You see things; and you say, 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say, "Why not?"
George Bernard Shaw
He shifted his weight from side to side as he waited, one hoof absentmindedly touching the lapels of his soft, velvety jacket. It was warm, quite warm, with the sun shining brightly against the rural Canterlot streets.
Foals screamed in the distance, playfully running after each other in a nameless game of wild abandon. A single mailmare flew from one doorway to another, dropping off letters and parcels with a happy smile.
Above, an airship wheeled around, its gaudy colours flashing in the sunlight, while ponies in rich garb leaned over the side and pointed below them with gleeful smirks. Nowhere else in Equestria would you see such wasteful luxury, he thought with disgust. It was a nice city, he had to concede, but one that was slowly filling with cruel corruption.
He looked up and into the camera that was angled down at his face, the familiar device lodged right in the archway, clicking silently. He had memorized the wiring schematics weeks before, from the width of the lens to the quality of the image. Excessive, yes, but he needed to know; it was once part of the dream, and now, the plan.
Lifting a hoof, the suited pony depressed the doorbell. Moments after the chime rang, he could hear the rustling of frantic movement as the subject approached.
Quite suddenly, the door opened, a chain snapping taut to keep it ajar. From within, a pair of curious yet uncertain eyes inspected the unicorn.
The visitor’s sky-blue face twisted into a gentle, welcoming smile, and his horn glowed a dull purple. “Hello sir, my name is Dreamer. I’m from Spectrum Security.” The purple glow of his magic encircled a small bag and lifted the nondescript object to eye level. Nothing was written on it, but that didn’t matter to the householder; the old stallion hardly even registered it.
“Why’re you here? You’re not supposed to be here,” the white and grey pony said as he frowned suspiciously at Dreamer.
“I’m very sorry, Mister Withershins, but the type of camera we installed here has been defective in other locations. I’m just here to replace one of the rotors and pay your compensation.”
The grumpy pony’s eyes widened at the mention of compensation, but his shoulders remained tense, his guard still firmly in place. “Nothing’s wrong with mine; been working fine for years!”
Dreamer nodded compassionately. “I see. Did you happen to see if it worked on your way here?”
The suited pony’s smile widened just a fraction on the edges as he watched Withershins wriggle with uncertainty. “Did I mention the compensation money? It’s not an enormous sum, just a few measly bits...”
Withershins’ scowl deepened. “Just a few bits? Why, I ought to receive more than that for a defective machine! Why, I could be broken into and have no record!”
Dreamer pressed a hoof to his chin as if in thought. “Well, you could call customer services. Does your phone work?”
“Of course it does! What sort of question is that?” he yelled at the top of his wheezing lungs.
The suited pony’s back bent a little, and he demurely took a step back from the old pony’s loud tirade. “I could come back another day, sir.”
“Come back another day?!” Withershins yelled. “Why, when I was younge—” The thick, heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of his rant. Dreamer took three quick steps forward, positioning himself near its edge. His horn glowed, just a little brighter than before. To anyone looking, it would seem as if he was having a bit of a hard time maneuvering with the heavy bag. Nopony could have noticed the small purple flash within the lapels of his jacket.
The door opened, and Withershins stood poised to continue his speech. He paused when he felt a cold thin piece of metal press against his throat.
Dreamer’s smile was gone, replaced by a look of pure apathy. “I’m very sorry, Mister Withershins, but I have to ask that you move back. And please, for both of our sakes, remain quiet.” The false modesty, the uncertainty of the unicorn’s voice, was gone, so was any trace of passion.
“Why, why I—” The blade pressed harder, a thin red line appearing on the earth pony’s wrinkled neck.
Withershins’ lower lip trembled as he slowly backpeddled into the house, spurred by the sharp knife. Dreamer followed him in, his gaze swallowing up every detail of the room.
It was a short corridor: one door leading into a living room where a decades-old radio was blasting classics that had long ago gone stale, the other leading to a small kitchen. With a surge of his magic, Dreamer silently shut the door behind him, his bag slipping in as he did so. “Kitchen,” was all he said.
Withershins backed into the spartan room, hooves clacking against the clean linoleum. In the centre of the room, there was a table with four chairs surrounding it, but only one set of scratches on the ground. The counters were bare, with no food or stray wrappers laying around uncared for. Dreamer walked over to the garbage can and flipped the lid open.
It was filled with empty cans, the meager eatings of an old pony.
“Climb onto the table.”
Withershins looked at him, face red with anger. “No, I refuse to listen to some ignorant young—”
Dreamer rolled his head back and began to laugh, the sound reverberating across the tight kitchen. “And I thought you’d be used to following orders. Oh well, Mister Withershins, seems like this dream will turn into a nightmare.”
“What are you blabb—”
“Celestia honoured you once, didn’t she?” Dreamer began, his voice still impassive, distant. “You must have been so proud. You were gallant, then. A true gentlecolt. My, have you ever changed.”
Withershins trotted over to the phone that hung on one wall, his hooves stomping across the floor. “I’m tired of your incessant talk. I’ll call the city guard on you! I know some ponies that’ll keep you in for a long time.”
The knife flew across the room, imbedding itself in the cheap plastic of the phone. “Is that how it started? Your corruption? A favour, then another. A few bits here, some whispers in an ear. Maybe you ‘forgot’ a thing or two... This is your punishment, Mister Withershins.”
They stared at each other: the old stallion with pride and passion, the unicorn with an utter lack of emotion. “Get on the table, Mister Withershins.”
“Never! You’ll have to drag m—” A purple glow wrapped around his muzzle and slapped it shut.
“We learnt a lot about you, Mister Withershins. We did our research. Six files of import went missing while you were on duty. On three occasions, objects you were responsible for guarding went missing without a single trace. Sometimes, you’d conveniently forget to file some reports. And at the same time, the bank would accidently drop some bits into your account.” Dreamer began to walk forward, hoofsteps loud in the otherwise quiet room. “And Copper Badge, poor little Copper. A guard who honestly wanted nothing more than justice.” He leaned forward, face inches away from Withershins’. “Did you really have to kill him?”
Tears stained the edges of Withershins’ eyes. “Get onto the table, Mister Withershins, if only for the sake of your secrets.”
Slowly, demurely, the old stallion climbed onto the low table, hooves trembling. The black briefcase opened, and out of it slipped two ropes: one long, the other short. The short one wrapped around Withershins’ hooves, securing the shaking limbs.
With one last burst of magic, Dreamer twirled the blade through the air, letting it stab into the table centimeters away from the old pony’s muzzle. “Try not to escape, Mister Withershins. It would be undignified.”
The longer cord wrapped itself around the table twice, its ends just long enough to make it around both pony and table. Everything had been calculated.
Dreamer walked out of the kitchen, abandoning Withershins as he exited the room. “Where are you going? Why are you doing this?!” the old stallion cried out. Dreamer paid no heed; he kept walking, his bag floating alongside him.
At the end of the corridor, past two unoccupied bedrooms, was a tiny room. It was there that Dreamer stopped, his eyes wandering up to the camera that was looking down at him. The briefcase snapped open under the tweaking of his magic, and two felt gloves slipped out.
Slowly, patiently, he put them on, then twisted the handle, opening the door with a creak. He shook his head. The pony was getting old; he had settled into bad habits, his good ones learnt through years of discipline and practice long gone.
Inside, three reels were spinning. Long bands of film slid up trays that entered the ceiling and ran to each camera. A small electric motor whirled quietly in one corner, powering the mechanism. Once more, he opened his bag and pulled out the proper tools. Hardly a minute passed before the three reels were warming his back as he headed back down the corridor.
Withershins was no longer panicked. Instead, he just watched Dreamer as he made his way across the room and to the oven. With a forehoof, he swung the door open and tossed the three reels in. A few seconds later, the oven was turned on ‘high’.
“Now, Mister Withershins—”
“Why are you here! What do you want of me? What I did was long ago. I don’t deserve this sort of treatment. I’m a hero!” Withershins interrupted.
Dreamer lifted a hoof, shutting the old pony up. “I’ll answer some of your questions. Remember, there are other ways to extract information, so let’s be civil. I left your mouth untied for a reason.”
The earth pony managed to bang his hooves against the table. “I want answers, dammit!”
Dreamer sat down, slowly and patiently. “Fine, ask away.”
“Why are you here? Why are you doing this? Why did you burn my tapes?”
Dreamer got up, and opened the bag. “‘Why’? Why do you think I burnt the tapes?”
“You-you don’t want there to be evidence? My memory might not be like when I was young, but I’ll remember your face! Unless...” Withershins’ eyes widened and he began banging against the table again. “Why are you doing this?!”
Dreamer removed a mask from his bag, and calmly placed the black device over his face, the two respirators hissing lightly as they emptied and filled. “You see things and ask 'why'. I dream things that never were, and ask 'why not'. I have questions, Mister Withershins. I need the answers, but I can’t let others know that I have them. Do you understand?”
Tears were beginning to appear at the edges of his wrinkled eyes. “But-but I worked so hard,” he whined, almost childishly.
“Yes, you worked very hard, Guardsman Withershins. You were an excellent pony. One of Celestia’s best. But you changed. I’m sorry.”
Out of the bag came a steel tank. It had no label, no markings of any kind. The tank twisted in midair “I-is that... Truth?” Withershins asked fearfully.
“Yes, yes it is.” Dreamer reached into the bag and pulled out another object, this one a sleek black recorder. He clicked it on.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Out of the little house sandwiched in a row of little houses, trotted a light blue pony. For all the world, he looked like a salesman or cable-pony who had helped the grumpy old stallion who had always lived in that house, even when he used to be a member of Celestia’s guard.
A few hours later, smoke began to curl out of the windows, billowing out and into the sky.
The dreamer was long gone by then, carrying with him Truth.
Wrote this in under an hour. Not sure why. Enjoy.
Edited, proofread and nagged by: Burraku_Pansa Bigdog117 Staplecactus Cpl Hooves Frederick the Saiyan
Seriously, they just stood there and poked at me. I think a few wish I’d worked on OCaK instead...
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
Edgar Allan Poe
“Pie for sale! Get your piping hot pies right here!” the salespony yelled at the top of his lungs. The light brown earth pony waved one of the pies above his head, letting the strong, alluring scent of it waft through the moving crowd of ponies.
His little cart was oddly placed, but most ponies didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t care that he was closer to the edge of the sidewalk than the law permitted, or that his cart was blocking the sign that labeled the huge brick building behind him as a bank. Nopony cared here. This was the commercial district of Canterlot, where feelings cost time, and time was worth quite a few bits.
Some ponies stopped, mostly country folk, fresh off one of the trains that puffed steam as they brought their not-so-precious cargo up the steep hills of Canterlot. The farm-folk didn’t mind wasting a bit or two on a smoking-hot pie. They were hungry for the culture, sights, and tastes of the strange city, and were unaware that this had little to do with it.
The brown pony joked and laughed with them, pointing lost ones in the right direction and hollering his dated sales pitch regularly.
Nearby, ponies in business suits ran up the marble steps of the bank, skirting around the simple peasants with practised ease.
When the clock mounted on the bank’s face hit noon, the pie salespony’s smile faded and his eyes lost all signs of friendliness. Reaching under his cart, he pulled out a black suitcase. Bag in mouth, he climbed the stairs.
The guard at the door didn’t spare him a second glance as he trotted through the huge entrance and made his way to the counters. The lines were short, and moving quickly. Still, the wait afforded him time to look around.
Tall arches decorated the sides of the massive main room, each one ending in a small alcove where ponies gathered and chatted. The pony shook his head as he caught sight of beautiful masterpieces hung within glass frames. This place was despicably wealthy. The reason, he knew, was their unfair charges and hidden interest fees shoved onto the farm ponies.
He planned to changed that.
The row cleared out, giving him free access to the third, and middlemost, counter. Behind it sat a cute mare with a round face. She smiled gently at him as he approached and lugged his bag onto the table. “Hello, sir. How are you doing today?”
“Not bad, Miss Scribeswell,” he said, smiling in turn. To anypony looking, he was the average working pony about to make a withdrawal. The cashier frowned for a split second.
“Um, how do you kno—”
“I know a lot about you. You live in the fifth house on Fir-Lane, you have a dog called Barkers, you’re wearing your best dress, and you’re sleeping with the pony who handles the cash. Every Thursday night, you slip a hundred-bit bill into your purse on the way out, and your hooves are mere inches away from pressing the alarm button.” All of this was delivered in a calm and jovial voice.
The skin beneath her face began to blanch, hooves stalling mid-movement as she stared at him. “My name is Planner, and I plan on taking some bits.” He opened his briefcase a crack and, with dextrous hooves, slipped out a paper note. On it, was a simple demand: Two Million, Four-hundred Thousand, Five-hundred Seventy-Seven bits. In cash. In a paper bag. You have four minutes.
Miss Scribeswell picked up the note with trembling lips and backed away slowly. “Don’t forget to smile,” Planner said, demonstrating with a flash of his own white teeth. His plan accounted for three possibilities at that point, all of which would lead him onto a different set of contingencies.
The mare spun around and ran into the sea of cubicles that made up the back half of the bank. She disappeared around a bend, wide eyed and shaking.
Planner sat down, calmly glancing at his watch as he did so. The farm ponies around him milled about quietly, still unaware of what was happening, which was fine by him. Soon, no matter which plan was followed, the odd sum of bits would be his, and he would be long gone.
It was a weird number, he conceded. It was more than most of the ponies around him would make in a lifetime. Enough to buy a house in a good part of town, or live frugally for the rest of his life, but the bits would go into other things. Projects of great importance. Plans.
The number hadn’t been picked at random either. It was the sum-total of the money stolen from the bank’s poorer clients every single day.
A dark-coated unicorn walked purposefully towards him, a chastised and puffy cheeked Scribeswell at her side. The unicorn’s face was contorted into a mask of patient anger, the type seen on mothers everywhere. Planner gave her his best grin.
“What the hay do you think this is?” she asked as she planted herself across from him, the counter the only thing separating them. Ponies in the next rows over started to pay attention: there was little else to do while waiting.
“You trot in here, threaten one of my employees, then demand an outrageous amount of bits? What’s your problem? Get out of here before I call Security!” She was on the verge of shouting, her voice carrying across the entire room.
“No. In fact, I will only leave this bank when the sum, in its entirety, has been placed at my disposition.”
Confusion crossed her face. Blinking, she looked at him once more, scrutinizing his straight back, unwavering green eyes, and elitist accent. Nothing of his countenance pointed to him being one of the regular crazies that showed up every once in a while to get some fast bits.
“Miss Money Bags,” he began, his tone the exact opposite of her own. “You only have twelve seconds before ponies start dying. I’d suggest you start now.”
Her dark face gained a deep undertone of red. “Security, arrest this pony and detain him. We’ll let the city guard take care of him!” She spun around and began marching away. “Give Scribeswell the day off, and somepony take that counter; we can’t lose productivity because of th—”
“Eight.”
She stopped, one hoof still in the air.
“Seven.”
One or two of the ponies assembled began coughing awkwardly. Planner kept his eyes fixed on his watch, ignoring the security ponies that were making their way through the crowd.
“Five.”
Money Bags had turned around completely, and was now marching towards him, hooves clacking loudly against the polished floor. The sound spread as the room slowly became quiet.
“Three.”
The first of the guards made it through, almost falling as he suddenly punched through the crowd. Another pony coughed, this time a hair-raising hack.
“Two,” he whispered, the sound travelling through the entire room, despite the rukus of office ponies climbing around their cubicles to watch and the constant coughing of a few ponies.
“One,” he said, just as the security pony grabbed him from behind and threw him onto his side. Both ponies crashed into the ground, Planner’s chest emptying with a whoosh and grunt.
“Good, now bring him behin—” Money Bags began to speak when one of the ponies in the next row over vomited, the thick yellow bile splashing against the polished floor. Ponies scattered, eyeing the mess apprehensively. A few covered their noses in disgust.
“I-I don’t feel too good,” the mare who had just regurgitated said. She fell into the puddle, front hooves giving out beneath her.
Another pony, this one three rows back, toppled over with nary a sound. Again, ponies moved away with a sense of urgency. They began forming rough circles around the room, clinging to each other for safety.
At the far back, two stallions that had been watching the scene together began wheezing hysterically, their skin reddening as a rash spread across their coats. As one, they toppled over.
“Zero!” Planner exclaimed happily.
His words set off a chain reaction. Everywhere, ponies screamed and ran, usually away from anypony else displaying even the slightest signs of sickness. Alarms went off and sirens screamed, adding to the cacophony of confusion and despair.
The doors thundered as dozens of ponies ran into them, desperate to get out. They were locked. Nopony could enter or leave the bank while it was on alert; it had to protect the bits of its investors, after all. The investors themselves, on the other hoof...
Everything was going according to plan.
The bag that had been left on the counter opened fully. Out of it, a brass trumpet sprang, blasting a single loud note. Everypony jumped, eyes wide and panicked, but the sound had its effect. They slowed down and concentrated on the offending object.
“Okay everypony!” the brown earth pony, still lodged beneath the security guard, screamed. “I have some news for you! But first, would you kindly let me go?”
The guard-pony looked at Money Bags. The manager nodded slowly, seeming to be on the verge of panic herself. She had not moved, nor had she joined the mass of screaming mares, but her face was drained of blood and her hooves trembled slightly. Yet, she wore a look of fierce determination, and was staring down at Planner with venom-filled eyes.
Planner untangled himself, stretching his limbs luxuriously under the collective glare of the ponies. “A pony will die every minute until my demands are met,” he said.
Panic almost settled in once more, and quite a few stallions and mares advanced towards him, muscles bulging and faces red with anger. “Me being dead won’t cure any of you,” he cautioned.
They stopped. He smiled.
Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, Planner walked to the counter and rifled through his briefcase. A gas mask, black with sharp edges marking a simple cruelty was pulled out, and quickly strapped to his face. His other hoof reached in and pulled out a spray can. The silver can instantly became the centre of attention of everypony in the room, especially Money Bags, whom was staring at the business end of its nozzle.
“The money, now.”
“Ge-get him the bits,” ordered Money Bags, her firm demeanor long gone as she faced the threat of imminent death.
In the office area, a few ponies scurried along. The scraping of the vault door opening screeched across the quiet room. “Hurry up now!” taunted Planner, laughter in his voice.
Another pony began to cough and hack. Ponies around the poor stallion backed away, letting him slump to the ground unaided.
The bits arrived, carried by a breathless stallion who dumped the heavy paper bag on the counter before shying away. Planner’s eyes smiled for him as he moved forwards and placed a hoof on the bag. “Thanks a bun—”
Quick as she could, Money Bags slipped forward, her own hoof slapping down on his and grasping it. They stared each other down.
“Let go, Miss. This wasn’t part of the plan.”
“I need to know why,” she said, her eyes piercing into his. Her hoof lifted off of his, sliding away uselessly as he snatched the bag off the table and threw it into his briefcase. The trumpet was removed to make space.
With deliberately slow steps, Planner walked towards the exit, his now-heavier bag balanced on his back while he held the can aloft, anypony in his way scampering away as the silver device pointed toward them.
He reached the doors and waited.
The lights went off one by one, shutting with booming finality and pitching the room in partial darkness, the only light coming from the doorway. His shadow played across the marble floor as he turned to face them.
“To answer your question, Miss Money Bags: why not?”
The electric locks that held the doors shut failed. They clicked open.
It was odd to the ponies gathered around the bank that day, seeing a lone, mask wearing pony trot out and into view of the dozens and dozens of guards who were gathering there. Odder still, was the large amount of ponies suddenly falling sick around the area.
Ambulances were rushing to and fro the now somber road, carrying with them full loads of unconscious ponies.
When the mask wearing pony began nonchalantly walking down the street, those gathered knew, as if told by some unknown force, that he was somehow responsible. And so, they watched with trepidation, waiting for the guards to swoop in and save the day.
They didn’t. The armed ponies, the fabled protectors of Equestria, simply stood still as the masked pony pulled a small pill bottle out of his briefcase and deposited it on the ground, his eyes smiling.
A cart, a cart supposedly selling delicious pies, started to blast music across the eerily quiet street. It was the anthem of the bank, the jingle that always preceded its advertisements. Painted on the side of the gaudy pie-selling vehicle, was today’s special: a slice of Truth.
As if he had no worries in life, the earth pony trotted over to the cart, deposited his briefcase on top, and began pushing it towards the train station, the eyes of hundreds following his every movement.
The guards too, moved, following him at a respectable distance until he reached the station.
There they waited. The masked pony absently crossing things off on a list he procured from his black case. A train pulled in, one of the older locomotives, its sides sleek and covered in black soot. Its doors opened on rusting hinges to reveal a single empty wagon, right where the masked pony had parked himself.
Ponies poured out of the other wagons and into the awaiting hooves of the guard-ponies, creating a living, breathing barrier.
The train chugged away and down the hill, losing itself amongst the bends and the thick billowing steam.
Later, on that scary and yet odd day, the largest hospital in Canterlot released over a hundred ponies, all of whom were told to take a day off, and keep away from strange flavoured pies.
Edited and Proofread by: -StapleCactus -Frederick the Saiyan -Cpl Hooves And against his wishes: Your Antagonist
Thank Heaven! the crisis —The danger, is past, and the lingering illness, is over at last —, and the fever called ''Living'' is conquered at last. Edgar Allan Poe
She was beautiful.
Or at least, that’s what every single pony in the building had been told. That telling had cost a considerable amount of bits. Not that she cared much for bits.
Fortunately, she was beautiful, and the male guard pony on the other side of the thick metal door could very easily see that.
From within the slit, she could see his eyes following her round, homely face. His eyes slid down her sharp features before dropping to the supple leather outfit she wore over her golden coat and curved flanks. Her lithe wing stretched out, blocking his line of sight to her rear end.
At her side were two objects: a large black duffel bag and an equally black briefcase. Her white-and-gold-streaked tail fluttered a little, rubbing against the two bags. “Um, excuse me, Mister, but my eyes are, um, up here.” She smiled timidly at the slit in the door.
The guard pony’s eyes snapped back to the mare’s. “Right, name and pass?”
“Oh.” Nervously, the mare looked up and down the dark roadway. From afar, the sounds of a few lively parties were resonating over the tall brick building and into the alcove cut into the wall.
Across the street, a few stallions were jesting with each other, the stench of cider reaching all the way through the tight alleyway. At the opposite end, a mare dressed in tattered and once seductive clothing was trying her best to look appetizing, and failing miserably.
This club, unlike the ones around from it, was exclusive, hard to get into, and once in, anything could happen. Its location, on the other hoof, left a lot to be desired. It wasn’t the place for a beautiful timid mare to walk around at night unaccompanied. However, she had a mission to accomplish, one that had been dreamed and planned.
“My name is Executor,” she said, her face reddening in a blush, almost as if she was ashamed of her name.
“...And your pass?” the guard insisted in his gruff voice.
Another voice chimed in with a harsh whisper. “Dude, don’t you know who she is?”
“Of course I do; I’m not an idiot, but if she doesn’t have her pass, we could allow her to enter in exchange for a favour or two...” the first pony whispered. Executor perked her delicate ears at the snide understone.
“Nuh-huh, mate. She might be cute and all, but I like having all my bodyparts. She’s one of them.”
Executor lifted one of her long wings and rang the doorbell, hushing the conversation within with the out-of-place sound of synthesised bells. “Um, I have my pass right here,” she said, lifting a slip of laminated paper and holding it above the slit.
The guard’s eyes blinked twice at the sheet before disappearing. With hardly a sound, the well-oiled door swung inwards and allowed easy access to the darkened halls of the club.
Two ponies stood on either side of the entrance, both bowing their heads respectfully. “I’m sorry for the interruption, madam,” the gruff-voiced guard to her left said .
“It is an honour. Welcome to Tartarus,” the other said.
Slowly, methodically, and with a grace hardly befitting of the inelegant entrance, Executor stepped in, briefcase held between white teeth. “Could one of you, um, please carry my bag?”
They blinked and looked at each other, communicating in the way that those who had worked together for a long time could. “O-of course, madam. We are surprised and appalled that you carried them this far. You could have flown to the entrance on the upper floor and asked one of the staff members there...” He let the implication that she was dense linger. After all, this was the back entrance, not the luxuriously decorated hall reserved for the usual prestigious clientele.
“Oh, but my bag is much too heavy to fly with, and I would never leave it behind. It’s really precious you see.” She looked down, one hoof idly pawing the cement flooring while a lock of her short hair slid in front of her eyes. She had practised long and hard to accomplish that simple gesture.
It worked. Both of the burly and tough guards reddened, their mouths filling with cotton as they fought hard to remain decent. “I-I’ll gladly care for your bags.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” She sighed. Leaning forward, she pecked the volunteer on the cheek, setting his face aflame. “Follow me, please.”
Turning, she pranced away, the black briefcase bouncing in between her golden wings. Grabbing the heavy duffel bag in a quick swoop, the guard trotted after her, back cracking after every thundering step. His partner, swearing under his breath at his friend's fortune, slammed the door shut.
Mare and stallion reached a tall, winding staircase and began climbing, his hoofsteps echoing above as his breath came in short rasps. Executor, on the other hoof, was fine, her wings beating rhythmically as she easily flew up to the fifth floor of the building.
With a thump, the briefcase landed on the ground and stood in place, handle side up, as Executor hovered beside it. She waited, eventually sitting down on the grated steel flooring while waiting for the guard to pant his way up the stairwell.
He arrived minutes later, covered in a sheen of sweat, but smiling gently as he laid the bag at her hooves. “Is that all, madam?”
The room brightened considerably as she gave him a sweet smile, cheeks blushing red. “Yes, thank you so much Mister Guard-pony.” She leaned forward, and so did he, eyes closed in expectation. Instead of planting a quick peck on his awaiting cheek, however, she ducked down and pulled a latch on the duffel bag, revealing a fold-away handle. “Thanks again,” she said as she pulled the wheeled bag out of the room.
Leaving the disappointed stallion behind, Executor pushed open the exit door and wheeled into the luxuriously decorated grand-hall. The coasters on her bag skidded lightly across the polished marble floors that reflected her presence through its sheen.
With keen eyes, she surveyed the room, from the thick tapestries that hung from every wall, to the woven drapes that hid the entrances and exits used by the countless servants. The patrons of the establishment walked around in pairs or in small groups, chatting amiably of vacations, tax breaks, and the toys they had recently bought with their superfluous bits.
The music wasn’t the usual bass-heavy dubtrot heard in the lesser clubs. Instead, a single grey earth pony stood on a short stage, rearing on her hind legs to weave a bow across the strings of her counter-bass. The haunting refrain echoed across the room.
Executor watched, enthralled, as a few pairs danced across the polished floor, their reflections dancing with them on the ceiling above. She smiled, allowing herself to believe, even just for a moment, in the lie that this place was safe.
But her sheepish grin faded when her target came in sight.
Filthy Rich was talking and sipping a drink procured from one of the many servants. The other business ponies of lesser caliber around him laughed and joked with him, hoping to gain his friendship and access to his bank account.
She started towards him, duffel bag clicking behind her. The ponies around him noticed her first and they timidly stepped away. “Um, hello, Mister Rich,” she said upon gently depositing her briefcase. “We, um, had an appointment today?”
The stallion blushed a little and coughed. That was not the kind of information he wanted spread around; he prefered that kind of rendezvous to be a little more discrete. After all, it might reach the ears of one of his wives. “I-I’ll be right there, miss. How about you descend to my, um, room by yourself?” He reached into his vest and pulled out a card. Stretching forwards, Executor took the card, her lips brushing against his.
“Um, okay, see you there...” Blushing madly, the pegasus turned around and hovered away, bags trailing behind her.
The layout of the Tartarus Club was rather simple, with the main area on the top floor while the fourth floor had the penthouses, private rooms, and areas where transactions could be made with a reasonable amount of secrecy. The third floor held questionable entertainment, the type that could land a lot of ponies in jail for a long time if it became public. The second held the servants, guards, and kitchens. On that day, her goal led her to the fourth.
A short ride down an enclosed elevator later, and the pegasus mare was looking down a carpeted hallway. Decorative light fixtures placed at intervals lit up the passageway with a bright, welcoming light, one that didn’t seem to reach the alcoves where doors were recessed. As she walked past those doors, she took note of the numbered plaques engraved on each one until, finally, she reached Filthy Rich’s room.
In the alcove next to his, a stallion wearing half a business suit was busy sticking his tongue down a well-paid mare’s throat when he caught sight of her. He pushed the wanting mare away and stared at her with sparkling eyes. “Whoa, how much to spend a night with you?” he asked.
“Wh-why I, I ought to...” she fumbled, both with her words and with the keycard. The door unlocked itself, and, in a split second, she and her bags were in the room.
It only took a few moments for her to cross the simple yet elegant room, tossing her duffel bag on the fluffy bed with a great heave as she did so. Executor smiled to herself as she opened the black bag and began sorting through her equipment with speed and efficiency.
Straps, a riding crop, spiked necklaces, and long lengths of cord flopped onto the bed when she flipped the bag over. With a contented sigh, she placed the tools of her trade in neat rows before stepping back and admiring her work.
Looking around, she found the dimmer-switch controlled lights and darkened the room, casting long, thin shadows against the mahogany inlaid walls and gemstone studded furniture.
Satisfied, Executor sat a few meters away from the entrance and waited, patiently staring at the uncaring door for her target to willingly walk in. Lots of bits had been paid to a few well placed ponies to make her services known and coveted. Hints had been slipped to Filthy Rich over the past few weeks and months, each promising the time of his life, and a few pleasurably painful bruises that would last a long, long time.
Unfortunately, if everything went according to plan, he wasn’t going to live a long, long time.
The door cracked open silently, and Filthy Rich slipped in, sheepish grin twisting his wrinkling features. “Hello? Miss Executor?” he asked as his eyes roamed across the room. Finally, they landed on her, standing dead centre with a rough riding crop held in her muzzle. “Oh, there you are!” he exclaimed excitedly.
She noticed that his voice wasn’t the only excited part of him. “Get on the bed.”
He blinked twice. The cute, clumsy little pegasus he’d met in the grand hall was gone. Her eyes glinted with malice and menace and her smile transformed into a violent sneer. “Now.”
Gulping nervously, yet still smiling, Filthy Rich climbed onto the bed and lay onto his belly. “Now what?”
Slowly, luxuriously, Executor walked over to him, lifted the crop into the air, and slapped it across his face with a snap that reverberated across the room. “You shall address me as Miss Executor. Do you understand?”
A hoof rubbing against the quickly forming welt on his cheek, Filthy nodded demurely. “Ye-yes. Yes, Miss Executor.”
Then, she did something he hadn't expected. She put her front hooves on the bed, then lifted herself up to walk over him. He could feel the subtle shifts in the springy bed as she turned around to breathe down his neck. “Don’t move, not even an inch.”
She reached across from him, the soft fur of her belly rubbing against his back as she picked up a strap with a wing-tip. Within seconds, each one of his limbs was tied to one of the bed’s sturdy posts.
It creaked when she hopped off lightly, wings fluttering to land gracefully. Turning, she faced him once more, and picked up her crop. “You’ve been a bad pony, Mister Rich.”
He sighed, the cords straining. “Really, that line? Of all the lines you could have chosen? There are less cheesy ones you kn—” The crop slapped against his face, this time with full force. The bindings held him in place as he jerked around. “Be careful! You could have broken a tooth! I ought to su—” She hit him again, this time drawing blood.
Abandoning her tool, she walked over to the black briefcase and dragged it into his line of sight. Under his watchful and curious eye, she opened the box and pulled out a small, silver tank of compressed air. It was labeled Truth.
His eyes widened.
“You’ve been a very, verybad pony, Mister Rich. We had to dream about you, and plan about you, and now, I’m here.” She held the tank in one dextrous wing and pulled out a tape-recorder with the other.
“No, you can’t be. Please don’t,” he began to plead as he fought against the bindings. “I have a daughter: a cute little filly. She’s a real princess.”
Executor shook her head and placed the device on one corner of the mattress. She tapped it on, and the tiny tape began to register.
“You have more than one daughter, Mister Rich,” she said. His brow creased in confusion. “Don’t you remember Happy Hoof? She has a little foal now. His name is Happy Rich. And Sugar Song, your secretary? Or should I say ex...”
“Look, I didn’t mean it... C’mon, let me go. I won’t tell anypony... Is it cash? You need bits? I can give you bits. Hundreds. Thousands. Name your price!”
“We don’t want money, Mister Rich. We want the truth.” She backed away and reached into the briefcase. The black mask she pulled out was both comforting to her and distressing to him. With a snap, she clicked its straps in place and strutted towards him, her wings holding one more implement. It was another mask, this one with a long tube jutting out of its side.
She jammed it on his face and connected the tube to the canister of Truth. Her hoof reached out and touched the release when he sobbed. “Why? Why are you doing this!?”
“Why not?”
The tortuous screams coming from room number 501 were heard by many, and more than one jealous stallion stared at the door with lust-filled eyes.
An hour went by, then a brief second more, before the door opened up. Out of it stepped what many described as the most arousing mare they had ever seen. She was visibly tired, hair in disarray and her dress crumpled and wrinkled. However, she smiled contentedly as she walked to the nearest elevator and the fifth floor. The exit guards ogled her for a few moments, but said nothing, not even bothering to search her briefcase. After all, they only cared about what came in.
It took an entire day until a cleaning mare discovered the mess left in room 501. For the first time in the exclusive club’s history, the long arm of the law reached in and inspected. Some called it murder, but most were reluctant to call it anything more than a sad accident.
Some, those who were beginning to watch over their backs and sleep with one eye open, suspected something entirely different.
Edited by: -Frederick the Saiyan -Your Antagonist -Cpl Hooves -StapleCactus
Truth is mighty and will prevail. There is nothing the matter with this, except that it ain't so. -Mark Twain, Notebook, 1935
“Murderer,” Dreamer murmured in a quiet tone, standing before yet another doorway. This door was large: made of thin dirt-speckled glass.
He wasn’t quite certain why he said it, and that uncertainty was visible in the reflection of his face on the glass. The title was an uncommon one. Murder didn’t happen. There was no law in Equestria forbidding a pony from killing another. It just didn’t happen.
There were laws against theft and hurting others, so he reasoned that killing would fall under those two. Stealing a life, hurting both victim and family.
With a determined nod, the stallion pushed the thoughts away and gripped the handle. The door swung open and slammed against the wall with finality. He walked in.
A tattered reception desk stood a few meters from the doorway. Behind it was an old stallion, snoring lightly behind a few tall stacks of paper. The front of the desk had a decaled logo: The Canterlot Express: News when you need it, a stack of paper when you don’t.
The little reception area was bare, save for a single broken chair in one corner and a used carpet that had seen better days. Calmly, he trotted to the desk, and slid the first drawer open with his magic. Inside, amongst a pile of notes, candy wrappers, and ink-stained rags, was what he was looking for. A simple key, slightly bent and rusting on the edges.
With a swipe of his hoof, he grabbed it and headed back out. Just as he began turning, his peripheral vision caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. Father? Memories of a father who had raised him in his youth, who had stood over him, who had taught him, and who had died by the merciless hooves of self-pity, came crashing back.
He turned shakely and faced the creature on the beat-up office chair. It wasn’t his father. Not the stallion who had owed too much to the loan ponies, just an old fart who was sleeping on the job. For a moment there... Dreamer shook his head and turned around.
As he trotted out, he levitated the key and looked at its scoffed form. And now, I’m a thief as well. He closed the door and stepped unto the cobblestone roadway. I wonder what Father would think of this?
With a quick eye, Dreamer inspected the shady area of town labeled as light industrial. In reality, it was a hodge-podge of nearly bankrupt enterprises and businesses falling on hard times. In alleyways between the buildings, ponies were smoking and chatting between themselves, the conversation centred around mares and bits.
Dreamer walked around the front office of the press and to the dark alley between it and an old warehouse. Gingerly, he stepped over another sleeping pony, the only distinguishing mark on this one was his refuse-pile cutie mark.The city is failing, he thought. We are necessary to fix it.
The wracking cough of the homeless pony behind him reaffirmed his resolve, and he delved deeper into the stinking place between buildings. At the end of it, he took a sharp turn to the left and in between two carts waiting for the morning's newspaper. The ponies meant to pull said carts were sitting in their boxes, bleary eyed and tired.
Dreamer walked past them and to the very back of the building, where he found a door marked ‘Employees Only’ and pushed it open.
The unicorn took a step back as he was assaulted by the smell and sounds of the printing press. The air was thick with the musky smells of ink and sweat. Taking up the majority of the room was a massive machine being serviced by two pegasi, neither looking very excited about their work. Below them, a veritable army was stacking sheets and preparing the letters for the pony-powered machine to start churning out news.
Dreamer looked around the room and found what he needed: a nearby employee's lounge, its door firmly closed. In as nonchalant a fashion as he could muster, Dreamer walked over to the door and tested it. Locked.
With a slight glow of magic, the key he had stolen flew out of his vest’s inner pocket and twisted in the lock. It clicked open.
Walking in, he found the atypical locker room, with dozens of cubicles lining walls smeared with dirt and dried ink. In each one was a pile of almost clean cloths, some artifacts from home, lunches, and boxes. Walking slowly past each one, and inspecting them carefully, Dreamer found what he wanted and allowed himself a small smile.
Undressing quickly, the unicorn rid himself of his clean-pressed dress suit and put on a stained worker’s uniform, the press’ name emblazoned on its chest. He emptied his suit’s pockets, placing the objects found within into the newly acquired uniform. A small black box, a container of pills that held only one, the stolen key, a lock picking set, and a sharp blade.
Dreamer headed out, picking a hard hat at random from a rack and shoving it on his horned head on his way back into the busy room. “Now, where’s Ink Spot?” he asked aloud.
A pony passing by answered over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around. “Inkie’s at the letterpress.”
“Thanks,” Dreamer said as he followed the pony a ways. The deeper recesses of the room weren’t as brightly lit, and the unicorn found himself squinting at the ponies covered in black ink. Finally, he found his subject, a red unicorn leaning over two plates entirely covered in movable word-plates.
Dreamer found and climbed a short metallic ladder leading up to the working pony. “Are you Mister Ink Spot?” he asked.
The unicorn lost hold on one of his plates, dropping it on the pallet below as he lifted his head in surprise. “Um, yeah, I’m Ink Spots. You are?”
Dreamer nodded, everything was going according to plan. Now, for one of the complicated bits. “I’m just a pony who is very interested in what’s going to happen on page two.”
Ink Spots face blanched. “Well... I see. Sorry, the deal’s off.”
Dreamer blinked. There went the plan. “I have the bits.” He tapped the box in the uniform as proof.
“That’s not it, mate,” the pony said as he watched his comrades. None were listening in. “I just can’t do it. It’s crooked. You don’t want to be caught doing anything like that nowadays... There’re rumors, you see?”
Arching an eyebrow, Dreamer pressed on, “Rumors?”
“Bloody hell, mate, livin’ under a rock are you? They’re looking for bad moves, punishing those that’re corrupt and stuff.”
Is he talking about us? Dreamer wondered, unable to quell the fierce pride that welled up in
him. “And what happens if they catch you?”
Ink Spot blanched. “It’s over. I don’t want to mess with them. Wait for it to quell down or something. We can talk, then.” The pony tried to push past Dreamer.
His hoof struck out, clanging against the metal railing of the staircase. Leaning in closer, Dreamer brought his muzzle to the pony’s ear. “We are them.”
Ink Spot’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, before narrowing in suspicion. “Bul—”
Dreamer had had enough and, with a flash of his horn, his blade appeared, pressed against the other unicorn’s armpit, right where he could see it and others couldn’t. “Do not doubt my word, Mister Ink Spot.”
The unicorn trembled and Dreamer made another mental note. Canterlot may have become a pit, but these ponies could still be forced back on the right track. With another glow of his horn, the black box floated out of a pocket and hovered between them, clicking open. Inside were neat rows of perfectly stacked bits, more than Ink Spot made in a year. “We pay handsomely, both for your services, and your discretion, Mister Ink Spot.”
Ink Spot eyed the money greedily, yet fear still shone in the edges of his eyes. “What if I don’t want to?” The dagger pressed upwards. “Alright, alright, I’ll take it,” he squealed.
Dreamer clasped the box shut and tucked it in the unicorn’s pocket. In a single, fluid motion, he removed the knife and tucked it within the outfit, ready to be used again if the need arose. “Now, will you make the necessary changes?”
“Yeah, mate. Whatever you want. I don’t want to ever see you again after this, all right?”
The light blue unicorn smiled kindly. “You will not have to.”
Ink Spot moved back to his machine and twisted a small wheel a few times. Within it, plates moved up, each one labeled with a small number until a red ‘two’ flashed by. The plate that remained was covered in smaller plates, each one a word or number. “Alright, what do you want to change?”
“Remove everything. I’ll dictate the message you must write, as well as its placement.”
Ink Spots glanced between the plate and the unicorn beside him. “Everything?” he asked.
Dreamer began to give his instructions in clipped, clean tones, all easy to understand. It only took a minute for the dejected pony to comply and finish his work, after which Dreamer said his polite good-byes.
He stepped off the ramp, knowing that Ink Spot’s eyes were burrowing into his back. He didn’t care as his mission for that day was over. Once more, he stepped out of the building and into the bright daylight, smiling as he nodded at Celestia’s sun.
His mission had been accomplished. Newspapers tied in tight bundles were being carried out of the building and loaded into the waiting carts.
Soon, all of Canterlot will know, and they will fear.
That morning, in front of every house and within every shop, the newspaper arrived, just as it did every day of the year, all year round.
Avid readers snapped the paper open, eagerly looking for their favorite sections. The children found the cartoons and the business ponies found the section dedicated to their trade, but almost all of them stopped on the second page. A second page that didn’t deliver what it promised, but rather, was blank, save for a simple poem in the centre:
To Dream, To Plan, To Execute, This is only our debut.
They Corrupt, They Profit, They Reep, The bad ones will soon weep.
Across Canterlot, rich hooves began to tremble, and some intelligent ponies began making links, connections that would bring about a change.
Four ponies laughed.
Lame chapter, I know, I know. Next week’s should be better. I get to write some Vinyl!
Edited by: -StapleCactus -Your Antagonist -Cpl Hooves -Frederic the Saiyan
“Cinema, radio, television, magazines are a school of inattention: people look without seeing, listen in without hearing.” -Robert Bresson
Across the thick glass, Planner watched the white mare, her head bobbing up and down to the beat of smooth dubtrot. He smiled, enjoying the muffled music as it washed over him. This will be fun, he thought as he studied the room he would soon be in.
The far wall was made up of a single massive shelf, stacked from top to bottom with records snugly fit into their jackets. Every other wall was made up of complex machines, altogether forming the beating heart of the tiny radio station. Wires snaked to a table with two microphones and a phonograph.
At that table was the showstopper, a gorgeous white unicorn, her magenta eyes flashing beneath thick purple shades as she danced on her seat, giddily awaiting the end of the song.
Planner watched as her hooves and magic worked the dials and knobs with practised ease. Oh, this will be fun. I love it when things are easy, just like the old days. He backed away from the glass just as the music faded to nothingness.
“Hey,” whispered a voice from behind him. Slowly, as if he had no worries, Planner turned and faced an enormously chubby earth pony, the folds of his fat almost touching the floor. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He pointed a flabby arm above a nearby door, one that led into the recording studio. There, a sign with a few missing bulbs proclaimed that the show was ‘on a r’.
Hmm, he’s supposed to be knocked out by now, he thought while glaring at the pony. “It’s okay, I’ll be quiet,” he said, placing a hoof onto his black bag absently.
The fat one fumed, his sweaty coat bristling. “No, you need to obey! We can’t have your voice picked up on the recording; it’s already bad enough as it is,” he hissed.
“Really?” I hate improvising. Planner frowned at him, his expression turning serious. “Wait, what recording? Where am I?”
The fat stallion blinked at him, all traces of anger gone. “Wait, what?”
“Have you seen my bag? The one filled with knives?” Planner began wandering the dirty room, tossing old magazines off of chairs and pushing plastic cups across the once trendy table in the room.
“Stop that!” the earth pony said as he raced past Planner, his back stretching as he bent to pick things off the floor.
Gently, Planner backed away and behind the chubby pony before reaching his bag. With practised ease, he snapped open the bag with two silent clicks and pulled out a shiny metal can of compressed air.
“Oh, this is the music place,” he said as if hit with sudden understanding. “I thought it was the zoo, what with an elephant like you around.”
The fat pony twisted around, face red, before his eyes grew wide. Planner squeezed the trigger of the can and a tight spray of its liquid streamed onto the pony’s face. His mouth opened and he made a few odd, childish sounds before slumping onto the ground, eyes rolling blankly into the back of his head.
The room grew relatively quiet once more, the corpulent pony’s breathing drowned out by the thumping bass. Smiling macabrely, Planner trotted back to the window and stared at the DJ’s back. Almost time, he thought as he glanced at the three watches strapped to his hoof.
Within, the mare’s horn lit up and the needle of her machine scratched off of the spinning disk. With a quick swipe of her hoof, she adjusted her headphones and leaned towards her microphone. “He-he-hello everypony! This is DJ Pon-Threee, coming to you live from Three-Oh-One-Seven. It almost spells ‘colt’! Got some afternoon news for you fillies and gentlecolts...”
Planner shifted his weight from hoof to hoof, smiling like a foal before dessert as he sensed his time coming. Excitedly, he glanced at his watches again.
“...And for a final bit of worrisome drivel, we still haven’t heard from the town watch about these three insane incidents. Guard Captain Shining Armour released a statement asking for any and all information on these dastardly events, promising a hefty reward for any real leads. Really guys, did it have to come to this? I mean, killing?” Within the room, the mare shivered visibly, shaking her head as if her audience could see her. “I don’t even want to repeat that word. And that bank robbery bit. Really? Now I’m placing bits that they're the ones responsible for that cheesy poetry.”
Planner pushed away from the glass and trotted over to the entrance with his bag in tow, sliding the door open with a quick twist of the handle.
As the door squeaked open, the DJ looked back at him, eyebrows popping out above the rim of her glasses. “What are you doing here?” she mouthed.
Ignoring her, Planner made his way across the room in the sudden stillness and sat in the seat across from her. His sack slapped onto the table with a light thump before he leaned forward. “Hello,” he said into the second microphone experimentally.
“Um, s’cuse me listeners, seems like we have a mystery guest. But don’t worry, he’ll be gone by the end of this song.” The mare climbed onto the table as she reached a hoof towards her phonograph.
Planner’s hoof snapped out, stopping a hair’s breadth away from the DJ’s. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Scratch.”
The raised eyebrows turned into glares. “Look buddy, this is my show, so how about you skedaddle before I call security?”
“All your coworkers are... indisposed.” With a nod of his brown head, he indicated the fat stallion.
“Chowder?” The DJ’s lip trembled for a second before she pulled her arm back and replaced herself into her seat. “Fine, I’ll play along for a second. Who are you and what do you want?” She crossed her arms before her, sneering at him all the while. “We’re still on air you know; bet you all sorts of calls are going out.”
“I know. I’m just here to make you an offer. And as for who I am. I am one of the three.”
“One of the three?” she murmured. “Wait! You mean one of the sick psychos that went around hurting ponies? Well, I ought to beat you up myself. I could use the reward!”
“Aren’t you interested in my deal?” he asked innocently, smiling within as the mare stalled.
The DJ stared at him evenly, hesitating. “Go on; I’ll stretch a little,” she replied haughtily.
He nodded. “Your little channel is falling on hard times. You can't keep up with the big boys and their better tech, reception, and advertising. You can’t even play decent songs because of the copyright prices soaring. And yet, here you are, trudging along like a trooper. I’ll offer you something you cannot resist: an interview with me. One of the most wanted criminals in pony history.”
Vinyl snorted. “Yeah, and all six of my listeners will adore that. So, should I go for the neck? Or maybe the crotch? What do you think?”
Planner hid a smile with a stray hoof. She’s feistier than I had accounted for; brilliant. “No, no, Miss Vinyl. You’re on every channel right now.”
She removed her glasses and gently placed them on the cluttered table, her magenta eyes capturing his undivided attention as they shone with awe. “Every channel?”
“Well, all those that count. All it took was some expert planning and a lot of bribe money. All paid for by the local bank, of course.”
“I didn’t even put makeup on...” she said dreamily while staring at her well-worn microphone. The object had suddenly grown much, much stronger, her eyes shone dreamily before Planner coughed.
She glared at him, sitting back down into her seat with a small sigh. “Alright, what’s the hitch?”
“No hitches, no gimmicks, and no trickery. Our goal is to end that sort of thing. All I want is for you to interview me for your very impressive audience, then I’ll be off.”
Vinyl coughed, touched her hoof to her chin, and hummed in thought.
She’s going to agree; she can’t pass this up.
“Alright, I agree, but don’t try to pull anything crazy,” she said, stabbing a hoof his way for emphasis. Planner smiled.
For a few moments, they remained quiet, staring at each other from across the beeping machines and coffee-ring marked table. “Wait, should I start now?”
“Whenever you’re ready, Miss Scratch,” he said with yet another glance at his watches.
“Uh, right, so you’re the one who killed that old pony, and who messed with that bank, and assassinated that rich guy?”
“Not quite. I’m the one who took from the bank, Dreamer is the one responsible for that old pony, and Executor is the one who rid us all of Filthy Rich.”
Vinyl shivered again, shutting her eyes before rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Okay, so you... three? Killed two ponies, robbed a bank, and poisoned a bunch of people. Why?”
Planner smirked. “Wh--”
“And don’t you dare say ‘why not’, or I will jump over this desk, and I will pummel you.”
Planner’s smile faltered. Maybe she’s too feisty. “Equestria isn’t what it used to be. There was a time where everypony wanted the best for everypony else, where everything was nice and easy; nopony had any ill-will. Then something happened. Some got greedy. Don’t get me wrong, rich ponies weren’t uncommon. Luck isn’t always fair and those who work hard deserve more. But these ponies, they were cruel.” Planner shook his head slowly. “They became ruthless. Stealing, corrupting. Five years ago, bribery was unheard of. Now...”
Vinyl watched him, uncertainty in her eyes before nodding. “Alright, so you’re prissy about unfair things and some mean ponies. Big whoop! Couldn’t you, you know, talk to the Princesses about it instead of going all gung-ho and killing ponies?”
“We tried, but the action taken was either too slow, or those responsible for taking it were already corrupt. The Princesses have nothing to do with this, nor do any of those who are just and right. We’re only targeting the bad ponies, those that deserve to be punished.”
“Deserve to be punished? You guys hearing this? So, you took in on yourselves to judge ponies for what they did, and kill them? What sort of sick freaks are you!?”
“Sick freaks? No, we’re just working for all of you.”
The white unicorn slapped the microphone closer to her face. “Yeah, then what are guards for? They’re here to protect and serve, and they’ve done a great job to date. You guys are going against the law, aren’t doing as the majority wishes, and have no respect for the lives of others.”
“The guards are fine, yet they are not perfect. Nor is the law, and the majority’s opinion can be twisted. We had to act on our own and make a statement, something so strong and fierce that any who even considers taking that path will balk. This isn’t in our nature. We’re not bad ponies, we just want justice.” Planner slumped into his seat, his shoulders sagging back. I wasn’t supposed to get so emotional. I need to get back on track; time’s running out.
“Right, well that sounds like a fat load of horseapples. I mean, how did you guys choose who? Why? And what made you tick?” Vinyl shook her head. “A pony’s life is sacred; you can’t just kill somepony like that. And that money wasn’t yours, even if the bank swiped it from their clients!”
Planner sat silently for a few seconds. “Do you mind if I tell you a story? My story?”
She shrugged. “Go on, you’re the interviewee.”
“Thank you. A few years ago, I owned a small business. An architectural firm. Small, composed of people who had worked there for decades. My father gave me the business when he passed away and I took it to heart to care for it. I dreamed of working on the Royal Palace, maybe meet the Princess. My talents had always been with planning and building, and time was my forte. I was never late and everything always happened in the right order. Still, not everything was perfect, and I had to sacrifice a lot of time to keeping the shop open. Even then, we were scraping the bottom of the metaphorical barrel.”
Vinyl yawned aloud. “So, what happened?”
“I was offered a contract. Biggest one in our history. It was a small job, relatively simple, but the pay was much, much higher than usual. I didn’t suspect a thing. Why should I? Ponies weren’t like that.” Planner laughed, a cold and harsh thing that rang across the small room. “I was so stupid.
“I met the pony who owned the building the day before construction was supposed to begin. He had a few changes to go over, even joked about how fast I was supposed to be and how it would only take a minute. It was blatant flattery, but it worked. They were odd changes, adding a room here and there, changing the location of a stairwell and the likes. I did it. It only took a few a hours.” Planner’s voice dropped into silence, fading out as he bowed his head.
“Okay, so what happened after?” Vinyl asked before propping her hind legs onto the table.
“Construction began and ended, all on schedule, the money was delivered, and he gave me a little extra with a quick wink about keeping quiet. I was happy, for a while. Then the guards broke into the place. Narcotics, zebra medicines, potions and elixirs from across the world, all of them with gruesome and twisted properties.”
The DJ replaced her glasses with a quick burst of magic. “Alright, so they did some illegal stuff, and I’m guessing those rooms you shifted around had something to do with it.”
Planner sighed. “Yes, but it went beyond that. My name was everywhere. Every receipt, every tag. I was the one ‘responsible’ for the crime. The rest walked away without a charge, hardly a slap on the wrist. I did get to accomplish my dream, in a twisted way. The Princess looked down at me, a mixture of scorn and sadness in her eyes while they dragged me to jail. I saw that rich pony paying off a guard that day. It didn’t take long for it to click.”
“You got framed?”
Planner nodded.
“You, uh, you need to speak into the mic. They can’t see you nod.”
“Yes, I got framed. Still, it gave me the opportunity to learn some things. About poisons and zebra herbology. Then I made a plan, because that’s what I do. The rest is rather dull.
The DJ groaned. “Nice sob story; I’ve heard worse. But it doesn't mean you can kill ponies, no matter how bad they are! And you’re scaring ponies. For the first time, I’m locking my doors at night and everyone is watching over their backs or murmuring about you.”
“Ah, but that’s not what we want. Our goal today is to send a message, not to those that are good, or who have done little harm, but to those who are corrupt. We would never harm the innocent. Most have nothing to fear from us.”
Vinyl climbed onto the table and screamed at the top of her lungs. “Horseapple! The ponies at the bank never deserved to get sick, and those customers of that ritzy place are all shocked now, not to mention my crew; none of them have showed up yet! How do you know that one of them won’t be scarred or get some weird reaction and die?”
Planner replied, his voice matching hers in strength. “If we don’t do something, they’ll never stop! How many more will lose their homes, work, and lives if we sit on our hooves and do nothing? How many will die when new weapons appear, when violence becomes acceptable and when the Guard’s name is dragged in the dirt?”
The DJ grumbled, tossing herself back into her seat as she mumbled incoherently. For a while, they remained quiet, her glaring at him while he simply stared back, trying to regain his composure. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is the only thing we could do. We’ll never be accepted, and what we’re doing is wrong. But we are ready to face the consequences at the end. Until then, we’ll keep fighting for what we believe to be right. What about you?”
The unicorn blinked. “About me?”
Planner looked around the room, his eyes resting on ripped moldings, falling bits of plaster and a stack of broken machines in one corner.
“Er— right. I guess things aren’t going all that well for us either.”
“You’re on air, and I’m sure your audience would love to hear your story?” Will she fall for such an obvious change of subjects? Regardless, I have said what needed saying. Some will sympathize. Some will hate us. All will take sides.
She hesitated for a few more moments, pushing her shades up along her face before huffing. “All right. For a while, we were the only radio station, pumping out the best beats and slickest songs. Then, it became popular and the bigger companies jumped in and took over the market.”
“...That’s it?” One of his eyebrows arched.
She squirmed in her chair. “Well, yeah. I mean, they have better everything than us. Everytime we tried to sign any sort of contract, they’d swipe it from beneath our hooves. They bought out our customers and somehow, no one wants to advertise with us.” She sighed. “I can see the injustice, but I don’t think that your way of handling it is right.”
“That’s fine. As long as everypony can see the injustice and knows that somepony will act on it, then I am happy.” Planner leaned forward and grabbed his bag with his teeth before tossing it onto his back. “I believe this interview is over. Thank you, Miss Scratch.”
“Oi, you’re leaving, just like that?”
He froze, halfway to the door. “Don’t you have an audience to please?” With wide eyes, the DJ twisted around and started playing with her machines.
“Ah, uh, thanks for listening to us at Three-Oh-One-Seven. Remember kids, it almost spells ‘colt!’ This was your friendly neighbourhood DJ Pon-Three, signing out from our little shack with some phat beats and slick tunes.”
With a sly smile, Planner walked out of the room, followed by the rhythmic thump of bass. He made his way across the waiting room, stepping carefully over the slumbering form of the fat earth pony.
He hesitated at the doorway, taking a quick peek behind him. Vinyl was staring back, her mane curling around her face in such a way that it highlighted her bright, red eyes. She blinked at him, wonder, curiosity, an edge of fear glowing off of her as she smiled at him, a light blush reddening her white fur. “See ya,” she mouthed at him before he opened the door and trotted out.
I think I’m going to miss her, he thought as he entered the room and surveyed it with a quick eye.
A single fluorescent light cast moving shadows across the walls as it dangled from side to side, hanging by a few frayed wires. Two ponies lay on the ground where he was to pass, their chests moving up and down steadily as they snored peacefully, their bodies twisted into odd poses. Water was still gurgling out of a fallen water cooler, spilling across the linoleum floor and seeping into fallen sheets of paper.
Ah, I left her with quite the mess, didn’t I? I should have factored this in. He shook his head, chastising himself before snapping his bag open. Out of it, he pulled a thick wad of bits and dumped it on top of a tipped-over desk. That should cover it. He trotted forward and to the front entrance where three ponies lay in a pile, all of them still clutching plastic cups obtained from the water cooler.
With a final glance at his watches, Planner pushed the door open as he pranced out of the shoddy building.
The Royal Guard arrived within seconds of his departure, their soldier-filled carriages skidding to a stop ahead of the tiny building before unloading. The gawkers arrived moments later, eager to watch the capture of the infamous Planner. They were all disappointed.
The DJ, Vinyl Scratch, was promptly arrested and released in the same afternoon, walking out of the courthouse to greet a considerably larger fanbase than that morning. She smiled, shot a few quick jokes into the crowd, and proceeded to get arrested again for public indecency after highjacking the courthouse’s PA system and blasting her favorite songs.
From afar, a certain brown earth pony smirked at the antics, basking in the murmurs of the crowd falling back into a single debate: what was worse? Corruption, or vigilantism?
Soon, he knew, soon, all those that had worked to ruin Equestria would learn.
Later that day, a few questioned themselves about the brown, bag-carrying pony humming a tune about the Gala.
Ah, not sure how this one turned out...
Edited by: -StapleCactus -Frederick the Saiyan -Cpl Hooves -Your Antagonist
“Never did tombs look so ghastly white. Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funeral gloom. Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously. Never did bough creak so mysteriously, and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.” ― Bram Stoker
Guards were everywhere, yet not a single piece of their iconic white armour was visible at the top of the grassy hill. Instead, the congregation of reverent ponies moved about, murmuring as they marched in clumps between the rows of grey tombstones.
Above, the sun tried valiantly to shine through the overcast of thick clouds promising an incoming rainfall as weather patrol ponies scattered around. Beyond, a gigantic mountain rose, piercing into the skies as its sides twinkled with the thousands of lights from the city of Canterlot. The only other source of light was a round pavillion placed at the edge of the cemetery near a freshly dug hole.
From within her gilded carriage, Executor watched the proceedings of that fateful morning, hoping her simple mission would proceed without a hitch. Biting her lower lip, the pegasus leaned back into the privacy of the leased vehicle. It’s going to be fine, she told herself, exhaling gently in a shudder before resting her head on the velvety cushion.
The carriage bumped onwards along the hole-filled dirt road, sliding into place behind a long row of similar vehicles broken up by the occasional vapour-spewing steam carriages transporting the more affluent guests of the somber event.
Planner spent days making sure this would be okay; all I have to do is walk up to her, whisper my lines, and leave again. Nothing bad should happen. The mare touched a black case resting on the seat across from hers, caressing the object with the tip of a manicured hoof before bouncing as her vehicle hit another rut. She pulled her arm back from the broken contact.
“We’re almost there, miss,” a muffled voice called from ahead as the tip of a chauffeur's hat appeared near her window.
“Oh, thank you, mister,” she said, adjusting her dress one last time as she pushed off the bench and stood in the small area in front of the gilded wooden doorway. The beautiful mare grabbed her black case and slung it over her shoulder just as the carriage jerked to a stop.
A few seconds later, the chauffeur opened the door, allowing a stray beam of sunlight to burst into the dark confines of the cabin. Her short, white mane glowed as she moved out, ducking her head to pass through the tight exit.
Looking around, she spotted a group of ponies gathered near the stone archway leading into the cemetery, all of them circling the noble form of a tall, white unicorn laughing raucously at his own joke. Almost as one, the group turned and shamelessly stared at Executor as she climbed out of the carriage, aided by the chauffeur’s helpful hoof.
The breeze picked up then, lifting the edge of her bronze dress and exposing her curvy flanks to the gawking stallions. With a yelp, the mare twisted around and bit the edge of her outfit, dragging it down while her face reddened.
The nearby stallions parted as their leader shoved through, his lust-filled blue eyes alighting on her form and tracing their way around it. He moved forwards, prancing on the soggy ground with firm stabs of his long, white limbs, his chest puffing out beneath his small, elegant vest. “Hello, milady,” he said, taking a half bow, his eyes salivating over her form.
Executor took a half-step back, blinking at the noble pony. Blueblood’s here? I was supposed to meet him later, not now. She gulped. Maybe I can start that part of the plan now? It will make the next step easier. “He-hello, Prince Blueblood,” she said, her voice almost fading to a whisper.
The prince smiled, beaming as he straightened his back and rose his eyebrows at her in a fashion only he thought as seductive. “If I may inquire, my fine lady, do you happen to be alone at this...” He quickly inspected the somber surroundings, a look of disgust crossing his noble face. “Event?”
“Um, no, not really,” she said, pawing at the ground as a lock of her mane slid in front of her eyes. “I came alone.”
A sleazy smile spread across the unicorn’s face. “Well, I cannot leave a mare as eloquent and exquisite as you around these... brutish guards on her own.”
She blushed, her entire golden face glowing red as she twisted away in embarrassment. “I-I couldn’t ask, Your Highness. I’m not... I’m not worthy of your attention,” Executor said in a whisper.
“Nonsense!” he declared, grabbing her foreleg and dragging her to his side. “Come, we’ll find a place for ourselves in one of the better areas.”
Blueblood walked forwards, bringing the much smaller Executor with him as he flashed a cruel grin at the ensemble of stallions nearby. The impromptu couple marched along the paved steps leading up a hill and to a small clearing filled with the markers dedicated to the loyal guards of Equestria. There, a tarp had been set over a dozen rows of garden chairs, all of them facing a single open casket, the body of Mister Withershins looking serene within, despite the thick coats of make-up covering him.
Ponies in their best suits and cleanly pressed formal dress uniforms milled around the casket, paying their respects to the deceased and his nearby family in quick, respectful whispers. Those words froze on their lips as the assembled party looked to the sky as one.
Above, the clouds were parted and a gilded carriage pulled by two pegasi in dark livery swooped down with Princess Celestia sitting in the throne making up the majority of the stagecoach.
The vehicle came to a gentle landing at the base of the hill, the Princess within stepping out in a single, fluid movement, her long legs touching the ground one at a time. She stood there, looking every bit the powerful monarch she was, as her mane billowed in an unseen wind within the black veil surrounding it.
Everywhere, ponies bowed down, their chins almost touching the ground as they faced their ruler with reverence. Many though, mostly the richer nobles and the rising business ponies, made their bows short, and quickly rose back to a more dignified position.
Celestia nodded to her subjects, allowing them to return to a steadier position. She began the long climb up, stopping to talk to various ponies crowding around her as she ascended the hill.
The princess headed towards the tarp, ducking slightly before trotting to the front and occupying a seat on the front row, right by the unmoving casket.
Other ponies began heading toward the tent, quietly finding seats for themselves as an almost imperceptible clamour rose from the whisperings of the group.
Blueblood reached out, shoving Executor’s side forwards. “Quick, I can’t be seen sitting in the back rows. I must have a good seat.” With that, the prince pranced ahead, his heavy footfalls thumping on the soggy ground as he dragged the pegasus alongside him.
A dozen ponies stared their way, the noble pony looked upon with scorn, while his companion was gazed at with disguised lust. With a bowed head and a thick blush, she marched at his side, casting furtive glances at those watching her. I just need to be calm and relay the message, that’s all.
In the front most row was a group of mares, all of them wearing massive plume and fur covered hats that fluttered as they turned to look at her, eyebrows rising at the same time as their heckles. Their husbands and suitors just smiled sheepishly and watched her walk by.
Blueblood waved at a pair of twins a few rows back, both of whom tipped their hats at him in unison as he found a seat for himself at the far end of the first row, leaving only one empty bench to his side. Executor stalled to a halt as the prince settled himself in the chair, glancing at her inquisitively. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
She stared at the empty chair, then at the pony right beside it.
Through her intricate black veil, Princess Celestia stared back, a small smile adorning her lips as she made the tiniest of motions with her head.
A wave of warm reassurance crawled through Executor’s body before she returned a timid smile and carefully slid into the free bench, squeezing away from the princess out of respect. With a wing tip, she slid her black case to the side of the chair between herself and Blueblood.
Okay, she thought, peeking at the alicorn at her side, this is going too well. Slowly, the mare looked at the princess’ straight back; royal countenance; and focused, disciplined eyes, which almost glared at the open coffin. “Thank you,” Executor whispered, wringing her hooves together as she looked away.
A well-dressed unicorn walked around the pavillion, shuffling a few pieces of wrinkled paper as he stepped up to a raised podium. Coughing, he began. “Um, hello. We are here today, at this somber gathering, to celebrate the life of our friend, mentor, and guardian.” The stallion stopped, batting a cloth at his sweaty brow before gulping beneath the stares of the gathered mourners and politicians.
“My friend, and former colleague, Withershins, was one of the best ponies I have ever had the opportunity to work with. He cared for my loving wife in her youth, and our princess for many years—”
Blueblood sighed, rolling his eyes as he leaned back into his seat and rested his chin on his chest.
Princess Celestia turned her glare towards her nephew, huffing at his lack of decorum and decency. It’s now or never.Executor inched to the edge of her seat, just as the princess turned back to the orator. Gently, the mare reached out, her hoof shivering as it stopped a hairsbreadth away from the monarch’s white coat.
Celestia peeked down at the golden limb, one of her eyebrows rising curiously at the frozen mare.
Swallowing a hard lump, Executor pulled her hoof back. “C-can we talk?” she asked the surprised princess.
The alicorn nodded. “Not now, but I’ll be glad to talk to you once this is all done,” she said in a gentle and compassionate voice.
Executor closed her eyes, a pained expression crossing her innocent features. “No, we have to talk now.” Her deep blue eyes darted to the assembled ponies behind them, many of whom were dabbing at their faces while their shoulders jerked up and down. “And we have to do it here.”
The princess blinked at the sudden order delivered in a shy, crackling voice. “Okay, I’ll amuse you,” she said, suspicion and curiosity inching into her tone.
“Th-thank you. We’re the ones who killed Withershins.”
The princess froze, her flowing mane crawling to a halt as she stared, wide-eyed, at Executor.
Before the princess could protest, Executor went on. “It’s true. I’m the one who... who got rid of Filthy Rich. And we’re going to do it again.”
“Why... why are you telling me this?” Celestia hissed.
“Why not?” Executor replied, her voice still as quiet, yet growing braver. “You know why we’re doing this. You’ve been informed; we made sure of it.”
The princess kept glaring through her veil. “Are you going to kill me now? Am I your new subject of corruption and pitiful vigilantism?”
Executor’s eye widened. “Ki-kill you? Of course not. You’re a symbol of peace and security, and you’ve striven to carry out justice in all things. We have nothing to reproach you on. Some other ponies though, deserve what’s coming.”
Celestia glared at the smaller pony, a firm authority sinking into her voice. “So why did you come? Why are you here?”
“To warn you. Soon, we’re going to act. All of us. And we’re going to eliminate the last of the bad ponies. Hopefully, the rest, those that aren’t yet completely bad, will understand.”
The princess nodded slowly before leaning down, facing Executor at eye level, her breath whispering past the shy mare’s face. “And what if I try to stop you?”
Executor backed away slowly, her gaze turning to the black briefcase.
Celestia reddened, glaring at the unmoving case before returning her gaze to Executor. “You wouldn’t dare.”
The shy mare turned away, her own face blushing. “We-we would. I’m sorry. B-but don’t worry,” she said, returning the gaze with wide eyes. “That’s not our goal here. Don’t worry.”
Subtly, the princess’ shoulders dipped down as she let out a small sigh. “Why... why do you do it?” she whispered.
Executor studied the podium for a moment as one speaker climbed down and another replaced him. The two mares waited through the quiet lull with their heads bowed in thought and respect.
Finally, the new orator began talking, going into a deep and emotional speech that got many to shiver tearfully. Executor chose that moment to lean towards the princess. “My parents weren’t very rich to begin with. Then, my daddy discovered gambling. There were places you could do that, places that accepted that sort of thing. They were growing strong, but we were growing weaker. My mom didn’t have a lot of bits; not enough for all of us.”
“So she gave me up.... No, she didn’t. She just let me go one day. So I wandered Canterlot. Some ponies helped me... most didn’t. And then, I saw my family. They were being pulled out of our... their house by some thugs. They dragged my mom around, screaming at my dad. Then, they started hitting each other.... Mom didn’t live.
“I spent the rest of that winter wandering around, crying, hiding, stealing to eat. Then, she found me.”
Executor sank into silence, swiping a hoof at her face before dropping it on her lap, the damp limb unmoving.
“Who was ‘she’?” Celestia asked.
“I-I can’t tell you that. But she saved me, and I would do anything for her.” The mare looked into the alicorn’s eyes, a firm determination sparking within her own. “Anything at all. We’ll make Equestria right again, one pony at a time.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“We’re not asking you to let us.” Executor tore her gaze away, shifting on her seat as she did so. “You’re the next to talk,” she added as she turned back to the front.
The princess’ head snapped forwards, watching as the current speaker delivered the last lines of his discourse and stepped back, bowing his head before marching off the small stage.
The tarped area filled with a patient silence as many looked towards their monarch. Celestia sighed, and with one last suspicious glance at Executor, stood up and marched onto the stage, tucking herself behind the tiny podium as her hair fluctuated wildly between the netting of her veil. “Hello,” she began, her voice hoarse and tense. “Withershins was a pony I was familiar with, more so than many. In the long years he spent with us, I saw him stumble; I saw him fall into temptation, but every single time, he would get back up and serve the greater good. He always made sure that Equestria was ready for another day of peace and prosperity...”
Executor coughed lightly, pushed off her seat, and quickly took off, flying away when she reached the edge of the pavilion. Blueblood blinked at where she was moments before, his jaw working, before he huffed and crossed his arms, pouting uselessly. “Darn. I had that one in the bag.... I’ll have to get two mares tonight,” he whispered, licking his fat lips as he inspected the nearby noblemares.
The princess finished her speech and returned to her seat. Some ponies shared a quick glance when the monarch got up almost immediately, her horn’s glow emulated around a black briefcase.
The stiff-legged alicorn walked away, smiling reassuringly to any that approached her before escaping to the privacy of her carriage. There, the case was opened, revealing a single sheet of white paper with a message written on it with a complex, archaic scroll.
With a whisper, the princess read the message.
“All our dreams and our hopes from now until hereafter All that we've been wishing for will happen at the Gala, at the Gala This is what we've waited for, to have the best night ever Each of us will live our dreams, tonight at the Gala, at the Gala All we've longed for, all we've dreamed, our happy ever after Finally, will all come true, right here at the Grand Gala, at the Gala This will be the best night ever Into the Gala we must go, we're ready now, we're all aglow Into the Gala, let's go in and have the best night ever Into the Gala, now's the time, we're ready and we look divine At the Gala!"
Nope, I didn’t alter the lyrics, they were creepy all along.
Edited by: StapleCactus
Preread by: Frederick the Saiyan Cpl Hooves You Antagonist and a fellow by the name of D48 joined up this time, he’s nice enough.
“This is what we've waited for, to have the best night ever!
Each of us will live our dreams, tonight at the Gala, at the Gala!”
The Grand Galloping Gala was many things: a light party for the elite of Canterlot and Equestria, a gathering of minds, a celebration of light in the limelight, and the glory of their nation.
I hate it. The thought was simple, yet it rang truthful to the stallion as he walked through the gated courtyard, his briefcase swinging from side to side. Two of Canterlot’s finest stared at him, their expressions slightly curious. After all, it wasn’t normal for a guest to use the back entrance. He hunched his shoulders involuntarily, oppressed by the massive white stones surrounding him and rising to the sky.
A paved walkway cut through the well-pruned gardens of the estate, splitting and forking, but always led back to the massive castle. The thumps of his hooves on the pavement echoed through the yard, the uneven rhythm broken as the stallion took his time.
The curved and heavily decorated walls of the castle gave way to a thick double-door made of reinforced wood. From within, Dreamer could hear the faint whisper and constant pluck of music.
He paused, sighing as he contemplated not only his surroundings, but himself.
A bitter autumn wind found its way between the outer walls and the building that was the centre of the commotion, cutting through his newly-made and freshly-tailored suit, before moving on.
I don’t like this, he thought, a plume of breath escaping him as a sigh. The mere thought of entering the building and doing what he had to do irked him, yet it was necessary.
A solid thunk and the rattle of steel on steel caught his attention, prying his gaze from the door. Three ponies, two of them unicorns, were huddled by the guard’s barrack stuck into the far wall. All three fiddled with a long rack fitted with hundreds of small tubes. Magics weaved around the mechanism as they placed a series of fuses.
The fireworks are here. Brilliant. Shaking his head, the stallion picked up his bag and took a fateful step towards the door, shoving his shoulder into it and trotting into the castle.
Within was a familiar sight to those acquainted with castles and mansions: a long corridor, its marble floor covered in a thick Purrsian rug extending down the entire length of the corridor’s surface, reflecting the light spilling out of scones placed at neat intervals.
My mission is simple. I just need to focus, do what I set out to do, then Canterlot... no, Equestria, will be a better place. He slipped forward, shoulders setting themselves straighter as he walked down the corridor.
The music became louder and he could hear the faint murmur of the invited ponies as he headed to the door at the far end. The gilded wooden obstacle gave way to a twist of his forehoof.
Again, Dreamer paused. This time however, his eyes didn’t idly wander around; instead, his sharp gaze went from face to face as he looked for his target.
A fiery-maned pegasus in one corner was sitting at a bar when a unicorn slipped a fat letter to her, one she speedily slipped into her Wonderbolts outfit.
The centre of the room was made up of a massive line of ponies slowly heading towards a raised platform where two princesses sat. Their regal forms were waiting within the massive forms of two thrones similar in their differences: the eastern side ablaze in glorious representation of the sun, while the west sat in the wondrously flowing smoothness of night.
He shifted his gaze to the centre floor where the line ended and the trivialities began. Hundreds of ponies huddled together in small groups, chatting and gossiping over the sound of the lonely big-band in the corner.
At the food tables, a beautiful slim unicorn mare was sensuously walking around a crowd of stallions whose eyes failed to deviate from her flank for any given amount of time. Her tail skimmed across their coats and flicked at their chins.
Beyond her was a single tall unicorn dominating a harem of mares and stallions by sheer force of will. They tittered and laughed at his queues while fawning him with the occasional compliment. He sat there, recounting a tale filled with innuendo and vague messages while reveling in the attention.
Found you. Now, I’ll make your life a nightmare. May Celestia forgive me.
Dreamer’s eyes narrowed as he plotted a path to his target, weaving around a few dancing couples and jostling through large groups of talking friends. Unconcerned by the cross looks he received, the sky-blue pony coasted to a stop in the centre of his target’s crowd and dropped his briefcase with a clatter.
“Fancy Pants!” he said, elation and joy in his voice as he gave the confused stallion a wide-eyed grin. “I have been wishing to see you for a long, long time, good sir!”
The stallion easily returned the smile, his ingrained habits taking over. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister...?”
“Ah,” Dreamer exclaimed, touching hoof to chest as if he was injured. “Please, forgive me. My name is Dazzler. I’m a... business pony from Manehattan.”
The noble stallion extended a hoof and they traded a firm shake. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Dazzler. I believe you know who am, already?”
The crowd laughed along with Fancy Pants and Dreamer, the giggle immediately cutting off and all ears perked as the two resumed their exchange.
“So, how can I help you today?” Fancy asked, giving a quick furtive glance at his watch, a cue Dreamer didn’t miss.
“Well, I have an interesting proposal to make you, or at least, one I would like to share with this fine crowd of elegant ponies.” Dreamer turned from side to side and gestured at all those surrounding him. “As I previously stated, I’m from Manehatten, and you should all very well know that, other than our atrocious accent, we also have an atrocious taste in clothes.”
The appropriate amount of giggling ensued before he continued. “Now, I know you of all ponies know the value of proper attire and the marketing thereof. And I believe it could be quite... lucrative to talk some more on the subject.”
A dozen eyes twinkled at the word ‘lucrative’, the fact that Fancy Pants nodded approvingly only adding to the disguised glee. “I see. Well, this certainly merits some discussion, especially if you have the venues to sell?”
“I do, indeed. Sixteen locations throughout the region, all of them operating at full tilt. Unfortunately, I cannot meet the demands of my customers, hence my presence.”
“Brilliant! Mayhaps we could meet at a later date?” Fancy Pants asked, an eyebrow rising just enough as a tiny speck of a smile touched his handsome visage.
Dreamer nodded, then wiped a hoof across the lapels of his expensive suit. “There’s another matter I wish to discuss,” he said, pointedly looking at the bloated black bag at his hooves. “One that requires the utmost care and discretion. One that I hold dearly, as do the... ponies I represent. All of whom are very well endowed in terms of bits, might I add.”
The noble pony’s smile faded, replaced by a look that meant only business. “Forgive me, everyone; seems like I’ll have to go for a moment.” His precious harem groaned. “Don’t worry, I’ll return within moments, I promise.”
You might not be able to keep that promise.
Fancy Pants stepped forwards. “Have you a place where we can talk in private, Mister Dazzler?”
“Of course! Please, follow me.” Dreamer twisted around, forcing the crowd to expand and make room. “The Princess allowed me the use of one of her guest quarters. Isn’t she simply magnificent?”
Ears perked and some looked over him with new eyes as Fancy trailed to his side. Bending over, Dreamer picked up his bag and tossed it onto his back with a huff.
“She is perfect: the finest ruler in our land and all we shall ever need... for governance,” Fancy said as he kept pace.
Dreamer led the noble pony past the long line meeting the alicorn in question and into the banquet hall beyond. There, the fresh smell of a hundred dishes mingled with the expensive scent of perfume and cologne, setting his nose afire and making his eyes water.
From the hall, the sky-blue pony bee-lined to a recessed door and opened it, allowing Fancy Pants to trot ahead. As he closed the door, the sound from beyond diminished until it became nothing more than muffled noise.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, deeper into the depths of the palace. The white unicorn clearly grew less and less certain of his new companion the further they trotted from the bustling crowds making up his world.
“So,” Fancy began as they marched through another stone corridor, this one heavily decorated with golden chandeliers and priceless art, “which of my services do you need, exactly?”
“You provide more than one?” Dreamer said, a hint of mocking in his tone.
The unicorn huffed. “Don’t jest; this is a serious matter.”
“One we will address in a private room, far from ears and magic. We’re almost there.” Dreamer pointed with his chin towards a particular door, one whose frame was studded with gems. So far, so good; he’s only mildly suspicious.
Dreamer picked up his pace and reached the entrance first, clicking the door open. “Come on in.”
Fancy Pants murmured a thanks and trotted into the dark room, the light of a single dim candle playing across his narrowing eyes. His horn glowed, further illuminating the area as he found another candle and stared at it.
Behind him, Dreamer pulled the door shut and finally relaxed as he snapped a massive bolt in place.
The noble kept staring at the unlit stub of wax, his expression turning into a glare. “Why can’t I—”
“Magic won’t work here, Mister Fancy Pants,” Dreamer said, his disguise and false personality falling off like an ill-begotten mask. Gently, he slid his briefcase off of his back and walked in a large circle around the room, setting his bag on a solid wooden table. Soon. I have to be tender with this.
Taking his time, he reached under the table and pulled out a small black box, fully aware of the eyes following his every gesture. The box thumped on the table, billowing out a fine dust on either side before Dreamer popped the lid open.
Reaching in, the stallion pulled out a chandelier and a mouth-operated flint that he quickly used, scraping it against its stone to start a small flame. In no time, the candle was lit.
Light flooded into the once-dark room, revealing walls of burnished oak studded with bright jewels and two chairs on either side of a desk. Other than that, the room was eerily bare. “Please, Mister Fancy Pants, sit.”
Brows still furrowed, Fancy Pants trotted across the room, briefly examined one of the seats, and hopped onto it, placing both hooves on the table. “I’ll admit, Mister Dazzler, that this is one of the more impressive setups I’ve seen for this type of arrangement, not to mention the timing of it. Splendid.”
Dreamer smiled, puffing his chest out in pride before remembering the act was now over. He found his way to his own seat, dragging the briefcase across the table as he did so. The sound filled the room and stopped abruptly as he hopped onto his chair.
With two clicks, the tabs on his case popped and he opened the bag, effectively blocking Fancy’s line of sight. “What do you do for a living?”
The noble blinked. “What do I do?” he repeated, appalled, as he glared at the bag. “You should know full well what I do, sir. It’s a simple job. I know things and ponies, and I occasionally help some ponies meet others in order to facilitate business. Nothing more.”
“And the morality of all that?”
“Morality?” The stallion began tapping his hoof on the table top, beating a steady pattern. “I don’t tell my clients what to do. I’ll admit that, at times, I had a difficult time reasoning with myself, but I’ve always slept soundly, not to mention on a pillow made of exotic Griffon down.”
“I see.” Dreamer pulled out a menacing black mask from the bag and strapped it onto his face, expertly pulling the cold leather straps around his mane. He spoke once more, his voice muffled and dull as it passed through the mask. “That’s interesting, Fancy Pants. You see, our goal wasn’t to touch people like you. Rather, we wished to remove the corruption that made your line of work plausible. So, if you'll just cooperate nicely, you'll be free to go.”
The noblestallion shifted within his chair. “Who are you, and what do you want, exactly?” he said. “I rather dislike the way you’re talking to me.”
“Who I am? My name is Dreamer.” He slapped the bag shut, the sound echoing through the room. They stared at each other, Dreamer through the thick glass of the full-faced mask as a tab popped with every breath. “Nice to meet you.”
Fancy Pants swallowed hard, blinking away the fear that made his mouth taste of metal as he quickly composed himself. “W-what?”
“I'm sure you've heard of us. We've been around. Rumours and the likes. You know how it goes. You tend to like rumours, don’t you?”
The stallion threatened to bolt, grabbing the edges of the table even as a useless sparkle sputtered out of his long horn. “Wait!” Dreamer barked, freezing the noble on the spot. “Let’s talk. I swear on Luna’s name that you won't be harmed.” At least, I hope it won’t be too harmful.
“So, you’re one of them? One of those creeps that has been going around and making quite a few ponies’ days miserable? You guys are scum, you know.” A glint flashed in his eyes, one not caused by the burning candle. “But, there’s profit in murder, if that’s what you wish?”
“Disgusting. I actually wish I could kill you.” Dreamer shook his head, the long nose of his mask swinging from side to side. “No, we just want information, on some of your clients...” He reached into his coat and pulled out a list, one he unfolded on the table, the candlelight splashing on half a dozen names. “We need you to confirm some things.”
With a deep intake of air, Fancy Pants bent back and stared at the ceiling, letting it all out in a slow sigh. “I see. There are a few things I wish to know, first.”
“Ask.”
“First, will I live... no, don’t answer that; it’d be too easy to lie.” He sighed again. “In the eventuality that I do live, will I receive payment? Second, what, exactly, do you need to know? You’ve been skirting around the question for a while. Third, I wish to know why.”
Dreamer nodded. “I’ll answer the third, first. We are doing this to end corruption, and the clients you have may or may not be our enemies.”
“I see.” He waved his hoof in a tiny circle, signaling Dreamer to carry on. “And the other two?”
Beneath his mask, a cruel smile crossed his lips as he twisted the bag around, making it point towards the noble. It opened.
In neat lines within the solid bag were rectangular bills, all of them glowing a faint green in the light. “Ten times your usual rate. Hopefully enough to cover the expense of lost customers. We’ll also try not to spill the fact that you gave us information; it might ruin your reputation.”
Fancy Pants leaned forwards until he had practically climbed onto the table. “Very nice—”
Dreamer jammed his hoof forwards, lightly tapping the back of the case as a barrel poked out from beneath the bits. Fancy Pants had just enough time to close his eyes and cringe as a thick green gas washed over his face, sending him into a sputtering cough.
“What... what is that?” he asked as he waved a hoof through the air, swiping away at the clouds enveloping his head.
“It’s the answer to your first question, or at least, something that will aid in answering it.”
Fancy Pants kept coughing as he flopped into his chair, limbs falling limply at his sides. “What’s...?”
“Truth,” Dreamer said. The stallion ahead of him looked up, fear and understanding filling him. “Just enough to make you talk for a few days. Don’t worry; you’ll live.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Dreamer pushed away from the table and began pacing along its length, reaching the end before he spun around and walked back. “I’ll give you a name, you tell me what they do, and what we would be interested in. Understood?”
The stallion blinked, a line of drool seeping down the edge of his lip to slide onto his jacket. “Yes.”
The still-mobile stallion trotted nearer to the table and read the first name off of the list. “Moneybags.”
“He’s... he is ah bank. Works for the Canterlot bank. He likes foals, and accepts bribes,” Fancy said, his head lolling to one side. He began laughing, a mirthless, joyless laugh that wracked his entire body up and down. “You’re good... ah see what y’er doin’”
“Why, thank you. Now, Gemstone,” Dreamer said.
“Ah, he’s a jerk, real twit. Forces them zebra to mine for gems, don’t pay ‘em. Ah, really don’t like em, but ‘e pay’s good.”
Dreamer laughed. “You have an interesting accent there...”
“From countryside. ‘is mah real way of talkin’; ah just hide it.” Fancy Pants grimaced, vainly attempting to shut himself up.
“Oh, I could ask so many embarrassing questions.” Dreamer giggled to himself, then read the next name. “Parisian.”
“She’s clean. Only likes them rumours and wants ta be a big wig. She’s too nice to succeed.”
The masked stallion crossed the name off of the list while reading the next. The exchange continued. Dreamer reading, then Fancy Pants revealing what he knew in short, curt, and truthful sentences.
Time moved on and the candle in the room’s centre slowly burned, the wick melting away at the wax until nothing was left but a stub.
Finally, Dreamer finished. Reaching the end of the list, he crossed off one last name and stared at the eight remaining. So, these are the unlucky few.
“Thank you, Mister Fancy Pants. Your aid was greatly appreciated.” Dreamer spun around, tucking the note in the lapel of his jacket as he did so. “I know it’s rather anti-climatic, but I’ll be leaving. The bits are real.”
The room’s thick door clasped shut with a single minute click, one that quickly faded as Dreamer began walking down the corridor. This time however, he did not return towards the festivities, but instead, his hooves led him into a far less trafficked area of the palace. The smells drifting down the stone corridors were more than enough to point the way towards his destination. Rounding the corner, he faced a busy intersection.
A wide set of double doors were held open as a stream of ponies in decorative livery flowed in and out, all of them carrying laden trays as they trotted around in haste.
And now, for the easy part, Dreamer thought as he sighed and made his way into the corridor. Few looked at him, and most that did quickly had their attentions peeled away by the task at hoof. They had to feed a veritable army of eager guests and nobles.
Dreamer melted into the row of ponies walking into the congested kitchens, standing out in his well-trimmed tuxedo as they jostled ahead. As he passed the entrance, he was assaulted by a wall of warm air filled with a hundred aromas, from the sweat of the cooks constantly wiping their brows, to the thick gravies and sauted vegetables steaming in large cauldrons over open fires.
Dreamer shrugged the sudden thoughts of hunger and thirst away as he walked in. His eyes searched across the room, avoiding the cooking fires and the massive fridges letting out puffs of vapour air every time they opened.
Where is it? he wondered, frustration and stress starting to eat away at him. With a quick shake of his head, the stallion refocused. No, it’s not the time for this. There are only two tasks left, and then my mission will be a success. Finally, he caught sight of what he sought.
At the far end of the kitchen, where freshly prepared dishes were being placed on a long table, was a silver and gold platter covered in intricate patterns. With a sardonic smile, the sky-blue stallion pushed ahead, avoiding the moving chefs and servants as he approached the platter.
Looking over his shoulder, the stallion tipped the lid back, revealing six crystal cups set in a semicircle around a jade flagon, the dark blue of the coupe seemed to suck the very light out of the air as a hundred stars played across its surface.
With a quick swipe of his hoof, Dreamer tossed his note, letting the piece of paper slip to the bottom of the mug, before replacing the platter’s lid with a metallic clatter. And that’s that, he thought, allowing a tiny sigh to escape him.
His job, when he had received it, sounded deceptively simple, and that’s exactly how it had been, he considered as he spun around and began marching out of the kitchen, this time sticking to the line filing out.
Nothing had gone wrong, and that very thought unnerved him. No plan should ever go this well, especially not one centred around a location like this. Canterlot Castle, the last place he would have wanted to pull something like this off.
Yet here I am, walking through the house of our all-high rulers, aiding in the assassination of some of Equestria’s most honoured and powerful ponies. A smile crossed his lips, a wispy thing, flimsy, but with an undertone of determination, as if its owner had the full knowledge that he could take anothers life.
Now, he had only one thing to do: create a distraction.
He rounded a corner, one that took him away from the path used by dozens of waiters heading to the grand hall. A cold breeze twirled through the corridor, basking around his ankles as the stallion trotted forwards.
Dreamer’s ears perked and his eyes narrowed as his hoofsteps echoed out ahead of him. He slowed to a halt and pulled up his lapels, shrugging his suit jacket forwards. The hoofsteps continued to boom ahead.
He wasn’t moving.
At the far end of the hallway was another ninety degree turn, one he knew would lead him outside. But instead of the empty and quiet passage he was expecting and hoping for, it was occupied by an army of guards.
Dreamer’s blood ran cold as two neat rows of armour-wearing soldiers stomped towards him, all of their faces bent into fierce scrowls. At the head of the formation was a tall white unicorn, his sapphire-blue hair falling out through the opening of his helmet. He, amongst them all, was the only one who strode forwards with a calm presence, his eyes noting everything yet reacting to nothing. Finally, the stallion’s cerulean eyes landed on Dreamer, sending a shiver through the assassin’s back.
“Hello, sir,” the captain asked in his smooth, almost childish voice.
Dreamer nodded curtly, stilling his beating heart. I have nothing to worry about; just smile and let them move on. “Hello, Captain Armour,” he replied, giving the guard captain a timid smile. His gesture met stone-cold eyes.
“I was looking for you, Mister Dazzler.” Shining Armour stopped, the six guards behind him instantly imitating the movement with military precision.
Ah, trouble, we meet again. “And why’s that, Mister Shining Armour?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
As easily as it had left, Shining’s easy smile returned, and Dreamer instantly felt the effect of the charismatic unicorn’s charm; he wanted to trust the captain. Hmm, he’s quite the opponent, Dreamer thought as he imitated the smile, gently sitting on the carpeted floor as if he had no worry.
“Well, it seems Mister Fancy Pants has disappeared. Were he anypony else, I would have assumed he had found his way into the cider a little too early.” Shining gave a court giggle, one Dreamer found himself joining. “But I know Fancy; he isn’t the type. In fact, he’s unlikely to go anywhere without a few friends. He’s the cautious type, you see...”
“I do, and I understand the quandry. But please, know that I am truthful when I say that I don’t know where he is,” Dreamer said, his entire body language just so as to convey uncertain honesty and a hint of worry.
The guard captain eyed him for a few moments, never blinking, until he nodded, let out a breath, and turned away, his digging gaze lingering elsewhere. “I see. That’s unfortunate. I’d rather spend the evening with my wife than run around looking.” He sighed, seeming to age at a maddening rate as he deflated, armour clinking as it shifted. “Noblesse Oblige, I guess. Thank you for your time, Mister Dazzle—”
A clanking sounded out behind them, caused by a leather-clad pegasus zipping through the hall, the metal plates at his side tweaking together at every wingbeat. “Sir, sir!” he called out, even as he came to a halt, the long rug bunching up beneath him.
Shining Armour took a half-step towards the pegasus. “What is it, private?”
“We found Fancy Pants, sir.”
“Well, this is good news,” Shining said as his brow furrowed in concern. “What’s the issue? Is he injured?”
“No— yes, sir. He’s catatonic, sir. We found him in one of Luna’s meditation rooms on the east wing, sir.”
And I was almost out of here. Now, I find myself with a new conundrum.
Shining Armour turned his attention to Dreamer, his eyes calculating and cold. “Mister Dazzler, are you positive that you were unaware of anything?”
“I do know one thing,” Dreamer began, gently slipping towards the captain in as nonchalant a fashion as possible. “If you hit a unicorn at the base of his horn, it sends a jolt down his spine. Like this.”
Dreamer fell forwards, his entire body swooping towards the ground until, at the very last second, his forehoof shot out, contacting with the unicorn’s horn with the full weight of his body.
Shining Armour’s head snapped back before he groaned. Not wasting a moment, Dreamer rolled passed him and landed on his hooves on the captain’s opposite side, back facing the disorientated guard. Rearing up on his front hooves, Dreamer lashed out, bucking the guard captain in his armoured ribs and sending the unicorn sprawling across the ground.
The six guards behind him blinked as their commander writhed on the ground. Then, as one, the unit sprang forwards, shouting and attempting to draw the long steel swords held along their sides.
Idiots. Years of training and discipline, but too much time spent thinking of honour and chivalry. Good qualities to have. Not in a fight.
The first guard charged at him, sword held evenly at his side. With a grunt, the pony twisted his head to one side, swinging the massive piece of sharp steel through the air with a powerful whoosh.
Dreamer crashed onto his stomach, avoiding the blow by a hair’s breath, before hopping back up and rearing onto his rear legs. He walked forwards and swung out with both forehooves, ramming hit after hit into the guard’s helmeted head even as the flinching pony dropped his sword and tried to back away.
Slamming back onto all fours, Dreamer sprinted ahead and slid under the guard he was assaulting, aware that two more were approaching him with extended weapons. Heaving, the sky-blue pony lifted the armoured stallion and tossed him into one of the guards, driving both to the ground.
Another charged forwards, swiping his sword down from above and slitting the air as Dreamer dove to one side. The blade smashed into the ground, sending a volley of sparks flying as it hit the rough stone.
The pegasus still holding back simply stared until one of the guards screamed, “Get some help!” Startled, the pegasus flapped his wings uselessly for a few beats before spinning around and galloping out of the hall. At the far end, a crowd of waiters were peeking around the corner, watching the scuffle in awe.
Dreamer blinked, his gaze shifting to the open corridor behind him to the five still-standing soldiers. Shining Armour was grunting and massaging his horn as he sorely climbed onto his hooves.
May Luna save me, he thought in exasperation, his mind running through countless options and possibilities. Run.
His thought was as instant as his reaction. Twisting around, Dreamer’s hooves clattered against the ground, the sound absorbed by the thick carpet as he sprinted ahead.
The guards paused for a tenth of a second before charging ahead, their armour and weapons clicking against their sides as they grunted.
The sky-blue stallion twisted around the corridor’s intersection, a dozen waiters following him with awe-filled eyes as scurried past them.
“Stop right there, criminal scum!”
“Oh, jump off a cliff!” Dreamer screamed over his shoulder as he ran deeper and deeper into the castle. At the end of the hall was a massive staircase circling up and out of sight, the stone steps cutting sharp angles as they rose.
With no hesitation, the stallion clopped up the steps three at a time, panting and blinking sweat out of his eyes.
In the staircase, was an armoured guard was walking down. He paused, blinking at Dreamer and furrowing his brows as he tilted his head to one side. “Do you need he—”
Dreamer bolted past him, skidding to a halt on the steps behind the pony to strike out with a swift buck. The impact thudded against the steel plating over the guard’s backside, sending a shiver through both the armour and Dreamer’s legs as the stallion tripped and tumbled down the steps, screaming as he crashed into the oncoming guards.
Time; I need more time, Dreamer thought as he resumed his flight, taking a little solace at the bitter swears emanating behind him.
The stallion reached the top of the winding staircase and paused, taking a few precious seconds to look ahead.
This, is not where I wanted to go. Dreamer thought as his eyes took in the hall before before him.
Grand. That was the only word he could think of to describe the sprawling corridor before him. With golden chandeliers, vibrant red carpeting, and enormous, beautifully-crafted stained glass windows set into the flowing walls on either side, the passageway was a sight to behold, nearly thrice the size of anything Dreamer had ever seen.
Most impressive was the midnight blue alicorn strolling out of a room, the massive sapphire and silver door sliding shut behind her as she turned, her majestic mane billowing on a silent breeze behind her.
Thinking fast, Dreamer trotted across the room, his hoofsteps light on the red carpet. With quiet swiftness, he snuck behind the goddess of dreams and jammed his hoof into the crack of the doorway, stopping the door milliseconds before it shut. Holding his breath, Dreamer opened the entrance and backed into the room, only casting a furtive glance at the star-studded bed and the open ceiling before pulling the door closed.
The stallion swallowed hard and tried to quell his beating heart. This is mad.
In the hallway beyond, he could hear the muffled sounds of guards as they clambered around. The princess stopped, her long legs stilling as she looked down at the soldiers. Her cyan eyes inspected the soldiers as they bowed to her, trying their best to hide their wounds and panting breaths. “What is the reason for this?” Luna asked, her voice causing the stained glass to rattle.
“Sorry, Princess Luna. A pony has been causing some trouble. He assaulted the captain and fled up here,” one within the group said, even as more swarmed into the hall.
“And this concerns Us how? We have seen no pest capable of besting Our niece's husband.”
“I, I-uh, my apologies, Your Highness; we're just trying to keep you, and all of the guests, safe.
The Princess harrumphed and spun around. “So be it. We shall return to Our sister’s side. We have matters of state to care for.”
The guards bowed once more. “Thank you. We’ll simply inspect the surroundings and be on our way; we don’t wish to interrupt you.”
“We see... do not look within my room.” The guard gave her a curious glance, then looked towards the room, prompting Dreamer to slink away from the crack. “Worry not; only a fool would cross the threshold. Doing so would bring about their prompt demise.”
With that, the alicorn spun around and marched away, allowing the guards to hop back to their search.
Dreamer clasped the door shut, then looked at his forehoof. Prompt demise.
Curious.
They searched. Guards running everywhere across, and then around, Canterlot castle as they looked high and low for a sky-blue stallion. One that never appeared.
The guests wondered at first, then their curiosity spurred stories both tall and horrible about the going-ons of the castle, some running wild as they shocked and drove many to wonder.
In the kitchens, a mug was tipped, a note was read.
The sounds produced by the kitchen were unmistakable.
Plates and glass cups clinked together as they moved from counter to counter. A panoply of hooves tapped the ground in a completely random pattern. Trays clicked into place and silverware sloshed around in great sinks of boiling water.
Planner reveled in it all, allowing senses that had takens years of training to go searching through the sounds and smells and sights around him, picking up every nuance of the room Life, life truly is a wonderful thing. Sad, he thought as he began to move towards the doors, that it is now my duty to take it.
The light brown stallion slipped into the room, ears perked and eyes focused towards his singular goal: a silver platter covered by a gilded dome, untouched by the busy ponies around it.
And again, I am left to wonder about the abilities of the one above. The kind of magic that makes this possible, to see yet avoid an object, is interesting indeed. There’s a powerful hoof at play somewhere.
He picked up the platter, the silver cold to his teeth as he slid it onto his back. Thank Celestia it is on the side of good.
Weaving through the sea of waiters and cooks, the earth pony dove out and into the corridor, his thick and suspiciously heavy jacket swishing around him as he spun to the right and away from the long line of servants.
Few paid attention to yet another servant carrying a tray laden with food. Few would have thought of him as anything but that. Few ponies were ever right.
After turning around another bend, he arrived at a set of double doors, where he was met with a wall of cold air. Planner stopped, and then gently moved the tray from his back to the ground, quieting the rattle with a soft press of his forehoof. Let’s look at the unfortunate few, he thought as his jaw clamped onto the cover’s handle and pulled it off.
As the lid lifted, six goblets and a gaudy mug were revealed; the mug held a slip of parchment sticking out of its top. With a swipe of his hoof, Planner removed the paper and placed it within one of his jacket's many inner pockets.
As the stallion replaced the lid of the platter, a single shiver ran down his spine, one that made his entire body tense and his eyes narrow. Something’s coming, was the only thing his instincts told him.
The heavy double-doors at the hallway’s end exploded inwards, bucked open by a pair of burly guards as a shout rang out. “Search everywhere!”
Nearly a dozen armed ponies rushed in through the entrance. The glint of light on sharp spear-points and a gust of bitter cold wind was all Planner had time to digest before they reached him.
No, they can't have caught on that quickly! he thought as his heart sped up to a gallop. His eyes frantically searched for an exit, some escape from the ponies rapidly bearing down upon him, but there was nothing. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath as the hoofbeats reached his position... and continued past him uninterrupted around the bend.
Planner swallowed hard before wiping a sheen of sweat off of his forehead. That must be the distraction I’m supposed to wait for. The others are doing their work quite well. I must get to my own...
He pulled the slip of paper out of his jacket, unfolded it, and quickly read the eight names scribbled upon it.
A smile crossed his lips, sardonic and lacking any true humour as he picked his first targets of the day. Shifting his back and balancing the platter, Planner trotted through the corridor and out of the still-open doors.
His thick jacket did little to keep away the cold biting wind beyond the bleak white walls of the castle. Nonetheless, the brown pony shrugged away the freezing temperature and trudged onwards, his path across the manicured lawn illuminated by a hundred lights from the building’s windows.
Across the yard was another edifice, this one of a darker stone that betrayed its intentions. With a quick hoof, Planner shortened the distance between himself and the guardhouse before sliding up to the door and knocking.
Almost immediately, a mare decked out in the armour of the royal guard opened the entrance and backed away, gesturing for him to enter with a quick motion of her head.
He complied, a swath of warm air enveloping him as he made his way into the barracks. “I brought you guys a little something,” he announced jovially, twisting his face into an innocent smile.
As his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness of the musky room, Planner could make out the shapes of weapons and armours hooked onto racks and the familiar form of bunk beds stacked atop one another at the far end of the room. In the centre, a wide staircase climbed up to the floor above.
“You brought us some snacks?” the mare asked, exchanging a half-smirk with the three other occupants of the building. “You’re lucky. Most of us just ran out, so you won’t have to run and get more.”
Planner touched a hoof to his chest, feinging indiscretion. “Oh, should I just go back then? I’m sure our esteemed guest would love to drink this wonderful wine and champagne instead of the likes of you...”
The other guards were all sitting around a table, one covered in cards and coins that bounced as they tapped the surface and laughed aloud. The mare blinked at him, her smirk becoming more prominent. “Oh come on,” the mare said with obvious discontent, “give us that, or we’ll have to arrest ya.”
Planner joined in on their easy laughter as he made his way into the room, part of him enjoying the warmth of both the building and the friendship of the ponies within. None of these will die today, thank Celestia, he thought as he trotted over to their table and quickly placed a few cups on it, gingerly avoiding the cards and stacks of bits. “Oh, and I have something for a... Corporal Hooves, a Lieutenant Strato and a... Major Fetlock. Do you happen to know where they are?”
Planner took note of the unease that suddenly appeared on the guards as he nonchalantly replaced his tray onto his back. “So...?”
“Hmm?” the mare said, blinking dumbly. “Oh, yeah, those three are upstairs,” she said, her gaze straying to the weapon racks then the beds for a few seconds before sharply focusing onto the stairs.
“I see, thanks!” With the same jovial grin, Planner pranced away and climbed the stairs, his hoofsteps sounding against the wooden planks that made up the staircase.
Planner felt a familiar revulsion rise up in his chest, the same one he felt every time he recalled the stallion that had ruined his life, the same he felt every time he thought of those sick few that were actively ruining the peaceful Equestria of his youth.
It was unforgivable.
He was going to do something about it.
The murmuring of a few stallions flowed around the large, open upper floor, emanating from three stallions who were sitting around an open fireplace, the orange and red light flashing across their faces and the wooden floor as it gave out a soothing heat.
One of the three twisted around, his rocking chair moving back as he swiveled around on his bench and looked at Planner. “Hello?” he asked, brows furrowing as he focused towards the shadow that held Planner.
“Hello, sirs,” Planner said as he stepped out and moved to them. “I have drinks, compliments of the Princess in white.” With a sweeping bow, Planner removed the platter from his back and placed it on the ground before tipping the lid back, hiding the cups from their view. “How are you fine gentlecolts doing this fine evening?”
The three shared a few smiles, evidently gladdened by the newfound source of alcohol. “We’re fine,” said one that Planner recognized as Corporal Hooves. “Just enjoying the quiet night, catching up on old tales and the likes. Now, what have you brought for us tonight?”
You’re not out there, with the others who are on duty, their lives on the line searching for our distraction? No, you three are here, trading tales of your cruel deeds and crooked ways.
With a quick swipe of his hoof within his jacket, Planner searched through dozens of small pockets before pulling out a tiny vial. Bending down, he ripped the stopper out and discreetly dropped it on the platter before emptying the vial in the three remaining cups. “Here you go, sirs!”
The three stallions accepted the drinks, quickly sniffing them before taking a few test sips. “Hmm, this is good. Nice and cool; refreshing,” the Corporal said as he leaned back into his chair, placing his cup on the top of his large belly. “What was that thing you put in there?”
One of Planner’s eyebrows shot up. He noticed? Hmm, impressive. “Just a little bit of poison to calm your nerves.”
The three froze in surprise, the temperature in the room noticeably dropping. “Pardon?”
“I poisoned your drinks. Really, it’s not the newest trick in the book, but it’s effective.”
Corporal Hooves pushed out of his chair, landing on all four of his flabby limbs with a booming thud. “What are you talking about? What sort of crude joke it this?” he asked, his face whitening in a matter of seconds.
No emotion played across Planner’s face as he next spoke. “It’s not a joke, Corporal. You’re going to die.”
The soldier took two steps forwards, his face twisting into a mask of anger. “Why, I’ll let you superio—”
With startling suddenness, the fat corporal crashed to the ground, his face ramming into the hard wooden floor as he bounced on the spot, the only sound escaping him a muffled oomph as the air in his lungs emptied.
Planner waited a few more seconds, counting to ten in his mind before he finally moved. That was rather anti-climatic, he thought as he went from pony to pony, picking up the glasses before tossing them into the fireplace. It was a little too easy. But easy is good. I don’t need a challenge in this, I only need it to work as planned.
“Why?” the fat stallion on the the floor groaned. His two companions shivered within their chairs, drool and foam starting to pour out of their mouths.
“Why? Because you’re scum. All of you. I’m certain there are more,” Planner said as he slowly picked up the tray and placed it on his back, as if there was no hurry. “Hopefully, they will learn from your example. You can only accept so many bribes before the consequences come around to bite you.
“It’s sad, really, that ponies like you, who have so much, choose to abuse it.” Planner shook his head from side to side as he walked away. “So very, very sad.”
He climbed down the stairs, interrupting the card game of the few guards still in the barracks. “Nice fellows,” he told them with a smile as he walked by and headed to the door. “See you, guys!”
Opening the door, Planner walked out, knowing full well that the ponies left alive behind him were more than a little confused. Just wait until they become brave enough to meet their leaders.
A light snow was falling, much to Planner’s pleasure, as the temperature had raisen during his absence. Without thinking twice, the stallion tossed the tray into a decorative bush, the metallic clatter swallowed by the thick vegetation.
Bending his head back, Planner scanned the skies. Through the thick layer of clouds a few stars twinkled, their faint light just strong enough to discern them from the multitude of falling snowflakes. In the centre of it all was, Luna’s moon, the celestial body radiating like a beacon in the night. A friend.
“I believe some would say ‘come hither, dear.’”
Planner broke his gaze away from the night sky and back to terra firma. Near the castle’s exit, a beautiful white unicorn was leading a stallion into the night, her long tail lightly touching his chest before flicking at his muzzle. She smiled at him, showing an impressive set of teeth beneath her half-lidded eyes. The mare was wearing a dress, long and elegant and made of a pearl-like material that flowed around her sensuous curves.
The stallion nodded, mumbling something incoherent as he followed her around the castle’s wall and into the massive garden beyond.
And so my next target appears all on her own. It is difficult to plan such good fortune, he thought as he began to discreetly follow the mare and her companion. The fresh snow cracked and barked at his every step, even as it clung to his hooves.
Slowly, he made his way to the edge of the marble wall and stuck his head around, eyes searching while his nose flared for any sign of the mare. He caught sight of her in the clean woods, her mane rustling as she bent to deliver the unwitting stallion a kiss to the neck.
Disgusting, he thought as he moved out of his hiding place and began following the tracks they left in the fresh ground. Back bent to keep himself low, the stallion snuck forwards, trying to make as little sound as possible.
As he approached, Planner heard the distinct sounds of a soon-to-be very happy stallion emitting from behind a swatch of bushes. Not exactly what I was expecting to see today. It’s actually rather embarrassing, he thought as he straightened out on the other side of the bush.
The stallion’s tail was sticking out, waving from side to side like an excited colt about to receive a great big present. “Oh, baby, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen!” he exclaimed in a squeak.
Planner blinked, one eyebrow raising questioningly even as the wagging tail hit the bush and sent a volley of fall leaves flying. Well... alright then.
He coughed, the sound piercing through the woods as it interrupted the otherwise intimate moment.
The stallion froze and backed away, his mane and coat standing on end as he searched with wide, embarrassed eyes.
“I really dislike saying this... sir, but I’d suggest you find another mare to... take care of that,” Planner said as he gestured towards the stallion. “That particular madam happens to be a thief and a swindler. Not to mention she’s likely to have some sort of disease.”
“I, uh, I...” The stallion looked between Planner and the mare that was prostrate on the ground in a rather vulnerable fashion. Her dress was split along its length by an ingenious series of hidden hooks and catches, a simple tool to aid her in her trade. “Um... I have to go,” he said before turning around and scurrying away with his tail between his legs.
Fleur de Lys’ gaze twisted from the departing stallion to Planner as it transformed into a full-on glare.
“What are you doing?!” the mare asked as she slid onto her hooves and stomped to him, crushing leaves and branches in her wake. One of her lithe, long limbs struck out, stabbing at Planner’s chest before he could move out of its way.
“Who the hay do you think you are?” she seethed, tossing a long lock of hair away from her eyes.
“A pony who happens to like purity and innocence, quite the opposite of what you are,” Planner said, his voice a deep baritone as he lifted his chin.
“Are you accusing me of something? You little piece of snot,” she said, looking around for anypony else that might have been hidden in the woods. “My work might not be pretty to a commoner like you, but it’s an art!”
Planner barked a laugh. “An art? Really? Rutting in the woods is an art now? No... but I suppose stealing from hundreds, blackmailing and the placement of quick words is.”
The mare drew up to her full height, pulling herself a few inches above the stallion’s head to look down at him. “You, you little piece of... Gah, I’m losing myself. Why are you here and what do you want? Are you one of Blueblood’s lackeys?”
“Blueblood’s lackeys? That’s rather curious... but no, I’m here for my own reasons.”
“If you want to copulate, you can forget it, unless you happen to be very, very well endowed. And I mean monetarily.” With a huff, the mare twisted her head around, acting with full dignity.
She’s rather frank about it, and prideful. Is this truly what Equestria has become? Filled with high-class, snobby nobles and their concubines? Despicable.
“Trust me, I want nothing to do with a dirty wh—”
Fleur de Lys swung her hoof around, his jaw catching the blow as his head snapped around. “Don’t ever speak to me like that!” she screeched. “I worked too hard to get where I am to be insulted by the likes of you. I’ve lost too much.”
And now, you lose your life. Too bad. You could have been a good mare; a great mare in fact, but this society turned you into what you are. This world, and your own greed.
Planner sighed, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a syringe: the wicked needle at its tip glinting with the light of Luna’s moon as he prepared himself. “I’m sorry.”
Fleur blinked and jumped to the side, her flexible and long body rolling out of Planner’s path with an awful sort of grace.
It didn’t matter. Twisting on his hind leg, Planner sent himself tumbling over his own side, head over hooves. His forehoof shot out, and with it, the dart-like needle of the syringe.
The tiny medical tool stabbed itself into the mare’s chest, prompting her to cry out in pain before she ripped the blood-tipped object out of her coat. The mare glanced at the object, then at Planner, who was rising from the ground and wiping snow and leaves off of his jacket. A tear collected in her eye.
With the same grace she had forced herself to show her entire life, Fleur de Lys fell.
Planner stood.
Gently, he walked over to her, examining the beautiful mare as she lay on her side, chest pumping up and down in a broken rhythm.
She murmured something, a tiny sentence that the stallion failed to understand. “Could you repeat that?” he asked in a gentle voice.
“Am I pretty, mommy?” she asked before sniffling.
The single tear ran down the length of her muzzle before dripping off of her nose.
It twinkled once before splattering on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” Planner said, a deep pit forming in his stomach. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Never like this, he thought before turning around, and walking away from the dead mare.
The castle loomed above the lonesome stallion as he slowly trudged towards it, mind reeling between a sense of finality, sadness and the urge to move on and accomplish his mission. I wonder who’ll be next.
As he reached the entrance of the castle, he could hear the faintest murmurs of a single smooth voice from within.
He opened the door and reveled at the warmth that escaped from within to meet the cold fall air. The muffled voice became clearer, until he could make out parts of syllables and the simple, motherly accent it used.
Planner peeked through the long hall that led to the main ballroom. Not a soul was in sight as he began to walk across the corridor, the voice becoming louder and louder.
"...Now please, endeavor to keep the spirit of friendship with you tonight as you join in the festivities of this celebration. Let this night be one of love, of compassion and of empathy!”
Planner shouldered the door to the ballroom open and slipped in, blinking his eyes as he tried to adjust to the change in lighting.
Every single guest, from the richest and most imposing noble to the simplest and lowliest member of the staff. Each and every one of them, regardless of rank and stature, looked up with respect towards their magnificent Princess.
“Let this be a night for all to remember with nothing but happiness! Please, I ask all of you to take this moment to remember all that it means to be a true pony...”
Planner trotted up to the back of the crowd, head low while his eyes scanned the ponies on the stage. Ah, so there you are. Nice and safe.
Blueblood shifted his weight from hoof to hoof, then sat down, a forehoof reaching up to hide a deep yawn. He was bored, the dull emotion playing across his face as his glazed-over eyes scrawled over the crowd. Behind him were two other ponies, both wearing perfectly tailored suits that fit over their hunch-backed frames.
One of them cast his greedy eyes over a pocket watch that he had removed from within his jacket. The other giggled silently at him, his gem-studded monocle falling off of his face.
Moneybags and Gemstone. Blueblood’s rich little friends and a bunch of despicable creatures. And look at them, the position of honour.Planner’s focus shifted from his three targets, to the stage and the multitude of guards occupying it that were twitching nervously.
And they get to live just a little bit longer. I can’t afford to go after them like this. Patience will be needed.
“To remember that no matter how bad some ponies may seem, it is never acceptable to sink to their level..." The Princess stalled her speech for a moment as a mare in guard’s uniform ran into the room with a thick blush on her features as she ran past the other guards and climbed to the Princess’ side before whispering something into the monarch's ear.
Planner wasted no time diving into the crowd, keeping his head low as he snaked deeper and deeper into the mass of ponies. Already? Perhaps this will be a challenge. I still have four to rid off the face of Equestria.
The brown stallion stood back up, trying to be nonchalant. Some of the ponies around him moved, opening a tiny space right in front of him that allowed him a perfect view of the nearby Princesses.
Biting his lip, Planner pushed ahead, bumping into a bright yellow mare as he snuck forwards.
“Sorry, kid,” the mare said. “No time for autographs.”
Planner paused, twisting around to cast a quick glance at the pegasus mare. She too looked at him, her auburn eyes blinking at him before she returned her attention to the stage. The stallion took a step back, forcing himself not to smile at his luck.
“Are you... are you Miss Spitfire?” he asked in a low hush.
The mare rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m Spitfire. Look, I told you, I don’t have time to sign an autograph or hug your kid. Just let me watch the Princess, alright?”
“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I was going to spend quite a while looking for you. I was thinking of saving you for last. And now you’re here, amongst this random group of ponies.” He laughed to himself. “Someone’s smiling down at me.”
Spitfire opened her mouth to release a sigh, one that would have been followed by a berating argument were it not for the coughing of Princess Celestia.
The white alicorn was quiet for a moment, looking out gently across the crowd gathered before her as they stood still in anticipation. With a gentle, motherly smile, she carried on. “These are dark times, and bad things are happening to the best of us...”
Bad things indeed,Planner agreed as he reached into his jacket. But as for whether it’s to the best of us, that is debatable. Leaning to his side, he addressed the famous mare once more. “So, how does it feel, to sink a candidate in favour of another, just because the one has a better family? Or to create a charity only to keep the bits for yourself?”
She whipped around to him, her lightning fast reflexes doing little for her as her mind reeled. “What are yo—” Spitfire began to say.
Planner swiped his hoof at her ankle, cutting a thin gash along the limb with the tip of a tiny blade. Spitfire yelped and pulled her hoof back even as Planner began to back away, his face expressionless as he gave the mare a final glance and was swallowed up by the crowd.
That was interesting, to say the least, and now my load is lighter. Once more he looked at the stage, and at the three ponies on it. But how will I reach them?
“I-I can’t feel my hoof,” Spitfire said aloud, her exclamation lost in the throng of ponies. “And my wings...”
Satisfied that she had gotten her point across, Celestia concluded her speech, "And now, My Little Ponies, it is with great joy that my sister and I welcome you all to Canterlot's five hundredth and first Grand Galloping Gala!"
A cheer went out, every pony in attendance clapping their hooves onto the marble ground and shouting; the sound and vibrations making the nearby buffet tables rumble and the chandelier shiver.
Planner reached the outer edge of the assembly and stumbled out, shaking his head against the oppressive sound.
It finally began to abate as Celestia waved at them to still. “My Little Ponies, let us eat to our ful—”
“I shan’t pheel my whingsh!” Spitfire shouted from amongst the crowd. Immediately, a circle formed around her as ponies moved away, looking at the mare as she stumbled forwards and crashed to the ground.
Air wheezed in and out of her as she panted madly, her hooves and wings kicking out at random. She gurgled, a sound of desperate pleading escaping her even as the Princess finally snapped into motion.
With a sweep of her great wings, Celestia dove over the crowd and clattered to a stop atop Spitfire, her horn glowing as she looked down at the pegasus. A moment passed, then another as beams of the alicorn’s power fluctuated over the inanimate mare.
All eyes were on the pair, except Planner’s. Instead, he looked up to Blueblood and his two companions. The trio glanced at one another before Blueblood said something beneath his breath.
“She... she’s dead,” Celestia announced, falling into a seated position as her shoulders slumped.
A single whoosh escaped the crowd as almost every pony gasped at once. Some began to cry, fitful tears escaping them, while others simply stared at the carcass on the ground and stood, rooted with shock.
Planner began to move towards the stage, using the opportunity he had created to pass by the first of the guards without their notice or care. Just as the stallion reached the very edge of the stage, his hoof lightly touching its surface, the three ponies that were his target turned around, hurriedly leaving under the spurring-on of Blueblood.
They traversed the platform, heads held high as they trotted away from the ghastly scene without a second thought, only avarice playing across their features.
In stark contrast, the ponies in the room were touching hooves to their hearts, crying to themselves or being escorted away by one another, leaving the Princess alone above the body of the yellow pegasus.
Planner turned around and began to walk away, beelining for the same exit that his three targets were using off the stage’s side. Around him, mares and stallions were walking around aimlessly, some of them trying to breathe life back into the party.
Empathy, exactly what the Princess wanted. He looked over his shoulder and at the alicorn as she was escorted back by a group of her guards. Another group was standing around Spitfire, loading the lifeless body onto a stretcher. One of them turned, the very same mare he had seen that day.
Their eyes locked, then Planner walked into the corridor, losing sight of her. Empathy, but for the wrong ponies. I hope with all of my heart, he thought as he marched through the brightly-lit corridor, sconces and wall-mounted torches flickering on either side of him, that some will learn from what has happened tonight.
At the corridor’s end, Blueblood’s tail flicked past the door before disappearing from sight, followed shortly by the door thumping closed.
The lone brown stallion began to gallop, his breath coming in controlled pants as he charged across the narrow and long room. With a shove of his shoulder, he jumped outside and was immediately assaulted by a flurry of light snowfall that clung to his mane.
To his left was a paved path that lead to the castle’s main gate, while ahead of him was another path, one he knew would lead him to the famous Canterlot mazes. Finally, to his right was a row of parked carriages and shiny, new automobiles.
Where are they? he wondered, head flicking from side to side. If they live through the night, they’ll become secretive and low; it’ll prove that they can survive this. I need to end this, and soon.
A carriage rolled around the corner, its tall wheels rocking over every uneven stone as it pushed forwards, pulled by two young and strong stallions clothed in livery. Through the swells of snow around the carriage, Planner caught the faintest glimmer of a blond mane and pale white coat.
Blueblood.
Immediately, Planner began to gallop after the vehicle, hooves clacking loudly on the stiff and frozen ground.
Above the carriage’s gilded baggage rack was a tiny window, one from which a startled Gemstones stared. The noble’s head disappeared, soon replaced by Blueblood’s.
As Planner slowly cut the distance between himself and their carriage, Blueblood called to the ponies pulling his cart. “Go faster you bloody mules! We’re being chased!”
A bullwhip floated out of the vehicle, encircled by the unicorn’s magic. With a wicked crack, it snapped forward and caught one of the pullers on the flank, causing the pony to yelp, and the carriage to jerk forwards.
I can’t lose them, I can’t! Planner thought as the distance before him grew millimeter by millimeter.
The gate was quickly approaching, two towers of brilliant white marble that rose up above him. Two towers occupied by an army of armed guards. Two towers filled with guards who were starting to pay attention to Blueblood’s loud yelping and incoherent shouts of anger.
They watched, all the guards blinking dumbly at the spectacle as it crossed the gate. The carriage and the noble hanging out of its side, waving a whip at his drivers while yelling at them to “Go faster!”
None of them saw the light brown stallion gripping the carriage’s underside.
Planner swallowed hard as the cart hit a bump on the road and bounced up, bringing his head low enough to smell the snow-covered trail.
Gingerly, he placed one hoof before the other on the rack, pulling himself up while using its structure as a ladder.
Wet, soggy slush splashed onto him from every side, matting down his coat and mane, filling the inside of his jacket. Groaning as quietly as he could, Planner pulled himself up another rung, the tiniest bit of light from within the cabin flashing across his features.
They hit another bump, the entire carriage jarring from side to side on its suspension as Planner’s rear hooves lost their grip.
His rear limbs slid across the ground, burning his skin and chaffing him until he forcefully pulled his hooves back and placed them on the rack, one at a time. Biting back the searing hot pain, Planner push forwards and up, carefully avoiding the small opening as he slung his forehoof onto the rooftop.
With a massive heave, the stallion pulled himself up and rolled onto the rooftop, panting madly as he desperately tried to catch his breath and quell his shaking nerves.
Soft flakes of cooling snow landed on his face, instantly turning into sloppy beads of water that slipped into all of his crevices.
“How much did you get?” asked a voice from below him, muffled by the wooden walls of the carriage.
With a bit of effort, Planner turned his head and listened.
"Not much. Maybe a few hundred thousand, and the border-crossing alone will cost me a fortune."
“New taxes?”
“No, more bribes.” Laughter filled the cabin.
A quiet filled their cabin, one broken up a few moments later by Blueblood. “So, that assassination, because that’s clearly what it was, what do you fellows think of it?”
One of them hummed. “It’s an opportunity. We can freely fire any one of the guards and place our own there. Maybe Corporal Hooves is due for a promotion, hmm? He was useful in hiding my, hmm... play room, last time.”
“True, true,” agreed a deeper voice. “How goes that room, anyway?”
“Hmm, not bad, it’s quite amusing. I got a shipment of little foals brought in from Manehatten; quite, hmm, innocent and amusing.”
Planner cringed in disgust as he rolled around. Sickening, he thought as he pushed towards the front of the carriage, bitter wind whipping at his features. Hanging his head over the front, the stallion observed the two workhorses pulling them along, noting the deep scars on both of their backsides.
Reaching into his jacket once more, he felt past sharp blades and filled vials until he found what he sought: the long thin tube of a blow dart. Pulling the weapon out, he brought it to his lips, took a deep breath, and fired twice.
Two tiny darts wedged themselves into the backs of the pullers and both stallions immediately wavered and veered off to the side. May Luna save the innocent.
With the screech of tire on pavement the carriage slid to the side of the road, onto the sidewalk and then its overhanging side rammed into a streetlight, sending magical glimmers of light sparking everywhere as it bounced and crashed into a small shop.
Splinters of wood and pieces of the finely-crafted vehicle went flying in every direction; the cacophony of sound alerting every pony still out at the late hour.
Planner tumbled off the side, thumping to the ground hard enough to punch the air out of his chest. Still, with a valiant effort, the stallion stood and looked around him at the tiny disaster zone before he stumbled forwards.
Both carriage-pullers were lifted in the air, kept there by the long poles that were gripped to their backs. Reaching into his jacket one last time, Planner fumbled around until he pulled out two identical syringes, both of them with the word Heal on their sides in an ancient cursive.
Rearing up on still limbs, the stallion stabbed and injected both ponies in the flank before falling back to all fours. There, that should keep them going for a long while, he thought as the serum went to work, visibly healing scars both old and new.
With a sigh, Planner turned around and walked up to the carriage’s side, noting the massive emblem of a unicorn engraved on its door before he bucked it open.
Within, three pairs of cowardly eyes looked at him with battered and scratched faces. A monocle rolled along the carriage’s carpet and toppled to the ground, smashing into a million pieces of twinkling glass.
“Hello, boys.”
Planner smiled.
Nine Members Of The Great Noble Crowd Watch In Terror
Executor peeked forwards, her long, golden wingtip brushing away at the curtains separating her from the throne room. The velvet drapery slipped aside, giving the mare a panoramic view of the room below, one partially blocked by the twin towers of stone that were the princesses’ thrones.
There, amongst the cornucopia of nobility, celebrities and gentleponies of note, was Princess Celestia. Beams of power arced out of her pearl horn, fluctuating and dancing an intricate weave over a fiery-red form laying on the ground. “She... she’s dead,” the Princess announced.
A collective gasp echoed thoughout the crowd as Executor watched. Tears began to flow freely and some nobles peeled away into small cliques. They tried to build groups of caring friends while staying within meters of the scene.
Guards rushed over to the prostrate body that was once Spitfire and, as gently as they could and with the greatest respect, slid her onto a stretcher. Executor watched in silence as they carried her away, hooves echoing through the hall with a note of finality and mourning. All watched. All but a stallion rushing out a side door.
Soon, the golden mare thought, her dextrous wingtips running along the length of her saddlebags. She took a tiny step forward, her attention shifting from Celestia, who was looking around with wide, uncertain eyes, to Princess Luna.
The dark alicorn surveyed the room. Her fierce eyes travelled over everything, from the buffet in the corner that filled the room with aromas that should have been appetizing to the now barren dancefloor, to the musicians near it clutching at their instruments like the old friends that they were.
The indigo mare moved. With a gesture that only hinted at the dignity that she possessed, Luna lifted herself from her throne and lightly walked across the stage, coming to a full stop at the far end opposite Executor.
Her tail twitched three times.
Taking a deep breath, Executor slid out of the shadows, long, thin legs moving across the marbled floor with a grace that matched the princess’s until she came to a halt at the stage’s edge. “Excuse me, everypony,” she said, her timid voice hardly a whisper in the ears of those assembled.
They kept their mourning or silent vigil over the wonderbolt, some exchanging words of panic and fear in hushed tones and whispers. They’re not listening, the mare realized. The weight of the saddlebags suddenly bore more importance to her. “E-excuse me, please, I request your, your, attention,” she asked once more, this time pitching more into her voice.
Nopony cared. There were more pressing matters at hoof. Gossip to be traded. Fears to be brought to life. Rumors to start and lies to spread. The Princess was in a moment of weakness, and the scent of it filled the nostrils of the upper crust.
Oh, I can’t fail now, too much was put into this. Pulling open her bag, the mare twisted her head around and grabbed ahold of two sticks, both of them connected by a slippery cord. One was a thin canister of metal, the other, a thicker clay body covered in a paper wrapping
The mare chomped on the steel cylinder, closing her eyes as it hissed and fizzled. She coughed and spat it out, allowing the entwined tubes to roll across part of the stage. Smoke rose from the metallic end, then the cord began to glow red hot, trailing along until it reached the solid part.
Here goes, she thought as a slew of explosive pops sounded out. Cringing and pulling back her ears, Executor waited for the noisy bangs to still before peeking out of half-lidded eyes.
Every mare and stallion was raptly focused on the timid mare fighting very hard not to rapidly shrink away into a dark corner to flee from their watchful glares. No, I can do this. For Equestria. Swallowing hard, she began with, “It wasn’t an accident.” Her words perked the ears of all; even the Princess blinked and focused on the mare, back still to her.
“Miss Spitfire was killed. An-and, a lot more died, too. And if you don't listen to me, more ponies will die."
One of the gentle-stallions among the crowd took a violent step forward. “Get off the stage, young lady. I’m positive that the guard would love to discuss any information you might have in a private manner.”
She shook her head, locks of her short mane swishing around her head before settling between herself and her audience, hiding them from view. “Yo-you don’t understand, mister. We’re responsible for her death. We did it; we decided that she was going to die, and we made it so. I’m terribly sorry, but this might not be the end of it.” Executor bowed to them. “Oh, please, let me explain.”
Celestia spun around, facing her once and for all as her deep, ageless stare pierced the young mare. Recognition flashed across her features. “You.... But you said ‘we.’ Explain yourself!” she ordered, her voice like the crack of thunder as it rent the air.
“That’s what I, well, we, wish to do. But only if you remain calm. Much is at stake, Princess Celestia.”
The white alicorn’s glare deepened. “What do you mean?” Her stance shifted as she followed Executor’s pointed stare to all the ponies gathered around her. “No, you wouldn’t dare hurt them,” she whispered, raw emotions of fear and anger laced her voice.
“Pri—Miss Celestia, you have to understand that from now on, you’re not the only ruler in Equestria. We’re doing this for the same ponies you want to protect. An-and we’ll watch over them, and do things that you can’t do, even if you really don’t want us to do them.”
Celestia stomped a hoof into the sleek floor, indignation like fire racing across her features. “Are you telling me that I’m unable to rule? Unfit?!”
Executor bit her lip and looked away, pondering before she answered. “No, not really... sorta. It’s just that, despite everything, there are still things that even you can’t do, Celestia. And we’re here to do them. We want to help.”
“I’ve ruled over Equestria for countless millennia. Sacrificing everything I’ve ever had to ensure the safety and protection of my subjects! And you, you little foals dare to threaten them! Who are you to stand up to me?”
“Just ponies. Ponies with abilities, and the will power to help. There are things you, even you cannot do that we can. Equestria has changed while you were busy. Its no longer the same and we want it to return to how it once was: a place of tranquility and peace.” Executor shook her head. “Some ponies have become cruel. Their views are... distorted and wrong. And we want them to disappear.”
“Then let the judicial system care for it! Let the law do its work!” Celestia snapped back.
The young, golden mare blinked her sad eyes, attention shifting the the multitude of ponies then back to the princess. “You’re too merciful. You... you turn a blind eye to bad ponies, and when you do catch them, they get away with it really easily. There’s only love in your rule, no fear. The meanies and the not-nice ponies, they don’t care about you.”
“Sickening,” Celestia growled. “Perhaps I should start making ponies fear me now? Starting with you?”
“We’re, um, going off-topic,” Executor said, noting the fear and shivering that had caught the ponies all around, ponies who prized dignity above all else.
The pearl-white alicorn sighed, her horn glowing brightly as a ladle filled a glass and floated it over. Under the attentive gaze of all, she took a deep swallow of the beverage before she tossed the cup over her shoulder, letting it explode on the far wall in a cascade of flying glass. “Fine, deliver your message.”
Executor allowed the briefest glimpse of a smile to graced her lips as she nodded. “Thank you,” she said, raising from her bow. “We... well, I, just want to warn everypony here, that, that we’re not going to harm them, unless they hurt Equestria first. We’re not really bad ponies, we just sorta want the same chances for everypony.”
“Is that all? All this for such a foalish cause?” Celestia’s glare shifted from Executor to the curtained wall behind her. “Guards, confine her!” she ordered, voice cracking out like a whip.
Executor understood, a few measly clues falling into place. The Princesses’ wild gesturing, the levitation of a cup with her magic blazing: messages to her soldiers.
Out of the darkness walked a dozen guards, silent as a whisper of wind as they positioned themselves around the young mare, forming a shield for the noble guests. Weapons and magic bristled around them as they prepared to assault her. Their muscles twitched and they shifted on the spot, beads of sweat accumulating on their foreheads.
“Grab her, now!” Celestia ordered.
The guard-ponies snapped into motion, smoothly travelling towards Executor with their heads low to the ground.
The mare was faster.
Twisting around, she dipped her head beneath her saddlebags and easily found a cord dangling there, which she grasped and pulled with a powerful jerk. The cord slipped out from within the sack, whistling as the two materials slid past each other. Then, it went taut, the cord stopping dead in its tracks and leaving the mare standing there.
The guards were only half-seconds away from pounding into her with might and magic when the lapels of her bags popped open, and out of the leathery depths came a great hiss like that of an enraged snake, warning before the strike.
Executor cringed as her wings shot open with a single great bellow, the very tip of her primary feathers brushing against the armour of the nearest guard for a brief second before she slammed both appendages down. Her lithe form shot upwards on the strength of her wingbeat as thick plumes of golden smoke billowed out of her sacks.
The guards skidded to a halt, grunting while their metallic horseshoes scraped against the ground. Executor’s mind flashed with dire warnings, that was too close, and, it’s not over.Young and timid, yet brave eyes looked up and into a pair of ageless violet orbs filled with fear and empathy.
She shot ahead, pointedly ignoring the scurrying guards beneath her as she arched down towards the crowd, thick plumes of the impenetrable fog coating the air around her like a blanket, one that allowed no light to filter through.
The crowd snapped as a gigantic pillar of gold rose above them, formless yet huge as it flashed and darkened in the flickering light. Screams and cries of desperation filled the hall as the ponies ran in every direction, vainly trying to avoid the ever-growing fog.
Celestia’s horn glowed while her immaterial magic tried to grasp at the elusive gases, only to slip between the intangible material. Grunting in frustration, the Princess turned her attention to the sputtering and coughing form of her guard, of whom she could see only glimpses. That very attention was immediately stolen by the clacking of hooves on marble not a meter to her side.
She turned, ears and eyes searching as the gas only thickened. “Where are you?” she asked, demanding to know with the authoritative voice that could make so many quake.
The thump of saddlebags on the ground was her only answer. Executor trotted along, her heart beating in her throat as she was acutely aware of the towering alicorn only a few steps away. One last message, then I can leave, she thought.
As silently as she could—a task made easy by the shrieking of mares and the confused cries of stallions—Executor circled around the Princess, hooves shivering as she tried her best to quell her own panting. “I’m sorry, Celestia,” she said, pointedly avoiding the title the alicorn had earned.
The Princess swerved around, powerful magics rending the air above her as she prepared a powerful spell. A tiny, yellow form appeared at her side, approaching her at a gallop.
The beam whipped down, slicing through the air only to come to a full stop and dissipate in the blink of an eye.
The yellow colt ran on, bawling his eyes out, completely unaware of what might have happened to him.
She hissed, turning back to the shadows with a predator’s gait. “Come on out; face the law. Face me, little mare.”
“Oh, please don’t be angry, Princess; we only want you to rule in peace. It’s-it’s been a thousand years since you’ve shouldered more than your fair share. Let us take part of the burden,” the shadows offered. “There’s no poison here, just the cruelty of their imaginations. We, we really hope that this can be a last warning.”
The princess searched, sought, tried to find the golden mare. But above all else, she questioned herself.
Executor walked to the ballroom’s edge and into a servant’s passageway. Looking over her shoulder before the door snapped shut, she whispered, “Goodbye, corruption.”
It took time, a few opened windows, and the full willpower of two goddesses to calm the frenzied ponies of the ball.
Soon, the guests were heading home after what had been, without any doubt, the worst Grand Galloping Gala to date.
The rumours spread like a gust of cold wind through the streets and back alleys of Canterlot. There was a new force to deal with, a new player in the ever-evolving game of politics. One that had outwitted the Princesses, and whose only goal was peace, retribution and a sick justice.
The moon’s light filtered through the stained glass windows, going from pale and eerie blue to a panoply of colours that danced on the white stone walls like a kaleidoscope of shapeless forms. Within those motions was a tall, shadowy creature, moving from one spectacle of light to another with detached and steady steps that rang across the empty corridor. It was a practiced step, one honed through decades of use to signal both the creature’s stature and its presence: dainty yet powerful.
The guards at the hall’s end snapped a salute as she passed, eyes narrowing as they made themselves rigid; failure was not an option on that night, not after the preceding day’s disastrous events.
She smiled at them, a tiny, wispy line on her hard features, which did more to agitate than to comfort, then it was gone and so was she, marching on and into her castle home. The corridor with its frescos and glass images of long-past executions was abandoned in favour of a bend in the road.
Her study loomed ahead, the heavy oak door flanked by two bat-winged soldiers, and marked with runes and etched symbols of the moon was closed against the evasive torchlight that splashed orange hues about the route. She ignored them and took a straight path to the doorway, opening its cumbersome frame with but an inkling of her magic.
“Good night,” the guards whispered as one, both serious and with a hint of playfulness disguised beneath their tone.
“Yes, it will be,” she concurred before being swallowed up by the study’s darkness.
The moon stood above her, shining like a beacon in the dark sea of unmoving stars. Pointing right at Equestria’s precious satellite was a massive telescope, one that took up the great majority of the observatory carved out of the study’s side. A dusty sign dangled over the device’s side, proclaiming that it was out of use. Between herself and the telescope was a large mahogany desk, one inlaid with bountiful scroll-work across it large surface.
Luna trotted over to her desk and glanced across the heaps and piles of paper with a discerning eye. More work. Papers to keep the bureaucracy of their country rolling along, to make sure that power was being abused by the right people in the right places. She hated every second of it.
Why would she need to do this? Why were some ponies so pompous that they thought it possible to go against the rule of the twin sisters? A thousand years ago, in a land oh so familiar, there were noble ponies as well, but they were concerned with matters of chivalry and devotion, not filling their own pockets.
Blowing a stray strand of her mane away from her eyes, the Lunar Princess glared at some of the sheets. Some were notes detailing anti-corruption plans that were sure to fail, others requests for bits where they had been sent before.
Her sister had ruled not with the iron hoof but with a tender one, and this is what she reaped. Technology had advanced, Luna conceded. Ponies had changed and the society as a whole had grown more powerful. But the utter lack of respect to their leaders was galling. The gaping wounds in the spirits of many would not be healed so easily, and the ideals that had spread were not going to be tamed any longer.
Luna had already lost any chance at reclaiming the way Equestria had been. As she sat on the creaky old chair, older than most of the ponies in the estate, save for two, she considered once again that it might not be a bad thing, necessarily.
Still, some warnings had to go out, and many ponies had to be put back into place. If the gentle, kind hoof of her sister would not do, then another, stronger one would have to cull the batch.
There was still the issue of morality and the fairness of taking such drastic measures, but when one had lived for countless millennia, it was easy to see how a bit of pain now could greatly affect the future.
Papers flew about, pushed along by an infinitesimally small portion of her magic. A pen weaved and waved through them, signing here and making notes there, all in an old script that would give many secretaries a headache. Time slid on, unbidden and silent until a knocking proceeded to emanate from the door.
Luna lifted her head towards the entrance, a dozen invisible shields strengthening themselves around her with nary a thought. “Come in,” she ordered.
As the door slid open, a long, narrow leg stepped out, pearly white against the stark darkness of her study. “Luna, it’s me,” Celestia said as she trotted into the room. Her tone was as subdued as her eyes, hardly reaching the younger sibling.
“Ah, how are you faring tonight, my dear sister?”
The white monarch shared a smile with her sibling. “I’m well,” she lied. For a moment, they fixed one another, gauging and reading the body of the other, as only two sisters could do. “Oh, all right, fine. I feel terrible,” Celestia recanted, finally letting her shoulders and ears sag.
Tossing her pen and papers onto the desk, Luna trotted around to Celestia. “What chagrins you so?” They hugged, wrapping long wings around the body of one another and trading warmth and love.
She sighed. “Last night. Blueblood. That little wonderbolt filly. All these... bloodthirsty ponies.” A shudder ran through the Princess and Luna let go.
“Is it truly that bad, sister?”
“Luna, ponies died. I know they did some bad things, but they certainly didn’t deserve to die for it. There’s no crime that deserves so big a punishment. And it’s all my fault.” She sat down hard. “They were my ponies, my charges, and I failed to protect them. There’s so much I could have done. The worse thing is that it could happen again!”
The darker alicorn stood and circled around, gently coasting up to the massive, ceiling-high bookshelves that dominated the far end of her study. “Celestia, we of all ponies know that some die. Those ponies that were attacked, I studied them. They were bad examples, horrible leaders. Mayhaps it is best that they are no longer amongst us?”
Celestia perked up, a tiny scrowl forcing its way across her otherwise serene features. “What are you saying, Luna?”
“Just think about the harm that some ponies bring to others. As rulers, we can’t let it continue. We must intercede to protect those below us, Noblesse Oblige. What these... villains have done may have been wrong, but we can still use this as an opportunity to protect the weak.” She swept her wing towards the cluttered surface of her desk. “Look at all that. This work stems from a lack of organization. The political machine of Equestria has been bogged down by the rust of corruption and the plague of infidelity.”
Standing tall with a bent back and her hackles threatening to rise, the solar Princess navigated her way around the desk, keeping its large wooden frame between them. "Luna, I, I trust you, with everything: my life, the ponies we rule. You're my sister and confidant and as such I believe in you to do the right things when the time comes. Please, please tell me that you have nothing to do with this massacre."
Luna sighed and tore her attention away from the books and scrolls. They locked eyes, magenta and cyan swimming into one another as the continuous ticking of the clock wore on. “I have nothing to say regarding this, Celestia. I was not the pony to kill these villains, although I do not fully disapprove of their goals.”
It was Celestia’s turn to sigh. Then, she groaned as her entire frame seemed to sag. “I’m going to sleep... if I can get any,” she said before turning and heading to the exit. “Good night, Luna. Enjoy your time. Make the best of it, and please think of the little ones first.”
The door shuddered shut, rattling in its frame. It glowed a deep blue, with threads of magic that snaked across the air and touched Luna’s horn. It was locked.
She made her way to the telescope, abandoning the shelves and the night’s worth of work in favour of trotting around the steel tube. Her breath left her along with pangs of remorse, almost physical blows to her gut. Yes, she was going to hurt her sister. But it was for her own good. Doubt would do nothing at that point.
Walking along the tube of burnished steel, she waited until she found a specific place, one where a tiny etch had been cut along the shiny surface. Pressing on it revealed a hidden compartment, filled with stacks of paper and a single long scroll on a wooden rod.
Back at her desk, she pushed aside the disorderly mess of hated paperwork, keeping only her quill as she placed instead the sheets she had secreted within the telescope. It began to be separated the moment it touched the surface. Sheets with the images and names and descriptions of ponies flew about, staring eyes focused upwards and to the ceiling from within a hundred faces.
Three stood out, placed in the middle of the rest, each with a tiny stack of their own. The Dreamer. The Planner. The Executor. Nestled in the ranks of their soon-to-be peers. Luna surveyed the recruits, calling to mind their deeds, the things that made them who they were. The kindling of hatred locked within their hearts that was threatening to burn its way out.
She was going to give them a purpose. She was going to let those flames burn, not to hurt ponykind, but to cull out the vile from within Equestria.
From a drawer, she pulled out new pages and began marking, in excruciating detail, the events that had transpired those nights before. Her precious defenders were good, yes. But they could not be left unchecked, unaccounted for.
They had witnessed first hoof the weakness and mortality of others; that in and of itself was a danger. They could not be allowed to seek their own justice unguided.
The tip of her quill scratched the last letter onto the page before lifting off, victorious of the deed well done. She huffed and smiled at the pages, content. There was only one thing left for that night’s morbid duty.
A pulse of magical power escaped her and grabbed ahold of the scroll, twisting it about in mid-air and unfurling it above the desk.
On it, a thousand faces looked her way, each one plastered in its own tile with a name carved below. Some, a dozen or more, a tiny number amongst the multitude, had a black cross over their features, and that was her goal.
Lifting the pen again, Luna scratched off half a dozen more, removing them from the list of those needing punishment.
