather grand. They’ve kept me on a good diet, I get lots of exercise, and they’ve put me on these little tablets that are supposed to give me vitamins, or something along those lines. It’s all well and good for me. My health has never been better, actually.

Still, something feels amiss. I feel like I’m under attack, even still. I hate to admit it, but that changeling made me realise how much they want me dead. How much all of my enemies want me dead. All those rallies I’ve cancelled recently just didn’t make me feel quite safe. I wish there was something to do about infiltrators.

I realised over this time that the cruelest part of being a leader of my calibre is the sudden, profound realisation that, no matter what it is you do, there will always be an opposition. Especially me. I’m new and scary, and I can’t blame them for thinking that. Still, I have all the support I need.

I cannot help the feeling that any moment now, a bomb will break through the ceiling. Or an infiltrator. Or a team of jaegers, or a unicorn insurrection, or a disgruntled general. I have so many possible traitors threats that I simply cannot deal with, but I have to stay alive, because Equestria dies with me. Stars forbid whatever happens if Walkie takes over. When I am gone, this country will fall to absolute ruin. It will be my will that determines whether I care for that or not.

Honestly, though, I do believe that everything is going alright, for now. Gander’s been especially pleasant with me recently. He procured me this new kind of tobacco called cannabale. What a rare joy it has been! All the fun of drinking with none of the hangovers, and the hangovers have been crippling recently. Maybe I’m getting old.

Gander put me on it, so at least I have someone to blame if this stuff ends up getting me killed. He assures me it can’t kill me, but you know how these things are. They’ll have once said that about cocaine.

Excuse me, dear reader, for being mistrustful, but I’ve lost the serenity of the palace of my mind before to substances like this. It’s strange, though. This just gives me calm. It slows me down. It helps me to… think, and doing it has made me realise just how little I really do think. Properly think, that is. It also makes me cry every now and then, which is actually damn good stress relief. Completely unbecoming though.

[There’s a messy, free-hoof line break and a few crossed out words. The words ‘Review hazard later’ are faintly present amongst the scribbles.]

It has become my evening treat. Doing it during the day, whilst the compulsion does come over me fairly frequently, would put me in a state that’d make work almost impossible, and would embarrass me terribly in a meeting. I suppose it’d also affect my decision making, maybe.

Gander says he’s scared I’ll go back onto harder shit, but I know I won’t. Still, I don’t mind him bringing me this stuff. I do important work all of the time, I need a lot of rest – anypony would be a fool to see it otherwise. Apparently, this is the lower risk solution for that.

But things are going well, I suppose. Gander visits quite frequently. We smoke together a lot. It makes him very giggly, amongst other things. It does make me a little sad, though. We never drink together anymore. Not properly, anyway. He’ll usually have a small glass of whatever’s available beforehand, but I have to avoid it so I don’t start raiding cupboards for any liquor available. Besides, drinking before smoking makes me quite queasy in a way I can’t describe well.

Usually, Gander appears around nine. He always knocks seven times, or until interrupted, which is a strange number of times to knock. Comes across to me as more pleading than asking to be invited in. Then he sits around on the carpet, makes some small talk (usually a great deal of nothing), and asks to smoke.

What perplexes me is that it’s been quite saddening lately, which I find odd because I’m never usually the sort to decline these sorts of offers. Of course, I do always smoke with him, if I’ve not already asked first, but it’s gotten to a point where, outside of vital work-related one-on-ones, I see him more when we’re high than I see him sober. I wouldn’t say it properly upsets me, it just makes me feel like he can only tolerate me when he’s high. Or maybe he can only stomach me when I’m off my head on whatever’s in my lungs. Not sure. It’s a question that doesn’t need answering, because I don’t care, actually.

It’s funny, though. I picked up journaling from Gander, and all this as well. It makes me realise how much influence he’s had on my life. Sometimes I even catch myself using words I’ve taken from his vocabulary, and that’s always a strange realisation.

At first it was every Wednesday that I indulged in the green tobacco. Then it was Wednesdays and weekends, and now it’s grown to every day. No issue if everypony is actually being truthful to me for once, but fat chance.

One thing about this shit is that it makes time a wildly unpredictable force. I’m not referring to whether it’s seven or eight o’clock, either, because when I'm hay it tends to move slower. Somehow, however, I never seem to be able to get the day right. I’ll check once and it’ll be Wednesday, and the next it’s Monday. Then it’s Saturday. It just feels like I’m drifting completely, in a way I really don’t like all too much. It won’t stop me, it’s better than whatever I was doing before all this, but it’s puzzling. It’s not the same as alcohol, because alcohol just sort of forwards you ahead a few hours until you wake up slumped across some surface with a foul taste in your mouth. This just sort of leaves you in a warm, oblivious haze.

For the sake of my health, my physician has implored me to write about how I’m doing in this. I am doing fine. I am sleeping incredibly, in fact. I wake up as fresh as a daisy, most of the time. I hardly touch alcohol anymore, especially not during the day, and I’ve really just not been craving it at all. That’s a lie, I have, but I just do other things when it comes over me now. Usually I call Gander over and we lie about, smoking and reading and doing absolute rubbish. Turns out there’s a lot of things he hasn’t done before, so we’ve got onto that as best we can.

I think it’s a good thing, for the most part. Good health, good fortune. Safe and secure behind my four walls.

[There’s an ink spill. The words ‘Bucking buck buck’ are crossed out hastily in an evidently frustrated manner. There were a few, faded scribbles where the ink was fading. The ink following was from a notably different pen.]

I am so tired of everypony always asking me for everything. It's always just complain, complain, complain, complain. When do I get to have something nice? What makes them worthy of it? They've done nothing for nopony, and I've done everything for everypony. They don't even realise how good they have it. If I was the pony leading when I was young, everything would have been okay. Worms is accurate. Everypony is disgusted by us even though we're doing nothing but good.

No. I'm feeling angry, I think. Gander isn't here. Good riddance, to be honest. At least I can do whatever I feel like doing, uninterrupted by any random sappiness.

I’m not a bad pony. I just need control. I need things to be in order, like they should’ve always been. Everything has fallen so far out of order, and sometimes measures have to be taken to put things where they need to be. Times like this require it. The state will be the apparatus for this. Everypony must give it their love as it deserves.

What I hate the most about the unicorns is their utter lack of respect, to be honest. I don't really know why they do the things that they do. I do not know why they feel entitled to complain. Everypony is going through the same thing. Buck buck buckedy buck buck. Bucking traitors, the lot of them. I am giving Him direct control. I cannot be bothered with them.

[There's a pen illustration of a sad-looking pony that could be a self-portrait, but the lack of detail makes it near impossible to discern.]

I’ve sent that letter out. It was full of typos and, on reflection, was likely the most foolish decision I’ve ever made. I trust him to do the right thing, I suppose. Not sure how much trust I have in that though.

Sometimes my mind drifts. It drifts a lot, actually. I think a lot about how things used to be, before all the nasties. I think I was a sweeter pony back then.

But in the same fashion, without all of this, I would be living a quiet life, resigned to absolute obscurity, drifting through life with nothing and no say over anything. I might’ve eventually settled down somewhere. I’d like to think that my ambition would always have taken me further.

I don’t like these thoughts. I don’t want to think I’m a bad pony. I’m not. I really don’t think I am, I’m just a little prickly. Everything I do has to be done, but I’m the only pony willing to do it. Of course it paints me bad. I’m not evil though, I’m not. I carry so much love in my heart for everything that’s gone, and now there’s nowhere to put it. Nothing will ever be the same, bucking excuse me for saying it’s not yet over to all these ponies.

They think they’ve suffered like I have. They haven’t. They don’t even know the half of it. I work so foals don’t grow up like I did. That is noble! That is brave! If I had just made the damn decision to paint my party pink and call it harmonist, with the exact same ideals, everypony would love me! But no! It’s always Trixie, it’s always Starlight. Bucking boohoo. Go let some more unicorns save you. Deepen the debt! Bucking sorry that I’m not an idealist! I’m sorry I don’t think that once this is all said and done, they won’t throw us exactly back to how we used to be so we can go through even more years of foreign invasion and humiliation!

[There's more scribbling. Not to cover any words, this time, just for the sake of scribbling.]

Maybe one day I’ll get the Element of Honesty to join us. That would be nice. I think she was my hero once. I heard she was a collaborator. Maybe she’ll be sympathetic. I hope, anyway. I really do hope. I need somepony to put their faith in me for once. Somepony important.

I guess it all just ties back to that post-war dream things had turned out the way they were supposed to. It can’t go back, though. Walkie was right.

Doing a lot of dreaming at the moment. Actual dreaming, the sleep kind of dream. It’s disturbing, because I never dream, but all of a sudden, it’s a nightly thing now. All sorts, but it always seems to tie back to that damned Summer Breeze. Stars, I miss them.

It feels like I’m the only pony to remember them. Oh, Summer. What has become of you?

I hate it. I hate it so much, I hate that it still hurts me. I hate feeling vulnerable. It’s not right, it’s not me. I’m not like this, and yet every night I seem to miss them. For about seven years I’ve never even dedicated any more than a thought to her, and now all of a sudden it feels like I’m grieving her all over again. There was just no warning. She just faded, stopped writing back after sending me letters of all the bombs over in Manehattan. It’s much too cruel. I should’ve never been exposed to that at the age I was back then.

I’m just so scared. I want her to be alive, out there somewhere. I honestly really do. I miss my friend. But at the same time, I really, really hope she’s dead. At least, in all its cruelty, that puts it to rest at last. I’m so scared that she’s out there, maybe in the Riverlands, or New Mareland, or stars forbid, North Zebrica. I mean, she had some ideals that were fairly left-wing, but didn’t we all back in those days? We were young! We didn’t know about all this cruelty. I’m scared about it because if she is she would’ve known about me by now. She would’ve seen me. I’m not a pony one can miss now, and sometimes I can’t tell if that was my goal all along.

For anypony reading this that shouldn’t be: everything I have done – all the work against the changelings, and the unicorns, and the griffons, and whoever else – I do it all in dedication to my best friend Summer Breeze, whom I miss dearly.

That is perhaps a callous thing to pen. It’s not true, either. I chose all of this by my own volition, I will see it all through.

She still doesn’t write to me, though. And if she’s still alive, that means she’s chosen not to, and that’s crushing. I still hold out hope, I suppose. Maybe it hasn’t arrived yet from the far off continent she fled to. Maybe the mail accidentally sorted wrong, and never got to me. I hope so. I really do hope so.

To be sincere, these dreams discomfort me greatly. I hardly ever dreamt, nevermind of that pony, and now I’m in charge of Equestria, it just happens to come to me like that? It scares me so, but sometimes I can’t help but believe that Princess Luna is out there, somewhere. She’s trying to kill me. Or weaken me, or bring me to a mental break. She’s trying to sabotage me, I know it. These things cannot just be coincidence. It would make all too much sense, too. I’m a threat to unicorn rule, of course they’d do that.

These dreams have to be sent. It’s their only way of getting at me, striking me even from my sleep. I have no way to protect myself from these mental attacks. I need to stop the noise. The first time it happened, I woke up and I immediately knew something was wrong. I woke up and I felt guilty for everything. Why would I feel guilty? I don’t believe I have anything to feel guilty over, I’ve done nothing but spread a new type of kindness.

It felt like I was really there. She was judging me, I know it. I know those looks. The same ones those unicorns always give me when I’m parading around their streets.

I’m not the disgrace. She and Celestia abandoned Equestria. It’s not wrong to pick up from the wreckage. What was I supposed to do?

I’ve done a lot of good. My physicians tell me to avoid these lines of thinking, and focus on all the good I’ve done, and I have done a lot of good. So many ponies seem to love me, and my party all loves me. I have good friends in the party, even, ones that don’t abandon me when things go sour. I should be more content, but it never really feels like I am; even with Gander, I never feel all that content sometimes, especially when we’re smoking. It just feels like I’m filling holes in myself.

I’ve given more authority to some of the other leaders in my party. Walkie, chiefly, because Walkie’s always been there and I can trust him to stay, which is more than can be said for most.

I am so sad, I don’t know why. I wanna go home. Sometimes I just want to take off this uniform and disappear completely.

I can’t anymore. This is the precipice.

I think I dreamed I had a nice life.

---

“Light said what?” He put down the envelope, creasing it neatly and placing it on the table before him. He put his jacket on, motioning for the pony to follow along with him as he stepped outside the tent.

“I’m not your courier, Walkie,” she sighed, checking the watch face on her right foreleg. “You read the letter yourself. Discern it as you must.”

“Bah. You’re full of nonsense, Roly,” he fastened his helmet, looking back at her. “He’s given me full control over Old Bales?”

“That is what the letter would suggest, yes. Do you need reading comprehension classes?”

Walkie rolled his eyes, re-lighting his old pipe and taking a few long puffs from it. “I’ve read Marks’s accursed literature, I should be fine. Doesn’t seem much like Light, if I’m being perfectly honest. He’s not one to relinquish power on a whim, eh?”

Roly shrugged. “He’s prone to changes in heart. It wouldn't be anything particularly out of the ordinary for him."

“You reckon he’s on something again? No doubts it’s that damned Gander. I did always tell him, that colt would be his doom. It’s tragic the sort of things he’s doing to him. He’s ‘Proper’-ly lucky I’m not in charge.”

He let out a long laugh at his own joke, the sound dying as it was carried out into the wind.

Roly snatched the pipe from his hooves whilst he was still petting his own ego, taking a few puffs of her own before giving it back, ignoring the steely glance she got from Walkie. “Gander’s a good writer, Walkie. You need to recognise that. You two have your disagreements, but we’re all the same party. I reckon you ought to internalise that, Walkie.”

He groaned, nodding his head and staring out across the surroundings, a line of trees obscuring all but what was ahead. Old Bales was an ancient city, the library was still very much visible from the hill they temporarily resided on. It’d almost be beautiful to Walkie, were it not for its inhabitants. “Right as always, Roly, I’ve got to give you that. I’m not unreasonable, you know that. I’m just pragmatic. The colt’s going to corrupt him. Poor Light – always was a bit too much of a lovercolt. I always worry for him. It’s not wise to have that sort of external stress, especially in his position.”

Roly took a moment to consider the words, before rolling her eyes and sarcastically remarking. “Have you ever actually been in love, Walkie?”

“Once upon a time, believe it or not.” He grinned, puffing his chest out.

“Tch. You surprise me with every passing day,” she jabbed. “Doesn’t seem much to your taste.”

“It wasn’t, in all honesty. I just have hopes beyond myself.”

“How very generous of you, Mr. Talkie.” She snatched the pipe back.

"I know, I know," he laughed, giving the pipe away without resistance. "But it's true. I imagine so much better for this place than whatever it is now. I hope, one day, ponies will finally come to terms with the fact that we're not that bad, actually. Some things just have to change out of necessity. We've woken up from a long dream."

"I suppose," she quietly responded, not as convinced. "I just don't understand what it is about this city that gets you so angry. This isn't the war you need to be fighting, if you ask me." She cleared her throat. "Look, I'll be the first to admit that unicorns are often prissy know-it-alls, but this isn't exactly an army. You're trying to fight a bunch of librarians and students."

Walkie gave her a smug look, the sort of look he gave when he was about to dive head first into a speech. “Pah, look at this city. This is the most absolute testament to unicorn hedonism outside Canterlot. If Light wants me to direct it, then direct it I shall. I'm not trying to fight them, I'm just putting them in their place. They can whinge all they want, but this is the love we bring, as Light says.” He spoke to nothing in particular, saying it like a line well-rehearsed. “Tough love. The sooner they realise the suffering they put Equestria through, the better. Then we can move towards getting them to pay up and live without the entitlement they’re used to.”

Roly glanced at him, then back to the library. “I hate to get into… intra-party politics, honestly,” She spoke in that usual sharp tone she was known for, but slower, more delayed and measured. She cleared her throat. “But the idea of you being in charge of a place like this—it makes me a little uncomfortable.”

“How so?” He turned to her, an inquisitive look on his face.

“You’ve got much too heavy a hoof sometimes. They’re still ponies. You don’t speak of them like that sometimes.”

“What, after they caused the death of however many after they lost us the war?” he said, like it was a cheesy catch phrase.

“Not all of them are a part of that, Walkie. Surely you can recognise that.”

He followed her eyes, turning to look at the library she was fixated on. “They were complicit in it.”

Roly sighed, taking a long drag from the pipe. A wince momentarily appeared on her face. “If you choose to see it like that. I can’t change your mind, you’re very set in stone about these things,” she coughed. “A bit of compassion goes a long way though, even if it’s purely from a pragmatic perspective. Like you say you choose to see it from.” She pointed the pipe in a playfully accusatory fashion.

Walkie laughed, straight from the chest, but not exactly with a lot of joy. He took the pipe back into his grasp, putting it back in his mouth and letting it dangle precariously.

Roly spoke up again, silence clearly not her comfort with the pony before her. “What is it that gets you about them, Walkie?”

He watched the smoke spiral from his mouth. He undid his top three buttons, showing what was clearly a scar from a particularly nasty thaumshot wound.

She beckoned him to continue, cocking an eyebrow in slight surprise. It wasn't that surprising, knowing his background, but seeing it was a different matter. It was clearly from an Equestrian gun.

He did up his buttons again, coughing a few puffs of grey smoke that had been kept in his lungs past when it’s due. “That’s what took me out of combat. Field doctors said it was almost completely singed. Nothing critical, it had cauterised itself, but it was a blighty wound, was no way I was going to be running around lugging ammunition.” A look of what could almost be described as despair spread across his face. “I couldn’t even perform my duties to Equestria. Nothing ever happened to the unicorn responsible, it was just considered an accident. I know better, though. I saw that look in their eyes… they hated me.”

Roly nodded her head, giving another pensive look at the library ahead of them. It was a gallows look, a sombre awareness of the doom those ponies must feel.

Walkie looked back, a sadness in his eyes. It was almost apologetic, but clearly not for the same issue that plagued her.

“I couldn’t do the one thing Equestria needed from me. For the rest of the war, I sat around, waiting for the Changelings to come. And none of the unicorns ever did anything. Life continued for them like usual. I hate to say it, but it almost made me appreciate the Changelings. Just a little.”

“That’s not something I want to hear you repeat.” Roly glared.

“It’s just the truth as I see it. You wanted to hear why I resent the unicorns, so I told you,” he responded, getting a little defensive.

“I’m not going to pretend I understand your views, Walkie. I just hope you aren’t too cruel.”

Roly Poly was the one pony he’d accept this sort of defiance from. Even from Light, he was sometimes prone to snap back. Roly, however, made him contemplate. She didn’t often speak on issues, and he knew she didn’t take sides. She was a pony of nothing but business, and it made her criticisms have value.

“You know, Roly,” he began, pointing a hoof at the library. “There’s a Celestial cell in there. Somewhere. Not entirely sure of the nature of it, nor the size. Could be a book club, for all I care. What matters is that they’re against us; they’re against proper order. In the army, those ponies were called deserters, bleeding hearts, the like,” he trailed off.

“They’re just foals. They’re running around being stupid. It’s what foals do.” She frowned. “You’re the face of conformity, and so you get all the rebellious teens that come along sticking their hooves up, daring to show that they’re their own pony. It’s just a process of growing up.”

“In my day, if you were a young colt with something to prove, you joined the army.”

“But it’s not your day, is it?” she snapped.

“It could be,” he murmured. “What’s on your mind, Roly? You’re holding something you need to say.”

“I think you’re a cruel pony, Walkie, and I don’t think you’ll change.” She sighed, underwhelmed with the conversation. She was brutally honest sometimes, something she just had to be in this line of work.

“I don’t need to change,” he scoffed.

“So say they all, Walkie.” She took a few longing puffs. “So say they all.”

He screwed his face up, not bearing to look at her. “So what do you suggest I do?”

In her eyes, she wasn't the pony to be speaking about all this with. Her job in the party was to keep things running as smoothly as possible, and pointing out flaws in reasoning, however common a problem it had become, was the least of her concerns – she was just the one that swept up afterwards.

A long exhale. “You know I prefer not to get into this. How you rule isn’t a choice for me to make,” She looked at him despite his insistence not to look back, even if it meant staring more or less at the sun. “But I don’t want it to be you. I don’t mean that as an insult, but you’re not fit for it.”

“Why? Why shouldn’t I?” he blurted, taking it as an insult regardless.

“It’s just…” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, Walkie. Again, I don’t mean it as an insult, it’s just coming from the heart. We can do so much better than all this. Yes, I know, some of this cruelty is a necessity, by your words. So much of it is just… needless, though. Your soldiers march around down there, smashing windows and kicking down doors just for the fun of it. I'm not going to get into that whole mess of whether or not it's 'morally' correct, it's just a lot of mess where there needn't be."

Walkie took his pipe back from her hooves, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes. Everypony wants to comment on what my soldiers are doing. Blah, blah. It’s tired news.”

“But it’s apt! There’s no rhyme or reason to some of this. I mean, Walkie, you call yourself a pragmatist, come on. Your soldiers dress in all black and carry machine guns, for crying out loud. You’re not inspiring much hope with your symbolism.”

Walkie was too busy smoking to respond.

“You’re not even listening, are you? Walkie, you need to get your head straight," she chided, throwing away the formalities for the faint chance she might get a few words through. "You’re a good staff chief, that’s for sure, but this isn’t five years ago. We don’t need to act by swinging a rifle around to prove we mean business."

“So why don’t you go tell Light that, eh? Light agrees with a lot of what I’m saying. This party was built off of my back,” he finally responded, taking the pipe from his mouth and pointing it at her.

Her heart dropped at the mention of Commander Light. It was his trump card, the way to deflect all critiques. 'I helped start this party, I get to choose what I do', as he always seemed to suggest. Walkie just wasn’t going to listen, but some part of her nagged. She had to at least say it – she had to prove she wasn’t as bad as the rest of them, even if it was just for her own sake. Pragmatism be damned.

“Just think about what you’re doing some more, would you? These ponies are actually suffering because of some strange grudge you’ve had for a decade.”

Walkie crossed his forelegs, looking over at her. “So, just tell me, what have I actually done? What makes you think I can’t do this, hm?”

“Because you only know military, Walkie! I mean, stars, I don’t know what to tell you. Your whole life has been dedicated to it, it’s just what you see in everything. This country isn’t that, and you’ll keep trying to flay it into shape until you’re happy. This isn’t about you, Walkie, it never was. You can’t keep being shitty and coming to me saying it’s because everypony just isn’t right in the head. It’s you, Walkie.” Her voice hardly wavered, despite the fear she felt speaking to him like this. That wasn't an illusion she was going to break. She put a hoof to her face, brushing her mane out of the way. “Stars. What’s there even to say?”

“We’re doing what we have to do.” He sighed.

She glared, almost like she was waiting for a comment she knew wasn’t going to come. “This is exactly what I mean! What part of this is what we have to do?!”

“Because what did all those ponies die for if not?” he said, dismissively.

“Why don’t you go to Acornage and ask all those unmarked graves if they dream of all this like you do?”

He went wide-eyed, those eight years of never having been talked back to ill-preparing him for this. The shock turned briefly to anger, and then to quiet reflection. He swallowed, hard.

“They wouldn’t,” he said, solemnly, letting the jacket he wore hang heavy on his slumped shoulders. "B-but that's irrelevant—"

“Oh, poor you! That’s not the point! They don’t dream! You’re building, or trying to build, a state for a hoofful of dead ponies! What about the rest of us?! What about the ones that actually live? Why do you care less about them?!” She stamped her hoof.

“What do you want from me?! To just feel bad for everything? To sit around and do nothing just because it makes a few ponies sad? I’m beyond that! I don’t mean to be callous, but everypony’s suffering, so what if a few more do?! At least we’ll finally have a state where we mean something!” Walkie let out a quiet ‘hmph’, turning around and walking back to his tent. “Waste of my time. Talking like a bucking traitor. Absolute traitors to a stallion. Get out of my face.”

Roly shook her head, eyes following the Staff Chief as he disappeared from view into the safety of his own temporary dwelling. She sighed, turning back to the library, looking at the golden detailing that glinted in the sun, a few warplanes flying off in the background. It had become a place of refuge for many ponies after her own party’s takeover, a place anypony was allowed to stay. It wasn’t safe, not by any means. The fact it hadn’t already been blown up was a miracle in itself.

She couldn’t even bear to imagine what it would be like to actually shelter there. She took a few more solitary inhales off his pipe. It was a shame. He was probably once a decent pony, and he did a lot of good work if you isolated it from everything else. But she didn’t feel shame for what she said. He’d get over it in a few days’ time.

She had a lot to do. It was off to Canterlot from here to celebrate yet another glorious victory, taking back another piece of Equestria. She placed the pipe on a table just outside his tent, making her way down the hill. She'd contemplated taking it with her, but decided it wouldn't make for the smartest of decisions with a pony as furious as he.

She knew it was futile, but she took solace in the thought that she was one of the few ponies that were able to have a conversation like that. It was an odd position to take, she mused. She was responsible for half the things that had gotten them this far – that had allowed ponies like Walkie to do what they were doing – but she enjoyed the life she had been given, she enjoyed the ballroom, she enjoyed the wine and the friendly faces and the pleasant chatter. Her face scrunched contemplatively as she made her way down the hill. At least she’d taken the moral high ground.

After all, the deck was already stacked. What was wrong with raising when the cards are in your favour?