In the fallen Equestria, the Phantom stands against the monsters that stalk the world. To oppose tyranny, one must declare that even if all others follow, the good will not.
(Inspired by Fall of Equestria)
After Equestria falls into cruel and sociopathically insane hands there is abuse, privation, murder and mayhem in the land. Monsters run the show, and ponies scream in suffering. To answer the call, there is the Phantom. Somepony recalls what once was and vents their mourning for the lost in rage and the blood of the guilty.
“{J}ust saying swear words and random pop-cultural references doesn't make it adult humor. If anything, it makes it more childish.”
-Nostalgia Critic, Casper review
The nervous ranks of the new order's soldiers and guards had been buzzing for some time with whispered reports of happenings in the land. They had to be whispered, as the actions were under active investigation and it would not do to too loudly trade what amounted to gossip. Guards and soldiers did not gossip, even if the concept of scuttlebutt had come of fighting forces. It was improper for the hyper-masculine new order guards to whisper fantastic tales. But they had to.
“Did you hear? He killed a thousand guards in one day, and never left even a hoofprint. And they were in damp ground!”
“I heard it was two thousand and that he did it while a general watched but he never noticed until one of their heads fell off.”
“I heard it was only one hundred, but he beheaded all of them with one move, and castrated them all at the exact same time.”
“Never mind a bunch of dead guys without balls, I heard he talked three separate assassination squads into defecting. And that it took one minute for each one.”
“It was three minutes, but they never actually found him. No one has ever found him. It was a note he left. Not like the note he leaves with the dead bodies, it was one that talked about defection.”
“I heard that when he raided a re-ed facility he removed more mares from there than the records indicated were within. He actually found stragglers in the paperwork!”
“According to this stallion from second sector he actually marched a hundred mares in front of a search party and got them to salute while he went by.”
The whispers hissed, like claws on a blackboard, across the ears of a fellow who truly felt disdain for weaknesses such as rumormongering. “Chattering mares!” The lesser General of Canterlot, Swagger Stick, was an imposing military stallion. His buff brown body was wrapped in the finest of steel plate armor, and he bore with him a large hand-and-a-half sword, as well as a spear strapped to his back, both without any difficulty. His icy blue eyes glared out at the guards he had found whispering. “You miserable fools! Talking about this traitor in hushed and giddy voices. I can't tell if that's fear... or admiration.”
“Fear, sir! Fear!” One of the guards cried out, unthinkingly, trying only to avoid the appearance of heretical thought.
General Swagger snarled deep in his throat. “Dismissed! Get out of here before I have your genders reassigned!” He was left alone with the desperate clatter of hoofbeats and rattle of armor. The idiots were hardly elite but they were what he had.
General Swagger had the unenviable task of hunting down a ghost. The rebels were easy fodder, most of the time, though occasionally their capture did more harm than good if facilities could be simultaneously raided or infiltrators brought into spaces where they could work harm. But the Phantom... that ghost was only just less impressive than his rumors made him out to be. No new order guard had even seen him, never mind laid a hand on him. They didn't even have a rumor of a name, just whatever moniker was convenient.
After the first dead guard and the first strange note there had been little interest. Rampant, kinky sex could dull the senses and reorganize priorities. But as time went on, folks noticed. Important ones. Then the Stag King noticed. Once he noticed, everyone noted, by necessity.
Re-education facilities raided, breeding facilities liberated, prisons opened. Surely it was not actually an army of one affecting the bottom line of the new order. But the Phantom had to be pulling all the strings, leading the rebels around like some grand puppetmaster. None of the captured rebels had ever said as much, even after weeks of 'creative' interrogation. Their orders had come through various channels, almost none of them the same, a testament to the creativity of the Phantom.
From the moment the matter had been shown to be serious, General Swagger had been gathering data on the Phantom, correlating every trace, every rumor that came form official sources. His extensive charts and serious focus had earned him admiration, which was good. It had also earned the attention of the Stag King, which had been a double-edged sword. Praise for his dedication was good. Being assigned to catch the ghost was anything but.
Pressure, scrutiny, constant oversight of officious drones reporting every twitch, wince or moment of rest directly to the Stag King. The bean counters ticked off every second of sleep, every moment spent having a meal, even sexual violations of prisoners, which were required, were timed for efficiency and speed. General Swagger had not entirely stopped eating and sleeping but he hardly would have noticed if he had.
Tenacity did not automatically equal success. It was a slow process, a careful one that required drawing together threads inch by inch, pulling the net tighter and tighter around the neck of one who had never even been seen, touched or indicated in any way other than hindsight.
Because of the pressure and the need to produce results, he had taken a large ready room and converted it into the epicenter of his universe. The walls were papered with maps which had been drawn on, wiped out and re-drawn on, as information changed to be more accurate or to wipe out what came out to be mere rumor. Images of what may have been the Phantom were arranged all around, not even giving up a hint of a race, let alone any feature. Cabinets bulged with reports, from facilities, guard stations, every city that was allowed to stand, all about the successes of the invisible enemy. All of it was muddled and muddied by his status as a grand manipulator, every activity potentially actions by rebels at the behest of the Phantom.
The noose was drawing tighter around the neck of the Phantom, General Swagger was sure. He had to be sure, because the noose was drawing tighter on his own neck. The Stag King, as was appropriate for a childishly greedy tyrant, was a creature without patience, who could not understand intellectual matters or the slow speed of complex situations. He wanted results, or else.
The pattern of the Phantom's attacks and successful activities seemed to be spiraling in slowly towards the capital city. A bold move but a necessary one. The Phantom would be filled with his hubris and ego, flushed with success and the seeming inability for anypony to stop him. He would need to strike at the capital as a strategic necessity as well. Small strikes elsewhere would never mean anything without stabbing at the heart of the new order.
General Swagger had calculated the probabilities for weeks, charting the strikes, measuring the distance traveled and time taken between each outrage against the new order. The last five days had passed in a flurry of magical injections of stimulants, gallons of coffee, a few nips of booze and the ever-present threat of the Stag King's unblinking toadies looming over him. He needed results. He had them at last.
“Tell his Supreme and Pitiless Invincible Majesty that I have the answer,” General Swagger rasped out, looking with burning red eyes on the small army of functionaries. They may have been a hundred, there may have been two. He could not tell and it did not matter. “He will be here, in the city, tonight. Give me as many detachments as possible. Blanket the place secretly, enforce the curfew more harshly, issue execution-on-sight orders for any suspicious ponies. Let us end this.”
The city was covered as required. Guard detachments filtered out into the buildings and discreetly onto the streets, attempting to look like simple, regular patrols. Curfew was pushed earlier and said to be even more inflexible than usual. General Swagger himself was given command of an elite unit, loyal ponies who had all served a turn as executioners of the innocent, who had proven they could be ruthless monsters. He needed all the monsters he could get to slay the Phantom.
The city was also covered in fog. Though the weather schedule had made mention of patchy fog, because there was more sex and debauchery the efficient functions of the prior regime had given way to stupid errors and snafus. The fog was like soup, swallowing up every patrol and turning them into the sole occupants of a white and clammy world.
General Swagger and his force were not immune. He plowed through the labyrinth of streets, half-blind and mostly mad, eager to end the game of cat-and-invisible-mouse. He knew what the Phantom wanted. To enter the palace and wreak havoc of some sort, either to slay important figures or capture valuable intelligence. He remained near the grand edifice, in theory. The streets twisted, the world twisted, his mind twisted. Reality was turning in on itself. But at least the Stag King would have no cause to destroy him.
Some figure struck him in the fog, some solid figure that moved to the side and said, “General, you almost caught me.”
“I have caught you!” General Swagger cried, whipping the great spear from his back and stabbing where the figure had moved. He heard a loud grunt and felt the impact of the tip on flesh. On the end of the spear was a shocked soldier, the pegasus coughing up blood while his wings flailed. “Of course... you're in a disguise! Dressed like a soldier! That's it!”
“You missed...” The voice mocked, from another location just far enough away that no thrust could reach it.
“Not this time,” General Swagger growled, yanking the spear from his murdered squad member and hurling it into the fog. A scream of agony answered the throw, and a unicorn came staggering into view, impaled on the great weapon.
“General... what..?” The soldier fell, his voice not that of the Phantom.
With a scrape of metal-on-metal the General pulled his sword, bleary and burning eyes watching the swirls of fog. “Come to me, Phantom! Come here in disguise. I know you wear the clothes of a soldier. Let me have at you...”
“General, we heard...” Another pegasus stopped in mid-sentence as the sword's blade whipped around, cleaving off his head with the same ease that it carved through the fog.
“Come to me! Face me! I tracked you! I fixed you here! I learned your little secrets! Now I will break you!” General Swagger became a whirlwind of steel, bellowing inarticulate shouts of hate and rage into the concealing fog. He hacked at walls, at poles, at anything. Including his own soldiers, who pulled in to see to him and to try and stop his mindless rampage.
All through the night blows rang off steel armor, and bellows echoed around the city. In the blanketing fog, with squads moving to subdue the insane Swagger Stick, none could be bothered to notice creeping shadows moving along alleyways and side-streets, bearing away papers, goods and unconscious figures.
- - -
Two guards walked through the halls of the army command building, which had so recently housed Swagger Stick's collection of papers on the Phantom. The paper had all been burned with the body of the former general. Both of the guards were of the honor guard detachment, in full plate with visored helmets. “I can't believe the General went crazy and started fighting the army. The Phantom must have made him defect,” the first one noted, quietly.
“I know. It was a complete shock. And the Stag King put so much trust in him. His Invincible Majesty was not wrong, of course. He was right to put that trust and just as right to take it away. General Swagger's execution this morning was another triumph for his Majesty. How right, beheaded and burned with all his failed plans and papers,” The second said.
“And now our assignment. It will be a real privilege to escort General Iron Fist to his new assignment. I hear that he's found a way to turn that failure into success,” the first said.
The two reached the double doors to a chamber and opened them up wide. The general was waiting within, his body propped up against the far wall, his head sitting in a pool of blood, dead eyes staring blankly at the doorway. Clutched tightly in his mouth was a piece of paper.
“G-guards!” the first one called out, looking desperately around for a trace of others.
The second rushed in and pulled out the paper, examining it carefully. “The Phantom...” He showed it to the other guard. Inscribed in blood were the words, Etiamsi Omnes, Ego Non. “This is what he puts on all his actions. 'Even if all others, I never will.'”
“Impossible... in the middle of headquarters... he even got the drop on the General...” The first noted rather helplessly.
“He'll just never be caught...” The second said quietly, letting the paper flutter to the ground.
“How can you even say something as heretical as that? The Stag King is almighty. He will find this monster,” The first insisted, pacing around.
“I know he won't get caught, because I know the fellow well,” the second said, in a dark voice. He drew a hidden blade from the belt of his attire and moved swifter than most could in heavy armor. The blade looked like it was made of silver, but glowed with the force of mana. Two insignia shone on the blade. The first, the dancing figures of Celestia and Luna, the sign of old Equestria; the second, a golden wheel of fortune with a mare dancing inside. The blade pulled smoothly across the throat of the first guard, right under the helmet and above his neck armor, his only noise being a wet splutter.
The knife was wiped clean with a single swipe through the dying guard's tail and hidden away again. Hoofbeats and clattering armor announced the arrival of further soldiers, who looked on the scene with fear. “What is the meaning of this?” The head guard asked.
“Quickly!” The Phantom cried, voice heavy with panic and fear, “He's heading west! He's killed the General and my fellow honor guard! I was surveying another hall! Go!”
The detachment scrambled, crying for reinforcements. While the guards of the halls marched west, chasing the ghost of a rumor, the real Phantom shed his bloodstained armor to free his limbs and ran off to the east.
“Con artists and spies are both professional liars. Cons do it for the money, and spies do it for the flag, but it's mostly the same gig. They run operations, they follow security procedures, they recruit support staff and issue orders.”
“Certainement qui est en droit de vous rendre absurde est en droit de vous rendre injuste.”
(“Truly, whoever is able to make you absurd is able to make you unjust.”)
-Voltaire
It was not a very large or important guard station; with the ramped-up militarism of the monstrous and cruel new order there were many of them. But it had become the focus of excited attention and eager talk between important generals and such. Guard detachments were standing at the ready, waiting for word from the station. Despite all the impossibility, they had done it. They had come within inches of capturing the Phantom.
Twelve guards in full plate marched down the corridor, surrounding a single figure. It was a male, wrists and ankles chained together, a bag over his head. He was dressed in the ragged remnants of the kind of patched-together clothing that rebels tended to wear. His lack of a lump in the bag and no wings marked him as an earth pony.
”Wait. What are you saying? Did we actually capture the Phantom?”
“No, no, the information was garbled in some dispatches. We've captured a rebel, but not just the regular one that we execute or gender change. This is one that had direct contact with the Phantom. He has important data, vital information for his capture or execution.”
“How can we be so sure about this? I'd imagine any number of rebels have come forward with assurances just to avoid the usual punishments. This seems foolish. The Stag King will have the heads of everyone who has wasted his resources...”
“A few hidden pieces of information, held securely by the upper echelons of the army, are used as confirmation of potential informants. He had all the right answers. There's no mistake. This is real. He knows things.”
“Then why are we going through with this theater, this foolish interrogation? We can twist his mind and body into a pliant mare, beat her bloody, broken and crippled and extract all the information.”
“Now... that's where the complication comes in. He's not stupid. The rebels are notoriously clever, thanks to the machinations of the Phantom. He's holding a cyanide gem in his cheek, probably picked it up form the rogue Dog packs that the Phantom is organizing. The medic confirmed it. It's not only a cyanide gem but if he cracks it even a little or we try to force it out, it'll shatter. The cyanide in the matrix will be magically rearranged into a usable form and not only will he die, but he'll probably blow a cloud of it and kill everyone in the area.”
“They really know their stuff. I'll give the Phantom that, but if his Majesty asks I never said that. We need to interrogate him carefully, at least until that medic can give us options.”
“He says he's working on something. At present we can't even get it out while he sleeps. Not that he ever seems to... in any case, the interrogation will happen with different guards each time, so none will fall under any potential influence and we will reduce the chance that one is a defector waiting for an opportunity to stop him from talking.”
“Good. Let's hope he's easy to break the old way. The Stag King is not a patient buck. You know the penalty for taking too long, even if it is entirely necessary.”
“Did her really behead a serving-mare because water takes time to boil?”
“We do not discuss his Majesty's proclivities. He is mysterious, deep and incomprehensible. Even if he seems basic and simple it is all an illusion crafted by a wise and crafty mind.”
The hood was yanked off of the shackled rebel, revealing a light brownish coat with a warm tone, and a black mane that stuck out all over. He was in a plain, bright room, sitting in a chair before a table. He was alone save for guard that had removed his hood, a plate-wearing orange unicorn stallion who sat down on the other side of the table, and looked through a file. “So, you know the Phantom?” he asked, with a neutral tone.
“Well, I guess you could say that. I know him better than most. That's why I'm here, not being re-shaped and re-educated. But you know this already. You're reading the file, after all,” the captive noted, motioning with his head. “Any chance you could let me out of these chains?”
“That's not likely to happen. We need a certain assurance of security, after all. You're a rebel, a dangerous, subversive criminal. Even in a station like this we're not going to risk losing our most valuable information source, no matter how small the risk is,” the guard answered, still flipping through the file.
“I'm more of a danger as far as loss goes. One crack in this crystal and I'm gone. Shouldn't that be the real concern? It seems funny to worry about the potential of my escaping when, well, you saw what the medic said,” the captive said with a certain smugness, a smile on his features.
“We need to make sure nothing interrupts this interrogation. After all, you're very important, and we need to get at what you know. So tell us, where is the Phantom?” The guard asked, slapping the file down and looking up into the captive's eyes.
“That's it? A direct question? No clever machinations, no pretending to become my friend, no bribery, no impotent threats, no arrogant assertions that you will be triumphant? In addition to all the other things wrong with this world it needs a better class of goons,” The captive said with a whistle.
“This is not a common technique. It hasn't needed to be used for ages. Fine. Tell us what you know of the Phantom or we will reassign your gender and put you in a breeding facility,” The guard snorted, barely imbuing any threat or passion into the statement.
“Come on, if you're going to make idle and powerless threats, make sensible ones! I know, you know, you know I know and I know you know that the gem precludes any possibility of doing such a thing. Lighter, more insidious threats at least could stand up and seem real. Are you from the A-Squad or did they cheap out with some random nopony pulled off the ranks?” The captive asked.
The guard slammed the file down on the table suddenly and slammed a fist down on the table. “Hey! I am a dedicated, decorated and high-quality servant of his Majesty the Stag King! I was personally chosen for this assignment because I assured them I can get this information. I can, and I will. Now tell us where the Phantom is!”
“Better, better,” the captive said with a nod, looking at the slammed file and thumped fist. “You have a bit of pride and passion. Good combinations. I know lots of folks like that. Combine it with skill and you can go places. Rebel commanders are often filled with justifiable pride, passion and loads of skill...”
“No! No...” The guard waved a finger and scoffed, pulling the file up and flipping through it some more. “That's not going to happen. We know the Phantom has trained you rebel scum to manipulate minds and work on making good soldiers defect. That won't happen with me. Why don't you just tell me about the Phantom? What's his name? He can't really be called 'The Phantom.'”
“You're right, of course. That's an idiot moniker put on him by your lot,” the captive stated bluntly, a smile passing over his lips. “I suppose I ought to say something. I would like to be released. I can tell you many things about the Phantom.”
“Any usable information that can be confirmed will go a long way towards putting you in the Stag King's good graces. He can be generous with his graces,” the guard said with a smile, taking up a pencil to prepare to write the information in the file.
“That and a bit will buy a cup of coffee,” the captive muttered, a smile remaining at the mention of the purged former monetary denomination. “You can see for yourself. It's appropriate you call him a ghost. His actual name and title, I tell you truly, is 'Ghost Dancer.' He walks the line between the living and the dead. You think it's impossible, but it's a fact. He has powers. How do you think he does half the things that he has done? He can reach deep into the mana stream and manipulate the spirits of the dead and touch the souls of the living.”
“You really expect me to believe that? That this common rebel scum has powers and abilities beyond those of the highest warrior-mages, and beyond his omnipotent, omniscient, omnimalevolent Majesty?” The guard asked, his voice awash in incredulity. “Tell me another one. Maybe you should crack that stone. Your death will be more immediate...”
“It's not about power, it's about knowledge!” The captive insisted, rattling his binds significantly. “He remembers what others forget. Pony ways may be the only ways these days but before there was a willingness to share and learn. The Phantom embraces diversity, especially diversity of power. The buffalo had ancient traditions regarding this. He happened to be skilled at it and found an ancient mana well. From there he can use the techniques to do exactly what I said.”
“Buffalo, eh?” The guard asked. “Diversity is death, or is at least punishable by death. Non-ponies are worthless non-creatures. We'll show that rebel... tell me, where is this well! We have divisions waiting. If the information is good then perhaps his Majesty will show you leniency.”
“I'll believe that when I see it,” The captive said with a great deal of snark. “It's fifty kilometers southwest of the Appleoosa Re-education facility. There will be a natural gorge opened in the earth. Moving through it there will be a number of caves. One has rocks stacked on the right side, in piles consisting only of prime numbers. That's the one. The well is all the way at the bottom. The path to it is marked by small scratches on the left side of tunnels. The scratches follow a progression: one, one, two, three, five, eight and thirteen. There should be no lookouts or at least very few. There you are. Now, show me the graces.”
“This information will be examined, and if it proves to be true, you will be informed,” the guard said, rising and nodding to the captive. “Until then you can stew in solitary confinement, aware of your betrayal. We appreciate betrayal and disloyalty to non-conforming entities here. You are serving the nation well.”
“Let's... call it that...” the captive said, other guards entering the room to throw the hood back on and lead him away.
”Was the prisoner executed?”
“No. He knows something, but he is being petulant, willful, and crafty.”
“How can this be? We were suckered into a rebel hardpoint. The cave was rigged and an entire squad was buried. Two others suffered ninety percent casualties as rebels fired and fled from the higher areas. That specific location was tailor-made for an ambush. Worse, the dispatched squads in the area were experienced elite. We needed them. They had the experience in the terrain. Now we need to train more. It's getting harder and harder.”
“We still need his data. We expected certain losses. And the Stag King cares little for expendables.”
“I know. We are all expendable to his Glorious and Invincible Majesty. But surely he must be upset that we were played for fools.”
“We looked foolish. He did not. The fools died, by his estimation. We must do what we can to extract the information from the prisoner.”
The hood was swept off the head of the captive again, letting him see his new interlocutor. He was a tall, broad, plate-armored pegasus with a dark blue, near-black, coat. He, too, held a file and slapped it down on the table. “You think yourself amusing, do you? Or perhaps clever. I have heard tell that the Phantom aspires to cleverness.”
The captive gave a winning smile and looked bashfully down at the table. “Clever? Amusing? Well, perhaps. I suppose that in some different world I might have made a fair entertainer...”
The guard slammed his fist against the table and glared hatefully at the captive. “The Stag King does not find your actions amusing! Killing his troops weakens the nation and he will not abide weakness. Weakness is for mares and stallions made into mares.”
“You must be fun at parties,” the captive said, rolling his eyes. “Well, now that I've tasted your odd fascination with mare-hating, let us get on with this. This feels like a repeat. Can't you at least change tactics? It's a bit late at this point, I know it's all a put-on, but surely you can at least try?”
“Why should the glorious Stag King waste any effort on a rebel nothing like you?” The guard growled.
“Because I have information that that heartless hind desires, and he'll sacrifice any number of you walking ciphers to get at it. A hundred, a thousand, it won't affect him in the slightest. The cost, the price, he'll pay but never pay. Now, amuse me, humor me, make me feel like talking or I'll just get you executed by giving you nothing,” the captive snarled in return, rattling his chains.
The guard seethed for a moment, before taking a deep, slow breath and calming himself. A sigh slowly passed through his lips and he turned a neutral expression on the captive. “Would you care for some coffee, or some water?”
“This is new. I like it. The false friend routine. Do you have any petit fours? And some hot chocolate?” The captive asked, with a certain eagerness.
“I'm not even sure what that means. Four what? And hot chocolate is banned and condemned. It is of the old ways, the soft ways, the mare ways. Real stallions, dominating and macho, do not drink such filth. Water, coffee, alcohol,” The guard replied, firmly.
“Yes. Yes I was aware. I had to hear the foolishness from the lips of a living being so I could know that it wasn't just an insane hallucination. That living, thinking creatures are so afraid of appearing soft they would become deathly terrified, to the point of banning, of hot chocolate. But you know... you're right to fear it. To fear food,” The captive suggestively said.
“Right to fear food? What kind of ridiculous nonsense is that?” The guard inquired, leaning forward.
“Food is a weapon. Food is an attack. Food is deeply, centrally cultural. Foods constitute war against the regime if they are significant. The ingredients, the preparation, the serving, the eating. They can all have deeply subversive meaning. If an item represents a nation or ideal, then preparing it in a way contrary to those ideals is an attack. Or if it is in a form that represents something then the consuming could be a picking apart of the thing. Do you see?” The captive asked.
“No. This sounds ridiculous. You can't kill an army with food unless you poison it,” The guard said.
“You're wrong. Spectacularly, magnificently, gloriously wrong. Foods are cultural, I told you. They become part and parcel of a nation and central to those who live therein. When a regime like yours comes in, retaining continuity with the old world could be as easy as eating foods that are intrinsically connected to the old order. Dainty foods, like petit fours, attack your absurdly hypermasculine identity, while specific foods recall those who have been lost, and keep the flame alive. I have had the foods of the forbidden, those purged or disappeared during the heartless hind's absurd inquisition. I tasted the Double Vanilla Cake, the MMMM, the decadent mille-fuilletopia, even the mousse of the double-condemned. I had them all and remembered the dead and disappeared. I had them all...” The captive said, voice growing small and distant.
“And where? Where did you procure these perversions of order? Where did you come by all of this filthy contraband?” The guard asked, pulling out a pencil to take down the answer.
The captive looked to be in the midst of some kind of reverie, eyes looking at nothing as he said, “Domovoi's. Domovoi's, the hidden cafe. Manehattan, in the basement of the old PS77. The abandoned look remind all who come what happens when foolishness destroys education and silences thoughts. The Phantom ensures we always remember, always attack the new order with our appetite...”
“Your help is greatly appreciated. The Stag King will give you all the food you desire, as long as it is in line with the new order,” The pegasus said, strolling out as other guards bagged the captive.
“I hear that Colonel Sharp Spear lost his head. The Stag King is in rare form.”
“It was a well-earned loss. The information we got was very, very good... a day before we got it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sex... is very important. It punishes the mares who suffer in their right and proper place. But it occupies the mind, makes stallions lethargic and prone to cut corners. Papers are misfiled or not filed at all, information is not passed along in the most timely of fashions.”
“We all know the open secret. What does that have to do with anything?”
“The place, Domovoi's, had been found, abandoned, during a raid that was meant to flush out a rebel stronghold. The food was there and so the raiders, very experienced soldiers, made it into a canteen. The information was misfiled. So when the raiding division went in...”
“No... such foolishness could not have...”
“The ones in the canteen thought it was a rebel re-invasion, the raiders assumed that the rebels ate while armed. Both sides practically slaughtered one another, and none escaped without injury.”
“This is ridiculous. We can't keep doing this. We must execute the foul thing.”
“You tell the Stag King he wasted resources for nothing.”
“Let us continue the interrogation...”
The hood came off again, showing the rebel captive another unicorn, a large and lanky dark red one who casually flipped through a file with his free hand. “You've been very unfair to us, you know that? We're giving you a chance to serve your nation. Don't you want that? Don't you want to serve your nation?”
“Appeals to my honor and loyalty. A strange tactic to use. But I'll go with it. You've got some new ideas. Please, convince me,” The captive said with a smile, leaning back a bit as his chains rattled.
The guard gently set down the file and gave a large, sincere smile to the earth pony across from him. “It's simple, really. This nation is here. This is the new and proper order. This is how it should be. How it is is how it ought to be. Come on now. Be reasonable. You could have a good position in the military if you let yourself. You'd have quite the good mark in your record being the one that led to the capture of the Phantom.”
“A reverse of what I tried before? I'm both scandalized at the theft and flattered you think I am worthy of imitation. This is a good interrogation today. Quality work. I'm not going to give in but I assure you, this is some good technique you're working here. The Phantom could use ponies like you...” The captive said.
“I'm no traitor, I am loyal and dedicated to the Stag King. May all hail him. I only think you would do better on our side. Why not give it a try?” The guard asked hopefully.
“Give it a spin, eh? Take a gamble on the fickle feelings of a tyrannical child petulantly abusing more than half of the population? I don't like my odds. You tried some philosophy before. Don't. You are remarkably ill-suited for it. Not only have you been impaled by the fork between 'is' and 'ought' but you're too blind to know that the veil lets you see most clearly. Had you seen the veil you never would have gambled on the Stag King, there's simply too much to lose and too little to gain,” the captive said.
“So, you like games of chance?” The guard asked, desperately grasping any thread that led away form the uncomfortable conversation.
“I'm a fair gambler I would say, yes. Taking a risk is great fun. Taking a calculated risk is even better. When the deck is stacked, when the dice are shaved, when the wheel is tilted it all works out for the best. Knowing the odds is magnificent but knowing how to manipulate the odds makes things all the better,” The captive said with great passion.
“Then come on! Take a chance on the Stag King. You know the odds but your odds get better if you serve and support him. Surely you can do that. It's just a little gamble, hardly one at all,” The guard said, with a hopeful tone.
“You know... I suppose it might be worth a roll of the dice. Or a turn of the cards. They call him the Jack of Spades. The Phantom, I mean. That's who he is, that's what he is. The Knave in the deck, skulking about. As is appropriate he has himself settled in New Las Pegasus. The bustle, the glitz, the money flowing in and out, the bodies flowing in and out. He can disguise anything as anything else. Dirty, tracked money washes new-minted clean. Escaped mares are disguised as show-slaves and shipped off to places that don't exist, to freedom. Rebel equipment is shuffled around a thousand packages and suitcases, while rebel money can be siphoned off from houses that always win in the end,” The captive answered, his voice swelling with pride as he described the cleverness of the activity.
The guard slammed the file shut and smiled, rising as other guards came into the room. “Very well. Now where exactly do we find him? Which casino?”
“'Which casino'? Didn't you hear me? Are you daft? He's got his fingers in all of them! Raid every single one at once and you're bound to catch him at work. He switches it up on a schedule only he can understand. Good luck,” The captive said, giving a wink as the hood was slipped back onto his head.”
“Is it done?”
“It felt like a civil war but the job is done. The last of the mercenaries were bribed or killed and the last owner has been executed.”
“I can't believe it. They were so loyal, allowed power and riches, managing the casinos and slave-shows for his Majesty, running a whole city of debauchery. What happened?”
“What has been happening. That accursed captive. He told us to raid every casino, believing that they were stacked to the rafters with rebels and shuffling money and resources around. Of course the owners had mercenaries and their security ready in case any rebels came after their money. It looked like the Stag King was coming for their source of prestige and power. It was more than just a mass-slaughter, the casinos and other facilities were destroyed. It will take years to put them back as they were, with the open secret and all.”
“This is intolerable. This cannot continue. I don't care what secrets he has in his head. This is pure foolishness. We merely indulge the rebel's flare for the dramatic and give him a platform for propaganda and destruction. One more interrogation. Then there will come an 'accident' and the matter will be closed.”
The hood whipped off of the captive's head and revealed an armored earth pony, deep black in color, coat and mane. He stared curiously at the seated, smiling captive. “I was always a re-ed guard. I never actually met a rebel up close. Not while they were still able to think, anyhow.”
“Had you stayed in your position I'm sure you would have met many, however briefly. Maybe the Phantom you all seem so eager to find, though for an even briefer period,” the captive said mirthfully. He then let out a tremendous laugh that rattled his chains.
“Good thing you're in such good spirits. You know we need you to tell us. Who is the phantom? Just what kind of game does he think he's playing and does he really think he can ever win against a living god?” The guard asked seriously, leaning forward over the table.
“No folder today,” The captive noted, motioning with his head towards the empty table. “All the other fellows had folders of information with them. I guess things that could confirm anything I might say. Decided to change up the tactics a bit today?” The captive asked, leaning as far forward as he could.
“The matter is important, pressing, and time is of the essence. You need to tell us who the Phantom is and where we can find him. When the matter is closed then life can return to normal and the nation will roll on as it should,” The guard said, just above pleading.
“I love it when tyrants get desperate. It cracks the thin facade made of papier-mâché and fearful hopes and shows them to be nothing more than spoiled, fearful brats crying because they have no patience and no real ego. A real ego could stand the buffets of the world without breaking down into a murderous rage. A base, petty creature of id is all that they are. So tell me, what is so pressing?” The captive asked, finishing his question with a derisive snort.
“This game of yours is costly and stupid. You know we will win and we will get your information. One helps the other. Just give us your information, we gain victory and you can be released,” The guard said.
“I don't mean to rain on your parade... or maybe I do... in any case, you're not getting what the Stag King desires. I think it's a little silly to persist. I'm honestly amazed I haven't hard to crack this thing already. I figured they were getting pretty tired of me,” The captive said with a loose roll of his shoulders and crack of his neck.
“Maybe they are. Maybe they're tired of you but the Stag King wants what's in your head. Make no mistake, you can still have an 'accident' and you would no longer be a problem, but that information is vital,” The guard noted, with a serious, stern look.
“I see, I see. They like playing games, hiding behind a cloak to make themselves look good. Fine then. I'll give them what they want. I've had my fun and made my point. The Phantom's name is an enigma. No one is meant to know it. I don't think he even claims one anymore, not while the world is like this. He is really known, to the very few that can know anything, as the Black Knight. He is on a quest to right wrongs and slay evil and all those other knightly things, but he does so in such a non-standard way that it is only appropriate he not be identified as the standard knight in glowing, polished armor. He's a dark figure that walks through shadows and in the hidden places,” The captive said, speaking with a healthy bit of reverence and awe.
“The Black Knight, eh? There we go...” The guard rose up, approaching the captive as the door opened to let in other guards.
“Yes. Here we go...” The captive said with a winning smile as a loud crack echoed around the room. Immediately a huge cloud of glowing green erupted from the captive's mouth and blanketed the scene.
“Impossible! Ridiculous! This is impossible!”
“How could this be possible? That was...”
“That was definitely a Diamond Dog design on that crystal but that was zebra magic. It makes sense that the Phantom would do that. He's still trying to push diversity. Another thing we need to beat out of the populace.”
“How could this possibly have happened?”
The guards all began to cough and twist about in fear and confusion. The first few breaths confirmed it wasn't cyanide. There didn't follow many more breaths after that. With a clatter of fallen chains the captive was up and silently stabbing at the guards with the silver knife passed along by the black-coated guard. With all the figures falling both made their way quickly through the corridor, the guard shedding his armor down to the cloth padding.
“The medic had confirmed the case. The gem was definitely a cyanide gem, and if it cracked he and others would die.”
“That medic... well, we all know that medicine is lagging since there is so much obsession with other matters. And the health of slaves and soldiers is not quite at the height of notice. No one ever followed up on the medic or confirmed it was really one of ours.”
“What?”
“It's true. Reasonable-looking credentials are all that is required, since most medical opinions are for death certificates and confirmation of malingering.”
“Wonderful...”
The two figures ducked into a side-chamber, while guards desperately ran through various halls.
“Never thought they would have the nerve to defy the Stag King. These arrogant folks deserve what's going to come to them,” The former captive said, checking around the corridor.
“At least the plan worked,” The unarmored guard said, slumping against the wall. “I was afraid that you wouldn't be able to get them fast enough or shim your shackles.”
“I've been practicing on other days. I got them open and closed but no one noticed. I'm very fortunate these sex-addled idiots have the perceptive powers of a blind cave fish,” The escaped captive said.
“His words could not have been an accident. The collective after-action reports, competently assembled on pain of reassignment and reeducation, report that the missions were carefully done. The cave-in, the canteen, the casinos. Calculated to inflict harm in specific ways. The loss of elite troops right as the Appleoosa re-ed facility was hit. A massive relocation from Manehattan in the wake of the destruction of local support troops. And in New Las Pegasus, it seems that after the mercenaries turned coat or died, and when the guard was still sorting things out, slave stocks, inventory and huge piles of cash vanished, likely taken by rebels disguised as government lackeys and third-party workers. They're financed, and looking competent, and got rid of great numbers of elites.”
“The only answer is that somepony somehow told him exactly where vulnerable points where, where soft decoy targets could be noted or where a rebel hardpoint would draw in necessary-to-eliminate forces. He knew that we would move immediately on any information and that the Stag King would demand no hesitation or attempt at confirmation.”
“The folders... they must have been filled with information, which he saw, and which allowed him to tailor his stories about the Phantom, knowing we would have no choice but to hunt them down. But that's impossible. Each interrogator was different. A new fellow daily, drawn at random from all available squads.”
“A new one every day. Remember the open secret. The paperwork foul-ups, the lack of focus. The guards insisted it wasn't them on the way to summary execution. They said they had been chosen but they had never interrogated anyone.”
“I thought it was cowards being cowards but... was it an infiltration, a vast assortment of rebels?”
“There was no way to know where to place them. They all would have to have been rebels... unless... it was one figure. Just one, over and over, showing off the information, so that the captive could spin a tail and accomplish his goal...”
The guard focused for a moment, green flames washing over his body, revealing his true Changeling form. He stretched out and sighed, watching as the former captive swept back his mane. “It's an honor to help you, Black Knight.”
“Please, call me 'The Phantom.' It seems to be my new name according to the inerrant fool running this horror show,” The Black Knight said with a curt laugh. He sighed and perked an ear. “Get ready to take another form. We need clean mail suits to help us get out. Then, we can get back to work, in a better position.”
“Saving mares, serving the population of the land, and working towards the old world. I remember the old world...” The Changeling said, his stare looking at nothing.
“You remember one part of it quite well, I'd imagine. Don't let it torment you. Let it drive you. Focus on the lost, to make you perform what must be done to get it back,” The Black Knight said, motioning to the Changeling. “Come on, I hear a two-stallion patrol.”
The two stallions found themselves confronted with an unarmored pegasus guard they could somewhat recognize. “My armor! He stole my armor! The prisoner is making his way out!”
“Calm down! Don't act like such a mare. We'll...” The speaking guard never finished his statement. His throat was stabbed just right to stop him from vocalizing, with the other incapacitated in the same way.
The two were stripped of their armor, the Black Knight putting on one set, while the Changeling took both the other set, and the look of the unicorn guard. He held up the dead stallion's face as the green fire moved over his figure. “Do not take it as a compliment that I steal your face. I need it. I don't care that it's yours, it only serves my purposes.”
“Good thought. You can do the talking,” The Black Knight said. He had been busy using the spilled blood to write upon the wall, 'Etiamsi Omnes, Ego Non.' The deed done he slid a mail glove over his hand to hide the bloody fingertip and complete his disguise. Sliding the knife into his belt he nodded. “We begin again. Just wait, you heartless hind. I will fix you, then defeat you, then undo your world, and leave you just alive enough to see the old world rise from the ashes of the new.”
“This whole procedure was a disaster from start to finish. This must mean no more interrogations of rebels that know anything.”
“Sadly that is the only solution. But at least we can continue. We'll start with a ne-”
“What? What was... I see. His Majesty really does have no patience. The Phantom wins again. Yes. I said it. I see the truth. The Stag King knows the score. The Phantom always wi-”
“'Childish.' Not 'Childlike' with its connotations of innocence and joyous abandon, but 'childish': delight in petty bickering, summer camp capers{.}”