> The Sixth Age
>  by TacticalRainboom
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> 0: Heist
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Southern Cross winced in mid-gallop as a bullet broke against his magical barrier. Sparks flashed across the shield’s domed surface, accompanied by a shock of pain that shot through Cross's horn and bounced off of the back of his skull.

Typical corporate security tactics—ventilate the intruder’s hide with shredders or HVs, then claim that the idea had been to bust his magic shield with live rounds and finish the job non-lethally with tranq venom. Everypony gets away with a slap on the wrist, except for the sod who ends up as a smoking corpse. Funny how having the ability to magically block bullets tended to make somepony more likely to end up dead...

Cross‘s partner was yelling at him over the staccato of gunfire and the steady thundering of hooves. “If we get through this alive, I swear to the Six I’ll kill you, dickhead!” Her cyber-implants flashed harshly in the artificial light as she sprinted full-force down the hallway.

“If we get through this alive it won’t be thanks to you, cloudhumper!” Cross shot back. “Do those look like spitballs I’m blocking? Well, they’re not! Where the hell are you, Rider?” That last phrase wasn’t meant for the pegasus running alongside Cross—it was directed toward the microphone taped to his throat.

“Shut up and keep running!” Spectra retorted. “I think I’ve got us an exit! Right turn here!”

Cross barely even heard those instructions thanks to his barrier stopping a burst of bullets that would’ve dropped Spectra on the spot. Several shots pounded into the wall at the end of the hallway as the two swung a sharp right. Cross felt sure that his brain would catch fire if his barriers caught any more flying lead.

The hallway they'd turned into led to the outside edge of the building, and the wall at the far end was a curved glass surface giving a view of the perpetual dusk of the Lower City. “Spectra,” Cross snarled, “if your ‘exit’ is a fucking window again...”

He punctuated his sentence with a growl-scream of suppressed agony as a bullet sliced through his shield and into his left haunch. Somehow, somehow he managed to stay on his hooves, but his shield was gone, and—

Spectra glanced over, and her steel-grey eyes immediately zeroed in on the bloody wound marring Southern Cross’s backside.

“Oh hell," she panted. "Jump on my back!”

“The fuck did you just say?” Cross gasped raggedly. His vision was blurring and his body was starting to go numb, but his ears were still working, and he could swear Spectra had just told him to—

“Did I stutter? Get on my back!” Spectra surged ahead and pulled in front of Cross, giving him a nice close-up of her rear end, and of the pneumatic pistons grafted to her hind legs.

Cross pounced as hard as he could with his disobedient left flank, and ended up awkwardly clutching Spectra’s abdomen with his forelegs.

“I didn’t mean mount me!”

Instead of dignifying that comment with a reply, Cross just leaned forward, clutching Spectra tightly and lifting his rear hooves off the ground. Every bump and lurch of Spectra’s hips dug roughly into his chest, but he managed to hold on even when she spread her wings and flapped them once, propelling herself into a full sprint.

“Get ready! Same as last time!” Spectra yelled, holding her wings in a rigid upright position.

“I hate you, cloudhumper,” Cross grumbled weakly, lighting his horn.

A bullet hit the ground squarely between Spectra’s hind legs, and Cross heard her snarl as shards of tile bit into her belly. Another bullet hit the drywall next to Spectra’s head, and she winced away from the dust and plaster that it kicked into her face.

An eardrum-shattering burst of gunfire sounded from all around Cross’s head as Spectra opened fire on the oncoming wall of glass with her fearsome amount of implanted hardware. Muzzle flashes from four pistols embedded in the cyber-pegasus's wings strobed angrily in an attempt to weaken the oncoming barrier of glass.

“DO IT!” Spectra bellowed. Her wings flapped again, and Cross’s grip on her rear nearly slipped as she accelerated to terrifying speed, screaming straight towards the wall.

Cross spat one last barrier from his horn—not behind them to protect from bullets this time, but in front of them.

The field of solidified magic hit the glass with a sharp crack. The pane spiderwebbed, but held. Shit!

Spectra hit the glass with a meaty CRACK, and the pane shattered around her. She and Cross plunged together from the air-conditioned office into the polluted haze of New Canterlot's undercity.

Spectra was yelling wordlessly with either pain or effort, but Southern Cross barely heard it, because he was too busy howling his lungs out with sheer primal terror. He squeezed Spectra so hard that he felt sure he was going to leave bruises on her flanks, and nearly emptied his stomach onto her back while he was at it.

Their descent ended as suddenly and as violently as it had begun. Spectra landed hard and collapsed into a heap, dumping Cross onto a smooth, cold surface—the roof of a sky-bridge spanning the gap between two buildings.

For a few moments, the only sound was the hissing, thrumming breath of the sprawl and the panting of two ponies who had just escaped certain death.

For now, Cross and Spectra were safe. Their pursuers didn’t bother sticking their heads through the smashed glass to look for them, probably because they now had a choice between getting fired for letting intruders escape, or getting thrown in jail for shooting at neighboring buildings.

From this vantage point, perched on a stretch of glass and steel dozens of stories above ground level, Cross had a nice view of the vast network of girders and pipes staring down from where the sky should have been. Cross remembered learning long ago that the corporations liked to use extra-bright UV lights to make the ponies who lived down here feel less like they were entombed under the weight of an entire city. The corporations were doing a lousy job of that.

“You raised Rider on the comms yet?” Cross muttered, though he already knew the answer. He glanced around for any sign of their getaway vehicle, but all he saw was a forest of identical platescrapers stretching all the way from the streets to the steel sky above.

Spectra could only reply with a pained shudder.

Cross smelled the reason before he saw it. “Oh no,” he groaned, hauling himself to all fours despite the screaming pain wracking his head and left haunch.

“Hey. Hey! Stay with me!” Southern Cross said as he lurched over to Spectra’s prone body. The fact that his brain was ready to pack up and quit its job made it hard, but Cross tried to take a mental inventory of the lacerations scoring Spectra’s flesh. No major arteries, she would be okay if they got her some help soon, damn it he was an idiot for not realizing it earlier, Spectra had pounded through tempered glass for both of them, and now Cross had wasted precious seconds doing nothing, while—

Cross's frantic thoughts were interrupted by the roar of VTOL turbines as a cargo lifter wafted around the corner of a neighboring platescraper. Then came the irritating coltish voice blaring through his earpiece.

“Thank you for choosing saved-your-sorry-asses airlines! This is your captain, Rider, speaking. The goods have been secured, and you’re my last stop for the evening, so please keep all hooves, horns, and wings inside the vehicle while—”

“After I kick this dickhead’s ass, you’re next, Rider,” Spectra rasped weakly. The getaway vehicle touching down next to the two was little more than a covered cargo bed kept aloft by a pair of swiveling jet engines—unassuming, innocuous, just the thing for disappearing into the urban tangle.

Cross shook his head, chuckling despite the circumstances, as he dragged Spectra’s bleeding body into the back of the getaway vehicle. “What would I do without friends like you?” he mused.
> 1: Daybreak
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	As love and harmony faded from the hearts of the ponies, so too did the magic at the heart of the world falter. Did the Sisters abandon the realm because magic was failing in their subjects’ hearts, or was it the reverse? In the latter case, then Celestia and Luna must be held at least partially responsible for the terrible bloodshed that followed.

	Brothers against sisters and mothers against daughters, as if every heart in Equestria had been seized by the spirit of hate. The terrible weapons used in the fighting were the last magic that the world would see for centuries. From that day forward, the ponies’ lives would be driven not by the powers that were their birthright, but by the machines they would build to help them dominate this new, colder world.

	Then, on the 24th of Deepfrost, 1011, the world remembered what it once had been. Around the world, ponies suddenly found themselves in possession of the magic that their ancestors had discarded centuries ago. The world was entering a new age, but the Fire of Friendship would not return so easily to a world covered with citadels of circuitry and steel.

	Now awaken, my faithful student.




Daybreak jerked upright, eyes wide open. The world was an incomprehensible blur of color; floating lights danced around her room as she tried without success to take stock of her surroundings. “Wha... who’s there? Arrrgh!” She accidentally slammed her foreleg painfully against the edge of the bedside table, then rolled onto her back, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. After a few deep breaths, she gingerly pried the AR goggles off her face with a gentle application of unicorn telekinesis. When they came free, she could feel where their frames had left dents on the skin around her eyes.

As Daybreak rolled out of bed, she once again gave serious thought to the idea of buying an old-fashioned computer monitor for her room. Inefficient, sure, but at least with a monitor she would wake up with a desk in her face instead of with an out-of-focus augmented reality display swimming around her head. As always, such thoughts faded as she started to search through her dresser for an appropriate set of clothes.

Many of Daybreak’s peers chafed—sometimes literally—at how often academic life demanded clothing. Daybreak, on the other hand, took pride in addressing herself in the mirror every morning and composing a proper appearance for the occasion. Today was a day for Daybreak the up-and-coming intellectual, the poster girl for the new science of mythological history. She smiled and hummed softly to herself as she levitated her brush over and started to work it through her bangs, sorting the yellow and violet mane that she had been named for into flat stripes.

With her mane combed just a little less than perfectly and her lashes darkened just so, all that was left was her favorite vest. Dark charcoal, with a white undershirt and silver tie—just the thing for contrasting with her lustrous pink coat. Daybreak allowed herself a happy little sigh at the sight of the young professional in the mirror. She looked very ready. More than that, she looked contemporary, forward-thinking... dangerously close to hip. Daybreak nodded approvingly before turning her back on her reflection and heading for the front door.

The Upper City’s usual chilly high-altitude wind greeted Daybreak as she stepped onto the rubberized path that served as the main street for her little residential neighborhood. Walking to the lecture hall from home never took much time, and the pleasant scenery always helped to revitalize Daybreak in the mornings. The well-tended trees and patches of grass lining the walkway made it easy to forget that the entire district was resting on a massive plate fastened to the side of Mount Harmony.

Ahead, Daybreak’s destination rose proudly from where city met mountainside. Shine University was a wonderfully modern complex centered around a sleek high-rise, but more than that, it was the premier place of learning in New Canterlot.




The audience watched in silence as Doctor Daybreak crossed the stage, hooves clacking sharply against the wooden surface. “Good afternoon,” she said when she reached the podium. Her amplified voice projected easily past rows of colorfully maned pony heads to echo off the exits. “First and foremost, thank you all for attending today. It’s good to see so many interested in learning more about the Awakening.”

She allowed a short silence while she affixed her goggles to her face, the better to read from her notes. Seeing this, some of the audience did the same, which brought a smile to Daybreak’s face. Taking notes on her speech! Maybe some of them would cite this presentation for their midterms.

Right on cue, the first slide appeared on the wall behind her, to a chorus of low laughter. Daybreak’s face on the screen, hugely magnified, was beaming out at the audience as if for a driver's license. Large block letters crossing beneath her portrait's chin read: Daybreak, Doctor of Magical Studies, Shine University.

Daybreak herself smiled in much the same manner as did the photograph. “For those of you in the back, that’s what I look like. I graduated from Shine University with the class of 1037, and you may have read my published work if you’ve ever taken a magical studies class. Most of what I write about is magic history, which I’ll say a little more about later.

“Now, how many of you are in engineering?” Daybreak paused long enough to make it clear that she expected an actual answer, and a few hooves rose tentatively into the air. “Biology?” The raised hooves fell, and were replaced by others. “Environmental science? History? How about the equinities?” Daybreak nodded approvingly at the last set of raised hooves. “Very good. Don’t let anypony ever tell you that philosophy and literature aren’t important.”

The screen moved to the next slide, which depicted streams of colored lines merging into one unified river that flowed from left to right. Daybreak waved her hoof dismissively at it. “This slide usually has an AR enhancement, but we won’t be getting into details this time. All you need to know is that each line represents an influential idea or pony that had lasting effects on a particular field of science. This really wide one, for example, is Dr. Gene’s work on evolutionary biology. And these vertical lines—” she pointed to a line intersecting the stream—“represent historical events. This one is the opening of the Net in the year 967. Which brings me to...”

The next slide sent a low rumble through the crowd. “... How would you feel if I told you that your entire fields of study were rendered meaningless on December 24th, 1011?” Displayed behind Daybreak was a continuation of the river—except that there was an ugly black bar slashing through it, a thick dam that only sparse rivulets of biology and physics were able to squeeze past. Between 1011 and the current year of 1045, a few new additions widened the line, but the river of knowledge was a pathetic trickle compared to what it had been before.

“Has anypony here taken Professor Westwind’s arcanophysics class? How about Enchanting and Architecture with Dr. Arc?” There weren’t many hooves raised this time, but to Daybreak, that was a challenge more than a disappointment—these ponies had no appreciation for the significance of the Awakening, which made it all the more important that they learn now.

“These are classes that at least begin to address the fact that magic changes everything. Mathematicians... you’re safe. They haven’t invented a spell to make two and two equal five just yet.” Laughter, but Daybreak could still smell disbelief in the air.

“But make no mistake...” She licked her lips as she swept her gaze across the front row of the audience. Most of them were unicorns. “Those of you with wings or horns, how often do you stop and think about the fact that nopony has a clue as to how your bodies actually work?” Nopony was laughing now.

“We don’t know how wings work. We don’t know how horns work. And don’t think you’re safe if you’re an earth pony, either. Earthers have auras just like everypony does, and we have—that’s right—no idea how auras work.” Daybreak cleared her throat, and the slide behind her changed again.

“I’m sure you’ve all seen this before. The External Soul, by an eighth century artist named Dreamtide.” The screen showed a painting of a rearing pegasus mare with wings outstretched. Her upturned face was captured in living detail, but her body seemed to be made of glass rather than flesh. The mare’s shimmering skin glinted with gaseous light trapped inside her translucent form, and the colors of her “soul” shone through as a soft golden halo.

“It’s a beautiful painting, but it’s also so much than a work of art; it shows something very real. Even if not all of us can see it, we all have this inside us.” Daybreak smiled softly. “And believe me, it’s even more beautiful for those of us who can see it in person.”

The slide advanced again, and this time it showed a photograph of New Canterlot from afar. In the painting, Canterlot’s dense sprawl and imposing upper plate were lit by a brilliant sunrise. The city was blocking the sun itself, so the corona of yellow and purple made the double skyline seem to shine with the same same soft soul-light as the glass pegasus mare in the last slide.

“Magic isn’t just some new phenomenon to be studied. It’s part of us, and part of our world. Our minds and bodies, as well as everything around us—everything is literally made of magic, in ways that we have not even begun to understand. Hopefully, though, what I have to say today will inspire some of you to join the effort to drive ponykind’s new body of knowledge forward.”




The floor rumbled with applause as Daybreak removed her goggles, bowed her head politely, and headed for the exit. She didn’t put the goggles back on until she was outside again and on her way home under the late afternoon glare.

“Case Study on Extraordinary Individuals,” Daybreak read out loud as she nudged the backstage door open and stepped out into the midday sun. Quite a few phrases from the message jumped out at her, actually. Highly unusual magic phenomena... compensation for time and expenses... four million bit funding for further research. Daybreak’s knees quivered even as she walked. No more begging for travelling expenses from the Magical Studies department whenever she went to attend conferences. With that kind of money, she could travel the world—she could hire a team to travel the world—she could hire a studio to edit a documentary filmed by teams all over the world!

It took perhaps a minute of deep breathing before Daybreak calmed down enough to realize how many things about this request just seemed wrong. The mysterious benefactor had contacted Daybreak directly, rather than going through the proper channels with the university. The letter took care to mention that the employer would remain anonymous. And, most worrisome of all, the message’s sender didn’t want Daybreak to know what this research was being used for. It was hard to imagine what nefarious purpose five simple interviews could serve, so maybe the employer simply thought that Daybreak might disapprove of their goals?

Daybreak cut those thoughts off with a shake of her head as she archived the message, ran a search for plate-to-ground taxi rates, and began composing a reply asking for some kind of assurance that the mysterious employer was actually good for several million bits.

Sure, it was suspicious, but as far as Daybreak was concerned, it would be ridiculous under any circumstances to let such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity pass. Besides, she had to admit that she was curious about these “extraordinary individuals.”





Subj: Case Studies on Extraordinary Individuals


Dear Doctor Daybreak,

Your professional assistance is requested with an ongoing study concerning unusual phenomena that my associates and I have observed in the course of our own work. We now believe that all of these phenomena were related to the personal magics of the individuals listed in the attached document. We ask that you meet each of these subjects and interview them concerning their lifestyles and their magical abilities. It is our hope that your unique perspective and academic background will shed new light on any possible similarities or connections between these individuals. Complete details are attached.

[Attachment: Summary and Conditions]
[Attachment: Ironwood]
[Attachment: Spectra]
[Attachment: Victoria]
[Attachment: Shimmer]
[Attachment: Fuchsia]

> 2: Ironwood
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Subject: Ironwood


Earth pony female. Displays evidence of magic abilities despite being confirmed Mundane.


For the fourth time, Daybreak checked the street address under Ironwood's file, and of course she saw, again, that she was in the right place. Still, though—was this supposed to be a farm? This was a warehouse. An enormous and ugly warehouse, utterly featureless, except for a few windows high above ground level and a metal sign reading "FIRST SEED" in large letters.

Except for the fact that it was facing the street, this seemed more like a service entrance than a front door. Solid steel from the looks of it, and as bland and functional as the rest of the building. There was no doorbell, but Daybreak had called ahead and left a message, and Ironwood was supposed to be expecting her in around two and a half minutes.

Daybreak found herself subconsciously glancing at every dark alleyway and boarded-up window. She wasn't quite in the shadow of the plate, but still, she wasn’t too happy about being made to wait outside in an area like this. She raised a hoof and banged it against the door, tentatively. The sound she made was so soft she could barely hear it herself, so she started pounding in earnest. This time, she thought she heard muffled shouting in response. "Hello?" she yelled back.

A faint whirring of machinery sounded from the other side. The top half of the door suddenly swung inwards, revealing the unsmiling face of a mare with a patchy white and tan coat. Her mane, tied back except for a single stray lock, was a the color of mossy tree bark after a downpour. "Afternoon,” she said with a little nod. “Need somethin'?"

"Hello!” Daybreak smiled and straightened her neck in an exaggerated show of politeness. “I’m Doctor Daybreak. I called ahead about an interview?"

"Sorry, I'm not lookin' for help just now." Ironwood's expression did not change. "Try comin' back when the busy season hits. Starts ‘round the beginning of fall..."

"Oh... I'm not looking for a job. I left you a voice message? It was—"

"I don't wear a headset while I work,” Ironwood interrupted. Except for her mouth, her face remained motionless. “So, you a journalist?"

"No, actually,” Daybreak said, licking her lips. “I'm, um, a professor at Shine—"

"Oh," Ironwood cut in again. "I got a call last week about that."

The top door suddenly closed in Daybreak's face. She heard a whirr of machinery again, a moment before the entire door swung inwards. The room beyond was awash with steely fluorescent light. "C'mon in," said Ironwood from behind the heavy door, her voice echoing in the cavernous space.

When Daybreak entered, she immediately understood how this building qualified as a farm. The place was lined with rows upon rows of identical planters, and multiple layers of catwalks crisscrossed the open air above their heads.

"Want the tour?" Ironwood asked, as Daybreak stood and took in the sights. The same whining of machinery sounded again, more distinctly this time, as Ironwood shut the door behind them.

"No, that's all right," Daybreak replied, turning to face her hostess. "I just need to—" she cut herself off with a poorly stifled gasp when she saw what she hadn't been able to through the top half of the door.

"I get that a lot," Ironwood replied irritably. "Is starin' at me part of why yer’ here? Can ya do that while I work?" There was a whirring sound as she crossed one foreleg in front of the other and leaned against the building's front wall. The tarnished chrome where two of Ironwood's limbs had once been glinted harshly in the warehouse's cold light. Worse, each leg ended in a three-pronged claw, flattened against the sufrace of its leg’s “hoof.” Daybreak had seen artificial limbs, but everypony in the Upper City wore delicate designs made for fashion as much as function. Ironwood's metal limbs looked like weapons—heavy machines grafted to her torso.

"Staring? No! I... Well... Yes? I think." Daybreak's natural pink desaturated a bit as she tried to defuse her own rudeness.

"You think?" Ironwood grunted.

"Um... well..." Daybreak withered under Ironwood's narrowed stare. "The study you’re part of is about extraordinary magic in individuals, so I just didn’t expect...” She spoke quickly, as if trying to get it all out before she lost her nerve. “It’s just, augmentation really destroys your aura, even though you might not notice it yourself being a Mundane and all. To a unicorn, it’s like you’re not... like you’re not completely alive." As soon as the last few words left her mouth, Daybreak regretted them.

"Yer callin’ me a freak," Ironwood sighed.

"I would never accuse... Well, but... No, it’s not quite like that," Daybreak said with a sigh. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to insult your decision. Of course it's your choice to do what you want with your body, but I’ve always believed that your natural body is something beautiful, to be cherished, so I just... I’m sorry." She hung her head.

Ironwood held her cross-legged stance as she watched Daybreak talk herself out again. "You got me all wrong." With another sigh that might’ve been either annoyed or just resigned, Ironwood nudged herself away from the wall. “Follow me,” she said, walking off towards the lift. “I can work and talk. Hear me out for a bit, an' you can ask me whatever you want afterwards.” Ironwood’s natural gait was interrupted by the sharp clack of her front “hooves” against the concrete floor. With Daybreak in tow, she made her way towards a lift in the corner of the main room.





Ironwood’s process in tending her crops was as methodical as might be expected from her setup. Laid along the catwalks were pathways of flattened cardboard boxes that served as carpeting between hoof and metal. Each planter was equipped with a tiny display and a set of dials and nozzles, which Ironwood manipulated with her artificial appendage. Daybreak noted that whenever Ironwood had to prune a plant or touch it in any way, she always used her nose and teeth, never her clawed forelegs.

As the two walked, Ironwood laid out her life story unflinchingly, perhaps trying to get it over with. When Ironwood was a filly, she worked with her parents on land that had belonged to her ancestors since the Old World. By the time she was an adolescent, the family had been forced to sell the business. Her father died of a stroke after a few years working in a factory, and her mother was various sorts of unemployable, so Ironwood found a construction job and moved to the city. The work was hard, but it paid very well, and Ironwood was able to save up while still sending a little home to her mother.

“Tha’s the year I lost my left foreleg,” she tossed over her shoulder to Daybreak, who was still following behind.

“Is that why you—”

“No,” Ironwood said firmly. “Forklift accident. Ended up amputated below the joint. One o’ those hook-legs worked fine. Even if I’d wanted a piece of chrome, it wasn’t worth the money to me.”

Daybreak didn’t reply, so Ironwood kept talking as she moved on down the row. They were high above the ground level now, and nearing a full lap back around to the lift. “Soon after that, I went ‘n busted that hook-leg. Got it caught in a lift that time. Stupid.”

“And then you—”

“No,” Ironwood sighed, rolling her eyes in annoyance. “What I did was get laid off. Insurance wouldn’t cover a replacement, workers’ comp wouldn’t give me leave, and the boss wouldn’t let me work on a leg held together by spit ‘n happy thoughts. I tried findin’ another job, but there ain't much of a job market for a three-legged workhorse. I thought I was screwed, an' then dear ol' Uncle Whitetail went and kicked it. He left me this place.”

“Most o’ this was done for me. UV lamps, walkways, sprinklers.” Ironwood tapped a hoof against one of the planters. “Was a great idea, I’da never thought of it, but the old man din’t know spit about plants. Myself...” She broke off talking as her head disappeared into an alcove. She came away with a mouthful of white flowers, which she promptly swallowed. “I know what I’m doin’ in here.”

She shrugged. “Guy was already gonna cut ‘n run, move on to somethin’ else. Luckiest break I ever saw in my life. He had clients too, people willin’ to pay out the flanks for organic, off-season, local, you know. His problem was, he put out a quarter the yield I do with the same setup.”

“So what about...” Daybreak’s eyes drifted down to Ironwood’s front legs again.

“I got ‘em so I could work this place by myself. Was either this or hobblin’ around on a peg-leg and havin’ to hire full time help.” For the first time since Daybreak had come in, Ironwood was smiling. “Loans’re almost paid now, and the place is runnin' better'n ever.”

“There ya have it then,” Ironwood said as she led Daybreak onto the lift and closed the gate. "Now what kinda questions—Oh for Mother's sake. I'm comin'!"

Daybreak stared in confusion for a moment, until she heard distant clanging—the sound of someone beating on the front door.

"Sorry,” Ironwood grumbled. “I’ll try to make this quick. I heard ya, goddammit!"

Ironwood took the lift down, then galloped for the door as soon as the gate opened and opened the top latch like she had for Daybreak. Whoever had been knocking, couldn’t be seen from Daybreak’s angle, and the warehouse's acoustics distorted the conversation, but when Ironwood raised her voice, her anger was unmistakable.

Daybreak trotted closer, and caught a glimpse of a midnight-colored pony wearing a cocky smirk. Their eye contact was brief, but the impression was made. Cybernetic spheres, cold and appraising, twinkled at Daybreak from underneath a disheveled black mane. Then Ironwood slammed the top door, and this time it wasn’t so she could let the visitor in.

“Who was that?” Daybreak asked innocently.

“Jus' some gutterpunk lookin’ for handouts.” Ironwood’s clenched jaw gave away her unease, even though her tone was dismissive.

Before Daybreak could say anything else, Ironwood suddenly turned to face her. “Anyway. Had enough of my life story yet or didja still need to ask questions?”

“Um, right!” Daybreak levitated her goggles out of her pack and affixed them to her face. She thought she saw Ironwood rolling her eyes as a long set of notes blurred to life.

“Have you ever been told that you have magical abilities by a professional?”

“Nope.”

Well, that eliminated half the list. “Has a professional ever told you that your aura is unusual?”

“Listen, the last one to look at my aura was a pediatrician who happened to have a horn on his head. But the answer’s no, I guess.”

Daybreak bit back a comment about that—no point in lecturing Ironwood about the fact that only a quarter of all unicorns were able to read auras. Besides, it was becoming clear that Ironwood didn’t have useful answers to any of the prepared questionnaire. “I suppose I’ll just see for myself,” Daybreak said tactfully. “Give me a moment.”

With a toss of her mane, Daybreak delicately lifted her goggles from her face, then tucked them into her pack. With a deep, cleansing breath, she locked eyes with Ironwood...

The world dissolved into mist as Daybreak forced her senses to reject the physical world and show her only the world of thrumming, living energy. Ironwood’s natural magic, even despite her grotesque forelegs, burned against the cold silence of the building and the weak glow of the plants. There was a fire to Ironwood that sang beautifully to Daybreak's inner eye. Yes, she would classify Ironwood as an “extraordinary” individual. How could such power live in the heart of a Mundane, and an augmented one besides? Daybreak would've expected anypony with an aura like this to—

Daybreak's musings were interrupted by a deafening sound, like a balloon the size of a small room being popped. The shock jarred her from her trancelike state, and she reeled from the sensation of being forced back into the mortal world. The first thing Daybreak noticed was the fact that Ironwood looked angry and was trying to tell her something. Had there been an accident?

Ironwood leaned forward to snap a command directly into Daybreak’s face. “You need to move, pony girl!”

More distinctly this time, Daybreak heard a rapid, high-pitched popping sound from outside the building. Then came a sharp bang as something struck the metal door. Fireworks, Daybreak thought sleepily. It sounded like the strings of firecrackers she used to light with her father on Hearthwarming Night.

“I’ll follow you,” Daybreak said drowsily, trotting up to Ironwood now that she was nearly able to see straight. They took off at a run, with Ironwood occasionally looking over her shoulder to yell things. Daybreak couldn’t understand a word, mostly because of the distracting racket coming from outside.

At some point they reached a side room, which looked like it had been set up as an office. Ironwood roughly ushered Daybreak in, reared, and wound up to slam the door.

“Wait!” a nearby voice cried over the noise. “Let me in there too!”

Ironwood’s expression was enough to put modern cutting lasers to shame. “You,” she snarled back as she saw who was making the request.

Daybreak’s eyes widened as she made eye contact with Ironwood’s visitor for the second time. The dark blue-green pony had a pair of coldly glimmering cybereyes, a pure black mane that sported an iridescent beetle-shell stripe, and a pair of wings that glistened with chromed implants. This time, though, the visitor’s expression was a sheepish grin instead of a mocking smirk. “Please?”

Ironwood opened her mouth to answer, then shut her mouth and snapped her head towards the entrance side of the warehouse at the sound of a horrible crash and a burst of gunfire that sounded distinctly less muffled than before.

“Crap, they’re inside!” The visitor licked her lips, then grit her teeth as she turned her back to Daybreak and Ironwood. “Stay here, I’ll take care of this!”





	The Old World did not disappear; it slept. Those born in the so-called Fifth Age lived in a time without pegasus wings or unicorn horns, true, but not one without magic. A form of magic older than ponykind itself still hummed under the surface of the world. It seeped like a gas through cracks in the pavement blanketing the earth; it shone like a bright light through gaps in the ponies' daily facades.

	Ponies today fail to recognize this truth about magic. The fact is, there is precious little difference between an Awakened pony's magic and that of a so-called Mundane. Of this, Ironwood is a living example.

	Of all my little ones, I always suspected that she would stay closest to her origins when the time came for her to awaken. I am not saddened by the choices she has made concerning her wholeness of body. Her life has not been easy, but she bears her burdens with dignity and even a kind of pride, just as she always has.

> 3: Spectra
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Subject: “Spectra”


Actual name unknown. Pegasus female. Extraordinary resistance to CADS.


“No you don’t!” Ironwood snapped at her unwanted guest and would-be protector. “You are gonna stay in here while I call Warhorse!”

Spectra’s cyberweapons swiveled noiselessly in their sockets as she turned to face Ironwood again. AR highlights tracking vital zones on her new “target” turned from red to green as her implants took aim. Temple. Trachea. Carotid. Heart. Knee. Of course she would never actually blaze Ironwood, not even with the spitballs she was carrying, but it wouldn’t do to deactivate the combat progs at a time like this.

“Buck that!” Spectra spat back. “This is my mess, and those Warhorse donkeys will just...” she silenced herself, ears perking up at the sound of distant shouting. Ironwood and her unicorn guest couldn’t hear it, but Spectra’s audio monitor picked up every word and transcribed it in an AR window. The news wasn’t good. These punks weren’t going to buck off without doing a proper job of sweeping the building. She was going to need to swoop this storm, by herself, right now. “Listen, you can’t call in corp-sec. They’d clip me just as fast!”

“An’ I’m supposed to think that’s a bad thing?”

“One minute!” Spectra pleaded, turning her back and locking her wings horizontally again. “Sixty seconds flat and I’ll have this whole storm cleared, or my name isn’t Spectra!”

“Too bad that’s not yer name anyway!” Ironwood yelled angrily, as Spectra launched herself airborne and out of sight.




“Um, do you know her?” Daybreak asked, though she had a feeling she knew the answer.

Ironwood just replied with a sullen grunt.

Daybreak bit her lower lip. “... Are you going to call Warhorse?”

Ironwood didn’t speak; she couldn’t over a sudden burst of gunfire from very, very close by. It was followed by a crash, the sound of something very large and heavy falling over. Daybreak saw Ironwood wince. “Better not have been the plumeria,” she grumbled. “No, I’m not gonna call in. C’mon! We gotta get you outta here.”

Even before she opened her mouth, Daybreak knew her next words would sound stupid. Still, she couldn’t help but bring it up: “What about all your plants and equip—”

“Insured!” Ironwood’s expression was, yes, just as incredulous as Daybreak knew she deserved. “Sweet Sisters, are you serious? Move!”

Ironwood took off at a gallop, and Daybreak scrambled to keep up. The path Ironwood led them on skirted the edge of the warehouse and always kept to dense racks of planters. Twice, Daybreak tripped over exposed extension cords laid out across the ground. Each time, Ironwood doubled back for her, dragging her to her hooves by her mane and then taking off again.

Then Ironwood skidded to a halt, and Daybreak bounced clumsily off of her flanks. As she got to her feet, without help this time, she saw why they’d come to such a sudden stop. The loading dock was just ahead, but between them and escape were two unfamiliar faces, both of their eyes concealed by dark AR shades.

One, a lanky zebra, took a three-pointed stance as he extended one front leg and pointed it at Daybreak. The barrel of the gun strapped to his hoof glinted as his aim wavered. “I definitely do want to do this,” he said in a nasal stutter. “Just... just stay with us, loudly.” The zebra’s compatriot, an ebony pegasus with a clashing green and blue mane, said nothing, but took up a similar stance with her own weapon.

Ironwood bared her teeth as she positioned herself between her guest and the invaders in her workplace. “You don’t wanna do this,” she snarled, staring down the guns in her face with a glare that could probably stop a low caliber bullet or three. “We both know it ain’t worth it. Jus’ put ‘em down.”

“You’re right, I do want this, so—”

“Sit down, stripy bitch!” A dark bolt of retribution screamed down from a nearby catwalk, pounding the monochrome thug against the concrete floor before he could even cry out in alarm. Then, just as abruptly, Daybreak and Ironwood’s savior vaulted back towards the ceiling. The neon-maned pegasus who had been threatening Ironwood pivoted and fired, successfully destroying a skylight.

The gunshot sent Daybreak into a cowering stance, but Ironwood took it as an opening. The hapless gangpony spent a few crucial moments trying to follow Spectra’s escape with her aim while Ironwood charged and body-slammed her. The black pegasus didn’t stop tumbling on the ground until she bumped into the far wall.

“Now let’s go!” Ironwood dragged Daybreak out of her defensive curl and towards the door.





Spectra glanced over her shoulder as she rose, hoping to provoke the pegasus door-guard into following her up. What she saw happen instead was just as good. Ironwood could handle herself from here—now it was time to get to the fun part.

Now came the game of seek-and-slag. Spectra's resolve was now tinged with something like excitement. Catwalks offering landing zones while creating a treacherous airspace, concealing walls of planters, confusing acoustics... Before Spectra reached the apex of her jump, she had already marked out a half-dozen heat signatures, mapped the corridors and catwalks on her HUD, and planned her next two leaps.

The first ones to take care of would be the group circling back around to check on the two suckers she’d just dropped. Spectra’s hooves pounded into the thick dust on top of a wall of planters, and she sent herself into a wheeling spiral over another corridor. She sailed as if in zero gravity over the heads of two ponies: some blue on blue derp and a red on black walking target. Neither of them looked up at the cyber-pegasus cartwheeling above their heads. Spectra's spread wings sparkled in the UV lights as they flashed with gunfire.

Not a single round struck the concrete floor beneath her targets. Bright splashes of green appeared on the two thugs' bodies where they were hit, the knockout poison in Spectra's gel rounds spreading and quickly evaporating as it did its insidious work.

Before the two punks even hit the ground, Spectra was on her hooves again on top of a different planter. Her implanted guns clicked rhythmically as their actions automatically flipped open, but Spectra refused to stop moving for the few seconds it would take to chamber another set of spitballs.

She dropped again, aiming for a precise path just inches clear of the top level catwalk. With a loud clang, she struck a railing with her rear hooves as she passed it, sending her shooting like a torpedo between two catwalks on an angled collision course with the ground. A chill of danger tingled across her skin as metal girders whistled dangerously close to her head. She opened her wings an instant before she hit concrete, softening her landing and then propelling herself into another leap.

Tarnished steel blurred past as she rocketed up through a gap in the walkways. Her wings beat once as she neared the top level again, her hooves met metal with another clang, and suddenly she was sailing over a gap again, right on top of two more unsuspecting targets.

They were standing back to back, glancing around in confusion as the sounds of Spectra’s approach echoed chaotically throughout the warehouse. One of them, an earther, spotted Spectra just in time to let out a gasp before taking a dive-kick to the chin.

The other tried to raise a weapon at the cyber-pegasus who had landed in his midst, but only managed to flail as his mane was grabbed and yanked hard to the side. With a gritted-teeth shout, Spectra twisted for leverage and rolled the punk over her own body, slamming him hard onto the concrete floor. The impact knocked the wind out of the ganger’s lungs, so he couldn’t cry out when Spectra added injury to injury by pulling back a forehoof and dealing him a vicious shot to the temple.

When Spectra spread her wings to take off again, they were almost perforated by automatic fire from the corridor behind her. Shit! Shaken by adrenaline, Spectra almost crashed into a top-level planter with her panicked launch. On her way up, she thought she felt the wind from a projectile whistling past her neck.

Her hooves skidded dangerously on the thick dust as she touched down on another planter, but she managed to pivot so as not to turn her back to her enemies. Sure, enough, both of them had followed her into the air. Not two but four saddle-mounted heavy rifles automatically focused their aim on Spectra’s chest. What the hell? The rest of the punks had been making do with scrap-metal hoofguns!

Spectra backpedaled and threw herself backwards off of the wall, wings outstretched. She tried to slow herself in the air, but she knew it wasn't going to be good enough. When she hit the concrete this time, it was all she could do to land on all fours instead of on her side. Her grunt of pain was punctuated by heavy-caliber gunshots. Instead of bullets pockmarking the ground, this time it was bright green “spitballs” exploding around Spectra’s hooves. “No,” Spectra groaned miserably, feeling the sting of capsules breaking against her back. “Jus’ slag me instead...”
> Intermission: On Cybernetic Aura Distortion Syndrome
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introduction, The Unsolved Mystery of Cybernetic Aura Distortion Syndrome
Shine University Herald, issue 132
Daybreak, D.M.S.
February 1040

Even before the term Aura Distortion Syndrome was coined, nearly all unicorns and pegasi had an aversion to cybernetic enhancement. At first, many Mundanes considered the fear of augmentation to be either squeamishness or superstition, but the fears of magically active individuals would turn out to be well founded. As cybernetic enhancements and medical devices became more commonplace, hospitals began to notice consistent decreases in patients’ magical abilities.
In the fall of 1029, Dr. Lamplight began a survey that would finally provide scientific evidence for the link between cybernetics and reduced magical power. His data, which spanned six years, eleven hospitals, and three thousand patients, showed that unicorn amputees who chose neural-linked limb replacements had, on average, significantly weaker telekinesis than individuals with ordinary prostheses for equivalent injuries. Today, we call this phenomenon Cybernetic Aura Distortion Syndrome, or CADS, after the "damaged" appearance of an augmented pony’s aura.
The following year, Dr. Lamplight conducted a case study on a pegasus named Gale, who had lost use of her wings and hind legs after a midair collision with a VTOL cargo vehicle. None of the hospital’s unicorn staff reported any unusual changes to Gale’s aura while she was in intensive care, nor during the hospital’s minimally effective attempts at restorative therapy.
Disappointed by the failure of magical restoration, Gale agreed to undergo nerve replacement surgery. At the time, nerve replacement was a relatively new procedure that used materials and instruments that have fallen out of favor today. Of particular relevance is the use of microchips and conductive “nanowires” to reattach the functional parts of Gale’s brain and spinal column to her paralyzed areas.
        The procedure was successful, and after mere weeks of physical therapy, Gale had nearly fully functional legs and hindquarters. However, even though her wings quickly regained their full range of motion, they were never able to lift her off the ground or direct her movement in safe-fall tests.

So, what does any of this have to do with myths, legends, and ancient history?

Recently, a close friend of mine underwent cybernetic surgery as a preventive measure against heart failure. She trembled as she signed the waiver, fearing the consequences for her magical abilities, and sure enough, the artificial ventricle that the doctors installed in her chest was enough to almost completely remove her telekinetic abilities.
Experiments have so far failed to find any single criterion to determine exactly what type of body modification is destructive to magical auras. As far as anypony can tell, magic somehow “decided” that it didn’t like cybernetics. Like so many things in our Awakened world, this mystery refuses to be boxed in by observation on the material level.
I believe that answers regarding the finicky nature of auras can be found somewhere amid the sweeping implications that were thrust upon the scientific community by the Awakening. On Hearth’s Warming Eve, 1011, fantasy became reality. Myth is now studied as a subset of history, and what was once superstition is accepted as truth. In the years following the Awakening, scholars searched for meaning in every single story of the Old World, from great epics to quaint nursery rhymes. Our current theories regarding the Cataclysm, the Cycle of Ages, the War of the Sisters, and the Six Heralds come at least partially from this period of mass guesswork.
In a very real sense, my Doctorate of Magical Studies designates me as an expert on fairy tales and bedtime stories, and it was to fairy tales that I turned in my search for answers. With my research, I discovered several possible explanations for the mysteriously antagonistic relationship between cybertechnology and magic.

===To read the full text, access Dr. Daybreak’s journal.===

> Intermission: Video Analysis
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Intermission: Video Analysis


	I always wondered what would become of this one when her time came. In some ways, she was the one best suited to the new world... yet this world also presented great danger for one with her fiery spirit. We had faith that her heart would guide her, but even so, we worried for this little one as her story of awakening unfolded, just as mothers worry for their growing foals.

	Spectra, as she calls herself, believes herself a heroine, and she revels in the life of self-sacrificing glory that she has chosen. She does not realize that, while her beliefs and her pride are inspired by the heroic tales of her youth, her spirit and her destiny belong to another age.

	A thousand years of rule by violence gave rise to the notion of the victorious heroine, she who prevails against all foes thanks to unbreakable courage, dedication, and righteousness. But this heroic ideal did not exist in our time. Which would be worse, I wonder: for Spectra to fail in her noble goals... or for her to inadvertently discover the older, simpler meaning of “heroine” as a synonym for “martyr?”




[Transcribed: Video Analysis Session, 8/2/1043, 65th & West Cherry St.]
[Captain “R”> Specialist [redacted]?
[Specialist “Z”> Sir.
[Cpt. R> All right, let’s get started. I’ll call up the window. Is it showing up for you?
[Spec. Z> I got it. So that’s our subject, in the bottom left?
[Cpt. R> That’s her. Questions before we start?
[Spec. Z> Yeah. Any theories on her motives?
[Cpt. R> Several. The leading one is that she’s running with a gang called the Red Street Thunderbolts. Most of the reported incidents are related to street fights and gang wars—that’s twelve of her nineteen reported casualties, and all three of the deaths.
[Spec. Z> Damn. I’m impressed.
[Cpt. R> You’ll see for yourself in a minute. The other theory is that she’s a professional. Along with a few incidents that had nothing to do with the Thunderbolts, there’s also the fact that she’s been identified in two corporate sabotage attacks, and is a suspect in two more.
[Spec. Z> Considering the fact that she’s loaded with enough chrome to buy a small house...
[Cpt. R> We suspect she’s sponsored by some individual or entity. None of the gangs in her area have anything like her ‘ware.
[Spec. Z> With all due respect, that seems pretty obvious. Anyway, that’s all of my questions.
[Cpt. R> Here we go, then. The unicorn on the other side of the table is here to buy stolen goods from the Thunderbolts. That’s a bodyguard, behind him. We tracked the bodyguard here thinking we could snag his boss and a few of the Thunderbolts at the same time. You can see one of our agents approaching from the narrow hallway in the upper left. Nopony knows he’s there yet.
[Spec. Z> No backup?
[Cpt. R> Yes and no. The rest of his team was spread out throughout the building, waiting on his mark to breach other rooms simultaneously. The idea was to hit as many rooms as possible at the same time.
[Spec. Z> Is that a Poseidon MMP on his saddle?
[Cpt. R> Yes, loaded with TV-44 capsules. Anyway, standard assault: He positions the gun, breaches with his rear hooves, and lets the auto-targeting fire while his back is
still turned.
[Spec. Z> ...And he misses. That’s impossible.
[Cpt. R> What do you mean?
[Spec. Z> The agent himself might not have realized it, but his breach was beyond perfect. Our subject’s right forehoof was on the table, she was presenting a side-on target, and she had no idea the agent was coming. Any targeting program would’ve bullseyed her easily.
[Cpt. R> A hacker, then. Wait. We swept the building thoroughly, and—
[Spec. Z> And you didn’t find anypony who would’ve been in range to hack him directly, did you? Exactly.
[Cpt. R> Do you think it’s possible that...
[Spec. Z> She wouldn’t have made herself such a vulnerable target if she knew your guy was incoming.
[Cpt. R> Someone daisy-chaining through the unicorn’s rig, then?
[Spec. Z> Are you saying your division’s gear can be hacked by a daisy-chain through one of the shitboxes that these gangers were carrying?
[Cpt. R> Hm. All right, may as well move on. What happens next is...
[Spec. Z> Whoa!
[Cpt. R> That’s what we said too. I’ll replay it at one-third speed.
[Spec. Z> Pneumatic leg braces. Probably cybereyes and a bionic targeting program instead of automated. And... wait, what was that?
[Cpt. R> Yes, you're seeing it right. Guns in her wings.
[Spec. Z> That’s not what’s confusing me. Play that part again and tell me what you see.
[Cpt. R> Okay... our guy breaches and fires. Soon as our pegasus hears the crash, she crosses the room with one jump, roundhouse kicks the unicorn, then jumps again, tackles the bodyguard. She pins him, lands four low-caliber TVs on our guy’s rear end, and puts one more in the bodyguard’s face. Takes her less than three seconds to make our division look like a bunch of derps.
[Spec. Z> Okay, let me show you what I see. The subject dives straight towards the one guy, right? Watch closely—she doesn’t land the whole time. She spins three hundred sixty degrees in the air as she hits him with her rear hooves, then banks slightly to the left to barrel into the bodyguard.
[Cpt. R> She’s a pegasus.
[Spec. Z> A pegasus who’s packing twice as much cyberware as your average military contractor.
[Cpt. R> I’m not familiar with—
[Spec. Z> Well then, take it from me. I have a friend who can barely hover, because he decided to get a manipulator claw for his work. This pegasus here? She should have been functionally mundane two surgeries ago.
[Cpt. R> Noted. Not much else to see in the video. She loots all three downed guys for guns and pocket change, then leaves with the money and the goods. We don’t know where she went after this, because she didn’t use an escape vehicle.
[Spec. Z> Don’t tell me...
[Cpt. R> Witnesses say she flew.
[Spec. Z> Right. Who’s the kid?
[Cpt. R> What kid?
[Spec. Z> Left side, in the doorframe. Looks like the subject’s talking to him on the way out.
[Cpt. R> I’ll be damned.
[Spec. Z> Any idea who that is?
[Cpt. R> There are quite a few juveniles in the Thunderbolts. Maybe if we go forward a few frames—
[Spec. Z> You’re kidding. Dear Mother, you’re kidding.
[Cpt. R> Maybe it’s just a problem with the—
[Spec. Z> Don’t give me that! That “juvenile” is a foal! A fucking blank flank!
[LOG ENDS]

> 4: Victoria
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Subject: Victoria


Unicorn female. Singer. Repeatedly corroborated reports of NCMM.


The term meatspace had always struck Victoria as rather crass. This particular space, studded with low-glowing lights and  the cool sheen of Victoria’s own magic, had no cause to be associated with a word like “meat.” More offensive still was the fact that “meat” was supposed to refer to her natural body, as if that were an insult. Victoria was everything that those who used the term did not know how to appreciate: A living, breathing mare free from even the slightest hint of aura distortion. Hers was a beauty both carnal and mystical, the likes of which no lifeless contrivance of alloy and plastic could hope to imitate.

A rapid stream of notifications flicked across her designer AR glasses. Messages from her fans, newsfeeds echoing her announcements, and the room’s systems reporting as they came online. A number hovering slightly below eye level counted frantically, its last three digits an illegible blur. Two thousand... six thousand... fifteen...

In all fairness, Victoria didn’t want to be unduly judgemental towards the hard-sim users and other technophiles among those waiting for the show to start. After all, wasn’t it the Net that enabled her to perform from the comfort of her own home... wasn’t it virtual reality that gave birth to the shared culture that she lived and breathed?

Regardless, the incomparable Victoria was the main attraction tonight; virtual reality was merely the medium for her art. Here, in this tiny cylindrical room no more than thirty feet in diameter, a show was about to begin for an audience of... Victoria glanced at the counter one more time before telekinetically lifting her shades away from her face. An audience of ninety-one thousand.

Right on schedule, the room’s lights faded out, plunging the room into darkness. Are you ready? Victoria silently whispered to the room. The room heard. Microphones awakened and cameras swiveled to acknowledge their mistress.

There was no indicator light; no musical lead-in or audio cue—Victoria was in control. She breathed emptiness and total darkness for a few moments, allowing herself to feel the pulsing energy in the walls and the gaze of ninety-one thousand ponies watching her through one hundred forty-four cameras.

A tingle of energy sparked through her body as she exhaled a sharp, silent command: Now!

Twelve speakers, six subwoofers, and four hundred thirty two lights roared to life just in time to illuminate Victoria in fiery crimson as she reared, throwing her head back with eyes closed and mouth open as in a silent gasp. Those zoomed in close enough would see Victoria smile as she opened her eyes—eyes redder than the blaze of light around her.

The bass pounded, heavy and dirty with an electric buzz and a driving, passionate melody. Victoria matched its passion with effortless ferocity. The floor’s lights threw splashes of yellow over her thrashing, twisting body. She was a candle-flame, flickering and surging to the blare of the music, mane flying in wild strands as she shook and stomped to the rhythm.

	… Two, three, and... Victoria froze with her legs braced in a wide stance, and the music collapsed to only a steady thump. The walls turned blue, the floor turned dark red, and Victoria’s fire instantly turned icy. In a low, rich voice, she sang:

Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons
Turn and look me in the eye

The walls pulsed red four times as Victoria thrashed her flanks and tail to four pounding electronic beats. This time, her head bobbed lightly when the walls colored her in blue and the music made way for her voice again.

Just come with me and I’ll show you the sun
You and me, we’ll touch the sky!

Don’t be afraid
And don’t hold back
Everyone’s invited now

Victoria turned a slow circle, making eye contact with the ponies watching through the hidden cameras in the walls. Her voice was dark, sultry. She narrowed her eyes just so, and allowed herself a tiny smile.

If music’s in your heart then so am I
Step on up, I’ll show you how...

Victoria’s subtle smile split into a dangerously perfect glow of joy as the music soared and the room’s lights flew into chaos. Then, just as the music grew to a climax, it cut to silence.

In the tense eighth note of pitch darkness, Victoria tried to feel the room’s energy surge through her legs and into her chest, building in intensity, ready to be released in a burst...

Out of the darkness came a single pale light, cast not by the room but by Victoria herself.The gentle glow of her horn was just enough to allow a glimpse of her pristine white mane and coat and her seductive blood-red eyes.

“Let’s dance.”

At those whispered words, the room exploded with music. The lights surged blindingly, rhythmically flashing between darkness and vibrant color. Victoria’s face was inches from the wall—and then she backed on three legs away towards the center of the room, extending a forehoof to her ninety-one thousand dancing partners. She turned her head to the side as she sang a jubilant chorus, but she kept one eye facing straight forward, into the eyes of the one she was leading.

Just close your eyes and you’ll see
How sweet the music can be
Just pick your hooves up, come along and dance with me

Victoria reared and spun on her rear hooves, spreading her forelegs wide and twirling under the adoring eyes of the cameras, never stopping her song. Without any pause, she planted her hooves on the ground again and pranced a circuit around the edge of the room. Every strobe flash captured another moment of perfection as she ran.

Our bodies moving this way
All through the night and the day
Don’t be afraid now, darlin’, come and dance with me!

From there, there were no more words—just the thundering of the bass, the soaring electric melody, and the sensuous breath of a mare whose coat and mane shone with the colors projected onto her by the walls and floor, her twirling and gyrating body locked in a dance of passion with her many unseen partners.





Racks of fluorescent lights fizzed to life automatically as Victoria stepped out of the performance room and into the hallway with her shades already on. She was breathing deeply from exertion and her mane was a disaster, but that was to be expected after a show—no need to attend to her appearance just yet.

The walls were papered with AR notes—already her Hoofbeat account was buzzing with hundreds of messages praising the show. With a sharp tilt of her head, she dismissed the stream of comments. A network of another kind required her attention, first.

The narrow hallway gave way to a room that was bare except for the curved panoramic window covering most of the far wall. Victoria walked up to the window with determined strides, closing the door behind her with a soft pulse of magic. If you please, she thought to the room, and the lights dimmed.

Far below, the entire Upper City was laid out before her. The city on stilts, straight out of a postcard: Trimmed trees, glistening office buildings, luxurious two-story houses with quaint little manicured lawns. An idyllic rectangular town, Victoria thought, hiding a vast city beneath. The glass darkened as Victoria’s shades painted the view of New Canterlot with AR.

Victoria raised her forehooves high, then fell backwards into a chair as it unfolded from the carpeted floor. With the show successfully concluded, it was time to move on to the day’s second order of business. The chair slowly rose towards the ceiling, then stopped once it was elevated enough to give its owner a bird’s eye view of the entire plate.

Floating tags marking locations of interest expanded to show details as Victoria swept her hoof slowly from left to right. The Solar Industries leak was still in place, yesterday’s Cartwright Universal operation had been a success... Victoria nodded in approval as she finished the first scan. Mostly good news from the upper assets, with only one reporting that he’d been identified on the job and needed assistance. With a quick shake of her head, Victoria swept away the Upper City memos. The failure was regrettable, but she’d never liked that fellow anyway. What was his name again? Well, never mind—as of right now, his name was “unviable.”

“Reminder,” she said, holding up a hoof. A box with the header reminder appeared where she was pointing. “Seek replacement for compromised SpireTech agent.” She nodded, and lowered her hoof again, leaving the note hanging where she’d left it.

Now came the interesting part. Victoria raised both forelegs, then split them as if swimming forward into the cityscape. Seeing this, the window blacked out entirely, letting the shades give Victoria an X-ray view of the real New Canterlot. From platescraper suites to soot-stained slums, the map of Victoria’s assets in the shadows made the one for the upper city look like a postage stamp.

Victoria tilted her head as she moved her hoof over a rapidly moving blip that was blinking bright red. A window opened, showing the view through the cybereyes of somepony tearing through the city—somepony who had pneumatic pistons for legs, judging by how high they could jump. Victoria clicked her tongue when she saw a two-inch crater suddenly appear in a concrete wall. Ah. Well, this asset was somepony who wouldn’t be so easily replaced.

Victoria gave her orders in a stern monotone: “Ground assets. Proximity to target. Search.” Two blips only a few streets away flickered green. Perfect. Victoria raised a hoof and jabbed at the words Voice Message, and then Urgent Priority.

“This is Redeye,” Victoria said evenly. Tiny words appeared near the bottom of the panorama: Voice Distortion active. “An urgent matter requires your immediate attention. Once you confirm that you have received this message, the exact location of an individual whom I have been tracking will be made available to you. You are to subdue her and bring her to location R. Four thousand bits will be transferred to your account once I receive confirmation that she has been detained, preferably unharmed. Please reply immediately.”

Victoria stared at the pony’s-eye-view window intently while she waited for the assets to respond. Always the little daredevil, this one, but at least she was fortunate enough to be fleeing towards a location controlled by her unseen benefactor.
> 5: Redeye
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Address: NCnet // >encrypted< // >encrypted< // Individuals // Redeye.atx
Page Title: ShadowNet: Redeye (overview)
Excerpt: Redeye has accrued power and reputation at an utterly unprecedented rate, such that her name may eventually command the same respect as the likes of Fastrack and V-jack. Along with her role as a connection between professionals and anonymous employers, Redeye is known as a powerful information broker. Like any good information broker, she is secretive to a paranoid extreme, and she almost certainly commands far more resources than she lets anyone know about.




“Come on, come on, come on!” Ironwood growled, more to herself than to Daybreak.

Ironwood was used to dealing with Spectra’s crap. She didn’t blame Spectra for the difficulty of keeping First Seed going despite gang wars happening across the street. She hadn’t complained the last time she’d had to lie to a Warhorse squad leader’s face in order to give Spectra an alibi. She could even handle Spectra leading the war in through First Seed’s doors.

But for Spectra to bring this horseshit down on a bystander, and a witness, and—most
importantly—a guest?

Ironwood gritted her teeth even harder as she glanced over her shoulder at the panting pink professor following behind her. The poor girl probably rarely even saw guns, to say nothing of having them pointed at her, for Mother’s sake. Spectra had a lot to answer for.

The racket had stopped, but that didn’t mean the trouble was over. Better to keep running, get Daybreak as far away from the scene as possible. A dozen different plans spun through Ironwood’s head even as she galloped down the dilapidated streets, but she already knew what her best option was. It was just that she just hated the idea.

The safehouse. Spectra’s safehouse. Ironwood bristled at the idea of owing Spectra a favor. Maybe the ol’ instincts were wrong, and there wouldn’t be any need...

A burst of gunfire echoed off of the concrete buildings lining the street. Ironwood snapped her head to the side in alarm as she heard Daybreak yelp and fall. “Hey! You all right?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” Daybreak squeaked, picking herself back up. “I just... the sound startled me, so I tripped and—”

“Okay, good! Now let’s go!”

Ironwood felt a headache coming on. Oh, how she wished that this bullshit could be happening on a different day.

As soon as the two reached an intersection, Ironwood took a sharp right turn and started leading Daybreak deeper into the shadow of the plate. The safehouse wasn’t far, and there were probably worse things than owing favors to a reckless “professional” who had two gangs and at least one corporation out for her head. Probably.




Red words blinked in the center of Victoria’s map: Incoming voice call—active asset.

Victoria answered with a quick flick of her hoof. “This is Redeye,” she monotoned.

A deep-throated stallion’s voice replied: [The target’s under our control, but, uh, I’m seeing two unarmed heading towards our drop-off. One’s the owner of the place we pulled the target out of. What do I do?]

What to do, indeed? Victoria clicked her tongue. Calling another team on Spectra’s friend—Ironwood, that was her name—would only risk creating more witnesses. She could make an emergency call, but Warhorse’s response wouldn’t be able to intercept the two before they reached the safehouse. The main difficulty with finding solutions here was the small matter of the stranger, Ironwood’s guest, a wildcard in this most delicate game in which the stakes were far higher than anypony else could know...

[Redeye? We’ve only got a few minutes!]

And keeping the assets waiting on a response would be as good as calling Warhorse on them.

“Maintain low profile, then detain at point R. Absolutely no violent solutions unless reciprocating use of force. Await further instructions.”

With that, Victoria spread her hooves wide, then swiped them together and gave her head a violent shake. The city map vanished, the display on Victoria’s shades reverted to personal mode, and the chair quickly lowered its mistress back to the floor.

“Wardrobe, please,” Victoria said to the apartment, striding purposefully towards the study’s already open door. “A special outing. My finest.” She imagined that she could hear the clicking of hidden mechanisms in the walls as they assembled the outfit in accordance with her coded words. Then, as an afterthought: “Cancel tranquilizer venom. Substitute three explosive, six anti-personnel, six high-velocity. Remaining magazine, tranquilizer venom.”

Victoria sighed as the doors hissed shut behind her. Getting her coat dirty in an outing to the shadows was bad enough, but the threat of having to personally get her hooves dirty was more danger than she would normally abide. Unfortunately, these weren’t normal circumstances, no...

Well, on the upside, this was turning out to be quite the interesting day.





Ironwood slammed and bolted the door, then let out a long breath, simultaneously a sigh of relief and a huff of annoyance.

“Are... are we safe now?” squeaked a timid voice. Ironwood sighed again, quietly this time. Daybreak couldn’t have been younger than thirty-five, but she sounded like a little filly. Then again, it would be hard to blame her for that after the kind of day this had been.

“Yeah, we’re safe,” Ironwood lied. “Jus’ pull up a seat, we can wait this out for a while. I’m gonna need to make a couple calls with this place’s terminal.”

The safehouse was simple enough--one of the undercity’s many abandoned flats, which Spectra and Ironwood had forcefully purged of vagrants and other vermin some months ago. The place didn’t see much use, so some of the salvaged chairs that they’d dragged in to make it more comfortable were starting to deteriorate. The futon was looking less than trustworthy too. Still, it was comfortable, it was discreet, and the ruined walls were perfect for stashing things in. If she needed them, Ironwood knew where she could find a loaded hoofgun, a cheap AR headset, two gallons of clean water, and a portable generator full of gas.

All of which were reasons why she hated the safehouse. This wasn’t a residence, it was a hideout. It was the kind of place that only criminals who needed to avoid the consequences of their actions would ever use.

“Hey, uh... Daybreak.” It took Ironwood a moment to remember her “house”-guest’s name; she was busy trying to peek out of the front wall’s windows while hiding from view by standing flat against the wall. “There’s a terminal in the next room over. Go fire it up an’ I’ll be there in a minute.”

Ironwood heard a door open behind her, followed by a timid “Uh, Ironwood?”

What Ironwood saw when she turned around froze her blood. She’d stared down a couple of pistols today, but that was nothing like the hardware currently being aimed at Daybreak’s chest. A pair of pegasi, one yellow and one white, towered over Daybreak, aiming two long-barrled saddleguns each at the poor little unicorn. The gunponies’ darkened AR visors concealed their eyes, but not their dangerous frowns.

Behind them was the crumpled form of a blue-green pony. It was hard to tell in the low light, but Ironwood thought she saw wings and the glint of implants.

“Steady. No need for trouble.” Ironwood felt her heart shudder as she slowly advanced towards Daybreak. “We’re gonna leave, all right?”

“No, you’re not. Take your headsets off and put them in the middle of the floor.” The yellow merc’s voice was flat; impassive. His partner didn’t speak.

“Fine. We do what you say, you don’t shoot. Right?” Ironwood spoke slowly and deliberately as she took position by Daybreak’s side. Ironwood was sure that both pegasi noticed her trying to look past them and into the room where Spectra was, but neither of them commented on it. “I left my headset back at the farm. No trouble from me.”

“You try anything, we shoot.”

Daybreak whimpered again as she fumbled with the strap on her goggles, finally getting them free after a few frantic seconds.

“All right. We’re not gonna try anything.” Ironwood nudged Daybreak gently, and felt that the poor girl was shivering. “Let’s all just have a seat, a’right?” She held out a foreleg to urge Daybreak to come with her as she backed towards the center of the room. Neither stallion moved. Both kept their weapons aimed at Daybreak and Ironwood.

Ironwood led Daybreak over to the chair that was least likely to collapse. “It’s gonna be fine, all right? We’re gonna be fine.” She brushed Daybreak with the side of her head, urging her towards the chair. “Go on.”

Daybreak sat gingerly on the moldy armchair, as if she was afraid that its deep cushions might contain something sharp that would cut her if she fell into it too quickly. Ironwood didn’t sit; she stood next to the chair, trying to keep one eye on every part of the room at once. It was all she could do to stop herself from reaching over and placing a comforting hoof on Daybreak’s shoulder.

“So,” Ironwood said, as casually as she could manage, “You’re from the university?”

Daybreak nodded once, but she didn’t look away from the two stallions who still had their weapons trained on her.

“You teach classes there?” Ironwood leaned forward, trying to get Daybreak to look at her instead of the mercs and their guns.

“Sometimes.” Daybreak looked like she was trying very hard to sit still and still failing completely. Her chest shook with unsteady breaths, and she grimaced slightly every time she took a hard, forced swallow.

“What kinda classes? Magic theory?”

“No.” This time, Daybreak briefly met Ironwood’s eye before she answered. “Magical history and magic studies.”

Ironwood chuckled. “Like I said. Magic theory?”

Daybreak turned toward Ironwood and opened her mouth to explain, but she cut herself off and looked back toward the gunponies again as one of them spoke up.

“Yeah, I just got the confirmation. No, there wasn’t any trouble.” The white pegasus had turned his visored stare towards the front door.

Ironwood dared to take a sigh of relief as all four mounted rifles in the room retracted and folded flat against their owners’ saddled backs. Without another look at Ironwood or Daybreak, the two visored pegasi haded for the door.

Ironwood didn’t wait for permission to move. She nearly bumped into one of the armed pegasi as she rushed past him and into the darkened room containing the place’s terminal. Spectra’s fur blended all too well into the shadows, and she still laid perfectly still, but anypony could smell a bloody wound from this distance. At least, that was what Ironwood chose to tell herself. She didn’t smell blood.

“Uh... Ironwood...”

Ironwood’s jaw stiffened with intense disapproval as she heard Daybreak’s whimper. Of course.

“Tell ‘em they can shoot me once I’m done checking on Spectra,” Ironwood snarled.

A voice replied in a gurgling metallic sputter. “Tell Ironwood that all three of you will be safe, but only if you follow my instructions without hesitation.”

Ironwood snapped her head to the side in alarm at the sound of her name. In the small room’s doorway stood a figure nearly a head taller than Daybreak, covered from head to tail in a black robe that was sewn into neat panels, like a formal suit. The hood was tented from , as if to accommodate a mane done into a rigid mohawk, and the wearer’s face was hidden behind a satin-like veil. It was as if the robe was being worn by a ghost.

Ironwood remained unimpressed. “If I had a bit for every time somepony told me to do something ‘for my own safety’ while pointing a piece of hardware at my chest...”

“I didn’t think there was any need for that,” the figure replied in the same distorted drone, “But--”

She punctuated her words with a sternum-shaking gunshot and a muzzle flash from between two of her robe’s molded panels. A hoof-sized crater appeared in the ground in a flash of yellow light, less than a hoof-span from Ironwood’s metal forelegs. Daybreak didn’t even have time to finish her yelp before the hooded pony started barking orders at her.

“You. Pick your headset back up and open it to local connections.” Then she looked at Ironwood. "Where’s yours? Implanted?”

Ironwood spared Daybreak only a momentary glance as the poor girl hurriedly ran back into the main room. “Ain’t a thing in my skull ‘cept bone ‘n brains. Left my headseton the farm when th’ two of us started running for our lives.” Ironwood hadn’t shied back an inch from the oversized bullet hole at her hooves--if anything, she was seriously considering charging the hooded figure down. Targeting programs weren’t perfect, and the stranger probably didn’t have his or hers on paranoid automatically-waste-any-incoming-threat mode.

“I’ll arrange to have it picked up and delivered to where we’re going.” The figure shifted to the side, away from the doorframe. “Have the other one help you drag the pegasus into the bed of my vehicle.”

And there it was, the last straw. “No,” Ironwood said in an animal growl.

The figure actually managed to look taken aback despite not having any visible facial features. “What did you say?”

“Leave the other one out of it,” Ironwood said, glaring straight through the stranger’s tented hood. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“She has everything to do with this. She needs to come with me.” The electronic voice reached a high pitch on the word needs. “I despise repeating myself. She will help you move Spectra. I don’t recall giving either of you a choice in the matter.”

“How do you know our names?” Ironwood demanded.

“Will it be faster for me to disable you and have your friend help me move you as well? I regret that I do not have tranquilizer venom in my magazine.” And the electronic voice managed to be menacing despite being barely comprehensible.

“Yes.”

There was only a half-beat of silence before Ironwood charged, her mechanical legs pounding cracks into the bare concrete floor. Before she could even take three bounding steps towards the hooded pony, two gunshots rang out, two yellow explosions bloomed on Ironwood’s false knees, and the would-be heroine crashed to the ground in a yelling, cursing, flesh and chrome trainwreck. She tumbled to a halt at the cloaked pony’s hooves.

“Never fear; I’ll pay for repairs. You! Help me move both of these two. Careful; she’s bound to weigh quite a lot thanks to her augments.”