Storm Cloud

by Mark Garg von Herbalist

First published 14th of November, 2013

After Equestria is framed for a devastating attack, the Wonderbolts travel to the ibex nation of Bernese to apprehend a terrorist wanting to start a global war.

One year after the events of Mare-Do-Well: Regeneration, Equestria is framed by a terrorist organization for an attack against the ibex nation of Bernese. With the threat of war looming between the two nations, Soarin sends in Spitfire's team of Wonderbolts to find and bring the terrorist mastermind into Equestrian custody for exposure before he gets the war he desires. But the complicated mission only turns more complex when the Wonderbolts are stranded behind enemy lines and become targets for the terrorists and the Bernese military.

Starring: Thunderlane, Rainbow Dash, Spitfire, Gilda, and an OC.

Part of the Guardians Project.

Story by yours truly.
Story Development by yours truly and Avenging-Hobbits.
Edited by Cade YYZ.

Rated Web-17: For strong violence throughout, language, and sexual content. All involving colorful ponies and goats.

Have some music

Phase One

Frost Forest, Bernese

On the patio of a three story Germanic manor, hidden in snow-covered trees and a gray, foggy canvas, a lone male ibex with a brown coat, bleach-blonde hair and a pathetically small set of horns sits on an old cushion. To shield himself from the nipping wind, the ibex is wearing a dark turtleneck and a light gray jacket that is below average in quality, with some of the threads coming loose or spots suffering from discoloration. Oddly enough, his hooves are covered with expensive brown boots complete with golden laces and the slim, rectangular glasses perched on his nose hold the same color scheme. No doubt pricy as well.

He watches with a pleasant smile as a couple of red jays sing to each other from their respective branches. A puff of grey escapes him when he sighs blissfully from the sight of the two birds flying off together. He watches them fly gracefully through the trees, still serenading each other until they disappear from view. He lightly taps his hooves against the railing, humming lightly to himself for a minute until the door opens behind him. His humming drones to a stop and he turns his head slightly to see another male Ibex twice his age poke his head out. Unlike the one on the patio, the older counterpart’s coat is near black, his tied back mane is brown and his horns are large enough to curl. The dark blue, sharp suit he is wearing is easily worth a small fortune with its high quality cloth and the neck-tie jewel is studded with a ruby, making his appearance to be that of a murderous corporate mogul.

“Rotes, he'll be here any minute,” the older ibex says in their national language, Bernesenese, in a stern, yet fatherly, voice. To most, it sounds like he is speaking Germane, but a skilled linguist would notice a slight variation in the dialect.

The blonde ibex, named Rotes Leinen, fully turns to the older ibex, an old family friend by the name of Zäh Ausstecher. Though, most don’t call him that since he prefers to be called “Cutter”, a nickname he earned when he served in the Republikanische Garde Ranger. Or, as translated, Republican Guard Rangers, the special forces of the Bernese military.

“Will mama be here soon, Cutter?” asks Rotes in the same tongue. Unlike Cutter, his voice is androgynous- it flows over his tongue like a slow river, not lending itself to one or the other gender.

Cutter nods and before he goes back inside he says: “Yes, and if she were here now she would tell you to come inside before you got sick.”

Rotes chuckles and follows Cutter inside the manor. It is spacious and filled with welcoming rustic decor that has a crackling fireplace adding to the love. All that it needs to become a vacation dream house is get rid of all the armed guards populating it.

The guards are all wearing thick coats and have admittedly sub-par battle saddles clipped securely to their persons. Some of them are sitting around a table, talking quietly to themselves with easy smiles and light chuckles while others are stiffly patrolling.

When Rotes steps in, he rubs his hooves against the welcoming rug, grimacing at the mud getting caught in its rough texture. When his boots are cleaned he takes a couple of testing steps inside, beaming with approval when he doesn’t see any mud trailing him.

Cutter walks past him and orders a couple of guards to take the mat and to clean it. The guards look annoyed by this, but they go without question to take the newly dirtied mat to the basement. After the basement door closes, Rotes walks towards a couch decorated with rustic designs and a quilt draped over the back. Rotes lets out another sigh when he lies down on it. The couch is so soft that he feels as though he is melting into its welcoming cushions. Though that moment of peace is quickly ruined when Cutter sits next to him with the hardened expression that demands answers.

“Can we trust him?” asks Cutter.

“Who?” says Rotes, feigning ignorance.

“The Painter. You told me he came to you, promising us a way to win Bernese. But can we trust him?”

“We have no choice but to trust him. With his help, we can make this country better for everyone.”

Cutter frowns. “But he doesn’t even show his face. How could you be so... foolish... as to work with someone who hides his face?”

Rotes adjusts his position so that he can get a better look at Cutter. “Cutter, we must take risks in order for us to see progress. He has offered us a way to bring Bernese to the next level of civilization. That is what you want, right?”

“More than anything, but his plan -what you told me- it is dangerous. It is risky and fragile, and we are doing what he wants, not what is best for Bernese.”

“What are you saying? You do not trust me?”

“We should not have let a foreigner help us to decide the fate of our nation. That is all.”

Rotes sits up to look at Cutter with a somewhat hurt expression. “Just trust me, Cutter. Bernese will be saved and he will help us save it.”

Cutter looks at Rotes skeptically, and leaves with a disgruntled grumble when a tired, elderly female Ibex wearing thick clothing consisting of brown and green stripes enters with four escorts. She is well into her sixties, each step is a struggle, and only traces of her original blonde coat and brown hair remain in the gray covering her. Her horns are small, too, but upon seeing her, Rotes smiles for joy and is quick to leave the couch to hug her.

“Mama, I’m so happy you made it!” he says as he is gently rocks her in his hug.

She hugs him back and rubs the back of his neck. “Mr. Ausstecher told me that you needed me, and so I came.”

Rotes smiles at Cutter, and he in turn, flashes a small smile before leaving for the kitchen. He looks back at his mother, Ms. Samt “Sam” Liebe Leinen, when she puts her hoof to his cheek and gently turns his head so that he is looking at her. Her eyes search his face as her hoof rubs his cheek, and his smile fades as he looks down, swallowing pooling spit.

“Rotes, what is wrong?” asks Ms. Leinen with worry.

“I cannot say, mama.” he says quietly. He takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to look into hers while puts his hoof on her shoulder. “But with what is to come, you will be safer here. With me.”

“Rotes, I-”

“Please, mama. Just... trust me.”

Ms. Leinen falls silent, searching her son's face darkly once more for clues about his actions. However when he looks back at her, begging with his troubled eyes for her not to push the subject, she nods and looks down.

“Okay, Rotes. I will trust you. But you must promise to tell me why you are doing this,” she says.

Rotes kisses her on her forehead before embracing her again. “I will, but in the meantime, why don't you get a meal? You look tired and I would hate for you to rest on an empty stomach.”

Ms. Leinen nods and is escorted away when Rotes orders her escorts to take her to the kitchen. As soon as she is out of view, he sits down on a cushion in front of a telephone set and props his head against his hoof in waiting. The guards eye him questionably and Cutter cocks a brow when he exits the kitchen, chewing on something.

“Are you expecting a phone call?” asks Cutter.

“No, I am anticipating," answers Rotes.

“Funny. I thought they were the same thing.”

Rotes smiles without taking his eyes off of the set. He knows they hold the same meaning, but he finds himself enjoying simple things like switching similar words around in hopes of confusing those he talks to. Rotes has found that it is hard to confuse Cutter, though, since it is in his nature to observe and study everything he sees or hears. However, even the disciplined ibex is not always on guard and can be surprised by simple things such as a knock on the door.

The knock is casual, but it still makes Cutter and the guards exchange glances while Rotes remains relaxed in his seat. He knows who it is, and he knows why his guards are confused. It is not often one comes knocking on the doorstep of a terrorist safe house like they are selling filly scout cookies. Or, on a more concerned note, how they even got close enough to come knocking without some sort of warning to be made. That part is slightly unsettling to Rotes and he makes a mental note to beef up patrols in his neck of the woods. The next time someone arrives they might not knock.

When the knocking returns, this time as loud bangs that shakes the door, Cutter waves his soldiers forward and they cautiously approach, each risking their necks to give nervous glance to their teammates.

“Don’t be rude,” says Rotes casually as he gets up and trots towards Cutter, coming to a stop behind the older ibex and gently nudging him forward. “Open the door.”

Cutter looks at Rotes just long enough to see his androgynous boss motion him forward again. Cutter looks back at the door when the knocking gets insanely powerful. Powerful enough, in fact, to crack the door.

“For the love of the sun! Open the fucking door!” screams a butch female outside in Equestrian.

To Rotes, it sounds like the visitor is wearing a mask of some kind, and not wanting to keep the visitor waiting any longer, he strolls forward to open the door himself. The guards tense and Cutter swears in his native tongue when the door opens to reveal three griffins in snow covered travel gear. One being scrawny and dirty, another buff and scarred with an eye patch, and a third is a female and a mechanically modified nightmare.

The female griffin is mid-sized, but she also has scars covering her brown body with the majority being at the base of replaced wings and the shoulder of a fully mechanical right arm that is lined with gems and a stone in the palm of her robotic hand. With her close proximity, Rotes sees that each claw is connected to the palm with wires, gears and pistons, and her wings share a similar story. A lot of scientific care and genius allowed her natural wings to be replaced with a robotic network that has the metal bones lined with gems. Her feathers have all been replaced with razor thin blades and her new wings are wired directly to a battery pack that is bolted to two large air tanks. The air tanks use durable tubes and wires to connect to a semi-clear breathing apparatus that completely covers her lower face and has a strap that goes between her eye and connects to another at the back of her head, keeping the device locked securely in place. Needless to say, the cyborg is getting a lot of attention that she does not seem to be enjoying.

“About time,” sneers the mechanical nightmare, who still carries the name of Gilda Grizelda despite her modifications and the fact that she has a death certificate barely a year old.

The enhanced griffin takes a step forward, but stops and glares at Rotes when Cutter shouts and all the guns in the room point at her and her posse. The scrawny one, named Nasty Hick, yelps and holds his talons up in surrender while the muscular one, Grim, growls and reaches for a small, six barreled pistol clipped to his side.

“What’s their problem?” asks Gilda, her eyes narrowing intently on Rotes.

Rotes steps slightly to the side so he is out of the uptight guards’ lines of fire, studying Gilda’s modified body with great interest.

“Griffins are not well liked in Bernese. But you are not the Painter,” observes Rotes, speaking in Equestrian fluently.

“How do you know?” says Gilda with narrowed eyes.

“Because I met him personally. Where is he?”

“On an errand. I’m here to make sure you play your part in this whole secret operation thing you got going on.”

“And how do you know what secret operation I’m supposed to be doing?”

“Because I met him personally and he told me.”

“Don’t let those griffins in,” says Cutter in his native tongue.

Rotes holds up his hoof, silencing Cutter, and his lips curl to a smile as he motions Gilda and her griffins inside. Nasty Hick nearly bulrushes Rotes to get to a fireplace, and the ibexes all backpedal and keep their weapons trained on him as he places his talons as close as possible to the welcoming flames. Cutter rolls his eyes when the dirty griffin sighs with relief from the joys of thawing out.

“Do they have hot cocoa?” asks Nasty Hick with childlike innocence to Gilda.

“How the hell should I know?” snaps Gilda.

“We do have some,” says Rotes, and after closing the door to keep the cold chill out he speaks to Cutter in their language. “Make our guest some hot chocolate.”

Cutter balks at his long time friend-boss-fellow revolutionary. “Are you serious?” he says sharply.

“Yes I am. It would be rude to not to give a guest a drink if they ask for one,” says Rotes calmly.

Cutter sighs and mumbles about him catering to griffins is not in his job description. Rotes watches the older ibex until he is in the kitchen with Ms. Leinen, probably grumbling to her about giving a griffin hot chocolate. Which, if that is the case, she will more than likely give Cutter a lecture about tolerance and being a good host to travelers. However, Rotes does not keep his thought on the hot chocolate situation. Instead, he turns his focus to Gilda and her other companion, the scarred griffin.

“And who might you be?” asks Rotes to Grim.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” sneers Grim.

Rotes stares at him, already knowing that his experience with him is going to be the exact opposite of pleasant, but rather than making a fuss about it, he smiles thinly and turns to Gilda expectantly.

“That’s Grim. He’s an ass,” she says without Rotes even asking, then she jabs a talon in the dirty griffin’s direction. “And that guy over there is Nasty Hick. He’s an idiot.”

Rotes nods, now knowing that working with her will be an interesting experience, and then he looks at Grim and tells him: “You really should be more polite to your boss.”

Grim snarls. “Gilda’s my boss.”.

“And Gilda works for the Painter, who obviously wants you to assist me in whatever seems fit, therefore you work for me as well. So, please, show me some respect and I will return the favor. And Cutter, too.”

It is at that moment Cutter walks into the room balancing a cup of hot chocolate on a tray held in his mouth. His eyes heat the air with hatred as Nasty Hick thanks him and takes the cup, and when Cutter sets the tray down on a nightstand Rotes is about ready to correct his mistake, but the ringing phone interrupts him.

With the rapid dinging of metal bells from the phone, all activity stops and everyone looks at the set up. Ms. Leinen pokes her head out of the kitchen, the guards and griffins exchange looks, with the ibexes wondering who is calling -or how they got their number for that matter- and the griffins looking relieved that someone is reaching out to them. Cutter looks at Rotes expectantly when it rings again, but the blonde ibex stares at the phone as if he is unsure what to do.

“Aren’t you anticipating a call?” asks Cutter, still refusing to show off his skills in Equestrian.

Cutter’s attitude annoys Rotes, but he brushes it aside and takes a seat in front of the communications setup and answers it before it finishes the next cycle of rings.

Rotes takes a breath. “Hallo?”

“Mr. Leinen, I’m sorry I could not visit personally, but some matters came up and I had no choice but to send my associates instead,” says a cold, calculating voice on the other end. The voice of the Painter.

Rotes glances at the griffins. “I understand. Am I right to guess that we will not be seeing each other face to face for some time?”

“You are. But we will meet again in a hopefully timely matter. You can trust Gilda and her companions. They are loyal to the cause.”

“I think they are more loyal to their paycheck.”

“Think what you want, but I need to know if you are ready for the next phase of this operation.”

Rotes nods and rubs his brow. “We are. But some of us are anxious about this whole operation and are wondering if you are going to uphold your end. We cannot do this alone, after all.”

“Phase One for Storm Cloud will be completed soon enough, Leinen. You need to let me do what is necessary, just as I need you to be prepared and willing to do the same.”

“But I need to know if this plan will work?”

“I assure you, everything will go well, but only if you do as I say.”

“But-”

“This conversation is over.”

There is a click on the other end, and once the dial tone echoes in his ears, Rotes sighs and hangs up the headset before looking at Cutter with his eyes slightly lowered. The whole room is silent, and all eyes fall on Rotes as the anticipation for what he is about to say grips them. Taking another moment to collect his thoughts, Rotes exhales, wipes his hair back and straightens himself before looking at Gilda.

“Make yourself at home, Ms. Grizelda,” says Rotes.

At first Gilda eyes him suspiciously, but her suspicion is soon hidden by a wide grin spreading from underneath her breathing mask.

“I never thought you’d ask,” she says.

Gilda doesn’t waste any time sitting on the couch with her talons folded behind her head and her paws kicked out on the coffee table. Even with that breathing apparatus on, Rotes can barely see the smile on her face. He knows she is enjoying the terrified looks she is getting from her mechanical enhancements, and Rotes cannot blame her. If he had steel claws he would like to show them off, too. He finds himself pitying the griffin, though, because of the breathing equipment she is forced to wear, and through her smile he sees a cringe of pain, which leads to him wondering how much she suffes from the objects attached to her.

When Gilda sees Rotes staring at her, she raises her brow and places her talons in front of her, with her natural one massaging the stone the embedded into her mechanical palm.

“Like what you see?” asks Gilda in a cruel, playful tone, prompting Grim to give her a strange look.

“No. I pity what I see,” says Rotes, then he turns to Cutter, puts his hoof on his shoulder and escorts him away from the griffins. He speaks to him in Bernesenese when they are on the other side of the room. “Are you ready for the mission?”

“I am, but I do not feel comfortable leaving you here with these griffins,” says Cutter.

Both ibexes look over their shoulders at the three griffins. Grim is eyeing them with suspicion that rivals Cutter, Nasty Hick is warming his rump against the fireplace, and Gilda is still picking at the stone in her palm with a forlorn expression.

Rotes looks back at Cutter. “I will be fine, but you must hurry. Storm Cloud is time sensitive and our friend is nearing the completion of the first task.”

Cutter is hesitant, but still he nods and waves for a small group of four to come with him, and when they get to the door, he does one last look around before leaving into the brutal cold. Once the door closes, Rotes sighs heavily and sits on the couch, then he grabs a napkin and carefully wipes the bottom of his boot before rubbing his temple with his head bowed and eyes closed. Moments later, he feels the couch shift slightly and a hoof wrap around his shoulder to pulls him in for a hug.

“Rotes, are you okay?” asks Ms. Leinen.

Without opening his eyes, Rotes nods. “I'm fine, mama,” he says quietly.

“Would you like anything?”

Rotes shakes his head, and opens his eyes when his mother leaves his side. He watches her walk towards the kitchen, and when she is in the doorway, he calls after her. Ms. Leinen stops and looks at him, and he sighs nervously and looks down again.

“Do you believe I have a good heart?” he asks.

“I know you have a good heart,” she says with a reassuring smile. Then she approaches him and guides his head so she can look into his eyes and strokes his cheek softly. “And you have your father’s eyes.”

Then she kisses him lightly on the forehead and walks towards the kitchen, leaving Rotes alone in the room with Gilda, her griffins, and his guards. The heavy silence makes the seconds seem longer as they tick by, and when it feels like many minutes have passed, Rotes looks up at an oil picture above the fireplace. It is of him as a child, no older than five, his considerably younger mother with all the beauty of her blonde and brown colors, and a strong male ibex with a chopped red mane, big horns and a sandy brown coat, wearing a crisp, midnight blue military uniform decorated with dozens of medals. Underneath is a folded flag in a glass case with framed medals on either side. He swallows and leaves the warm room to stand out in the cold once more.

Bergstadt, Bernese

“Do you want to save her?” asks the calculating voice of a stallion with a heart as dark and cold as the depths of the ocean.

“Yes! Please, I’ll do what you want, just don’t hurt her!” begs another stallion.

“Then do what I say.”

Those three lines have been tormenting Slick for weeks. Every day after the strange pony in the painter suit approached him and told him that his wife has been marked for death by his orders, he has checked up on her as often as he could. Every time she has replied to him and it makes him feel better. That is until he closes his eyes and thinks about the stallion in the painter suit standing over her limp body.

Slick looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, noting the bags under his eyes and how unkempt his sandy mane has become. Even his wings haven’t been preened properly in the past few weeks, leaving them a mess just like his auburn coat. His whole shaggy appearance is something that he knows his team finds completely unprofessional, but he can’t bring himself to do a decent cleaning with the worry of his wife’s safety crushing him.

Slick turns on the faucets and splashes his face with the ice cold water, trying to get himself to wake up. The splash of the piercing cold water does the trick. No longer are his eyes droopy, they are wide open and his body is snapped to focus. No matter how tired he is from his restless nights he knows he cannot falter on his assignment. He has specific instructions and deterring would mean the death of the mare he loves.

After splashing himself one more time for another boost, Slick is as awake as equinely possible and he shakes the loose water from his face, dotting the mirror in the tiny watery specks. After taking one last look at his pathetic reflection he quickly steps out into the livingroom of the apartment he is staying in.

He and his team are living in a simple abode, and since it is so small they are crowded like carrots in a can. The furniture is light with just a couch, a couple of small chairs, and a table that has a dial radio perched on it, and there are just a couple of rooms, one for the stallions and one for the mares. Placed at a strategic spot away from the window is a telescope manned by an older, chubby yellow colored stallion unicorn taking notes on a zeppelin that is gliding blissfully above the city skyline. He doesn’t even look up to know that Slick left the bathroom.

“Slick, alert the embassy. Tell them the generals are moving,” orders the chubby stallion.

Slick barely hesitates before he walks towards the bedroom for the stallions, fighting to ignore the whispers he knows are about him and the ballooning dread suffocating him. When he is in the room, he quietly closes the door and slumps to his chair placed in front of a desk covered with the necessary equipment for their mission. He stares at the communications equipment in front of him for minute long seconds, then he turns towards a picture resting on the table next to it. He feels himself breaking down as he slides the photo towards him with a shaky hoof and holds it up to his face.

Slick wipes his bloodshot eyes with his free hoof, sniffling, and blinks tears away as he looks at the picture of him and a unicorn mare of red color with a white arrowhead pattern on her muzzle and a streaked brown mane. He has his hoof over her shoulder and an older mare that looks almost like red mare, just that her colors are inverted with a brown coat and a streaked red mane. All three of them are smiling and in the background is a banner congratulating the newly weds.

Slick takes a deep breath and gently sets the picture down so that she is looking away from him, and he looks at the floor shamefully as his body sulks from knowing of what is to come.

He turns to his radio set and exhales before adjusting the dial and preparing the Morse Code tool. He gulps down his tears and stares out the window at the gliding zeppelin, regretting what he has to do. Then his hoof starts tapping the device and a series of dots and dashes sound out to make: -.. . - --- -. .- - .

Seconds after the final dot is typed in, there is a distant thud and Slick's eyes snap to the window to see a plume of fiery smoke billowing out from one of the engines of the zeppelin. There is another thud and flash of light and another engine pops into flaming shards, and within seconds, a string of fireballs roll out of the side of the ship with explosive thuds, flinging burning parts all over. The airship is consumed by the inferno as it dips and breaks apart, and it disappears from view, marking its final landing with a cloud of debris and screams over screeching metal and crumbling buildings.

“What the hell just happened!” exclaims an agent.

“Everypony pack up now!” barks the chubby stallion.

Slick pulls away from the communications set, and mopes towards the doorway, watching his team talk over each other and pack up as quickly as they can in a state of panic. He walks back towards his window and watches a small army of heavily armed local guards pour out of a group of armored mini-trains and storm their building. When a good majority of the guards are inside, leaving the rest outside to block their exit, Slick looks at the picture of him and the mare one last time before grabbing his pistol and sitting on his bed, stroking it with his hoof as fresh tears wet his face.

“We've been compromised!” yells one of the agents.

Slick puts the pistol in his mouth and starts towards the door, trembling and whimpering, regretting everything that he had done and has yet to do.

Once Slick enters the living room, the door is knocked off of its hinges by an ibex in full black tactical gear, and Slick immediately unloads his entire pistol payload into the guard, dropping him with blood splattered on the door. The other agents levitate or grab their weapons with their mouths as a swarm of guards rush inside, guns blazing. Bullets, shouts, and screams echo in the motel halls, and the furniture and walls are painted in sprays of red or ripped apart as the agents are brutally gunned down by the guards. It takes less than twenty seconds for the local guards to wipe out the team, with Slick being the last to expire.

Slick watches, crying and struggling to breathe as he bleeds all over the carpet, suffering every second his pierced lungs try to take in oxygen. He barely hears the guards speaking past his labored heartbeats, and when one of the Ibexes leans down next to him, he turns his head to look at his dead team lying in pools of blood in the shot up apartment. Then he closes his eyes and stops breathing.

In the distance, watching through a sniper scope all of the agents getting gunned down in a quick, relentless barrage of gunfire, is a stallion in a full body painter suit. When the last of the agents drops, he turns his scope to Slick and keeps his crosshairs on him until he stops moving, then he does another sweep and pauses when he sees the guards go into the room. A quick search leads to one of the guards pulling out rolls of blueprints and he points at the radio equipment while an obvious superior walks in.

Seeing this, the Painter skillfully packs up his sniper rifle with fluid motions into a faded duffel bag covered in old streaks of paint, fully satisfied with his accomplishment. When all of that is done, he leaves the rundown room without looking back and steps into a hallway elevator that is far from any window. The elevator closes with a ding and a flash of light appears through the cracks as it slides down.

Two Days Later

Canterlot, Equestria
Two Days Later

The clock ticks to five in the afternoon in a welcoming office decorated with plants and landscape paintings. The curtains are pulled aside to allow the afternoon sun to give a sense of peace for the two ponies inside.

One of them is the mare from Slick’s picture, and she is dressed in a black business casual suit with a white blouse that is buttoned up to her neck with a trail of frill traveling down her barrel. The name tag clipped to her says her name is “Pad”, and her patient is a pegasus stallion with a dark coat and a gray mane cut to a blocky wedge. Underneath the left sleeve of his dark blue uniform is a bandaged hoof, and stitched to his uniform’s shoulders is patch that is made up a rounded cloud with a “W” in the center and three bolts of lightning tilted up on either side. This patch shows that the pegasus holds the rank of Senior Airstallion in the Royal Air Gurad's Wonderbolt Division, and the tag he is wearing is a gold bar with 'HURRICANE' printed on it.

Senior Airstallion Thunderlane Hurricane sits on his soft chair with his head down and hoof gently massaging his bandage. Out of his peripheral vision he can see Dr. Pad smiling patiently at him with her notepad and quill pen levitating in front of her, waiting for the opportune moment to scribble something down. Thunderlane notes how the good doctor’s posture is straight and well rested, and he finds himself wishing he can be like that. Sure he has had his full eight hours, and some extras on days that he can afford it, but ever since the attack on his convoy in Glorieta over a year ago, he has been feeling more anxious and drained. And the nightmares plaguing him for the same duration have not made things any better.

“Have you been sleeping better?” asks Dr. Pad tentatively, as if she were walking on a minefield.

Thunderlane stops and lifts his eyes to look at Dr. Pad. She still has her caring smile, but his attention breaks away from her for only a moment when he sees a photo of her and Slick at their wedding, both happy and eagerly awaiting the bright future ahead of them. A moment later, he looks back at the red unicorn while gently massaging his bandage.

“Yes, ma'am, the pills are helping a lot,” replies Thunderlane quietly.

Thunderlane can see the mild skepticism in Dr. Pad’s expression, but she does not confront him about his well-rested claim, which is an obvious lie since his eyes are heavy with nasty colored bags and his body looks ready to fall apart. What she does instead is write down something that Thunderlane cannot see, but is certain it revolves around him being a liar.

“Have you been recording your dreams like I asked you to?” asks Dr. Pad after she finishes writing.

Thunderlane hesitates. “Yes, ma'am, I have.”

“Why don't you tell me about your most recent one?”

Thunderlane's reluctantly nods and tries to think about his most recent dream, but he draws up a blank and all he hears is the wall clock marking the seconds with its ticks.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. That is all Thunderlane can focus on despite his attempts to search his brain for details of the kind of Hell he got stuck in for eight hours. He wants to think, but every passing tick and tock makes him flinch slightly in his spot, every second that the clock marks sends a jolt through him that leaves him trembling and his mind more clouded with haze.

Tick. Tock. Slide. Lock. The ticking clock sounds less like an instrument of time and more like a weapon loading up to fire, ready to take the life of anyone too slow or too stupid to avoid it.

Thunderlane keeps his focus on his bandages, mouth dry and hoof shaking as it goes up and down the rough bandages. His hoof throbs and his heart thumps in his ears. All he hears is the parts to his single shot battle sliding in place and the rounds going in the chamber, ready to take everything and break a family for the survival of his team and his country.

Tick. Tock. Slide and lock the parts in place.

Tick. Tock. Slide and lock on to the target.

Tick. Tock. Slide and lock, aim and-

BANG!

Thunderlane’s eyes snap up to the hanging clock with a skipped heartbeat and sees that the time has just turned to 5:05 in the afternoon.

“We just reached Glorieta. Time is seventeen oh five. We need to pick up the pace.”

Spitfire's final words before a bomb detonates under a manhole and kills half a dozen soldiers in one go and a sniper almost kills Fire Streak. More explosions, more flying shrapnel and debris, more lives taken, more families broken. 5:05 has not ended and already nearly two dozen soldiers are injured or dead, nearly two dozen families that will have to see their fathers and sons buried.

Tick. Tock. Crack. Pop! Gunfire replaces the clock.

Thunderlane's heart feels ready to pop as it beats faster in his chest, wanting to get out, wanting to escape the torment. He knows he is not in a warzone, and everyone, from Spitfire to Rainbow Dash, and his brother and parents, has been telling him for many weeks that he is safe.

But Glorieta was supposed to be safe, and yet so many died on its streets. So many crippled. So many hurt in the blood they lay in, trying to call for help.

The screams and blood, they stick to him on constant replay. The flying rubble and barrage of hot lead ripping past armor and skin is as real and new as that day. He cannot escape the screams; the gunfire; the flames; the fear.

Tick. Tock. Fwump. BOOM!

Thunderlane pauses his strokes. His whole body shakes and his breathing is shallow while his eyes remain large and unfocused.

That final explosion of the day, that green wave of magical energy and sonic screech returns to haunt his ears and plague his memories with the surge of crumbling debris knocking and Rainbow Dash back. He can hear and feel everything, from the pain in his ears all the way to the bits of broken road bouncing off of his suit. He should have been crippled like Rainbow Dash. His wing should have been broken or sprained, he should not have been able to walk, much less stand, but still he did. And he still could not protect Rainbow Dash from the Painter.

He tries to tell himself that Rainbow Dash is safe now, he is safe, and so is his team. He wants to believe that they are safe... but Glorieta was supposed to be safe and now the town is destroyed.

The time is now 5:06. Thunderlane’s eyes break free from the clock and sees Dr. Pad scribbling something on her pad. Her pen is frantic and his body remains tense and shaking in his seat. He only realizes that he is sweating when a thick bead of salty water rolls down his forehead, and when he wipes the bead away, he sniffles and blinks, which clouds his vision. In a silent fit of panic, he quickly wipes his eyes and nose and keeps his head down as far as it can go in the hopes that Dr. Pad does not see this display of weakness.

“Thunderlane, are you okay?” asks Dr. Pad.

Thunderlane nods his head quickly. “I'm fine, ma'am,” he says in a low mumble.

“No you're not. What's on your mind?”

Thunderlane keeps his head down and resumes stroking his bandaged hoof with his uninjured one. He is back to shaking and a tug of war goes in his mind about how he should play this out. Should he remain silent or give her something to poke at for what remains of their hour long session?

“What's wrong, Thunderlane?” asks Dr. Pad.

Thunderlane waits for a few seconds to make a verdict on what course he should take, and when that verdict is made, he looks at his psychiatrist without lifting his head.

“I can't escape my nightmares,” says Thunderlane pathetically.

Dr. Pad leans forward with the weight of concern clear in her expression, and Thunderlane averts his eyes to rub his bandaged hoof again.

“The nightmares are back?” she asks.

The nightmares never went away from Thunderlane, but still he nods and watches in self-loathing of his breaking defense as his psychiatrist writes on her pad.

“Are they the same kind of nightmares?” asks Dr. Pad with concern.

Thunderlane swallows, doing his best to keep his eyes from misting over. “Sometimes I’m a puppet, other times I am hurting myself just so I can see if I’m alive, and sometimes I’m just nopony.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Thunderlane looks down, wanting to snap at her and tell her that she is the doctor, she needs to figure it out instead of letting the patient do the work, but he does not lash out because he knows that is what she has been trained to do.

“Emotions are dangerous. They can get the best of you if you aren’t careful,” is something that Thunderlane’s father has told him countless times. Mostly when he was just a colt without a cutie mark and prone to tantrums. Anger leads to poor words and regrettable actions; sadness and disappointment hinder motivation; and too much happiness will make you into a fool. Emotions must be controlled with the utmost diligence. That is the Hurricane way.

“It’s okay to cry, Thunderlane,” assures Dr. Pad.

Thunderlane keeps his eyes on his bandage, though. A part of him wants to let it out, to scream at the madness that has haunted him since the pony in the painter suit nearly killed everyone a year back, but he wills himself to stay quiet, no matter how painful it is.

“It is okay to grab a pillow and just scream,” says Dr. Pad, her voice soft and comforting. “Just scream and let it all out. I know you want to. I can see it. I've been seeing it ever since we had our first appointment. Everything you have inside, all that fear and sadness and doubt, it wants to come out but you aren't letting it, and I think that is why you are having these nightmares and distancing yourself. You doubt yourself so much and are so afraid of failure that you take the only way you see out. Isolation. But out of that isolation, you are burdened with a sadness, and that fear and doubt you have is what is keeping that sadness strong. I want to help you out of this, Thunderlane, I really do.”

Her soft spiel has left Thunderlane's heart and lungs feeling as though a set of knives have plunged into them and are slowly twisting to get the most pain possible. He looks away to avoid showing his crumbling defense.

“Will you let me help you?” asks Dr. Pad.

Thunderlane looks at her, blinking the mist out of his eyes, but silently refusing to speak. The wet lump in his throat is choking him, but rather than taking a breath and risking tears or a whimper, he swallows it whole.

With his silence, Dr. Pad sighs leans back in her cushioned seat and stares at Thunderlane sympathetically. Thunderlane, in turn, looks down, feeling ashamed for the disappointment he knows he caused, but the silence remains. He looks up again when he sees a box of tissue levitating in front of him, he shakes his head and politely declines, and she gently sets it back on her desk.

Silence comes between them again.

“Why don’t you tell me about your most recent nightmare?” suggests Dr. Pad a moment later. “I know you want to talk, and you can tell me. I promise I won't tell anypony.”

The seconds tick on by, and finally Thunderlane nods and chews on his lip with his head tilted down as he once again puts the pieces of his unpleasant sleeping experience together.

But even when he has the puzzle solved, he is still hesitant to talk. He only talks when his psychiatrist nods encouragingly after he looks up at her with pathetic puppy eyes and drooped ears.

“In my dream, I was looking in my bathroom mirror after I got out of work...” mumbles Thunderlane nervously, “but it wasn't me who I was seeing.”

“Who did you see?” asks Dr. Pad curiously.

“My dad.”

“Really?”

Thunderlane nods. “But the thing is, I didn't care. I didn't even skip a beat or... or scream or do anything. I just accepted it and went to my room, and then I saw another reflection in my bedroom mirror, but this time it was my mom.”

Thunderlane keeps his eyes on his hoof, which is now throbbing like a beating heart, and he tries to keep it comforted with his gentle strokes, but it isn't working. Everything fades around him, leaving just him, his lingering voice, and his injury.

“The whole apartment had mirrors everywhere,” continues Thunderlane distantly. “I just couldn't escape the reflections that weren't mine, but I wasn't scared. Or angry. Or sad. I was accepting of it. I probably passed every mirror in my apartment and not one mirror had my reflection. Not. One.”

Thunderlane's eyes glide up once more to look at Dr. Pad, and he watches her scribble furiously on her pad. He then glances to the pictures of her and Slick in various fun scenarios, such as fairs and plays, and restaurants and picnics. Thunderlane doesn't realize that Dr. Pad has stopped writing since he is is completely entranced by the joyful smiles. He finds a bitter-sweet emotion seeping in from seeing the happiness that is always out of his reach.

“Thunderlane, are you alright?” asks Dr. Pad.

Thunderlane snaps back to the psychiatrist, his mind once again going back to reality. He nods and she gently asks him if there is anymore to his dream, which sends an uneasy tingle up his spine. He momentarily strokes his injury before taking another breath and continuing with his story.

“When I went into my living room, in my dream, I found a photo album I had never seen before,” continues Thunderlane. “I opened it up and started going through the pages. I saw me, Rumble, and Mom and Dad together like how a family is supposed to be, but I wasn't there. I mean, I was there, but... wasn't.”

“What do you mean?” asks Dr. Pad carefully.

Thunderlane swallows a lump in his throat. “I had no face.”

He looks at Dr. Pad, watching her scribble on the parchment in furious strokes. He has a pretty good idea of what she is writing, but despite that, he continues talking.

“When I woke up, I was shaking and cry-” Thunderlane stops himself suddenly and looks down at the carpet shamefully, rubbing the gauze wrapped around his hoof. “I broke my mirror and threw it out. I told Rumble that it fell, but I think he knows that I broke it and not the floor.”

Dr. Pad writes another quick note. “Can you tell me about the your other nightmares?”

Thunderlane keeps his head down and continues rubbing his sore hoof in long strokes. While doing this, Dr. Pad patiently scribbles down more notes, waiting patiently for him to continue.

Time doesn't seem to move for Thunderlane. Everything becomes static, and even though he can hear Dr. Pad calling him, he still keeps his eyes down with his only form of acknowledgment being the twitch of his ear. When he is called again, Thunderlane stops rubbing his injured hoof and slowly lifts his head. He looks at her for an agonizingly long five seconds before speaking again.

“What do you know of numerology?” he asks meekly.

A couple of hours later, Thunderlane steps inside his apartment, marked 505, dazed and ready to pass out. His steps are sluggish and his brain barely has the capacity to open the door. When he hangs up his keys, he looks at the mirror above the key ring and frowns at his pathetic state. His charcoal coat has gray bags under his eyes and his mane is disheveled to where strands are down in front of his eyes. He doesn't look like a soldier. He looks like a bum in a uniform.

Sighing, he walks in his living room, which is also messy, and notices that Rumble is reading and lying on the couch with half of his chunky body covered in a plaid blanket. The dial radio on the take-out container covered nightstand has been turned up too loud for Thunderlane's liking and is broadcasting a talk show rather than playing music. He does not mind the broadcasting, though. He actually prefers it over the music that Rumble likes listening to, but since there is not attention being put to it, it is just a waste of electricity.

“...We need to face the facts, and the facts are saying that the warmongers would rather break apart families than find a peaceful solution to the crisis facing Bernese and Equestria!” says a hyper stallion over the radio. “War is not -nor should it ever be- an option. The event was tragic, but we cannot go around shooting-”

Thunderlane turns off the radio with a nearly unheard click, and Rumble barely acknowledges him with a flick of his ear.

“I was listening to that.” Grumbles Rumble without taking his eyes off of his book.

Thunderlane is about to make a quirky remark, but when he walks past Rumble, he sees his younger brother is not reading a real book, but a comic book instead. It has the famous Trixie in her Mare-Do-Well costume without her helmet on, striking a guarded, yet alluring, pose with the villain behind her in the shadows and slimy tentacles rising around her. The title is: Mare-Do-Well and the Attack of the Goo Monster. Below is the rating and the printer, which is 'XXX' and made by a printing press called Sinful Joys Press.

Thunderlane shudders, now realizing why his brother has a blanket covering just the lower half of his body, and makes a mental note to give that particular blanket to Rumble. He turns away from Rumble and rubs his eyes in a vain attempt to think about something other than what his brother is doing in the public area of their apartment.

“Where did you get that?” asks Thunderlane, his eyes still covered by his hoof.

“Charlie,” replies Rumble bluntly.

“Who the heck is Charlie?”

“He's that new unicorn down the hall. He's kinda cool, but I think his brothers are on drugs or something. They're weird.”

Thunderlane shakes his head and goes into his dimly lit room to free himself from his Wonderbolt uniform. Most would not be impressed with the minimal possessions he has in his room, for all he really owns is a bed, a dresser with a blank spot where his mirror should be, and a closet packed with neatly hung uniforms. The bed has yet to be made and a small layer of dirty clothes and garbage litter the floor, including a lot of cut up newspapers, magazines and empty tape and glue containers. On his dresser is a pair of scissors- which he absolutely hates using since they are unfriendly to non-unicorns- and a notebook with 505 NOTES written in bold, black permanent marker.

Thunderlane closes his door behind him with a halfhearted mule-kick and drags his hooves against the floor. He goes to carefully remove his uniform and buttons with sluggish motions and drops them in a hamper marked Dry Cleaners, which is located in his closet where three more spare uniforms hang, tightly pressed and ready for wear.

Thunderlane slides his closet door shut and goes over to his notebook. His hoof glides over its smooth cover and he almost has half a mind to open it and have a look at its contents, but decides to get something to eat. He has nothing new to glue in, anyway.

When Thunderlane steps back into the living room he is not in the least bit surprised that Rumble has yet to move from his spot. He wants to say something to Rumble, like “Go to your room if you're going to read porn” or “We have a bathroom for a reason”, but he chooses to stay quiet and go to his kitchenette, instead. He picks up the pace when Rumble grins from ear to ear and giggles with one hoof holding the porn book closer and his other going under the blanket.

Thunderlane frowns at Rumble for only a moment before he puts his attention to a pile of home delivery menus sitting on the counter. The majority of the menus are pizza related, but there are a few salads and fish meals as well.

“What do you want to eat?” asks Thunderlane as he flips through a fish menu.

“Surprise me!” answers Rumble brightly.

Thunderlane looks up at Rumble, unimpressed with his answer, and seconds later his younger brother lowers the comic just enough for him to see his the wolfish grin on his face.

“It's too bad you're so squeamish, Thunderlane, this is a great comic,” taunts Rumble. “In fact, I just dogeared all the sex scenes and put a sticky-note bookmark at the part where Trixie is tentacle-raped by Dr. Bio's goo monster if you want to read it later.”

Rumble goes back to his comic, snickering from the perverted joy he is getting, and Thunderlane shakes of his head and stomps over to his younger brother. Rumble is too engrossed in his erotic fantasy to realize what is happening, though, and when he gets an idea it is already too late.

“Give me that!” snaps Thunderlane as he swiftly snatches the comic from his brother. He ignores Rumble's protests and pleas for him not to ruin it as he spearheads his way into the kitchen, and when he drops the offending book in the garbage can he says over the whines: “You shouldn't be reading that crap, and you're lucky I didn't have company!”

Rumble is quick to remove the comic from the garbage and tuck it protectively under his wing.

“You never bring company and you don't let me bring anypony over!” complains Rumble.

“Because the last few times you brought somepony over you did something stupid!” yells back Thunderlane. “You're lucky Cloudchaser didn't get pregnant from your stunt!”

“She was on the pill and off season, so she wasn't going to get pregnant anyway!”

“Why would anypony take a pill if they were off season?”

Rumble rolls his eyes and storms to his room, swearing and mumbling about Thunderlane being an idiot. Thunderlane goes after him, but comes a sudden stop when his younger brother slams his bedroom door shut, and his ears perk when the door lock clicks and rap music blares. Wiping his mane back, Thunderlane swears and paces in a circle before returning to the kitchen, where he searches through his kitchen cabinets for something to cook, but he comes up almost completely empty, save for a can of beans and corn.

Thunderlane huffs and flaps his wings once and stomps towards the far end of his counter where another pile of menus lie. He goes through the menus with increased aggravation as each passing fancy flier or stolen menu proves to be of ill taste. Every cheap logo or poor choice of dishes makes his scowl becomes deeper and his slides more aggressive, until, eventually, he is throwing menus on the tiled floor. Right as he reaches the bottom, he slams his face against the counter. Immediate regret comes in full play after that since it brings immense pain to Thunderlane's face. However, he keeps his face on the cool counter for another few seconds before he sighs explosively and lifts his head up.

Thunderlane takes a deep breath in, exhales slowly, and looks at his brother's door. He swears he can see it vibrate from the music blaring from it, and he is already picturing an angry neighbor or the landlord knocking on his door to complain about the noise levels. He has already told Rumble about this noise issue more than once, but his younger brother's mind is too clogged with “gangsta rap” and porn comics for it to seep in.

With a deep sigh to get him moving, Thunderlane approaches Rumble's door and tries to get his attention by knocking on it, but unfortunately for him his knock isn't hard enough to surpass the obnoxiously loud music. He tries again, but is met with the same failure, and when he tries to get inside, he finds out very quickly that the door is locked and there is something gooey on the doorknob. Thunderlane quickly pulls away from the doorknob, grimacing at his hoof and his brother's door. He looks back at his hoof seconds later in a feeble to figure out what he just touched.

“Rumble, I'm going to the store! Do you want anything?” yells Thunderlane over the music without breaking eye contact from his hoof.

“Nope. Have fun!” replies Rumble sarcastically.

Thunderlane shakes his head and after he washes his hoof in the bathroom sink he quickly leaves his apartment. Even though he really wants to slam the door as hard as he can on his way out, he ends up shutting it and locking it quietly since he sees no point in making a scene. After locking his door, he proceeds to walk briskly down the hall and smiles politely to a unicorn mare and her two foals getting ready to leave, and he continues looking at them until he is no longer able to.

As he goes down the hall, Thunderlane tries to push the argument between him and Rumble to the back of his mind, and after pushing the button for the elevator he watches with tired eyes as the numbers slowly light up. Once the elevator reaches his floor, he steps inside and keeps it open when the small family runs down the hallway with the mother yelling for him to hold the door. As soon as the family is inside, the mare thanks him and he once again offers a smile and curt nod, but his smile drops to a frown when the doors lazily slide shut because one of the foals pokes at his preened feathers, and that reminds him that he has wings for a reason.

It is nightfall when Thunderlane finally makes it to the fish cart in the bazaar after going through a swarm of buyers and pushy merchants. He already has two saddlebags full of vegetables and spices, and fish is the last part of his food shopping that he needs to get done. Unfortunately for him, though, the only fish cart that is open at the time is operated by a sea green pegasus mare with blue a ponytail style mane who can speak Equestrian about as well as a toddler. The locals call her Ms. Fishy, and Thunderlane knows that she is an immigrant from Germaneigh so he tries to be patient with her, but right now his patience is running on fumes.

“No, I just want two salmon, okay? Just two,” says Thunderlane as he gently slides two fresh, very large, wrapped up salmon back to her.

Ms. Fishy pushes the two fish back, annoyed. “Yes, two.”

“No, I already got two and they’re right there.” Thunderlane points at two salmon lying on a scale, also wrapped and partially dangling over the edge of the scale. “How much for those two?”

“Two!”

The mare pushes the fish back almost to the point to where they fall off and Thunderlane’s hoof goes out to stop such a thing from happening. He looks at the fish, then back at the merchant, who is silently daring him with squinted eyes and a tight frown to push them back. It does not take Thunderlane very long to sigh in defeat.

“Fine, I’ll take the four. How much?” says Thunderlane as he reaches for his bit pouch.

“Four.” Ms. Fishy pulls out two more wrapped fish from under her cart and pushes them to the two already in front of Thunderlane.

“No, I-”

“You want four! I give you four, stupid pony!”

“Hey, I’m not-” Thunderlane stops himself with a heavy sigh and puts his entire bag of bits on the counter. “You know what, just give me all of your fish.”

The sea green mare’s frown flips to a devious smile as she ducks down once more, leaving Thunderlane to regret his decision. He regrets it even more when he hears her snickering as she stacks one wrapped salmon on top of the other in front of him. When the last is up, the merchant goes to pull out a paper bag and Thunderlane sighs heavily, knowing full well that he’s going to have to scrub himself good tonight.

A couple of hours later, Thunderlane and Rumble are sitting at the small dinner table, eating their meal of fish and salad in silence, and trying not to give the smelly pile of a dozen wrapped fish their attention. Not even the radio is on, making it so the only noise is chewing, sipping, and the whooshing of the ceiling fan. During the course of the meal, Thunderlane glances at his younger brother, only to see the same thing had had been seeing for the past fifteen minutes. Him behaving like a starving dog who got into a garbage can in search of leftovers, even though it is obvious that the little light gray pegasus is well overweight. The last nail of the coffin for this display is when Rumble burps loudly without covering his mouth and dives back in to eating his fish and salad. Thunderlane frowns, takes a couple of pills that are drowned with a gulp of water, and leaves to put his half finished meal away.

“Are you going to finish that?” asks Rumble, his mouth full of food and his hoof aimed pathetically at the plate.

“I will later,” replies Thunderlane while carefully dumping the food in a plastic container.

Rumble shrugs and goes back eating, and when Thunderlane places his leftovers there a light bulb goes off in Rumble’s juvenile mind and his hoof snaps up with his ears.

“By the way, mom called.” Rumble says quickly.

“What did she want?” asks Thunderlane unenthusiastically.

“The usual. She wants to know if I found a job yet and if you're done being a nut.”

Thunderlane slams the fridge shut and places his hooves on the counter with his head down and exhaling a breath of aggravation.

“I told you these things are mandatory, Rumble,” says Thunderlane, trying to keep his tone in check. “And did you ever get back to Mr. Rich?”

“You mean Filthy Rich? No. I'm not going to work construction. That's not for me.”

Thunderlane walks up to Rumble, his expression hardening with disgust as each passing second his younger brother gorges himself on his meal, causing some food to fall off the plate or on the floor in the process.

“And what is?” asks Thunderlane crossly.

Rumble shrugs. “I don't know. I was thinking that I could work at the Snowflake Gymnasium. You know that place off of Kindness Boulevard?”

“You want to watch a bunch of sweaty stallions bend over and rub each other?”

Rumble’s light gray fur gets a burst of red around his cheeks and folded ears as he glares at Thunderlane, and seeing the amused smile from his military brother only makes him more infuriated.

“No! I want to get boxing lessons!” claims Rumble with a yell.

Thunderlane holds up his hoof in fake defense. “Hey, if you want to check out stallions that's your butt, not mine.”

“I want to learn how to box! And if I work at the gym then I'll get a discount for membership fees and tickets.”

“Uh huh, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

Thunderlane trots out of the dining room with a victorious smile on his face while Rumble fumbles with his words in a horrible defense against Thunderlane’s cruel accusations. Rumble does shout something aimed towards Thunderlane, but the Airstallion doesn’t hear it all since he closes his room door before the younger pegasus can finish his defense.

Every bit of noise seems to be shut out when Thunderlane closes his door, and his victorious smile dissolves when he yawns and looks at his unmade bed. If the bed had a voice, it would be calling him, begging him to come and lay down and snuggle with the fluffy pillows and comforting blanket. But before he goes to lay down, he carefully bites down on his bandage and unravels it from his hoof. Slowly but surely, charcoal fur comes into view and so do the red blotches in the lower layers of his bandage, but there is not a sign of injury on him. No wet scabs, no thin fur or pale lines, it is all one fully covered hoof with all the thick fur of a pegasus to cover his skin.

Thunderlane scrutinizes the hoof that should be covered in scars as he flexes it, but his tired mind does not give him any ideas about this interesting sight. Instead, it tells him to go to bed and stay there for the rest of the night. He happily entertains that idea with a stiff fall that results in him face-planting the messy bed, and he sluggishly grabs his pillow and a bundle of his sheets with his eyes shut in bliss. Next thing the tired pony knows, his hoof is caressing the bundle and his cheek nuzzles his pillow like they are one very comfortable mare. The comfort of his overused sheets relaxes Thunderlane’s body to the point where he deflates like pony shaped balloon, and Mistress Sleep is ready to take him to the wonderful land of dreams when-

“...The tribunal for Captain Soarin Pansy will resume on Monday, in which the Military Court will decide whether or not he deserves to keep his title after the incidents at the Celestial Spire and Glorieta. Leading the prosecution is General Gale Hurricane, who said-”

His eyes snap wide open with the red veins growing and he lifts his head, glaring at the door as the rapping stallion continues with its vows of sadistic arson. The music might as well be beating Thunderlane's head with a pair of drumsticks with how loud it is, and in a vain attempt to escape the music, he curls up under his blanket with a pillow pressed over his ears and his eyes squeezed as tight as they can go. Thankfully, sleep comes minutes later.

Standards to Keep

“Quick, kiss me!”

Those words spoken in the dimly lit casino literally knock the air out of of the stallion’s lungs. Does she seriously want him to kiss her? Right then and now in front of a massive crowd of ponies?

Although with the sudden demand and his loss of oxygen, a thought creeps into the charcoal stallion’s mind.

This is a dream come true for him! A part of him had always suspected that the colorful mare had a level of adoration for him ever since he and his brother moved to Ponyville from Cloudsdale with just their saddles and his couch... And thought her cloud was theirs. Despite the mix-up and brief flare of annoyance, she had been quick to forgive and offer him a job with the Ponyville Weather Patrol.

He had thought that the very up-close, hoof-on training for Weather Patrol and Winter Wrap Up has been how she always did things and that the complaints of her being a “lazy teacher” had been exaggerated. But now that he thinks about it, it is his word of her being a great teacher against the claims of two dozen ponies.

He really wants to slam his face against a brick wall, too, since her sudden plea for a kiss has sparked a mental montage of the all signs she gave him.

Every joke, from moving his cloud house to creating rain where he is trying to sleep, had been a school filly act. He still remembers when she accidentally spit gum in his mane and tried getting it out with peanut butter, but a part of him had believed that she only did that just to feel his mane. Then there is the surprise party she did after he got out of the hospital from the feather flu and her sudden thin-skin around him when he dated the Cloud Twins. Those should have made things more obvious for him, but they did not and now he feels like a complete idiot for not seeing these things sooner.

But now here they are. In a casino with her wanting him to kiss her. All is forgiven and a new, fresh start is on the way between them. And what better way to symbolize this than by a kiss?

The stallion really wants to kiss her, too. So much, in fact, that he wants to blurt out an “Oh yeah!”, grab the beautiful mare and tilt her down like they are in a dance and plant a strong kiss on her lips. But his body has other plans for him.

All he can do is widen his eyes and say: “What!”

He’s cursing himself now. Why the heck would you say that when one is being offered a free kiss? A free kiss from a mare you’ve known for years and had spared no expense in getting your attention by teasing, nonetheless!

“No time to explain. Just kiss me!” says the rainbow colored object of attraction.

He’s a bit confused, now. He can’t tell if she is antsy from excitement from finally kissing the colt she has always teased, or if she is jittery for another reason. He knows he’s anxious, though. He’s only ever kissed his mother, and those were cheek kisses, not lip kisses.

Does this mare want a cheek kiss, or a lip kiss? Or is she going to go for a Crystal kiss?

He knows those ponies in the Crystal Kingdom can get pretty kinky, and he knows the mare in front of him is a wild card. She’ll do just about anything for attention. Or will she?

Stop stalling and do it like they do it in the books, his what his heart is telling him. How hard can it be to grab, press lips and possible wiggle a tongue in?

No. No tongue. Just lips. The Crystal Kiss is pervy and a simple one will be a lot easier and better, he thinks. This whole situation is a just do it kind of ordeal, but again, he is paralyzed in her presence.

What if he screws up? What if she doesn’t want a lip, but a cheek? What if she goes for a tongue? What if the kiss will escalate to something more and his inexperience will surface and completely embarrass him and leave him to freeze to death in the snowstorm of shame!?

Why does she even want to be kissed by him when she has the hots for Soarin!?

“Why!” cries the stallion, his voice shaking as much as his body in its near collapse state.

He wants to ask why she wants him to kiss her when she is supposed to be with Soarin, but seeing as how the two have been behaving around each other he figures he already knows.

Revenge!

He is an instrument for revenge, and she is hoping to make her old courter jealous by making out with a Hurricane in front of a Pansy.

Unless they are sharing her.

But that would not make sense since it is supposed to be the other way around with a stallion hoarding mares. A tradition not widely practiced in this contemporary time, but still not unheard of or outlawed.

He sees Rainbow Dash look around the corner, fidgeting in her spot with a low, panicky mumble escaping her. He starts getting worried because he does not see any cause for concern, and right as he is about to ask what is wrong, she turns, yanks him close and brutally smashes her lips against his.

The sheer strength of her move knocks the stallion to his rump, and any passerby will see an almost cartoony, sight with their black and blue muzzles mashed together.

The stallion's eyes remain wide and terrified with the combination of the blitz kiss and embarrassing fall, but because of this, he can see the mare's eyes drift shut in bliss. He is hoping it is bliss, anyway, since he finds himself liking it and her lips are refusing to leave his. With each passing second, her kiss becomes more tender, more relaxed, like a great weight has been lifted off of her shoulders. She is finally kissing the stallion she has been teasing for quite some time and he is finally being kissed by the mare that helped him settle in Ponyville.

He wants to take the moment more intimate level, to transform their spark into a passionate flame. His racing heart might as well be screaming in his ear for him to finally give in to his desires, but all he does is tense and burn.

Rainbow Dash’s warm breath brushing against his dark coat only heats his body more, and her soft breathing and barely heard groan is sending his heart soaring. It is the first time he has heard her make a sound like that and he loves it! He wants to hear more of it!

Though, despite wanting to hear more from her, the stallion still trembles while she remains firm, and a part of him wonders how it will be if the roles are reversed. What if she quivers under him and he remains steady?

This thought brings to mind an excitement he has not felt in a long time, and his eyes drift shut to take his imagination to an erotic place where all his fantasies can come true. That is what he wants to do, but even though he wants to wrap his hoof around her neck and hold her close so they can kiss until they need air, his hoof remains as stone.

He knows this is wrong. She is a teammate and is being courted by a Pansy, nonetheless. He should break away and pretend it never happened. But Rainbow Dash doesn't want him to leave. Her hoof hooks around his neck and she tugs him closer to her, and he feels her mouth trying to open his more. He feels like his face is about to burn off from the heat on his cheeks.

Forget about that Pansy and forget about your insecurities. Enjoy what she is offering and take her. That is what his heart is telling him to do, but his mouth stays locked, too frightened to let the colorful pegasus in. He doesn't mind, though, for he finding the kiss to be more tender without the tongue play, and for all he knows, she hasn’t brushed her teeth. He knows he hasn’t.

And when he opens his eyes again, his body is a wreck. He is barely able to move with the crippling pain stabbing at his limbs and sides, and his heart thumps like massive drums as he watches Rainbow Dash bleeding profusely and struggling to get up to meet their new foe.

A pony in a full body painting suit.

He tries to call for her, but he can only cough and collapse to the ground. He gets back up and tries to run to her again, to protect her from this new menace, but the excruciating pain that rips at his limbs forces him down on the destroyed pavement. He grinds his teeth, fighting to keep the tears and cries of agony at bay as he clings to a fire hydrant for support.

He watches helplessly as the Painter strolls down the crumbled street, passing overturned vehicles and collapsed walls, and casually crushing rubble under his hooves. The Painter’s steps are almost robotic with how heavy and calculated they are, and even though Thunderlane can’t see past the breathing mask and thick goggles, he knows what the unholy unicorn wants.

He wants to kill her. But he wants to see Rainbow Dash suffer before he takes her life.

Despite her body being broken, Rainbow Dash still challenges the Painter. With a scream of pain and defiance, she stands up and expands her good wing as far as it can go as she snorts hot air and bloody bubbles at him. She is afraid, but still she stands to fight him, but all three of them know that this is a fight she cannot win. And all three of them are prepared to act with as much ferocity as they can in the face of Loyalty’s last stand.

The pegasus stallion grunts as he repositions himself to get an aim on the Painter.

The Painter continues walking, completely oblivious to Thunderlane’s crosshairs. This is good. He will be caught completely off guard.

Thunderlane takes a ragged breath.

He aims.

He fires.

He misses.

There is no time for disappointment, though. The crack of Thunderlane’s battle saddle is met instantly with a horrific sound of retaliation. He doesn’t even get a chance to fire a second round as the Painter’s horn sparks and blasts him in the chest with a telekinetic burst that crushes all his rib and the air out of his lungs.

Thunderlane is blinded by the green light of the Painter’s magic, and when it fades his world is a blur of dust and broken glass and wood as he goes airborne into the structure behind him. When he lands, he can’t even scream, only gasp as his armor digs into the floor, leaving more of his bones rattled and possibly broken, and his muscles burning. He slides all the way to the other end of the store, carrying flakes of rubble with him, and when he comes to a stop, he is panting and trembling.

He hears Rainbow Dash scream, but he cannot close his eyes to hide from his failure. He stares up at the ceiling, watching the hanging lamp fixture swing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, creaking and sparking, lighting up his darkness with tiny blobs of light.

Seconds later, he is no longer able to keep his eyes up or open, and his head falls to the side to see a display of posters through the dim lights. As darkness creeps in from the sides, his heavy eyes focus on a poster of Fluttershy posing with her rabbit. The caption reads: ‘BE KIND’, and underneath is a gold plate stating: ‘Item #505’.

Thunderlane closes his eyes and-

-ends up waking up to Rumble’s horrible taste in music and a couple of other familiar voices to go along with his brother’s as they chat good naturedly. One is distinguished by his grizzled voice and the other belongs to that of a mare who loves to pamper the baby of the family. That being said, Thunderlane groans and buries his face into his pillow.

His parents are here.

A few minutes pass before Thunderlane musters up the courage leave the safety of his bed. Though, the courage is minimal since he sluggishly slides out from underneath his blanket and nearly crawls back inside when he hears his father laugh. After going out from under the blanket, he steps towards his door with careful strides and presses his hoof against the bronze knob that is keeping him separated from a comfortable blanket and an unpleasant encounter.

Thunderlane knows that it will be rude to not go out and greet his parents, though. He also reasons that they want to see him, and so, with a great, deep breath and a small pep talk directed towards himself, he twists the knob and goes out.

The noise increases drastically with the cheerful talks and giggles from his mother, and once he enters the living, all eyes go on Thunderlane and he smiles tiredly in greeting at the two older pegasi in his apartment. The stallion, General Gale Hurricane, has a faded golden coat with a dark gray mane cropped to military standards, with a tornado as his cutie mark. The mare, Amber Grain Hurricane, has a grayed cyan color with her amber mane tied back in a ponytail, and her cutie mark consists of a baby crib resting on a moon.

"There’s the sleepyhead!” says Gale with a heartily laugh.

The General hooks his hoof around Thunderlane’s neck and drags him to the center of the living room, and only releases him after giving him a noogie that leaves his head feeling raw and devoid of a few strands of mane. Before Thunderlane can properly recuperate from the blitz noogie, he is ambushed by his mother’s love, all while still rubbing his head. So his hoof is put in an incredibly awkward position as his mother hugs him with a loving stranglehold, and she also completely ignores the gaks he makes from his oxygen deprivation.

“Mom... I gak!... I can’t... I can't breathe!” says Thunderlane between his gasps for air.

Whether Amber Grain heard him or not, Thunderlane is not sure, but he is relieved when she pulls away from him, asking: “What did you boys have for breakfast?”

Thunderlane swallows his air and rubs the sore spot left behind by Amber Grain’s hug as she trots towards the kitchen. He would answer, but Rumble takes the spotlight.

“Absolutely nothing,” boasts the young, chunky stallion.

“What?” gasps Amber Grain, then she turns to Gale, her eyes wide like dinner plates and her hoof aimed limply at the kitchen. “Honey, they haven’t had breakfast yet!”

“Not my problem,” scoffs Gale.

“But-”

“Mom, relax, we got leftovers,” says Thunderlane.

Gale smirks. “See? Told you it wasn’t my problem.”

Amber Grain huffs. “Leftovers, huh?”

Then she pokes her head in the refrigerator, and all Thunderlane can do is facehoof and wish that his mother would stop snooping around. Her constant nopes, ews, whats, and oh goodnesses grind his gears to breaking point, and after a minute of this, he steps forward, getting ready to politely ask her to get her head out of his fridge when-

“Whatever happened to that nice filly, you were with?” asks Amber Grain, her head still in the fridge.

Thunderlane pauses. Her question catches him completely off guard, and it takes him a few seconds to realize who she is talking about. This leads to an unpleasant memory regarding a certain pegasus mare, his couch, and bug spray.

“You mean Flitter?” says Thunderlane with a frown.

Amber Grain removes her head with Thunderlane's leftover fish meal from last night in her hoof and casually tosses it in the garbage can. Joining the meal is more long expired food, such as solid milk, liquefied bread and a bar of soap stabbed with rock-hard asparagus crusted with jelly.

Thunderlane's ears droop when he sees his precious meal get tossed into the garbage can, and he only snaps out of his saddened state when Amber Grain calls him.

“What was that?” says Thunderlane with his ears perked and golden eyes large like a buck in spotlights.

“What happened to Flitter? I thought she was a nice mare. She matched your personality perfectly,” says Amber Grain.

Thunderlane seethes quietly as he rubs the back of his neck, eyes averting to the carpet to distract him from that horrific day.

“It didn’t work out,” he says carefully.

“Why? What happened?” asks Amber Grain

“Well... you see... there was this beetle-”

“Forget about Flitter. What about Cloudchaser?” blurts Gale, earning him a sharp glare from his wife and son. “I thought she was just the kind of mare you needed to counter your extreme lifestyle?”

Thunderlane's angered expression devolves to near murder as he shifts his eyes to Rumble. “She was unfaithful.”

Rumble sees the look of death his older brother gave him, and he slides out of the living room, towards the kitchen, and seeks refuge inside the refrigerator. Gale, meanwhile, is oblivious to this, so he just shrugs and mutters something along the lines of “Too bad” and sits on the couch, brushing away something that Thunderlane cannot see.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” asks Thunderlane after some hesitation.

“What? Can’t we drop by to see how our sons our doing?” says Gale.

“Didn’t Rumble tell you we were coming?” asks Amber Grain.

Thunderlane shakes his head and Amber Grain frowns at Rumble. The young stallion is munching on a plate of fish chips when he realizes he is being silently scorned by his mother, and so he stops chewing and stares at her with big puppy eyes and cheeks puffed out from the food still in his mouth. She breaks down.

“Dawww!” She says, and then she hugs him and strokes his gray mane. “Silly colt forgot to tell you.”

Rumble smiles without opening his mouth and greedily absorbs all the attention his mother is giving him, leaving Thunderlane jealous that he never got that kind of attention when he was younger. But Thunderlane doesn’t have the time to simmer in his envy, for Gale starts talking, thus snapping him out of his sibling rivalry mentality for the time being.

“Anyway, since you asked, I am leading the committee for the next part of Captain Pansy’s hearing,” says Gale over his wife’s nonsensical Rumble buttering.

“So, you just dropped by because we were on the way?” inquires Thunderlane.

“Yes. And besides, I wanted to have a word with my boy over there.”

Gale tilts his head towards Rumble, and Thunderlane nods, hoping that his father will talk some sense into his younger brother.

“And I also wanted to have a word with you,” adds Gale.

Thunderlane tenses and feels a lump go in his throat as the tone his father is using brings back the memories of when he was just a colt. The disapproving stare and his hard tone serve as warning signs to Thunderlane that he has once again screwed up in the eyes of his father. As his father bores into him with his unforgiving gaze, Thunderlane tilts his head down just so he doesn’t have to deal with those hardened eyes.

“Let’s go outside.” Gale says sternly.

Thunderlane nods and wordlessly follows his father to the balcony outside. The chill of the morning air is something pegasi can deal with on the genetic level due to their thicker coats and feathers, but the cold his father carries with him is something Thunderlane never got used to. Once Gale shuts the door behind him, Thunderlane flinches and the voices of Amber Grain and Rumble disappear.

The two stallions go to the balcony’s edge, and Gale puts one hoof on the wooden rail while keeping his eyes locked on Thunderlane. However, Thunderlane is not able to meet the General’s gaze. He looks down at the waking city below, watching as the military motor wagons chug along the paved roads, with the Gatling guns swerving cautiously while soldiers of the Royal Guard march in formation down the once decorative sidewalks, now dirty and cracked.

“How are your shrink visits?” asks Gale, utterly failing to be friendly.

“They’ve been fine, sir,” mumbles Thunderlane.

“Really? That’s not how I hear it.”

Thunderlane glances at Gale out of the corner of his eye, looking back down at the waking city once more when the harsh stare becomes too much.

“What is this nonsense about numbers?” demands Gale.

Thunderlane sighs. He really wants to demand to know why his father is snooping around, or why there was a breach in patient-doctor confidentiality in the first place. He wants to, but he can’t get the words to leave his mouth. They clog and pile up on top of each other in his throat, leaving a choking feeling and a wetness in his eyes.

“Thunderlane, you are like a son to me, and I am worried that you -a Hurricane- are tarnishing our family name with these visits,” continues Gale.

“I am your son,” says Thunderlane hurtfully after a breath of pause. “And with all do respect, sir, I was ordered to see Dr. Pad until she says I’m good to go. I’m not trying to ruin the our family name with these visits, but it is something that I have to do.”

Gale points at Thunderlane, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing. “Hurricanes do not see shrinks. Pansies see shrinks. Other pegasi see shrinks. Weaklings see shrinks. But you are a Hurricane. You are not weak. You do not need to see anypony who practices that pseudo-medicine nonsense! I’m putting the order in to remove you from this Dr. Pad’s care first thing tomorrow. Then you can finally be one step closer to being a real Hurricane.”

Before Thunderlane can make any thoughts of the audacity of objecting, Gale leaves his presence, and without looking at him, he orders Thunderlane to get ready to go out to eat. The door opens, the cheery sounds of Amber Grain and Rumble having a good time mesh with Gale’s pleasant greeting, and then the door closes, cutting off all the cheer. Thunderlane stares at the door, watching the painful scene unfold. His father does his noogie on Rumble. Amber Grain scolds him and pampers Rumble. And all three walk out of sight to prepare for whatever meal the General has in mind.

Thunderlane looks down at the street again, seeing a lone civilian motor wagon poke out from its shelter and brave the guarded roads. Like a cautious animal, it goes slow, with the driver no doubt alert in their vehicle, and gradually it picks up speed until it rounds the corner. Once it is out of sight, Thunderlane walks back inside with his head down.

Hours later, the Hurricane Family is sitting inside a lavish restaurant called Le Cristal D'or. At Le Cristal, all the tables are covered in white sheets, the chairs look like metal leaves woven into each other, and the windows are large enough to brag to all the commoners that they cannot afford the food inside. The place itself is brightly lit with enormous chandeliers that dangle from the ceilings from their thick cables, and a band of upscale violinists and cellists play boring music.

With the way the food is priced and described, Thunderlane is hoping that he will get a good meal to help alleviate the crappy morning, but right as he gets what he ordered from a snobbish unicorn waiter, he knows he just experienced highway robbery.

The dish is made up of a hoof bowl sized stack of hay and flowers, and the plate’s bleached white design does nothing to make the pile look any bigger. There is also dark chocolate syrup drizzled on the edge of the plate, not touching any of the actual food. For the life of him, Thunderlane can’t understand why anyone would do that, and when he glances at Rumble he notices his brother has the same disappointment for his similar meal.

“It’s like elf food,” says Rumble sadly.

Thunderlane nods sympathetically and looks to his parents. They are enjoying their meals, and the same snob places a bottle of wine in front of the two elder pegasi.

“On the house,” says the unicorn, his tone just as snobbish as his stance.

Gale thanks the waiter, and as soon as the unicorn is gone, he turns his gaze to Rumble. “So, Rumble, how’s the job at Mr. Rich?”

If Rumble could have turned into stone, he would have since the sudden question stiffens him down to the core. While Thunderlane is slightly pleased to see his brother put on his father’s mental crosshairs, he figures it is best not to let that show, lest he wants another bucket of watered down honey tossed on his face while he sleeps. So, to avoid the temptation of smirking at Rumble squeamishness, he tries to enjoy his pathetic meal.

“Well, how was your first day?” probes Gale.

“Yeah, about that...” begins Rumble, now sweating buckets. “I went to the interview and botched it. So I didn’t get the job.”

Gale arches a brow. “Really? Are you sure you didn’t conveniently forget about the interview altogether?”

Rumble gulps, and Amber Grain puts her hoof over her husband’s and tries to prevent more wrinkles from forming on his aged face with gentle words. It does not work.

“Because I had a word with Mr. Rich this morning and he said you didn’t even make an attempt to show up,” continues Gale, his tone becoming rapidly aggressive.

“Honey, please not in public,” begs Amber Grain with big eyes and a tightening hug.

“Not now, Amber,” says Gale quickly and without breaking eye contact with Rumble. “Rumble, when I was your age, I was employed at three places. Do you know what they were?”

Rumble's chair vibrates with his body as the old pegasus's green eyes bore into him, dismantling every sense of security he has with a wrecking ball. Thunderlane, meanwhile, wordlessly watches the scene. He is also stiff and his eyes shift between his brother and father in quick intervals, but he ends up keeping his eyes down to prevent himself from unintentionally provoking his father to turn his wrath on him.

With nearly thirty years worth of lectures stored in his memory, Thunderlane knows that it is best to ride it out. Acknowledge and answer, that is the role he played in such lectures, and he hopes that Rumble has enough sense to do those two simple things. He is also wishing that this will be the last one his sibling has to suffer through.

“Well, do you, Rumble?” asks Gale, his voice unforgiving and eyes narrowed as he slightly leans over the table.

“N-No. No, sir,” stammers Rumble, tears pooling in his eyes and pupils shaking like his body.

Gale scoffs. “Of course not. Well, let me tell you a little story of a colt who grew up in the East Winds of Cloudsdale. His family impoverished and living under the Pansy cloudlords, his mommy was sick all the time and his daddy was a drunk who gambled away the rent, leaving just the little colt to carry the weight of the family bills. He worked cleaning up the Rainbow Factory's shit, and he cleaned the filters of the Cloud Factory so spoiled brats like you could look at the pretty sky and have a decent clouds to live on. Then, on weekends, instead of being a kid, he delivered mail so everypony else can read the weather, see the scores or laugh at comics. Do you know who that colt was Rumble?”

Rumble gulps, tears now trailing his cheeks. “You... sir.”

Gale slams his hoof on the table, making everyone jump and moving the plates and cups a couple of inches, though his glass falls over and rolls off the table.

“Damn right it was me!” shouts Gale.

“Honey, please calm down,” begs Amber Grain as her attention shifts from Rumble's cowering figure and the stares.

“And guess what else, boy?” growls Gale in complete disregard for the attention he is receiving. When Rumble remains silent, the old stallion snorts and flaps his wings. “I said guess, boy.”

“You... You joined the-the Army?” sniffles Rumble.

“No, I did not join the Army, you dumb-ass! I joined the Royal Air Guard! I was recruited when I dropped mail at the Cloudsdale Recruiting Station for Staff Sergeant High Speed. He said I had no future doing what I was doing and I was off to Neighvaho to train at Cumulus by the end of the year. I graduated at the top of my class and went on to the Eighty Second Frontier Watch. For ten years, I hunted everything from dragons to golems and necromancers to vamponies before I was transferred to train new-bloods at Cumulus for five years. Everyday, from dusk to dawn I would root out the ones that would weaken the Guard from the ones that would strengthen it just so slackers like you could safely mooch off of the ones who support your lazy ass!”

Rumble is now whimpering and Thunderlane keeps his focus on his plate. He can feel the eyes of the patrons and hear their concerned whispers. When he dares to look around with his peripheral vision, he sees heads turned and staff quietly debating who should go up to deal with their table. Thunderlane looks back at Rumble and his mother and sees both of their eyes are red and puffy, but his younger brother is shaking so much in his seat that the vibrations are effecting the table.

Gale looks around at the patrons and staff, silently daring them with his scowl to come over to their table. When the heads start turning away, he looks back to Rumble and sniffs.

“Unfortunately for me, you are my son, so I cannot just kick you out of the family,” says Gale, his tone much calmer, but still stern and leaving no room for sympathy. “But I swear to you, Rumble, if you do not get your act together I will show you how nasty I can be. Enjoy your meal. Tab’s on me.”

After that is said, Gale delicately munches on his plate of hay and fish salad, resuming his uncaring attitude towards the lingering shock in the restaurant. Amber Grain looks at Rumble and offers a supportive gaze. Both of their eyes are wet, and Rumble is trembling in his spot, no longer hungry, and Thunderlane just finished his disappointing, eighty bit meal, surprised that his father had ended the lecture so soon. He figures that the quickness has something to do with the semi-public environment and the idea that his lecture could possibly bring out a terrible scene worthy of a newspaper article.

When the snobbish waiter walks by with brisk steps, Thunderlane holds up his hoof, stopping him, and he tries not to take the scornful expression personally.

“Can I see the menu again?” asks Thunderlane.

“No. One meal per patron,” says the waiter quickly.

Then he continues his walk, leaving Thunderlane hungry and his opinions about five star Crystal restaurants permanently scarred. Though, a part of him sympathizes with the waiter since he does not think anyone in their right mind would dawdle at a table that created a lot of commotion not even a minute ago.

Thunderlane sighs and looks at his plate, which is still lined with the delicious chocolate begging him to lick it up. After he looks to make sure the guests are all preoccupied with their own affairs, he hungrily drags his tongue across the trail of goodness. It goes well until he realizes his parents are staring at him, and he freezes with his tongue halfway across the plate and eyes bulged.

“Wow. You must be really hungry!” says Amber Grain.

“That was amusing,” says a stallion right behind Thunderlane.

The charcoal stallion jumps in his seat and nearly falls out when he looks over his shoulder to see two of the most powerful ponies in Equestria standing behind him. Directors Twilight Sparkle and Glimmer Fuller.

Not even the faint graying in her mane or the growing wrinkles around Twilight’s eyes can tarnish her pleasant appearance. She is easy on the eyes with her dark suit and purple tie, and the eyepatch she has is fitting for her appearance. But, even though Twilight’s eye is gone and faint scars slither out from underneath her patch in trails of pale purple, she still has a friendly smile.

As for Director Fuller, he has dyed his mane and tail so it no longer has streaks of gray running through their dark brown color. And his old age is hidden by how well groomed his amber coat is and the simple dark blue, pressed suit he is wearing with the CDA emblem pinned to his blazer. However, unlike Twilight, Fuller is keeping his phlegmatic look.

“Hi, Thunderlane, I haven’t seen you in a while!” chirps Twilight.

“Uh, yeah... Hi,” says Thunderlane with an antsy smile and wave.

Not wanting to be rude, Thunderlane gets up and he and Twilight exchange quick hugs. While Twilight’s new position has done her no favors in terms of her hair and complexion, she still has the same lovable, huggable and all around pleasant feel that can cure anyone of a bad morning. However, Thunderlane pulls away from her when Rumble gives him a wolfish smile.

“And here’s another little guy I haven’t seen in a while,” says Twilight with equal enthusiasm.

Rumble’s smile disappears to horror and now it is Thunderlane’s turn to smile villainously as his younger brother is attacked by Twilight’s hug. While Rumble is distracted with the Element of Magic’s hugging, Thunderlane notices that Fuller is moving to the other side where his parents are.

“General Hurricane, it is a pleasant surprise to see you here,” says Fuller.

Gale stands up and extends his hoof to the CDA Director, saying with a cruel smile: “I figured I’d give the little colt over there one last ray of sunshine before I beat a stallion out of him.”

Fuller presses his hoof against Gale’s. “You seem to be starting late.”

“I blame the missus.”

Gale smirks at Amber Grain, and she gives him a playful scowl before standing up and shaking hooves with Fuller as well.

“It has been a while, Glimmer,” she says.

Fuller smiles thinly. “Amber, you know I don’t like it when you use my first name.”

“But you have a nice name.”

Fuller chuckles softly and Thunderlane grimaces as the back and forth between the two ponies continues with the catching up conversation. However, what surprises him more than anything is Gale's laid back attitude towards the obvious flirting going on. He would expect his grizzled father to butt in and verbally tear Fuller a new hole for this, but nothing is said. Though, for the one-eyed Element, her scrunched brow and tight jaw is enough to show she has an unhealthy dose of covetous creeping in as a reaction to the scene.

Thunderlane slides towards Rumble when the lavender mare marches towards Fuller and positions herself shoulder to shoulder with him. Fuller's small smile fades to a faint, annoyed frown as he looks at Twilight, but she is too busy staring at Amber Grain with her one eye to notice. Thunderlane and Amber Grain both become visibly nervous from this, and Gale looks between Twilight and the older unicorn questionably. However, his curious look disappears with a couple of blinks, an unintelligible mumble and a sip of his drink.

Twilight looks back at Fuller, nudging up even closer to him so that their shoulders are pressed together. “So, Fuller, we really should get back to work.”

“Work?” repeats Thunderlane as he looks at Twilight, now realizing that she has a saddle filled with folders, as does the older, amber coated unicorn.

Twilight snaps to Thunderlane, making him flinch a little. “Yes. Work. Me and Fuller had planned on meeting here last week when we had a long conversation in my office about joint operations between Research and Development and the Civilian Defense Agency.”

Gale sighs and looks at Rumble with an unpleasant stare, forcing the younger pegasus to seek shelter by shrinking in his seat again.

“I wish my youngest knew the definition of work,” says the General with a shake of his head, “but kids these days are such slackers.”

“So the restaurant heard,” says Fuller.

Mostly everyone looks at Rumble again, with the stallions sharing the General's sentiment, Amber Grain looking at him with pity, and Twilight glaring at the grayed-cyan mare. Rumble's eyes shine in the light with the wetness covering them, and he shamefully slides off his chair and shrinks to the floor until he is out of sight.

Thunderlane shakes his head sadly and goes over to pat his brother on the back, who is now laying on the ground with a desire to leave the disgusted stares and the horrible morning behind.

“That being said, I don’t think he will be unemployed for too long,” adds Fuller, his tone brighter, but not by much.

“Why?” asks Gale.

Fuller’s horn glows and he pulls out a roll of parchment from his saddlebag and opens it up for the group to see. The only ones who do not make a move to see it are Rumble and Twilight. Rumble because he is petrified in his seat, and Twilight because she has already memorized it and does not need to see it. But Thunderlane is not petrified and has yet to memorize the piece of paper, so he leans next to his father to get a good view.

The words themselves are bulky and colorful, and the background is plain with silhouettes of ponies with white cutouts to look like a dress shirt hiding behind a jacket and tie. Thunderlane squints his eyes to read the thirty odd companies being there. Some of which are Rich Construction, Fancy Entertainment, and Flim Flam Corporation, along with law firms, retail stores, fast food joints and restaurants. But nowhere does Thunderlane see anything about Snowflake’s Gymnasium.

Until he gets to the bottom of the list.

Thunderlane smiles at Rumble and points at the advertisement. “Hey, Rumble, Snowflake’s Gymnasium is going to be there.”

“Where?” asks Rumble, his head barely peeking over the top of the table.

“At the job fair being hosted at the Canterlot Stadium.”

“Really!?”

Rumble would squeal like a filly if there is nobody around, and Gale chuckles like it is his birthday and he playfully slaps Fuller’s shoulder with a grateful smile. It is like Gale slapped a statue, though, since Fuller remains stiff and shows no facial signs of acknowledging the act.

“That settles it. Rumble, you’re going to that job fair, and you aren’t leaving until you are employed!” says Gale.

Rumble nods and the General turns to Thunderlane with a tight jaw and narrowed eyes to replace his smile.

“As for you, you’ll be going with him,” he orders, his tone now heavy as stone. “Make sure he does what he is supposed to and keep him safe from anypony that tries to give him crap, you got it?”

Thunderlane's hoof almost snaps up in salute. “Yes, sir!”

Gale's grin returns and he claps his hooves like a mad genius whose plan is finally coming together. “Good. Now let’s say we hit a theater before I put a Pansy in their place?”

Phase Two

Rotes Leinen is barely six years old and eagerly waiting under the afternoon sun at an open air train station with another ibex. Today is the day that his prayers will be answered and that promises from his father will be fulfilled, and no force in the world -divine or otherwise- will quell the excitement in him.

The ibex Rotes is with is in his mid thirties, about the same age as his father, has a light brown coat with a rough, dark mane and barely curved horns. The older ibex is wearing a midnight blue suit that comes with a purple tie and he is also wearing a simple, black saddle with a white crescent moon stitched to it. His name is Post, and he has gladly accepted Ms. Leinen's request to escort Rotes to the station since her work did not give her the opportunity to do so.

Rotes is still saddened by his mother's inability to come with him, but Post has mostly made up for his mother's absence by chauffeuring him around their town, Der Tal. It has been a day of ice cream, hiking, bird watching in the park, and making a list of all the things Rotes wants to do with and for his father when he comes off the train. In fact, the only real boring part of Rotes' day has been when the two walked almost four miles to get to the Der Tal Train Station, only to get there five hours early. And even then Rotes does not consider that part too boring because Post spent a majority of the time recounting stories, from slice of life all the way down to tale from the Chronicles of Luna. That, and the excitement of being reunited with his fathers has kept Rotes' boredom down to a trickle.

From Post’s side, Rotes watches the crowd dressed in their finest attire, holding an assortment of banners to welcome the train that is set to come any minute. Most are waving the white winged full moon with a navy blue background of the Bernese national flag while others are stretching out welcoming banners covered in glitter and bubbly letters. The outdoor station is crowded to the point where bodies are bunched together like strands of hay in a bale, and their loud voices hurt Rotes’s little ears. But he does not care about the painfully loud noise, for he is just as excited as the growing crowd, and he knows he is lucky that he got to the station early enough to be near the front. It is because of his spot that he is able to pace in circles and peek down the tracks with only excitement as his energy. Not even the burning summer afternoon sun can keep the child still, and Post can only smile at the scene and his own anticipation that threatens to make his heart tear itself apart from pounding so fast.

Minutes later, a faint whistle is heard over the crowd and gasps joyously and rushes to the edge of the platform. He has to strain his eyes to see the distant plume of dark smoke, and when the triumphant whistle returns he spots the dot sized train making a speedy approach.

Rotes about nearly explodes from the joy surging through him as he bounces towards Post without a care in the world of gravity or the dozens of eyes looking at him.

“The train is coming! The train is coming!” cheers Rotes ecstatically.

The child runs up next to Post, and he in turn smiles brightly and holds Rotes close with a hug. He is excited like Rotes, but he is keeping his adult bearings, unlike the young blonde ibex who is giggling from the pure happiness going through every bone and muscle in his body.

Rotes' innocent eyes snap to the tracks when the massive, coal powered train screeches to a halt, with its dark exhaust pouring into the clear blue sky and its midnight blue paint shining in the sun. Even with the train stopped, the wind carries the Bernese national flag, boasting about the pride their people hold for their nation.

The steel doors slide open and the crowd cheers as soldiers dressed in their midnight blue and dark purple trimmed uniforms step out with their overstuffed saddles. The soldiers wave and shout for their loved one as the two crowds rush forward to feel the embraces of their loved ones. Hugs and laughter are exchanged passionately as the soldiers and civilians collide with confetti flying and instruments celebrating their return with upbeat music.

As the celebration speeds forward, seconds turn to minutes, and when the minutes turn into an hour, the crowd is thin and Rotes' happiness has rotted to worry. All that remains are solemn face and soldiers and friends comforting those who are crying at their loss. One female in particular catches Rotes' attention when her wails pierces the air with heartbreak. Rotes and Post turn to the source and see a young ibex fall to the ground, sobbing into the shoulder of a soldier who is hugging her.

Rotes swallows tears as his eyes begin watering and he looks up to Post for comfort. The older ibex is watching the young female weep and he hugs Rotes tighter as if afraid that he will lose him, too.

With is body held in place, Rotes looks back at the train in the dimmest of hopes that his father is one of the many helping the medics escort the injured out. He remembers how much his father liked helping and can see him doing that. With that thought in mind, a candlelight sized hope returns. Maybe, just maybe, his father is helping a wounded soldier, and when he is done, he'll find Rotes and apologize for scaring him. Then they'll hug and they will go with Post as a family to surprise Ms. Leinen at the Grand Hotel of Buchtseite.

Rotes cranes his little neck as far as it can go to search the miserable crowd of crippled troops, hoping to see his father joke with one of the many in bandages to get their spirits up.

Through the dozens of injured and all white suits of medics and the soldiers assisting them, his father is nowhere to be found. The light starts fading again and Rotes looks down, trying to contain his sniffles.

He doesn't want to cry. His father hates it when he cries.

Post swallows and his tightens his grip on Rotes to where he is almost strangling the child. “Don't worry, Rotes, I'm sure your father will be coming out soon.”

Rotes looks up at Post and can see him anxiously scanning the crowd with the wetness in his eyes shining in the sun. The child looks down, and despite his best efforts to not disappoint his father, his body begins shaking and he sniffles quietly as the dread inside grows like a cancerous tumor.

Rotes looks at the train again when, out of his peripheral vision, he sees someone familiar step out of the train cart, and his heart soars with anticipation as a broad, hopeful smile stretches across his face. The familiar ibex come out with a twenty year old Cutter, but Rotes' smile fades when he sees that the familiar is so badly injured that he needs the other ibex to help him walk down the ramp. Once those two are down the ramp, the steel door slides shut with a resounding thud that makes Rotes jump and kill the light inside.

The injured ibex's front hoof is a stump wrapped with tan bandages, and each stiff step taken brings a visible cringe to his grotesquely scarred face. The poorly healed wounds that mark his ashy coat resemble half cooled magma rivers with their red lines snaking around the bumps of dark red scabs. It even appears that he has had difficulty keeping his military uniform and gray mane up to the Republican Guard standards.

The wounded soldier's eyes are devoid of any life and his movements are sluggish as he hobbles through the crowd with Cutter's help. From the way his body is sagging, it looks like he wants to lie down and sleep his life away, and that brings a lump in Rotes' throat. Normally the black coated ibex is full of life and has almost been another father to Rotes, and seeing him in this state is like seeing his own family hurt.

Rotes breaks free from Post and runs towards the two, despite the older ibex's protest.

“Mr. Shekel!” shouts Rotes.

The injured soldier, Shekel, stops with Cutter, and the two watch Rotes as he slides to a stop in front of them, panting and shaking with Post close behind. Rotes and Shekel look at each other with tears going down the child's cheeks and red snaking into the wounded warrior's eyes. When Rotes cautiously walks closer to him, he can see the lump bulging in the soldier's throat as he slumps to the ground.

Each step becomes heavier for Rotes and his vision more hazy from tears as he nears the two soldiers. The noise of the train and the commuters are replaced with his heartbeats thumping in his ears and the tiny sniffles and whimpers. When he is standing directly in front of the injured soldier, his lips tremble as he searches for words to say while the two older ibexes stare down at him solemnly.

Rotes knows what happened. He can see it in their eyes- but he refuses to believe it. He prayed about it and in every sermon Post says that Luna always answers the prayers of those who are good. She has to answer his prayers. He has been good and so has his mother. They have gone to service, paid their tithing, donated and helped those in need in whatever way they could. Luna must answer his prayers. His father must be here. He made a promise to return and a goddess must answer the prayers those who are good. And he has been good.

Right?

Rotes gulps a large ball of tears that leaves him in pain, and with a tiny, cracking voice that can barely be heard, he asks: “Mr. Shekel, where's Papa?”

Rotes' wakes up to the welcoming smell of burning wood and crackling flames. At first his eyes are seeing the exposed log beams going across his ceiling, and the rows of lights and the trio of ceiling fans to go with them. The fans wobble slightly as their swooshing cuts at the air, and Rotes can only imagine the disgusting horrors caked to their snowy white, wooden blades.

Rotes raises his hoof. “March!”

“Ja?” says a young ibex with a brown coat and a rough, white mane. He has just come inside, so he just barely removed the white ski mask is still wearing the heavy, white coat and barding. Even his cheap battle saddle has white sleeves covering them.

“The ceiling fans need to be cleaned,” says Rotes with a yawn. “They are useless if they are dirty.”

March looks up at the ceiling fans, then back at Rotes and reluctantly nods and calls a few more guards to help him get the fans cleaned. Two of the guards come in with brushes, and three more come in, each with a vacuum and a small basket of cleaning supplies. When they start wiping the clumps off of the fans, Rotes opens up the arm of his couch and puts on a padded breathing mask. He is not interested in getting sick from sniffing up the hell-spawns dropping from the fans.

As the guards clean the fans with the brushes and cleaning supplies that guarantee a 99.9 percent germ kill rate, Rotes stares at the oil painting of his family placed above their fireplace mantle. Like all portrait paintings, the faces of him, his mother and his father hold stolid expressions, but even then he feels a sense of serenity flow through him. With the pleasant smell of burning wood and the flames warming him and illuminating the painting, he finds true peace in the picture. In most cases, he can feel his mental load lighten just by looking at it, but in instances like this, his heart and mind are truly free of the burden he has put upon himself for the sake of a better tomorrow.

With the sense of peace flowing throw him, Rotes gets up to stretch his legs and to get away from the thin gray mist of dust falling from the fans. He steers himself around the said mist just so none of the specks can touch him, and he smiles with satisfaction behind him breathing mask when he sees March directing the guards cleaning the fans. He travels to the kitchen to see what his mother is doing, and once he is confident that he will not inhale any dust, he removes the mask and takes a breath of fresh air.

Without the mask to hinder his senses, Rotes is immediately blessed with the aroma of beans, peppers, and other chunky vegetables boiling in a special red sauce that always makes his nose tingle. All these vegetables and the sauce are being stirred inside a large pot by his mother, who is using her mouth to guide a wooden spoon in graceful circles. She is humming to herself, so she does not hear Rotes approaching, and she is too focused on her cooking to notice his staring.

Rotes smiles thinly and continues his rounds. As he walks by the patio, he passes Gilda, who is sharpening metal claw with smooth strokes of a large whetstone while occasionally glancing to the snow covered trees out of the corner of her eye. Rotes looks past his frosted windows as well and sees four of his guards, dressed in all white outfits make their way to the forest, laughing lightly with puffs of light gray floating in front of them. They meet up with another group of guards that have finished their patrols in the forest and stand in the middle of the field to exchange some words. A part of Rotes hopes that they are talking business, but another part of him doesn't mind if they have a quick, casual conversation to relieve the tension of their work. They aren't robots, after all.

Rotes looks down at Gilda, and is about to make an attempt to start a small talk of his own, but he stops himself when she does a particularly hard slide on her bladed talon. That particular stroke makes Gilda stop and lower her whetstone to massage where her mechanical limb connects with her flesh. Rotes stares at her, watching her roll her shoulder as a tiny tear escapes her shut eyes. When she opens them again, they glisten in the light and her eyelids twitch ever so slightly with her lips. More tears slither down her unkempt plumage and her natural hand trembles, making her strokes sloppy. With that sight, Rotes feels a pang of pity, but he cannot find the words to strike up a conversation with her to distract her of the pain.

Gilda stops again, quietly curses the cold, and resumes her sharpening after flexing her mechanical limb. It is at that moment that Rotes takes a breath to muster up his courage to speak to the griffin.

“Does it hurt?” asks Rotes carefully.

Gilda pauses in mid slide and looks at Rotes impatiently. “What?”

“The enhancements. Do they hurt?”

Gilda's sneer is barely seen behind her mask when she holds up the mechanical hand so that Rotes can see his reflection on the sleek blades covering her robotic digits. The limb whirs and clicks with her movement, and her mechanized fingers sound like the inter-workings of a clock moving in harmony when she flexes them.

“Whaddya think?” says the cyborg griffin snidely.

“My mama knows a remedy from the Schönen Lilie that can relieve the greatest of pains. Feel free to ask her to make you some if it becomes too much,” says Rotes.

Gilda snorts and goes back to sharpening her built in weapons, and Rotes returns to the living room. The guards are now vacuuming and using the cleaner to wipe down all the surfaces that are under the fans.

The androgynous ibex can smell the fresh scent of oranges from the cleaner and he puts his breathing mask back in its place before he relaxes on his couch once more. And just so he can hear something more than roaring vacuums, he turns on the radio and adjusts the volume so he can hear it over the ruckus. Currently, the radio is broadcasting a fiery commentator who is known simply as Roman, and, as usual, he is on a tangent of some kind.

“...After the blatant attack against our nation and our way of life, Chancellor Gerechtigkeit Maßstab has done the right by our people by expelling the Equestrian Menace from our lands. Their embassies have been shut down and Ambassador Weiß Flagge and all members of the International Communications Committee have been recalled home. Furthermore, retribution has been promised by the Maßstab Cabinet, and who are we to condemn them?”

Rotes' initial reaction is to change the channel so would not have to waste his time listening to an old bigot warn about immigrants and unpatriotic influences in their society. However, he stops himself because he finds that he is getting some enjoyment from the effects Storm Cloud has on the populace. The commentator is angry, but also afraid and willing, nay, encouraging the citizens of Bernese to blindly support their Chancellor and his call to arms so they will not have to suffer another homeland attack.

Rotes' hoof drops and he intently listens to Roman go on and on about the “Equestrian Menace” and the threats they pose to their way of life. This brings his thoughts to Storm Cloud and how proud he is of its achievements. With the massive success of the first phase, he can only anticipate how well Phase Two will go with the emotional shock wave. If it is remotely as successful as Phase One, then he knows for a fact that both sides will demand blood and destroy each other in hellfire. Just the thought of seeing the two nations burn brings a twisted smile to the ibex's lips.

When the vacuums die down and Roman goes to a commercial break, Rotes turns down the radio to a more comfortable level and stops a passing guard who has a basket of cleaning supplies in his mouth.

The guard immediately tenses and looks at Rotes with terrified, beady eyes. “Sthir?”

“Is there any word of Cutter’s progress?” asks Rotes.

The guard puts the basket down, now trembling in his spot. “Not yet, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Sir, he hasn’t-”

The guard is interrupted when the phone rings unexpectedly. The phone rings again and everyone freezes in their spots as though the sound terrifies them to their very cores. The phone rings again and Gilda stops sharpening her talons and looks at Rotes with her annoyance marked by her furrowed brow and hidden frown.

“Are you going to get that?” says Gilda.

Rotes hurries forward and answers it with a blur of movement when it is on its fourth round. “Hallo?”

“Rotes. It’s Cutter. We have a problem,” says his companion over the phone.

Rotes slumps to his seat as he rubs his eyes with the worst coming to mind. “What is it?”

“Grim arrived with only four of our comrades, and from what I gathered, Nasty fled like a coward when they were ambushed by the Militärischen Nachrichtendienst. If the accounts are accurate, then our enemies used a unicorn who specialized in shield magic to assist them.”

Rotes sighs explosively. “It sounds like Ozean is getting desperate.”

“My thoughts exactly. We need to take care of Nasty, Ozean and whoever this unicorn is before too much damage is done. We are lucky we did not lose the packages, but we cannot rely on luck forever.”

“So the packages are safe?”

“The packages are fine, but we need to use the alternate passage to Equestria.”

Rotes nods. “Of course. I’ll see to it that our deserter is taken care of and send a message to our friends in Equestria to adjust our arrangements. But you must hurry with your task. Take the express and leave tonight, that should put you in Equestria by Sunday, in which I expect the mission to be done by next day’s end.”

“Are the targets the same?”

“Yes. We are too far to make changes and we cannot afford to wait any longer. Storm Cloud must be in full effect by the end of the week.”

“Understood.”

Rotes then hangs up and takes a moment to put his thumping heart and worried mind at ease. Rotes inhales slowly while his eyes shut with his intake, and when he breathes out, his eyes open just as gradually, bringing a sense of calm back. With his mind back at ease, he turns around and smiles at his guards, his mother and Gilda to put their curiosities to rest.

“Your griffins are fine, Gilda,” says Rotes, and to his guards: “Kameraden, der Goldstern aufgeht!”

Gilda rolls her eyes and sits back down by the window, watching it with the same intensity as before as her shaking hand guides her whetstone. The guards, on the other hand, cheer and stomp the floor in applause, thus making Rotes’ smile widens from seeing their passion, their loyalty for his noble cause.

But his smile does not last.

When he looks to his mother, awaiting her praise, he receives the unmistakable look of saddened disappointment instead. He can see it in the wetness in her eyes, she is not proud of him and what he will soon accomplish.

Rotes' smile fades, and his world becomes frozen when she swallows a lump in her throat and leaves the room with her head down. The number of guards seem to triple in the mountain estate as Rotes watches his mother sulk back into the kitchen, bumping pass the appearing guards as they come out to see why there is a celebration.

Rotes cannot move. His hooves are frozen just as his eyes, and as he watches his mother leave, a turbulent cycle of confusion, sadness and rage swirl around in him.

Why is she not proud of him? How can she not be proud of him?

Questions like those accompany the turmoil, and those are the only ones that matter at this point for Rotes. He does not care about the early celebration or the fact that the Gold Star Movement got a lucky break from Ozean. His mother has abandoned him in the crowd at a pinnacle point, and it serves only as a reflection for a certain event twenty five years ago that has left a nasty scar in Rotes' memories. Rotes is thankful he does not have to dwell on such an event, though, because March approaches him with an eager grin, thus snapping the androgynous ibex away from the depressing memory.

“When will we be in full effect?” asks March with enthusiasm matching his smile.

“By the end of the week at the latest,” says Rotes. He turns and looks at the white maned guard with a forced smile. “Go celebrate with your friends, March. I have business that I must tend to.”

March takes Rotes' light order to heart and trots over to a small group to of guards. They beam and enthusiastically welcome him to their circle while Rotes weaves his way through the small crowd to get to his mother.

When Rotes enters the kitchen, he sees that Ms. Leinen is stirring the same chili from before, but she is no longer humming. She is mixing the meal in an emotionless, robotic circle, staring straight into the sauce as though she is searching for an escape. Rotes stands in the kitchen doorway, watching her in silence with his heart growing heavier with each passing second. He knocks on the door frame, hoping for a response, but when none is given, he sighs depressingly and walks in with his head down. He keeps his mouth shut on the walk over and only dares to speak when he is next to her.

“Are you alright?” says Rotes.

Ms. Leinen continues stirring, completely ignoring Rotes. He waits for another few seconds, listening to the bubbling of the chili, the humming of the heater and the chattering guards outside before taking a breath of courage and putting his hoof on her shoulder.

“Mama, are you alright?” repeats Rotes cautiously.

Ms. Leinen shrugs off Rotes' hoof and she looks at him with red veins snaking into her eyes and wetness coating her cheeks. Rotes takes a step back, and the elderly ibex wipes her eyes, sniffling before speaking.

“What is the Gold Star rising for?” asks Ms. Leinen.

Rotes blinks. “Mama, you already know this.”

Ms. Leinen shakes her head. “No I do not. Rotes, you promised me that you would tell me why you are doing this, but... But you have not. All I have gotten are vague words and no talks of the path that you want to take to see this through.”

Rotes swallows looks away from Ms. Leinen to put his eyes on the flowery tile in the kitchen. But his efforts to keep his eyes away become more difficult when his mother speaks again.

“I saw that smile you had when Roman spoke. I heard you talking about Storm Cloud being ready by the end of the week. I... What has happened to you, Rotes?” says Ms. Leinen, her words heavy and voice choking on her tears.

“You know what happened to me. To us. And it will be made right when the Gold Star rises,” says Rotes.

“But, Rotes, what happened was in the past! Why won't you let go and forgive those who have wronged us!”

Hearing those words, Rotes feels his muscles tighten and his heart spike as an ice cold stream trickles down his hooves and flows into his eyes. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and gradually releases it with a steady exhale. His heart starts calming and his limbs and eyes thaw from the cold that threatened to take them seconds earlier. When he opens his eyes again, they shine a light blue that fades away to allow his natural green eyes show.

“Maybe if I was a saint and they abandoned their ways then I could. But still they prosecute and live off the backs of the commoners,” rumbles Rotes as he steps closer to his mother. “You know this, you've lived it until I freed you. And now I will free all those who live under this false harmony.”

“But there are other ways to make the Gold Star rise. It does not have to be like this,” says Ms. Leinen desperately.

Rotes' jaw tightens as he marches closer to Ms. Leinen, shaking the floor with every powerful step he takes. He can see Ms. Leinen's legs tremble and hear the terrified whine escape her throat as she stares at him with shaking pupils. But he does not care, not now, for he does not see his mother, but an ungrateful hag who wants him to abandon everything because of a weak stomach.

Rotes keeps approaching his mother until her back is to the wall and she starts sliding down, wetly whimpering incomprehensible words. Rotes looks down at his mother, wanting to strike her for her disloyalty to him when she holds up a pleading hoof.

“Rotes, please listen to me!” says Ms. Leinen, her words choking on her tears, and her eyes red and puffy with her cheeks drenched. “What you are doing will not save anyone or fix anything! It will only make things worse! Rotes, you cannot do this! Storm Cloud will destroy you and everything you want to protect!”

Rotes continues staring at Ms. Leinen with lethal determination. Her lack of faith in him, in Storm Cloud, in the Gold Star disgusts him down to the core. His hoof twitches, eager to smack some sense into the elderly female, but he restrains himself. He cannot stoop to such a level, no matter how strong the temptation.

“It will not destroy me,” begins Rotes with a low growl. “It will save me. It will save you. And it will save everyone from the bourgeoisie! Storm Cloud will make the Gold Star rise, and when it does, justice will be brought to all those who trample on us! Why is that hard to understand!?”

Ms. Leinen stares at Rotes, eyes red and wet as her lips and legs tremble. Rotes stares back at her, jaw locked and muscles tight, and the thoughts of beating her in submission dominant. But then something clicks, and his anger drains away leaving a lonely, empty feeling of shame. All she wants to do is help him, and yet he can see her fear clearly because of what he has said and what he wants to do.

Rotes steps back with his eyes closed and head shaking with his limbs, and he continues retreating from his mother until his hind legs step over a cushion. It is then that he sits down and rubs his temple without taking his boot off. Its treaded bottom scratches against his hide, but he knows he deserves the discomfort for wanting to lay a hoof on his own mother.

“I am sorry, mama, I did not mean to frighten you,” says Rotes shakily.

He swallows nervously and looks at his mother out of the corner of his eye as she cautiously steps away from the wall to approach him.

When Ms. Leinen is next to Rotes, he looks down at the floor, too ashamed to look at his mother. Even when she gently wraps her hooves around him and has his head rest against her barrel as she rubs his mane. He closes his eyes and leans against her, loving the way her hoof massages his scalp as she runs over his mane in gentle strokes. He can still feel her shaking, though, and her heart thumps quickly in his ear, crushing him with more regret.

“I know, Rotes,” sniffles Ms. Leinen. “But I am begging you, for your sake, please stop this before it is too late.”

Rotes shakes his head and looks up at Ms. Leinen with beady, wet eyes as he clumsily puts his hoof over her shoulder.

“I am sorry, mama, but I cannot do that,” says Rotes quietly. “This must be done for all of us. For in order for there to be a brighter future, there must first be a path carved through Hell.”

Canterlot, Equestria
Monday, 5th of May

The sun rises over the skyscrapers of Canterlot, with birds chirping and ponies coming out of their homes to enjoy another eight hours of work, or spend their day relaxing with friends or loved ones. The Canterlot Weather Patrol scheduled a warm day, after all, and no one wants to miss out on the warm weather after weeks of piercing chilly winds and frozen rain. But Thunderlane cannot hear the supposed happiness over the honking horns, disgruntled shouts and colorful languages that fill the air. Not even when he squishes his head between his pillow and mattress. And his morning is only made worse when-

Thunderlane throws off his pillow and covers and stares straight ahead at his door with big, tired red eyes and a mane so unkempt that it falls over his forehead. He swears he sees his door shaking, and when the annoying rapper on the other end speaks so fast that he loses all comprehension of what is happening, Thunderlane groans and flops on his bed.

“Rumble, turn it down!” yells Thunderlane over the wall shaking bass

Naturally, Rumble doesn’t hear him and starts singing along instead, and hearing his brother sing along to the abomination flips Thunderlane's switch.

He kicks off his covers, growling viciously and muttering dozens of colorful words under his breath, and after falling off of his comfort zone, he stomps towards his vibrating door. When he throws open his bedroom door, the sound waves beat against his mane and feathers with noticeable force, but it does not stop him.

No, his eyes are locked on to the radio, and he does not care if he gets punched in the face or has his mane shaved. He wants sleep and by Celestia he will get it!

Thunderlane's nostrils flare and his wings flap as his baggy eyes stare down the evil radio, and Rumble has his back to him so he is completely oblivious to his older brother’s presence. However, that all changes when Thunderlane yanks the radio out of the wall, completely uncaring about the sparks shooting from the plug, or the wide eyes of shock Rumble gives him when he spins around.

“Dafuq!?” swears Rumble.

Thunderlane ignores Rumble, storms back into his room and kicks the door shut with one of his hind legs. He then throws the radio away with absolutely no thought or care where it lands and face-plants his bed to seek sanctuary in his drool covered pillow and flat blanket. He really wants to get back to sleep and enjoy a pleasant dream, not the nightmares that have been robbing him of a proper rest for the past year. But if it is not nightmares robbing him of rest, it is Rumble doing something stupid. Such as bringing mares over, blaring music or continuously knocking on his door in three-bang intervals. Which the latter is being performed right now.

“Rumble, I’m trying to sleep!” shouts Thunderlane over the knocks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“Give me back my radio!” yells Rumble childishly.

“No! Go read a book or something!”

“You jacked my book!”

“I’m talking about a real book! With big words and plots and character growth!”

The door opens and Rumble trots straight towards the radio, delicately scoops up the device and stares at Thunderlane after pressing it protectively against his barrel. It takes Thunderlane a moment to realize that his brother is staring at him, and when he does, he lifts his head and looks back at Rumble with as much focus as his tired eyes can muster.

“And dad says I'm a bum.” says Rumble, creating a mocking edge in his tone that makes Thunderlane’s fur bristle.

Thunderlane buries his face in his pillow. “I’m tired.’’

“But you’ve already slept for twelve hours.”

Thunderlane gives Rumble a tired glare. “No, I was stuck in a nightmare for eight hours and spent the last four tossing and turning, trying to get a decent rest, and then you went and played that crap out there.”

Rumble puffs out his chest and tilts his head up snobbishly. “It is not crap. It is a work of art. You’re just a racist.”

“WHAT!”

Thunderlane shoots up in the sitting position, eyes wide, jaw dropped and feathers ruffled while Rumble smirks and resumes a proper, non-snob stance.

“And it is also going on ten o’clock,” adds Rumble.

Again, it takes Thunderlane’s weary mind a moment to understand what is going on, but luckily for him Rumble’s widening smile and the glowing glint in his eyes helps move things along. Finally, after a short duration of staring, Thunderlane sighs, crawls out of his bed and uses a simple wave of his hoof to motion Rumble out of his room.

“I’ll get my uniform on,” grumbles Thunderlane.

“Alright!” cheers Rumble.

Rumble spins on his hooves and half skips, half flutters out of the room with Thunderlane following close behind. When Rumble plops on the couch, Thunderlane notices that he is about as well groomed as a hobo who took a bath in a fountain.

“And you go get yourself cleaned up,” orders Thunderlane.

“Aw man,” moans his counterpart, his demeanor now slumping.

Thunderlane yawns, closes his bedroom door, and shakes the sleep away to get ready for what he hopes will be a quick day at the Canterlot Stadium.

And a quick day it has not been. Thunderlane’s five and a half hour experience at the fair has been anything but entertaining. This is mostly because his father conveniently called before they left and ordered Thunderlane to make sure Rumble checked every single booth and filled out the appropriate applications. Not wanting to skinned alive, Thunderlane relayed the message to Rumble and he has been following the instructions down to the letter. Boredom at its finest is essentially what Thunderlane and Rumble have been dealing with, but more so Thunderlane than Rumble since he is stuck watching someone scribble on paper.

Eventually they reach the area that Rumble wants, and that is the spot where the gymnasium booths are with all of their overly muscular and flashy glory. It is truly a sight to behold for those who desire it and an eyesore for those who do not, and it is proven by the excited grin spreading across Rumble’s face and the unimpressed expression Thunderlane is sporting.

“Well, there it is,” sighs Thunderlane. “The one place where you can make all of your closet dreams a fantasy.”

Rumble’s smile turns upside down, and he looks up at his older brother with an annoyed scowl.

“Why do you gotta do that to me?” asks Rumble hostilely.

Thunderlane smirks. “Because I‘m your brother.”

Rumble snorts and both pegasi trot towards the flaunting displays of muscle power and exaggerated vocal cord use.

“Well, just because you’re insecure about gyms doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for me,” says Rumble.

Thunderlane once again sighs, and this time he adds an eye roll to the mix. “I’m not insecure about gyms, Rumble. You just never know when you might get publicly humiliated by the same group of jocks before they terrorize you in the showers with their hotshot mare boss who’s got more muscles than hair.”

“That is pretty specific.”

“And it is all hypothetical.”

“I should of known since there was a mare involved. We all know you aren’t exactly a chick magnet.”

With that little remark, Rumble grins and tilts his head up at a couple of mares passing by. They giggle and one blows a kiss to Rumble before she trots away with her friend to an Aloe-Lotus Massage Heaven stand. To rub salt into Thunderlane's eyes, Rumble pretends to catch the mare's kiss and and he rubs it against his chubby cheek while smiling victoriously at his brother. Thunderlane wants to gag from seeing all that.

“That was probably one of the dumbest things I have ever seen you do,” comments Thunderlane.

“You’re just jealous because you can’t woo a mare to save your own skin,” chuckles Rumble while flapping his wings proudly. “Heck, you’re still a-”

“I can woo anypony I want just fine!” interrupts Thunderlane loudly. “But I choose not to because I’d rather not have mares dying at my hooves from my charm.”

“Really, now?” says a very familiar, tomboy voice next to him that makes both stallions stop cold. “And where was this guy at the Card Casino?”

Thunderlane gulps and turns his head in tune with Rumble to see Rainbow Dash standing there, sipping a soda with a wolfish smile. She has reached the bottom of the cup, so her sipping is met with the unwelcoming noise of sucked air scraping the cup and ice in search of flavor. The two stallions stare at Rainbow Dash and she, in turn, stares back, waiting patiently for Thunderlane's answer.

Dash's eyelids drift to half lidded as a wolfish smile spreads across her muzzle while she continues sipping her depleted drink, leaving Thunderlane sweating himself to near dehydration under his uniform. Rumble, on the other hand, is switching his focus between the two older ponies, clearly curious, but having too much fun seeing his older brother squirm to say anything.

Rainbow Dash uses her tongue to rotate the straw so she can stir the melting ice inside, thus torturing Thunderlane's ears with yet another scraping slurp. Thankfully, the horrible sounds scratching at Thunderlane's eardrums end when a donkey janitor pushing a cart of garbage cans trudges on by. The Element of Loyalty pulls the empty cup away with a loud, wet pop and banishes it to the realm of garbage without much thought. Thunderlane is relieved to see the cup land inside and spill its half melted, icy guts all over crumbled paper and half eaten food, but the evil look on the old donkey's face kills the peace for the pegasus.

Then there is Rainbow Dash on her quest to make Thunderlane's day awkward.

The loose cannon Element leans forward with her half lidded eyes and sly smile aimed at the dark furred stallion. “Well?”

Rumble leans closer to Thunderlane, curiously asking: “You went on a date with Dash?”

“Not exactly,” replies Thunderlane swiftly.

“Oh, yeah, me and Prince Charming here went on a date and had some fun, if you know what I mean, squirt,” says Rainbow Dash with an implying wink and click of her tongue.

Thunderlane’s jaw drops and his cheeks and wings flare as Rumble looks up to him like he is in the presence of a god. Even if the god is stuttering and fidgeting in his spot.

“Don’t tell him that!” whines Thunderlane as he he struggles in vain to get his wings down.

“Don’t tell him what?” asks Rainbow Dash innocently. “Don’t tell him that we hung out? Got trashed and did some stuff later?”

“What kind of stuff?” probes Rumble hopefully with unashamed vice clear on his mind.

“Great now his mind is going all pervy!” complains Thunderlane, grunting when he finally gets his wings under control. “Rumble, we just had a few drinks and I had to stop Rainbow from crying.”

Rainbow Dash frowns. “Hey, I wasn’t crying. I had soap in my eyes.”

“Right, because everypony tries to leave a casino through the back door, sobbing, whenever they get soap in their eyes!”

“Your kissing sucked!”

“You mouth raped me!”

Rumble’s face lights up with an enchanted gasps, for now he has seen the truth and is willing to kiss the very ground Thunderlane walks on.

“Whoa! You made out with an Element!” says Rumble.

“Get a job, Rumble,” snaps Thunderlane.

“He sucked at it,” reiterates Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane glares at Rainbow Dash and she looks back at him with her own frown. Then they look at Rumble and the perverted smile he is sporting. Thunderlane sighs and shakes his head and Rainbow Dash continues her staring, and when an awkward five seconds pass, Rumble asks the grand question.

“So, did you two... you know...” Rumble rubs his forehooves together suggestively. “Tango?”

“Buzz off, Rumble!” snarls Thunderlane.

Thunderlane then implements the very efficient method of hoof to face to push Rumble away. Rumble stumbles back, takes the hint and wanders off, snickering and telling Thunderlane that he’ll be at the gymnasium stands. Thunderlane watches Rumble until he approaches the Snowflake Gymnasium booth before turning to Rainbow Dash, who is now scanning the crowd.

“Rainbow, what are you doing here?” asks Thunderlane, his mood more soured by what has just transpired.

Rainbow Dash shrugs casually, apparently forgetting about the damage she's done on Thunderlane's afternoon. “Honestly, I don’t know. Twilight said she wanted to meet me here at the Flim Flam booth place, but I can't find that stupid booth!”

“So you came to mess with me instead? How nice.”

Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes and cranes her neck to get only a minimally better view of the place since “No flying!” signs have been posted by every doorway and are hanging from the ceiling in even increments so no one can use the did-not-see-sign excuse.

“What can I say? You’re fun to mess with,” says Rainbow Dash. Then her expression brightens and with a cheer she says: “There it is! And it looks like I’m early for once!”

Thunderlane doesn’t know why, but he follows Rainbow Dash towards the Flim Flam booth where a mare in a spangly dress suit eyes the pegasi with a painfully hopeful smile awaits attention. The booth is surprisingly close to the Snowflake Gymnasium spot, allowing Thunderlane to keep an eye on Rumble while following Rainbow Dash, even if it goes against the warnings in his lonely little brain. Thunderlane watches Rumble talk to the company recruiter while trailing Rainbow Dash, and when he is confident that Rumble is doing his part, he looks back to the Element of Loyalty. She is busy talking to the mare to notice him, though, so he looks at the informative decor about Flim Flam Corporation instead. While doing this, he overhears the conversation and quickly figures out that the spangly mare is the exact opposite of helpful.

“She’s a unicorn. And purple. And has one eye. She’s kinda uppity now,” says Rainbow Dash with exaggerated hoof movements.

“My aunt’s a one eyed purple unicorn up in Townsville. We call her Aunt Larry,” says the mare.

Thus an argument is sparked and Thunderlane tones out the conversation. To keep his mind busy, he reads the glued on paper signs boasting about Flim Flam Corporation. Mostly it is talking about how the wealthiest company in Equestria is leading the technological innovation and how a common pony can join them in their quest for market domination. Bragging aside, the display also talks about the benefits of joining the company. To make the benefits clearer, the little paper signs have appropriate typography and blueprint style pictures and graphs that spell everything out at a kindergarten level. Then it gets to the requirements of joining their company.

With just the first bullet point, Thunderlane and about ninety percent of the population is excluded. And the further down he goes, the more intense the qualifications become to the point where Thunderlane figures out that the company is for only one percent of the techno-geeks. Unless, of course, you want a job as a warehouse worker or a janitor.

Thunderlane snaps out of observations when Rainbow Dash screams in frustration. He turns to see the blue on Rainbow Dash's face burn red like hot metal, and fearing a big scene, he gently grabs her and escorts her away while apologizing to the mare. The mare sticks her tongue out at both Thunderlane and Rainbow Dash, and the charcoal stallion frowns and looks away from her while Rainbow Dash snarls and flares her wings.

“Just ignore her,” says Thunderlane, still keeping his hoof on her back to lead her away from the bane of her afternoon.

Rainbow Dash huffs. “I hate her. I mean, seriously!? How can anypony miss Twilight now that she’s missing an eye and is basically in charge of building Equestria?”

Thunderlane shrugs. “I don’t know. But why don’t you go out and take a breather before-?”

“I don’t need a breather! I need Twilight!”

A teenage stallion passing by whistles vulgarly at that remark, and Rainbow Dash’s face nearly burns off from the fuel added to her rage. She makes a move to go after the teenager, but Thunderlane holds her back, albeit with great effort on his part that is marked by his squeaking hooves and grunts. During his struggle, he tries to ignore the growing crowd and the approaching pair security stallions -one earth pony and one unicorn- clad in dark suits with CDA badges, but try as he might, he still fails miserably.

“You wanna whistle again!” screams Rainbow Dash as the offender runs away laughing. “Yeah, you better run!”

“Rainbow Dash, relax!” barks Thunderlane.

Rainbow Dash snorts and Thunderlane sighs and looks past the approaching guards to see if Rumble is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. His brother has been watching, but right as Thunderlane and him make eye contact, he resumes filling out paperwork. As Thunderlane watches Rumble, something catches his eye. Or a few things, actually.

For one, he sees a white coat and green mane earth pony CDA stallion stationed near the maintenance hall open the door and speak to someone on the other side. Secondly, the agent points to someone in the room, but Thunderlane can’t quite tell who, which brings up the third point. After a short exchange of words, a young ibex wearing a janitor’s uniform enters the chamber pushing a cart of cleaning supplies.

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” says the unicorn agent, thus putting Thunderlane back to the situation Rainbow Dash put him in.

“What! Do you know who I am?” says Rainbow Dash as she points to herself.

“Yes. And we’re still asking you to leave.”

“How about you leave and let me meet Twilight!”

The agent's eyes narrow. “How about you try on some cuffs, Rainbow Dash.”

Thunderlane looks past the ponies in search of the ibex, and when he sees him again, he is struggling to get his cart through a crowd of eager job hunters without taking his eyes off of Thunderlane’s spot. That sends warning bells off in Thunderlane’s brain, and he knows the CDA smells something rotten, too, since he spots another agent speaking into her headset and motioning her partner forward.

“But I gotta meet Twilight! She said it was important!” claims Rainbow Dash.

The ibex turns towards Thunderlane now and picks up his speed and is barely stopped when one of the agents gets in the way and puts his hooves on the front end of the cart. The ibex is flanked by three more agents, and when Thunderlane looks at the maintenance door he notices that the pony that let the ibex in is no longer there.

The ibex appears to feign ignorance, but when he looks back at the group, Thunderlane realizes his eyes are on Rainbow Dash. And whoever this guy is is also near Rumble, who is still preoccupied at the Snowflake Gymnasium booth to notice what is going on.

“She can meet you outside,” says the earth pony agent patiently.

Thunderlane takes a step forward to get to Rumble, but the unicorn agent holds him back.

“You’re going outside, too,” he says.

“What? I can’t! I gotta watch my brother!” says Thunderlane.

Thunderlane looks past the agent and sees the small group of CDA agents doing an on the site interrogation. He looks between them, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring, and when he looks back at Rainbow Dash, Thunderlane looks to the agent preventing him from seeing Rumble.

“Look, can I at least get my brother? He’s right over there by the Snowflake place,” says Thunderlane, his voice shaking with panic and his attempts to fight his way past the agent being met with him being restrained by magic and a pair of hooves.

“Do you want me to use force on you, soldier!” says the unicorn agent viciously.

The earth pony agent presses his hoof against the radio clipped to his ear and looks over his shoulder. Just from the way his body tenses and his ears droop, Thunderlane knows that something is horribly wrong. Thunderlane's heart races and his movements become more barbaric to the point where he is snarling and pushing against the unicorn hard enough to breach his spell barrier and slide him back.

During the struggle, Rainbow Dash clamps her mouth shut and takes a step back, watching the two push against each other. A crowd starts growing to see the show, but Thunderlane doesn't care. He need to get to Rumble. Every warning bell is going off, from the sickness in his stomach, to a gagging feel in his throat, all the way to the thousands of spiders crawling under his skin. Thunderlane's teeth grind against each other as his nostrils flare and his wings flap hard in defiance of the unicorn agent. The unicorn agent puts more energy into his restraining spell to keep the enraged pegasus back, but it does nothing to discourage Thunderlane. Red bleeds into his vision as pain threatens to tear apart his muscles and snap his bones in his fight to surpass the unicorn's magic and get to Rumble before time runs out.

“Will you let me go and get to my brother!” screams Thunderlane furiously.

The earth pony agent hastily steps in front of Rainbow Dash and jabs his hoof at the unicorn agent. “Let him go and get this crowd out of here, now!”

Right as the agent finishes his sentence, the ibex shouts: “ES LEBE DER BERNER!”

Before any further action can be done, the ibex slams his hoof against his chest and Thunderlane's snaps his hoof to Rumble.

“RUMBLE-!”

And that is all Thunderlane can say before he is blinded by two flashes of fiery light that pierce the floor and ceiling. The deafening shock wave blasts Thunderlane into a wall and kicks up a thick cloud of shredded tile, broken furniture and body parts. When he lands on his back he blacks out.

There is nothing but silence and darkness. Thunderlane does not feel the floor under his body or hear his own heart or breaths. There is nothing that points to life in the void he is in. He doesn't even know if his eyes are closed or if he has gone blind, or if he has died for all there is, is endless darkness. Then he hears a voice in his ear, soft to the point where he almost doesn't hear it.

“Wake up, son,” whispers a gentle stallion.

Thunderlane feels his ear twitch from the warm breath tickling it, but he doesn't know if he is imagining it, even though it feels so real. He is really certain that his mind is tricking him when he feels a hoof shake his shoulder, though.

“It's time to get up, Thunderlane,” says the same stallion, his tone still gentle and patient.

Thunderlane shifts on the ground, and feels the brick and wood scrape against his hide and uniform as they clatter to the ground. He opens his eyes and through the dust choking the air, he sees sparks spraying from dangling lights and thrashing wires, and the crowd of sobbing and bleeding civilians trample over each other to escape the Hell they witnessed.

Thunderlane's eyelids are heavy as stone as they slide shut and his hoof glides across the floor, pushing aside torn apart tile and splinters. As his hoof goes over the ground, sharp rubble cuts into his skin, sending a searing pain through him, and when he opens his eyes once again he sees transparent soldiers lying in pools of blood, also covered in rubble and blood. His body quivers when four ghostly ponies rush in through a hole in the wall, weapons raised and voices indiscernible as they sweep the area that is transitioning into another room. With each passing second, the ghosts and destroyed room become clearer until Thunderlane is lying on the tiles of a bombed out diner instead of a destroyed stadium.

Thunderlane's breaths are heavy and raspy as he watches the hostiles move over the bodies of fallen soldiers, whose once proud, gold armor is now destroyed and covered in blood. Some are still coughing or moaning from their mortal wounds while the rest remain still, slowly bleeding out.

“Roar Shock!” shouts one of the attackers, a pegasus stallion with a shotgun battle saddle.

“I'm here,” says a beige colored pegasus with a dark brown mane and a wrench and lightning bolt crossing over each other as a cutie mark. Despite all the suffering around him, his voice is relaxed and can easily explode into charisma if need be.

The beige pegasus's fur is covered by dust, wet from sweat and a thin layer of blood on his forehead, but he shows no reaction to any pain that he might be in from the blast.

Roar Shock steps out of his cuffs and over a guard, whose head hangs limp on his twisted neck, and he spits out a pair of keys into his hoof and holds it out to one of his liberators.

Thunderlane wheezes as he extends his hoof, now clad in armor that has seas of dirty, dented metal exposed from the chipping blue paint. Roar Shock looks at Thunderlane as the enemy soldier works at freeing his wings from its shackles. When they are free, the shackles fall to the ground with a thud, and the beige stallion takes a deep sniff and flaps his wings to get the blood flowing back into them.

After Roar Shock exhales, he kneels in front of Thunderlane, emphasizing his curiosity with a cocked head and frown as his eyes drift down to his name tag. The charcoal pegasus tries to focus on the terrorist before him, but his vision pulsates from almost nonexistent to faint, and the scenes start overlapping each other again. Through the enemy soldiers and fallen brothers, he can see bodies and torn posters, and cries of pain or dying gurgles over the voices and the gunshots as the assailants execute the survivors of their attack.

Thunderlane's eyes drift shut once more and his head falls against the ground, too weak to feel anything or fight the darkness returning to claim him.

“Enough! We don't have the time or ammo to execute everypony!” says Roar Shock, his voice bouncing around Thunderlane's skull like a demonic bouncing ball.

Thunderlane's eyes open once more and he finds himself against the brick wall of the stadium, no longer white, but covered in blood and dirt with a pony sized indent in it. The sparks from the exposed wires spurt out every couple of seconds, sending small lines of light to illuminate what the shrouded sunlight cannot. He blinks slowly as he scans the warzone, but he can barely see or hear anything over the agonizing wheezes in his ears and the blur coming and going with his vision. Thunderlane's eyes close again, and his heart beats like a slow drum as his breathing becomes weaker, and when he goes limp on the ground-

“Get up, boy!” snarls Gale's voice.

Thunderlane's eyes snap open, expecting to see Gale standing in front of him, scowling with murder in his veins. What he sees instead is a broken clock stuck on 5:05 and a stallion stumbling through the carnage, bleeding profusely and laughing maniacally over his sobs. Thunderlane watches the stallion stumble and collapse to the ground, near the crater marking where the ibex blew himself up.

“It's time for your medicine,” says the soft spoken stallion that Thunderlane heard earlier.

Thunderlane closes his eyes and screams in pain through his gritted teeth as he pushes himself up. Brick, plaster splinters and mortar cascade off of him, and they land in pools of crimson that are fueled by the thick globs of blood dripping through his torn hide and uniform. He opens his eyes, gulping for air with strings of blood hanging past his lips and dozens of jagged knives poking at his lungs.

Thunderlane gulps in air, failing to keep the tears at bay as his wobbling legs burn from the bones scraping against each other and his bones poking at his flesh.

He hears gunshots and screams as he carefully steps over the bodies of ripped apart civilians and gold armored soldiers littering the cratered road in the middle of the stadium. All are equally lying blood. All that are unlucky are equally awaiting Charon to take their pain away.

“Are you feeling better?” asks the soft spoken stallion as Thunderlane passes an armored, motorized wagon tipped to its side, engulfed in flames.

Thunderlane's ears trudge through the air as they swivel in search of the mysterious voice amongst the carnage. His eyes drag over the crowd with tears burning his open wounds as they slide down to clean streaks of bloody dust off his cheeks. Thunderlane stops walking and stares down at the clock, watching and hoping without faith that the clock's time will change, but it remains as 5:05.

A gunshot destroys the silence with a resounding pop, and Thunderlane's eyes snap up to see the Painter staring at him from the other side of the crater with Rainbow Dash under his hooves. Her cyan coat is almost nonresistant from the red gashes crossing her body, and her wings are twisted with white poking out. Thunderlane's heart stops and he puts his hoof over his mouth as his eyes widen and his vision blurs with the tears soaking them.

“Rainbow...” wheezes Thunderlane weakly.

Rainbow Dash's back is to Thunderlane, so he can't see her face, but the pony in the full body painting suit is looking directly at him with his goggles shielding the demonic eyes behind them.

Thunderlane's boiling blood rushes through his strained heart and broken veins as he stares at the Painter. He wants to charge him and beat him until his skull is flat for what he has done. He wants to, but his legs refuse to move and his limp wings refuse to rise to challenge him. All he can do is stare at the damn goggles with the fire in his eyes.

The whole time Thunderlane stares at the Painter, the disguised unicorn silently stares back with the wet drips of Thunderlane's blood the only sound between them.

“What did you do to her?” croaks Thunderlane, his voice trembling with rage.

“Come and find out,” replies the Painter.

Thunderlane steps forward, but he collapses on the ground and smashes his face against what is left of a cement block. He screams in pain and rage as he snaps into the sitting position, clutching his jaw with his hoof with blood gushing past his lips and hoof. He looks back to where the Painter stood, but sees nothing there. No Painter. No Rainbow Dash. No dead soldiers or battle scarred streets. Just a civilian sobbing in agony as she drags herself over the carpet of mangled corpses belonging to those who just wanted a job.

Thunderlane looks away from the civilians and cranes his neck over the carnage. All he can see are gory lumps and dust. Then his ear flicks when he hears another voice, a mare, and he turns to the source to see a mare huddled against the wall, hugging a stallion who has been impaled by a piece of wood. He has died with his eyes open and has covered her body as well as his with blood that is quickly darkening in the choking atmosphere. Thunderlane gets a suffocating lump in his throat from watching her babble and rock herself back and forth.

“It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen,” sobs the mare frantically. She whimpers and wipes the stallion’s mane away from his destroyed face and hugs him close to her cheek as she rubs his head. “He’s fine. We’re fine. He’s fine. We’re fine. He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay.”

Thunderlane watches her, and a moment later, she stops talking and looks up at him, smiling hopefully as her tears clean a streak of bloody dust off of her cheeks.

“He’s going to be okay. You’ll see,” she says desperately.

Thunderlane swallows and fails to ignore the pain chewing at his legs and ribs when he gets back up. His world starts fading in and out of darkness, and a his body starts shivering from a cold as a ringing grows in his ears. He doesn't stop, though. He cannot stop. He has to find Rumble. He has to find Rainbow Dash. He needs to find them.

Thunderlane leaves a trail of blood in his wake and almost collapses again as he picks his way through the rubble and and destroyed bodies. During this, his breaths become more labored and his body feels like it will shake apart from how brittle the cold is making his body. But still he trudges on. Still he continues his search for his brother and his sister in arms.

“Rumble!? Rainbow!?” is what Thunderlane wants to yell, but his voice is barely heard even in his own ears.

Thunderlane keels over, coughing sprays out blood into his hoof, and he continues coughing until he collapses on the ground in a heap, shuddering and whimpering. His vision is progressively getting darker as his world dims from the edges. He can feel the thickening fog in his brain muddling everything, from his thought to his movements, but he does not see that as a reason to stop. It only makes his objective all the more clearer.

Find Rumble.

Find Rainbow Dash.

Bring them home.

“Stand up like a Hurricane!” yells Gale.

“I'm up, sir,” coughs Thunderlane as he pushes himself to his shaking hooves.

“Find him!”

“I'll find them, sir.” Thunderlane's voice is almost nonexistent, now.

Thunderlane pants heavily and blinks blood out of his eyes. His vision is almost gone as it is, and he does not need blood to cover what little he can see.

He swallows and valiantly continues his search, but with his vision swimming away from him and his brain fogging up, everything starts to swirl into the cold darkness.

“Rumble? Rainbow?” whispers Thunderlane hoarsely. He takes a step and collapses over himself and lands on his stomach, watching as medics and Royal Guards appear out of the darkness, voices indiscernible as they wave and kneel down to help those that they can. Thunderlane extends his hoof with tears making it impossible to see anything, hoping someone will help him up so he can find his brother. “Please... Somepony answer.”

Thunderlane sees a blob of colors turn to him and shout something before they run to him, and that is the last thing he sees before his hoof drops and darkness claims him. And the last thing he hears before the dead silence is the gentle stallion.

“You'll be better one day. I promise.”

Incompetence

It is another day of boredom for Thunderlane. He gets up for the morning alarm, brushes his already disciplined mane and puts on his uniform. The uniform is supposed to be a symbol of pride for any who wear it. It takes a lot to be a soldier, and even more so to wear the uniforms of the elites of Equestria’s military. Whether they be Palace Guards, the Frontier Watch or the Wonderbolts, they all serve the same purpose and fuel the same pride to any and all who wear such uniforms belonging to the top tier guardians of Equestria.

All but Thunderlane, that is.

No matter how much he desires it, how much he tells himself that he feels proud and accomplished of what he has done, he is still empty. His words of self-praise are as hollow as the void in him. To Thunderlane, his jacket is just cheap blue cloth with gold cuffs and his graduation pins are glued on decorations from the one bit store. Even his very limbs and joints feel like they are made of cheap, painted wood as they creak from bending to adjust his cuff. But Thunderlane does not care about the fading paint or splinters poking up from his hoof. Nor does he care about the noticeable wires hanging from the sky, screwed into him and guiding every step he takes.

It is a fuzz, but Thunderlane still remembers when he graduated the Wonderbolts Academy. He remembers the hours of drills of the days before and the hours of cleaning and preening before the ceremony. All that preparation to stand fours hours at attention in block formation with the sun cooking him alive in his dark coat, just to see his parents and Rumble. After twelve weeks of Hell, his father finally said what he has been wanting to hear even before he got his cutie mark.

“Good job, boy, you are one step closer to being a real Hurricane.”

Those words made Thunderlane’s day, and he remembers the smile and thanks he gave to Gale because that was the proper thing to do. After all, a real Hurricane always treats his elders with respect and fulfills their wishes. A real Hurricane throws their life away to please their parents and to make sure the family stays strong.

“And then he goes out the door for another adventure,” says the Grand Puppet Master who is controlling Thunderlane’s limbs to make him walk out the crayon colored cardboard door. The puppet master strangely sounds like Gale and Thunderlane can hear the ghostly giggles of children resonate from the air, but he does not care. He is not afraid or angry. He is content because he must be.

The strings guide Thunderlane down a hallway decorated with bright colors and pictures. There are pictures of Rumble, Gale and Amber Grain, but a picture of the him is nowhere in sight. When Thunderlane goes into his living room, furnished with cheap, glue heavy doll furniture, he sees Rumble in the middle of the room. His younger brother has his back is to him, so he cannot see his face, but his shoulders are buckling from how hard he is chuckling.

“Let's look at your biggest failure,” says the Grand Puppet Master. His voice rumbles through the ceiling like thunder from a vengeful god, causing everything to shake. Then Thunderlane's limbs are tugged forward, making him wince and shed clear, oily tears as the screws on the hooks tug at his wooden body. “Look and see why you are unworthy to carry my name, boy!”

Thunderlane is tossed to the ground, just barely out of reach of Rumble. He crumbles to the ground, painless limbs bent in ways that should not be possible and the strings coiling around him. Thunderlane is unable to lift his wooden head, move his body or swallow anything as he stares at his young brother.

“Do you see?” rumbles the Grand Puppet Master.

At first sight, it appears that Ruble is sitting on a circular, red carpet, looking as real as he should be. Only, instead of his coat being a clean, light gray, it is torn with oozing scars that feed into the carpet. His wings are skeletal with barely any burnt feathers hanging on his charred wings, and the chuckling is actually a sob.

“Rumble?” whispers Thunderlane, his voice low and raspy.

Ruble does not answer. He slouches in his spot, crying louder with every breath bringing excruciating pain to the young pegasus.

“This is not your fault,” says the kind stallion Thunderlane heard in the bombing's aftermath.

Thunderlane's painted eyes roll around in their sockets to search for the voice, but all he sees is a white void with green bleeding from the cracks where the strings meet the sky. Thunderlane feels a faint heart beat in his hollow chest, and he grinds his teeth as his puppet limbs straighten themselves with great strain to make him stand. His head remains bowed as he looks at his wobbly legs, silently hoping that they will hold him. Thunderlane looks back at Rumble when his brother whimpers something incomprehensible and collapses to the ground.

“Rumble!” cries Thunderlane.

Thunderlane's steps are awkward, and his wooden exterior splinters away to reveal his dark coat that covers his flesh. The closer he gets to his brother, the larger the pieces of wood that fall off of him, and the red around Rumble shimmers in the glowing green light.

“This is your fault! booms the Grand Puppet Master.

The strings that control Thunderlane are ripped from the sky and float to the ground as he gallops towards Rumble, and now thin streams of crimson ooze past the hooks and travel down his legs. Thunderlane keeps his wet eyes locked on Rumble, and though the world around him fades from the teary haze, his brother is still clear. He can barely hear a bell toll in the distance over his brother's tortured sobs, but he does not care about the bell. He has to get to Rumble! He has to save him!

Thunderlane slides in front of Rumble, and grabs his brother's shoulders right as he is about to collapse. His breathing is quick like his heart, and his eyes are red and puffy as his brother slides his dark purple eyes open.

Thunderlane forces a smile. “It's okay, Rumble. I'm here.”

Rumble sniffles and pieces of his skin and muscle fall off to reveal burnt, broken bone underneath. “Why didn't you protect me?”

Thunderlane's eyes widen and his hooves slide off of Rumble's shoulders as the light gray pegasus lifts his own hooves. His fur peels off and chunks of his muscle drip to the floor, where they land on the ground as charred meat, and his eyes shrivel in their sockets, which become filled with blood.

“Rumble, I...”

Rumble latches on to Thunderlane's shoulders and wails: “WHY DID YOU LET ME DIE!?”

“It is because he is incompetent,” says an emotionless voice from behind.

Thunderlane turns around and sees the Painter standing right behind him with his mechanical baton. The trio of small Tesla coils surrounding the sharpened gem spark, giving the tip an electric glow with bolts slithering from the coils, to the gem and down the baton. Thunderlane leaps up and stands in front of Rumble, shaking, but with his wings expanded and muscles coiled for a strike.

Thunderlane, and the edges of the pegasus's teary vision become red as the Painter stares at him from behind the goggles. He can see his narrowed eyes, gritted teeth and ruffled feathers in the reflection of the goggles.

The two stare at each other, with the Painter calm and Thunderlane quivering from fear and rage. He wants to charge him and beat him down, but he has also seen what he is capable of and knows that he is at a huge disadvantage.

“What are you waiting for?” sneers the Grand Puppet Master. “End him for Rumble!”

The Grand Puppet Master is right! He has to do this for Rumble!

“No! Stop!” shouts the mysterious stallion.

Thunderlane ignores him, though, and charges the Painter with a ferocious scream. The disguised unicorn stands his ground as Thunderlane zooms towards him, and when Thunderlane swings at him, snarling viciously, he steps aside, breaks off Thunderlane's wing from the joint. Before Thunderlane's nerves have a chance to register the pain, the Painter punches him in the side. Thunderlane's lungs burn and his throat feels like it is going to tear itself apart as he howls in agony and collapses to the ground while the dismembered wing twirls in the air, spraying the two ponies with crimson dots.

Thunderlane collapses to the ground, on his back, panting with tears trailing down his cheeks as each breath feels like a dozen boney knives are stabbing his lung. Thunderlane tilts his head to Rumble and sees that his destroyed brother is lying on the ground, motionless. Thunderlane extends his hoof and screams for him, despite the blood drowning him. Then his hoof stiffens, his eyes snap wide and his pupils shake as the Painter brings his weapon down on him. This time stabbing his good lung.

The gem tipped, electric baton easily pierces Thunderlane's skin and shatters his bone. The fragments rip apart the lung and the intense electricity burns it to ash. Whatever blood isn't fried in his lungs bubbles out from the open wound and up in Thunderlane's throat, and the pegasus keeps his hoof pointed at his brother.

“Rumble...” wheezes Thunderlane, blood now dribbling past his limps and the stump that was once his wing as the Painter leans towards him, applying more pressure.

Thunderlane squeezes his eyes shut and grunts weakly as the Painter's weapon digs deep into him.

“Look at me,” commands the Painter.

Thunderlane's eyes reluctantly open. In the Painter's tinted goggles he sees his blood soaking his paling dark fur and the red streams traveling to his pupils as trails of tears clean what little they can.

The Painter leans forward, and when their snouts are almost touching, the charcoal pegasus's vision is pulsating from darkness to blur. He can barely see the demon in the painting suit standing above him or the growing flames of Hell rising around them. With the rising fires, Thunderlane hears tortured screams of the dying and the tolling bell stop in an instant, but all this is faint against his weak whimpers, desperate gulps for air and failing heart.

“You will always be incompetent,” claims the Painter.

Then he yanks out the mechanical baton at an angle, snapping more bones and shredding more of Thunderlane's lungs and muscle. Thunderlane's eyes bulge and he-

wakes up screaming inside a hospital room strapped to beeping sensors that are printing out an endless stream of vital readings. A sandy coated and brown maned unicorn stallion doctor with glasses and a group of earth pony and unicorn nurses of both genders burst in seconds later. This only serve to panic Thunderlane even more. He tries to get out of the bed, but he is pushed back down by the doctor, who is ordering a nurse to get a relaxant.

“Where’s Rumble!” yells Thunderlane. He growls and throws the doctor off him against the equipment. They break against the tile and die with a show of sparks, screeches and hums. “WHERE'S MY BROTHER!”

The nurses try to push Thunderlane back to his bed, but he doesn't care if he's shoving mares. He needs to find his brother!

“Will you relax!?” grunts a male nurse who is pushing against Thunderlane.

He is promptly cold clocked by Thunderlane. While the nurse collapses to the ground like a wet noodle, he hops over the nurse and makes a break for the door, ignoring the horrified gasps from the mare nurses. He almost reaches the door when he feels a tingling aura around, followed quickly by a lack of floor and weightless feel as he is flung back on his bed, stomach down.

The five mare nurses pile on top of Thunderlane and barely manage to hold him down as he thrashes and screams at them to let him go. He is only held down when the unicorn doctor's horn glows again and weight him down with a spell.

“I HAVE TO FIND RUMBLE!” screams Thunderlane with tears in his eyes and lungs in pain from how heavy his panicked breaths are.

"He punched Frank!" cries one of the nurses

“Where is Soft Bandage!” shouts the doctor, completely ignoring the nurse. Then to Thunderlane. “It’s okay, you’re safe! Just relax!”

“I don’t care about me! Where’s Rumble!?”

A unicorn nurse runs in levitating a small container of liquid medicine and a syringe, and as soon as Thunderlane sees the tiny needle ready to impale him, his eyes shrink to dots.

“Oh! Oh, heck no! No!” shouts Thunderlane, his heart rate now at exploding point and his movements more frantic and desperate for escape.

The doctor has to put another layer of spells on him to keep him still enough for an effective injection. Just to be safe, though, the nurses put all their weight down on Thunderlane, ensuring that he cannot move. While this happens, the nurse hums a cheerful tune as she fills the syringe, and Thunderlane swears she gets a maniacal smile when she approaches him with the fully loaded torture device.

“Get that thing away from-” One prick later, his eyes dilate, his muscles relax and his heart steadies while a stupid smile spreads across his muzzle. “Meeeeee.”

“Works every time,” says the doctor proudly as the nurses treat Thunderlane like a pony-sized rag doll when they put him in the proper position and cover him with a flimsy blanket. “Give him a few minutes. That stuff is going to derail his train of thought for a while.”

Author's Notes:

As you can see, I decided to make the dream sequence of Aftermath a standalone chapter. The chapter that this was originally part of should be finished with the first phase editing soon.

In the meantime, thank you for your patience and let me and my editor, Cade YYZ, know how we are doing with the changes.

Aftermath

A few minutes translates to almost four hours that Thunderlane spends alone, and when the doctor returns, the dark colored pegasus is not happy or relaxed. He is grumpy and tense, but thanks to the medication he can't do much since it gives the room a slow spin that leaves him nauseous.

While Thunderlane pokes at one of the sensors strapped to his hoof, the doctor approaches him, using his magic to levitate the notepad he has for easier reading. When the doctor is next to Thunderlane he coolly clips the notepad back on to a necklace with the appropriate slot as its pendant.

“Airstallion Thunderlane Hurricane, my name is Doctor Heartbeat,” says the unicorn.

“Hi,” mumbles Thunderlane without looking up from his poking.

“Do you know what today is?”

Thunderlane stops his poking and barely lifts his eyes to look at the doctor, silently questioning why he asking such a stupid question.

“Monday,” he says flatly.

Dr. Heartbeat lifts his pad and scribbles something down. “I see, and do you know what you were doing?”

“I was at a job fair with my brother, Rumble. He’s a light gray colt with a two-toned gray mane, and-”

“Yes, I know, he’s in our care. And it is actually Tuesday.”

Thunderlane feels his blood drain from his face upon hearing the news of Rumble. The lines on the sheets rolling out of the sensors spike with his racing heart, and his vision blurs as salty tears roll down his cheeks.

“What?” gasps Thunderlane. “That... No, that can't be right. It's still Monday! We couldn't- I couldn't-"

“It's Tuesday,” says the doctor firmly. “You were on and off for the past twenty four hours, and-”

“Is Rumble okay!?”

“He's in critical care. You are free to go, but-”

“What do you mean he's in critical care!? I was next to him! If I came out fine, he should be fine, too, right!?”

Dr. Heartbeat wordlessly stares at Thunderlane with a grim expression. Thunderlane's eyes are frantic as they search the doctor's face, hoping to see some light in the dark outcome.

“Right?” says Thunderlane.

Dr. Heartbeat sighs. “There is no way to sugar coat this, so I'm just going to say it as it is. You were in a bombing. You were among the two dozen injured, but your injuries weren’t as extensive as they could have been.”

“I know I was in a bombing! I saw the explosion and was bleeding all over the place! Where’s Rumble!? I need to see him!” says Thunderlane, trying yet again to get out of the bed, fighting down the urge to vomit that comes with the sudden and painful jerking.

Dr. Heartbeat puts his hoof against Thunderlane’s chest and shoves him back down to the bed; not hard enough to cause any form of pain, but enough force to warn Thunderlane not to test him.

“Stop moving. Yanking out those sensors improperly will give us a good reason to send a bill your way,” he says sternly. “As for your claim, we didn’t find any injuries that pointed towards your claim. You came in scratched and bruised, but you healed remarkably fast and I think you are physically well enough to leave.”

“But-But the blood and-and the broken bones and-and what about... What about me almost dying? What about Rumble? Where is he?”

“As I said earlier, your injuries were not very severe,” says Dr. Heartbeat, completely dodging Thunderlane's question about Rumble. “It is possible that you faced a stress induced panic attack that led to mild hallucinations.”

“That doesn't make sense! I know what I- You know what? Forget it. Take me to Rumble.”

“I don't think that is a good idea,” says Dr. Heartbeat.

“Take me to my brother.”

Dr. Heartbeat shakes his head. “I don't think you are ready to see him. His condition is-”

Thunderlane slams his hooves on the bed, yelling as loud as he can. “Doctor, please!” He swallows his tears and sniffles as he looks down at the flimsy blanket. Then he takes a deep breath to break the bubble suffocating him and looks up with glazed eyes and begs in a low, wet voice. “Please... Please, take me to Rumble. I... I need to see him.”

Dr. Heartbeat stares at Thunderlane and he looks back at the doctor, silently pleading with his eyes for him to heed his request. This staring contest does not last long before the unicorn sighs and nods in agreement, much to Thunderlane’s relief. The doctor proceeds to work on the machinery to allow Thunderlane to be unplugged without causing a ruckus. Once the charcoal pegasus is free of the sensors, he is led him out of the room.

As the two walk down the hall, Thunderlane sees a group of crying fillies and a stallion trying not to cry watch a couple of doctor push a bed away with a white sheet covering a body. One of the doctors offers his condolences, and the stallion only nods and ushers the children away. Thunderlane averts his eyes after that and continues his silent walk with Dr. Heartbeat. A couple of minutes later, after weaving past the rushing medical personnel and shuffling patients, they enter an area of the hospital labeled: Critical Care Branch.

Unlike the rest of the hospital, the Critical Care Branch devoid of any bustling activities. The steps of the two stallions bouncing off the walls is as clear as the mare over the intercom calling a doctor to another section of the hospital. They round the corner and Thunderlane spots an elderly pegasi couple sitting on a bench, both of them are weighed down with grief. Thunderlane can hear the mare's sniffles all the way down the hall, and his steps slow when she leans her head against the stallion's shoulder. The stallion, dressed in a General's uniform, pulls her in for a hug and rests his head on top of hers, and Thunderlane's breathing becomes tight when the General looks at him. At first he is dazed, but when he lifts his head up and his face wrinkles with a hateful scowl, Thunderlane's heart becomes heavy and his steps slow to where he can barely move.

Noting Thunderlane's reaction, Dr. Heartbeat glances over his shoulder with concern in his expression. “Are you okay?”

Thunderlane nods and reluctantly picks up his speed, lowering his head when General Hurricane's eyes narrow. With the hatred churning in his father's eyes, Thunderlane is afraid that if he gets too close, he will be beaten until he is nothing more than a bloody pulp on the tile. The look reminds him of all the times he would find out about Thunderlane's failures. Whether they be on a failing grade on a test or becoming the punching bag of a school fight, the deep, unforgiving scowl had been there to remind him of the disappointment. The lectures always came after about his weakness and embarrassment to the Hurricane Family, and his mother would silently watch or move Rumble to another room so he wouldn't have to hear the verbal onslaught.

Thunderlane knows this will be worse this time, though. He didn't flunk a Language Arts test or return to the family cloud with a swollen eye and messed up feathers. He walked out of a bombing with no physical injuries while his brother, the colt he has been tasked with protecting, lies in critical care. The disappointment, shame, and regret are roiling inside him, making him ill to where he feels his throat clog with bile. Not even the relieved, teary eyed smile of his mother can save him from this feeling.

“General and Mrs. Hurricane, I am happy to say that your other son has made a remarkable recovery,” says Dr. Heartbeat as he comes to a stop just a pace shy of the two, with Thunderlane standing not too far behind him.

“Why am I not surprised?” sneers Gale, forcing Thunderlane to look at the floor, swallowing, when his glare becomes more intense.

Dr. Heartbeat frowns. “Usually, parents are happy to see their child is okay after a bombing, General.”

Amber Grain nearly pushes Gale aside when she rushes up to Thunderlane and Dr. Heartbeat steps aside so she can get to him seconds quicker. When she is in range, Amber Grain wraps her hooves around Thunderlane with the same choking hold she gave him just days earlier. However, Thunderlane doesn't mind the strangling hold, and his whole body feels weak when he drapes his hoof around her neck.

“I'm sorry,” says Thunderlane quietly with tears rolling down his cheeks.

Thunderlane tilts his head against Amber Grain's when she nuzzles him, and he closes his eyes when she starts rubbing the back of his head and neck in gentle strokes with her hoof.

“It's okay,” says Amber Grain gently as she rubs the back of his head and neck with the same love and care as her voice.

Thunderlane knows it's not okay, though. He saw how wrong everything was when the ibex blew himself up and took so many innocent ponies with him. He saw it when he woke up to see all the injured and their loved ones crowding the halls, trying to recover from the terrible experience. Or losing their fight and leaving their friends and families behind. He can even feel the hate in his father's voice when he and the doctor exchange words.

It is not okay.

First Ponyville. Then Glorieta. Now Canterlot. Nothing is okay. Nothing.

“It's okay,” repeats Amber Grain softly in Thunderlane's ear, her voice now cracking and tears dripping down her face. “Everything will be okay, I promise.”

Dr. Heartbeat and Gale continue their conversation, but Thunderlane doesn't listen to their words. Instead, he is now hugging Amber Grain as she sobs into his shoulder.

Amber Grain's sniffling and weeping becomes louder, and Thunderlane gently lowers her to the ground so that they are sitting against the wall when she chokes for air.

With Amber Grain clutching Thunderlane tighter, quivering and crying louder into his shoulder, he forces himself to stop crying so that he can be strong for her. Strong like a proper Hurricane.

Soon Thunderlane finds himself rocking her in his grip and rubbing her mane, fighting a losing battle to keep himself from crying.

“I promise it'll all be okay,” whimpers Amber Grain, now barely able to hold Thunderlane in her broken state. “I'm glad you're okay, Thunderlane. I'm glad. I'm glad.”

Thunderlane keeps his eyes closed and continues running his hoof through his mother's amber mane, putting her comfort above his. She repeats her relief of Thunderlane's recovery in low mumbles that mix with her sniffles and whimpers, and her shaking hoof awkwardly claws at Thunderlane for a tighter grip.

Thunderlane does not want to let her go. He wants to keep holding her, to be the one that comforts her, until she stops crying. It is the least he can do after allowing Rumble to be crippled by the blast. But no matter how much he wants to remain as her source of comfort in contrast to Gale's rocky demeanor, he knows he has to see Rumble.

He takes a deep breath and gradually pulls away from Amber Grain so he can look into her eyes. Her whine is low when he does this, and she lifts her glistening eyes to meet his. Thunderlane swallows the accumilating spit and tries to relax his heart, which thumps loudly in his chest and ears, wary of what his request will bring.

“Mom... I... I need to see Rumble,” says Thunderlane

Amber Grain looks up and nods, and they both turn to Gale when they hear him walk up to them.

“Do you really want to see him?” snarls the General.

Thunderlane gulps, nods, and stands up and follows Gale to the observation window. At first Thunderlane is too nervous to look, but when he glances at the curtains covering the window, Gale orders Dr. Heartbeat to move them.

With a glow of his horn, the curtains are drawn aside and Thunderlane takes a step back with his hoof to his mouth and a fresh wave of tears soaking and choking him.

Rumble is lying on a bed, destroyed from head to tail. A breathing apparatus is strapped to his muzzle, pumping in high concentrations of oxygen through a bulky device. What isn't covered by the device is wrapped in gauze, save for his eyes, which remain shut. His front hooves are also wrapped in gauze, and have numerous IVs feeding liquid medicine into his veins. With every strained breath that Rumble takes, the oxygen machine clicks, wheezes and fills back up with air, and the machines around him beep and print off tiny peaks to show his heart is barely working properly.

“Thunderlane, your incompetence just about nearly got Rumble killed,” growls Gale. “My son is lying in there, crippled because of some double horned freak. You were supposed to be with him to protect him. And now look where he is.”

Thunderlane stares at Gale, stunned. His watering eyes have trouble focusing on his father, he cannot form words to make a defense, and he releases a small, terrified yelp when Gale tugs him close so that they are nearly touching snouts.

“I. Said. Look!” snarls Gale.

Gale grabs Thunderlane by his neck and forces his face against the observation window, ignoring the terrified yelp and shaking coming from his son.

“That's my son! His wings are gone! His hooves are bones! And he has no face because of YOU!” shouts Gale, his mouth now frothing rabidly and chest heaving as his bloodshot eyes glisten in the hallway lights.

Thunderlane pushes Gale away from him hard enough to make the old stallion stumble back and stare at him with a flicker of shock.

“Do you think I don’t know that!?” screams Thunderlane with tears drenching his cheeks and his body quivering with his tortured breathing. “That’s my brother in there! He’s my blood, too, Dad! He’s my... We’re...”

The tears continue and Thunderlane slides to the cold tile, eyes squeezed tight and body shaking. He is no long able to speak as his lungs burn from suffocation, and he does not have to open his eyes to feel the resentment his father has against him; he can feel it all. Every ounce of hatred and the desire to break every bone in his body can be felt like a resonating aura. Not even the gentle hoof wrapping around his shoulder and pulling him close to a warm body and nuzzle can bring him comfort.

Thunderlane reluctantly opens his bloodshot eyes, sniffling and hard of breathing, he sees Amber Grain next to him and Gale staring down at him. His mother gently forces Thunderlane to rest his head against her shoulder and she lays her head on top of his, with one hoof rubbing his gray mane while the other holds him in place by pressing against his shoulder. Thunderlane is limp in her embrace and can barely lift his hoof to return the hug, all without taking his eyes off of his father.

The hardhearted General continues staring at Thunderlane. At first the Airstallion thinks he sees some sympathy in those eyes, but they harden to the cold stone and disgusted sneer he has known all his life. Thunderlane closes his eyes and lowers his head while Amber Grain gently rubs his mane and tells him everything is going to be alright. Something that he and everyone else knows is a great lie.

Gale snarls and shakes his head as he looks away from his son. “Pathetic.”

Amber Gale shoots a look of pure disgust at her husband and hugs Thunderlane tighter. “Gale, stop this! You aren't helping!”

“Shut up!” snaps Gale, then he points at Thunderlane, who has the misfortune of peeking and seeing the returning wrath of his father being restrained by a thin string. “As for you, if you really want to be a Hurricane, if you really want my forgiveness, then you better make this right.”

It is at that moment that Dr. Heartbeat's jaw tightens and he steps between Gale and Thunderlane and Amber Grain and points at the General with his hoof and a dangerous look in his eye.

“I don't care what your rank is or what your deeds are, but your behavior is completely unacceptable. So I am giving you five seconds to leave the hospital on your own. Any longer and I'll call security and have you thrown out, are we clear?” says Dr. Heartbeat in a threatening tone that surpasses the fire in his eyes.

Gale growls and ruffles his feathers, and Dr. Heartbeat stomps his hoof. “Now.”

Gale snorts, flaps his wings hard and looks at Amber Grain. “I'll be outside.”

Gale walks next to Thunderlane and stares at him until Thunderlane looks down with drooped ears and swallowing his spit. When that happens, he snorts and continues walking, ignoring the glare that Dr. Heartbeat is giving him. Once he rounds the corner, the doctor looks at Thunderlane and Amber Grain.

“Take your time,” he says, and then he leaves without uttering another word.

Silence grows between the two pegasi, and Thunderlane leaves his mother's side to look at his brother. He puts his hoof on the window and bows his head, keeping his jaw and eyes shut tight as he trembles from Gale's words.

As harsh as his words had been, the old stallion is right. Rumble is his responsibility, and he allowed him to get hurt to where he is crippled for life. No amount of apologies will fix this and nothing he does will make this right. What happened is unforgivable, and he knows this as much as Gale and Amber Grain do.

He flinches when he feels a hoof go on his shoulder, and he opens his eyes to see Amber Grain looking at him, eyes red and cheeks shining with tears.

“This is not your fault,” she says softly, and then she pulls Thunderlane in for a hug and rubs his mane. “I'll always love you, Thunderlane, and your father will, too. He just has to remember it.”

“He should have never forgotten in the first place,” says Thunderlane quietly. “Tell Dad I'm sorry for everything.”

And with that said, he gently frees himself from his mother's hug and starts down the hallway, but he stops when he hears Rainbow Dash call him. He turns around, surprised as much as Amber Gale is when he sees the Element of Loyalty walking towards him with brisk steps and looking relatively unscathed, save for a few small scratches on her face.

“Rainbow?” says Thunderlane as he walks towards her, heart feeling lighter from relief while curiosity fuels the speed of his steps.

Amber Grain follows Thunderlane, but he stops himself from going too far from Rumble's room, and he watches as his wingmate approache him, still keeping her steps quick.

“I was going to stop by your room to see if you decided to drop the lazy-itis act, but you weren't there and the nurse I talked to said you went here. So, yeah, you're walking around, looking pretty sharp, and ... Um... Yeah. So, what's up?” says Rainbow Dash when she is in front of him.

Amber Gale switches curious looks between the two ponies, and the situation only gets more strange for Thunderlane when Rainbow Dash flashes a nervous smile. Thunderlane stares at her wearily, but slowly inspects himself, worried that sudden movements might cause a sprain of some sort. Much to his confusion, he appears to be perfectly fine. He does not see any signs of bruising, any scabs or cuts, and he does not feel anything that points to any bone damage.

“Um, Thunderlane, what are you doing?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane stops his self inspection and looks at the mare in front of him. He is glad to see that Rainbow Dash is okay, but he also feels weird about having this encounter outside of Rumble's room, and when he looks at Rumble, his demeanor devolves into sadness. Amber Grain looks down, swallowing tears and Rainbow Dash turns her focus to the hospitalized young stallion, shaking her head at his condition.

“Those assholes,” growls Rainbow Dash. “I can't wait to get my hooves on them. They're as good as dead.”

“Please don't talk like that,” squeaks Amber Grain, her hoof going over her mouth. “I don't want to hear about any more death.”

Rainbow Dash scowls at her, then looks at Thunderlane with an angry rise of her brow. “Who's the hippie?”

“My mom,” replies Thunderlane flatly.

Rainbow Dash's expression snaps to shock, then she looks at Amber Grain out of the corner of her eye without moving a muscle. Amber Grain looks at her, sniffling, and Rainbow Dash breaks down into a heavy sigh and turns to her, hoof extended.

“I'm sorry. The name is Rainbow Dash. I'm Thunderlane's wingmate.”

“Amber Grain Hurricane,” says the older mare as she touches hooves.

Rainbow Dash lowers her hoof. “I'm going to apologize in advance for this, but don't you want to see the guys who did that to Rumble hang? I know I do!”

Amber Grain looks down. “I know the one who did this to my boy is already paying, and no one else should get hurt because of he choice he made,” she says quietly.

“Wow, what kind of mom are you?”

Amber Grain gapes and Thunderlane scowls and steps between her and Rainbow Dash with his hoof around her shoulder, hugging her tight.

“I mean, use your head! That guy was just a pawn! It was those damn goats and their fucked up government that sent him here to blow up everypony! And they won't stop until Equestria is a smoldering wreck, just like how that Roar Shock guy wanted!” rants Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane's eyes snap wide for a moment from the terrifying memory of the ambush set up in the small town of Glorieta by Roar Shock's troops. His body shakes and his breathing becomes unsteady with the recollection of the rubble and bullets bouncing off his armor from the strategically placed explosives and firing nests that slaughtered the Guards in the convoy. Every dying scream, every frantic order, every pop of gunfire and earth shaking explosion resurfaces with as much clarity in his memory as if it has happened only mere minutes earlier. Though, Thunderlane does not dwell long in reminiscing on the terrifying event because the fury in Rainbow Dash's voice and the whimpers of his mother snaps him out of it.

Thunderlane blinks the unpleasant memory away and sees his wingmate verbally assaulting Amber Grain to the point where she is ready to collapse on the ground. His mother's eyes are bulged and soaked in tears like her cheeks, and her whimpers and weak begs are barely heard past the hoof that covers her mouth. Then there is Rainbow Dash, who's wings are fully expanded, her face is wrinkled from her snarl and her eyes are locked on, burning through the elderly mare's skull with hatred and disgust.

Rainbow Dash jabs at Amber Grain, sending her backpedaling. “Is that what you want!? More nuts coming in here to blow us up and turn more ponies into vegetables like Rumble!?” she screams..

Thunderlane's wings flare and the his narrowed eyes darken as he stomps the tile with a stentorian shout. “Rainbow Dash, that's enough! You do not talk to my mom or my brother that way, EVER!”

Amber Grain and Rainbow Dash both recoil and stare at Thunderlane, equally shocked by his unexpected outburst.

Thunderlane's feels his vein throbbing and his face burning from the rush of hot blood, and despite the chatter and ambient noises of the hospital, his panting is still vivid enough to draw some attention. Passing nurses and doctors alike give the three questionable looks, and when Thunderlane looks at a particular pair, they hurry away and pretend to talk business. It is at that moment that he looks back at the two mares and sees their expressions, and the shock and fear in their eyes.

Thunderlane swallows and backs away with his head down. “I'm sorry,” he whispers.

He looks up again when Amber Grain approaches him and puts her wing across his back. She sniffles and offers a comforting nuzzle, but Thunderlane ignores that and looks at Rainbow Dash, who has her head lowered. Her wings and ears are drooped as well, and tears are pooling in her enlarged, shocked eyes as the pain of shame and regret crush her down to pathetic pieces.

Thunderlane extends his hoof. “Rainbow-”

“I should go,” interrupts Rainbow Dash, her voice cracking and tears dripping off her cheeks. She sulks past Thunderlane and Amber Gale with her wings and tail dragging behind her and head lowered. She stops next to Thunderlane and barely lifts her eyes to look at him and his mother when she speaks in a wet, low voice. “I'm sorry about Rumble.”

She barely travels two paces when another voice calls out. This time it is Twilight calling for Rainbow Dash, and Thunderlane and Amber Grain have to turn around to see Twilight hurrying towards them with Fuller close behind. Twilight's good eye has a shining trail going down her cheek as she trots towards Rainbow Dash in a near gallop state.

Thunderlane is not too surprised to see Fuller's neutral expression, but he is surprised to see that the aged unicorn is keep up with Twilight, despite the fact that he looks like he is walking heavily rehearsed steps. Another thing that catches Thunderlane off guard is seeing Rainbow Dash's sullen demeanor shift into murderous aggression in a matter of seconds, complete with her wet eyes narrowing and her wings flapping as her whole body tenses.

Twilight hugs Rainbow Dash, but she refuses to break eye contact from Fuller, even when she drapes a hoof around Twilight's shoulder to return the hug.

“I'm so glad you're alright!” says Twilight with relief. Then she sees Rumble and she gasps and steps away with her shaking hoof over her mouth. “Oh my goodness!”

Fuller silently shakes his head, and Rainbow Dash ignores him and puts her focus on Twilight.

“Where were you?” says Rainbow Dash, her voice quivering with rage.

Twilight looks at Rainbow Dash, confused. “What?”

The tears return and Rainbow Dash slams her hooves on Twilight's shoulder, making her buckle under her strength. “Where the hell were you!?”

Twilight into her fiend's eyes, terrified. “What are you talking about!? I was running back and forth between the hospital, but they wouldn't-!”

“No, not that! Why weren't you at the Stadium!? You said in your letter that you wanted to meet and you never showed up!”

“Would you rather she be hospitalized with you?” comments Fuller.

That earns him a sharp glare from Rainbow Dash and Thunderlane, but their combined heated looks hold no sway over the unicorn. Thunderlane looks at Rainbow Dash when she sniffles and shakes her head as she wipes her lowered eyes. He looks at Twilight when she starts speaking, though.

“I-I-I never sent you a letter,” she stammers. “It must-Somepony must've forged it!”

“If that's the case then you may have been the target of the attack,” says Fuller. “And it seems by luck you have lived since the bomb was powerful.”

Thunderlane looks at Rainbow Dash worryingly, as do Amber Gale and Twilight. Rainbow Dash, on the other hand, furrows her brows and her eyes turn to slits as she focuses on Fuller. Thunderlane looks at her curiously, but he looks back at Fuller when the older pony speaks.

“We'll look into this with the EIB's assistance,” assures Fuller. “And the CDA will be sure to keep an eye on you, Airmare Dash. But before any of this is done, it is important that you two answer this question truthfully. Did you see anything suspicious before the bombing?”

Rainbow Dash sniffles again and shakes her head while Thunderlane racks his brain for recollection of the events, and when he remembers a crucial moment, he looks at Fuller and nods.

“Sir, I have something,” says Thunderlane, prompting the Director to look at him. “A stallion, white with a green mane, probably in his mid twenties, let the bomber in through the maintenance door. He was dressed as a CDA agent.”

Fuller stares at Thunderlane without giving any signs of his emotions shifting. No curiosity or relief of a lead. Nothing. His expression remains stoic. And coupled with his unblinking eyes staring straight into Thunderlane like he is trying to read his very thoughts, the pegasus gets an uneasy tingle up his spine.

“Is there anything else?” asks Fuller seconds later.

Thunderlane swallows. “I'm certain he was an earth pony, but that is about all the information I can give, sir.”

Fuller scrutinizes Thunderlane for another few seconds before a thin smile graces his muzzle and he gently puts his hoof on the pegasus's shoulder. Thunderlane looks at the older stallion quizzically as his muscles stiffen from the odd gesture.

“Get some rest, Hurricane,” says the amber unicorn. “You have been through a lot and will need your strength for later.”

Thunderlane nods and gently escorts his mother away, leaving Rainbow Dash behind.

Rainbow Dash watches Thunderlane with Twilight until he and his mother disappear around the corner, then she turns to Fuller, growling with her feathers ruffled when he speaks.

“I meant it when I said you were lucky,” says Fuller without taking his eyes off of Thunderlane. “It is quite clear that whoever wants you dead does not value life.”

Rainbow Dash looks at Fuller, growling quietly through gritted teeth, and Twilight walks up to Fuller, a pleading look in her eye.

“You're going to find this guy, right?” asks the Element of Magic.

“Hurricane gave us a big lead,” replies Fuller, his eyes still on the dark furred stallion. When Thunderlane disappears around the corner, he turns to Twilight and offers a reassuring smile. “With his information we will find the perpetrator quickly and will be dealt with accordingly.”

“You're going to kill whoever this guy is, aren't you?” says Rainbow Dash with a sneer.

Fuller returns to his normal, stoic expression as he brings his eyes to the pegasus. “If I have to, then I will. Just as you if you were put in a similar position.”

Rainbow Dash's feathers ruffle as her face wrinkles with the vicious snarl, but it holds no visible impact on the older unicorn.

“Get some rest, Airmare Dash,” says Fuller. “These last couple of days have been hard and you never know when you'll need your energy. Especially after something like this.”

“Come on, Rainbow Dash, let's get you home,” says Twilight gently.

Rainbow Dash snorts and reluctantly follows Twilight out, but as she walks, she glances over her shoulder to see Fuller staring at Rumble, only breaking away to speak to Dr. Heartbeat. She snorts again and exits the hospital with Twilight, but not even the cold winter air or the Element of Magic's company can quell the hot hatred inside her.

Thunderlane steps into his apartment after dropping Amber Grain off at the luxury hotel she and Gale are staying at. He and his father did not exchange any words, and Thunderlane made sure to stay to the skies because on the trip back to his apartment, he heard a lot of sirens and saw multiple smoke columns coming from the bad part of Canterlot.

Thunderlane tries not to think about the large fires or the cold air between him and his father when he closes the door behind him, but the dim apartment only worsens his mood. It feels like a tomb to him with how silent and dark it is. The place looks dirtier than before with unclean dishes, wadded up blankets, scrunched papers and take-out containers. Add in that that the electric lights are off and the sun is being filtered through the gray clouds and thick curtains, and his home seems like a place where light is forbidden.

Thunderlane sluggishly walks towards the radio and turns it on to hear something that might cheer him up, even if it means listening to Rumble's awful taste in music. What he gets instead is the exact opposite. The disk jockey is not playing music, rather he is giving a colorful news announcement.

“Alright, we got ourselves some crazy shit goin' on in the Canterlot Southsides, right now,” says the DJ stallion in a completely gangster wannabe voice. “We got ponies and goats buttin' heads and tearin' shit up like it ain't nopony's business. In fact, I swear to Celestia's ass some dipshit threw a solar cocktail at my crib like not even five minutes ago! So, homies and hos, do ya-selves a favor and keep your doors locked and your rides in your garages til the po-pos get this shit under control!”

Thunderlane changes to the AM signal in a snap in the hopes of coming to a comedy station. He is sorely mistaken.

“It is quite clear that we should not have been worrying about the griffins or zebras, but the ibexes instead,” says a mare heatedly on the station he turned to.

Thunderlane changes the channel again, this time with furrowed brows and a tight frown.

“...The nation of Bernese has gone on lock down, and a coalition is forming between them, Ibexia and Germaneigh. In response, the Crystal Kingdom and Prance have pledged military assistance to Equestria in what could possibly be the first global war. And with Altai descending into civil unrest from their economic collapse-”

Thunderlane growls and almost knocks the radio off of its perch when he changes the channel again. His anger dissolves into curiosity, though, when the new station features someone who isn't angry, but instead saddened by the events, and he recognizes her to be Mother Glory of the Church of Solaria.

“Please, I beg you, citizens of Equestria, do not condemn a nation or a race for the acts of a few,” says Mother Glory emotionally. “We cannot give in to fear and hate, for that is only fuel for this cycle. We must not take arms against those who have wronged us, but instead fight their hatred with kindness. Their sorrow with love. That is the only way to stop the cycle. Only kindness can save us from this.”

Thunderlane sneers and clicks the radio off, completely giving up on finding a cheerful tune. It is obvious that no one wants to hear anything good right now. They don't want to be distracted from the enemy that has ruthlessly taken the lives of so many innocent, unarmed people. He can't blame them and he hates Mother Glory for saying that they should not fight back. Kind words and charity cannot stop an enemy like the one Equestria is facing, only force can, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.

“The pen is not mightier than the sword. The pen is lazy. It will not move unless the sword tells it to,” is what Gale had told Thunderlane before he went off to the Cumulus Air Guard Base in Neighvaho for training. At first, Thunderlane thought his father said that because he loathes those who believe that the pen and words can solve every problem of the world, but now that Thunderlane thinks about it, his father is right.

History is a story of warfare, and while Equestria is facing its first war in a thousand years, the rest of the world is no stranger to it. Borders, treaties, alliances, all of them are determined by the outcome of the sword's actions and the threats of the opposition. And the pen is only as strong as the one who guards it, to ensure that the parties abide by its rule. Without the sword, the pen is weak, but without the pen, the sword is stronger.

Thunderlane shakes the thoughts of his father's words from his head and goes to his kitchen to observe the mess. The dishes are stacked poorly and the garbage can still has all of the expired food his mother had thrown away.

Thunderlane sighs, closes his eyes, and runs his hoof through his mane. Then he opens his eyes to look at the rising smoke from outside his kitchen window. His ears twitch when something that sounds like gunshots echoes over the sirens, and with that, he lowers his eyes and starts washing dishes.

His name is Whistle Blower. He is a white earth pony stallion with a green mane and a whistle for a cutie mark, and once upon a time he worked for the Bernese Branch of the New Yoke Times, doing what he does best. Investigative journalism.

It is the one thing loved more than anything and anyone else because the adrenaline high he got from lurking in the shadow to document everything about his prey. The hobby had beaten out everything in his life, from drugs to significant others. In the end, drugs left him depressed or filthy and mares left him tired or broke. But seeing his target reduced to a symbol of ridicule and watching them beg for forgiveness has never left him emotionally worse off. It has always left him feeling like a king.

It is true that his skills have left him with a trail of enemies, both outside and inside the walls of the Bernese Branch, and that eventually led to his dismissal by the big boss of the area. However, Whistle Blower did find the light at the end of the tunnel just a few days after when he met the legendary, now passed, Quill Pen. He remembers how the conversation went, from laughing at her about her proposition, to a full on apology complete with a dinner when she brought him to meet the Painter. And convince the enigma to let him join the ranks of their organization.

True, he does not fully understand what Perfect Harmony is, even after reading the Shining Path. But with pay being under the rug and using his self taught espionage skills to the fullest have led him to know that working for the Painter is way better that answering to the elites of Equestrian society. He is his own stallion and the Painter respects that, but with the passing of Quill Pen, Brisk Wind and Lock N. Key, he has worried about the fate of their ambitions. It is more important now than ever that he pulls his weight for the grand future that awaits civilization.

Perfect Harmony needs him.

Equestria needs him.

And he is showing support for the cause by breaking into an apartment. With the bombing that took place at the Stadium, he doubts that the occupant has survived and that the Civilian Defense Agency and the Royal Guard are too busy with the riots to notice a simple break in. But that does not mean that someone else could be watching, and when the lock clicks, he cringes and glances out of his peripheral vision for signs that he has been spotted. He sees nothing, and for that he goes inside.

He quietly closes the door behind him and he snakes his way through the carpet of old newspapers, take-out food containers and wrappers of varying brands. The screaming sirens are all he hears until he nears the apartment's bedroom.

He holds his breath upon hearing shuffling in the pitch black bedroom. He tightens his muscles and keeps his eyes focused as he pushes the door open the rest of the way, ready to pounce on whoever is on the other side.

Whistle Blower doesn't see anything in the room except for a large unmade bed with a Wonderbolts blanket and pillow, a nightstand with a lamp and a Daring Do book, and a tortoise. He looks around the room, searching for the pony he swore he heard, and the whole time the tortoise watches him, its frown about as lazy as its eyes. When Whistle Blower realizes that the reptile is what he heard, he sighs to mask his embarrassment and offers it a sheepish smile.

“I'll be out of your scales in just a minute,” he says.

Then he turns around and takes a step back, eyes widening and jaw going slack at what is before him. The wall is covered in clumps of pictures, articles and photos, all connected to a photo of Director Fuller with red strings. Surrounding his photo are x'd out pictures of Brisk Wind, Lock N. Key, and Quill Pen, and taped over half of the CDA Director's face is a crude drawing of the Painter's mask.

As Whistle Blower stares at it, he sees that the resident has somehow figured that Fuller had visited Altai after getting special permission from the Stalliongrad ROTC. Another that he notices is an article talking about Fuller and Shining Armor competing for the role of Captain of the Royal Guard, and another announcing Shining Armor's victory. He also sees a lot about Fuller's admittedly poor marksmanship scores and the photos of Blueblood's assassination and a shooting competition in Appleloosa. His focus then goes to the college transcript, and he sees that Fuller had majored in Political Science, which connects to Brisk Wind, Lock N. Key and Quill Pen holding the same degrees at varying levels.

He would look longer because of raging curiosity, but he has his orders. Collect everything and deliver them to the Painter.

“Never mind. This is going to take a while,” says Whistle Blower to the tortoise.

The tortoise blinks, and Whistle Blower takes a deep breath and starts collecting the evidence.

Whistle Blower runs around a corner in the slums of Canterlot, panting heavily and skidding to a stop in front of the Painter close to two hours later. He had been very careful in gathering every shred of evidence, from the photo to the news articles, and education records to personal notes.

“Do you have them?” asks the Painter.

Whistle Blower smiles proudly, unclips his saddle and tips it over so the notebooks and papers so the Painter can see for himself how much he gathered.

“I got them all,” says Whistle Blower. “And, boy, did she get a lot. It kinda makes me wonder how she got all this stuff.”

The Painter's horn glows and the evidence is levitated off of the ground in green magic. He observes them carefully, and flips through the notebooks, expressing his disdain with a simple grunt.

“You were supposed to do this yesterday,” says the Painter.

Whistle Blower snorts. “Well, I would have if the security wasn't so beefed up. But I got it and that's what matters, right?”

The Painter's horn glows and all of the evidence disappears in a blinding flash of light, forcing Whistle Blower to shield his eyes with his hoof. When he lowers his hoof, the Painter is standing close enough for the white stallion to see his reflection in the tinted goggles.

“When you failed deadlines at the newspaper, did you shrug it off as carelessly as you did now?” asks the Painter.

Whistle Blower gulps. “Kinda.”

“And yet you and Quill Pen told me you had talent. Talent in investigative journalism, which is a form of espionage in itself. You must be losing your touch or took the credit for the work of others.”

Whistle Blower sneers, taking personal offense to the Painter's statement. “Look, here, Painter, you took me on because you needed me. I got your goat bomber in and I got all the stuff you wanted. What else do I have to do to prove to you that I can be the next great member of this club?”

“We are not a club,” says the Painter.

Suddenly, Whistle Blower's throat closes and he collapses on the ground, wheezing and trying to pry off a green mist that surrounds his neck as the Painter towers over him. His vision starts to fade to black and his heart thumps loudly in his ears, but that doesn't stop him from hearing the Painter's voice.

“We are revolutionaries that are leading civilization down a shining path,” says the Painter, his voice bouncing around inside Whistle Blower's head like a demonic entity. “And your carelessness has cost you the right to live in the new world.”

“Who... Who...” is all Whistle Blower can say between his gulps for air.

The Painter raises his mechanical baton, and Whistle Blower's tear filled eyes bulge when the gem on its tip sparks to life. Then the Painter raises it above Whistle Blower's chest and the terrified stallion holds up his hoof with the other still trying to get the magical aura off from around his neck.

“Wait! Wait!” wheezes the stallion, gagging in pain when the mist crushes his voice box.

The Painter then stabs Whistle Blower in the chest, shattering his ribs and simultaneously ripping apart and burning his lung. Whistle Blower tries to scream, but nothing comes out between his collapsed lung and destroyed voice box. Bright green electric bolts shoot out from the stab wound, burning him his skin until it is black and cracked and his lung is ash. The whole time Whistle Blowers thrashes on the ground, wheezing in agony, the Painter stands over him, watching him without remorse.

When Whistle Blower stops moving, the Painter yanks out the weapon and stares at the smoking rising from the hole, completely neutral with his emotions. After he checks to make sure no one is around, he uses his magic to levitate a manhole off of a sewer covering and toss the body into the filthy sludge. With the thick splash in the darkness below, he casually tosses the dead stallion's saddle down with him, puts the manhole back in place and walks away.

“Can you trick magic?” asks Rainbow Dash suddenly, hunched over at Twilight's coffee table with a cup of coffee between her hooves, blanching at the disgusting taste of the king of caffeine drinks.

“What do you mean?” says Twilight, also appearing to be getting sick from her coffee.

Both mares look at each other, and with a unified nod they pour their cups' contents into the nearest potted plants. Rainbow Dash swears she hears her flower hiss in pain, but shakes it off as a side effect of Twilight's inability to make drinkable coffee.

Rainbow Dash shakes the awful taste out of her mind and looks out the window at the rising smoke from the chaos in the Canterlot Southsides. If it had not been for the burst of violence then she would have been home by now, doing something other than poisoning herself. Twilight is shaken by the sudden violence, but Rainbow Dash has expected it and is actually hoping that a few goat shops are burned down. It will teach them a thing or two about bombing Equestrian civilians.

However, after the encounter at the hospital, Rainbow Dash is certain that Fuller paid off the terrorist to have them try to kill her and mark her as an unfortunate victim of the attack. This leads to her seeing the stay at Twilight's as not a total waste. She figures if she is at Twilight's loft she can ask the living embodiment of magic the critical question for her continued investigation of Director Fuller.

Rainbow Dash casually says: “I mean, I know you tried teaching Rarity teleportation -and you completely failed at that- but what if you taught teleportation as a kind of defense spell for those guys with shield cutie marks?”

Twilight thinks for a moment. “I suppose it can work if it the teleportation is short range. In fact, the only reason why I tried teaching Rarity was because she insisted because she wanted to hop between places quicker for shopping or work.”

Rainbow Dash snickers. “Yeah, and probably to get to the spa after a hard day of sewing.”

Twilight rolls her eye, unamused. “That might be another reason, but it didn't work because it had nothing to do with her cutie mark. And besides, it wouldn't be 'tricking', it would fall on the category of manipulation since magic is just energy and only living things can be tricked. It is through subtle tweaking, conscious or not, that enables a unicorn to use certain spells. Take Trixie for example.”

Rainbow Dash gags.

“Her magic is based around lights and electricity for show magic, but as a defense mechanism she is able to create intense static electric discharge because it generates both,” explains Twilight.

“Okay, stop. You don't have to go egghead on me. A simple yes or no would have been just fine,” says Rainbow Dash.

Twilight frowns. “You asked.” Then her frown deepens and she points an accusing hoof at Rainbow Dash. “This is about Fuller, isn't it?”

“Uh, yeah. Why else would I ask you this stuff?”

Twilight groans angrily and slouches on her couch, rubbing her head with her hoof while Rainbow Dash remains casual in her seating.

“Why are you doing this to yourself? To him?” asks Twilight, hoof still against her head.

“Because he's an evil douche bag and I'm going to take him down one way or the other,” answers Rainbow Dash swiftly.

Twilight slams her hoof down, glaring at her friend. “No, you want him to be evil!”

Rainbow Dash sighs. “Looks like its lecture time.”

Rainbow Dash extends her hind legs fully on the couch and her forehooves cross over each other on her barrel. When Twilight growls in frustration, she looks to her side and sees that her friend is now pacing in circles.

“You want him to be some kind of omen of destruction!” continues Twilight angrily. “You want him to be your adversary because you need a challenge! That is who you are! That is what the Element of Loyalty is! It needs to be tested because that is the only way it can feel alive! Just like you! But he is not a bad pony and you need to stop this now!”

Rainbow Dash silently taps her hoof against her chest, eyes closed as if in deep thought, but really she has them shut so she can restrain herself from smacking Twilight over the back of her head.

“Did it ever occur to you that I may be doing all this Fuller snooping stuff to protect you from a sociopath,” says Rainbow Dash evenly, eyes still closed. Then she slowly opens them and turns her hostile gaze to Twilight. “Or are you so caught up in wanting a coltfriend that you just don't want to see the kind of asshole he really is?”

“Do not turn this on me! This is about you and-and your obsession with Fuller!” cries Twilight, smoke now rising from her mane and a little shimmer of tears sneaking down her eye. “He's trying to find the one that not only ruined my brother but is trying to kill you, and this how you repay him!? Why do you want him to be a villain!? Why don't you want to see me happy!?”

Rainbow Dash looks at Twilight firmly, trying not to let the sadness get to her from seeing her friend crying. Rainbow Dash averts her eyes with a deep inhale, and she gets up, exhaling, and walks to Twilight, putting her hoof on her shoulder when she is next to her. Rainbow Dash tries to say something, but her mind draws a blank, so she just sighs once more, pats Twilight's shoulder and leaves the loft without saying a word, letting her friend cry alone.

By the time Rainbow Dash reaches her apartment forty five minutes later, the race riots have been quelled immensely. She doesn't know what methods they used, but she figures it has something to do with the convoy of firefighter and armored mini-trains. She would have gotten a closer look, but in a nutshell, the Civilian Defense Agency and Royal Guard quarantined the area and told her to get los unless she wanted some jail time.

And now that Rainbow Dash is back home without a new mark on her record, she feels ready to plop down on her couch and enjoy some Daring Do. But all those hopes of relaxing are ruined when she spots faint scratches around the keyhole of her doorknob.

Rainbow Dash's heart almost jumps into her throat and she takes a step back, shaking slightly. She looks down both ends of the hall, sweating and heart thumping heavily, and when she doesn't see anyone, she takes a deep breath and unlocks her door.

The door squeaks open and Rainbow Dash ruffles her feathers and keeps her eyes focused like scopes when she steps inside. The apartment is dark and when she flicks on the lights, she sees that everything appears to be the way she left it before nearly being blown to Hell. That does nothing to alleviate her paranoia, though, and she carefully treads through her apartment. During her rounds, she checks behind and underneath the furniture, the hall closet and bathroom, and the stove and cupboards of her kitchen. She is only mildly relieved when they all come up empty, but that still leaves her bedroom.

Rainbow Dash's eye twitches and her ears and tail flicks when she hears shuffling coming towards her from her room. She ruffles her feathers and spins around with a cheap war cry and body curled to a pounce to strike down the ferocious opponent known as Tank.

Tank's smile spreads like molasses across his beak as he inches towards her, and Rainbow Dash's body relaxes and a smile graces her lips. She sighs with relief and zips to her beloved pet to scoop him up.

“Hey there, Tank, did you miss me?” says Rainbow Dash like a mother to a toddler as she rubs her nose against his beak.

As she does this, she keeps an eye on the bedroom, just waiting for someone to come out with a gun or knife and try to kill her. She gently lowers Tank back to the floor and cautiously goes inside her room. She peeks inside her closet and under her bed, again sighing with relief when she finds out that she is alone after all. She is still shaken up, though, and tries to calm herself by getting her beloved pet some food.

After pouring the proper portions into the tortoise's special dish, she goes to her fridge to grab a much needed drink. However, her body sulks when all she finds is old take out food and expired milk. She sighs and is about to close the door when a certain piece of paper catches her eye.

Rainbow Dash tilts her head, drags the paper out and reads it with piqued interest. It does not take her long to realize that in her hoof is the forged letter telling her to meet Twilight at the Stadium. She does not remember how the condemning letter ended up in her fridge, but she is still glad to see it. So glad, in fact, that the Element of Loyalty can't help but giggle deviously and flash an evil, toothy grin.

“I got you now,” says Rainbow Dash to herself, prompting Tank to stare at her questionably.

She ignores her pet and flutters to her room, heart light with joy and the desire to praise all good things at an exploding point. Then she goes to her wall of evidence and deflates instantly.

Her wings and ears droop, all the color drains from her face, and she collapses on her haunches in complete disbelief of what she is seeing. The wall she had with all of her gathered evidence on Fuller over the past year after Glorieta is completely bare.

Not a single shred of paper or string remains. Only a collection of tacks piling on the floor and dozens of dirty tape strips hang on the bare, punctured wall.

“No,” whispers Rainbow Dash in disbelief, then she goes to her desk and yanks open her drawers to find them completely empty as well. “No!”

She yanks out her drawers and throws them across her room, hoping that by doing so her evidence will magically reappear. As she does this, Tank retreats into his shell and she whimpers incoherent words furiously. When all the drawers are scattered across the floor, she falls to the floor, pressing her ears and mane with her hoof, failing to stave the tears.

With her eyes squeezed shut, tears falling to the floor, and body scrunched, she punches the floor, screaming. “That son of a bitch!”

Thunderlane has finished cleaning his apartment almost like a recruit waiting for his Military Training Instructor to come in and give him his final grade. All of the dishes are cleaned, towels are dried and put back in place; his counters are spotless, as is his tile and the refrigerator and freezer, both inside and out; his floor has been vacuumed and his coffee table has been polished. Thunderlane even cleaned off the ceiling fan and gave his room and the bathroom a complete overhaul in cleaning. The only room that he has not touched in his entire cleaning spree is Rumble's.

He hasn't even dared touch his younger brother's door. He would fail without a doubt if an MTI decides to show up to grade him since he knows Rumble is a slob, but he doesn't care. Rumble's room is off limits as long as he is in care. He wants to keep it preserved as much as possible and vows to keep it that way until his brother is back. When that day comes, he will clean his room and put up all the posters of alluring mares and buy him all the sexually immoral comics the kid wants.

Thunderlane is telling himself that such a day will be soon, but his pessimistic side is telling him the opposite, even going as far as saying that Rumble may die in due time. It is a miserable thought, and he tries to keep that part silenced by listening to the radio's comedy station with his body stretched out and head resting lazily on the couch arm with his hoof dangling off the edge. He finds the position to be very relaxing, and that, combined with the sleeping pills, brings him to the brink of sleep.

“You know the ultimate way of looking like an idiot is when you walk into a spider web, right?” says the stallion comedian over the radio.

The audience laughs in anticipation.

“Because nopony else sees that spider web,” continues the comedian. “They just see you walking off in the distance and suddenly flipping out for no reason whatsoever. You're just walking along, everything's fine, and all of the sudden: NO!”

The audience bursts into laughter and the first smile of the day graces Thunderlane.

“DON'T!” yells the comedian in such a way that it is easy to see him flailing on the stage. “Did you see that guy? He just snapped! He was just walking along when he just went nuts by that tree. Look, he's still doing it!”

Thunderlane chuckles with the laughing, clapping audience on the radio, wishing he could be at the show live so that way he can see the antics the comedian is doing.

“I don't know what happened to him,” finishes the comedian with phony sadness.

The comedian goes on to something else after that, but Thunderlane loses what little focus he has because he hears a frantic knock on the door.

Thunderlane mumbles to himself as he slides off of the couch and approaches the door, which is still being knocked on by whoever is outside. When he reaches the door, he looks through the peephole and sees Rainbow Dash with a tortoise and some pet food on her back, as well as a saddle stuffed with what he is guessing is her military uniform.

Thunderlane wipes his eyes and opens the door, being greeted instantly by her energetic voice and poorly aimed hoof bump.

“Hey there, Thunderlane, how ya doing?” asks Rainbow Dash lightly.

“Tired,” replies Thunderlane as he brushes the spot on his barrel that Rainbow Dash punched for her greeting.

Rainbow Dash nods. “Cool. Cool. Hey, listen, I was just wondering if I could spend the night here? Or until we get paid? Strictly platonic,” she says casually.

Thunderlane's heart spikes with his perked ears and bulged eyes. “Why?”

“Some jerk broke into my apartment and stole a bunch of my stuff. So I figured we could hang out for a little bit until I get enough money to buy one of those anti-lock pick lock things.”

Rainbow Dash flashes a nervous smile at Thunderlane, and he looks back at her with dinner plate sized eyes and sealed lips.

Rainbow Dash rocks a little on her spot, eying the stallion curiously. “Sooo, can I-?”

“Did you call the CDA?” interrupts Thunderlane.

Rainbow Dash frowns. “No.”

“Why not!?”

“That's none of your business! Can I stay or not!?”

Thunderlane scowls at her tone. It is the same tone she used against his mother at the hospital and he does not appreciate that. He has half a mind to tell her off for using the tone with him, but when he looks back at her, he realizes how pale and shaky she is, despite the cool appearance she is trying to pull off. His expression softens, but Rainbow Dash still looks down and mutters an apology.

“You used that same tone when you made my mom cry and called Rumble a vegetable,” points out Thunderlane. Despite his wingmate's appearance, he still does not find her tone acceptable.

“I know and I'm sorry about what I said earlier, okay?” says Rainbow Dash quickly. “I was out of line and it was uncalled for.”

“Don't apologize to me. Apologize to Rumble and my mom.”

Rainbow Dash shrinks back, eyes darting side to side nervously. “You mean like right now?”

Thunderlane facehoofs. “No, in a few years when we forget about everything.”

Rainbow Dash straightens up, sneering. “You don't have to be an ass about this.”

Thunderlane's frown returns. “Well, maybe I do since that was my family you insulted.”

“And I'm sorry! But can I please stay just for the night? I don't-” Rainbow Dash swallows and looks at the floor, taking a breath before lifting her wet eyes to meet Thunderlane's. “I don't want to be alone tonight.”

Thunderlane looks at her intently. He is still upset about the hospital incident and the tone she used on him. But he also knows that something has spooked her, and seeing as how she never really had any self control with her words, it makes for a poor filter.

With that in mind, Thunderlane's not-so-friendly side is telling him that those are not good reasons, only poor excuses, and that he should leave her in the hall and make her check into a hotel. However, what he is seeing most of all is a mare he has known a very long time coming to him, terrified and begging for company. She made a mistake and he can forgive her, but he can't leave her out in her current state. He won't be able to forgive himself if he did.

Thunderlane yawns and steps aside, opening the door the rest of the way so Rainbow Dash can enter. She looks down both ends of the hall before quickly thanking him and zipping inside. Thunderlane cocks a brow and looks down the hall as well, not really sure what he is expecting to find, but not too surprised to see it bare.

Thunderlane shakes his head, closes the door, and when he turns around, he sees Rainbow Dash gaping in amazement about the cleanliness of his apartment.

“Looks like the cleaning standards stuck, huh?” says Rainbow Dash.

“I was mourning,” says Thunderlane tiredly as he goes to the hall closet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rainbow Dash's body droop, and when he returns to the living room with a blanket and pillow, Tank is off of her back and she is putting his food on the kitchen counter. Thunderlane puts the blanket and pillow on the couch and Rainbow Dash approaches with a curious look on her face.

“Is the couch comfy?” asks Rainbow Dash.

“Yeah, but it hasn't been the same ever since Flitter used bug spray on it,” replies Thunderlane, his mind so tired that it is going to strange places.

“Hmm, you and those twins have a very weird history.”

“I know.”

Thunderlane adjusts the pillow and blanket to his liking and plops down on the couch, about ready to fall asleep from the combined exhaustion of massive speed cleaning and the power of sleeping pills. However, right as his eyes shut-

“Um, are we sharing the couch or something?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane snaps into the sitting position, ears and wings perked and eyes bulging with his face burning red while Rainbow Dash steps back, cringing with embarrassment.

“Not yet!” blurts Thunderlane.

“What?” says Rainbow Dash.

Too late to go back, Thunderlane's blunder has cost him dearly and now his tired, drugged up mind is playing things that it should not be playing. Full on panic has been initiated.

“We get my bed!” says Thunderlane loudly. Then he cringes at his second big blunder and facehoofs to hide his apple red cheeks. “I mean, you get my bed! It is impolite for a mare to sleep on a couch, so you get my bed. Its bigger, has a better blanket and-”

Rainbow Dash silences Thunderlane when she puts her hoof on his shoulder. He looks up at her, heart racing and twitching from the feeling of wanting death to spare him the embarrassment. Everything about what has happened feels wrong since his brother is hospitalized and his parents are a wreck, and here he is, fantasizing because of a couch statement.

“I wasn't kidding when I said I didn't want to be alone,” says Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane looks at her, his eyes becoming increasingly more heavy as the drugs go in full effect to put him to sleep. He then looks at his shoulder because he can feel Rainbow Dash vibrating enough to shake it slightly, and when he looks at her eyes, he sees that they are having trouble focusing. There is no mistaking that she is terrified and wants company for reasons more than just the robbery, and Thunderlane cannot blame her. After what happened the past two days, he wants comfort as well, and while his mother had provided some, he ended up becoming the shoulder for her to cry on.

“So the bed or...” starts Thunderlane awkwardly.

“The couch is fine,” says Rainbow Dash, her tone suddenly nervous.

Thunderlane nods and shifts his position to allow Rainbow Dash on, figuring that a night of cuddling won't hurt anyone. Besides, they both need this. They both need someone who understands what they had been through to help them cope. Even though Thunderlane is certain that Rainbow Dash has never had a member of her family hospitalized like Rumble, he is almost without a shred of doubt positive that she had seen someone very close to her hurt badly. He remembers the look in her eyes when she realized what she said about Rumble, and there is not faking that kind of pain and shock. He knows she is sorry, and that is enough to earn forgiveness in his book. Thunderlane would still like it if Rainbow Dash actually apologized to his brother and mother for what she said, though, and makes a reminder to tell her to do so first thing in the morning.

Thunderlane's thoughts go no further when Rainbow Dash suddenly gets up and pokes his chest. Even though the colorful mare's brows are furrowed, she still has a hint of playfulness in her demeanor.

“If you tell anypony about this I'll knock your teeth out,” says Rainbow Dash in a feigned threatening tone.

Thunderlane nods and adjusts his position on the couch, welcoming the sleep that is coming to claim him for the night.

“Don't worry, I won't tell,” says Thunderlane, yawning soon after.

Rainbow Dash stares at Thunderlane as the charcoal stallion closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the overused couch cushions, and when he looks comfortable, she lays down, too. Thunderlane feels the Element of Loyalty snuggle up next to him and it is at that moment he remembers when the Painter nearly took her life at Glorieta, and how he almost lost her at the stadium.

He had failed to protect her that day and yesterday, just as he had failed to protect Rumble. He wants to believe that there was nothing he could do in both occasions, but both times he could have done more. He could have hit his target, he could have ignored the agents, told Rainbow Dash to leave out the back and shielded Rumble from the blast. He could have done more and yet he didn't, and the weight of this mistake is suffocating his thoughts with endless turmoil and the screams of his father.

Shutting his eyes tighter, Thunderlane drapes his hoof around Rainbow Dash and he pulls her in closer to him, swearing he won't let any more harm come to her. And he swears on his life and his place as a Hurricane that he will get the one responsible for crippling Rumble. No matter what.

Off in the distance, a few blocks down, the two pegasi are observed through a scope, with the back of Rainbow Dash's head on the cross-hairs. When she lays down, the scope follows her to where her head will most likely be on the couch, and the sniper is about to pull the trigger with his hoof when he sees Thunderlane grip her tight. Not out of a sense of possessiveness, but as a silent vow to protect her.

The Painter pauses his pull, but continues observing the two. He cannot see what they are doing very well, but from the lack of motion he is guessing that they are just lying on the couch together for the sake of comforting one another. There are no signs of foreplay or anything else to take their moment to the next level. It is the purest form of intimacy between two victims of a bombing coming together to seek solitude in each other in a quickly unraveling world.

“You'll be the death of him, of that I can assure you,” says the Painter as if talking directly to his target.

He sees Rainbow Dash stir on the couch like she had heard him. Seeing that, he pulls away from the scope, skillfully packs up his rifle and silently leaves the rundown floor, choosing to let his rival live another day.

The Growing Storm

“Citizens of Bernese, war is upon us! The Equestrian menace and their allies have mobilized their hordes for conquest of our lands! They wish only for our destruction, to raze our cathedrals and break our families! But we will fight them every step of the way! We will fight them on the shores, in the skies, in the seas, and even in the very streets of Canterlot if it means our nation's survival! But fear not, for we have allies of our own and many of our sons and fathers have answered the call to the highest honor! And you, too, can join them in the ranks of one of the finest armies in the world! Enlist now and join the fight to preserve our way of life and strike down the iron hoof of the Sun Tyrant!”

Rotes finds himself staring at the picture of his family once again. He has done it for hours on end after he sent Cutter off to Equestria for his crucial task, and every time he stares at the painting he goes through three phases. First, hoping that Cutter is faring well; second, longing for his father, even though he knows he will never see him again; and third, blankness. He is currently on phase three.

He does not hear anything, not even his own thoughts, as he looks at his father's proud stature and crisp uniform depicted on the canvas. He wants to think of something about his father, but all he remembers is a hug and his broken promise of coming home, and then comes the void. His ear turns slightly when he thinks he hears someone calling him, but he tells himself that it is just his imagination. But the second time brings him to descend from his trance, and the third time convinces him to turn his head. It is his mother talking to him.

“Rotes, are you okay?” asks his mother worryingly.

Rotes looks back at the picture, silently nodding while the radio plays some soft music from the kitchen. Only now does Rotes realize that there is music in the house, and he figures that it must have been his mother who turned it on.

“I'm fine, mama,” says Rotes , but inside he knows he is not. He has not been okay ever since the griffins invaded Bernese nearly thirty years back.

The couch shifts from Ms. Leinen sitting next to him, and he looks down at the floor. He can feel her tension without looking at her, and when he glances at her out of the corner of his eye he can see her burden. It pains him to see his mother at the brink of tears from the fear and sadness swirling inside her, and he cannot blame her. He cannot blame anyone for their uneasiness in the face of the travesties to come, but it is something that must be done.

“Rotes, be honest with me, did you have something to do with what happened in Equestria?” asks Ms. Leinen.

Rotes hesitates. “I do not dictate the actions of others.”

Ms. Leinen searches Rotes' face, and the longer she stares the more uncomfortable he becomes. Seconds later, he averts his eyes just so she can't see into them, and his whole body deflates when his mother leaves his side. He dares to watch her leave with her head down, passing Gilda on her way to the kitchen.

The cyborg griffin watches Ms. Leinen until she is completely out of sight. Once the elderly ibex is out of sight, she turns her attention to Rotes, and he looks down at the floor again.

With the poisonous fumes of disappointment polluting the manor's atmosphere, Rotes is finding it harder to look at the painting or the medals and flag displayed by them. He can't quite explain it, but for some reason he feels as though the lifeless picture is ashamed of him.

“You know, when I made my mom cry, my old man nearly slapped my beak off,” says Gilda.

“I am sure you learned your lesson, then,” says Rotes, his eyes still on the floor.

Gilda snorts, which sounds like a broken wind tunnel trying to push air out thanks to her breathing mask, and she takes a seat next to Rotes. He shifts away from her to the other side of the couch just so he can't touch her, since her being closer leads to him realizing that she is filthy. Her feathers and fur are covered in dirt and now that he has a closer look at her mechanical talons and the stone imbedded in it, he sees faint traces of blood. The blood helps outline a strange symbol on her stone, too. It is shaped like an eye with what he is guessing are two hooks on each end.

Gilda turns her mechanical hand to herself, and she snarls behind her mask as the joints faintly whir and click in response to her balling the hand into a fist. Rotes looks away after that, but his attention goes back to her when she folds her arms across her chest and casually stretches out her lion like legs on the coffee table. Despite the blond ibex's best attempts, his face still contorts to a disgusted scowl as flakes of dry mud fall loose from Gilda's paws and land on the recently cleaned and polished table.

“Why did you name this whole thing something as stupid as Storm Cloud?” asks Gilda, her tone trying to hide her curiosity with snide.

Rotes' eyes drift back to the oil painting with his disapproving expression remaining. The feeling of being a symbol of family shame still lingers, but he knows that only good things will come after Storm Cloud ends. Once it is over then the shame will be replaced with pride and the Leinen Family will be marked in history as the ones who saved civilization from itself.

“Storms purify,” says Rotes, his tone distant as his disgust shifts to longing. “They remove the weak, preserve the strong and cleanse the air of filth. It is nature's way of making things better, and I am following its example.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rotes sees Gilda looking at him for a few seconds before she turns to her metallic talons. She flexes her enhancements, watching with regretful disgust as the metal claws move and bend like a real hand. It amazes Rotes how far technology has come within the last eleven years, and it amazes him even more that Gilda is able to live with all of her attachments. Though, just from watching her little twitches and quiet seethes he knows that she is in constant pain.

“What happened to you, if you do not mind me asking?” says Rotes.

“I do mind, so don't ask,” growls Gilda, and then she turns to glare at him with her unnaturally green eyes. “And just so we are clear, I will come after you and the Painter if Grim or Nasty are iced for this shit cause. I've lost too many good griffins to this kind of BS.”

Rotes looks at Gilda, slightly concerned about the passionate fire burning in her eyes. He returns her hostility with a neutral look, and he finds himself caught off guard when he sees a slight shade of light amber tainting her green eyes. He then cautiously looks down to see her metal talon aimed at his heart.

“If you do not wish to be a puppet, then why play the role?” asks Rotes without breaking eye contact from the talon.

Gilda's eyes narrow. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Yes. That is why I asked.”

Gilda balls her mechanical hand into a fist and retracts it from the androgynous ibex without taking her eyes on him while a growl rumbles through her throat. “Smart ass, huh?”

Rotes studies the mechanics of the false arm, listening and watching with great interest as it moves and reacts as a real arm. A part of him even wonders if she can feel anything in it, as if she was born with it. And as Gilda's fingers clutch around the strange stone, he starts becoming curious as to its purpose with the augmentation. He only breaks from his thoughts when he hears Gilda mumble under her breath.

“I should've just taken Hell,” she says quietly, then she says in her regular, distorted voice: “You ain't getting shit. But I'm telling your right now, you're a dead goat if you get my friends killed.”

Hearing this, Rotes lifts his eyes to meet hers, keeping his expression neutral. “I will understand if you try to take my life. But now it is my turn to warn you. If you try to harm me, my comrades, or my mother, you will only succeed at quickening your end.”

Rotes stands up and brushes himself off, ignoring Gilda's harsh stare and low growl. After finishing wiping off the invisible enemy on his clothing, he looks at the once beautiful griffin with pity.

Rotes knows that the wrath inside Gilda is powered by her suffering. The loss of her friends. The constant pain of machine fused to flesh. He can see it all. Every movement brings a quiet wince from her, and whenever she is not busy Rotes sees her staring at the augmented arm, yearning to be returned to normal. And Gilda's constant questions about Grim and Nasty Hick are a reminder to Rotes that she is still loyal to those she has left. He can admire her for that and relate to the feeling of wanting something that cannot be obtained, even if a father is different from an arm or better lungs.

With that thought in mind, Rotes looks out at the snow covered forest. Many associate Winter with death, which does not surprise Rotes, but Frost Forest's frozen beauty silently reminds him of the cycle that will come.

There is no doubt in his mind that suffering is coming to him and everyone around him for the rise of the Gold Star. But once Winter passes, Spring will come, and renew everything with life and plant new beginnings.

Rotes just hopes that the Winter from Storm Cloud will pass quickly so everyone can enjoy the Spring that is coming with the Gold Star.

Forcing himself out of his thoughts, Rotes looks back at Gilda, sighing softly. “Let us put this confrontation behind us. We do not need this kind of hostility in a time like this.” He starts walking towards the front door. “Help yourself to a meal. You look famished.”

The androgynous ibex does not hear Gilda's response because he is quick to step out onto the snow covered patio and close the door behind him. It is just him and nature, now. No noise pollution of clunky heaters, creaking floorboards or voices of the house guests are there to keep him from enjoying the scenery, and that is just the way he likes it.

Rotes closes his eyes, takes a deep sniff of the frosty and raises his hoof with an imaginary mug in his grip in celebration of the new Spring that is coming soon to replace the cold grip of Winter.

When he opens his eyes, he does not see a world of frozen trees and gray clouds, but a lush, warm place where everyone can play under the clear sky with no worries. No worries about food shortages, no threats from banks taking their homes, no anxiety about being laid off, and no bigotry because of the number of horns on a head.

The new Spring of Perfect Harmony is coming, and that brings a smile to his lips.

“To perfection,” whispers Rotes.

Wednesday

“Who are we!”

“Soldiers!”

“What's our Cloud!”

“Five-oh-five!”

That is the chant that the trainees of Cloud 505 have been reciting every day for the entire twelve weeks of training at Neighvaho for the Wonderbolts. It has been that way ever since Blueblood's assassination and Shining Armor's plan to modernize Equestria's military.

As part of Shining Armor's military modernization plan, the pegasi of the Frontier Watch began assisting the Wonderbolts in training to create the Royal Air Guard's special forces branch. The reasons for choosing the Frontier Watch are fully just, too, since it is the only branch in the Royal Guard that faces constant combat against terrible creatures in inhospitable terrain all over Equestria.

Another round of chanting passes and Thunderlane finds himself in disbelief that he has let his father provoke him into signing up for this elite fighting force. He can't believe that he has become so desperate for his father's love and to be a proper Hurricane that he has willingly given up his life for a uniform he has never cared about. Every day for the past twelve weeks, with every rise and fall of the sun, through mud and exams, and the pain of boundary breaking exercises to the chaos of the Discord Course, he feels a strong hatred eating at him for this. His home, his old life, all gone and replaced by concrete buildings, cheap cots and stallions he has yet to feel a connection with, and for what? To finally feel like he has a place in his father's heart and for his mother to smile at him without feigning joy?

The Cloud hollers a their chant, and their Military Training Instructor, Staff Sergeant Burnside, speedily goes up and down their line, shouting for them to get louder. The group gets louder to where the walls shake and Thunderlane's ears ring, forcing them by instinct to fold against his head. Bad move on his body's part, since that brings the attention of their gray furred, dark brown maned Tirek spawn directly towards him.

“ARE WE TOO LOUD FOR YOU, HURRICANE!” screams Burnside right in Thunderlane's ear.

“No, sir!” says Thunderlane, his voice barely considered to be a shout above the earth shaking chants of his cloud.

“GET LOUD, HURRICANE! I CAN'T HEAR YOUR PATHETIC VOICE!”

“YES, SIR!” screams Thunderlane, bringing a tearing pain to his throat.

“NOW THAT'S A SCREAM, RIGHT THERE!”

Then he goes off to torment the rest of the pegasi, and reminds Thunderlane of another reason why he hates this place. His old life and job was not nearly as stressful and he actually enjoyed himself at times with his humble living. Here, though, at the barren region of Neighvaho, he has been in the First Ring of Tartarus for the past twelve weeks, completely miserable without a single letter from home to get him through it. At least with his old life as a Weather Patrolpony he could come home every day to Rumble and hear Flitter and Cloudchaser talk about how he was sweet and cute and fluffy and all other things related to a pony made out of joys and glitter.

Here?

No privacy. No one to go to. And a bullshit “nothing personal” claim to fight against an MTI whose soul purpose is to make Thunderlane's life a living Hell. Thunderlane would not be surprised if his father somehow played a role in his torment just to toughen him up to be a real Hurricane, and he has surprised himself by not quitting already.

At least if he quit, he could go back to his old life and enjoy the humble things and not worry about the troubles of the world.

The Cloud goes through yet another round of chants, and in a feeble attempt to get rid of the negativity swirling in his mind, Thunderlane blinks his eyes quickly. Despite his well contained wrath telling him that he has forsaken everything for an unappreciative coot and a mother who clearly loves Rumble more than he, he sees light at the end of this madness. Once Friday of Week Twelve rolls around, he will graduate as a Wonderbolt and finally be accepted as a Hurricane. He will finally be accepted into his own family, and he will have all the perks of the military he can take care of Rumble better than what a Weather Patrolpony's salary can provide. That alone makes abandoning his old life worth it.

The chanting dies down and Burnside speaks again. He is still shouting, but now it is a regular shout where ears are not bleeding. “Alright, boys, today is the day! Today, I want you to scream so loud that nopony can hear Lightning Dust and her girls, clear?”

“Clear, sir!” barks all the trainees.

“What was that!”

“CLEAR, SIR!”

“Trainees! Ten-Shun!”

Thunderlane snaps at attention in unison with the other pegasi, and when the trumpets from outside pierce the cold morning air, everyone storms out, roaring with the other stallions and mares that pour out of their dorms. Hooves bang on metal, and the battle cries of stallions and mares alike bounce off the concrete walls, but as soon as Thunderlane goes out the dorm door there is nothing. Not a single pony or brick or light to be seen. All there is is a white void with a colt no more than five sitting with something on his lap.

Thunderlane looks over his shoulder to see more white, and when he looks back he sees a patch of grass growing from underneath the colt. He squints his eyes and steps closer, coming to a stop when he realizes that the colt is him.

A tree sprouts from behind the young version of Thunderlane, and it rapidly becomes thick with healthy leaves and fully bloomed flowers. The colt smiles, but the toothy grin that he has sends a chill up Thunderlane's spine. Then the area around him darkens with black and red, and the tree and grass begin to simmer with flakes of gray and orange peeling off to be carried away by the wind.

Thunderlane shields his eyes from the blades of grass and embers carried by the wind by squinting and holding up his hoof, and through his squinting eyes he sees the younger him raising a knife. It glows with the flames now consuming the white behind him, and even with the choking smoke polluting the air with its darkness Thunderlane can still make out another figure standing behind the colt.

“No,” whispers Thunderlane when the smoke clears just enough for him to see the figure is the stallion in a full body painting suit. With tears in his eyes and teeth gritted, Thunderlane stomps forward, coughing out smoke in his lungs. “What are you doing here!”

The Painter remains silent, as does the Young Thunderlane, and as the fire intensifies Thunderlane can make out stone structures with fire bursting out of their windows and wooden skeletons collapsing on top of each other. Over the crackling flames and snapping wood, screams of the dying and injured fill his ears, carried by the wind and the fire's heat.

Thunderlane steps back, hyperventilating with tears in his eyes from the searing smoke. He collapses and coughs painfully into his hoof, and seconds later the Painter's goggles flash green and everything becomes still. The crumbling buildings, the silhouettes of those fleeing the chaos and the burning tree all become like a terrible painting on a canvas. The only one who is breathing is Thunderlane, and his breaths are loud enough to echo clearly in the destruction.

Thunderlane swallows and looks back at his younger self. He is still smiling wide and the knife is still in his grip. But then he gradually extends his free hoof and holds the knife above it. Thunderlane's eyes bulge and reaches out, shaking his head and finding it hard to find the words to tell the kid to not do it.

“No, don't it,” begs Thunderlane after a few seconds of faltering. “Don't do it. Put the knife down.”

Young Thunderlane giggles and the Painter continues staring at the present Thunderlane.

“Watch me bleed,” whispers Young Thunderlane.

“No!” shouts Thunderlane.

Young Thunderlane slams his knife straight through the hoof and-

Thunderlane snaps up, panting and sweating, and when he looks at his shaking hooves he does not see a scratch on them, but this still does not stop him from trembling. Even his pupils shake with his ragged breaths and he jumps when Rainbow Dash puts her hoof on his shoulder.

“You okay?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane looks at Rainbow Dash, she is pale like him and has bags under her eyes.

“I'm fine,” croaks Thunderlane as he wipes his mane back. He is quick to clear his throat so he can speak in a less scratchy, but still tired, tone. “Really. I'm fine. But what about you? You don't look so good.”

Rainbow Dash shrugs and offers a worn out smile of her own. “I'm okay. I just never slept on a couch with somepony before and you got a little clingy, so... yeah. Oh, and you snore.”

Thunderlane sits up and looks at Rainbow Dash with a raised brow. No one has ever told him he snored, and if he did then Rumble would have used that to his full advantage in sibling torment. The clinging claim he is uncertain about, though, since he doesn't know what he does when he is in a pill induced slumber, but he knows he doesn't snore and it is obvious that Rainbow Dash is hiding something.

His scrutinizing stare breaks down Rainbow Dash's confident smile into a nervous one and she slips off of the couch to the kitchen.

“I gotta feed Tank,” she says quickly.

Thunderlane watches her until she is in the kitchen, pouring food in a bowl for her pet, who is crawling towards her at snail's pace with that lazy smile of his. After looking away from the Element, he turns on the radio for the morning news.

“...It has been reported that Captain of the Royal Guard Soarin Pansy has confronted Princess Celestia about temporarily revoking the Special Talent Act for military use to better implement Equestria's first mandatory draft in history,” says a bored stallion over the radio.

It then cuts to Soarin's determined voice; it sounds like it is a clip from a speech. “Equestria has not faced a war in a thousand years, and we are going against a nation that prides itself in warfare. Their allies hold the same mentality which puts us and our allies at the illusion of a disadvantage. But we can and will win if we all pull our weight. We have the resources, the evolutionary benefits of natural flight and magic, and we have superior knowledge. The time is now to put our knowledge and our benefits to work to end this conflict before it spreads. If everypony, regardless of their cutie mark, is able to fight for Equestria then we will overcome any and all challenges that come against us. This war effects us all, and only cooperation of every level will make our victory and power resurgence absolute.”

Thunderlane rolls his eyes and changes the channel to one that is talking about weather, which it will apparently be another cold day in Canterlot. Not that Thunderlane is surprised because according to the newspaper the weather schedule is supposed to be cold for another two months, as planned last year by the Canterlot Weather Patrol. He continues going through the channels, longing for the days when DJ-Pon3 ruled the air channels, and only stops when a tune catches his attention.

As the music plays Rainbow Dash walks back to the living room, leaving Tank to munch on his meal by his lonesome. Thunderlane stays still on the couch, listening to the words of the song, with that particular verse striking a harsh cord in him that leaves a lump in his throat. He can only think about failing to protect Rumble and Rainbow Dash and the vow he has made to make things right. Thinking about them and his failure brings back the memory of the shouts and the flash from the stadium. Then comes the aftermath of the thick cloud, the torn up bodies and all the blood covering the ground, and Rumble's crippled state.

The image of Rumble lying on the cot, bandaged with no face, hooves and wings send Thunderlane hunching forward with his hooves pressing against his temples, trying desperately to keep himself from shaking. He has no idea how he is going to fix his mistake. His career puts him on a tight leash, and unless the military grants him a personal mission to hunt down the ones responsible, he sees no way he can defend the honor of the Hurricane Family, much less become an accepted member of his own bloodline.

Thunderlane sighs explosively and runs his hoof through his mane, listening to his thumping heart more than his thoughts or the music. He is completely lost and instead of finding his way out, he is seeking comfort in a mare that survived two terrible events with him. And speaking of the one and only Rainbow Dash, her calling Thunderlane snaps him out of his trance.

“I'm going to take a shower. Is there anything weird that I should know about?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane shakes his head. “Not really. The pressure is a bit high, but other than that it is perfectly fine.

“Cool. Thanks.”

Thunderlane nods and watches Rainbow Dash slips into the bathroom, and after the door clicks shut, the charcoal stallion sighs and looks at Tank.

The tortoise has finished his meal surprisingly quick for something that does everything at the speed of molasses, and now the reptile is staring at Thunderlane, inadvertently leading to a staring contest between the two

“What are you looking at?” he says after a strange five seconds. Tank blinks and a sly smile stretches across his wrinkly face, prompting a frown to grow on Thunderlane's muzzle. “Don't look at me like that. We're just friends.”

Tank's staring remains constant and Thunderlane turns his head away to escape the unnerving smile Rainbow Dash's pet is giving him. Seconds later, the sound of spraying water resonates from the bathroom, but it does nothing to alleviate the a odd moment between the pegasus and the tortoise. Thunderlane tries to keep his eyes on something other than the Element of Loyalty's pet, but when he feels his cropped mane crawl, he looks out out of the corner of his eye and sees the tortoise is still looking at him with the same strange smile.

Thunderlane's golden eyes widen as they shift side to side nervously. He then grabs the arm of his couch and pulls himself to it for shelter when Tank's droopy eyelids seep down over its eyes for its blink. It is at that moment that he realizes how much he hates tortoises and finds himself wishing Rainbow Dash would hurry up with her shower so the freak of nature will stop looking at him.

Thick steam and sprays of hot water shrouds Rainbow Dash's body in the shower. With the combination of the moist air and the hot water dancing across her fur and relaxing her muscles, her mind nears a void where nothing exists. Not her thoughts; not her memories; it is a pure blank slate with only the wet tile and strands of soaked, rainbow colored hair dangling in front of her eyes for visual.

Rainbow Dash closes her eyes and sniffs the moist air, then presses her hoof against the tiled wall and exhales with her wings spreading out. The water pounding the spot between her wings sends a tingling feeling that makes her shudder, but the pleasant feeling doesn't last. Her mind wanders to the events of last night, from seeing the rage and sadness eating at Thunderlane in the hospital, all the way to the bodiless voice warning her that she will get him killed.

The more Rainbow Dash thinks about it, the more clear it becomes that the voice belongs to the Painter, who she knows is Fuller. If the bombing and the break-in at her apartment isn't enough, then she doesn't know what is. And what is more concerning is how her new nemesis is able to speak to her without being in the room. A psychic talk, if she remembers correctly from one of Twilight's random ramblings during the happier times of Ponyville, can only be achieved if the speaker has a visual on the subject. But it is a difficult spell for anyone to use and has been banned by Celestia for centuries.

That thought brings a concern to her, though. If they were watched last night then why weren't they killed?

No matter how hard she thinks, she cannot come up with a clear answer. Instead she gets the returning visual of Thunderlane hugging her tight that night and never letting go. Admittedly, that part has Rainbow Dash on edge, and his constant whimpering adds fuel to her uneasiness.

Never has a stallion done that to her before. Out of all the flings she has had over the years, it has always been a quick late-night tango, then leave a fake number and address and fly off. The few times where it has been a sleepover, though, their holds have been loose, but Thunderlane's hold resembled a protective one. With that in mind, she wonders if her panic kiss at the Card Casino and her plea to spend the night in his company has given the timid stallion the wrong ideas. Or worse...

With those words returning to torment her, Rainbow Dash grinds her teeth and presses her trembling hoof against the tile, letting the hot water roll down her face, washing her tears and what little remains of yesterday's dirt away. Those words are Fuller's declaration of war, and now she is hating herself for turning Thunderlane and Rumble into targets.

Her paranoid mind goes into overdrive as suspicion surfaces of Fuller somehow convincing the ibexes to bomb the stadium, then getting Thunderlane and Rumble in the same area just so she can see them hurt if she survives the blast. The plot is a little farfetched, but having her and the Hurricanes so close to each other in a bombing is too much to be a coincidence for her. But no matter how hard she thinks of how the plan worked, she always returns to thinking about how Rumble got a taste of Hell because of her.

Rainbow Dash eyes snap open and her shrunken pupils watch the rushing water swirl into the abyss of the drain, with her hyperventilating and shaking despite the heat of the water. Her hoof slides down the tile, and she falls to the tub with a wet plop as her drenched mane goes over her misting eyes, leaving her body to be bombarded by the endless barrage of scorching water.

Rainbow Dash's body completely collapses in the flooding tub and she cries quietly into her hooves, quivering and suffering from the suffocation of the wet lump in her throat and the condemning truth of her role in what has happened. Her body scrunches up tighter and her tail curls around to her face as she hugs herself, trembling more with her tears bleeding through her tightly closed eyes. She gulps for air to break the lump, but all she can make is a pained whimper and her shoulders buckle as the crushing guilt makes her weep harder, only for her cries to be left unheard by the shower.

Thunderlane is reading from his notebook that has all his notes regarding the number “505”. Really, most of what he has found so far has been pointless information, such as the address to the Celestial Spire being on Magic Boulevard, the bombed stadium being located on Kindness Street, and Rich Apartments located on Generosity Avenue all having 505 as the marking numbers. None of this is useful to him and frankly the repetition makes his head hurt.

However, Thunderlane has more than just addresses with weird numbers. He also has many articles that he has taped on the pages, and one such article is about Trixie Lulamoon -a.k.a. the Amazing Mare-Do-Well- speaking at a drug rehabilitation center. She mentions the exact same stalker number, which she blames on a mix of coincidences and drug abuse that created her numerical based paranoia. But Thunderlane thinks she is downplaying it for fear of it costing her her renewed fame. After reading the article he scribbles a note down to have a word with her about the strange number the first chance he gets.

Once he finishes writing his note, Thunderlane turns the page to a news report he found way back when his digging brought him to the historical archives of the Royal Library of Equestria.

505 KILLED AT LULAMOON MONASTERY! WHERE'S THE OUTRAGE!?
Editorial By: Ink Pen
Der Tal, Bernese- It is no secret that Princess Celestia does not want to drag Equestria into a war, much less a foreign war. It will, after all, ruin the millennial long Ippasías Eirí̱ni̱, and who would want to go to war when the Equestrian Games are in full swing?

I know a good majority of us do not. None of us want to send our sons and daughters off to fight and very likely die for a war that does not threaten us in any way. But I ask you this:

What would you want if a foreign power attacked us and killed over five hundred of our own in cold blood to get to a coal vein? Or even a gem deposit? You wouldn't want somepony to turn their backs on us, would you?

The sane answer would be “No.”

You would want somepony to help us from a threat so ruthless and uncaring of life.

But that was not what happened. Barely two weeks ago, on May 5th, the griffin army under the orders of King Czar XXIII killed five hundred and five ibexes and ponies alike seeking refuge from the war within the walls of the Lulamoon Monastery. And for what?

To get to a coal vein that the griffins could have reached just as easily, probably easier, in fact, if they had walked around. But instead of doing this, they chose to raze a four hundred year old Monastery and kill five hundred and five people. And all Celestia did was slap the King's wrist, reject Bernese's call for aide and encouraged us to resume following the Equestrian Games. Which we did without so much as wasting a blink of an eye while war ravages a country.

-Continued on 5B

Thunderlane browses through the rest of the article, studying all the highlighted parts and having a small map clipped to next page marking where the Lulamoon Monastery lies. He has a note scribbled on the map to visit the site the first chance he gets, though he knows that it will not be for a while due to the current standoff between Equestria and Bernese.

With that aside, though, Thunderlane turns the page to a taped in article from Scientific Equestrian, that has in big, bold letters: COMPOUND 505: The FUTURE or a BUST?

By: Scribble Scratch
Cloudsdale, Equestria- It was another typical day at Cloudsdale. It was bright and sunny, but cold. That much could be expected since the city was built high in the sky and made of clouds. But that cold problem was not too bad and was easily fixed by Dr. Good Strongwind's hospitality and a cup of coffee.

Dr. Strongwind was excited to have me over because I agreed to hear him out after many in the scientific community, including the esteemed Starswirl Society, disowned him for his “unconventional mind”.

In his lab, he eagerly showed me a graph relating to seeds from the White Trees of Roam, the Healing Mushrooms of Macintosh Hills, and a plant in Bernese known to the locals as the Schönen Lilie -or the Lovely Lily.

Dr. Strongwind claimed that his extensive research said that those three plants held healing properties and he had already planned on creating a formula that combined all three of their traits into one compound.

He called this design “Compound 505”, but when I asked him how strong it would be, he admitted that he had no idea and needed to go to Bernese for more testing.

And that is as far as Thunderlane gets before a rapid, obnoxious knocking on his door breaks his reading mood.

Thunderlane's head snaps up, brows scrunched and lips curled to a frown in confusion as to who is coming to his home. When the knocking resumes with a familiar, energetic stallion calling him, he sighs and reluctantly puts his notebook down.

The stallion at the door makes another round of knocks and calls Thunderlane again, which he answers by shouting that he'll be there in just a second. This proves to be fairly accurate since it takes him three seconds to finally open the door.

Thunderlane takes a step back once the door is open to have a better look at Staff Sergeant Silver Lining and the pressed blue uniform he is wearing. However, despite how clean the uniform is, Thunderlane really wants to grab some clipper and trim the loose strands on his superior's patch. The patch on Silver Lining's uniform symbolizing his rank is made up of a cloud with three bolts of lightning and two stars inside the cloud's “W”.

“Hey, Thunder! How ya doing?” says Silver Lining, his hoof raised for a hoof-bump.

Thunderlane awkwardly completes the gesture. “I'm fine, sir, but with all do respect, what are you doing here?”

Silver Lining playfully bullies his way past Thunderlane and whistles when he sees how clean his apartment is. Thunderlane does nothing about it except for sigh and close the door, then watches his teammate walk around his apartment, enviously eying the great care Thunderlane put into his cleaning.

“You clean up nice,” says Silver Lining.

“Thank you, sir,” says Thunderlane.

“But now that I'm here, I get to drag your lazy tail to work.”

The silver stallion pauses when he sees an all too familiar tortoise staring at him. Then his ears perk and he turns to the bathroom with too much emphasis on his comedic approach upon realizing that the shower is running. Seeing this makes Thunderlane shift uneasily in his spot, worried that Silver Lining will get the wrong idea, and his anxiety only gets more fuel when a toothy, suggestive smile is directed towards him.

“Is that who I think it is in the shower?” asks Silver Lining.

“Yes, sir, Rainbow spent the night here,” says Thunderlane, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away from the stallion to hide the hot tint on his cheeks.

“Oh, really? Did you two tango?”

Thunderlane's cheeks flare and his wings expand, much to his horror and Silver Lining's amusement, and to add to the entertainment, his wings refuse to go back down.

“No! No, sir!” says Thunderlane, vocalizing his wing-struggle with a grunt as they fight him every step of the way.

Silver Lining takes a quick glance at Thunderlane's wings, then the smile turns to a wolfish grin. “Thunder, relax, it's not like I'm not going to tell Spitfire or Fire Streak about whatever wild night you two had. Just tell me this... Was she a great lay?”

Thunderlane's wings are uncomfortably stiff now and beads of cold sweat roll down his oven hot face as he stares at his superior with wide eyes and drooped ears. Thunderlane is certain that Silver Lining can hear his bones rattling from how hard they are shaking, and he is afraid that his heart will explode from how fast it is beating. But despite the death that is threatening to take the self conscious stallion, the silver pegasus refuses to back down. His smile actually widens and he leans closer with the inappropriate look in his eyes becoming more intense.

“Well...?” probes Silver Lining.

“Please don't do this to me,” begs Thunderlane. “Me and Rainbow didn't do anything. We are just friends -I mean wingmates! We're wingmates and nothing more, sir.”

Silver Lining raises his brows. “And yet you let her spend the night with you.”

“All we did was rest on the couch, sir.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

Thunderlane swallows. “Kinky... sir?”

The puffy maned pegasus puts his hoof around Thunderlane's shoulder, grinning wickedly, which makes the already insecure stallion more nervous around his extrovert superior. Silver Lining's suggestive giggle doesn't make matters much better for Thunderlane, either.

“Oh, yeah,” says the Staff Sergeant with a slow nod. “It starts off with a simple 'date' as just friends, then comes the couch cuddle, then comes the more sophisticated dates. You know, with all the fancy restaurants, a play or two and a walk? Or fly in our case. And after that, a little smoochy-smoochy on the couch and before you know it, BAM!”

Silver Lining slams his hoof against the floor, creating a gunshot like echo that makes Thunderlane jump in his spot and skip a beat.

“In comes the baby train!” hollers Silver Lining.

“That won't happen, sir,” says Thunderlane, his voice still quivering as he rubs his racing heart.

Silver Lining snorts. “Look, I know what I'm talking about, Thunder, and it is obvious you are new to this whole courting thing. So, if you need any pointers or have any questions, you come to me and I'll give you best of the best answers and advice.”

“With all do respect, sir, I've already courted a couple of mares.”

“Did you, Thunder? Did you really court them? Or did they court you?”

Silver Lining leans in close with his eyes wide and intense, boring into Thunderlane's golden eyes like he is trying to break into the Airstallion's memories using psychic powers. Thunderlane cranes his head back in a feeble attempt to escape the uncomfortable staring, but it only encourages Silver Lining to lean in closer.

Thankfully, the bathroom door opens and Rainbow Dash steps out with her vibrant mane and tail dripping wet. Seeing her multi-colored mane hanging past her eyes and shoulders makes Thunderlane realize just how long her mane really is. However, despite the mane over her eyes, he can still see how red and puffy they are... And they are also narrowed.

“Silver, what are you doing to Thunderlane?” demands Rainbow Dash as she furiously marches over to the two stallions.

Silver Lining pulls away from Thunderlane and offers a sweet smile. “Nothing. What did you do to Thunderlane?”

“What kind of question is that!?”

“Rainbow, he thinks we did...” Thunderlane gulps nervously and tries -and fails- to reenact Ruble's hoof rub from the Stadium. “The... The tango thing...”

Rainbow Dash's jaw drops and Silver Lining snickers.

“What is wrong with you!?” shouts Rainbow Dash. “Can't a mare hang out with a stallion for the night without things getting funky!?”

Silver Lining scoffs. “No. Besides, Thunder told me you two had a nice, steamy moment on the couch.”

Now Rainbow Dash shoots Thunderlane a very dirty, murder by tonight, look, and the poor stallion stammers incoherently as he steps back.

“I didn't say that! I said we cuddled!” says Thunderlane defensively.

Next thing Thunderlane knows, there is a crack, a flash of white and a burst of pain that goes all through his jaw, and then he tastes freshly vacuumed carpet and blood.

Thunderlane stands back up, groaning and tenderly rubbing the throbbing in his jaw as he glares at Rainbow Dash. Not too surprisingly, Rainbow Dash doesn't appear to be apologetic about her action and Silver Lining is too busy grinning stupidly to intervene.

“What was that for?” whines Thunderlane, hoof still to his jaw.

“I told you I would punch you if you told anypony!” says Rainbow Dash.

“Wow,” is all Silver Lining says.

Rainbow Dash growls and turns to him, hoof raised and hot air snorting out of her nostrils while she flaps her wings challengingly. Silver Lining just looks at her with complete amusement, though, all while Thunderlane staggers to the kitchen to grab some frozen beans.

“I should knock your teeth out, too!” growls Rainbow Dash.

“But I'm your superior, so that will be stupid of you,” says Silver Lining lightly.

“Then I'll report you for... for inappropriate talking stuff!”

“Wow. You go do that, Dashie, and then I can tell Spitfire and Fire Streak how you two 'cuddled'.”

“We did cuddle!” shouts Rainbow Dash and Thunderlane in unison.

Silver Lining rolls his eyes. “Uh huh, sure. Listen, before we go too far into this debate, I should tell you guys that Soarin is having an emergency security meeting today and we're short on pony power. So, everypony that isn't, quote on quote, hospitalized and in the area must show up to the Royal Guard HQ or face disciplinary action. There is some other disqualification stuff, but we don't fall under it, so chop chop, peeps. Its time to answer our call of duty.”

Thunderlane and Rainbow Dash exchange looks, and put their focus back on Silver Lining when he continues.

“That actually reminds me that Misty went to get you, Rainbow Dash,” he says coolly. “But since you're here, that means I get to take both of you to work today and we get to keep you two's frisky night our nice little secret.”

“Nothing hap-... I hate you,” seethes Rainbow Dash.

Silver Lining gets a cheeky smile. “Doesn't everypony?”

A few minutes later, Thunderlane comes out of his bedroom wearing his spare uniform. It is obvious that he has not worn it many times because of how crisp the fabric is, and when he looks at Rainbow Dash, he is not in the least bit surprised that her uniform is sloppy with painfully noticeable wrinkles and crooked medals of the lowest bracket.

The vibrant mare mutters to herself as she stumbles out of the bathroom on three hooves, with her hat in her moth and the other hoof trying to press a button down. She has to sit down to fix the said button and makes a feeble attempt to iron out the wrinkles with her hoof. After those are done, she spits out her hat and makes the final adjustment before plopping it on her head.

“Are you ready to go?” asks Silver Lining.

Thunderlane looks at Rainbow Dash again and she looks back at him, not needing to say that she is ready. He then turns to his superior and nods. “Yes, sir.”

Cutter sits on a couch in a completely closed off room with six guards armed with basic battle saddles.

All of them are listening to a radio broadcast of the wave of racial violence erupting throughout Equestria due to the recent attack. It sickens him that his race has become the target for mob attacks, lynching, shop burnings, and cathedral bombings. But he is a soldier and Storm Cloud needs its soldiers to push aside all personal feelings for its success. Even if its success comes at the cost of mass bloodshed.

Cutter quietly pulls out a locket from underneath his suit shirt and clicks it open. He smiles to himself at the black and white picture of a female Ibex with her mane long and combed back, smiling with a newborn in her embrace. Seeing that picture always calms him down and makes him remember why he is doing this. The despair caused by the nobles and captains of industry needs to end, and his adopted child needs to grow up in a world where all are truly equal. He needs Perfect Harmony to give his son a better life.

Cutter closes his eyes and bows his head with his hooves and locket pressed against his forehead. To the average eyes it looks like he is praying, but anyone who is in his company knows that he has given up on faith a long time ago. The position he is in helps him think about his wife with all her beauty in her tied back golden mane and silky brown coat, and all the love she carries in her sweet voice and adorable laugh. It also helps him imagine their adopted, pony son, Knackig, with his orange coat and curly, green mane, envisioning what a strong adult he will become when this is all over.

Cutter's moment of peace is interrupted when one of his guards, a twenty year old light brown Ibex with a low cut blonde mane and freakishly blue eyes, named Garten, walks into the room with two more armed ibexes by his side.

“They are ready for us,” says Garten in the Bernese national language.

Cutter wordlessly stands up and Garten steps aside to allow three griffins into the room. Cutter can care less about two of them since they are just guards, but he keeps his attention directed to the leader. The lead griffin is male, has a strong build with a bronze colored coat and the tips of his white feathers carry the same shade.

“Well, if it isn't Mr. Leinen's greatest friend,” says the griffin, his Slavic accent almost unbearably thick. “How was your trip to the Kingdom of Harmony?”

“Nobody calls Equestria that, Sol,” sneers Cutter.

The bronze colored griffin, Councilor Sol Paprsek, grins to display his razor sharp teeth. “That is what the textbooks told me it was called when I was a little cub.”

“Why don't you lead us to the craft instead of trying to be a comedian?”

Sol keeps his smile as he turns to the side with his talons aimed down the hall. “After you.”

Cutter nods to Garten and his guards and everyone follows him down the dirty, narrow corridors, with the ibexes staying on one side while the griffins remain on the other. During their walk, Sol has put his hat back on and seems to be indifferent about the atmosphere of dust that is only exposed by the sun rays peeking through the cracks in the boarded off windows.

As their trek continues, Cutter keeps his eye on Sol, just waiting for any excuse to end the griffin's life. Even when he looks away to watch a zebra or a pony scamper off to do some obscure form of labor, he still keeps Sol in his peripheral vision.

“You look tense. Was the flight that bad?” asks Sol.

The griffin's bright tone disgusts Cutter, but still he answers. “The flight was fine. I thought you were too busy rigging elections to participate in this operation.”

Sol chuckles and puts his talon on the old Ibex's shoulder as if they are long time friends. “Is it a crime to make sure that an investment takes off properly?”

Sol pushes open a rusted steel door and marches into a large chamber with his grip still tight on Cutter. As soon as the door opens, a rushing wave of mechanical work and shouts fill the halls, and Cutter becomes visibly surprised by what he is seeing.

A swarm of griffins, equines and ibexes clamor and scurry around with tools and blueprints as they make their final touch ups on the large machine he and his team will be using by the day's end. The aircraft is parked in the center of the massive chamber and is surrounded by empty paint cans, worn out tools and scrapped supplies, as well as crushed food containers and soda bottles. When Cutter looks up, he sees that the entire roof is gone and a gray tarp is tightly pulled over to shield everything below from fliers snooping around. He speculates that they must have covered the tarp with dirt and other garbage to make the fake roof all the more authentic. That is what he would do if he wanted to build an aircraft inside the borders of a police state without jeopardizing his prized project.

Cutter is brought out of his observations when Sol pats his should, slightly tearing into his recently pressed suit and skin. The old ibex hisses in pain quietly and stares daggers at the griffin as he leads the group down the rusted stairs. It unnerves him how the stairs groan and creak with each step taken, but he continues following nonetheless.

Once they reach the bottom, they continue walking to the aircraft while Sol talks with a broad grin.

“After months of gathering and construction, the Star Raiser is finally ready. Right in the nick of time, too. Do you have the pilots?” says the griffin.

Cutter watches the pony, griffin and ibex mechanics make their final preparations, with some testing pressures, others making final adjustments to the bolts, and a couple carefully painting TGSR-505 and the Bernese Republican Guard symbol on its tail. He personally thinks they are going a bit overboard, but as long as the craft is able to do its job it will remain nothing more than an easily ignorable offense.

“My pilots need time to practice with this machine,” says Cutter.

Sol frowns. “Am I going to have to remind you that we do not have time for that? Besides, I was told that the pilots you recruited are more than capable of flying helicopters, so I do not understand why you are so sour about this.”

“It is a new machine with no time practicing, that is why I am 'sour'. And for the record, these pilots were recruited by whoever this Painter is, and for the life of me I do not understand why Rotes would trust him. Or you for that matter.”

Cutter and Sol lock eyes, and as Cutter's eyes become more hostile Sol's expression shifts from annoyance to a mocking grin, and he pats the ibex's shoulder before moving to get a closer look at the vehicle.

“You are a funny little goat, Custard,” says Sol, his voice becoming clearer with it bouncing off the chamber walls as the touch ups die down. “We are on the same side and yet you still do not trust me?”

“The reasons should be obvious,” says Cutter, barely keeping his temper in check from Sol's blatant insult of his name.

Sol taps his beak in mock thought. “They should, but I'm not going to think about such things. Instead, I want to think about what kind of carpet I will put in my new mansion once I win the seat of Prime Minister.”

“Are you that confident with the election?”

Sol grins deviously. “Yes, and Rotes assured me that if Altai's election does not go as planned then Storm Cloud will... encourage a recount. But enough about me and politics. Can your pilots perform their duties or not?”

Cutter looks at the Star Raiser hatefully. “They can, but not as well as you and Rotes think since they will have no time to practice.”

“There is a manual taped to the control panel. Will that count as practice?”

“No, but it looks like this will be the best they will be getting.”

“If you are not happy about this then take it up with Rotes.”

“I plan on it.”

Sol chuckles and Cutter turns to his ibexes, getting ready to say something, but he pauses when he hears Sol calling him, this time by his real nickname. Cutter sniffs in aggravation and turns to the griffin, letting his annoyance show clearly.

“What?” says Cutter.

Sol raises his talons in a play on saluting, and with great pride he says: “The Gold Star rises.”

Cutter hesitates. “Indeed it does.”

He then turns back to his ibexes and orders them to get ready for their greatest task in Equestria. Assaulting the Royal Guard headquarters.

The Final Nail

Thunerlane sits in a classroom at the Royal Guard Headquarters, staring at the bland, gray tabletop in front of him. Whoever used the table before him had scribbled “Crack Shot was here!” with crosshairs underneath it using hard strokes of a pen that left ink filled scratches.

The rest of the team is talking amongst themselves, with Fire Streak talking to Spitfire, Fleetfoot conversing with Misty, and Silver Lining trying to squeeze his fantasy information out of Rainbow Dash. Thunderlane is all alone and is refusing to look up from his table. Even though his jaw no longer hurts, he dares not look at Rainbow Dash after his big screw up, and the last thing he wants is Silver Lining to talk to him. He actually only peeks up from his fantastically boring view of the desk when he hears Spitfire respond with more than two words.

“Well, thanks to the geniuses in office, we are severely understaffed with a shit bucket of a budget,” says Spitfire sourly without taking her eyes off of the paperwork she's looking through, now wearing the gold sun of the Major on her Wonderbolts uniform.

“And yet we still have some kickass stuff,” says Fire Streak, wearing the gold bar of Second Lieutenant. “But budget and ponypower or not, this-” he points at Rainbow Dash and Thunderlane “-is just ridiculous.”

“Hey, I’m fine! Even Thunderlane is fine and he got blasted into a wall!” claims Rainbow Dash, having to raise her voice so he can hear her from across the room.

“You two were in a bombing! You should be on vacation!”

Rainbow Dash dismisses Fire Streak with a wave of her hoof. “Nah, we’re fine. A day of relaxation is enough.”

“Coming from you, that’s surprising,” says Misty deadpanned.

The group snickers and even Thunderlane cracks a small smile, but Spitfire puts no emotional investment into the conversation. Instead, she chooses to put her entire focus on the overstuffed folder, leaving Rainbow Dash without a friend in the room.

“What’s that supposed to mean!” says Rainbow Dash with a sneer.

“You’re the kind of pony that will sleep in a laundry basket if it meant a nap,” explains Misty.

“Which was actually kinda cute,” adds Fire Streak, soon to get a wing slap from Fleetfoot that he dismisses with a shameless shrug and smile.

“I-I was tired!” stammers Rainbow Dash defensively. “It was a hard day and-”

“You just can’t resist the smell of blueberries and a fluffy blanket,” interrupts Misty with a cruel grin.

“Wait, how did Rainbow fit into a laundry basket?” questions Thunderlane with a slight raise of his hoof. He can't help himself on this one. He has to know how the Element of Loyalty managed to squeeze herself in such a small space.

“Like this.”

Rainbow Dash’s vibrant colors drain right as Misty pulls out a picture from her pouch and shows it to Thunderlane. He squints his eyes to take a better look, and much to his surprise, Rainbow Dash has found a way to scrunch up inside a large laundry basket. Granted, her tail is dangling out, but it still doesn’t hinder how adorable she looks. Soon enough, Thunderlane feels his cheeks burn lightly, so he forces himself to look away lest he wants to invite a reason to be teased or get punched again. He looks away too late, though.

“Ha! Thunderlane is blushing!” laughs Silver Lining.

Rainbow Dash tries to take the picture away, but Misty zips away and tucks it back to her pouch, taunting Rainbow Dash with her smile and a pat on the photo’s home.

“Why are you even carrying that around!” demands Rainbow Dash.

“Am I going to have to separate you two?” asks Spitfire without looking up from her papers.

“Maybe,” grumbles Rainbow Dash.

Spitfire barely lowers her sunglasses so that Rainbow Dash can see her orange eyes challenging her to repeat herself.

“I mean: No, ma’am,” corrects the rainbow mare swiftly.

“Good.” Spitfire pushes her sunglasses back in place. “Leisure time is over, it’s on to business, so everypony have a seat.”

The Wonderbolts take a seat, with Thunderlane and Rainbow Dash in the very back, Fire Streak sitting close to Spitfire, Fleetfoot next to him, and Misty and Silver Lining sitting in the middle. Spitfire waits for the group to adjust themselves before starting her briefing.

“As everypony knows, Bernese is on the war path and promised retribution for what has happened to their Generals,” begins Spitfire. “The suits at the CDA and EIB believe that the bombing at the Stadium was the attack promised, and Soarin has called the Royal Security Council together to decide the appropriate course of action. Our job will be to act as security, with us assisting Lieutenant Flash Sentry and his MP's. We will cover the interior, and Lieutenants Lightning Dust and Oliver Bolt will cover the exterior security.”

“Are we expecting another attack?” asks Silver Lining.

“I cannot say. Directors Fuller and Cluster are searching all leads, but as far as everypony is concerned, we act with the expectation of one. This is all last minute, and we all need to be alert and go beyond our best to ensure that there is no room for another opportunity to attack, got it?”

“Yes, ma'am!” says the team in unison.

“Good. Now let's suit up.”

Spitfire's team has to go to the basement of the Royal Guard Headquarters since that is where their designated suits are stored. The armor that Research and Development designed for the Wonderbolts has been dubbed the Chrysaor Suit, named after the program that built and retrained the elite force for it. After Chrysaor's creation barely a year ago, each Wonderbolt has been assigned a suit and the advanced armor is ferried to every location they will be at via sealed metal crates. Once the crates are opened, it takes a team of technicians to put the Suit on the Wonderbolt due to its complex nature. The only thing the Wonderbolts can do without the help of the technicians is put on their jumpsuits, and once that is done, the technicians puts them in their armor, piece by piece, like a giant three dimensional puzzle.

It takes a team of four technicians ten minutes to put on a Chrysaor Suits for the selected pony, and when they are finished, it really is a symbol of technological advancement.

The Wonderbolt's new combat armor consists of sleek metal pads that are insulated to allow comfort for high flights and have gel pads inside to dampen hard landings. The parts that are not covered by the pads, such as the joints, wing bases and feathers, are protected with thick, insulated cloth that has been designed to endure extreme temperatures. The tails resemble a scorpion as they are protected by an armor network that allows for a wide range of movement and has a large blade at the end, and attached to the back of the armor are air tanks that connect to their gas-mask designed helmets. The last two features to top it off are the armored radio equipment and the interchangeable battle saddles.

For the battle saddles, Thunderlane has chosen the bolt action model while Rainbow Dash and Spitfire carry dual mini-Gatling guns. Fire Streak has armed himself with a large shotgun; Silver Lining has a sniper rifle with a fat scope; and Fleetfoot and Misty have chosen the Shire and Waler Rapid-Fire Models. They are slender compared to the other weapons and have their ammunition stored in fifty round drums, and unlike the Gatling guns, they are lighter and have longer barrels for better accuracy.

To top it off, the Suit's are painted blue with gold trim located at the hooves, and each one has the Wonderbolts seal on the flanks and the wearer's cutie mark and surname on the cuirass.

Spitfire's team is about finished suiting up, all they have to do is put their full-faced helmets on, but they are not doing that since they prefer making their final check ups without having their faces stuffed inside big cans. While everyone inspects their weapons, counts their ammo and makes last minute adjustments to their Suits with the help of the technicians, Fire Streak stares longingly at his prized weapon. A large, cylindrical device laying on a foam bed inside a metal crate with three red tipped rockets next to it.

“I still think I should carry my cannon,” says Fire Streak.

“And kill everypony around you with a misfire? No,” says Spitfire while she squirms slightly in her spot from a unicorn twisting the knobs on her air tanks. “Our primary objective, as ordered by Soarin, is to remain close to him, and I do not want to pick up his body parts because of a rogue rocket.”

Fire Streak sighs with disappointment and closes the container, which has his cutie mark imprinted on it. Even the hiss of air that escapes it sounds depressed as the cannon is closed off from the rest of the world. He nods to a couple of soldiers dressed in tan with blue helmets and arm bands with “MP” printed in white on both of them. The soldiers quietly push the case away and Fire Streak stands by Spitfire, awaiting further instruction.

Meanwhile, Thunderlane is halfheartedly checking his movements and is -as usual- the last to get done with the technicians' main testing. If he didn't know any better, he'd think they assigned the slowest technicians to him on purpose.

But despite the thickness of the armor and all the gear that is packed on it, it does not feel as heavy as he thinks it should. His limbs move with ease under the layers of protective metal, gel padding and chain-mail, and his bladed tail moves with minimal guidance from his stubby, natural tail. Thunderlane makes sure the coast is clear when he does the tail test and gets a small smile when he sees the sleek blade at the end of the lengthy metal stream slice through the air with a satisfying woosh. Though, he does cringe when the blade drops against the floor with a metallic thud. Luckily his team and their technicians are too wrapped up in their final preparations to notice. Unluckily the slowpoke technicians assigned to him fully noticed and gave him varying looks of annoyance. Thunderlane smiles sheepishly and a couple of his technicians move to his sides and start doing some obscure work that leaves the soldier confused.

“I take it the tail blade works fine,” says one of the technicians as he scribbles on his pad using his magic to guide the pen.

Thunderlane nods. “Yes, sir.”

“How's the helmet?”

Thunderlane sits down to slip his helmet on. It is hanging on a hook with a strong magnet behind it that is built on his vest and is connected to his suit by thick air tubes that pump oxygen from the tanks on his back so he does not suffocate. He is glad they put that feature in because every time he puts the helmet on, he feels claustrophobia creep in just a little bit further, just waiting for the perfect moment to poison him for the rest of his life. Besides, suffocation is the last thing he needs when wearing the Chrysaor Suit.

When Thunderlane puts his helmet on, there is a series of clicks and his breathing becomes amplified in his ears while his line of sight is put at the mercy of two lenses from his goggles. He can feel the admittedly comfortable padding pressing against his face as he wiggles the casing for a better fit, and once done, he drops his hooves and moves his head.

Thunderlane looks left. Then right. Up. Down. Head roll. He does it all, and nothing seems out of the ordinary with the fluid motions.

Thunderlane's smile is hidden behind his helmet, and his hoof presses the side of it to activate the speakers, which turn on with a crackle and pop.

“Everything seems fine, sir,” says Thunderlane, his voice sounding a little fuzzy over the speakers.

The technician nods and scribbles something on his notes. “Good. Now I'm going to remove your ammo, and I need you to tell me if the warning light is working, clear?”

Again, Thunderlane nods. “Yes, sir.”

The technician's horn glows, and Thunderlane's ammo clip pops loose. Not even a second passes before a buzzer stabs at his ear drums with a red light bathing his interior. The light actually blinds Thunderlane for a moment and the buzzer makes him flinch, but due to his armor, no one can see his embarrassing reaction.

“The light's on and the buzzer is loud,” says Thunderlane, quickly adding: “Sir.”

The technician scribbles something down on his pad and then he slides the clip on a slot connected to a mechanical arm that is built on a network of gears.

“Hit the reload lever,” orders the technician.

Thunderlane's hoof pushes down on the lever, and once it is all the way down it pops back up and the gears click as the arm lifts up. Right as the clip inside the arm's grip slides in place, the red light in Thunderlane's helmet is replaced with a bright green light that fades seconds later and a pleasant ding rings in his ears. The mechanical arm, now free of the clip, travels back down and clamps on a spare clip which the technician notes with a bored look.

“Did the replenishment signal work?” asks the technician.

“Yes, sir,” replies Thunderlane.

“Good. I'm done here.”

And that is that. The technician slides his pad into his saddlebag and strolls away with the others, leaving Thunderlane to stare at him blankly behind his helmet. Seconds later, Thunderlane decides to remove the helmet since the test is over and he likes to breath real air, not the stuff inside a padded tin can that pretends to be air.

As Thunderlane clips his helmet back on its hook, he glances at Rainbow Dash out of the corner of his eye and mentally recalls Silver Lining's kinky claim. Rainbow Dash is talking to her one of technicians and flexing her hoof and nodding about something, but when she feels Thunderlane's eyes on her, she looks back at him, frowning. Thunderlane quickly looks away and pretends to be doing something else.

“Baby train,” coughs Silver Lining right into Thunderlane's ear.

Thunderlane jumps and glowers at Silver Lining while the bane of his morning walk towards Spitfire and Fire Streak, snickering along the way. Thunderlane shakes his head and goes to sit down on a metal crate and runs his hoof through his mane while letting out an exasperated sigh. Brushing his mane proves to be a poor choice for him since the metal scrapes against his scalp with very uncomfortable results, but at this moment, he doesn't care. The only thing he can really think about is how he completely blew it with Rainbow Dash, and as he thinks how the morning went, a thought crosses his mind that makes his brows scrunch.

“Wait a second? I said we rested, not cuddled,” says Thunderlane in a recap of the strange conversation he had with Silver Lining before Rainbow Dash showed up and punched him in the face. With that little thought, Thunderlane groans and slams his hood against the side of his head, giving him a headache and ringing ears that he knows he fully deserves. “Stupid! You are stupid!”

Thunderlane lowers his hoof and head with an exasperated sigh, and then he shuts his eyes and presses his armored hooves against forehead. He can hear the cheerful chatter of his team, but it does nothing to ease the pain he is in as he realizes that he put another tally on his fail chart. The only consolation is that his current fail is not as severe or life threatening as the previous one, or that it has nothing to do with his place in his family. However, now that he thinks about it, fornication amongst teammates is strictly prohibited in the military, and even though he and Dash did not do the deed, Silver Lining's sick mind has already convinced him otherwise.

And the last time he saw that stallion-

“Hurricane!” barks Spitfire, making the dark furred stallion jump and look at Spitfire with wide eyes and drooped ears. “Over here, now!”

“Yes, ma'am!” yells Thunderlane with a shaky voice.

Thunderlane's throat feels as though it is blocked by a stone as he walks briskly towards the Major. Silver Lining is walking away from the team leads with that wolfish smile that Thunderlane has quickly grown to hate, but he is too nervous to give his superior a glare of his own. His body trembles under his armor and his drooped ears flick as the whispers of his team snake their way in. Along the way, he and Rainbow Dash trade looks, but when she looks away to stare at Silver Lining with homicidal hate, Thunderlane looks down and picks up his pace. The short trip of hundred feet seems like a mile to him, and his brain can only think of one thing: Silver Lining told a big fat lie to Spitfire and Fire Streak, and now you're dead. Enjoy the Afterlife.

Thunderlane gulps when he is in front of Spitfire and Fire Streak, and he stands stiff as his hoof snaps to his forehead in salute. “Airstallion Hurricane reports as ordered, ma'am!”

Fire Streak arches a brow while he and Spitfire return the salute, careful to keep the custom talons on her hoof from slicing her face.

“At ease,” says Spitfire.

The hooves drop and Fire Streak asks: “Are you okay, Thunderlane? You're looking a little sick.”

“I'm fine, sir,” says Thunderlane, his voice shaking and heavy heart giving the illusion that it is pumping out an endless supply of sweat.

Fire Streak frowns skeptically. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” says Spitfire quickly. “ I want you to meet me and Streak at Pad B when we meet with Bolt and Dust to recap the objectives.”

“Me, ma'am?”

“Yes. That is what I said.”

“But, with all do respect-”

“Do not use that on me.”

Thunderlane shrinks slightly. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Me and Streak are leaving right now, and Lining will take the team to the main tower to guard Soarin while I'm away. But you are going to get me a cup of coffee. Dark, fine grind, with three scoops of sugar and three caps of almond creme.”

Thunderlane blinks blankly at the Major. “Sorry? I-I mean, sorry, ma'am?”

Spitfire glances to the ceiling, lips pursed in a mockery of hard thinking, completely ignoring Thunderlane's confusion. “And bring me a toasted plain bagel with lots of almond cream cheese while you're at it. Do you want anything, Streak?”

“A cherry soda and some cheese crackers sounds nice,” says Fire Streak with a smile.

“Get a cherry soda and cheese crackers for Lieutenant Streak. Fly to it, Hurricane!”

Thunderlane's hoof snaps up to a salute and he gallops out of the room, leaving the snickering and ever watchful eyes of his team behind.

Spitfire, Fire Streak and the rest of the team watches Thunderlane hurry towards the door, with each of his steps creating a metallic bang. When he exits the room, Fire Streak looks at his superior while everyone resumes their business, still giggling amongst themselves. All except for Rainbow Dash, anyway. She just rolls her eyes and approaches Fleetfoot.

“So, do you think Silver Lining's claim is true?” asks Fire Streak as he watches Rainbow Dash converse with Fleetfoot.

Spitfire snorts. “No. That colt's going to die a virgin. I just know it.”

Fire Streak looks at her with an amused smile tugging at his lips. “And what about the secretary stuff you're having Hurricane do?”

Now it is Spitfire's turn to smile. “He's not much of a soldier, so he has to be good for something.” Spitfire then pushes a special lever on her suit and her sunglasses roll over her head and plop down snugly on her muzzle, covering her fierce eyes. Once the shaded lenses are in place, she starts towards the door. “C'mon, let's get out of here. We got work to do.”

With a shake of his head, Fire Streak chuckles and follows his superior out.

Thunderlane feels awkward when he walks inside the brightly lit lounge wearing his advanced suit of armor with his helmet still clipped to the magnet-hook. He feels only slightly better when he does not see anyone, but flicker of relief is put out by dread that the universe has blown at him. Sitting not too far from him, listening to the dial radio and reading The Mentally Inferior's Guide to Playing Guitars, is First Lieutenant Flash Sentry.

The Lieutenant is wearing his crisp blue uniform with the gold trim and has his silver bar insignias polished. Thunderlane hopes he will keep himself hidden if he walks carefully and quietly across the floor to the coffee machine. Every step taken sends an unpleasant spike through his heart, though, since his steps sound like a giant set of metal bars thumping against the tiled floor.

A few awkward seconds later, Flash Sentry looks up with a brow raised and Thunderlane's cheeks and ears burn with embarrassment as he smiles apologetically.

“Sorry, sir. I'm just-” Thunderlane moves a couple of chairs blocking his way “-I'm just getting some coffee and soda.”

Flash Sentry nods slowly, speaking just as slow. “Okay then.”

Flash Sentry resumes his reading, Thunderlane continues disturbing the peace with his metal thumps and scraping chairs, and the radio continues talking. When Thunderlane reaches the pantry, he has to put his front hooves on the counter and strain his neck to open it with his mouth since he can't get a good grip with the massive plates on his hooves. This makes the counter groan and splinter, and he recoils with a tightly sealed container of coffee in his mouth and two hoof indents on the counter. He nervously glances over his shoulder and sees Flash Sentry is still reading, and he looks back at the indents, sighs in disappointment and brings the coffee to the machine.

The coffeemaker hisses at him and a puff of steam shoots out from an exhaust pipe aimed away from the wall and pantries. Thunderlane ignores this unpleasant greeting and gets to work making coffee for his superior. Though, while doing this pivotal task, the boring stallion on the radio catches his attention, and since all he is doing now is mostly waiting, he turns his attention to the radio.

“...The escape of League of Justice's Gray Muffin from Black Sun Prison Island has left authorities baffled. Director Fuller of the Civilian Defense Agency has issued a nationwide warning for civilians to avoid contact with the escaped terrorist and to alert the nearest CDA, EIB or Royal Guard hub of his whereabouts. He has been described as an earth pony in his late fifties, has a gray-brown coat with a muffin cutie mark and walks with a limp.”

Thunderlane watches the radio, thinking about how the League of Justice eviscerated his convoy a year back and Soarin's rampage afterwords that left the region bare. The only thing he knows about Gray Muffin is that he was one of Roar Shock's top guys, tried to turn the Celestial Spire into a giant biological weapon, and almost killed Mare-Do-Well with a robot suit of his own.

With those thoughts in mind, Thunderlane lowers his eyes and goes to the fridge to complete his order, hoping that they will catch Gray Muffin soon. Though, such thoughts vanish when he opens the fridge and sees it tightly packed with delicious drinks and cold snacks that would make a foal think that a junk food feast is in order. However, despite the large assortment of colorful containers, finding the right flavor of soda is not difficult and neither is finding the cream cheese and coffee creme. As Thunderlane goes to grab the bagels and snacks, he hears Flash Sentry push his chair out with a grind followed by his hoofsteps approaching him.

Thunderlane keeps himself busy by slicing the bagels on a counter-mounted blade and clumsily slides them in a convectional oven before starting his search for a food container. When Flash Sentry is next to him, he glances at the Lieutenant out of the corner of his eye while trying to force his nervous sweat to stay inside his pores. It doesn't work as well as he would like.

“You're General Hurricane's kid, aren't you?” asks Flash Sentry.

Thundrlane's jaw tightens and his hoof shakes under his armor as he continues the search for a container, this time checking the pantries.

“Yes, sir,” says Thunderlane timidly.

Flash Sentry nods and speaks after pulling out a styrofoam container from a bottom level pantry and setting it next to Thunderlane. “I heard about what happened to you and your brother. You have my condolences and I wish him a great recovery.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Thunderlane grabs the now completed coffee and pours it in a travel cup, then he mixes in the appropriate amount of crème, the whole time with Flash Sentry's eyes on him. The constant staring sends an uneasy shiver up his spine and his movements become sloppy when he starts looking for the cheese crackers. After knocking over a snack box with a beaver holding a marshmallow on a stick over a flame, Flash Sentry snorts a laugh, making Thunderlane cringe in embarrassment for the second time in the span of a few minutes.

“I'll get out of your mane,” he says, and as he walks to the door, he adds: “Give Major Temper my regards.”

“Yes, sir,” says Thunderlane with a small nod.

Thunderlane waits until he hears the door open and shut, then he looks over his shoulder and sees that he is alone in the room with only a radio for company.

“And now a word from our sponsors,” says a bored stallion over the radio.

It switches to another stallion with an overly enthusiastic voice over the sounds of shuffling cards, sporadic dinging and what sounds like an avalanche of coins dropping. “Does your life suck? Do you want more money? Or do you want just want an afternoon of fun? Well, now's your chance to put all your woes behind you by dropping by the Card Casino for food, games, and magic shows!”

Thunderlane groans and bangs his head on the counter.

A few minutes later, Thunderlane lands a few paces away from Spitfire, Fire Streak and three other ponies -two mares and one stallion- wearing Chrysaor Suits.

The stallion is in the lead and looks like an olive turned pony with his olive drab coat and a dark mane. A set of three lightning bolts made to look like a wing is painted on his blue cuirass, and underneath his symbol is his surname: Bolt.

One of the mares behind him has a red coat, a tied back golden mane and a rolling cloud for her symbol. Her surname is marked as Cover.

The second mare has a yellow coat, a sleek, jet black mane and three lines connected by an arrow tip as her symbol. Beneath that, Zone is printed.

Bolt is having a respectful conversation with Spitfire and Fire Streak, nodding and voicing his approval and understanding of the Major's direction whereas the two mares remain silent.

They glance at Thunderlane as he approaches with the container of goodies in his mouth. Thunderlane already feels ridiculous enough carrying such a thing in his mouth while wearing the most advanced suit of armor in the world, and he doesn't feel any better when Cover smirks at him. Then Zone raises a brow and snorts while giving her wings a brief flap, clearly unimpressed with his entrance. That sends a swift buck to the gonads of Thunderlane's dignity, and he lowers his eyes while his cheeks and drooped ears heat up with another wave of embarrassment.

Thunderlane approaches his superiors, noting how the olive pony has slowed his talking to a halt just so he can stare at him, making the situation more awkward for him.

Thunderlane tries to ignore the olive pony as he places the container next to Spitfire's hoof and brings his up for a salute, prompting his superior to look at him.

“Ma'am, Airstallion Hurricane reporting back with meal,” says Thunderlane.

Spitfire returns the salute. “At ease.”

Thunderlane lowers his hoof, and Fire Streak goes by the container and watches Spitfire carefully take the coffee container out. Once her head is out of the way, he grabs the soda bottle, bites the cap off and carelessly spits it out like a sunflower seed.

“Thanks, Hurricane,” says Fire Streak with a friendly smile before taking a big gulp of the red, carbonated elixir of happiness.

“You're welcome, sir,” says Thunderlane quickly. “And, Major, ma'am, Lieutenant Sentry gives his regards.”

Spitfire rolls her eyes and sips her coffee, then glances at Thunderlane. At first he thinks she's going to rip him a new hole for screwing up her coffee, but...

“Glad you could do something right,” says the Major.

That remark still hurts a little, but there is that tiny light in the darkness of disappointment to warm up Thunderlane. He is good at making coffee. He now has a use.

“Hurricane!” shouts Bolt excitedly with a stomp of his hoof, making Thunderlane jump in his spot and stare at him with his golden eyes enlarged from surprise. “Goddess-damn, I haven't seen you in years! How you doing, old buddy, old pal?”

“Uh... Fine?” replies Thunderlane uncertainly.

“Fine? You don't look fine! You look like a depressed secretary!”

“Do I know you?”

“Don't tell me you forgot about me.”

Thunderlane blinks in confusion, mind completely blank as to who this stallion is, and, in return, the one known as Bolt releases a fake exasperated sigh.

“Hurricane, it's me. Oliver Bolt. Cloud Five-Oh-Five. I was in Element One in the cot across from yours,” he says.

Thunderlane remains silent as he searches his brain for a memory relating Oliver Bolt's clues. He's a bit fuzzy, but he does remember a complete douche bag sleeping across from him during his training.

“I was the one that told Burnside that you were the one sneaking snacks and trying to flush the wrappers down the toilet when it was actually me,” adds Oliver with a proud smile.

“THAT WAS YOU!?!?” screams Thunderlane furiously, ending with a ferocious growl with his wings fully expanded, nostrils flared and teeth ground tight against each other.

Thunderlane's rage-crazed, sonic boom of a yell sends distant birds flapping and cawing in a mad flight to escape whatever Hell is about to be unleashed, but the ponies remain where they are. Though, Fire Streak blinks with big eyes and ears folded against his skull while Spitfire merely sips her coffee, completely calm about Thunderlane nearly deafening everyone with his scream.

“Sure, now you remember me,” remarks Oliver Bolt with a roll of his eyes.

“Do you realize how much pain I was in after Burnside was finished with me!?”

“Yeah,” says the olive colored stallion with feigned guilt as he rubs his armored hoof against the concrete. “I wanted to say that it was that skinny guy with the dead tooth, but your name came out first. Sorry.”

Thunderlane's eye twitches, vocabulary at a complete loss and air devoid from his lungs as the revelation of the meaning behind an unexpected corporal punishment oozes in like hot tar. His face burns and his muscles ache to shoot his armored hoof right into Oliver's kisser to destroy that picture perfect smile for what he has done.

“But, what's done is done and all we can do is forgive and forget,” says Oliver with a smirk. Then he tilts his nose up with his hoof to his chest like an elitist snob. “In fact, I've repented my douche-y ways for I have matured in the ways of military bearing and now I got my own team. That's what initiative, intelligence and a backbone can get you.”

“Something a certain pony next to me lacks completely,” comments Spitfire harshly before sipping her cup of coffee.

Thunderlane's frown deepens and his ears droop as he stares at the concrete with Spitfire's words chiseling themselves into his memory. Then he feels a hoof go around his neck, and next thing he knows, he is tugged next to Oliver, who is grinning from ear to ear. Thunderlane meets his grin with half-lidded, narrowed eyes with another dose of hatred for the pony responsible for one of the worst mornings of his life.

“I think your problem is that you're too much of a rug, Hurricane,” says Oliver. Then he turns his attention to the other Wonderbolts. “We always joked that this guy was born from a rug when he bunked with our Cloud. But, as much crap as I give him, I will admit he did come in handy during the Discord Course when it came to weather covers.” Oliver looks at Thunderlane questionably. “What was your nickname, again? Cloudy? Stormy? Steve?”

“You called me Stormy, everypony else called me Storm Cloud, and both of those were stupid nicknames,” says Thunderlane, his tone burning with hostility towards the olive pony as he pulls himself away from the unwanted hug.

“Well, of course we'd call you that because making storms was the only thing you were good at!”

Oliver laughs again and pats Thunderlane hard on the back, making the charcoal colored pegasus stumble a bit in his spot. Thunderlane gives Oliver another harsh stare after he regains his footing, but the olive looking stallion ignores that and turns his attention to Fire Streak and Spitfire.

“You guys remember the Discord Course, right?” says Oliver.

“How could I forget?” chuckles Fire Streak. “That was one helluva retraining. Although, I did like the Capture the Flag matches. Those were always fun.”

Oliver links his around Thunderlane's neck again. “Yeah, and I will always thank Hurricane for making us the undefeated champions with his awesome clouds.”

Thunderlane tries to leave Oliver's side, again, but his is tugged back in place, making him raise a front hoof and grunt in the process.

“Hey, Thunderlane, why don't you tell Major Temper about that one time you created a rain storm so heavy it knocked out the electricity?” asks Oliver with a devious smirk..

“That was an accident,” grumbles Thunderlane.

“A hilarious accident.”

Before Thunderlane gets an opportunity to explain how painful his consequences were for that fiasco, Lightning Dust flies in with two stallion Wonderbolts. Like Oliver and his wingmates, the new arrivals have their helmets clipped to their cuirasses so that everyone can see their faces, and Thunderlane can tell that the lead mare has not changed one bit. She still has a fire in her eyes that demands nothing less than the best, and she has yet to lose the same smug smile and cocky demeanor that she carried with her all throughout training. Only now it seems to be worse since she is actually leading a team.

The first stallion has a gray coat with a white mane with Cumulus printed underneath his symbol. The symbol consists two half circles with the top one being considerably smaller than the one below it and its flat bottom resting on the lower one's crest.

The second has a blue coat and a sea green mane with a water droplet on his curiass. Printed below the symbol is Point.

The two stallions escorting Lightning Dust break away from her and stand at attention next to Oliver's mares while she trots forward with her cocky smile and chest puffed out as far as her suit will allow.

Oliver's hoof slides off of Thunderlane, and the charcoal pegasus averts his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Lightning Dust's condescending demeanor. Though, when Lightning Dust sees Thunderlane, her smile warps from smug to disgust and rather than returning the look, he keeps his eyes to the pavement.

Lightning Dust flaps her wings once. “Hurricane.”

“Dust,” grumbles Thunderlane, eyes still on the concrete.

“Nice to see you reporting in, Lieutenant,” says Spitfire sharply.

Lightning Dust snaps to Spitfire with a crisp salute. “Ma'am, Second Lieutenant Dust reports, as ordered!”

Spitfire halfheartedly returns the salute. “What's the news, Dust?”

“My ponies are ready to take to the skies, ma'am.”

“Good. Remain as inner perimeter security, as discussed.”

“But, with all do respect, my team holds better markings than Lieutenant Bolt and his pegasi. We should take the outer perimeter on this.”

Spitfire's face scrunches and her steps shake the concrete as she moves closer to Lightning Dust until the light turquoise mare can see her reflection in the Captain's sunglasses. Lightning Dust remains passively defiant, though, and meets Spitfire's scowl with a steady gaze.

“Lieutenant Dust, did you forget how miserably your team failed at recon? Or am I going to have to remind you by comparing you and Bolt's scores?” says Spitfire with a raised voice.

Oliver smiles smugly at Lightning Dust, and she returns it with a deep frown and a glare from the corner of her eye, but still silent in regards to her superior. Though, the olive colored stallion's smile disappears when Spitfire turns her wrath on him.

“Wipe that smile off your face or I'll make it come off!” snaps Spitfire.

Oliver stiffens. “Yes, ma'am!”

“Now, I don't need to remind you two of the gravity of the situation. I'm expecting no slacking for anypony and we'll stick to the plan. Bolt, patrol the outside and respond to any outer threats picked up by the outposts. Dust, remain on the HQ grounds and be ready to fly for assistance where needed. My team will be inside with the Generals and Lieutenant Flash Sentry. I'll be waiting for a status report every five minutes, got it?”

Oliver and Lightning Dust's hooves snap up in salute. “Yes, ma'am!”

“Good. Dismissed.”

The two pegasi drop their hooves and fly off with their escorts without another word, and Spitfire turns around to look at the two stallions under her command. “Let's get to work.”

Thunderlane and Fire Streak are quick to salute and say in unison: “Yes, ma'am!”

Ten minutes later, Thunderlane is with the rest of the team at the Headquarters main tower, just outside of the Generals' conference chamber where Soarin had been waiting for Spitfire. The lobby is painted white with gold trim on the walls and Celestia's sun on the elevators and doors. There is also a line of freshly cleaned windows that allows the occupants to see the Canterlot skyline and for sun to shine its light into the lobby. Though, shortly after Thunderlane and his two superiors arrived, Spitfire dismissed Silver Lining and Misty and told them to go to their perch.

Now that Silver Lining is out of the way, Thunderlane feels a little better, but Rainbow Dash is still giving him sour looks. Thunderlane swallows nervously and looks to Spitfire and sees her talking with Soarin, then he looks back at Rainbow Dash and sees her giving a really evil look to the pale blue stallion. It almost looks like she wants to punch him right in the nose, much like what he wanted to do to Oliver, but he still takes a deep breath and approaches the Element of Loyalty.

“Hey, Rainbow, about this morning,” begins Thundelane nervously.

Rainbow Dash's hoof snaps up, barely missing his muzzle. “Don't wanna hear it.”

“I just want to-”

Thunderlane is cut off when Rainbow Dash hooks her hoof around his neck and tugs his head down so their snouts are squished against each other. Her eyes narrow into slits and she releases a barbaric growl with her teeth exposed and face darkened with rage, making Thunderlane's eyes shrink to dots and his ears droop.

“Silver Lining told everypony that we fucked on your couch last night!” she says in a very harsh, hissing whisper.

“But-but we didn't,” stammers Thunderlane as beads of sweat roll down his face and neck as hot blood rushes to his face and ears.

Rainbow Dash shoves Thunderlane away. “Well, you gave him that idea when you said we cuddled.”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I told Silver Lining that we rested, then I accidentally said 'cuddled' instead of 'rested' when I tried explaining what was going on after you got out of the shower.”

Rainbow Dash stares at Thunderlane, still squinting and face wrinkled from her toothless scowl, and when he offers a nervous smile, she cranes her head back, groans angrily, and stomps away. Thunderlane's smile flips upside down instantly, and he watches the Element hurry away from him, now more confused and worried than before since he has no idea what he did wrong this time. He watches the vibrant mare storm her way past her teammates and looks away when she takes a seat by the window and stares at him with a scornful expression. Seconds later, Fleetfoot approaches Rainbow Dash and Fire Streak walks towards Thunderlane while Spitfire remains talking to Soarin.

Thunderlane glances at Fire Streak out of the corner of his eye before lowering his gaze to the floor, speaking coyly. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon, Hurricane,” replies Fire Streak lightly. He looks at Fleetfoot and Rainbow Dash, snorting a laugh. “Mares are a real hoof full, aren't they?”

Thunderlane nods, eyes still on the bland carpet. “Yes, sir.”

Fire Streak hesitates. “Look, Hurricane, Silver Lining told me and Spitfire what he thinks happened, but we know its not true, so you don't have to worry about any type of punishment from us.”

Thunderlane looks up at Fire Streak with a glint of hope in his eyes and ears raised as a smile of relief spreads across his muzzle. “Really, sir?”

Fire Streak nods. “Yeah. I would trust a blind pony's description of orange over any story Silver Lining has and Spitfire thinks you're too much of a coward to do the deed. So, you have nothing to worry about from us.”

Thunderlane's smile drops to a frown in sync with his falling ears with Spitfire's low blow remark, and he glances at the Major and Soarin when he hears Soarin chuckle anxiously.

“I don't know, Spits, I'm shaking,” he says, his voice quivering like the trembling hoof he is holding out for Spitfire to see.

Thunderlane expects his superior to give him a harsh look for this, much like what Rainbow Dash is doing, but when Spitfire smiles he is taken back. He rarely sees her smile, much less smile in the way that melts cold hooves with its warmth. Then the Major snuggles up next to Soarin's shoulder, which really confuses Thunderlane and the rest of the team, but it seems to relax the older stallion. But relaxing or not, this act briefly gets Thunderlane's mind churning out ideas that maybe someone had slipped something special in the coffee or almond creme.

“You'll do fine,” assures Spitfire. “Celestia doesn't just pick random ponies to lead her armies. She picks the best of the flock, and she picked you. That should tell you something.”

Soarin swallows. “I know, but this isn't a show, Spitfire. This meeting will determine a turning point in Equestria, and I don't want to botch it.”

Spitfire smirks. “Well, how about this. Do your job well and I'll-”

She leans in close and whispers something in his hear that no one can make out. Thunderlane leans forward with Fire Streak, straining himself to hear the indiscernible whispers, but when the Captain of the Royal Guard's cheeks ignite and his wings unfurl, the two stallions step back. While Thunderlane steps away, he can't help but see that Fleetfoot is giggling at Rainbow Dash pretending to puke as she turns her head away from the two older pegasi.

After Spitfire is done giving her mysterious promise, she pulls away with half lidded eyes and curled lips that brings out the most erotic of fantasies for any stallion looking at her. Soarin is no different, and since she promised something that will no doubt be pleasurable, his light blue coat is now darkened with his wings fully erect as the blood rushes to them.

“Deal?” purrs Spitfire with a wink and a playful nudge.

“Deal,” croaks Soarin. He quickly clears his throat and flashes an excited, but still nervous, smile as he bobs his head for a quick nod, and speaks again in a less dry voice. “Deal.”

“Go get 'em.”

Soarin nods again and uses great restraint to keep himself from prancing away like a school colt who just got his first kiss from his crush, and uses greater strength to force his wings down.

Thunderlane watches the pale blue pegasus strain himself in nigh painful measures in his walk to the chamber. He continues watching Soarin when he pushes open the doors to the chamber and glances at Spitfire after the doors seal him on the other side.

The rest of the team is also watching their superior, who has a smirk of her own, but she realizes she is the focus point of the group, she turns to them with a large frown.

“What are you looking at?” she says sharply.

The team mumbles a jumble of responses and they back away to go to their stations, and when they are facing away from her, she smirks and takes a position by the chamber doors.

Hours later, night has fallen over Canterlot, turning it into a ghost town. Only lampposts and very few lights from apartment buildings are turned on. Not a single civilian dares to defy the national curfew as armored wagons make their patrols, spewing gray exhaust into the air while the gunners manning the Gatling guns scan the urban jungle for threats.

In the sky, flying ten blocks away from the two story concrete wall surrounding the mini-city of the Royal Guard Headquarters, is Oliver, Cover and Zone. They are gliding through the air, completely at peace with their surroundings and keeping up with their five minute updates. In fact, Oliver just finished giving an update not even a minute ago, giving him a little over four minutes to have a nice chat with his ladies before he needs to give another status report.

“So, Light Cover and Speed Zone, I was wondering if you ladies would like to go to Klumsy K's with me tomorrow night?” says Oliver over his radio, looking over his shoulder to grin and waggle his brows at the mares, even though he knows they can't see his face.

Light Cover presses her hoof against her helmet. “And what about the rest of the team?” she asks playfully.

“Yeah, what about me, Bolt?” asks a stallion over the radio. “Aren't I pretty enough for you?”

“Fly Leaf, if I were gay, you'd be the first stallion I would bang. I promise,” says Oliver cheerfully.

“Thanks for the creepy compliment, sir.”

Oliver smirks. “No problem.”

Then his smile fades and he squints his eyes as he spots a faint, glowing object coming towards them from between the highrises of Canterlot.

“Lieutenant Bolt to Outpost Seven, we sighted an unknown aircraft making a quick approach towards the HQ. Over,” says a stallion over the radio.

“Outpost, I see our unwelcomed guest. Call it in to Lieutenant Sentry. Over.” Oliver switches the channel so he talking to his team. “Fly Leaf, get your posse's tails over here to Section Seven-H, right now! We got company!”

“Roger that!” says Fly Leaf heavily over the radio.

Oliver waves up the two mares behind him. “Let's go, Zone and Cover!”

They don't say a word, but follow their zooming commander as he flies straight to the strange aircraft. Oliver scrunches his brows and aims his weapon at the strange craft, noting the colorful, polluted steam spewing from its exhaust pipes and blurred blades of its propeller engine bolted to its roof.

“What the hell...?” mutters Oliver.

The craft slows and turns to its side, revealing its cylindrical design, military camouflage on its thick armor, and TGSR-505 and the Bernese Republican Guard symbol painted on its tail. The door slides open to reveal the ibexes crammed inside, all armored, armed and wearing masks with one sliding a Gatling gun in place.

Oliver's eyes widen, and when the massive gun points to him and starts whirring and spinning, he banks to the side shouting into his radio. “It's Bernese!”

And that is the last thing he says before his channel fuzzes out with gunfire.

Flash Sentry is sitting in a brightly lit room crammed with communications equipment and ponies wearing headsets, listening intently to the chatter. He is also wearing a headset and has heard of a call-in of a strange aerial vehicle approaching the Royal Guard Headquarters, and just to be safe, he ordered the nearest bunker and a convoy to be put on standby. He also called in an anti-aircraft unit, but because they have a “low supply”, he has been given a completely unacceptable ETA, and he made it adamant that they cut their time to a quarter with colorful words and a raised voice.

He had alerted Spitfire of the event -air defense fiasco included- and she took it how he expected. Furious and no filter in her words about his stupidity. Especially in regards to the anti-air unit. Her outburst on that actually has him shaking more than the possible air threat. Though, when one of the mares on communications calls, he breaks out of his thoughts and is given news that no security officer wants to hear.

“Sir, we just lost contact with Lieutenant Bolt!” says the mare, her voice frantic and eyes darting between the stallion and her equipment.

“What!” Flash Sentry briskly approaches the desk, heart thumping in his ears and panic weighing down his thoughts and all attempts to stay calm. “What happened!?”

“Outpost Seven identified an aerial vehicle heading towards HQ and Bolt's team went to intercept. Last words from Lieutenant Bolt was-” she swallows “-It's Bernese.”

“Sound the alarm! ” Flash Sentry whirls around and waves towards a group of a dozen Military Police ponies, all armed with rifles and battle saddles and protected by simple vests. “Lock this building down and get to the Generals! We are at Code Black!”

The soldiers shout their acknowledgments and they stampede out of the room, barking orders into their radios while Flash Sentry makes a run to the stairwell, knowing it will be quicker to fly than to wait for an elevator. He shoves the door open, gallops into the concrete passage and completely ignores the “No Flying” sign when he launches himself up with his hoof pressed against his headset.

“Major Temper to Lieutenant Sentry, we need to get those Generals out, right now!”

Soarin sits in a circular, dimly lit room, completely oblivious to the converging troubles. There are dozens of Generals sitting in a circle around a large table, where the only opening is for a projector to sit. Every seat has a small lamp next to it for easier reading, and the projector is displaying a detailed map of Bernese with known military bases marked by crossed swords. Currently, the Generals are discussing potential invasion plans, but Soarin's heart is not in the tense conversation. Rather, he is keeping his focus on the Equestrian Investigation Bureau's report on the Stadium Bombing that he requested before the meeting.

He is studying all the testimonies and is referring to another folder with information regarding the assassination of the Berenesenese Generals. Soarin has no doubt that there is a connection between the assassinations and the bombing, but he is finding the chain of events between the two to be suspicious. Especially since the bombing took place so quickly after their framing.

Soarin sighs and pushes the two folders aside to drag another one in front of him. This one has a sun inside a shield with two swords crossing behind it- the seal of the Royal Guard.

He flips it open and sees differing maps of Bernese. They range from road to topographical maps, and political maps to the one projected on the screen right now. He tries to stay focused on the Generals and their discussion, but his mind keeps dragging him back to the events leading up to this.

He doesn't like it. Any of it. He doesn't like that a team of highly trained, very loyal agents would wage a one squad war against a foreign government when their objective was to observe and report. He doesn't like that Bernese -a nation with a strong stance against terrorism- would shout their name before detonating a bomb in a crowded stadium. None of it makes sense to him, and he has a sickly feeling in his gut that someone is playing not just them, but Bernese as well.

Soarin furrows his brows and the paranoia in him makes his stomach churn as he struggles to think who would purposefully want to pit two nations into a war. He sees no logic or motive behind it, and that sends a cold feeling crawling up his spine with the thought of a shadow enemy purposefully trying to set the world on fire just for the fun of it.

“Captain Pansy, what are your thoughts?” says a gruff stallion.

Soarin gets a pang of annoyance from his unfavorable surname being used as he looks up at the speaking General. He is a turquoise pegasus with a black mane combed back and four stars on his his uniform.

“Sorry, what was that?” says Soarin, letting just a bit of his irritation show in his tone, hoping they would get the hint.

“I was saying -with the approval of you and Princess Celestia- we can launch a crippling strike against Bernese,” says the pegasus, General Burnt Dust, clearly not getting the verbal hint. “With my invasion plan, we can take Buchtseite and remove Maßstab within a month and put in an Equestrian friendly government within two.”

Soarin looks down at Burnt Dust's copy of the invasion plan, noting how he wants to employ nearly every zeppelin and armored vehicle in their arsenal for what he has called: OPERATION: ICHAIVAL.

Just from the plan alone, Soarin can see that Burnt Dust will use every means he can to raze Bernese for a crime that he has doubts they actually committed. The plan itself reminds Soarin of when Roar Shock -a.k.a. Love Joy- escaped at Glorieta and how his attempts to find the terrorists resulted in him creating an artificial desertification in the region around the town. Just thinking about how he destroyed an entire region to find Love Joy reminds him what the deranged pegasus told him from his cell about being similar, and that sends a shiver up his spine. And now Burnt Dust wants to wage total war against a new enemy, just like with him and Love Joy, and Love Joy with Equestria. Soarin finds himself really despising this total destruction cycle that seems to be a pegasus trait.

“With Maßstab removed and a friendly government installed, we will have created an ally and the threat of a homeland attack will be minimized,” predicts Burnt Dust confidently, bringing Soarin's mind back to the conference. “It is the perfect opportunity to rebuild our influence and create a satellite state that will add a layer of protection and give us more resources.”

Soarin looks up from the invasion plan and sees the Generals voicing their approvals with pleased murmurs. All but one that is. Soarin sees the newest member of the cabinet, a one star earth pony General with a dirty blonde coat and a red mane and scruffy beard of the same color around his muzzle. He is looking at ICHAIVAL's design with growing dissent, and his golden eyes flick to Soarin for just a second before he puts his attention back to General Burnt Dust and his proposition for total war against Bernese.

“You make it sound like this war will be an easy victory,” says the dirty blonde General, his loud voice bouncing off the walls and gaining everyone's attention.

Soarin leans forward in his chair, hooves under chin, watching the earth pony, Brigadier General Signal Horn, eye the group of Generals with a mix of disappointment and disgust.

“It will be if ICHAIVAL is executed properly,” says Burnt Dust with furrowed brows.

“On paper it looks promising, but do you honestly think Maßstab will go easy?” says Signal Horn, his voice lowering and made more dramatic by the dim lighting. “Much less the ibexes of Bernese willingly accepting a forcefully installed government that is friendly to the very nation that destroyed them in the first place? Then think about their allies and the loyalists who will fight for Maßstab to be reinstated.”

“What exactly are you trying to say, General?” sneers Burnt Dust. “If ICHAIVAL is executed properly then Maßstab's forces will not have the strength to counter us. Much less wage a guerrilla war against us and whoever we install. Our war will be quick and decisive, and that is final!”

Signal Horn's eyes narrow, hooves now pressed in front of his muzzle like a steeple. “That is where you are wrong. You are gravely underestimating the scope of what is to come. We are not talking about a war with just Bernese, but with their people and the armies of every ibex nation as well as the pony nation of Germaneigh. Even with the aide of Prance and the Crystal Kingdom, we are still outnumbered and outgunned, and you can expect this war to be brought to our shores within weeks of the first fired shot.”

“They lost their best Generals, Signal Horn,” counters Burnt Dust with a hard flap of his wings. “And yet you are still scared to have those goats pay for what they did to us?”

Soarin glances at Burnt Dust, noting the stonewalling demeanor that he thinks to be not only childish, but completely stupid. Especially in a time like this. However, the new Captain of the Royal Guard remains silent, and looks back at -what he just now realizes- is the only earth pony General in the chamber.

“You did not hear me, General Dust,” says Signal Horn, the patience in his tone quickly dwindling. “We are not just going against Bernese, but against Ibexia and Hornland, and the dozen other nations of Ibexian as well as Germaneigh. All of which are warrior nations with disciplined armies. And what do we have? Academics, jewelers and bakers.”

While the other Generals stare at the lowest ranking member of their group with disdain to mask their denial of the truth, Soarin looks at him with a full acceptance of his words. The seconds tick by and the Brigadier General scans the room, silently scorning the harsh looks, and Soarin patiently waits to see if anyone will try to rebuke his statement. But the silence remains, and the earth pony lets out a loud sigh and casually tilts his head down and pretends to pay great interest to his copy of Burnt Dust's invasion plan.

“But, in all things logical, an army of artisans should do just fine against a unified continent of warrior nations,” says Signal Horn without filtering the sarcasm in his tone.

Burn Dust glowers at Signal Horn, but before any heated words can be exchanged, Soarin lifts up his hoof to silently get the room's attention. It works miracles since all eyes return to him in the dimly lit chamber.

“He's right, General Burnt Dust,” says Soarin. “Regardless of Bernese losing their best Generals, we have to consider their soldiers, their history, and their allies. These are not just mindless beasts on our frontier or small groups dabbling in dark magic. We will be facing nations that have spent hundreds of years waging wars and engaging in border skirmishes. Their threat to us should not be underestimated.”

Soarin lets it sink in, watching as their expressions betray their thoughts on his caution. He doesn't like how most are not pleased with his statement, but he knows that Signal Horn has a point and he finds disgust poisoning his thoughts about their carelessness on the earth pony's warning. However, there is one thing that Signal Horn has overlooked and despite Soarin's uneasiness on the whole situation, he knows that war is coming so it must be put on the table.

“But that goes without saying that we have an advantage,” he adds, earning creeping smiles from many of the Generals and a skeptical look from Signal Horn. “We have natural flight and magic on our side. We also have brilliant scientists and a strong economy, and if we unify all these aspects skillfully, we can end this war by Hearth's Warming Eve with minimal resources. All we have to do is plan carefully and hit them where it hurts in quick, calculating strikes.”

“Get that anti-air up, right now! This is a Code Black! I repeat! Code Black!” barks Flash Sentry over the radio.

“Dust, knock that thing out of the sky!” orders Spitfire on another frequency.

“Way ahead of you, ma'am!” replies Lightning Dust.

As the frantic chatter continues, the main pilot keeps his eyes locked on the target with steady hooves and a tight jaw while barely glancing at the instruction sheet. The copilot, on the other hand, fumbles with the buttons and knobs, and he looks at the radio when Flash Sentry speaks. When the acknowledgments start coming in, he gulps and looks over his shoulder to Cutter.

“They know we are coming!” says the copilot in a fit of panic.

Cutter -now wearing the appropriate combat gear and fatigues- clambers on over to the pilot’s seat and glances out the window to the tower. They are close, but not close enough to do the damage needed.

“Activate the boosters,” orders Cutter. The pilots nod and start flipping switches, pushing buttons in a flurry of movement, and Cutter turns to the others on board. “Get the cannon ready!”

The group quickly acknowledges and gets to work. Gears crank, coils spark, and mechanical whines overpower the senses, and Cutter glances out the window, smiling with satisfaction when he sees a turbine-like booster roll out of the back and sputter to life. The glow is faint at first, but after a couple of spins, a red, electric orb appears and blows out an exhaust of magical energy. The helicopter lurches forward, the ibexes manning the turrets and cannon clutch onto their weapons tightly, eyes bulging from the unexpectedness of their burst in speed. Cutter also has to wrap his hoof around a bar to keep himself from falling, and with the screaming wind rushing in, he partially wonders if any one hear anything, but he still raises his hoof and keeps his eyes on the tower in preparation for his order.

“On my command, fire the cannon!”

In the Generals' meeting chamber, the door slams against the wall with a gunshot sounding BANG as Spitfire almost pushes the door off of its hinges. All of the Generals in the room jump up from their seats as her team, Flash Sentry and the Military Police swarm in.

“Spitfire, what’s going on!” demands Soarin.

“We need to evacuate now!” barks Spitfire.

The senior staff's confusion is heard in their murmurs as Thunderlane and the other soldiers try to usher the officer's out. During this, Spitfire hastily approaches Soarin while Fire Streak trails her.

“Security has been compromised. We’re taking you to a secured bunker,” says Spitfire to Soarin when she is next to him, then to her team and the Military Police officers: “Stop slacking and get everypony out of here right now!”

Soarin puts up no fuss when Spitfire nearly drags him across the room while the others work to get the Generals out. As this happens, Fire Streak keeps a watch on the window while ushering Burnt Dust from his seat, but he pauses and swears when distant gunfire rattles in the distance.

Thunderlane is still herding the officials out when he hears this, and he squints his eyes when he looks in the distance to see a strange, dimly lit aircraft with propellers and turbine engines zooming towards them. Coming from the turbines is a hazy, red trail and the aircraft is spewing a stream of tracers that attack the intercepting pegasi. Some of the pegasi fall their deaths and others make a hard landing in neighboring buildings, but not without doing some damage to the craft itself. He can see the burning smoke mixing with the exhaust as it makes it approach, but it does nothing to alleviate the tension or suffocating fear that Thunderlane and the whole room is facing.

“This is Lieutenant Dust... Target is damaged... But still on the move...” wheezes the fallen soldier over a fuzzy channel. She then has a particularly painful, bloody cough. “Hurry with the evac!”

“Go! Go! Go! Everypony out now!” orders Spitfire with a wide arcing wave of her hoof.

The crowd almost turns into a stampede, and as Thunderlane waves the crowd to the puny exit, he notices the considerably closer aircraft turning to its side to show off a cannon and a Gatling gun next to it. It is no doubt that even with the masks on the assailants are ibexes. And Thunderlane has a sick feeling in his gut that they are smiling.

“EVERYPONY DOWN!” yells Thunderlane.

Thunderlane tackles Signal Horn to the ground right as the aircraft fires. There is a thunderous boom, a split second whistle, and then an explosion that carries plaster, tile, and ponies back into the center with a dark cloud of smoke. The panicking screams and cries of pain are drowned by the relentless rat-a-tat-tats and buzzes of gunfire that are exchanged between the two sides, with one mercilessly cutting ponies into bloody ribbons and the other barely doing any damage. One such pony gunned down is Burnt Dust, who takes four rounds along his body, dead before hitting the floor, and another is Soarin, who is shot in the hoof and wing.

Soarin screams in pain and collapses on the ground, clutching his pouring wound towards his chest and pressing his injured wing to his side as Spitfire stands over him protectively.

“Take that damn thing down!” shouts Spitfire as she unleashes her weapon’s full potential against the attackers.

Spitfire flinches with one of her front hooves giving out when a line of bullets bounce off of her suit in a tiny explosion of light and metal fragments. She growls and stands at full height, unloading more of her Gatling gun's ammo into the craft as MP's carry Soarin out. Spitfire walks backwards, using herself as a shield to keep Soarin and the MPs safe from the onslaught.

“Lining, there better be a good reason why you aren't shooting!” screams Spitfire into her radio.

“Misty and I are relocating for a better shot, ma'am,” says Silver Lining in a disgustingly calm tone over the radio.

Flash Sentry rolls away from a spray of bullets and awkwardly shoots at the craft by using his hoof while he shouts into his radio. “Where's our anti-air!”

A bullet then blows open his shoulder and rips a chunk off of the hoof holding the pistol. The impact sends him into the wall and he slides to the floor, screaming through gritted teeth as plaster and brick bits rain down around him and the growing pool of blood. Three Military Police ponies rush out from the hall, returning fire with their levitated rifles, but one is killed by a round to the head and chest before he can get halfway to the fallen officer. One of the survivors manages to put Flash Sentry on his back, and he makes his escape back into the hallway while the other one returns fire against the enemy aircraft.

While all these happen with Spitfire and Flash Sentry, Thunderlane acts as an armored meat-shield for Signal Horn and deals weak blows against the attacking craft. The aircraft has yet to go directly against him, but Thunderlane’s heart still races as agonizing screams and whizzing bullets overload his senses with dropping bodies, sparks and streaking tracers haunting his line of sight.

Thunderlane shoots another round that does absolutely nothing against the aircraft’s metal shell when Rainbow Dash slides next to him.

“Come on! We gotta get airborne!” she yells over the chaos.

“Stay down!” orders Thunderlane to Signal Horn.

The Brigadier General nods and Thunderlane scrambles to his hooves and follows Rainbow Dash out. They duck and weave through the streams of bullets ripping apart everything in their path, using the hole in in the wall to enter the hallway. When the attackers threaten to chew them up with lead, they dive to the floor and let the barrage of bullets and minced brick pass overhead. Thunderlane casts a worried look at Flash Sentry as Fleetfoot injects his pale and shaking body with morphine while a medic wraps his wound with gauze that quickly goes red and leaks blood. When the bullet stream goes over the group, they duck down with Fleetfoot covering Flash Sentry, and Thunderlane and Rainbow Dash take the opportunity to run to the stairwell.

The two Wonderbolts gallop past the reinforcements, go to the stairwell, now dark with red lights swirling and the screeching alarm bouncing off the walls, and fly up the last level to reach the roof. Rainbow Dash uses her shoulder to push open the metal door and the two pegasi run across the rooftop and without so much as a thought they leap off and let their wings do the rest.

They soar into the night, getting the bare minimum appropriate distance before banking for a counter offense. During this, Thunderlane sees smoke billowing from the conference room as well as glass, brick, and other materials falling below. He also notices one of the attackers looking at them with another Gatling gun.

Before a word can be said, the ibex unloads a spate of hot lead their way. Thunderlane dives down, Rainbow Dash veers up, and the building behind them loses an entire section worth of decorative windows.

Thunderlane swoops under the craft, staying just underneath its belly and he aims at the smoking turbine engine. He drops the idea of controlled shots and shoots at the damaged engine as fast as his bolt action will allow until the empty clip pops out and tumbles down to the darkness below. Inside his helmet, the red light turns on and the buzzer tortures his ears.

“Crap!” Thunderlane uses one hoof to press activate his radio and the other to push his reload lever. “Keep them busy, Rainbow! I'm reloading!”

“Way ahead of you, Thunderlane,” answers Rainbow Dash as she does a barrel roll to evade the endless supply of bullets going after her.

She then turns around and fires a barrage of bullets that bounce off the shell of the aircraft and forces the ibexes inside to cower. The one manning the Gatling gun rises again and is about to unleash another wave of lead, but a thin gray line streaks across the dark sky and pops his head open. Thunderlane flies back, watching with wide eyes and a shortness of breath as the ibex with a half a head plummets to the cemented ground below.

“I got you covered, Thunder-Dash,” says Silver Lining over the radio. Another line of gray shoots across the night sky and strikes another ibex, who spins to the metal floor of the chopper, clutching his gushing wound as he cries out in agony.

The mechanics of Thunderlane's armor whirs in his ears as the gears turn to slide a fresh clip into his battle saddle. Once the clip is in, the red light in his helmet switches to green and a pleasant ding rings out. Seconds later, the light disappears, leaving the interior of his helmet dim once more.

“Ammo is back!” says Thunderlane over his radio.

The aircraft adjusts its position and Thunderlane follows its movements, keeping his eyes and barrel aimed at the damaged engine. He takes a deep breath, aims at a glowing hole with an exposed turbine fan spinning at blurring speeds, and starts shooting again. Thunderlane moves with the aircraft as it swerves in its spot, and he keeps shooting at the hole in the engine until it erupts in a brilliant show of red sparks and oily flames that lick against the vehicle’s shell. Thunderlane barely dodges some of the flying, burning metal and witnesses the injured ibex fall to his death, courtesy of the jerking.

The craft whines and spins chaotically as the remaining booster turns on a ball-and-joint system while exerting more energy to stabilize. Thunderlane can feel the heat past his armor and can see the booster’s strain clearly from how bright the metal is glowing. He moves out from underneath the aircraft when its overworked turbine engine nearly turns him into pony flambe, and right as he gets out from underneath, the aircraft stabilizes and begins to ascend for an escape with most of its crew either dead or injured. But Spitfire will not have the enemy escape on her watch!

The Major launches herself towards the cockpit and clings on it like a bug, using the tail blade and claws on her boots to keep herself locked on. Thunderlane swears he can hear the Major roar when she unloads her clip on the pilots inside, splashing her armor and what’s left of the window in crimson. Spitfire tears off pieces of the aircraft when she yanks herself off of its metal hide, and the corpses slump of the controls, putting the craft in free-fall, leaving a trail of burning smoke in its wake.

Thunderlane slides further away when he is almost nicked by the tail end and he cringes when the craft slams into the building that lost some good windows to their violence. A ball of fire rolls into the night like a solar flare, launching twisted metal, broken glass and burning bodies down below. Then comes the drop in noise, leaving just sirens and flames to take the night.

Thunderlane, Spitfire, and Rainbow Dash are hypnotized by the bulky wreckage hanging against the building, creaking and groaning with the crackling flames as it swings back and forth on its lousy nest. Some seconds later, it falls loose and rolls down the building, breaking more high quality windows and expensive masonry along the way, and it splatters down below, crushes a lavish fountain underneath it. All three Wonderbolts have a different reaction to this.

Thunderlane cringes, Spitfire snorts, and Rainbow Dash whistles.

“I don’t think they’ll be getting up from that,” says Rainbow Dash nonchalantly. Spitfire and Thunderlane look at her, letting their expressionless helmets tell her that her comment is not welcomed. Rainbow Dash looks at them a second later and chuckles while rubbing the back of her armored neck. “I mean: Good work, team.”

Spitfire just shakes her head and activates her radio. “Ground teams to Captain Temper. Enemy craft is down. I say again. Enemy craft is down. Be advised, number of hostiles is still unknown. Execute Rabbit Hole and Red Zone Protocols with extreme caution. Over and out.”

A series of acknowledgments go over the radio, and the rest of Spitfire's Wonderbolts fly up next to the three and all of them watch the small army of guards and EIB agents flood the crash site. Seconds later Spitfire looks at the gaping hole left in the tower by the attack, then down at an armored convoy pulling up at the entrance where Soarin and a few other high ranking officials are ushered in.

“We’re going to need some air cover, Spits,” says Soarin over the radio seconds later.

Spitfire sighs heavily and waves her team towards the convoy as she presses her hoof against her helmet.

“Roger that,” crackles her voice over the radio. “But we need to swarm the area to make sure we have no more hostiles and we need troops to double convoy security.”

“It’ll get done... I just need you right now,” says Soarin, his voice sounding more distant.

Soarin gives the order to triple the patrols while the other Wonderbolts in Spitfire's team go towards the convoy, but as the others fly, Thunderlane stays in his spot, staring at the site of the flaming wreckage below. He watches the MP coordinating a quarantine and a mini-train with an enormous water tank spray its payload. The way they work with their speed and efficiency is definitely a sight to behold, and Thunderlane doesn't abandon his observations until Spitfire taps his helmet.

“Get your tail moving, Hurricane,” orders Spitfire, though not in the usual crass way, more like a soldier who is weighed down with exhaustion after an adrenaline high.

Thunderlane nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

He flies with Spitfire, only sparing a couple of seconds to look over his shoulder to the crash site before picking up speed to catch up with the rest of his team.

In the shadows of the building the Star Raiser crashed into, Cutter uses his good shoulder to push open a bathroom door. He almost crumbles to the floor as he stumbles in with a pistol in his mouth and an oozing scratch across his other shoulder. He winces from the ripping pain in his injured shoulder as he slides his pistol back in its holster, and after doing that, he inspects himself to see the extent of the damage he has taken. He does not see anything life threatening, the only thing that has happened to him, besides the large scratch, is that his fatigues and armor have been burned as well as a majority of his body. The burns are not enough to hinder a hardened trooper like him, and, all things considered, he knows he could be in a lot worse condition and he is confident that he will be able to make his escape regardless of his injuries.

Cutter seethes when he pokes his tender wound, and he takes a quick look to see what he can find for a makeshift medical kit. He only looks for a few seconds before he breaks open paper towel and sanitizer dispensers on a wall and douses the brown towels in the clear liquid before stuffing as much as he can between his injury and the ruined fabric. He bites his lip, hissing from the burning sensation of the alcohol purging his wound of possible infections. Once that is done, he quietly opens the bathroom door and checks both ends of the hall to make sure he is alone. He shrinks back when a flock of pegasi fly by the windows, bathing the halls with their flashlights, but as soon as they are out of sight, he checks again.

This time he really is alone, and he takes a deep breath and limps as fast as he can down the corridor, hoping with bitter derision that Rotes is happy with what Storm Cloud has brought. The Gold Star is rising, but out of the terrors of war, and now his only wishes to return home safely and for the coming Hell to pass quickly.

The Chain

The screeching brakes of the train snap Nasty Hick awake. After sniffing and carefully rubbing the crust from his eyes, he stiffly looks out the window, seeing his transparent reflection over the bustling ponies outside. He is wearing a ratty jacket and snow cap he found in a dumpster, and has his eyes covered by a pair of low quality sunglasses, making him look like a homeless griffin. He is sharing a cart with a pair of stallions and a mare, all of whom are giving him strange looks, and he smiles anxiously in kind.

“How's it going?” asks the griffin.

The ponies blink.

Nasty Hick nods subtly. “Good to hear.”

The train comes to a jerking stop and releases a hiss of steam, covering the concrete platform in a thick fog, and the announcer's voice crackles over a speaker above the griffin's head.

“Attention, passengers, we have reached Canterlot Central Station,” he says, his bored voice being slightly distorted and overlapping the other speakers. "Please keep all belongs on your persons and exit in an orderly fashion. Cartwheel Transportation is not responsible for lost or stolen items and we wish you a pleasant stay at Canterlot.”

Nasty Hick sighs and stretches like a feline right as he stands up, being sure to keep his talons and claws from digging into the thin carpet too much. After stretching and leaving some torn carpet in his wake, he smiles politely at the ponies -who are still staring at him- and he leaves while wishing them a good day. Since he has nothing on him except for the clothes on his back and money from the currency exchange back in Stalliongrad -which he is sure he has been ripped off a hefty sum of bits- he makes it off the train quicker than most, who struggle with their suitcases or overstuffed saddles.

Once off the train, he is greeted with the brutality of cold air that sucks the oxygen out of his lungs and the dismal sight of graffiti covered walls and posters and garbage covering the abused concrete paths. He heads towards a booth blocking his way to the warmth of the train station, stopping only to observe a particularly eye catching piece of guerrilla art depicting a group of faceless ponies aiming their hooves to the sky with the moon pushing down the sun. Underneath in bolded letters with excess paint dripping down is: REVIVE FREEDOM! JOIN THE REVOLUTION!

“Sir?” asks a mare, snapping the griffin out of his trance.

He looks away from the picture and approaches a zebra behind the booth, smiling apologetically as he slides his ticket under the window. “Sorry about that. I just got a little distracted with the, uh, the artwork.”

The zebra hums, stamps the ticket, then slides it back to him. “Enjoy your stay.”

Nasty Hick nods, mouths his thanks and slips past the booth to the wonderful warmth of Canterlot Central Station. Decorative pillars are placed in even intervals to keep the arched ceiling up and shops of varying natures line the sides, promoting their overpriced goods with flashy signs. He weaves through the shuffling crowd and islands of illuminated signs advertising a new brand or pointing out the viewer's current location with a You Are Here arrow.

When he is near the exit, he passes a media outlet, stopping and moving closer to the window displaying a dial radio when he sees a crowd gathered by it.

“Despite an overwhelming support for military action, many protestors continue to take to the streets in response to the mandatory draft,” says a mare over a radio. “The royal government has made attempts to put an end to the discord, however, the opposition to the defense of our home remains sturdy. One of the most vocal about the draft is Mayor Golden Harvest of Ponyville. She has already removed its Royal Guard recruiting station and is demanding the removal of the EIB and CDA hubs.”

The audio cuts to a clip of a mare speaking. “...Servitude in the military, no matter the circumstances, shows that citizens of this nation belong to the state and not to their own free will. Where is the morality in breaking families and sending them to their deaths on a battlefield? None. It is slavery, and slavery was once an idea not tolerated in our nation, and it should remain intolerable to this day on any scale.”

The radio cuts back to the anchor. “Mayor Golden Harvest is currently being investigated by the CDA under the questionable circumstances revolving around her position and the late Mayor Ivory Scroll's assassination. She has also been accused of being a sympathizer for Bernese and has reportedly offered a safe haven in her town for potential ibex spies. So far she has refused to comment on these accusations and has ordered her public relations office to do the same.”

“Bucking traitor,” grumbles a stallion, using his magic to sip from his coffee cup.

The group around him murmurs in agreement, with some wishing for the CDA to arrest her already and others suggesting a recall vote. The one with the coffee finishes his sipping, then glances at Nasty Hick and studies him with quick flicks of his eyes, giving the griffin his cue to leave.

He shakes his head, wondering how it all went so wrong so fast for his home, but before his brain can start churning out pseudo-philosophical explanations for Equestria's fall, he is punched in the face by a cold burst of wind right as he opens the door. He swears under his breath, ruffles and rubs his talons together.

“Jeeze! Will it kill to have some warm weather around here?” complains Nasty Hick to no one in particular, getting a few looks that he barely notices, but still causes him some embarrassment.

He resumes walking down the dirty sidewalk, mumbling to himself along the way. Being as how he has lived in Canterlot for some time, he knows exactly where to go and he tries to fly there, but he is quickly ordered to the ground by a pair of pegasus guards who kindly inform him that flight within the city limits has been banned until further notice. Not wanting to argue with a pair of armored ponies with Gatling guns, he takes their word to heart and tortures his paws and talons with the cold concrete.

During his walk, he passes shops and townhouses with windows and doors boarded with either the CDA seal stamped on them or foreclosure signs and real estate contact information on stapled signs. One such place is Donut Joe's Donut Shop, which disheartens Nasty Hick a little bit because he actually enjoyed their donuts and malts whenever he got the chance to have one.

Nasty Hick walks closer to have a better look at it, if only for nostalgia's sake, but he really can't see anything except for boards, locks and a “FUTURE SIGHT OF HEARTY'S JR.” sign on top of the foreclosure sign. Seeing that sinks his mood even more and he mopes away from the soon to be fast food joint and inadvertently walks right into a crowd of protestors, not realizing it is so until he bumps into a very ticked off earth pony stallion.

“Watch it, bird brain!” snaps the stallion.

Nasty Hick jumps back, hand raised apologetically. “Sorry. Sorry. You don't have to bite my head off, jeeze.”

The stallion snorts and turns back to facing something that Nasty Hick cannot see for the most part. What he can see, though, is a burly unicorn stallion in a military uniform standing on top of a platform, operating a large, mesh orb like he is drawing for bingo. Next to him are four mini-trains colored in olive drab with the Sun of Equestria painted on their sides, each being filled with ponies by more guards in full tactical gear. Behind all that is the Royal Guard Headquarters, which has a working crane next to its largest tower.

“So, uh, what's going on?” asks Nasty Hick to the pony he bumped into.

“The military is kidnapping an entire section of the city for their war against Bernese,” explains the pony heatedly. “They just came in, set up a bunch of fences and herded everypony living in the Southsides.”

“Four blocks, I think,” interjects another pony.

“Four blocks or a street, it don't matter!”

“Hey, they're snagging another one!” shouts a random mare, her hoof and furious eyes aimed at the unicorn operating the device on the platform.

The unicorn's horn glows to amplify his voice when he reads from a sheet of paper. “Orange Acrylic!”

“No! No I can't be drafted! I just started college!” says an earth pony mare hysterically as a pair of female unicorns use their magic to drag her towards a mini-train loaded with more terrified mares, despite the protests from the crowd . They force her on there and order her to stay put when she tries getting off, now sobbing and choking for air. “Please, I don't want to fight! I want to be an artist!”

Nasty Hick swallows and moves away from the stallion when he screams at the soldiers being “dead ponies”. He wants to keep his eyes on the Royal Guard Headquarters, but he keeps looking back at the burly unicorn stallion rolling the cage ball out of a sense of morbid curiosity. When the spinning stops, the unicorn levitates one of the sheets from the bundle and gives it a quick read.

“Pipsqueak Spots!” barks the unicorn.

A small, skinny, pinto earth pony reluctantly steps forward. Even from the distance at his new spot, Nasty Hick can see the small pony shake. The small pony is about to pass through the line of soldiers when older, heavier mare that looks almost exactly like him gallops forward and turns him away, hugging him protectively.

“No, you are not taking my son!” shouts the mare defiantly.

A pair of unicorn mares step forward and use their telekinesis to pry the earth pony off and push her away while a stallion pegasus escorts Pipsqueak away.

“Give him back!” wails the mother.

“Why aren't any of the rich guys getting called out!” shouts one of the trapped earth pony stallion furiously.

“And where are the unicorns! Or the pegasi!” screams an earth pony mare.

There is a deafening roar of shouts in agreement and some in the crowd shake their hooves while others stomp the ground. The two mares that pried the mother from her son retreat behind a line of unicorn guards stepping forward, and the line charges their horns to cover themselves, the station and the mini-trains with shields.

“Rest assured, the royal government will compensate everypony accordingly!” says the stallion calling names with his voice being amplified over the protesting crowd.

Just then, a horn beeps sporadically and Nasty Hick barely steps out of the way in time to avoid becoming roadkill by a convoy of olive drab mini-trains speeding by with a light blue, crystal heart wrapped in a gold wreath painted on their sides. He looks at the huddled soldiers inside, noting how they look anxious -borderline terrified, in fact- with how tight they clutching their battle saddles. He also notices that the fur that is not covered by their vests, battle suits and helmets glow in the light like crystals.

Nasty Hick watches each of the passing transports chug on by, each leaving dirty tread tracks and thick, black exhaust trails in their wake. It seems as though the convoy will never ending, but when it finally does end after the twentieth vehicle, he tries following them in the most inconspicuous way possible. It seems to be working very well for him since everyone is distracted by the massive draft and its protest at the moment. As far as he can tell, no one actually notices him until he reaches temporary toll booth, its gate and the barbwire fence that surrounds the actual wall of the Headquarters three hundred feet away, which is where the massive convoy is heading. At first, he decides its best to make his move once the last mini-train passes, but then changes his mind and chooses to wait a few minutes after the convoy passes, just for the sake of his casual approach plan.

With the biting weather and the anxiety, Nasty Hick faces a very long five minutes, constantly shifting in his spot, blowing warm air into his hands, and looking over his shoulder to pass time. And to make sure no one is trying to sneak up on him and shoot him in the back, which he knows for a fact quite a few people want to do. Once his five minutes are up, he takes a breath for courage and strolls towards the booth, keeping his steps quick and his eyes wandering in case any danger pops out.

Inside the toll booth that Nasty Hick approaches is a unicorn soldier wearing the gold armor of the Royal Guard, but underneath the armor is a thick a jacket, a scarf, and ear muffs. Next to the guard is his clipboard, a radio rig and a shotgun. The whole time the griffin walks, the guard stares at him curiously, and when they are face to face, the griffin strains himself for a pleasant smile.

“Hey there, Mister Nice Person, can you let me in real quick? I have to talk to your boss,” says Nasty Hick politely, albeit with a lot of shakes in his body and voice.

“No,” replies the guard stone-faced.

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Non-selected civilians are not allowed beyond this point.”

“But what if its really important that I talk to Captain Armor?”

The guard arches a brow. “Who?”

Nasty Hick frowns. “Captain Sparkly Armor, or Gleaming Shield, or-or... Look, he's that Twilight Sparkle chick's brother and your boss!”

The guard has to think for a moment before shaking his head. “If you're referring to Captain Shining Armor Sparkle, he hasn't been in charge of the Royal Guard for a year. Soarin Pansy is the new Captain of the Royal Guard.”

“Then take me to Captain Pansy so I can talk to him!”

The guard sighs, turns on his radio and tells the operator on the other end about a “problem” at the gate and gives Nasty Hick's description. The griffin, well within earshot of this, pales and feels like fate has just ripped out his heart and is now strangling him with his own aorta.

The guard looks at him when he shakes his head and waves his hand, begging him to stop.

“No, no, I'm not- I don't want to be a problem, but I really, really, really need to talk to Captain Pansy right very now the dot of this very second!” says Nasty Hick, tapping his talon on the small counter to emphasis his point.

“Standby, home.” says the guard into his radio, then looks back at the griffin. “Do you have credentials?”

Nasty Hick blinks. “Credentials? No, I don't have credentials! I don't even know what those are!”

The guard goes back to his radio. “Send in reinforcements.” Now he goes back to Nasty Hick. “Without credentials I absolutely cannot allow you in under any circumstances. Please step away from the booth or else we will restrain you with the necessary force.”

“But you don't understand, I need to talk to Captain Pansy! It is important that I talk to him right now!”

“And I cannot allow you in and that is final.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!”

Nasty Hick quickly reels back, seething anxiously and looking around when he hears guards talking into their radios and briskly approaching him with their battle saddles aimed and horns charging. Nasty Hick spreads his wings to fly off, but when he prepares to take flight, he spots half a dozen pegasi guards on their perches, readying themselves for interception. He folds his wings down and slams his talons on the booth, pressing his beak against the window.

“Look, you gotta let me in! I have to warn you about an attack!” he screams desperately with crazy big eyes.

The guard points at Nasty Hick, snarling. “Step away from the booth, right now!”

“People are going to die if you don't let me in!”

“Ponies have already died,” says a stallion with a tone as chilling as the freezing weather.

Nasty Hick turn around and stares blankly at the brown mane, amber coated unicorn wearing a suit in front of him and the guards that surround him.

“Who the heck are you?” asks Nasty Hick.

“I am Director Fuller of the Civilian Defense Agency.” The unicorn steps to the side and motions towards the gate, now being opened by the order of one of the Director's guards. “And I am going to have to ask you to come with me for a discussion of your presence, here.”

Hours have passed since the incident at the gate, and the only thing Nasty Hick has been able to do, besides stare at his reflection on the one way window, is drink water and eat donuts. There is nothing in the bland, yellow room, save for a pair of cushions and a metal table. There is no clock to tell him the time, no radio for him to listen to, and no book to entertain himself with. If he isn't so strung up on paranoia of a killer aiming a gun at him on the other side he would be bored to the point of sleep.

Nasty Hick groans and rubs his face with his hands, closes his eyes and rests his elbows on the table, still keeping his face cupped. He has no idea what is taking them so long or why they are being so hostile. He did come to them, trying to warn them about Rotes' plan, but they are treating him like he is the one trying to shoot up the place. When the door clicks open, though, he snaps his head up and sees Fuller strolling in with a folder levitating next to him.

Nasty Hick's eyes dart between the unicorn and the folder, and cranes his neck to have a peek at the contents when Fuller sits down and flips it open. He instantly recognizes the photo to be of himself after Vigilante/Mare-Do-Well beat the lights out of him at Bon Bon's shop. That experience still gives him nightmares and just seeing his photo makes him shudder in remembrance of the mare's insane ability to take on an entire gang of griffins with nothing but her hooves.

“When I heard of a disturbance by a griffin at the gate, I honestly was not expecting one of Gilda's most trusted muscles to be there trying to warn us of an attack,” says Fuller.

Nasty Hick looks away from his picture and chuckles nervously while twiddles his talons. “Well, um, I never thought of myself to be high on Gilda's ladder. Thanks for the compliment, though. I guess...”

“So,” Fuller briefly glances at the profile, “Top Soil, how did you know that there would be an attack?”

Nasty Hick swallows and rubs his hands together. He almost forgot what his birth name sounded like after all the years he has gone by the degrading nickname due to his background.

“I, uh... I don't really want to talk about it. Can't you just believe me when I say that someone is playing everybody?” asks Nasty Hick hopefully.

“No, I cannot take your word for it,” answers Fuller bluntly. “What we have on you is that you are a criminal with ties to Gilda Grizelda and an accomplice to at least one murder. Your word, as far as I can tell, is invalid unless you give me reasons to think otherwise.”

Nasty Hick groans and rubs his face with his talons, then sighs explosively and stares at Fuller impatiently. “Okay, how about this. I almost got shot by a bunch of military goats in Bernese when I was guarding some guy overseeing the shipment of military armor and weapons named Zäh Ausstecher. Then I decided to run because I thought to myself, gee maybe participating in starting a war for only Kiaros knows what reason is not worth the six hundred thousand bits the Painter offered!”

Fuller arches a brow slightly and leans forward in his seat, hooves pressed together and eyes focusing more intently on the griffin as he continues his spiel.

“And because I'm trying to tell you that someone is setting up you and Bernese I am living in fear and having to look over my shoulder constantly just so I don't get capped by some kind of cleaner!” continues Nasty Hick, his voice shaking and muscles twitching.

“Why not go to Bernese? Why travel all the way across the Grand Ocean to tell us about this?” asks Fuller.

“It's Bernese! They not only hate griffins but the Gold Star is everywhere over there! I had no choice but to leave because if one of Rotes' assassins didn't kill me some random guy on the street would!”

“It still seems-”

“Look, do you- Do you even realize who I just crossed to get here? I crossed three very bad people! Gilda, she's a damn cyborg thing with knives for fingers now and some weird, fucked up stone in her hand that drives her crazy! And the big fish, Rotes Leinen, that guy has infiltrated every level of Bernese and is starting wars because he's bored! And don't even get me get me started about the Painter! I don't know what his deal is, but he is Tirek incarnate and I am a fucking dead bird and I won't talk anymore unless you can guarantee me that you will make me disappear!”

Nasty Hick finishes by banging on the table and glares at the unicorn, fangs exposed, chest heaving and fur and feathers bristled and ruffled. His hand hurts from the slam, but he does not care about the pain, all he cares about is the unicorn in front of him believing that what he says is the truth. Though, with the neutral expression, he cannot tell if the pony believes him or not, and being stuck in the dark like that only makes his heart beat all the faster from the tumorous panic growing in him. Finally, after a tense, pregnant pause, Fuller sniffs and relaxes in his cushion.

“Fair enough,” he says. “If you know as much as you are implying, then you are my top priority. I will see to it that you will be put in the Witness Protection Program with a team of suitable agents that will keep an eye on you.”

Nasty Hick releases a breath, deflating in his seat and his heart relaxes as he stares at Fuller with a relieved expression. He feels as though a great burden has been lifted off of him and he can breathe at last, if only for a few hours before going into hiding, and he awkwardly extends his hand when the unicorn gestures for a shake. The griffin grabs his hoof, surprised at how solid the old pony's muscles are. It is like trying to grab a stone slab covered in pony fur, and even though he barely shakes, he feels like the unicorn can dislocate his arm said shake if he wanted to.

“Keep in mind, Top Soil, that I am expecting nothing but honesty from you. Any deception or misconception of the truth will make this trial more difficult than it has to be, understood?” says Fuller sternly.

Nasty Hick nods wordlessly, swallowing some spit that has accumulated in his mouth give it some moisture, and Fuller smiles thinly.

“Good. Now, why don't you tell me everything you know and I'll make the arrangements for your disappearance.”

Gale sits outside of Rumble's room with Amber Grain by his side in the empty hallway on the bench. His eyes are distant and his jaw is set in a scornful expression, but it is not directed at the closed off room in front of him. It is not even directed towards Thunderlane and his failure to protect Rumble or the ones who put his son in this state. No, the loathing that is tearing him apart, muscle by muscle and bone by bone, is aimed at him.

He knows he is as much to blame for Rumble's condition as Thunderlane's. More so, in fact, since he ordered them to go to the Stadium. He ordered them to stay there until Rumble found work, and because they listened to him, his son now has no future.

Gale twitches and swallows his spit. His vision blurs at the edges and he blinks, hoping to see it gone, but it smears it, covering everything in a haze.

“Stop crying, boy! Crying never solved anything!”

That phrase. That phrase his father beat in him every chance he got with words or hooves when alcohol got the best of him on a near daily basis. Sometimes weekly or biweekly if the booze started running low.

Gale rub sniffs and brings his hoof up to rub his cheek, keeping his glazed eyes on the crimson curtain covering Rumble. He tries to blink the watery layer from his eyes, he tries to tell himself that he can't afford to let it out. Crying solves nothing. It is only a distraction to finding a solution to the problem. He silently repeats that mantra to himself, over and over again until the words blur in hopes that it will help him stop.

Gale blinks harder, determined to break the wet layer of tears apart and push the lump back where it belongs. Down his throat and into the darkness where it should be so his judgment could not be clouded.

His heart skips a beat when he feels a wing go over his back, and he looks over at his wife and sees his sad state reflecting in her moist golden eyes. His uniform is in top condition, but he has taken less care of his fur and mane, leading to rough tufts along his cheek and chin and his mane disheveled on the ends. He also realizes just how puffy and bloodshot his eyes are, and he quickly shuts them and tilts his head down to the floor in shame. Amber Grain does not hesitate to pull him in for a hug and have his head rest against her with her hoof stroking his mane and her soft breath warming his ears.

“It's okay to cry,” whispers Amber Grain.

Gale squeezes his eyes tighter and fights his own body to keep himself from returning the hug, but no matter how much he wills it, he cannot stop himself from trembling when he feels her tears on him. He wants to keep it in, but he is losing the battle and his defeat becomes more imminent when a whimper escapes him.

Amber Grain sniffles and continues running her hoof over his mane, softly speaking as she hugs him tighter. “It's okay. He's going to be okay. You'll see.”

“I knew I would find you here,” says a familiar voice.

Gale opens his eyes and quickly blinks the tears away when he sees Director Fuller standing nearby in his usual pressed suit with his CDA button polished.

The two pegasi watch him without uttering a word as he approaches them with his eyes going towards the shut curtains. When he is next to them, his gaze remains fixated on the room and he shakes his head slowly, ears drooped slightly. He lowers his eyes seconds later with a deep sigh.

“This is truly tragic,” says Fuller. “I never wanted this to happen.”

“What do you mean?” sniffles Amber Grain.

Fuller keeps his eyes lowered. “As Director of the CDA, my goal is to ensure the safety of the individual the preservation of society. I want nothing but the best, and seeing this... It reminds me that I have failed.” He looks at the two solemnly. “I failed you, your sons, and the dozens of families whose lives were affected by the bombing. That moment will forever be a part of me as a reminder of why I do what I do. And why I must press on for the good of all.”

A moment of silence grows between them. Gale has no idea why Fuller is here with them, or what he wants for that matter, and his confusion only grows when Fuller looks at him and motions down the hall.

“General, if I may have a word with you in private, please,” says the Director.

Gale nods, gets up in a sluggish, trance-like state, despite Amber Grain's reluctance to let him go, and quietly tells her that he will be back. She nods and pulls her hoof off, and he follows Fuller down the hall, feeling his wife's eyes on him the walk.

Fuller takes Gale to an empty conference room, and he uses his magic to draw the blinds shut and lock the door when they are both in. Gale tenses from the sound of the lock and gives Fuller a cautious gaze, keeping his hooves rooted in the carpet while the unicorn walks by him.

“I heard that your son will be awarded a medal for his bravery at the Royal Guard Headquarters,” says Fuller as he passes by.

A proud smile flickers across Gale's muzzle. “The Silver Sun of Valor for dealing a critical strike against that damn goat ship. I'm going to be there to congratulate him.”

“That puts him one step closer to redeeming himself, correct?”

“It does, but...” Gale looks down, deflating with a sigh. “It still won't change what happened to Rumble. But with this war, Thunderlane will have plenty of chances to avenge him. The more goats he kills, the better.”

Fuller motions towards an empty cushion by the long, glass table in the center of the room. “Have a seat, General.”

Gale looks at Fuller suspiciously, but with the unicorn's neutral expression and hoof aimed at the cushion, obviously not willing to repeat himself, the pegasus does as requested. Once he sits down, Fuller sits across from him and looks him directly in the eyes, keeping his expression constant.

“Recently a turncoat of the responsible party arrived in Equestria with information about the ones who hurt Rumble,” says Fuller.

Gale's ears perk and his heart spikes from excitement, but he quickly composes himself to his disciplined state. “Really?”

“Yes. Technically, I should not be speaking about this, so I will appreciate it greatly if you kept this conversation between us.”

“Of course. Does Pansy-”

“Yes. He knows. He got the report as soon as I finished interrogating the informant and he will be going to Celestia very soon about this. The informant is honest and the information he delivered is valuable. So rather than having your son go through an endless war of redemption, you can end it all with one mission to kill the one who orchestrated the attack on the Stadium. The terrorist that ripped your family apart can suffer at Thunderlane's hooves in your name. Your wrath through him.”

Gale leans forward, expression dark, his muscles tight and his feathers ruffled as he speaks with a low growl. “It will not be in my name that Thunderlane will do this, but in Rumble's. Once those assholes dies by his hoof will we finally be able to rest.”

Fuller smiles thinly. “Your passion is commemorative, General. But passion or not, I will only say this once, so listen carefully to my words, and I can guarantee you that you will get what you want.”

Gale's snarl deepens his wrinkles. “You have my ears. Now start talking.”

Soarin strolls through the empty working space that is outside his office. Normally the rows of desks would be occupied by secretaries in military uniforms, and the sounds of typing and scribbling pens on parchment would overpower the hums and whooshes of air conditioners and ceiling fans. However, since everyone has been sent home to meet the curfew, Soarin is all alone. Only his hoofsteps and the noises of working coolers accompany him.

Before he knows it, he is at his office door. The fogged glass has his name and rank painted on with the seal of the Equestrian Royal Guard underneath. He yawns, wipes his tired eyes, then proceeds to unlock his door and step inside to finish up on some last minute paperwork revolving around the CDA's delivered information regarding Nasty Hick, his role in the Gold Star Movement and the attacks against Equestria. However, once he flicks on the lights, he yelps and jumps back, fur and mane standing, feathers ruffled and eyes wide from the sight of seeing General Gale Hurricane sitting at his desk. In his chair. Scowling at him from across the room.

“Good evening, Captain Pansy,” says the General, his hardened voice bouncing off of the walls of the large office.

Soarin's heart races, but still he closes the door after looking back out to make sure no one else is around. After the door clicks shut, he looks back at the General, still shaking and becoming more nervous by the second the way the old pegasus remains stiff like a painted gargoyle.

“How did you get in here?” asks Soarin uneasily.

Gale's eyes narrow. “Very carefully. Have a seat.”

Soarin stares at Gale. His mouth is dry like sand and his throat has a stone that chokes him of air, and his wobbly legs only move when Gale repeats his order. His travel across his office is slow and terrifying. Every step is met with a thump of his heart and his breathing becomes more ragged as he closes the distance between himself and the General. Only when he is by the chair reserved for guests in his office does the older pegasus speak.

“Captain Pansy, it is no secret that I do not like you,” says Gale, making no attempt to filter his disgust. “I find you, your whole family, and your sudden promotion to be an insult to our race and the military.”

Soarin's hoof trembles violently as he pulls the chair out, and when he sits down, the whole piece shakes with him. He tries to keep his misting eyes on the General, but they have trouble focusing. They dart from his harsh gaze to the floor and back again.

Gale places both of his hooves in front of his face to make a steeple. “That being said, I am willing to push aside my personal views for the greater good of my country and family's honor.”

“What are you talking about?” croaks Soarin.

“I know the attacks on our soil by those goats is not what it seems. I am actually aware that the responsible party calls themselves the Gold Star Movement and they are led by Rotes Leinen. I want you to put Thunderlane's team on the mission to kill him, giving the special order to Thunderlane and Thunderlane alone. Nopony else will put a bullet in that fuck's head except for him, are we clear?”

Soarin stares at Gale, mouth opening and closing for a few seconds in a struggle to form the appropriate words for this situation. He smiles and chuckles quickly and nervously when Gale snorts, then he sniffs and fidgets in his seat, eyes having trouble focusing again. Though, this time he does manage to get them to look at Gale's face, even if they are shaking and fighting him every second of way.

“How... How do you know about the Gold Stars?” asks Soarin.

“It doesn't matter how I know. What matters is when you're going to put Thunderlane on that mission,“ replies Gale.

“General... Sir... With all due respect, the Wonderbolts do not do assassinations.”

“They are special forces. Restructured and retrained by the Frontier Watch to combat the most severe threats in the most inhospitable conditions. That means they are fully capable of taking a life if need be, and they need to take the life of Rotes Leinen.”

“General, I know you have a son that was hurt by the Gold Stars, but that alone would mean Thunderlane cannot go on the mission for-for ulterior motive. What happened to Rumble-”

“You have no right to say his name,” snarls Gale.

Soarin holds up his shaking hoof protectively, back pressed against the seat and his eyes dot. “What happened to your son could compromise your other son's mentality of the mission and put everypony at risk. Believe me, I-I am working on finding the appropriate course of action to bring the Gold Stars to justice, but I can't... I can't do this effectively if-if you're... If you're trying to dictate my actions. Which you cannot do since I am technically higher ranking than you.”

Gale glares at Soarin, and he gulps, shrinking back even further in his seat when the older pegasus growls.

“Let me tell you a story, Pansy,” sneers Gale. “It is about a young couple who wanted children, and they tried and tried so hard to have them, but every time they failed. They were told by doctors that they could never have any, but they visited a zebra shaman, and she said they could have only one. She was right, the doctors were wrong. They had only one colt, but that colt was crippled by an abomination and now the one who failed him in the first place must make it right.”

Soarin shifts in his spot, blinking in question about the strange story, completely unsure on how to respond to it. Despite his obvious confusion, Gale continues talking with his voice has heavy as stone.

“My son is lying on a hospital bed without a face, hooves or wings, and Thunderlane has to redeem himself,” continues the General. “Pull your strings and send Thunderlane's team into Bernese to get those fuckers and I will drop your tribunal. My son will be avenged, Thunderlane will be redeemed and you will keep your position. Everypony wins.”

Soarin adjusts his position again, swallowing his fear with negligible results. “And what... What, um, what makes you think I just won't turn around and report to Celestia that you are trying to make backdoor deals?”

Gale snorts. “Nothing. But it will ruin your opportunity to get the easy way out of the mess you put yourself in. You will benefit from this more than me in the public because it will be you that gets the glory of taking down the ones responsible for the greatest crisis of our time.”

“And what about you?”

“At this point, I don't care about publicity. I only want to see the ones who hurt my son pay. So, Pansy, what's it going to be? An all win situation, or the loss of your position?”

It has been almost a full twenty four hours after Soarin's meeting with Gale, and now he is finding himself standing in front of Princess Celestia in her throne room. Alone.

Aside from the alicorn dismissing all of her guards, which has become quite the habit of hers, Soarin has also realized that all of her decorative windows are being blocked by thick, green curtains that curve into the floor. He also notices that her rug is still singed and she has yet to remove the hoofprints melted into the floor from her confrontation with Brisk Wind a year back. Then there is her appearance.

The Goddess of the Sun does not look nearly as beautiful as she once did and her new reclusive nature that has been eating away at her since Blueblood's assassination is showing its toll. Her golden, leaf patterned armor has not been cared for in some time, leaving it covered in streaks and lacking its shine, save for the green gem at the center of her cuirass. Parts of the armor even looked chipped or dented to Soarin. There is also her mane, which is no longer colorful and waving in magical energy, but is now a faded pink and hanging past her shoulders like a shaggy plant. Underneath her hardened, green tinted eyes are large, near black bags.

Regardless of his observations, though, Soarin has forced the words out of his mouth to keep his increasingly more terrifying ruler from zapping him for staring. The conversation has gone well so far, but Celestia's voice has become heavy and betrays the pain that is breaking her down as much as her pitiful appearance. This makes Soarin more concerned for her well-being and terrified that anything might set off the unstable goddess.

“So, what you are telling me, is that someone has orchestrated an attack on Bernese and us to pit us into a war?” says Celestia, her worn, skeptical voice barely reaching Soarin from her perch on her dismal throne.

Soarin nods, silently contemplating on whether or not he should get in contact with Twilight so she can figure out what is wrong with Celestia. “Yes, ma'am. A deserter from an organization called the Gold Star Movement came to us in an attempt to warn us of the attack by imposters. He arrived too late, though.”

A flicker of sadness appears in Celestia's eyes. “I noticed. But how long has this deserter been a part of this organization?”

“He didn't say, but he said he worked with the Painter, who is working closely with the Gold Stars.”

“And the Painter is the one that has freed Roar Shock from your custody, correct?”

Soarin hesitates. From the reports, the Painter didn't exactly free the terrorist mastermind, more like broke him out of their custody so he can capture him for some obscure purpose.

“It is believed so,” says Soarin with a small nod, choosing not to branch off into the specifics of the disappearance of the League of Justice's leader.

“With what you are telling me, it sounds like the League of Justice has allied themselves with the Gold Star Movement,” muses Celestia, her eyes focusing intently on Soarin, making the pale blue stallion shift uncomfortably.

“Your Majesty, I do not think the League has joined forces with them.” He swallows when Celestia raises a brow in question. “From what we have gathered from the informant, the Gold Stars and the League are vastly different in ideology. The League is focused on implementing True Harmony and moral superiority whereas the Gold Stars want to spread something called Perfect Harmony. Their only link to each other is the Painter.”

Celestia reclines in her throne, keeping her hard eyes focused on the Captain as he takes another moment to catch his thoughts.

Soarin takes a deep breath and winces quietly as his injured wing reacts poorly to the natural flex from this. “That goes without saying that the Painter could be a bigger threat than we previously assumed. With his control of Brisk Wind and his interest in the League and the Gold Stars, he could very well be plotting something massive.... Which means...”

Celestia waits a moment before speaking. “Which means what, Captain Pansy?”

Soarin winces from the painful use of his horrible last name. He quickly regains his composure, though, and stands straighter, though audibly swallowing his spit in preparation for his proposal. A proposal that he knows will go against his agreement with Gale, but knows it is for the best.

“Which means we need to go into Bernese to apprehend Rotes Leienen and Zäh Ausstecher. They are the two highest ranking members of the Gold Star Movement, are responsible for this war and they are our biggest links to the Painter. If we can capture them, we can expose them, figure out what they know about the Painter and put a stop to this war and his plans before it becomes too damaging.”

“I see,” says Celestia slowly. “And am I correct to assume that you have thought of a plan of action and a team picked out for this task?”

Soarin nods. “Yes, Your Majesty, I do. I have the best of the Wonderbolts in mind and the mission will be simple, but effective. However, when we capture Leinen and Ausstecher, we need to expose them as quickly as possible and then call for a cease fire before we move on to capture the Painter. All I need is your blessing for the mission.”

There is a heavy silence between the two, and Soarin swallows again, worried that Celestia might deny his request. When Celestia lowers her head and stands up, gradually expanding her wings, his heart spikes and his mouth becomes dry. She lifts her eyes to him and starts descending her throne stairs with deliberate steps. A part of him wants to step back, but his limbs lock him in place and all he can do is stare as his goddess comes closer, and when she is in front of him, he can see the tears glazing in her eyes.

“For a thousand years I have tried to keep Equestria safe, but in the past eleven years I have failed so much I doubt my worth everyday,” says Celestia, her voice quivering and quiet sniffles leaving her as tears roll down her cheeks. “I could not protect Blueblood, I could not stop discord from taking the streets, and every choice I have made has only left me with enemies.”

Celestia sits down in front of Soarin and dips her head, shoulders buckling and voice cracking as her tears drip to the floor.

“I am tired of failing. I am tired of being the enemy when all I want is for my ponies to be safe,” whimpers Celestia, covering her face with her hoof as her wings and ears droop. “I can't protect them because I do not know who my friends and enemies are, anymore. How can I fight an enemy I cannot see? How can I stop monsters that turn my kindness into weapons? How can I tell a nation I only want whats best when they live in fear because I am the very tyrant I swore I would never become?”

“Your Majesty, I-”

Soarin stops himself when Celestia abruptly raises her hoof and looks at him.

“Don't,” sniffles Celestia. “Just answer me this: Are you confident that apprehending Leinen and Ausstecher will put an end to all this?”

Soarin hesitates. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Celestia stands up on wobbly legs, nodding and blinking tears out of her eyes. “Good. The sooner we end this war, the sooner we can go after the Painter and stop him before he destroys what's left of Harmony.” Her horn glows and the throne room doors are covered in her magic aura and groan as they are pulled open. “I want a full report of your plans and I want to meet the informant at eleven tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

Soarin bows, thanks Celestia and then he limps out of the room as quickly as his injuries will allow. Once outside, the dozen guards waiting for him turn in unison and offer him sharp salutes. Soarin silently raises his hoof in return, then continues his walk down the hall, listening to the Equestrian national anthem play over the intercoms with his head down and wings and ears drooped.

The guards march back to the throne room and Soarin doesn't have to look to know that they are shut inside when the thud of the closed doors shakes the desolate hall. With him all alone, Soarin releases another heavy sigh and slows his walk to a trudge, thinking about how to get about with the next phase to get the Painter and Roar Shock. And ultimately save his career and Equestria.

Heavy metal plays in Spitfire's apartment as she stares at herself in the mirror, inspecting the large brownish-orange bruise on her hoof from the slug that struck her during the ibex attack. She is glad that the armor held, and is really glad that Soarin only got nicked by the rounds. She really wishes that he hadn't been shot, but when it comes down to it, she would rather have him injured than dead.

The Major sighs explosively, drops her hooves on the marble counter of her bathroom and bows her head. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to suppress the sounds of gunfire and dying screams by listening to the fast paced electric guitars and the gruff stallion singing.

Spitfire lifts her eyes up, blinking away the wetness and red veins that seeps in. Every flash of darkness from her eyelids closing is interrupted by the tracer blowing a hole through a soldier, sending their body flying with a jet of blood trailing.

All the blood. All the bodies. She is responsible for every death and injury that took place, for it was her job to make sure something like that did not happen. But she failed. She couldn't protect the Generals. Couldn't protect the soldiers that lost their lives for her lack of preparation. As much as she wants to blame Flash Sentry for the air-defense fiasco, she knows it is ultimately her fault. She should have made sure that the headquarters was impenetrable, even if there was strong doubt that Bernese could do an airstrike. Much less get a helicopter into the city without anyone realizing until it was too late.

Spitfire rubs her eyes one last time, then trudges out of the bathroom to her nigh bare living room. It is almost completely spotless, save for an empty flower and hay salad container with bits of the leftovers scattered around the bowl in a ring on her glass coffee table. On her plush couch is an autographed case for the record she has playing on her gramophone, which is placed next to the said piece of furniture.

Spitfire goes on her couch and swipes up the case for the Ghostie Hunter- The Crypt vinyl record she has playing on her gramophone. She sits on her couch and turns the centaur skull cover around so she can browse through the song list as the current one continues to send its pulses through her body. Normally the heavy music will relax her, but for the past few days she has not slept well and not even the music can remedy it.

It is bugging her that she has allowed an aircraft to do as much damage as it did, and every night she can only think about what would have happened if she had to carry Soarin in his casket to his grave. Or any member of her team, for that matter. With that thought, Spitfire's face scrunches and her teeth grind as a pressure in her throat threatens to make her explode in whines.

She throws the case away like a Frisbee and covers her eyes with her hooves again, whimpering over the music as a trail of tears roll down her cheeks.

“You fucking idiot,” whimpers Spitfire.

And right then, her phone rings, snapping her from her state. The ugly dings that sound like rusted bells make Spitfire's hooves drop and she looks at the phone across the living room. It is the standard communications rig, with a headset and mouthpiece with a cushion in front of the table it sits on and wires snaking into the ceiling. The bell above it dings again and Spitfire stretches her hoof to turn off her gramophone before sliding off of her couch.

During her walk across the room, she is careful to step around her autographed cover and by the fourth ring, she is in front of communications rig with the headset on. By ring five, she answers.

“Temper speaking,” she says with her well rehearsed answering phrase, though her voice weighed down by her gloomy state.

“Spits, can you come to my loft, please?” says Soarin, his voice heavy and tired.

Spitfire's heart skips a beat from hearing his voice and request, and she looks at the clock hanging on her wall. There is less than three hours left before curfew is put in effect. She looks back at the communications rig as if it is Soarin and rubs her brow.

“What's wrong?” asks Spitfire worryingly.

“We need to talk, and I don't want to do it over the phone. It is too important,” says Soarin.

“Okay, give me thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“See you soon.”

“Alright. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Spitfire waits for Soarin's end to click before she hangs up, then she stares off into nothingness, mind nearly completely blank and eyes blinking in question. It doesn't take her much longer for her to get up with a sigh, and after carefully putting away The Crypt disc in its proper spot, she turns off her lights and leaves for Soarin's loft.

What should have been a couple of minutes of flying turns into a twenty minute public transport nightmare due to the flying restrictions. Being that she is currently not authorized to use the gift of flight, she has to sit on a crammed trolley with low life drunks and smelly hobos that sting her nose with their stench. Then there is the creepy old unicorn that tries hitting on her, but one quick glare and a “Beat it” later, and she finds some peace in the crammed can of despair.

“Little Cloudsdale,” says the mare driving over the intercom.

Spitfire mutters a quick thanks to Celestia and does not wait for the trolley to come to a complete stop when she hops out of the vehicle. Luckily for her, Soarin's loft is just a block down from the stop, so it makes for a quick walk, and she is grateful when the elevators actually prove to be sensitive to time. As soon as she pushes the up button, the door opens and it wastes no time taking her to the wanted floor or trying to murder her with notorious elevator music.

The elevator dings, its doors slide open and Spitfire walks right into a group of four EIB unicorns guarding the floor. They are dressed in black suits and sunglasses with bulky vests and Gatling rifles slung across their barrels. She has to show them her ID, which they then spend a good two minutes waiting for a confirmation as they repeat her ID information twice to the other end.

After her background check goes through, they open the door and she is led in Soarin's loft by two of the agents. The loft has a homey touch to it that is almost completely ruined by the patroling EIB agents on his patio. There is nothing too flashy or too humble in his home. The furniture is basic and clean, and pictures of Soarin, Spitfire and the rest of the Wonderbolts he flew with in the happier times line the walls.

Spitfire looks at each picture, reminiscing with a small smile each memory the photographs captured. From the races to to Soarin pretending to be dragged away by crazy fan girls, and Spitfire and Soarin pressing their cheeks together and grinning as they fight for space in the photo. She also finds a picture of Soarin's face covered in apple bit bits, cheeks puffed out and mouth sealed tight despite his smile as he gets a first place blue ribbon for a pie eating contest. That event, and the stomach ache he moaned about the next morning, makes her chuckle quietly.

A door nearby clicks and groans, and Spitfire turns, smile fading and her hoof going over her mouth as her wings and ears droop at the sight of her long time friend. Soarin, despite the bags under his eyes and bandages covering his injured leg and wing, hobbles forward with an easy going -albeit jaded- smile.

“How are you doing, Spits?” asks Soarin.

“Oh my goodness, Soarin, I-”

Soarin holds up his hoof. “It's okay. It looks worse than it actually is.”

Spitfire drops her hoof and carefully approaches him, eyes glistening in the light and a wet lump clawing its way up her throat. “I'm sorry I let this happen to you.”

“Don't be so gloomy. If it wasn't for you, I'd be dead and so would the rest of the Senior Staff.”

Spitfire wants to say that it was a team effort. She wants to tell Soarin that he should thank Thunderlane for destroying one of the engine's and Rainbow Dash and Silver Lining for picking apart the aircraft's defenses. She wants to, but Soarin continues talking, leaving no room for her to interject.

“You did good, Spits,” he says, keeping his weary smile. “You and your team did good. You guys are heroes, but I need to ask you to do something for me. It is... Dangerous. Very dangerous.”

“What is it?” asks Spitfire, ignoring every feminine instinct screaming at her to force him on the couch so she can fix him some soup or check his admittedly fresh looking bandages.

Soarin sighs nervously and rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting the floor. “Um, well... Why don't we have a seat? It will be an interesting conversation.”

He looks back at Spitfire and flashes her a worried smile, and she searches his face, trying to decipher what he wants to tell her. All she sees, though, is worry. Lots of worry. And it is only made more noticeable by the way he trembles in his spot and chuckles uneasily. Seconds later, she nods and follows Soarin to the couch, not wanting to make him suffer from a potential nervous breakdown.

Once they sit down, Soarin takes a deep breath and looks between the floor and Spitfire, fidgeting again.

“Spitfire, do you think I am a good leader?” he asks meekly.

Spitfire blinks. Her first reaction is to say yes out of support, but so far Soarin's record has been less than stellar. From the mess at Glorieta and the Celestial Spire, to the escape of Roar Shock and the rapidly devolving stability of Equestria, she actually finds it remarkable that he has not been discharged from his position yet, especially with a hard nose like General Hurricane leading the tribunal.

“Um...” begins Spitfire after swallowing to buy some seconds. “I think you have the capabilities of being a good leader.”

Soarin looks down with a sigh. “That's what I thought.”

“What?”

“I have been failing Equestria at basically everything I've been doing, but-” he looks up with a determined glint in his tired eyes “-I think I know a way I can fix this. Everything, I mean. I can make up for my failures with what I have in mind, but I need your help to do this.”

He looks at Spitfire, desperate hope mixing with the determination.

“Will you help me?” he asks, his tone matching his expression perfectly.

Spitfire sighs and puts a hoof on his shoulder. “Soarin, you know I have always, and will always, be here for you. What do you need me to do?”

Soarin nods, looks down, and presses her hooves in front of his face like a prayer as he closes his eyes and dips his head. “Okay, here it goes.”

It only takes Soarin ten minutes to explain everything to Spitfire in an abridged fashion. But all she needs is the ten minutes, and when he is finished, the two are silent. Spitfire's shocked expression collides with Soarin's rapidly crumbling hopeful look. Only when he looks away, shamefaced, does she speak.

“You want me to go to Bernese?” asks Spitfire in disbelief.

Soarin flicks his eyes to her, nodding. “You are the most capable soldier in the Wonderbolts. If anypony can do this, it is you. If you can find Leinen and Ausstecher and bring them back to Equestria to expose them for what they've done, then we can end this before this conflict becomes too big to contain.”

“Why not have Celestia contact Bernese and tell them that we didn't do anything and tell them to go after Leinen and Ausstecher themselves?”

Soarin shakes his head. “Bernese won't listen to us. They severed all communications and every moment we sit here, talking about what to do, that is another moment Bernese has to invade us.”

Spitfire shakes her head, hops up from her seat and briskly walks towards the door. She does not want to say anything about the audacity of Soarin's request, or the complete stupidity on Bernese's part and Equestria's lack of resolve to get those goats to listen. She highly doubts that they tried very hard, but she pushes the criticisms of the situation out of her mind and keeps her focus on the door.

“Spits, please. I am begging you to do this,” says Soarin as he walks after her.

Spitfire snaps to Soarin and jabs her hoof on his chest, snarling. “My team is my responsibility, Soarin! You are not asking me to escort a terrorist to a prison island, or provide extra security! You are asking me to take my team into a hostile nation to apprehend terrorists that are doing a helluva good job starting wars!”

“I know you're scared, but-”

“I'm scared that my team is going to get killed for nothing! One wrong move from any of us and we will be hunted by Bernese and whoever the hell these Gold Stars are! Did you even plan this?”

Soarin nods. “Yes, I did.”

“How long? A day? Five minutes? Soarin, you can't just expect me to take my team across the ocean to apprehend terrorist leaders when you only put a few minutes into a plan! That's going to get us killed!”

“Spitfire, please listen to me-”

Spitfire's hoof shoots up and she shakes her head with her eyes closed. “No, if you want to send soldiers on a suicide mission, then do it somepony who could cares less about their team.”

Spitfire resumes her quick stride towards the door, not wanting to hear any more of Soarin's ridiculous request. She just wants to go home, sleep what little of the day remains, and pretend that this conversation never happened or that she has just heard Soarin growling.

“Major Temper, stop right now!” barks Soarin.

Spitfire freezes, mostly in shock of her oldest friend screaming at her by rank in a severity she has never heard from him before. When she looks over her shoulder, she sees him glaring at her, jaw tight and nostrils flaring with his twitching muscles. It really is a sight she thought she would never see from him and she finds her throat going dry and her muscles naturally flexing defensively.

“I have tried to be gentle about this, but so far all I have seen is cowardice that is not like you at all, and it is completely disgraceful to the Wonderbolts,” says Soarin viciously. “No shots have been fired yet, but we are still at war with Bernese. So for all I can care I can initiate General Burnt Dust's plan and raze the whole damn country to the ground to get the ones who started this.”

Soarin steps forward, wincing with each step on his injured hoof and his ferocious eyes locking on to the Major's, his expression going incredibly darker by the second. He stops when he is next to her, muzzle practically touching her cheek, brushing her orange coat with his breath and filling her nose with the scent of his minty mouthwash.

“But I won't because I want to play it smart and send the best Wonderbolts in to capture Leinen and Ausstecher,” continues the Captain with a low growl rumbling in his throat. “A lot of lives can be saved with this get in-get out plan, and then you can return as greater heroes for stopping the war the Gold Stars started. I already made up my mind, but now the choice is yours. Do you want to go willingly or will I have to order you to go?”

Spitfire glares at Soarin out of her peripheral vision, not wanting to answer. As far as she can tell, this is not the Soarin she knows. This is someone else. Someone who could care less about the potential damage of his careless, hasty planning in his last ditch effort to save his position.

“What's it going to be, Major?” asks Soarin.

Spitfire's stiff body sulks in defeat, and her eyes lower to the floor. As much as she wants to tell him to fuck himself, she knows he will just pull rank and order her to go, anyway.

“I'll get Leinen and Ausstecher, and bring them back alive for trial. When do you want us out?” says Spitfire quietly.

Soarin steps back so he can look her directly in the eyes. “By next Wednesday. I've already talked to Captain Compass Rose. His zeppelin, The Harmonious Light, is the fastest ship we have. He'll get you in and out of Bernese quickly. All you have to do is get Leinen and Ausstecher alive, and then we'll let them stand trial for their crimes.”

Spitfire nods. “Okay. Consider it done.”

“I'll give you the briefing tomorrow at fourteen hundred at the Royal Guard HQ. Make sure your team is there.”

“Yes, sir,” croaks Spitfire.

“Dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The two exchange very disgruntled salutes and Spitfire leaves his loft without another word. The agents outside wish her a pleasant night, but she ignores them, keeping her mouth shut and her shaking down to a minimum. The elevator has not moved, so getting inside meant no wait on her part, but as soon as the door closes her off from everyone else, she screams and punches the wall. In spite of the pain going through her hoof, she punches the wall again and again, screaming and swearing until her hoof bleeds, then she collapses into the corner, worthlessly tugging her mane and whimpering from rage and sorrow.

He is not the Soarin she knew. He is going to get her team killed, and there is nothing she can do about it.

Shaken

Her eyes are slow to open, and even with her blinks, her world is still covered in such a thick haze that she cannot see much of anything, save for overly bright orbs of light that sear her eyes. Her ears pick up muddled voices and soft beeps, but she is too groggy to move, much less comprehend what they are saying or what they are connected to.

She closes her eyes and tries flexing, but she finds she cannot move and pain like dozens of thin wires coiling in and out of her skin assault her sense. Her eyes squeeze tighter and her teeth grind, veins bulging and her muscles nearly tearing under her skin, strand by strand. The excruciating pain drains her of her energy and will to fight, and she flops down on her cot, chest heaving with her heavy panting. Tears roll down her cheeks and sweat clings to her fur and feathers, and to her confusion, it sounds like her breathing is being blocked by a bowl.

The voices continue their conversations and the machines beep louder, and her eyes drift down to see that her beak is covered by a fogged piece of plastic. Attached to it is a ribbed tube that is connected to a large machine pumping compressed oxygen into her, and now that she sees the working machine, she can feel each rush of filtered air being forced down her nose and mouth.

She keeps staring at the device, eyes watering and mind racing, trying to put the pieces together that led her to this place.

“She will survive,” assures an emotionless stallion, his voice right next to her bed and easy to understand, now.

Her eyes move to the source and she tenses when she sees a unicorn in a full body painting suit looking down at her. Not a piece of physical features are seen past his jumpsuit, thick goggles and breathing mask. Standing next to him is a second unicorn stallion who is wearing a lab coat and has a clipboard in his aura. He is trembling and sweating in the presence of the disguised pony.

“Sir, it is one thing to survive a barrage of gunfire, but this... This is different. This is powerful dark magic we're dealing with,” says the pony, his voice quivering with fright.

“Not dark magic, my dear boy, but science!” blurts another stallion, his voice bubbling with excitement. A strange unicorn leans over her face, across from the Painter, but all she can see from his shadowy appearance is his bright white teeth and the light reflecting off of his glasses. “Now, tell me, my dear, do you fear death?”

She wheezes and tries to lift her hands, but gets the same painful result as last time, and with that wheeze comes a rush of air forced into her lungs. Her eyes bulge and the mask over her beak fogs as ragged, panicked breaths burn her insides. The machines beep sporadically and vital signs being printed on flimsy paper pour out of their slots in great speed, but The Stallion With The Glasses only chuckles and sends a wave of relaxation through her with a bright glow of his horn.

“That sounds like a yes to me, don't you think?” The Stallion With The Glasses looks at the Painter, waiting for a response, but when he gets a stare for an answer, he puts his focus back on the patient. “But, fear not, for when I am done with you, you will not only be faster and stronger, but Charon will not touch you!”

Her breathing becomes sharp as the Stallion With The Glasses motions someone over. She can't hear or see much except for the squeaky wheels and a brown pegasus in a white suit with a red tie pushing a cart over. The Stallion With The Glasses carefully opens a box on top of the cart and uses his hooves to grab a green stone. He then giggles with excitement and starts to lower the stone over her right hand. She grunts, moans and wheezes protests the closer the stone gets to her, but the straps keep her body from moving and her weak voice falls on deaf ears.

She can barely lift her head as it is, but when the stone emits a pulsating, green mist and shoots out random sparks of emerald energy that illuminates small portions of its surroundings, her eyes bulge. Then her throat clogs and her weak heart thumps like a bird flapping its injured wings to escape certain death.

“No,” she wheezes.

She is powerless, and for that, all she can do is watch with tears clouding her vision and throat closing as the stone makes its approach. The stone is held over her hand and the Stallion With The Glasses carefully lowers it down, and once its down, she feels the rough edges rub against her boney palm as it goes inside her hand.

At first she does not feel anything, save for the discomforting feeling of stone rubbing against her flesh and bone, and it is nauseating to where she wants to vomit. However, barely ten seconds pass before she is swarmed with memories and pain as real and clear as when she first encountered them.

She can feel it all. See it all. Everything from the fury to the fear in the eyes of the icy pegasus when she has her mutilated body bleeding profusely on the sidewalk. Then she bullets shredding her muscles and knocking her to the ground, and as she falls, she watches the dark unicorn mare continuing her relentless shooting. The loyalty in the unicorn's eyes and the wrath in her snarl as she pulls the trigger repeatedly is one that she has not seen in a pony before and has now realized just how truly afraid she was that day.

She thought she was going to die. She could see it. Feel it. The coldness snaking into her and the approaching black alicorn with a frazzled gray mane and torn bat wings shrouded with a tattered cloak and gray mist. He stops next to her, smiling and calling her to give in as she shifts on the ground, blood pouring from the dozens of holes that had been blown into her body.

“Just close your eyes and sleep, little birdie,” says the alicorn, his voice slick like refined oil.

“I don't... I don't want to die,” she says, wheezing and sobbing with her hand clutching one of the gushing holes in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. She did not think anyone would hear her, but they did, they must have, because they put a mask on her and brought her to this place.

“GET ME OUT OF HERE!” shrieks a mare suddenly, her voice scratching her ears and hooves banging against her skull.

A screaming, burnt face flashes across the trapped patient's eyes and her eyes snap and her back arches as she screams at the top of her lungs. Tendrils made of flame course through her right hand and up her arm, shredding and burning and restitching everything at once. Her free talon grips the bed, tearing into the fabric as the one with the stone clutches the cursed object tightly

More screams come from the mare, and out of her hooves and wide open maw come more grotesque bodies covered in burns and gashes spill out like bloody slime. Each one is either screaming or sobbing, but all are begging to be freed, and they grow and split apart, engulfing the patient's vision and covering her body, burning through her fur and feathers like acid and chewing through her flesh with less remorse.

Blood flows from the patient's eyes, ears, paws and talons, and her thrashing sends red droplets and splashes all over the bed and floor. If her body had not been strapped down, she would be contorting in ways unnatural to any living being.

Her skin and muscles rip and restitch, and her bleeding eyes roll into the back of her head as bloody spit splashes against the inside of her mask. The ghostly figures attacking her dig their way inside, using the rips in her skin as gateways. She feels every entity burrow their way into her, bulging her skin and dissolving into her veins, and she thrashes and screams harder and louder, talons ripping apart the bed and straps ripping from her last, desperate effort to escape. When the last of the entities slither inside, everything stops and she collapses on the bed, body trembling and covered in blood and sweat, and the machines beeping furiously to signal her raging heartbeats and weak, shaky breaths.

“Success!” laughs The Stallion With The Glasses jubilantly.

The shadowy unicorn uses his magic to undo the straps and she rolls out of her cot, breaking the tube from her mask, wheezing and body jerking as jolts of energy surge through her from the stone in her right hand. Each passing surge makes her feel as though her muscles will rip off or burn away, and she gasps hoarsely, gripping her hand and staring at it with pure horror. It is a mess of metal and flesh, still covered in fresh blood. Mechanical joints and pistons slide in and out of her talons, where curved blades rest on top, like a mechanical monster inside her is trying to shed her flesh off.

Her whimpers are short and sharp and tears drip in thick globs, cleaning blood off her face, as she stares at the monstrosity with a slack jaw. Every click, every whir, every shift, she can hear and feel it all, grinding against her bone and muscle, and the stone glows again, etching a design with bright emerald light in its center. The bright light forms an eye with four hooks, two on each end, and the light fades away into her talons, giving her the feeling of precision blades digging under what's left of her bony talons.

“Don't worry about the residual pain. That will pass,” assures the Stallion With The Glasses over her whimpers.

“What... What have you done... What did you... Do to... Me,” she wheezes. She wants to scream at him, but her throat is scratchy and just by speaking her lungs feel like they are tight from lack of air. She collapses on the ground, hunched up and shuddering as she coughs roughly in her mask and clutches her disfigured wrist with tears pouring out of her closed eyes. She speaks again, voice and body shaking with her tears splattering on the cold, bloody, concrete floor. “Why... Why did you... Do this to me?”

“I saved you from Hell for a glorious purpose, so now I think it is only fair that you repay us with servitude.”

She lifts her glazed eyes, glaring at the Stallion With The Glasses with puffy, bloodshot eyes and her fangs exposed for a nearly silent growl. Despite her predatory eyes zeroing in on him and her wings flapping and her muscles eager to move for a kill, she is too weak to attack and he flaunts her disadvantage with his bright teeth that display his maniac grin. The Painter and the brown pegasus flank the demented unicorn and stare down at her, and the one in the glasses giggles again with a tint of green on his chest and brightly lit lenses and he extends his hoof towards her.

“Your new life awaits you, Gilda Grizelda.”

Gilda jerks up on her bed with a gasp, body trembling and sweat coating her fur and feathers as the moon shines in her room. Her breathing is shaky and she lifts up her talons and lays them palms up so she can look at them with as much detail as the moon's light will allow.

One hand is normal, the other is mechanical with bladed fingers and has a marked stone in it. There is not a strand of flesh or bone left, it is all machinery and gems, and it serves to remind her of what she has become. A monster. A freak of nature.

Gilda's eyes squeeze shut and she grits her teeth as she hunches over on the bed with her shoulders buckling. Moments later, her whimpers echo in the darkness.

Bright light burns through her eyelids minutes later. Or it seems like minutes later for Gilda since she spent the good portion of the night lying awake, thinking about the memory of when she became the beast she is now. It seems like she barely closed her eyes with darkness still around her, but now that she is awake and that light is hurting her eyes, she figures she might as well get her day started.

First, she reaches for a gauge clipped to her air tank. It is an awkward reach, but she will be damned if she lets anyone else touch a component of the machine keeping her alive. The gauge is attached to a retractable wire, and after having a look at it, she frowns at the low levels of air. It is not low enough to give her any noticeable side effects, but she has never liked anything being low. Not her physical exams, not her grades, and not her supply of bits. This air tank is no different.

After staring at the gauge for a short amount of time, Gilda clips it back in place and awkwardly removes her air tank after disconnecting her tube. There is a loud hiss of defiance for just a moment and her breathing becomes strained and weighed down by scratchy wheezes as she reseals the near empty tank. Once that is done, she hurries to a wall where a line of air tanks are positioned just slightly off the ground on a rack and connected to air tubes travel up the wall and disappear into the ceiling. She disconnects the tank she wants to use, carefully lines herself up with it, then presses her back against it until she hears a click. After that, she attached her breathing mask to the tank and her heavy wheezing is replaced with her normal, wind tunnel style breathing. Short, loud and steady.

Gilda smiles to herself, relieved at the wonderful taste of purified air being pushed in her lungs, but when she connects the old air tank for refill, her smile fades at the sight of her augmentation. The air tank clicks and she pulls her mechanical hand away, twisting and turning it every which way she can to have a look at all the angles. She stares at the metal claws gleaming in the light, listens to the quiet taunts of her working gears and pistons, mocking every second she lives. She turns her robotic hand so she can look at the stone imbedded in it. Brisk Wind's blood still stains the stone and outlines its marking, and of all the voices Gilda can hear inside her, begging to be freed, the cries of that pegasus are the loudest.

“Please! I have to get out of here!” sobs Brisk Wind.

Gilda glowers at the stone, hearing and feeling the vibrations of thousands of scared voices and little hooves banging against it.

“Let me out!”

“What did I do to deserve this!?”

“I promise I will repent! Please, release me!”

And on and on the voices go, endlessly assaulting Gilda's ears. The first few weeks of this torment kept her awake, and the use of ear plugs did not work. She is as used to it now as she can get. There are times where she can ignore them to the point where she no longer hears them, but other times, like now, the voices are more difficult to ignore and send shivers all over her body.

Gilda squeezes her mechanical hand and eyes shut, thinking about the Painter and the Stallion With The Glasses. She has always been scared of death, but now that they transformed her into this, she wishes she had just died and accepted her fate in Tartarus. It would be better than living as a freak with thousands of voices crying inside her skull every waking minute.

Though, as much as she wants to mope and have the world feel sorry for her, she is technically dead and cannot afford to feel sorry for herself. She has a job to do and her thoughts remind her of this by reciting one phrase of wisdom for her to chew on. You're here as you are and there is nothing you can do about it. Just deal with it.

Gilda's muffled sigh fills the silence of the room, and she heads downstairs, picking up her pace when she hears a commotion. It does not sound horrible, it actually sounds joyous, and when she is on the first floor she can see Rotes and Ms. Leinen conversing with a brown coated, golden maned female ibex who looks to be just a few years older than Rotes. She also sees Ms. Leinen March next to her with Grim making his way to the living room, shaking off some loose snow along the way and ignoring the nasty stare Rotes gives him.

“Nicht über das Chaos, Rotes. Es wird herauskommen,” says the golden maned ibex with a light smile as she gently nudges Rotes.

“Einige Höflichkeit wäre schön gewesen, gab,” replies Rotes sourly. He then spots Gilda walking towards them and he offers her a pleasant smile. “Ah, good morning, Gilda. Did you sleep well?”

“Maybe,” grumbles Gilda. “Who's she?”

“This is Anna. Cutter's lovely wife.”

“Uh huh, okay. Where's Nasty?”

Rotes' smile fades and he quietly dismisses Anna in his native tongue.

Gilda furrows her brows and watches the newcomer wander off, then turns to Grim, who is now sitting on the couch, spreading his wet dirt all over the cushion. “Grim!”

“What?” grumbles the griffin.

“Get over here!”

“I just got here. Give me a minute to relax, will ya?”

“Now!”

Grim groans irritably and reluctantly gets off the couch, then he shuffles on over to Gilda and gives her a tired glare when he is a pace away. “What?”

“You know what. Where is Nasty?”

“Oh, him? Yeah, he's gone.”

“What!”

Rotes sighs and rubs his brow. “Gilda, I did not want to worry you, but-”

“Nasty ran like scared pony,” interrupts Grim.

“What Grim said.”

“Where the hell did he run off to?” demands the cyborg, her gaze switching between Rotes and Grim.

“We do not know, but I have my comrades searching for him as we speak,” answers Rotes.

Gila points her bladed talon at the androgynous ibex. “Well your 'comrades' better find him alive or else I'll rip your muscles right off your bones.”

“In all fairness, they had nothing to do with Nasty disappearing. He just got spooked like the pussy he is and ran off somewhere in the forest. We have no idea where he went and spent a long time searching for him after Custard left,” interjects Grim. He notices Rotes' unfriendly expression out of the corner of his eye and glances at him, barely moving his head to look. “What?”

“I presume you are talking about Cutter,” says Rotes sourly.

“Custard. Cutter. Same old goat.” Grim looks at Gilda. “Point is, Gilda, we lost Nasty, but that's more money for us, so-”

Grim is cut off with a painful squawk when Gilda's metal fist collides with his beak, sending his head jerking and his body crashing to the floor with a squirt of blood going on the hardwood floor. The scarred griffin swears and clutches his beak with one hand while using the other one to push himself up, but Gilda grabs his throat and sends him back to the floor with another punch. And she keeps punching him again and again, growing angrier by the second and feeling sharp tingles going through her body as Grim's blood covers her stone.

“You! Little! Fucker!” screams Gilda furiously with every punch, making the stone in her hand glow brighter as more blood coats it. “Reducing your friend to stinking piece of trash, huh!?”

Another punch sends the back of his head cracking against the floor, but before he can finish a groan, Gilda pulls him up and brings his beak close to her breathing mask.

“I betcha you shot Nasty in the back just so you could get his money, didn't you!?” accuses Gilda.

Grim coughs blood and shakes his head while trying to push Gilda off. “No!”

“Do you want to shoot me in the back!?”

“No! I-”

He is cut off with another punch, then he is hoisted up by Gilda's natural hand and she aims her bladed finger at his bloodied face, with his blood dripping off to stain his coat and the floor in red blotches.

“Listen here, and listen very closely,” says Gilda, her voice low and quivering with rage. “You, me and Nasty are all that's left, so I would love -really love- for us to stick together and not view each other as competition. But, I swear to Celestia if you say stupid shit like that again I will rip out your fucking throat. Got it?”

Without releasing Grim, Gilda turns her blood-stained metallic talon towards Rotes, glaring at him as her chest heaves with her heavy panting.

“As for you, you better pull every string you got to find Nasty and bring him back to me,” orders Gilda. “I will take care of him from there.”

Rotes nods calmly, his eyes fixated on her robotic hand. “Of course. Anything else my employee would like for me to do?”

“Stop being a smart ass will be nice.”

“In due time, my dear.”

Gilda stiffens and her eyes bulge as The Stallion With The Glasses' voice bounces in her head.

Gilda's whole body trembles, and with it, the pieces of her augmentations. She pulls her mechanical hand back to her chest as her breathing becomes ragged. She drops Grim to the ground and hurries off into the kitchen, ignoring his growls and Rotes' staring. As she walks away, Anna rushes past her to help Grim, despite his profanity filled protests, and when she is in the kitchen, she yanks a chair out and slams herself down and runs her hands through her plumage. Her bladed fingers leave trails of red in her feathers and her trembling talons lightly scrape against her scalp, making her realize how much her hands are trembling. She pulls her hands away and stares at the blood coating her metallic hand and outlining the strange symbol in her stone.

Her heart races as she thinks about what she had just done. She has no idea why she snapped like that over something so simple as Grim being stupid with his words. She almost killed one of the few she has left after Brisk Wind stabbed her in the back over a simple phrase.

“Please, let me out! I'm sorry!” cries Brisk Wind, slamming her ghostly hooves against the stone with the thousands of other souls trapped inside, all yelling and begging and scrapping. With all that, the same cheerful voice of Tirek's servant returns to torment her.

Gilda squeezes her eyes shut and balls her mechanical hand into a fist, silencing those trapped inside. Those words from The Stallion With The Glasses and his demented smile haunt her memory and she rubs her face with her natural hand, unintentionally releasing a pained whimper. She drops her hand, though, when she hears something slide in front of her, and sees a steaming cup of tea in front of her with flower petals floating inside with a straw sitting inside. How there are flowers this time of year is beyond her and she looks up to see Ms. Leinen staring at her with a sympathetic smile. Another thing she finds odd.

“Remedy for your pain,” says Ms. Leinen in broken Equestrian. “Rotes says you have a lot of it.”

Gilda stares at her, silently wondering how she managed to brew tea without her hearing it.

“You were still for long time,” says Ms. Leinen, as if she had heard Gilda's thoughts on the tea. “You were shaking, too, and talking low to yourself and making sounds like a sad puppy.”

Gilda furrows her brows, wanting to say something sharp to Ms. Leinen, but the only things she can think of will make her sound like an idiot more than anything else, so she lets her stare do all the talking.

“May I?” asks Ms. Leinen, nodding towards the augmentation.

Gilda looks at the old ibex, then at her robotic hand, then back at her and with a reluctant sigh, she extends it while dipping her head to stick her straw through her breathing mask. She sips the drink and immediately feels its effects, but flinching when Ms. Leinen grabs her hand and starts inspecting it curiously. The soreness surrounding where flesh meet machine fade and a warmth fills Gilda body in a way that she has not felt in a long time. This makes her wonder if that coot has spiked her drink.

Gilda looks at Rotes' mother, watching her as she runs her hoof along the blades and feels the mechanics of her augmentation like a child allowed to hold an expensive toy at the expense of extreme care. When the ibex's hoof brushes over the stone, a flash of green and ghostly faces blinds Gilda and sends an invisible hammer to crack her skull with a torrent of hushed voice talking over each other and hurting her ears.

Gilda squeezes her eyes shut and pulls her augmented hand away so she can ball it into a fist while her natural hand rubs her temple. With the stone sealed off from the world with her metallic fingers, the voices stop, but the headache remains.

“You poor dear,” murmurs Ms. Leinen.

Gilda cracks her eyes open and sees the old ibex looking at her worryingly.

“Is this why you cry at night?” she asks.

“I don't cry,” says Gilda quickly.

Ms. Leinen's crows feet become thicker when her brows furrow with concern. “You do not have to lie. I hear you cry at night every night, and every day I see you mad and hurt and I am sad for you. I can see you are in a lot of misery and I know you are good but lost from how you beg in your sleep. Even now, after you hurt your friend, I heard you say sorry many times as though he was in front of you.”

Gilda feels a lump solidifying in her throat, but her attempts to swallow it bring only tears to her eyes, and her blinks serve to only blur her vision.

“I do not know what led you here or made you this, but I do not see a monster,” continues Ms. Leinen with a sympathetic smile. “I do not see a griffin. I see a soul that is terrified and uses the tough girl look as armor. You are lost, but it is never too late to start finding your way back, and when you do start, the Higher Powers will sing and rejoice.”

Gilda, not wanting to hear anymore of this, snaps her robotic hand away with a vicious sneer. “Keep your religious shit to yourself.”

Ms. Leinen flinches and a flicker of hurt crosses her features, but her tense stature relaxes to understanding, and she nods and lowers her head. “I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you. But please, for your sake, abandon your fears and anger. They have already taken my son, they do not need to take you, too.”

With those words, Ms. Leinen exits with her head down, leaving Gilda alone with the remedy. Gilda watches the old ibex leave out of the corner of her eye, and once she is out of sight, her body deflates with a loud sigh, and she bows her head and grips her drink harder.

“In light of the social unrest taking Altai, the recently crowned King Arany Korona has made a royal decree that outlaws the Social Unity Party, led by prime minister candidate Councilor Sol Paprsek,” says a female over the radio who is putting about as much enthusiasm in her tone as a mysophobic wanting to stick their hooves in a mud puddle. “This has sparked both praise and criticism from both sides of the political spectrum, claiming it was well within or out of reach of his powers. King Korona had this to say about his choice.”

“The Kingdoms of Altai have a strong heritage,” says a translator, also sounding bored over the charismatic voice of the young griffin king in the background. “Our heritage is something that must not be tossed aside no matter the reasons. Any party that denies our foundation, promises to fundamentally alter us, and believes themselves to be equal to or greater than Kairos has no place in any of the griffin kingdoms protected under our covenant. Every kingdom of Altai will recover. Our infrastructure will be fixed, our farms will flourish and our industry will be restored. But this revival needs to be done without the poison of the Social Unity Party in our veins.”

The radio cuts back to the female host. “Ever since newly crowned King Korona's father, King Czar the Twenty Third, passed away, Altain politics has taken a rapid turn for what many have accused of only causing more division in the troubled nation. Including the prosecution and harassment of left leaning organizations and increased military spending for-”

Rotes turns the radio off takes a deep breath while running his hoof through his mane. He was afraid that the newly crowned king of Altai would do something like this due to his unfriendly view on progress. Rotes knew that there would always be a chance that deceit would not work, such as a lost election or an outright ban. However, with the latter happening, he will have to divert more resources that he could have used for something else to ensure that Altai's role in Storm Cloud is a success.

Rotes starts pacing around the room, worrying about how he and Sol will handle this situation. He has not worked much with Sol, only knowing that he is a believer in Perfect Harmony and is one of the big investors of Storm Cloud. His unwavering financial and moral support for this noble cause is something Rotes finds admirable about the griffin, however, investors never like added finances.

With that thought in mind, Rotes starts pacing anxiously around the room, keeping his eyes to the floor as his mental gears turn. If the reports of Altai's deteriorating condition are any indications of what must be done, then he knows that he will have to send Cutter over there with Sol to ensure that things runs smoothly, just like when he sent him over to Equestria. Which brings a big concern to him. He has not heard back from his friend or his party. The news of Equestria's and her allies' call to arms alerts him of the success, but he is worried about the cost of this move.

“Rotes?” calls Anna.

Rotes stops pacing and looks to his side to see Anna looking at him worryingly. A pair of his guards appear to have been static until he looked at her, as seen by their sudden movements in random directions. Rotes ignores this, though, and smiles thinly at Anna.

“Yes?” he says.

“Are you alright? You look worried,” says Anna.

Rotes nods quickly. “I am fine. I just need to think... Is Grim okay? He did not look so good after Gilda beat him senseless.”

“He is shaken up, but he does not want to admit it, and he used all of the band-aids and rubbing alcohol.”

“I will send March to get some more, then. You are worried about Cutter, yes?”

“I can barely sleep because I worry about him, and every night I pray that Zäh will come home safely. In fact, Knackig and I barely saw him before you sent him off to where ever it was you sent him. He only saw us because I caught him trying to leave a note before he left.”

“Did he tell you where he was going?” Anna shakes her head and Rotes hums in thought, secretly pleased that Cutter has not given away any clues for his purpose for leaving. “How is your son doing?”

“Knackig is fine. I have my brother watching him for now, but he misses Zäh.” Anna smiles and chuckles sadly. “He cannot speak just yet, but I see him staring at the door a lot and he is always holding this old burnt doll that Zäh kept for some reason.”

Anna then gasps loudly and covers her mouth with her hoof, blushing in embarrassment and Rotes cracks a teasing smile.

“A burnt doll? I am going to have to ask Cutter about that when he returns,” he says jokingly.

“Please don't mention the doll,” begs Anna, her hoof still to her mouth, but a smile seen just as easy without it in the way.

“Why? It will be funny to see his face when I ask him about it. Does he have more?”

Before Anna can answer, the phone rings and both ibexes look at it in a snap. It rings again and Rotes dives towards his seat, barely giving himself a chance to sit down as he slips on his headset and turns on his receiver.

“Hallo?” says Rotes, just a little short of breath as excitement and anticipation takes a hold.

“Rotes. It's me,” says Cutter.

Rotes sighs with relief and relaxes in his seat with a big smile, knowing that his friend is alive and well after a period of uncertainty. “Cutter, my friend, it is good to hear you again. Where are you?”

“I am at a safe house with our friend,” says Cutter, his tone less than pleased about the situation.

Rotes blinks. “An Equestrian safe house?”

“Yes. Me, Garten and a few others are with the Painter and Paprsek, and Papersek is not happy about what happened in Altai.”

“I would question his state of mind if he was joyful.”

“I think finding out about the event over the radio is a big reason for his short temper more than anything else.”

Rotes hears Paprsek shouting in foreign words in the background, and he sighs and rubs his brow while glancing at Anna, watching her anxious demeanor get worse as she inches closer to hear. “We will figure out Altai. In the meantime, what time do you think you will be back? Anna has arrived and she is asking about you.”

There is a heavy pause on the other end. Rotes can imagine his friend's stiff demeanor crumbling at the mention of his wife.

“Cutter?” calls Rotes.

“Tell her I will be home soon,” says Cutter. “But the Painter is not letting me nor anybody else leave for the time being.”

Rotes furrows his brows. “Why?”

“I will let him tell you.”

The headset on the other end is laid down and Rotes can hear Cutter calling for the Painter. There is a quick conversation that he cannot make out because the words are a garbled mess, but when he hears the headset moving, he sucks his breath and tenses.

“Leinen, we speak again,” says the Painter.

Rotes slowly exhales, sending a calming wave through his body. “Painter, my friend has just told me you are not letting them leave Equestria. Care to explain?”

“It is for a good reason, I assure you.”

“And what reason is that?”

“The Equestrians know your role in this and it is safe to assume that they will be searching for your associates as well as you. I am currently working on finding a safe passage out of Equestria so your friends can return to their homes without interference.”

Rotes loses all of his air. Then his heart starts pumping fast and he finds hoof shaking and his throat becoming dry as baked sand. His shocked expression shifts between worry and anger, with the latter absorbing the former as thoughts of his ambitions being ruined by some kind of fluke. It is troubling without a doubt, but he is too angry about this news to worry.

“And how exactly did they find out about me?” asks Rotes venomously. He can see Anna's expression shift to worry as she steps back.

“Through a problem that I will be taking care of very soon,” replies the Painter.

Rotes slams his hoof on the desk. “HOW DID THEY FIND OUT ABOUT ME!?”

“The deserter, Nasty Hick, somehow made his way to Equestria and has proven to be more observant than he led us to believe with the amount of information he gave the military. Nevertheless, I have an asset that will be taking care of him very soon.”

Rotes slumps in his seat, rubbing his face and shoulders buckling as laughter and whines battle each other. He can feel the eyes of his guards and guest on him, but he does not care. His bubbling rage is keeping him focused on the problem at hand. A problem that has horrible timing with the news of Altai and the fact that he still has no idea how Ozean got as close as he did to ruining everything in the first place.

Cackles and whimpers mesh together as Rotes wipes his muzzle, then he sniffs and brushes his blonde mane back with a trembling hoof and licks his lips before speaking again. “Well, that's just- That- I am over-joyed to hear that you are taking care of that rat, but that does not solve the fact that the Equestrians know my role in this. So, tell me, Painter, how do you plan on fixing that problem!”

“This is an ample opportunity to speed up the war you desire and to remove a thorn in my side. When they come for you, it will be a team of Wonderbolts led by Major Spitfire Temper. On her team is a mare, Airmare Rainbow Dash. She needs to die and if she dies on the battlefield, preferably in a way that does not point to execution, then she will be just another casualty of war and our side will be free of one more complication.”

Rote's mind fuzzes out for only a moment as he tries to process this request, then he scowl and digs his hoof in the table as he snarls. “If this mare is such a problem for you then why not have this 'asset' kill her instead of doing this stupid stunt!”

Click.

Rotes flinches, then his scowl returns with greater fury. He removes his headset and holds it in front of his face, body trembling and teeth grinding as the ground around him rumbles with the pulsating cold inside him. Then he screams.

“Arschlock!”

The floor explodes around him and the communication set up is crushed into the wall, snapping the wood into jagged splinters and showering him with sparks and broken metal, making Anna yelp and dive for cover. With a swipe of his glowing hoof, the remains of the set up are thrown down the hall, where they bounce across the floor and shatter the glass door leading to the patio. The breaking glass causes his guards jump and some even cock their weapons, only to lower them sheepishly when they realize that it was Rotes and not a raid.

“Rotes, what is wrong?” asks March, waving away Gilda and Ms. Leinen when they poke their heads out to investigate while Anna is ushered away by a pair of guards.

“I need air!” shouts Rotes.

Not giving anyone the chance to talk to him, he stomps away from the remains of his equipment, flicking his hoof to force the door open, and once he is in the bitter cold, he uses his gift to slam it shut. He can feel the foundation shake and hear the wood crack, but he honestly does not care. He has been betrayed, he knows it. There is no logical explanation for the Painter's actions, and the excuse of using it to “speed up his war” is flimsy at best. If anything, it is a glorified hit disguised to look like a favor in exchange for a service of killing a pest.

Rotes starts pacing in circles, kicking up clumps of snow with blue bursts of energy coming from his hooves, muttering: “What are you planning? What are you planning? You think you can backstab me and make it look innocent? Foolish diva.”

Rotes stops and plants his front hooves on the porch wall and glares at the gray haze covering the forest. No longer does he see solitude, but a menacing curtain that shields potential enemies. His mind works tirelessly to figure out the Painter's motives, but they keep going back to the same conclusion of a double cross. The reasons are unknown to him since he believed that they both wanted the same thing. However, with this move, he has his doubts. More questions go throw his brain.

How did an idiot like Nasty Hick find his way to Equestria?

How did he get so much information when he was barely around to do an in depth investigation?

Why is he so calm about the Equestrian military going after the biggest proponent of the new world order?

What kind of vendetta is only satisfied when someone else other than the grudge holder does the killing?

All these questions bring Rotes to a dead end, but he does not have the chance to find another answer other than a blank board because a group of soldiers approach his abode, being escorted by one of his patrol parties. He squints his eyes and sees that in the middle of the cluster is a shaky, old male ibex with light gray fur and a near white mane, wearing a bulging winter jacket with poorly stitched patches on it.

Rotes sneers and storms back inside, murmuring: “Everyone is coming to my house, today.” He stomps past the guards trying to clean up the mess from his and Gilda's outbursts and sees Grim sitting on his couch, holding a wet, bloody towel to his scratched face. “Get the hell off my couch.”

Grim takes one look at Rotes, but when he sees that murderous look behind the glasses, then hops off with his defiant glare replaced with anxiety as he moves towards one of the chairs. He gives Rotes a questioning look, and after getting the nod of approval, he hesitantly sits down.

“March, we have company!” yells Rotes, continuing when March enters the living room. “You know what to do.”

March nods and leaves in a hurry, taking some of the guards with him, and Rotes plops down on the clean side of his couch, grimacing when he sees the damp, dark spot where Grim laid his nasty butt. With a menacing growl rumbling in his throat, he slowly turns to look at the said griffin.

“You ruined my couch,” he says.

Grim swallows and presses the cloth harder against his face. “Sorry.”

“Is Gilda still in the kitchen?”

Grim points upstairs. “She locked herself in her room.”

“Get her down here. We have company and I want you two to do your jobs and watch over me.”

Grim nods, slides off the chair and walks away, but with one hand keeping the bloody rag pressed against his face, his steps are awkward, and would actually be comical if the situation were better. A couple of minutes later, Grim and Gilda walk into the living room in time with March, his guards and all the ibexes that were outside.

“Sir, this is Herr Birch, he knows how Ozean found out about our port operations,” says the March.

“Really? Have a seat,” says Rotes, motioning for the guest to sit on the chair Grim previously sat in. After the old ibex has a seat, he shifts uncomfortably and Rotes leans forward, staring intently into the elder's scared eyes. “So, tell me, Herr Birch, how do you know what eludes my comrades?”

Birche swallows and looks up at March, who nods reassuringly, and the old ibex looks at Rotes and sucks in some air.

“I-I am a janitor, and I was staying late one day,” begins Birch, his voice quivering with his body. “Post did not know I was at the cathedral, and I overheard him talking with a girl in his office. He said he overheard some of your soldiers talking about how they were going to Equestria and she said she will have someone named Ozean look into it.”

Rotes holds up his hoof. “Wait. Post? As in Preacher Post?”

“Ye-Yes, sir. He is, um, he is actually a Kirchenvater now.”

Rotes scoffs and slams his hoof down, really despising this day so far. “Unbelievable. Continue, please. I would like to hear more about people stabbing me in the back.”

“I am afraid that is all I can give you, sir.”

Rotes stares at the janitor, eye twitching and jaw setting. “Correct me if I am wrong, but are you expecting me to believe you -someone whom I have never seen before- and your story saying that an old acquaintance of mine has joined my enemy?”

“I-I know it is not much, but I have seen him very cautious over the last few months, always asking a lot of questions about you to your soldiers and following them closely in the market.” When Rotes raises a brow, he holds out his hoof defensively. “The soldiers remain loyal to you, though, and I am certain it was a slip of the tongue that led to him talking to this woman.”

“Following my soldiers... Talking to mysterious women... Did you at least get a look at his contact?”

Birch nods. “I saw her face. At first I thought she saw me, but-”

“What did she look like?”

“Around your age. She wore thick glasses, had a red mane, orange eyes and wore a lavender scarf and a dark cloak. She is not from around here or else I would have recognized her.”

“Cloak and scarf. Fitting for a schemer.” Rotes smacks his lips and stands up with a groan. “Well, thank you for your time, Herr Birch. I will look into this personally, and as for you, I will ensure that you have a safe trip back and will send you a reward if your claim is accurate.”

“Wait? You are not going to hurt Father Post are you?” asks the old ibex with an outstretched hoof.

Rotes shakes his head, straining himself to give a reassuring smile. “Herr Birch, I am merely investigating your claim. No one is going to get hurt.” He looks at the the group of militants that brought Birch in. “Make sure he arrives home safely.”

The militants nod and voice their acknowledgments and walk out with Birch in the middle of their group. Once they are out, Rotes' smile fades and he turns to March.

“Clean up that spare set in the basement. I need to make a phone call.”

Ten minutes later, Rotes is sitting in front of a communications set in the basement with March standing by the doorway, watching and shifting uneasily in his spot. It is sparkling clear, just like a good sized radius around it. Not a speck of dust or a streak of grime can be found, but even though it is a fantastic cleaning from March, this does little to alleviate Rotes' rage. His breathing is heavy and his jaw is locked as he slips on the headset and dials a number with hard flicks of his hoof. When the other end starts dialing, he stares at the number dial, tapping his hoof impatiently on the wooden table as the ringing grates his ears and thin patience.

“Commissioner Kirche's office,” says a sweet female voice on the other end.

“Hallo, this is Herr Leinen and I would really love to speak with my good friend, Kirche. Could you please put him on for me?” says Rotes in a bright tone that would send shivers down the spine of the most hardened soldiers.

“R-Right away, sir. Please hold.”

Not even five seconds later and Rotes is graced with the sound of Kirche's shaking voice.

“Rotes, I was not expecting a call from you,” he says.

“Today is full of unexpected events,” remarks Rotes. “The first is rather alarming since I just found out that we will be having the Equestrians coming by very soon because of a rat. Also, I just learned from an old geezer that Father Post, one of the staples in your community, has been talking to one of Ozean's whores. This, of course, meant that Ozean was told about my operations, which led to many deaths and the shaking of Storm Cloud and the Gold Star's success. So, through a chain of events, this mess is actually your fault since you cannot keep tabs on the populace like you're supposed to!”

“B-But, Herr Leinen, I do not-”

“Shut up! Just shut your trap and listen, you idiot! Listen very good because I do not want to repeat myself. Because of these problems that you caused, nobody will be leaving Der Tal or the entire region without my permission. We are in lock down and will stay that way until I say otherwise. Are we clear?”

“But quarantining the region-”

“I am not in the mood to hear excuses!” screams Rotes into the headset, red faced and eyes flashing blue. “I will deal with Post before this day's end. Make sure he does not leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rotes hangs up with a slam, then he turns to March, seething with twitching muscles and short breaths. “Send Mama home with Anna with protection, and make sure it is clear that they are not to leave the house until I say so. There will be blood spilled tonight and I would rather have them protected from acts of retribution.”

March nods and is about to leave, but when Rotes puts the headset back on and starts dialing another number, he pauses and gives his boss a questionable look.

“Who are you calling this time?” asks March.

Rotes glares at him out of the corner of his eye. “A real army. Now go!”

March nods and leaves in a hurry, and Rotes shakes his head and resumes dialing.

At nightfall, a convoy of ten vehicles speed through the snow covered road leading to a small village that is still made of mostly brick and wooden buildings, illuminating their paths with bright headlights. The sign they pass, Willkommen im Tal, is splintering and the paint is fading, and the town past it is just as archaic as the sign.

The tires kick up muddy snow from the dirt roads, and oil lamp lanterns are placed at each corner of the blocks with the wooden or bricked buildings lacking proper maintenance.

The convoy consists of Rotes' motorized wagon, which has the heater going on in full blast and is being driven by March; five of the vehicles are flat-bed mini-trains with metal plates attached to the sides to create a wall holding in huddled militants, with one of them operating the attached Gatling gun turrets; two of them are modified motorized wagons equipped with Gatling gun turrets and roll bars; and the last two are mini-trains with armored plates, roll-bars and cannons attached to them.

Rotes glances out his window and shivers when they pass the tiny school, illuminated by some of the few electrical lights in the town. He can still see the bullet holes lining it and it makes him sick that they have not had the decency to plug them up or tear down the whole building and put up a new one.

Looking away from the school house, he puts his focus on the bricked cathedral that has a dark purple steeple rising into the night sky with the moon on its tip glowing from the light inside it. It is supposed to be the “Light in the Dark” as they say, but it is so dim he sees only a failing lamp instead of a symbol of hope.

When the convoy stops in front of the cathedral, Rotes waits for March to open the door for him, and once he does, he steps out in the snow, grimacing as his covered hooves sink into sloshy mess. Seconds later, Grim and Gilda land next to him, both covered in thick jackets, just like him and everyone else. Waiting for the group is a group of twenty guards dressed in white jackets and equipped with slender battle saddles, with an elderly ibex in the center.

He is wearing the same white attire as his guards, but has a golden scale inside a circle pinned on his collar. He also has a dark blue coat with a gray mane and his coat fading around his wrinkly eyes. This is Commissioner Kirche.

“Gute Nacht, Herr Leinen,” says Kirche nervously as Rotes walks towards him. “Post is inside giving his sermon. Should we wait until he is finished?”

“No,” replies Rotes. “I did not wait all day just for him to finish whatever it is he blabs about. A message must be delivered and it will do no good if no one is around to witness it.”

Rotes sucks in the frigid air, then goes forward with Kirche, March, Gilda and Grim, and a dozen escorts made of militants and local guards following close behind. His steps feel heavier and his heart beats harder as he climbs the stairs, and when he reaches the double door, he stops and listens to the other side. Post is giving a passionate speech about something that Rotes wants to ignore, but is finding himself to be mildly curious, so he stares at the full moon and constellations decorating the door.

“I urge you to starve your wrath! Starve that monster and do not let it eat at the goodness we have inside!” says Post on the other side, being supported by cheers and claps. “Take the wrath you are harboring in your soul and show it true power! The power of love and forgiveness! The power of mercy and kindness! The undeniable power that virtue has over the false freedom of sin and hatred!”

Rotes shakes his head, then he nods to March and Kirche and the two walk forward and push open the door. Its groan sounds like a sick titan, and the speech comes to an abrupt end when Post and his congregation inside the warm chambers are revealed. The preach and Rotes lock eyes and the churchgoers turn their heads, then give each other curious looks as Rotes struts inside, refusing to look at the curious -and in some cases, worried- faces that trail him as he walks down the aisle with Gilda, Grim and the other escorts trailing him.

Post flinches when March and Kirche close the doors with a shaking thud, and looks at Rotes, swallowing with his eyes glazing and hoof shaking.

“You know why I am here, yes?” says Rotes, his voice bouncing off the walls, amplifying the malicious intent in his tone.

“I know you are here for the wrong reasons,” replies Post.

“It depends on who you ask, really. To me, I am here for the right reason, but let us not delay the inevitable, shall we?” Rotes waves his hoof around. “The commoners may leaves, the employees of this establishment stay.”

“Wait!”

Rotes sighs and looks at Post, speaking over the murmurs of confusion. “Yes?”

“At least let me give one last prayer... Please.”

Rotes takes a breath, looks at the scared and confused faces of those lost to Post's lies, then he looks at the one responsible for the death of many of his comrades and threatened all he worked for. As much as he would like to deny his new enemy the comfort of last words, he decides to show some respect to him. If not for old time's sake.

“Very well. Make it quick,” says Rotes.

Post swallows again and the podium shakes when he places his hoof on t. “Brothers and sisters... The time is now to pray. Not for our souls, but for the souls of those we hold dear to our hearts, for those who are lost in the cycle of pain and the lies of sin. Let us pray that they will be found and freed, and will join us in Paradise.”

Post bows his head, as does the mass, though more reluctantly with some stealing glances at the party. Gilda and Rotes keep their eyes on the pew while March and Kirche silently order their troops to spread out.

“Luna, Princess and Goddess of the Night, the Light in the Dark, we pray to you now for those who are lost,” begins Post.

Rotes rolls his eyes and Gilda takes a seat, rubbing her mechanical shoulder while Grim remains standing, purposefully making his pistol check loud. Rotes halfheartedly listens to Post's words as he watches the escorts move the church workers to the front. As this happens, he picks up a little bit of the prayer. Something about forgiveness and finding the strength to abandon their ways of sin and vice to find true peace. Standard religious talk that annoys him greatly. He can see that Grim shares the same sentiment from the way he yawns obnoxiously and mutters not-so-subtly about the old goat needing to hurry it up. However, when Rotes looks at Gilda, he sees her staring at that rock in her hand with sulking wings and a sadness eating away at her angry appearance.

'Great. Just what I need,' thinks Rotes sarcastically.

“May peace find us all. Amen,” concludes Post.

“Amen,” recites the crowd in a jumbled mess of zero to little enthusiasm.

Rotes and Gilda both look at Post, with the former standing up while the latter balls her mechanical hand in a fist and stares straight ahead.

“Okay, now that you have had your prayer, the commoners are to leave immediately and the employees of this establishment stay,” orders Rotes.

The escorts usher the churchgoers out of their pews, some more gently than others, while the rest keep their weapons trained on the workers. It does not take long for the church to empty of everyone Rotes does not want around, and when the last of them leave, the double doors are shut and locked. Rotes takes a moment to collect his thoughts after that.

“Post, I have a problem,” begins Rotes seconds later. He clicks his tongue, sighs and shifts his eyes to the stained glass murals to exaggerate his thinking. “I have a very big problem, actually. A lot of my comrades died recently and I believe a figure whom I have trusted sent wolves my way for a game he is playing. I fear that this will lead to more of my friends dying and all my hard work coming to a horrible end.”

Rotes stops and taps his hoof lightly on the rug, pretending to marvel at the violet base, dark blue trim
and the phases of the moon stitched in white.

“And I know that another person whom I thought I could trust went behind my back and told a not so nice person that I was doing bad things. I know that person was you, Post.”

Post moves his mouth, struggling to find his words, and Rotes leans forward, both brows raised and hoof moving in a circular motion.

“Care to explain why you went behind my back?” says Rotes impatiently.

Post swallows nervously. “I have been called to fight against you and the evil you wish to spread.”

There is a moment of tense silence as Rotes and Post stare at each other. The former is staring at the latter with, at first, a blank face, mostly due to shock of being called “evil”, but that changes to sadness as he questions how anyone could view himself and his work as the enemy. That answer is found quickly enough, though, and his sadness manifests to an anger. An anger that he lets known by a deep, loud inhale and a slow exhale as he runs his hoof through his mane.

“Let me see if I understand your logic, Post,” begins Rotes. “You are calling the one who wishes to bring perfection to a broken world evil, yet you preaching about the joys of being a slave and marking despair as a source of happiness is good? That is not logical. That is insanity.”

Post's jaw drops. “Rotes, why are you twisting what I teach?”

“I do not twist anything. I see what I see and hear what I hear and I go from there; and I really do not like how you endorse slavery and despair and yet you fight me and my efforts to fix what is broken by going behind my back and getting my comrades killed!”

“I never wanted anyone hurt! I never wish death upon anyone for any reason! But it is a commandment from Luna to fight evil where it may be and-!”

“Yes, yes, worship the benign goddess that turned into a demon and got banished for a thousand years. I am sure she is beautiful inside and out, now,” interrupts Rotes with an flashy wave of his hoof. He nods to Kirche and March, and they in turn bark orders to the guards who line the church workers along the wall. As they yells their orders over the protests of the workers, Rotes sighs and looks at Post, who is looking between him and the line of hostages. “I have noticed that it is always the slave master that tries to hide the truth by making it out to be something benign, and slaves recite the mantra and do their master's bidding because they have been corrupted. The fact of the matter is that slavery is slavery and betrayal is betrayal, and no matter how much you paint them in pretty colors and say that they are rainbows, they are still, in fact, evil. Just like you and your church.”

“E... Evil?” Tears pool Post's eyes as he holds out his hoof pleadingly to the androgynous ibex. “Rotes, do you not remember who gave you comfort in your times of need? Or who escorted you to safety when the Prosecutions began? It was me. It was the church. The church hid so many Telekinetics and escorted them to safety. It was by protests from us and our members in the National Committee that ended the Prosecutions! Do you not remember any of that?”

Those words lock Rotes' muscles, and he closes his eyes while taking a deep, long breath. He can feel a painful tension going through his muscles and the cold returning to his limbs and eyes as his heartbeats become heavy. He releases his held breath through his nose, gladly feeling the warmth returning in his body and his muscles and heart relaxing. Though, when his eyes open, the blue takes longer than usual for it to fade.

“I remember a boy who prayed to Luna every night for his papa to return,” begins Rotes slowly, his eyes now back to green and turning around to observe a stained glass mural above the entrance depicting Luna standing watch on the moon. “And She answered his prayers by sending him back in a casket.”

Rotes turns back to Post, his eyes and throat hurting from the building tears he is trying to keep locked away.

“I remember a boy who prayed to Luna to save him and his mama from the Prosecutions. And She answered by having his mama abandon him at the dock so he can suffer at an Equestrian orphanage,” continues Rotes, now walking towards Post, seething with faint tears trailing down his cheeks. “I remember more than you realize, Uncle. And I know more than you know. I know the true face of faith. The truth of the Higher Powers and this world. And that is a truth you refuse to see and one I cannot afford to teach you.”

Rotes steps back, and Kirche and March step forward while Gilda and Grim watch. Post stands his ground, eyes watering and lips trembling as the alter boys and maidens step back, many mouthing prayers.

“Rotes, stop this! This is not the young boy I knew! This is not you!” begs Post.

“YOU DO NOT KNOW ME! YOU HAVE NEVER KNOWN ME AND YOU NEVER WILL!” bellows Rotes.

His voice shakes the church and his escorts look around nervously as dust falls loose from the ceiling and cracks snap out from under his hooves that travel to the walls and shatter the stained glass. He takes a deep breath, eyes red and puffy, and tears soaking his cheeks. He swallows the suffocation and brushes back his blonde mane before adjusting his glasses and approaching Post. He grabs Post by his cheeks and looks directly into the old ibex's eyes. The preacher's terrified expression reflects off of Rotes' glasses and his trembling shakes the androgynous ibex's hooves, but still the grip remains.

“You abandoned me, as did Mama,” says Rotes, his voice wet and quivering. “And now... Now you betrayed me like I am without value even though I am doing more to save this world than your petty sermons.”

“Rotes, you are valuable,” begins Post, tears rolling down his cheeks and eyes struggling to stay on Rotes.

Rotes shakes his head. “Your actions say otherwise.”

“But you are valuable. You were put here for a reason like all of us, and it is the point of living to figure out what that reason is so we can make this world better.” Post grabs Rotes' shoulders and blinks tears away as he looks into the younger ibex's eyes with desperation. “Rotes, I am begging you, there is still time to turn back from your demons and embrace the goodness I know you have inside. You are meant for great things, but this... This will only lead to your ruin. You must put an end to this before it is too late!”

Rotes scowls with disgust and shrugs Post's hooves off of him, then, as his guards force the old ibex away, he brushes the wrinkles away from his outfit. Once that his done, he inspects the church workers with each beat of his heart making his chest feel heavier and his lungs feeling tighter. He wants to scream at Post for suggesting he abandon his work so he can keep his leash on the commoners. It disgusts him down to the core, and seeing the workers of the establishment staring at him, shaking and muttering prayers gives him a mixed sense he does not like. He wants to punish them for allowing themselves to be corrupted, yet, he also pities them for being indoctrinated since birth. They did not stand a chance, and this conflict of disgust and remorse is leaving him sick. However, sickness or not, he knows what must be done.

“You are right. I can end this. And I will,” says Rotes with a subtle nod aimed at the priest. He turns back to the church workers and spots a young male ibex, no more than thirteen. He starts walking towards the teenager, speaking along the way. “Post, what you call demons, I call advisers, and they tell me that the bourgeoisie have been trampling on the commoners for far too long. My studies in Equestria and life experiences have shown them to be correct. Their greed has led to the death of my papa and the desolation of our home, leaving the elite to flourish while the commoners starve.”

Rotes stops in front of the teenager, studying his light brown coat and dark mane. His horns have barely started curving and his midnight blue robe looks like it has been hastily washed and pressed. He is disappointed that someone who works for a respected establishment would be so careless in their appearance, but, then again, kids will be kids, and soon the child won't have to worry about keeping his presence tidy.

“It is because of greed that the Equestrians and the world refused to help us in our time of need,” says Rotes, his tone rapidly being consumed by anger. “It is because of greed that my kind was slaughtered and imprisoned. It is because of greed that civilization has been stunted. Greed is the root of all evil, and I will be the one to save civilization from itself, with or without help. Starting with the threat closest to home.”

Rotes steps closer to the alter boy and looks into his eyes. The teenager knees tremble in his presence and his wet, terrified eyes reflect off of the androgynous ibex's glasses, but his terror is met with winter cold calm.

“Threats to civilization come in many forms. They can take the form of the most benign institutions or the well established social order, but threats are threats. No matter the age, gender or relation,” continues Rotes, his hoof carefully brushing away the lint and uneven folds that the young teenager has so carelessly allowed, ignoring his sniffles and trembling.

“Get your hoof off of him!” shouts a female ibex.

The words from the shouting guards are blurred as they talk over each other and aim their weapons at the female being held back by March.

“Do you want to get shot!” yells March as he pushes her back, his tone sounding more afraid for her life than trying to be intimidating in Rotes's ears.

Rotes glances at the female out of the corner of his eye, watching his guards and Grim inch forward, weapons raised, all while Gilda remains in her spot. He can see through Gilda's narrowed eyes that she is carefully studying the scene and anticipating the outcome, unlike Grim who's talon is twitching against the trigger, just waiting to blow a hole in somebody.

Rotes looks back at the female ibex and notices her striking resemblance to the young teenager in terms of color. She is about his age, too, and has her dark brown mane tied back. Unlike the other, her midnight blue robe with the lavender trim is clean and ironed properly, and her full moon amulet around her neck is polished. Which, now that Rotes realizes it, the look alike is the only one out of all the other workers of this church that is not wearing it. Another sign of youthful carelessness.

“Is this your son?” asks Rotes, motioning towards the messy child.

“Yes. Yes, he is,” she says.

Her voice may be quivering, but she has enough courage to look Rotes in the eyes and let her body language challenge him to touch her child again. This reminds him all too much of what his mother did not do, and he motions his guards to release the mother. Immediately she runs to her child and hugs him tight.

“At least you had enough sense to come to the defense of your child rather than abandoning him,” says Rotes. “I respect that, but a price must be paid for what Post has done to all of us.”

“Rotes, what are you doing?” asks Post shakily.

Rotes steps between March and Kirche and waves towards the huddled mother and son and Post. “Spare Post and those two. Kill everyone else.”

A barrage of gunfire rings out for just a few seconds, but in that span of seconds, the maidens and alter boys jerk as the bullets rip through them and the walls are chipped with bullets and splattered with blood. When the bodies fall, Post clutches his head and howls in despair as he collapses on the ground, sobbing and slurring his words with tearful shouts and gulps of air.

Rotes looks at the bodies, amazed at how familiar the scene looks shortly before he was sent away. Same cold morning with blanket of snow, a wall and a group of terrified civilians staring down the barrels. All shivering and begging, and their begs turning to terrified shouts as the row of guns click.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” screams Gilda furiously.

“What have you done!” sobs Post.

“Close your eyes, Rotes,” orders his mother's voice in a hushed whisper with her ghostly hooves wrapping around his head.

Rotes closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, hearing the gunshots clearly in ears as if the executions has been looped. He opens his eyes again and sees the dead church workers and slaughtered civilians lying in a tangled bundle with their blood staining the snow and dripping down the wall. Rotes blinks and only the massacre in the cathedral remains.

He looks at March and Kirche and sees that their smoking weapons are lowered, but March is staring at the massacre, eyes bulged and watering and his body trembling. It reminds him of a fresh recruit he saw standing still, utterly petrified by what he did, while the others moved ahead to pile the bodies on a wagon full of corpses to be burned later.

The soldier looks at his commander and asks him with tears in his eyes: “What have we done?”

Rotes recites exactly what the commander tells him. “What had to be done.”

Rotes looks down at the floor, realizing how close the gory pool is to his hoof, and he steps, watching it seep into the crevices of the tile and stain the lavender carpet in red. As Rotes watches the blood and listens to Post wail with the other two survivors, Kirche turns around and waves his hoof in a circular motion, ordering his soldiers to secure the area.

Rotes looks at Gilda and sees her disgust as well as the twitches in her muscles and the subtle flexes in her mechanical talons. She wants to rip his throat out, of that he is certain. He turns his attention to Grim and sees the griffin is staring at the mess with morbid fascination.

“Grim,” calls Rotes, garnering the attention of the griffin swiftly. He nods to Post. “Kill him.”

Grim does not hesitate to put a round in Post's head, silencing the ibex's cries with a thunderous gunshot and making the other two shriek and sob louder as they huddle closer and shrink further into the floor. Gilda shouts at Grim, but he just looks at her with an annoyed stare, all while Rotes silently stares at the corpses, forcing himself not to care about the blood or the stares condemning him.

“It had to be done,” whispers Rotes to himself.

Rotes silently tells himself that Post had gotten in the way of his plans for a better world, and a lesson had to be made to show everyone that betrayal to the Gold Star will always be unacceptable and will be met with justified retaliation. It is a fact of life that he has studied and observed multiple times to be effective.

Roam conquered and held its massive empire by completely annihilating opposing armies and dispersing their populations.

Celestia brought down the Lunar Revolt by turning the Elements of Harmony into weapons, banishing Nightmare Moon and turning her supporters into stone.

Altai was pushed out of Bernese because of the blood lust and wrath of their military fueled by the rage of the Lulamoon Monastery Massacre.

And the demands for equality by his kind were met with a short lived genocide that put them lower than they were before.

Now, he has just secured his place as the rightful ruler of this region by showing everyone that he will take whatever measures necessary to keep him and his purpose safe.

Rotes is brought out of his state when he registers that the two survivors are sobbing harder with the mother telling her son through her tears and shaking voice that everything will be fine. Seeing that brings a lump to Rotes' throat and leaves his heart feeling like someone has dug their claws in it and started pulling.

“Kirche, have your troops search Post's office. Take every bit of documentation you can find and use it to find a female with a red mane and orange eyes who wears glasses,” orders Rotes distantly as he blinks haze out of his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” says Kirche swiftly.

He moves to relay the order, but is stopped when Rotes holds out his hoof.

“When they have everything, burn this place down,” adds Rotes without looking away from the survivors.

Kirche is hesitant, but still nods. “Yes, sir.”

Rotes drops his hoof and Kirche trots away, shouting out orders, and while the Commissioner does this, he sits in front of the two sobbing survivors and gently shushes them.

“You should be proud, madam,” says Rotes, gently stroking her cheek and trying to look into her eyes, even though she is recoiling and hugging her weeping son closer to her. When she cracks an eye open and looks at him though, sniffling with tears soaking her cheeks, he offers a toothless smile. “Your love for your child has saved you. But do not thank Luna for this. Thank me and my mercy.”

“Sir, we have a crowd outside,” says one of the local guards.

“As expected,” says Rotes with a sigh while standing up. He then looks up at the stained glass mural of Luna with her wings outstretched and eyes closed. A disgusted snarl corrupts his features and he growls and turns away from it swiftly and trots down the aisle with March and Kirche close behind him. “Kirche, make sure those two are brought home safely. They have had enough tribulation for the day. Then round up the commoners for interrogation about his contact, starting with Post's closest associates. I do not care if you have to interrogate them with unrestricted cruelty to get answers, understood?”

Kirche nods. “Understood.”

As soon as Kirche and March open the doors, Rotes nearly runs down the snowy stairs, listening to the thumps of his heart and his short, panicked breaths. His heart races and every shout of the held back crowd is distant as he tries to separate the similarities between the executions he witness and orchestrated.

'One is for evil. One is for good. One is for evil. One is for good. One is for evil. One is for good.' This thought is a continuous rotation that tortures him in ways he never felt. Then he gets a sickly feeling in his stomach that brings him back to the picture of his family hanging above his fireplace. More specifically, his father and his painted eyes staring back at him with growing disappointment. 'It had to be done. He cannot be disappointed. He can't!'

“What the fuck was that!?” yells Gilda over the terrified clamoring of the gathered crowd being held back by Gold Star militants and the local guard.

Her voice snaps Rotes out of his thoughts and he glances at Gilda from over his shoulder while simultaneously picking up his pace.

“Do not pretend to have a change of heart, Gilda. I know of your exploits in Equestria,” says Rotes, his speech trembling and as brisk as his steps as he approaches his convoy.

“Why don't you take another look, you sick fuck! I never did anything like that!”

Rotes stops and turns to Gilda so that they are snout to beak with her with his muscles tensing and the coldness returning in his hooves. “Oh, really? How many families did you break apart with your drugs? How many lives did you ignore for a quick bit and how many rats did you have to remove to keep yourself and your ambitions safe?”

When Gilda does not answer, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, relaxing his muscles once more.

“Do not dare think of yourself as better than me, Gilda, for you are not,” continues Rotes harshly, but with doubt lacing his tone. “You are less than me because you value money whereas I value the good of civilization. In both cases, lives must be taken and changed, but for one, lives are taken to bring perfection closer whereas the other takes lives out of greed. Guess which one I follow?”

Gilda lets the rumbling growl in her throat do the talking for her and Rotes sniffs and turns to resume walking towards the convoy, not wanting to say another word to her. As he walks, he hears Kirche ordering a group of local guards to their next task, leading them to relay said orders and herding the civilians into clumps. There are terrified screams and shouts of protests, but they are silenced when thundering gunshots go over their heads, making them cry out and shrink down in fear.

Meanwhile, Rotes' guards move ahead to hop on the makeshift troop carriers or man the Gatling guns on the other vehicles. Rotes barely looks over his shoulder when another volley of gunshots echo over the commotion, and he can see the content look in Grim's eyes, the disgust of Gilda and the uneasiness of March. He looks back at Gilda for just a few more seconds when he realizes that her eyes are now mostly amber with green tint.

He's curious about the change in color, but his attention drifts to her mechanical hand for a moment, making a mental note to get some more information about the stone in it, before looking at the wagon. To him, the walk to his vehicle seems to be taking a lot longer than it should be, however, before he can complain, he is already there and March is now next to him, going for the door.

“I would appreciate it if you kept Post's death out of mama's attention. She will be ill with despair knowing that her brother has just died, and she cannot know that I had a hoof in it,” says Rotes, his stern edge wavering as he tries not to think about how he just ordered the execution of his uncle for the sake of progress.

March walks ahead and opens up the wagon door for Rotes. “We cannot keep it a secret forever. People talk. Word travels. She will find out what we did and we cannot stop that no matter how much we try.”

Rotes slides in and rubs his wet boots against the mat on the floor before placing them in front of his closed eyes in a prayer position. “I know. But she has yet to understand that there is no room for lies and false promises in the future. Only absolute loyalty to the Gold Star and Perfect Harmony can be allowed, and when she finds out, I hope for her sake she understands that.”

Rotes lowers his hooves and rests his head against the seat, eyes still closed, even when March closes his door and goes to sit on the driver's seat. Only when March closes his door and starts the engine does Rotes open his eyes and glance out the window to see Gilda and Grim readying for takeoff to be their air cover. His frown deepens and he looks straight ahead at the vehicle in front of him.

“Also, we will need to keep an eye on those griffins. I fear our false ally may have sent more than one pack of wolves our way.”

Rewards & Consequences

“Wake up, son. It's time for your medicine,” says the mysterious, gentle stallion.

Thunderlane's eyes open, expecting to see the source of the voice standing in front of him, or at least close by. What he sees instead, though, is a room made out of stone bricks with a light and ceiling fan in the center of the ceiling. He stares at it for a moment, watching the wobbly blades slice the air with their wooshes. The light is off, but plenty of natural sunlight is going through the window, illuminating the floating dust specks.

He swallows and cautiously crawls out of the bed, accidentally dragging the sky blue blanket off with him. He quickly puts the blanket back on the bed in as neatly as he can, then looks around the room as he walks towards the window. Next to the bed is a pair of crutches and a rocking chair, and on the chair is a doll of Celestia and an upside down, opened book titled Mare On The Moon. It has a basic picture of the moon when Luna was trapped on it, but Thunderlane does not inspect the book any more than that. He passes a shelf with wooden toys of various things, such as carts, a bird, boats and wooden figurines, all with fading paint and splintering in some parts.

When he gets to the window, he sees towering stone walls with turrets spaced equally apart, and the conversations and chirping birds down below mingle with the echoes of labor. Thunderlane looks at the towers surrounding the place and notices that each one has been decorated with a phase of the moon.

Thunderlane looks down below to the source of all the noise and sees hundreds of acres of open field. A generous portion has been converted to farmland, and tents and shacks are set up on another part. He observes ibexes in the field; some are working, others strolling and a few are laying down somewhere. From what he can see, it looks like some of the workers are building more shacks with wood and other materials brought in by large soldiers dragging wagons while the remaining work in the field or deliver food. As he scans the peaceful scenery below, he spots a familiar tree with a large trunk and thick, green leaves with flowers dotting it near the edge of the facility.

The scenery puts Thunderlane to ease. The confusion remains, but it only lingers as a faint emotion, whereas serenity moves in and dissolves his tension. Thunderlane smiles and puts his hoof on the window sill, trying to see as much of the paradise as he can, but what peace he finds is slashed away by a giggle.

The giggle sounds childish, but it still sends a shiver up his spine, and when he turns around he sees Young Thunderlane grinning at him from the doorway. Thunderlane blinks and moves away from the window to cautiously approach his younger self. His younger version sways in his spot, snickering, and when Thunderlane is halfway across the room, the child speaks.

“You look strong,” he says.

Thunderlane stops and forces a smile, despite how the kid is reminding him of a child serial killer. “Well, thank you. You look pretty strong, too.”

Young Thunderlane's smile fades and he looks down, wings and ears drooped. “Daddy says I'm not strong. He says I'm like a glass pony.”

Thunderlane walks forward, swallowing his spit and trying to keep his heart steady, especially when the lights in the hallway start flickering. “Why would he call you glass pony?”

Young Thunderlane looks up, his smile returning. “You're silly.”

Thunderlane stops, flicking his eyes to the hall when the light snaps off to show blood and bullet holes along the wall, but when the light reappears, none of that can be seen.

“Why am I silly?” asks Thunderlane slowly, still staring at the hallway.

“Because you already know why Daddy calls us a glass pony,” replies Young Thunderlane.

Thunderlane scrunches his brow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Young Thunderlane merely giggles and runs out of the room, and Thunderlane holds out his hoof, calling for himself to stop, but the colt keeps going, his giggling and steps fading. Thunderlane's hoof drops and he paces in circles a couple of times, muttering and arguing with himself, before he takes a deep breath and trots into the hallway.

He looks down the direction his younger self went and sees nothing. That is until the lights flicker, showing fresh corpses lying in pools of blood in the dim light. Thunderlane's heart picks up speed and his throat becomes dry as he stares at the disturbing scene. When the lights stop flickering, the bodies and blood are gone, and his younger self is standing at the end of the hall, waving and calling him forward. When Thunderlane starts moving after arguing with his legs that wanted him to back in the room, the colt bolts around the corner.

“Hey, wait a second!” shouts Thunderlane.

He gallops down the hall, hoping to Celestia that the lights do not flicker out again. He rounds the corner and sees posters and paper pinned to boards, all displayed in foreign words, and he sees Young Thunderlane rounding yet another corner, still running and snickering, and now taunting him.

“Come on, slowpoke!” teases the colt, his voice being another voice in Thunderlane's head rather than around the corner.

As Thunderlane gives chase, the walls start shaking like a godly hammer is smashing it, knocking loose the accumulated dust and making the light flicker, revealing more bloodied corpses. He slides to a stop, heart thumping and throat tight as the corpses flicker in and out of existence. The childish laugh from Young Hurricane is carried down the hall and Thunderlane looks up just in time to see the colt round another corner.

“Hurry up, Thunderlane!” shouts Young Thunderlane.

Thunderlane swallows and forces himself to move, trying to avoid stepping on the dead bodies littering the floor. There is another thud when Thunderlane turns the corner and the walls shake again, forcing him to skid to a stop and shield is eyes from the debris of collapsing ceiling tiles. The sparks from the snapped wires burn his coat, and as he winces, he sees Young Thunderlane grinning at him and grabbing a doorknob.

“Watch me bleed,” whispers Young Thunderlane, his voice clear in his head.

Then he opens the door, blinding Thunderlane with a flash of pure white light that burns his eyes. Thunderlane squeezes his eyes shut and raises his hoof again, but when he opens them, and blinks the blobs of colors away, he sees everything is in their prime condition. The floors are clean, the hallway is brightly illuminated with posters written in Bernesenese tacked to boards nailed to the stone walls, and a pair of female ibexes in nurse uniforms trot by him, giggling and speaking lightly in their native tongue.

“Uh... Excuse me,” says Thunderlane, unsure if he should feel lost or stupid about what is going on, but regardless of his feelings, the nurses ignore him. They walk right by him and he turns to look over at them, calling again. “Excuse me, nurses, can you... Help...”

The nurses go into a random room and slam it shut, leaving Thunderlane alone in the hallway. He sniffs and ruffles his feathers to keep his buzzing nerves under control, then after a quick shake, he looks at the door his young clone went in and starts forward.

“C'mon, Good, you know us Whooves have loyalty genetically built into us,” says a stallion lightly from behind the door. “We won't leave you here. We'll do whatever we can to protect you and Thunderlane.”

“Tick-Tock's right, you have nothing to worry about,” adds a mare that sounds way too familiar to Thunderlane to be comfortable, and it actually convinces him to trot to the door at a near gallop. “I know he and Gale have the connections to get you two out of Bernese quickly.”

Thunderlane practically rams the door off of its hinges when he slams his shoulder against it and grabs its knob.

“Thank you, Amber and T-T. This... I am forever in your debt for this,” says another stallion.

Thunderlane pushes the door open, heart thumping in his ears and his breathing short and sharp as he calls his mother, but what he sees instead is a clinic with a pegasus stallion and two ibexes. Nobody else can be seen. Not his mother, not “Tick Tock”, not his younger self. And the room is bleached white with a light bulb acting as a miniature sun, and next to the cot in the center is a table full of medical tools and a purple fluid in syringes.

Thunderlane's ears drop as quickly as his heart, and his pupils shrink to pinpricks at the sight of the needles while the two ibexes watch the pegasus flip through some notes, muttering to himself quietly.

The biggest ibex is wearing a midnight blue fatigues with the gold bars of the Lieutenant rank on his collar, and he has a sandy brown coat, a cropped, red mane, and big horns to go with his massive build. In fact, Thunderlane thinks the ibex can pass off as anearth pony if he looses the horns. Next to the Lieutenant is another ibex that is not nearly as big, but still a good size with a brown mane cut like his superior's and a coat that is like charcoal. Unlike the Lieutenant, though, his is wearing a combat vest with some limb padding above a thick, dark lavender body suit. Thunderlane also notices the claws on his front boots. That part is unnerving, but the pegasus in the lab coat does not appear to be intimidated by them.

“Angenhmen Morgen, eh, Lieutenant Leinen?” says the pegasus stallion in the lab coat, his voice matching the one Thunderlane heard when he woke up.

The giant ibex smiles. “Es ist sicher, Strongwind. Wue geht es Ihrem Sohn?”

“Er wird besser, bald.”

All three turn in unison to look at Thunderlane, and his heart stops and all the air leaves his lungs at who he is seeing.

He is seeing himself.

An exact copy. Mane, eyes, coat, it is all the same, and he is smiling kindly at him. Thunderlane's heart bangs rapidly against his ribs like it wants to escape, and he steps back, stammering incoherently as his eyes dart between the pegasus and the two ibexes. The pegasus turns fully around to show STRONGWIND stitched on his breast pocket with a clipboard holding more notes hanging around his neck, with 'Compound 505' boxed, and Thunderlane takes another step back, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No, this... This isn't be right,” says Thunderlane, short of breath in a panicked whisper. “What's going on?”

Strongwind smiles calmly and steps aside to point at the cot. “I'm going to make you better, son.”

Thunderlane snaps awake, shaking and sweating, in the safety of his apartment, on the comfort of his couch. Though, what confuses him is that there is a blanket on top of him. He does not remember covering up with one; he only remembers listening to the radio, then passing out. And speaking of the radio...

“The only thing that has changed about Trixie is her last name!” says an impatient stallion on the radio. “She is still a destructive, attention hog! Going from fraudulent magician, to a bastardization of Mare-Do-Well, to retirement, to going back at it again! Only this time she is endorsed and paid by Celestia for some stupid reason! She's got issues, plain and simple, and somepony like her should not be going on these 'patrols' with the guards, unless they want to see more wagons being forced to crash into trolleys or ponies thrown through windows of a fast food joint.”

“I think you are overreacting,” says a cultured stallion calmly. “It will be false of me to say that she is not troubled, for she is. She has a lot of problems that I -as her godfather- am trying to help her through, but despite what you may think, I believe her actions show her selflessness. She has changed a great deal and-”

“But how can you rightfully defend Trixie when everything she does is destructive, though? Aside from her Mare-Do-Well persona leaving a trail of wreckage where ever she goes, reports say she is relapsing on her addictions, making her rehab basically a huge waste of money. That, and she lets her newborn hang around a casino that thrives from social negativity. Even her husband was a member of the Grizelda Mob, and she chose to marry him! Somepony who is supposed to be a symbol of justice and she marries a crook. How hypocritical can you get? I mean, really?”

“Believe me, I wasn't too happy about the marriage, either, but she did not want her child to grow up fatherless. Besides, Monte knows I am watching him. Closely. As for Braille, me and Fleur spend as much time as we can keeping her away from negative influences, and as it was recently revealed, we have even begun taking steps to have joint custody with her.”

“That's good. Hopefully you can get full custody so you can get that filly away from Trixie before she does something really stupid. Speaking of which, you have not offered a defense on her relapse.”

“There is none, and I have confronted Trixie on more than one occasion about this. That goes without saying that Fleur, Monte and I are working together diligently to get her back on track and we won't give up on her. Ever.”

Thunderlane sits up on his couch, groaning as he reaches to turn the radio off. Once it is off, he looks in the kitchen, sniffing the air while his ears flick at the sound of sizzling vegetables giving the apartment a pleasant aroma. His eyes then drift down to see Tank staring at him with that same weird smile. From a spot between his legs.

Thunderlane's eyes widen and he pushes himself back, scrunching himself against the arm of the couch, and the shelled fiend cranes his neck to keeps his wrinkled eyes on him.

“Shoo,” says Thunderlane with a wave of his hoof.

Nothing but a smile.

Thunderlane cautiously extends his hoof, takes a breath, then starts pushing the strange reptile away. It resists at first, but it seems more like a playful resistance since its smile does not go away. Only when Thunderlane strains his arm length to push Tank does he crawl off the couch. Somehow landing on his webbed feet even though he falls off the couch in such a way that he should have landed on his shell.

Thunderlane blinks a couple of times before shaking his head and looks towards the kitchen to see what he can without getting up.

He sees Rainbow Dash's back is to him, tail flicking slightly and her head turning to move the spatula in her mouth. Whatever she is cooking crackles, pops and sizzles with each shift from the utensil, and they grace the air with a pleasant aroma of cooked vegetables and spices.

Thunderlane rubs his eyes, crawls off of his couch and trudges to his room. Rainbow Dash has been using the bed ever since she socked him in the jaw, but while her uniform is sloppily laid out on the bed, the sheets are actually well made. The blanket is stretched as far as it can go, there are no wrinkles to be seen, the pillow is tucked snugly under the covers, and the corners are made with the proper, forty five degree angle hospital corners.

This continues to surprise Thunderlane that she can be so careless about nearly everything, but when it comes to making beds she still clings to the boot camp standard. Thunderlane is the exact opposite. He always hated those stupid hospital corners, but when it came to his uniform, that was -and still is- something he takes pride in, even if it is forced. The crisp display of his uniform serves as a reminder that he can least he can make his uniform proper among the few other things he can do right. Like making coffee or blinking.

That being said, when Thunderlane goes in his closet and dons his uniform, it is a snug fit and very comfortable. A perfect sign that he has taken good care of it. Though, right as he is about to leave, he notices Rainbow Dash's saddle is plopped carelessly near his closet with her spare uniform spilling out like the guts of a dead animal. Seeing that, Thunderlane can only sigh, shake his head and put the uniform on a neat display on his bed before leaving to the dining room to eat the freshly prepared meal.

The smell of barbeque and fried veggies are pleasant and make his mouth water. But since drooling is a nasty display that can lead to a quick slap in the mouth, he swallows his glob of spit and silently approaches the table, where Rainbow Dash is waiting, and smiling nervously for some reason.

“Hey, Thunderlane, did you sleep okay?” asks Rainbow Dash, feigning her cheerful tone to mask the anxiety she has.

Thunderlane pulls up his chair and sits in front of his breakfast. He thinks he sees some carrots and cabbage in the soup of barbeque sauce, as well as what he is guessing are onions, diced potatoes and some okra. He is certain she went out to get these things because the last he recalled, he did not buy any of this stuff, except for the carrot. After that, it was all leftovers and take outs.

“You cooked breakfast,” says Thunderlane dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah,” says Rainbow Dash slowly, hoof rubbing the back of her neck and her smile more of a cringe. “I figured since we'd be getting medals today, we need to get a good start, you know?”

“You didn't have to cook. You could have woken me up and I would have fixed us something.”

“But I wanted to cook.”

Thunderlane arches a brow skeptically, now curious as to what game she is trying to play. Granted, the vivid dream still has him on edge, but after the crazy days the two shared, he's not sure if it really is just an innocent gesture, or if she trying to pull a fast one and appease him for breaking something. It wouldn't be the first time something like that happened, since he recalls how Cloudchaser and Flitter both fixed him a surprise breakfast, only to figure out that they broke something. In the case of Flitter, it is is his couch, still scarred, and in the case of Cloudchaser... Well, his fridge has gone to a better place.

“Did I tell you how awesome you were when you took out that thing's engine?” says Rainbow Dash, her casual tone clearly forced.

“No,” replies Thunderlane slowly.

“Well, you were awesome!”

“Thanks... So were you.”

“I know I was awesome. I'm always awesome! In fact, I'm so awesome that I cooked you this awesome breakfast!”

She finishes her awesome overdose with a broad, toothy grin and nervous squee, and Thunderlane stares back at her, brows furrowed in confusion and paranoia coming in full force. He can't help but wonder if she really did break something, like the fridge or plumbing, and is trying to get on his good side. It would not be the first time she got on his good side only to do something horrible to him a short time later.

There is a near minute of strange silence between the two, with Thunderlane trying to decipher what Rainbow Dash is up to, and the Element sweating in her spot.

“Are you okay?” asks Thunderlane cautiously.

“Me?” Rainbow Dash snorts and waves her hoof dismissively. “No-Yes! Yes, I'm fine! I'm perfectly fine! I'm not nervous at all!”

“Nervous about what?”

“Absolutely nothing! Now eat you damn food before it gets cold!”

Thunderlane sighs and rubs his brow, head bowed and eyes scrunched shut. “Rainbow, if you're nervous about the ceremony, just say so.”

“I don't get nervous, nervous gets me... Wait...”

Thunderlane looks up, eyes squinted and mouth slightly open as he stares at Rainbow Dash, who has succeeded in confusing not only herself, but him as well with her ill thought out response. Suddenly, Rainbow Dash looks at Thunderlane and points at him with an accusing hoof.

“Why are you acting weird?” she says.

Thunderlane stiffens in his seat, eyes bugged out and jaw slack. “What? I'm not being weird. You're the one acting weird by cooking breakfast and doing worthless double speaks.”

“Oh, so me cooking breakfast is weird, now?”

“Considering that all you do is veg, feed Tank and let me do everything else? Yes.”

“And I decided to break that streak by giving you breakfast, which you obviously don't want, so I guess I'll give it to tank, instead.”

Rainbow Dash reaches for the plate, but quicker than a striking cobra, Thunderlane's hooves block the mare's hoof and he pulls the plate back defensively as far back as he can go without it spilling all over his uniform.

“NO!” shouts Thunderlane. Rainbow Dash's eyes grow and she remains frozen in place, and he stares back at her, completely still and eyes also big. Then he realizes he might have yelled a little too loud, judging from how her ears are folded back and the slight wince she has. Thunderlane clears his throat a moment later and relaxes in his seat, which gets Rainbow Dash to sit down, as well, much to his relief. “No, I want the breakfast, but I... I just don't know what's going on.”

Rainbow Dash tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Thunderlane swallows and looks down at his plate, then back at Rainbow Dash before starting with a sigh. “I mean... Well... You cooked breakfast.”

Rainbow Dash scrunches her brows. “...Yeah...”

“So... What does that mean?”

“It means I was just being nice since you let me crash here and were totally awesome when those goats attacked us. Did you think it was something else?”

Thunderlane swallows nervously, feeling a burden of disappointment easing itself on his heart like its its throne. “No... No, of course not. I was... I was just wondering why you were doing this, is all.”

There is another moment of silence between them, with only the whooshing sounds of his ceiling fan and the ticks of his clock to fill the void between them. Thunderlane waits for an answer, but all he gets is Rainbow Dash shifting in her spot, muttering something he can't quite understand. He thinks she said something about being nice, but he doesn't know if she is faking or not. When he looks at the sadness gnawing away at her, though, he realizes he just might have made a terrible mistake. A mistake he's certain he will make worse if he stays and continues letting his spooked mine create more conspiracy theories.

“Rainbow, I'm sorry, but I need to go somewhere,” says Thunderlane. He pushes the dish back and feels his heart sink even more when he sees out of his peripheral vision Rainbow Dash's ears droop. Then he stands up and brushes some wrinkles out of his uniform. “Save this for me and I'll have it later.”

“Wait, you're leaving?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane nods. “I have an appointment I need to get to. Thank you for breakfast, Rainbow.”

“You didn't even eat my breakfast.”

“Thank you for making it. I'll have it later. I promise.”

“Wait, did I say something or do something wrong?” asks Rainbow Dash, her desperation making itself clear.

Thunderlane shakes his head. “No, it's not you, it's me and this appointment I forgot about.”

He starts walking towards the door when-

“Wait!” blurts Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane stops and looks to Rainbow Dash is still in her spot, but her irritated expression is replaced with worry. She is shifting a bit in her spot and chewing on her lip, too, as if she is having physical trouble trying to form the right words, but Thunderlane waits, giving a quick glance at the clock near the kitchen while doing so.

“Seriously, what did I do?” she asks worryingly, ears drooped and eyes pleading for an answer to his strange behavior.

Aside from the residual effect of the dream playing Hell with him, Thunderlane wants to ask Rainbow Dash what game she is playing with him ever since the bombing. Why she is crawling to him for company, then punching him in the face and scolding him the next day, and now making breakfast for them both like they are courting. A piece of him is demanding he stops being a nice guy and get up in her face about this strange behavior, but another part of him warns him against it. She did work hard for the breakfast, she is the only one on the team he can really talk to, and she has given him the comfort that only a mare can give. Even if it was for just one night on a couch that resulted in a punch to the jaw.

What kind of retaliation will come if he snaps at her? Will she leave? Will she punch him again? Will she leave and get hurt by whoever wants to hurt her? Will his words damage their odd relationship and further push him in the dark of the team he's supposed to be a part of? He really does not want any of those questions answered, especially since as dim and strange as the light is, she is the only one he has left, aside from his mother. And even then, he has doubts about how real Amber Grain is to him.

Just like he is has doubts about how real Rainbow Dash's light is.

“Don't forget to lock the door when you leave,” says Thunderlane quietly.

He then leaves without saying another word and slowly closes the door behind him, not looking back as he quickly goes down the hall. Once at the elevator, he again holds the door open for the overworked mother and her foals, then realizes after the door closes that he could have just flown instead of staying locked inside the cramped box.

Nearly an hour and a half later, Thunderlane finds himself sitting in Doctor Pad's office again. It is the same routine. He is wearing his uniform without pride, and she is dressed in a simple blouse with her notepad and pen floating in front of her. Though, one of the things Thunderlane notices about Pad is that her normal pleasant appearance is marred by the sadness in her eyes. It is a sorrow that is drowning her. A feeling he is no stranger to. He figures it has something to do with the stallion in her desktop picture since the picture frame is now surrounded by small flowers.

“So, you're early,” says Pad, her pleasantries painfully forced.

Thunderlane nods, quietly replying: “Yes, ma'am.”

Pad and Thunderlane sit in silence with only a ticking clock to keep them company. Thunderlane glances at the clock, expecting to see the stalker number there, but it is barely noon, and the only reason Pad let him in was because she had no one else to see for the next few hours.

“You look more down than usual, Thunderlane. What's wrong?” asks Pad.

Thunderlane shrugs. “I don't know what's real, I guess.”

“Oh?”

“In fact... I don't even think I'm my mom and dad's son,” adds Thunderlane quietly.

Pad leans forward, eyebrow raised questionably. “What do you mean?”

“It's... It's just a dream I had where I saw an older version of myself wanting to give me medicine... He called me 'son'. But it felt so real, like I was reliving a memory.”

“Can you tell me about it?” asks Pad, intrigued.

Thunderlane is reluctant, but he still nods, figuring he has nothing to lose since his father forced him to cease all visits after this meeting.

“I was in a stone building of some kind, and I was chasing myself,” begins Thunderlane. There is a second's pause before he adds for clarification: “He was me as a colt, and he actually called me a 'glass pony' and was happy to see me and said I looked strong. It was like he was idealizing me or something.”

Pad scribbles something down. “Did this young you look frail or unhealthy in anyway?”

Thunderlane shakes his head. “No. I mean, he was kind of creepy, but he looked fine from what I saw. He also wanted to show me something and the last hing I heard him say before I met my older self was 'Watch me bleed'.”

Pad writes some more and underlines what she wrote, then she reclines in her seat and stares at Thunderlane curiously, pen tapping a couple of times against the pages. Though, this simple action scares Thunderlane into making his ears twitch, for they too much like gun parts clicking in place to him.

“Did you see five-oh-five anywhere?” asks Pad.

“It was with the paperwork on the older me's clipboard,” says Thunderlane as he runs a shaking hoof through his mane. He takes a moment to sniff, then continues. “I heard my mom talking to him, and another guy named Tick-Tock, but they were talking like they were good friends. She said Gale -my dad- would get the two of us out, but I didn't see them when I opened the door, only the older me. And the older me was named Strongwind...”

Pad thinks for a moment. “Were you ever sick at any point in your life that made you feel like glass? Specifically when you were younger?”

Thunderlane shakes his head. “No, ma'am. Not that I can recall.”

“Hmm.” Pad taps her pen against her chin, eyes on Thunderlane, but distant from any connection as she works her mental gears. “What can you tell me about this Strongwind?”

Thunderlane frowns questionably. “What do you mean? I only saw him for a minute, so I don't think I can tell much.”

“Well, think of it like this, the colt you called you a glass pony, and then you met your future you, whom you have called Strongwind. Was there anything special about Strongwind, besides him looking like you?”

“Well,” begins Thunderlane slowly, trying to recall the last tidbits of detail, “he worked in a doctor's office and had a lab coat with medical equipment nearby. And he was also surrounded by two goat soldiers. I think they were protecting him or something, and he said he was going to make me better.”

“Okay, I think I know what's going on.”

Thunderlane looks at Pad, getting an idea of where she is going, and she takes his silence as her cue to carry on with her theory.

“I think what this dream was trying to show you who you think you are and who want to be,” explains Pad, getting a skeptical raised brow from Thunderlane. “This younger you idolized you, even though he called you a glass pony, because you are stronger than he is. You see yourself as the weak child, like glass, beautiful and shiny, but easy to break, but the child looks up to you because you are stronger than you think you are.”

“I guess I'm creepy, too,” mutters Thunderlane.

“Also, maybe the child wants you to see him bleed because pain has become such a part of you and you think you cannot live without it and you think you need to bleed to live, but the future you says otherwise. The future you is how you want to be. You want to be strong and help others, and you want good friends that will always have your back, like soldiers in a unit who are always there and ready to protect one another.”

“Or maybe it was a memory and it was saying that I'm adopted or one of those illegitimate kids,” counters Thunderlane, slumping in his seat. “That would explain why my dad hates me so much.”

“Thunderlane,” starts Pad with a sympathetic smile, “I don't think your father hates you. He may be tough, but I believe every parent loves their child in some way and they only want what's best for them.”

Thunderlane scoffs and slumps in his seat. “Well, what you believe is different than reality.” Thunderlane's nice-guy part of the brain swiftly gives him a righteous mental slap on the back of the head, and his pupils shrink as he clamps his mouth and looks at Pad. Seeing her shocked expression is all the encouragement he needs for the next set of words. “I'm sorry. That was rude.”

Pad waves her hoof dismissively. “No, no it's... It' okay.” She forces a chuckle. “You are very tame compared to most of the patients here.”

Thunderlane has a strong feeling that she is lying through her teeth, and he's certain that she made a blunder because of the way her cheeks flush in embarrassment and how her whole demeanor sinks.

“Okay, that was inappropriate of me,” says Pad with an uneasy smile. “Back to you, though. What else do you have on your mind?”

Thunderlane stays silent. He is now waging a war in his mind about what he should do next. He already lowered his guard somewhat and let out some of the pressure, which admittedly feels good, but he does not know what will happen next. Will she ridicule him? Will she tell his father so he can torment him? Or will she just pretend to care by scribbling down a bunch of stuff and give a half-assed assessment that any foal can give?

“Come on. Let it out. This going to be our last session, so why don't we make it count, okay?” says Pad.

Again, there is a pause. A pause that feels like it is choking the air out of Thunderlane as one part of him tells him to keep it locked up because it is nobody's business, and the other saying the pressure is too much.

'Let it out. Just let it all out,' urges the other part of him.

Thunderlane feels a wet ball rolling up his throat, and it brings a haze to his eyes when he forces it back down. He keeps his eyes to the ground, too, not wanting Pad to see his weakness.

“Please, Thunderlane,” says Pad.

“Do you ever feel worthless?” asks Thunderlane, his eyes still to the floor.

Pad blinks at Thunderlane, and he looks up at her, swallowing again and rubbing his hooves together, silently begging her with his wet, reddening eyes for her answer.

“That is a hard question to answer,” says Pad. “Why? Do you feel worthless?”

Thunderlane nods and looks back at the carpet. “During my eight weeks of basic, and the twelve weeks at the Academy, I tried so hard to be important, to be that... to get that feeling of worth, but I couldn't do anything right,” he begins quietly. “If something was wrong, everypony looked at me. If somepony's sheets weren't made right, the MTIs would wreck the room and everypony would look at me. If the latrine was not cleaned right, everypony looked at me. We spent hours each day practicing marches because I could not get it in my thick skull how to move properly, and during the combat simulations, nopony would team up with me unless ordered because they did not want to die. They would say, 'Sergeant, with all due respect, I don't want to die', and our MTI would say: 'No, you won't die because Hurricane is gonna be your shield'. Some shield I turned out to be.”

Thunderlane sniffles and wipes his nose and face to hide what is trying to escape, but it is a losing battle. And a growing part of him thinks this will be a battle he needs to lose.

“I was the slowest in my class, had the worst aim out of anypony, and the only thing I was good at was making a cloud cover,” he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking or cracking. “The team I am with now doesn't even want me because they know I can't protect anypony. I can't protect them, just like I can't protect my brother, and yet, out of all this... this screwed up mess of a pony, I am the only one that can walk away from death constantly.”

Thunderlane's muzzle wrinkles to a scowl and he flexes his hooves, loathing himself for walking out of the bombing unharmed while his brother suffers in the hospital.

“You know that bombing at the Stadium was almost exactly like Glorieta? Only, instead of a pony in a painting suit, it was an ibex bomb,” continues Thunderlane, his disgust for himself oozing into his voice like a toxic sludge. “I remember the pain, the bleeding, I remember hardly being able to move, and yet... And yet I'm just fine by the next day. After the bombing, every cut I got was completely gone, and there was no sign of bruises or broken bones. Apparently the pain I felt was all in my head, but I know it was real. I know there is something wrong with me because I just...”

Thunderlane lowers his head more and squeezes his eyes shut and hit teeth together as he presses his hooves against his ears, hearing the sobs and cries of agony. Every broken body, every destroyed soul is seen clearly in the taste of Hell, always there to vividly remind him what happened and what he failed at doing. It also reminds him of what a freak he is.

“I just can't stay hurt,” sniffles Thunderlane, his voice now trembling with his body despite his best efforts as tears rolling down his cheeks. “Ponies I'm supposed to protect, like Rainbow, my team, other soldiers, my brother, they all get hurt and they stay hurt! They bleed! They break and die around me!” Thunderlane throws his hooves down and looks at Pad, pointing at himself and speaking frantically. “But not me! I should have died twice, but I didn't! I should have at least been crippled, but I wasn't! It's not fair that more capable, more loved ponies who actually have something to live for die or get hospitalized when a worthless, glass pony like me walks unharmed like a freaking plague!”

Thunderlane slumps in his seat, shaking, with his mouth sealed tight and unsteady breaths going out of his nose. Silence comes between the two, and Thunderlane looks at the clock, and seeing nothing spectacular, he looks back at Pad, however, she says nothing, so he continues after swallowing some air.

“I'm just sick of it. I'm sick of it all,” says Thunderlane, his tone defeated like his posture. “I'm sick of seeing the ones I care about get hurt because I can't be their shield, and I'm sick of not knowing where I belong or who I am to the ones that are supposed to care about me. I've started wondering what's the point of fighting if no pony fights for me? What's the point of... of this miserable existence? Would anypony even care if I bled out in front of them? I honestly don't think so. I'm a mistake. And nopony likes mistakes.”

“You're not a mistake, and I would care if something happened to you,” says Pad, meeting his eyes when he looks at her with a saddened shine, swallowing a lump in his throat and wanting to believe her. “Thunderlane, I don't want you to bleed, neither does your parents or your friends. We all care about you and want what's best of you. You think you are weak, but I know you are stronger than you think you are. You are not worthless, you are valuable, and you do have a purpose. When you let go of those lies that put you down, you will see just how strong and valuable you really are, and you will find out your purpose in life. I promise.”

“Why do I have a hard time believing that?” mutters Thunderlane.

“It's because you haven't started healing yourself, yet, but you can't heal by yourself. You are your own worst enemy, Thunderlane, and all this sadness and guilt is manifesting into anger and destroying you from within. Nopony wants to see you breakdown. Not your mother, not your father, not me or your friends. But you need to open up and truly let your friends and family into your life so they can help you through your trials and help you carry your burdens.”

After that statement, Pad pulls out a small sheet of paper and scribbles some information on it, and after that, she takes out another sheet, small like the one she just wrote on, and folds them together.

“Unfortunately, it is almost time for me to go. I am giving you this last prescription, and a list of doctors that I know personally and can vouch for who can help you if you need it,” she says.

Pad levitates the prescription and list of contact information to Thunderlane's pocket, and after they are snug inside, he runs his hoof over them, nodding quietly at his shrink. The psychiatrist then reclines in her seat and continues.

“My advice, do not take just those pills with some food and water,” she says. “You need to get out more. You need to open up to others. These pills do not solve the problem, they only numb the pain, but I promise you, if you let your guard down and get away from your island, you will be happy.” The psychiatrist offers a sad, toothless smile and blinks away the shimmering in her eyes. “Who knows? Maybe just one day out will help you find that one special somepony that will truly make you happy.”

Thunderlane nods hesitantly. “Yes, ma'am.”

Pad motions him up, and the two walk to the door, with Thunderlane trailing his doctor, and before she opens the door, she gives him a somewhat stern look with a slightly raised hoof aimed at him.

“Another thing, if you need me for any reason, or if you do not feel comfortable talking with the doctors I recommended, give me a call, got it?” says Pad.

Thunderlane nods again. “Okay.”

Pad steps to the side, opens the door and smiles. “Good.”

When Thunderlane is next to her, she extends her hoof, and Thunderlane cautiously presses his hoof against hers, then she unexpectedly pulls him in for a hug using her magic. He tenses at first, but when she gently rubs the back of his neck, he awkwardly lifts his hoof, takes a shaky breath, then pats her on the back as well with stiff movements meant for a rusted robot. Seconds later, they break away and Pad gives Thunderlane a small smile.

“Get well, Thunderlane,” says Pad softly.

Thunderlane sniffs and-

“HURRICANE!” barks Spitfire.

He jumps in his seat, eyes bulged, heart jackhammering in his chest and his throat betraying his masculinity with a pathetic squeak. “Yes, ma'am?”

Silver Lining snorts a laugh and Thunderlane remains rigid in his seat, but dares to flick his eyes around the small conference room. Rainbow Dash is sitting next to him, staring at him with an arched brow; Fire Streak is near Spitfire, but going through some folders; Silver Lining is, unfortunately, sitting next to Thunderlane and doing a great job of looking like a cat with an impossibly wide grin; and Misty and Fleetfoot are sitting near Fire Streak, also giving Thunderlane their fair share of unimpressed looks.

“You done daydreaming?” says Spitfire.

“Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am,” says Thunderlane quickly, clamping his mouth shut and tightening his muscles like overstretched wires when he realizes his blunder.

Thunderlane does not feel any better when Rainbow Dash groans and rubs her forehead and everyone else shoots a snicker or an eye roll his way. The only one who really does not give him a hard time is Fire Streak, and Thunderlane is not sure if it is because he is trying to keep a mature image or if he really does not care about his mistake. Spitfire definitely cares, though, as marked by her furrowed brows and scrunched muzzle.

“Hurricane, test my patience again and I'll give you something to really apologize for,” sneers Spitfire.

Thunderlane nods, barely able to speak. “Yes, ma'am.”

“As I was saying, I'll make this quick so you guys can enjoy the ceremony,” says Soarin.

He and Spitfire exchange apprehensive looks before he starts pacing in front of a projection of Rotes Leinen and Cutter with their names printed underneath. When Thunderlane sees the picture of Cutter, though, his eyes widen and his ears droop as he vividly remembers seeing that ibex in his dream. The way the picture is taken showing Cutter looking out of the corner of his eye, like he knows he is being watched, but to Thunderlane, it looks like the terrorist is looking at him. That being said, Thunderlane stares at the picture like a child who is seeing a ghost until he realizes that Spitfire is giving him an odd look. Fire Streak also glances at Thunderlane's direction, and only when the dark pegasus forces himself to lower his eyes do his superiors remove their focus from him.

“As you all know, Equestria has been the target of attacks in what we have believed to be a response to the assassination of the Bernesenese Generals,” says Soarin, unaware of the strange scene between Thunderlane and his superiors. “However, recent intelligence points to the attacks being carried out by a terrorist organization known as the Gold Star Movement. They are believed to be enemies of the Bernese government, as well, and what their endgame is, we do not know. That being said, all full scale operations have been adjusted to strictly defensive and we will be carrying out a surgical offense to cripple the Gold Stars.”

Soarin removes the projected pictures of their targets and slides in another picture. This one is a topographical map of Bernese with a region labeled Der Tal outlined in bold, black marker. From the looks of it, the region has a good sized river flowing through it and the whole area is like a bowl in the middle of a circle of mountains.

“Your missions will be simple,” continues Soarin. “Major Temper will lead you into the region of Der Tal to apprehend Rotes Leinen and his lieutenant, Zäh Ausstecher, and bring them back to Equestria for trial. Intelligence points towards Leinen having control of the region with a small army ranging anywhere from five to seven hundred militants at his disposal.”

Silver Lining scoffs a laugh, and Soarin cocks a brow at him while Spitfire and Fire Streak give the obnoxious sniper a glare.

“Is something wrong, soldier?” asks Soarin, his tone hinting at a quick loss of patience.

Thunderlane figures that this patience problem might be mostly due to his “daydreaming”. And walking in late because of his aimless wandering his last visit with Doctor Pad probably has something to do with it, too.

“Not to be the negative one, here, Captain Pansy, but we're looking at a two hundred gun window. And even if the number was at just five hundred, shouldn't we send in a small army of our own?” says Silver Lining, ignoring the borderline, demonic scowl his superior is giving him. He then looks at his teammates one at a time, smiling a bit nervously. “C'mon, I can't be the only one who thinks sending in a team of six ponies against five to seven hundred soldiers is a stupid plan.”

“Seven,” corrects Fire Streak.

“Seven?”

Fire Streak points at Thunderlane, giving Silver Lining a harsh gaze. In turn, the said silver coated pegasus looks at Thunderlane, smiling apologetically while receiving an unpleasant stare from Thunderlane and Rainbow Dash.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Thunderlane,” says Silver Lining.

Thunderlane hears the phoniness in his teammate's voice clearly, though, and his whole demeanor tanks like concrete slab in a river. Truth be told, Thunderlane really wants to crawl in a hole and stay there for the rest of the day, probably the whole week, for Silver Lining's cruel joke. It certainly showed what his suspected value was. He does hear Rainbow Dash mutter something, but he cannot be sure exactly. All he is certain of is that it involved a form of profanity. That aside, he looks ahead at Soarin, not wanting to get chewed out for losing his focus again.

“To answer your question, Lining, I am fully aware of the situation, but I am not asking you to wage a one squad war. I am telling you to be smart and snatch our targets without bringing the whole region down on your heads,” says Soarin venomously. “Besides, Captain Compass Rose and his zeppelin, The Harmonious Light, will take you in and out of Bernese and provide air support should the need arise.”

The Captain of the Royal Guard then switches out the pictures to show a political map of Bernese, except this time the national border is surrounded by x's, save for two spots. They are both in the most mountainous regions of Bernese, with one being conveniently close to Der Tal, and the other near the nation of Germaneigh. There are more x's that are surrounded by large circles, with some overlapping and others remaining secluded, and with those are silhouettes of hammers barely covered by circles. It does not take long for Thunderlane to realize that Der Tal is barely touched by the x-radii.

“And now that I mentioned Captain Rose, I will tell you right now that his ship will be slipping through a hole in the radar network discovered by our agents operating inside Bernese,” adds Soarin. “The ship will be intercepting suspected radio transmissions and it is equipped with prototype radar-cloaking enchantments that should keep you shielded. However, we are keeping the risk at a minimum, so you will be above the clouds and going through radar weak points throughout Bernese.”

Thunderlane stares at the map, trying to figure out how a zeppelin will be able to slip through the radar network that Bernese has set up. Others in the team seem to be taking notes, as well, and Fire Streak, after stroking his chin for some time, decides to raise his hoof.

Soarin nods to him. “Yes?”

“I got two questions, actually, sir,” begins Fire Streak. “First, what are our orders when dealing with the Bernese military? Second, what kind of weapons and support can we expect the Gold Stars to have?”

“For Bernese, you are to be strictly defensive. If you come in contact with them in anyway, do not engage unless fired upon. For the Gold Stars, our information points towards sub-par weaponry and home built armored vehicles. However, Der Tal is their home turf. They know the region like the bottom of their hoof, so do not underestimate them for any reason. Like with the Bernese military, do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Any more questions?”

No answer.

“Good.” Soarin changes the projected picture to a blueprint of a mansion and a basic layout of a town, also labeled Der Tal. “Now, this is the blueprint of Rotes Leinen's manor and the town of Der Tal. Your objective, where ever Leinen and Ausstecher are, is to infiltrate and grab them and get out. Preferably with minimal conflict.”

Celestia stares at an oil painting of her and Luna above her fireplace. Her ears are drooped and her tired eyes have become moist with tears, but not a sound escapes her. Not even the fireplace is lit, leaving the gray, ashy remains of overused logs and the burnt brick to give a cold, silent reminder of what had died out. She has half a mind to light the fire place to give some warmth in the chilly room, but she also finds herself enjoying the darkness. Without the light to expose the details of her lavish room, it is just her and her thoughts. Unobstructed and free to wander. She has always believed that it was for reasons such as this that Luna loves the night. In the day, there is too much going on, but the emptiness of the night has a peaceful loneliness to it.

However, that peace does not last as long as she wants or needs, for her thoughts take her to the same place she has been visiting ever since Luna left.

“We do not need a pedestal to control the moon, Sister. But until you are Celestia again, We will not stand by your side.” Those had been the last words Luna said to her before she left her to wallow in the empty throne room. Luna did not even walk out. She just disappeared in a flash of blue without giving Celestia a chance to talk some sense into her, to remind her that her actions have been for the better of Equestria, not some desire to control every aspect of life like she has been accused of doing.

Celestia's green tinted eyes focus on Luna's portion of the painting. They are both prim and proper and contrasting with the brightness and darkness of their fur and attire, but there is a bigger difference between them. Celestia's pose appears relaxed out of centuries of discipline in presentation, and all her inner turmoil is nonexistent in her thin smile. Luna, on the other hand, has a hard time smiling. It is like something has latched on to her heart and is keeping true happiness away from her. Her smile is thin like Celestia's, but it does not show a calm, regal alicorn. Instead it shows a deity who is held hostage by her own guilt.

“Aw, Tia, why so gloom?” asks an oily smooth stallion, his voice like a soft echo in her chamber.

Celestia's ear twitches and she looks out of the corner of her eye, scowling slightly. “Charon, you know you are not allowed in this world.”

The stallion chuckles and Celestia gets a shiver up her spine when the un-welcomed guest steps out of the shadows like they are a doorway. His frazzled gray mane hangs past the pools of swirling ghostly faces that make up his eyes, and his torn bat wings flex as more ghostly swirls move around his hooves. His black and red Gothic armor is partially covered by a tattered cloak that flutters from his mana, and Celestia's whole body shivers when the hushed voices of hundreds -if not thousands- of souls enter her room. It is like an audience is being forced to welcome their torturer, but their vocal chords are too damaged to do any proper cheers.

That being said, of all the alicorns that have been created, Celestia has always found Charon to be the most disturbing. This is mostly due to his appearance, but his cynical outlook on everything does not help his image, either. However, despite her unwanted guest's unnerving presence, she still tries to hide her uneasiness with a brave face.

“Aren't you happy to see me? I thought we were close,” teases Charon.

“You thought wrong,” answers Celestia sharply. Then she takes a breath and looks at him fully, trying not to let the dozens of crying and terrified ghostly faces making up his eyes faze her more than they already have. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I just wanted to talk for a little bit before Mommy Dearest finds out I'm loose,” claims Charon. “I heard that your cute project nation was going to get involved in its first war in a thousand years. How are you going to win this war, Celestia? Mass petrification? Solar flares of doom? Genocide? Please tell me! The anticipation is killing me!”

Celestia frowns. “I'm trying to avoid the war at all costs.”

Charon sits down next to Celestia, ignoring her hardening gaze. “Aahhhh, still trying to avoid the inevitable, I see. Typical you. Still, a war with an ill prepared nation- No, a global war with ill prepared nations against warrior nations sounds like the kind of slaughter I've been needing ever since the Chaos Ages.”

Celestia wrinkles her muzzle. “How could Mother make something like you?”

Charon shrugs. “Somepony has to ferry the spirits to their new homes. However, I have a confession.” Charon turns and leans in close so his muzzle is nearly touching Celestia's, and she leans back, having to raise one of her fore-hooves just so she can lean farther away from the retched alicorn. “I'm also here because I wanted to personally thank you for thinking about me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Charon slides in front of Celestia and grabs her hoof with his and presses his forehead against hers, with his curved horn rubbing against her. A tingle of energy surges through the horns, and Celestia closes her eyes with a sharp gasp as surging tingles make her muscles shiver, and she keeps her eyes closed when she hears the alicorn before her let out a throaty chuckle. A short moment later, she feels a tiny hoof stroke her cheek, but the hoof feels like mist with a mind of its own.

“Mommy,” whimpers a filly in Celestia's ear.

Celestia's eyes snap open and tears roll down her cheeks, turning her dark makeup around her eyes into dark streaks that follow the trail of tears. Her pupils shrink and have trouble focusing on the ghost of a filly staring at her from its place in Charon's eye socket. Her spectral hoof is extended and Celestia's throat feels tight and her hoof wants to go up to touch the filly, but the ghost is sucked away and replaced with a cackling stallion specter that swirls to make Charon's iris.

“I'm paying a price!” laughs the stallion madly, his hooves pressing against his head, his eyes bulged from the pain of his torment as he swirls faster in circles. “The price! The price! The price!”

“The price!” echoes in her ears, and with it, a growing number of other voices, all speaking over each other in various tongues and emotions. With the amount of voices Celestia hears, her ears fold down on their own to silence them and the jewel in her armor shimmers green and makes her heart feel heavy and slow. Celestia opens her mouth to get some more air in, and from the edge of her vision, she can see Charon's horn glowing with red tendrils snaking around her horn and moving down towards her crown and breast plate, stroking her slowly and sensually all the way.

“MOMMY, MAKE HIM STOP!” wails the filly suddenly, louder than all the other voices yelling for attention.

“Shush,” orders Charon lightly, silencing all the voices, leaving just him and Celestia's heavy, shaking breathes. Then he licks his lips and continues rubbing Celestia's hoof, speaking the whole time. “Come now, Tia, don't be so dense. Your recent actions have brought so much souls my way that I got a backlog sitting in Purgatory, awaiting Paradise or Tartarus. It is the most fun I've had in a long time, going through all those souls and sending them to be judged. I am meeting a lot of interesting characters, and they, too, added to my craving of wanting to get out more. So, I thank you, my dear Celestia .” Charon kisses Celestia's hoof and flashes her a rotten grin. “Thank you, oh so much from the bottom of my heart.”

Celestia yanks her hoof away, snarling: “Get out of my room!”

Charon sighs and stands up, flexing his leathery wings. “Okay, well, it was nice talking to you for the few minutes you allowed.”

He walks towards his point of entrance and looks at the potted flowers. He gradually extends his hoof, and when the tip touches a flower with yellow petals, the whole plant withers and crumbles as a brown heap. A frown flickers across the alicorn's face before he looks at the Sun Goddess one more time with a forced, toothless smile as he silently commands the souls around him to slide into the shadows.

“Another thing, Celestia. When you see Glimmer and Pinkie again, tell them that Charon says hi,” says the alicorn coolly. “And I think... Yes, that is all. Enjoy your day, beautiful. I can't wait for all the souls your choices will send my way. Including yours. Ciao.”

Celestia's coat pales and Charon winks and clicks his tongue, then disappears into the wall. Celestia stares at the wall, unable to think about anything other than Charon's parting words and the filly's pleas for her to make him stop. Seconds pass and a wet stone bullies its way up her throat, pushing the tears out of her eyes and giving her the feeling her neck will explode from the inside. Her shoulders buckle as she lifts her hoof to her mouth, then she bows her head and squeezes her eyes shut. Moments later, a muffled sob is heard in the darkness.

There is an explosive flash of light that burns Thunderlane's vision away, and the dark stallion blinks the colors away as the applauds fill the air. He thinks he hears a congratulations in the mix, and when he manages to stop blinking, he sees one of Rumble's old classmates, Featherweight packing up his camera. Soarin is also shaking each hoof of the team, and he and Rainbow Dash exchange odd smiles while Spitfire meets his smile with a snarl and a hoof-shake that is more like a punch than a kind gesture. This makes Soarin wince in pain, and he gives her an angry look, which she returns in kind.

Soarin snorts and quickly hobbles to Thunderlane, hoof extended. Thunderlane glances at the Major out of the corner of his eye, wondering what is going on between the two, since last time they seemed close. Very close.

“Ahem,” coughs Soarin.

Thunderlane snaps to Soarin and flashes an apologetic smile while putting his hoof out. He misses, but quickly gets it right the second time. Unfortunately for him, Silver Lining is next to him, so he saw the blunder.

“Nice,” snorts Silver Lining.

Thunderlane orders his eyes to stay focused on Soarin, but his left eyelid ignore him when he tells it not to twitch.

“Congratulations, Hurricane, you made us proud,” says Soarin in a rehearsed manner.

“Thank you, sir,” replies Thunderlane.

Once Soarin moves to Silver Lining, Thunderlane loosens up with a sigh and glances at the silver sun pinned to his chest, which had to be attached to his jacket by a unicorn to make the ceremony go by quicker. Just seeing the beautiful piece of polished, thin metal on his uniform makes his chest feel full of pride and his lips curve to a toothy smile as he gently rubs it. However, that smile disappears when he looks up to the audience and sees his father but not his mother in the crowd. Then his ears drop with his sulking shoulders and wings when he concludes that she must be with Rumble. Watching him and being constantly reminded of how badly he had failed them. Which, quite frankly, Thunderlane knows he deserves the resentment and knows Rumble needs Amber Grain more than he. After all, last time he tried watching his brother, a bomber took his face and limbs away.

“Yo, Thunderlane, you okay?” asks Rainbow Dash suddenly, now standing next to him.

Thunderlane looks at the vibrant mare, blinking questionably. “Huh?”

Rainbow Dash frowns and puts her hoof on Thunderlane's forehead, and he looks up at the said hoof, blinking once again.

“Uh, Rainbow, what are you doing?” asks Thunderlane.

“You've been out of it all day! First, freaking out at breakfast, then zoning out in front of Spitfire, and now this? I think you might be sick or something,” says Rainbow Dash. She drops her hoof and looks at him worryingly as she holds out one wing. “Quick, how many wings am I holding up?”

Thunderlane frowns. “One.”

“Okay. How many feathers?”

Now his brows furrow. “I don't know. A lot?”

Rainbow Dash humphs and retracts her wing. “Good enough.”

She then looks over her shoulder, and Thunderlane follows her lead, trying to see what she sees. First off, their team has spread out to mingle with the guests and the reporters. Secondly, Celestia eases herself on her ceremonial seat behind the long table taken up by fancy dishes. She is flanked by military officials who all give her the proper greeting, which she returns with a weary smile and bow before seating herself. It is then that Thunderlane notices how the once bright goddess has become the epitome of gloom with her drooped demeanor and distant, reddened eyes. Even her white coat seems to be a shade of gray, now.

Thunderlane's focus drifts away from Equestria's ruler to a small army of bodyguards surrounding Twilight and Fuller in the back of the room. It is there that Thunderlane spots Twilight talking to a mare in the corner of the room with the aid of Fuller, which does not appear to be much since all it looks like is him staring while she talks.

The mare that Twilight is talking has her head bowed, is wearing a simple, yellow dress with a thick, black and white winter coat, and a diamond necklace. Twilight continues talking, the mare shakes her head and hoof, but eventually Twilight's relentless badgering, complete with a childish hop and a nudge, compels the mystery mare to get up.

The group and their armed escorts go through the crowd that parts ways without second's hesitation, and when the trio is in front of them, Thunderlane realizes that the mare is Rarity, whom he has not seen for quite a while after leaving Ponyville for his training. And Rarity looks like she is going to have a panic attack with the way her head is down and her eyes dart between the patrons. Her whole tense demeanor is purely defensive, and it looks like she is ready to run out, probably in tears, too, from the way her eyes are glazed.

Rainbow Dash narrows her eyes. “Rarity.”

Rarity swallows. “Rainbow Dash.”

Rainbow Dash's hostile expression goes to Fuller.

“Hey, Fuller, killed anypony recently?” she says with a sneer.

Twilight shoots Rainbow Dash a nasty glare, which she completely ignores, but Fuller merely cracks a small smile and shakes his head, chuckling lightly. This actually draws a surprised look from Twilight, which, in turn, makes Rarity look at Twilight quizzically.

“Not today, Airmare Dash,” says Fuller, prompting the vibrant mare's fur to bristle. “I actually wanted to congratulate you and Hurricane on your achievements.” He takes a breath and puts his hoof on Rarity's shoulder to guide her forward. “I believe your friend had a gift for you to commemorate you two for your bravery, as well.”

Rainbow Dash and Thunderlane look at Rarity, and he hears a small whine escape her lips and sees a small trail of sweat trickle down her forehead. Twilight has to put her hoof on Rarity's shoulder and assure her that it will be okay before the alabaster mare slowly removes two small bundles from her coat pocket.

Thunderlane stares at the bundle quizzically, but seeing Rarity's eyes moisten more and her turn to Twilight, muttering about knowing it was a bad idea to come, he smiles reassuringly and takes his bundle from her magical grip.

“It's okay, I'll look,” says Thunderlane. He glances out of the corner of his eye and sees Rainbow Dash staring at her marked bundle, bemused. “Rainbow?”

“Fine,” huffs Rainbow Dash.

She takes her package and the two pegasi tear them open, only to deal with bubble wrap. Thunderlane swears he sees Celestia cringe slightly from seeing the bubbly plastic being exposed, however, the gift that is inside is something worthy of all of Thunderlane's attention.

His eyes widen at the onyx circle on a silver chain with a gold engraving of a bipedal creature with the legs, floppy ears and curved of a goat, but the torso, arms and face of a bald ape. It is playing a flute and is surrounded by a swirls of bright colors, and in the background is a ringed planet. He turns the pendant over and sees this engraving:

Thunderlane lowers the pendant and looks at Rainbow Dash's to see hers has a pair of birds circling each other as its engraving with a blue planet in the background. He does not see the markings on the other side, but he does catch Rainbow Dash sniffling a bit.

“Heh, Pinkie would love this, she's an Ararauna like me,” says Rainbow Dash as she wipes her eyes. She smiles at Rarity and gives her a one hoofed hug as her other hoof presses her gift closer to her barrel. “Thanks, Rarity, this is pretty cool.”

Rarity relaxes and smiles, as does Twilight and Fuller. At this point, Thunderlane cannot help it, he is not starting to think that Fuller might be sick if he is smiling. However, even though Fuller is smiling, he also notices that Rainbow Dash is still giving the CDA Director a cautious look.

“Fuller said that you and Rainbow Dash were close, so I got you two something similar,” says Rarity.

She flashes a worried smile and chuckles while Rainbow Dash steps back and condemns Fuller with her eyes. The older stallion merely smirks in return.

“I hope you don't mind,” says Rarity, cringing nervously as Thunderlane goes back to inspecting the gift.

“Oh, no! Not at all! This is great! I love it,” says Thundelane. He stops inspecting the necklace and, not knowing what else to do, he brings Rarity in for an awkward hug. “Thank you.”

“It was no trouble, darling,” says Rarity, also returning the hug.

“Oh, sure, you hug him back, but not me,” teases Rainbow Dash.

Rarity cracks a thin smile at Rainbow Dash and tightens her hug around Thunderlane's neck, choking him slightly and forcing one hoof up.

“Are you getting jealous, Rainbow Dash?” she asks.

“I'm always jealous when I'm not getting attention,” says Rainbow Dash proudly, puffing out her chest to make her point clearer. She glares at Fuller, though, adding: “And I mean good attention, creep.”

Twilight scowls. “Really, Rainbow? Can't you be polite to him for just five minutes?”

“Don't worry, if I could not handle the insults of an overgrown filly I wouldn't be where I am now,” says Fuller.

“Oh, ha. Ha,” retaliates Rainbow Dash, her frown growing when the two unicorns giggle.

It is at that moment that an earth pony stallion wearing the uniform of a Brigadier General approaches the group.

“Airstallion Hurricane?” says the Brigadier General, his eyes focused on Thunderlane.

Thunderlane zips away from Rarity and snaps to attention with his hoof up in salute. “Yes, sir?”

The earth pony offers an easygoing smile while returning the salute. “At ease.” After he and Thunderlane lowers their hooves, he continues. “I'm glad I finally have a face to go with that suit of armor. I will forever be in your debt for saving my life. I'm Brigadier General Signal Horn, by the way.”

Brigadier General Signal Horn extends his hoof, and Thunderlane hesitantly extends his until they touch. The two shake hooves, and the earth pony grins at the mares as he puts his hoof on Thunderlane's back.

“Ladies, I'll be stealing your stallion for a while,” he says in goodhearted fun.

There is an overwhelming barrage of responses that mold into gibberish, but rather than trying to decipher the messy response, the two stallions just walk away. Along the way, Thunderlane looks over his shoulder and sees Fuller parting ways with the mares, and as he leaves, Rainbow Dash watches him intently. He also notices that Celestia is watching him, too, and that the Sun Goddess whispers to one of the guard's who then approaches the CDA Director to relay the message.

The old unicorn stallion's ear flicks from the guard's words, and after a short pause, he nods and approaches Celestia, where she takes him somewhere private. Though, when Signal Horn starts talking, Thunderlane puts his attention back to him.

“During that attack, you held a stance nopony else had. Everypony was running around, screaming and shooting like mad dogs, but you? No, you were quiet and stood your ground, standing over a defenseless pony and taking on a superior foe with aim in mind,” says Signal Horn proudly as they weave through the crowd of soldiers, reporters, civilians and caterers.

Thunderlane's good mood sinks. He does not have the heart to tell the Brigadier General that he really did not aim. All he did was shoot his preferred, slow firing weapon at the ball of light in front of him in the hopes of hitting something vital. Plus, he knows his aim is barely above passing. That being said, the Airstallion can only smile nervously and fight a strenuous battle to keep his muscles from making him fidget idiotically.

Signal Horn tilts his head towards the least populated part of the room. “This way, Hurricane. I want to discuss something with you that I think you will like.”

Thunderlane nods. “Yes, sir.”

Thunderlane follows the earth pony's lead, though, not without looking out of his eye nervously at the calm party and the guests that populate it. It does not take long for Thunderlane to spot Gale again, talking to Soarin, who, much to little to no surprise, appears uneasy in his presence. The General breaks eye contact from Soarin to watch the two with his ever observant eyes, just waiting for a reason to go over there and probably make another one of Thunderlane's evenings Hell.

“What you did can either be called brave or stupid depending on who you ask, but I personally think it was brave,” continues Signal Horn when they are safe away from the mingling crowd.

“Thank you, sir,” says Thunderlane quietly.

The two stop by a mural of Celestia controlling the celestial bodies, looking regal with her head bowed and wings outstretched as night and day grace the farmlands and cities.

“That day when you stood your ground against that aircraft, I saw greatness, and when you destroyed that thing's engine...” Signal Horn's voice drifts off, and he tilts his head this way and that in thought for a second or two before smiling at Thunderlane. “Well, you didn't hear the cheers when those flames came up and that thing started going out of control.”

“With all due respect, there were others that helped, sir,” says Thunderlane carefully. “Major Temper is the one that actually took out the pilots while Staff Sergeant Lining chipped away at the defenses. In all honesty, sir, if Airmare Dash hadn't come to me, I probably would have stayed put.”

“Don't sell yourself short,” says Signal Horn with a wave of his hoof. “It does not matter what you would have done if somepony wasn't there, what matter is what you did. You gave Major Temper that window to take down the pilots, and there is no telling how long it would have taken for Sergeant Lining to take out such a craft with sniper fire. It was a team effort, and you played the biggest role of the team, whether Sergeant Lining or Major Temper like it or not, understood?”

With that final phrase, the Brigadier General has hardened his expression and has aimed his hoof at Thunderlane's chest. It makes the pegasus feel a bit uneasy, seeing as how the stance reminds him of his father scolding him over every minute flaw, even if the words are supposed to be encouraging. Despite this, Thunderlane still manages a nod.

“Yes, sir,” he says meekly.

Signal Horn lowers his hoof and relaxes his posture, his harsh look changing to a more neutral one.

“On to business, now. After what has happened, Captain Pansy has set things in motion to give Generals personal security officers should our enemies make another attempt to attack us. I would like for you to be part of my security team,” says Signal Horn, a wide grin growing at the tail end of his statement.

Thunderlane blinks questionably. “Sir?”

Signal Horn sighs and gently places his hoof on Thunderlane's shoulder, staring at him with a concerned look in his eyes. “Look, I know an unappreciated soldier when I see one, and the choice is yours for whether or not you want to transfer to a better position, but think about it like this. You are misplaced and miserable, and I owe you a life debt. If politics hasn't eaten all of the honor in the military, then I am absolutely positive that I can arrange something special that will make it worth your while to be one of my guardians.”

Thunderlane can't help but grin at this. Just the thought of a General wanting him to a personal bodyguard and claiming to owe a life debt to him makes Thunderlane feel giddy on the inside. So giddy, in fact, that he almost shouts “Yes” on the spot. Aside from the better pay that will no doubt come with such a position, it will be a huge honor to be a guard of a high ranking official, and it just might help redeem himself after his failure to protect Rumble. If anything, it will at least prove to himself and his father that he isn't totally worthless.

However, thinking about Rumble leads to his joy decomposing on the spot once again. He did fail to protect his brother and Rainbow Dash, and that is something he knows he can never get over, even though he is going on a mission to take down the ones responsible for what happened. While it may seem ideal to heal the wounds between him and his parents, it still won't fix what is broken inside him.

Not only that, but he really does not know how long the mission to Bernese will take, and even though he does not feel completely part of Spitfire's team, he is still there and cannot abandon them. No matter how unfavorable they may be. Besides, a part of him does not want disappoint his team, and abandoning them for a better position before a mission is a great way to do that. Then there is the fact that the chances of the transfer request going through and being accepted to the desired post -or team- is slim to none. It is almost a waste of time to even think about going through the motions.

With all these depressing thoughts gnawing away at Thunderlane's good mood like starving maggots on a corpse, his joy quickly ends and he lowers his eyes to the floor. He looks up a moment later with a deep sigh and tries to give the earth pony General a neutral look. He has a strong feeling that he failed miserably.

“Sir, I mean no disrespect when I say this, but I... I will have to think about this,” says Thunderlane cautiously.

Signal Horn nods, appearing unaffected by Thunderlane's statement. “Of course. I'll be sure to have a slot open for you until I get a definitive answer.”

Signal Horn then digs into his uniform's inner pocket with a little difficulty and pulls out a folded manila envelop with the Equestrian Royal Guard Department of Affairs seal stamped on it. It is still in the General's mouth when he motions Thunderlane to take it. The Airstallion is hesitant at first, but he still bites down on the other end and gently takes it from the earth pony. Afterward, he spits it in his hoof and studies the envelope, noting how the end is sealed with thick permanent marker scribbles on the back where it is sealed. He looks up from the envelope when the Brigadier General speaks.

“That is the transfer paperwork,” says Signal Horn. “Should you decide to take me up on my offer, fill it out and turn it in to the D.O.A. hub. If not, my contact information is inside, so feel free to tell me if you declined. Or put it in for processing.”

Thunderlane smiles awkwardly. “Thank you, sir.”

Signal Horn then brings his hoof up for a salute, and Thunderlane returns it with a crisp motion, spotting Gale making his way over as he does this.

“Carry on, son. You've earned this day,” says Signal Horn.

“Thank you, sir,” replies Thunderlane, dread growing with each approaching step of his father.

Gale arrives seconds after they lower their hooves, and while Thunderlane feels like he is going to vomit from the General's presence, Signal Horn offers his superior a polite nod.

“Good evening, General Hurricane,” greets Signal Horn brightly.

“Good evening, Horn,” says Gale, nodding curtly to the earth pony and smiling thinly. “I noticed you were having a word with my boy. Anything I should be worried about?”

“No, sir. I was just thanking him personally for saving my life. You raised a great stallion.”

Thunderlane looks down, frowning resentfully at those words, thinking about how “great” Gale was in raising him all these years.

Gale chuckles. “I try. Well, you better get back to the party. It's my turn to bug him, now.”

“Of course.” He nods to Thunderlane. “Hurricane.” He nods to Gale, smiling. “Hurricane.”

The two pegasi return the nods and the earth pony trots away, leaving the two alone. Once Signal Horn is out of sight, Thunderlane takes a deep breath and looks at Gale nervously.

“Where's Mom, sir?” asks Thunderlane, even though he is certain he knows where she is.

“She's at the hospital keeping Rumble company,” replies Gale, still eying Signal Horn, his smile now replaced with a scrutinizing frown.

Thunderlane looks down, feeling the returning guilt of his failure to protect Rumble overtaking the burst of joy and squeezing his neck and heart. He swallows and prepares to apologize for what he allowed to happen, but jumps and snaps his eyes up when he feels a hoof go on his shoulder.

“Relax, it's just me, boy,” says Gale, his frown replaced with a small smile. “Amber wanted to be here, trust me on that, but she felt she needed to be with Rumble.”

“Okay,” says Thunderlane quietly, glancing out of the corner of his eye to see Rainbow Dash, Rarity and Twilight talking. Fuller and Celestia are nowhere to be seen, neither is Soarin or Spitfire, but the rest of his team is still mingling with the crowd. From the looks of it, Misty is trying very hard to be polite with Filthy Rich and his drunken flirting. How he got in is a big mystery to Thunderlane, and from the looks of it, the guards that are approaching him are just as confused as he is.

“But now that I am here, I wanted to talk to you, boy,” says Gale with a proud smile, snapping Thunderlane out of his observation, and the General uses his hoof to guide him towards an empty table near them. After the two take a seat, he continues. “I won't get on your case about anything. I actually wanted to congratulate you on your achievement.”

Thunderlane shifts uneasily in his spot, struggling to get the rock-like words to leave his tongue. “Thank you, sir.”

“I remember when I got my Silver Sun medal in the Frontier Watch. Me and this crazy earth pony named Grape Muffin took on a full grown dragon together in the Badlands. It about nearly killed us both, but nothing a spear to the eye and a slash to the jugular couldn't fix.”

“That sounds like quite the story, sir,” mumbles Thunderlane, unsure if he should smile or continue to look at the pale tablecloth in response to the convenient father-son bonding moment.

“You bet it was!” laughs Gale. “If you met Grape Muffin you'd think he was destined to be the Element of Laughter. Always goofy and doing something stupid, that dirt stomper was. But, anyway, when we got this report of a dragon attacking miners and stealing the gold and gems, Grape Muffin went to me asked if I wanted to set a new record. So I asked him what he meant and he said: 'Two ponies. One dragon. Let's do it!'. I told him he was crazy, but he said if I didn't go, he would set the record at one pony, one dragon. I couldn't let him go alone, so I went with him and-”

Gale's words fade in Thunderlane's ears as he looks past the older stallion, just to see what else is going on, trying to ignore the gleeful expressions and hoof movements of the pony in front of him. The three Elements are still talking. Fire Streak and Fleetfoot are by a table of food, Silver Lining is making up some kind of story for the reporters, and the rest of the crowd looks to be milling about, putting up a facade that they are having fun.

“-After our commander, Lieutenant Colonel Ji, found us siting on the dead dragon, eating our rations and joking around, he about nearly flipped his lid and had us punished good for breaking protocol,” says Gale on the brink of laughter, bringing Thunderlane back to the conversation. “Eight months of janitorial duty. Dishes, garbage, lawn care, you name it. That actually pissed me off, but Grape Muffin took it with a smile. The awards we got from Princess Celestia herself for killing the dragon made our days a little better, though.”

There is a moment's pause, with Gale taking a deep breath and Thunderlane's golden eyes struggling to focus on his father. He cannot help but feel a simmering concoction of resentment and sadness boiling inside him, and it makes his eyes burn as he fights to keep his emotions in check.

Now his father -whom he doubts is his father, anyway- wants to bond after giving him thirty years of Hell? Now he is his father's son after he is awarded the same, shiny medal that he has? Now he can talk and laugh with him after he kills who knows how many ibexes? Now Gale can pretend to care about him since Rumble does not have a face and can't move because of what he failed to do?

“So, why don't you tell me how you took down that ship? I want to hear how my boy showed those goats what happens when you mess with Equestria!” says Gale eagerly.

Thunderlane swallows, blinking away a layer of mist that leaves his eyes red and putting his trembling hoof under the table as his nostrils flare from his resistance to screaming.

“Um, actually, with all due respect, I'd, um, I'd rather not talk about it,” says Thunderlane. He feels a tear go down his cheek, and Gale's smile fades as he swallows and blinks again. “I would actually like to visit Rumble to see how he is doing.”

Gale's smile is completely gone at this point, and Thunderlane meets his expression with barely contained rage that bleeds misery. Thunderlane is expecting his father to lash out and order him to tell him everything, or give a lecture about respect, but what happens instead is a complete shock.

“Oh,” says Gale somewhat disappointingly, sadness flickering in his eyes.

It is a sadness that Thunderlane does not want to care about, but still finds himself feeling a little guilty for causing it, it is not enough to stop his anger, though.

“Well, that is understandable to visit your bother and mother. I know she will be proud of your achievement like me. Why don't I take you there?” says Gale.

Thunderlane shakes his head. “No, it's okay, I can-”

“No, I insist.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I'd like to see them alone! Is that alright?” snaps Thunderlane.

Thunderlane and Gale stare at each other, with Thunderlane staring down Gale's shocked expression with an acrimonious glare. A heavy, pregnant pause passes between them that ends with Gale sighing and nodding in defeat.

“Okay, boy, I'll let you go alone. Just know that I am proud of you, and-”

Thunderlane gets up without letting Gale complete his sentence, and hurries towards the nearest door, not caring to look back. His heart beats savagely in his ears as he pushes the door open as hard as he can, breathing heavy and face feeling hotter despite the cool air, and he marches down the concrete walkway, passing guards that give him quizzical looks. Once the door slams shut behind him with a metallic bang, he expands his wings and shoots off into the sky, leaving the ceremony and everyone else behind.

Birch snorts awake when he hears a soft click coming from somewhere nearby. He yawns and blinks a couple of times before looking at the dial radio sitting on his nightstand. The old thing has a fuzzy signal, but it is just good enough for him to understand what the current host is saying. It is a message that puts a rotten feeling in his gut.

“What the Gold Stars did should not be seen as evil, but rather as good, for they have saved us from the vermin that have spread their disease in this valley and manipulated us with their deceit,” says a male ibex over the radio in a voice heavy with pride and adoration of the controlling party. “My brothers and sisters of this valley, this event should not be met with fear or desires of retaliation. It should be met with joy and praise, for it marked the first step of our freedom from the true oppressors and it displayed the courage and honor of those who fight for us, the workers!”

Birch's tired eyes lower to the floor, and now all that he can think of is his guilty conscious. He can't even imagine what Post felt when Rotes killed him, nor can he imagine the terror and the sadness of the other victims and their families. As far as he knows, no one knows he had a hoof in their deaths, but now that he thinks about it, word gets out very easily in a contained area like Der Tal, and his guilt gives way to fear.

What if the townsfolk figure out that he sold out Post? Would they kill him? Torture him? Burn down his home with him trapped inside?

Birch's heart starts thumping and his whole body quivers as gruesome imagery of him being dealt brutal street justice swarms his mind. The thought most dominate being burned alive in his own home. With such things going through his mind, he starts hyperventilating and tries in vain to tell him that it will be alright. Rotes may have the area on lock down, but he is certain that all he has to do is tell Rotes that he fears for his life to get permission to leave with his reward money. Maybe he should flee Bernese entirely and go to Germaneigh, or possibly Ibexia.

A spark of determination urges Birch to go to Rotes to plead his case before his hooves forbid him from walking. The old ibex reaches for a suitcase that was given to him by March after Post was murdered, but stops when he sees his blood money on display, congratulating him for selling out a beloved member of their community.

Six hundred and fifty bronze coins, thirty silver coins, and twenty gold coins, all polished and shining in the light of his simple living room. All clean as they day they were given to him.

The only problem is that Birch never reopened the case after March showed him the contents.

The color drains from Birch's face and his throat becomes tight as he glances out of the corner of his eye to see a red maned, female ibex wearing thick glasses with glasses that make her orange eyes appear bigger. And covering her body is a dark cloak and she has a lavender scarf wrapped around her neck.

Birch's heart sink and he slumps in his chair, finding himself unable to break eye contact from the intruder.

“Are you here to kill me?” asks Birch weakly, his voice wet and cracking.

The red maned ibex just stares at him, her unforgiving eyes being magnified by her glasses and her jaw getting tighter.

“Now we all must take the next step together as a true community united in the very real freedom that Perfect Harmony will grant us. Band together and help our saviors raise the Gold Star!” proclaims the radio host proudly.

“Turn it up,” orders the female.

Birch gulps and extends his quivering hoof to turn up the radio's volume right in time for the host to announce Rotes Leinen's “Great Leap Forward” speech.

“Do you enjoy sending good people to their deaths, Birch?” asks the intruder.

“I-I did not know Rotes would kill him, any of them! I thought he only wanted to talk,” claims Birch shakily.

The intruder pulls back her sleeve slightly to reveal a pistol barrel with a muffler nestled against her hoof. Birch's eyes widen and his speeding heart jumps to his throat, suffocating him and soaking his eyes and cheeks in tears. When he looks at the face of the female, he notices a thin firing bit nestled in her mouth. Her eyes narrow and her jaw tightens, and Birch holds up both of his hooves defensively, choking on his tears and shaking in his seat.

“Please, I swear I did not mean for any of this to happen!” sobs Birch.

The intruder's eyes narrow, and before Birch can say anything else, there is a flash of light and a muffled pop, and his world goes dark.

The assassin slides her sleeve back in place and carefully pushes out the firing bit with her tongue. During this, she stares with minimal satisfaction at the gaping hole in Birch's head and the splash of red and bone on the wall behind him. Seconds later, she turns her attention to the briefcase of money and contemplates on whether or not she should confiscate it for the ones she work for. Her decision to leave it instead comes pretty quickly.

She looks back at Birch's corpse and she brings up her other hoof, which has a small radio device strapped to it, and presses it against her ear. It turns on with a satisfying click and fuzz, and after turning it on and off three times in one second increments, the fuzz disappears and is replaced with a welcoming ding.

“Winter, this is Spring, threat has been neutralized,” she says.

“Good to hear. Any more information about his connection with Star I should know about?” says a male on the other end.

“Nope, he is still a one time informant that got a glimpse of me and sold out Father Post, but he won't be informing ever again.”

“And the reports of Post?”

“Verified. He's gone.”

“I see... You are playing a dangerous game, Spring. Star is destabilizing.”

“We all saw this coming. What's your point?”

“No, this is quicker than we anticipated. I am going to pull you and Guardian out before his paranoia finds you two.”

Spring shakes her head. “No, you are not. I am going to finish this. I can finish this if you will let me.”

Winter sighs on the other end. “I want this to end, believe me. I am doing everything I can to get the Chancellor to agree to the kill order, you know that, but he is being stubborn and...”

Spring knows what he wants to say, but they both know that they cannot risk giving any clues of their association to whomever may be listening in. But despite the looming presence of being spied on, she still smiles.

“I will be fine,” she says reassuringly. “I actually need to get back with my captor before he sends the dogs after me.”

Winter chuckles, but Spring can tell it is forced. “Okay. Stay safe.”

“Will do.” She wants to add “I love you” before she hangs up, but stops herself before she can make such a foolish mistake. That being said, her countenance falls with her heart when Winter's end disconnects, leaving her alone once again in the Hell she chose, and goes outside on the back patio where March is waiting.

“Is it done?” asks March.

Spring nods. “Yes.”

They walk towards a motor wagon, and after doing a quick search to make sure no one hopped in, Spring moves a bundle of bags stuffed with band aids, rubbing alcohol and groceries to the floor before taking a seat. Once inside, March slides in the driver seat and starts the wagon, blowing a welcoming burst of hot air on her chilled face. However, not even the warm air can melt the coldness in Spring's heart and eyes, and when they pull out of Birch's yard and go down the alley, she pulls off her red mane to reveal golden locks underneath. Then she removes her glasses and rubs her eyes, letting out an aggravated groan, which prompts March to look at her with concern.

“Ozean did not give the kill order, did he, Anna?” he says.

Spring, also known as Anna Ausstecher, nods disappointingly and rubs her temple as they pass the scorched skeleton of the cathedral. “The Chancellor still refuses to authorize it.” She lifts her eyes up, glaring straight ahead at the hostile mountains with the fires of hate burning through her body. “But if he waits any longer, then I will take it in my own authority and kill Rotes Leinen myself.”

Beneath the Shells

Thunderlane heads towards where his brother is being kept at the Canterlot Hospital. The staff is ignorant of his presence, but he is thankful for it, for he does not want anyone getting in his way, right now. He is still fuming about how his father thinks they can suddenly be friends now that he has a medal. After decades of verbal assaults, enforcing impossible standard and dictating his life, how can Gale rightfully come to the ceremony and act like no abuse has ever been delivered by his words or hooves?

So lost is Thunderlane in his angry, mental ramblings of “Why?” that he does not register his surroundings. His hooves guide him based on muscle memory alone of when he saw Rumble for the first time after the bombing. The whitewash walls, the health posters, the shining tiles, the quietly conversing staff making their rounds, none of that sparks his attention.

Just his thoughts. Just the audacity of his father now paying positive attention to him after he got a medal for participating in the killing of a bunch of goats.

'Make this right!'

That snarl from Gale pierces Thunderlane's thoughts, and the only thing he can do is sniff and nod to no one in particular. He has started on the road to redeeming himself, as his conditional father has proven with the convenient proud smile and sudden desire for chit-chat. But at this point, he is not doing any of this for his father's love or Amber Grain or the Hurricane Family. He is doing it for Rumble.

He killed for Rumble.

He turned down a chance for a better tomorrow for Rumble.

He is going to kill again for Rumble, and he will trudge through Hell if he has to to make up for what he failed to do. Then, when Rumble gets out of the hospital, he will take care of him again without his parents' assistance, like he has always done.

Thunderlane turns the corner and sees Amber Grain staring straight ahead at Rumble's room window, her distant eyes and wet cheeks shining from hours worth of tears. She is actually curled up on the floor, choosing the cold, hard tile over the cushioned bench, and when Thunderlane approaches her, her ears barely flick from the clip-clop of his hooves meeting the tile.

He tries to push back the angry thoughts that are hungrily gnawing at his conscious like starving scavengers. He forces his frown to disappear and takes a moment to wipe the angry tears from his eyes before he continues his walk. Once he is by to his mother, he lays down next to her and places his wing over her back while looking at Rumble's window, only to feel disappointment pile on top of the anger when he sees a crimson curtain covering everything.

Thunderlane feels Amber Grain's eyes on him, but he keeps his attention trained on the curtain, and he reflexively puts his hoof around her and hugs her closer when she sniffles and snuggles against him.

“Hi, Thunderlane. I thought you would be celebrating your award,” says the older mare.

Thunderlane shrugs. “I don't like parties that much. Besides, I wanted to check up on Rumble.” He looks at his mother hopefully. “Have the doctors said anything about his recovery?”

Amber Grain nibbles her lip and looks between him and the curtain shielding everyone from Rumble's state. A moment later, she looks at her reflection on the tile, nodding.

“Doctor Heartbeat said that there is a chance he will recover, but he won't be able to fly again and would need reconstructive surgery to rebuild his face and a permanent cast over his hooves,” explains Amber Grain quietly.

Thunderlane nods and stares at the curtain, wishing he can move it so he can see his brother.

“Thunderlane, I wanted to see that medal pinned on you, but...” Amber Grain looks at Rumble's curtain and her voice drifts to a sniffle obscured by her hoof over her mouth.

“I know, Mom. I understand,” says Thunderlane. He takes a breath and hugs her with one hoof and gently pulls her close so he can nuzzle her as he softly speaks. “I'm sorry I let this happen.”

“Please don't apologize,” sniffles Amber Grain, lowering her eyes to the floor.

“But this is my fault.”

Amber Grain shakes her head, her eyes still on the floor. “No it isn't. Nopony could have seen what happened coming. Nopony could have known that Bernese would do this.”

Thunderlane folds his hooves under his head to make a cushion and rests his chin on them, staring at the window with tears of anger and sorrow pooling in his eyes.

“It was my job to protect him, though, and I failed. I failed Rumble, I failed you and I failed Dad.”

Amber Grain sits up and gently runs her hoof up and down Thunderlane's spine while softly speaking to him. “Thunderlane, I know it is hard for you to understand, but not everything can be controlled or make sense. What happened that day was beyond your control, and it may never make sense to us why someone would do this. All we can really do is accept that and move on.”

Thunderlane shakes his head, feeling a frown and annoyance creeping in his from his mother's terrible advice of “moving on”.

“I can't do that. I can't move on. Not until I make this right,” says Thunderlane, trying with great difficulty to keep his voice even around Amber Grain. He exhales depressingly and sits up so he can be at eye level with her and places his hoof on her shoulder. He wrestles with the idea of whether or not he should tell his mother the news, but it does not take long for him to make a decision. Regulations be damned at this point. “Mom, I'm going to be going to Bernese very soon to go after the ones who did this. This mission... This mission will help me make this right and when it is done, I will move on and go back to taking care of Rumble like I've done before.”

Amber Grain balks and recoils with her wings expanded slightly, letting Thunderlane's hoof drop to the ground. “What? No. No, no, Thunderlane, no I don't want you to go on that mission!”

Thunderlane scowls. “Why?”

“Because I don't want to lose you! You might not come back if you go to Bernese!”

Thunderlane snaps his hoof Rumble's room, now growling with the anger bubbling out. “Did you forget what they did to Rumble!” he yells, making Amber Grain retreat slightly with a scared squeak. “Did you forget what they did to all those innocent people! I have to do this! I have to make this right!”

“How can I forget about Rumble when I've been sleeping here almost every day!” retaliates Amber Grain, her voice quivering and tears snaking down her cheeks. “But what about you, Thunderlane? What if you come back and you aren't the same colt I raised? Or what if you die over there?”

Thunderlane's snarl fades, but the anger in his eyes remain as he sniffs heavily and flaps his wings.

“Mom, I'll be fine,” assures Thunderlane in a grim tone, but now that his mother has mentioned it, the fear of death does seep in. “I will come back from Bernese and everything will be alright. The mess I made will be fixed and-”

“Please stop saying that!” begs Amber Grain, placing her hooves over her ears. She shakes her head, then throws her hooves on Thunderlane's shoulders and peers into his eyes, meeting his growing wrath with terrified humility. “None of this is your fault, Thunderlane! Why can't you accept that?”

Thunderlane stomps the floor with a resounding thud as yet another angry growl leaves his throat and a darkness forms around his eyes, which now shimmer in the light from returning tears.

“Because Dad made it clear that this all my fault! Why can't you see that?” cries Thunderlane, his explosive voice ringing off the walls and his wings expanded fully. “I was supposed to protect Rumble, but I didn't and now he is crippled for life because I couldn't do my job!”

Thunderlane jabs himself in the chest, barrel heaving and tears dripping down his cheeks from the despair eating away at the fury.

“You see this uniform that I'm wearing because of you and Dad!” continues Thunderlane angrily, voice cracking and shaking and his whole body quivering. “This uniform means I am supposed to protect others! And I can't even do that right!”

“Thunderlane, I-”

“And ever since I got Rumble blown up, Dad never said another word to me or even looked at me until I got a shiny medal for a uniform I never wanted to wear! That tells me enough about him and the kind of jerk you married! He forgot he loved me because he never loved me in the first place!”

Amber Grain holds up her hoof in an attempt to calm the stallion down. “Thunderlane, please listen to me, he does care about you. He does love you. You are our son, we both love you with all our hearts, and I'm sorry we weren't better parents. I'm sorry that you felt this path was the only way you felt that we could love you. I'm sorry I wasn't the mother I should have been, and if I could, I would go back in time and fix every mistake we made.”

Thunderlane scoffs and wipes his eyes, muttering: “Why do that when you could go to the root of all this mess and stop yourself from meeting Dad? Then you wouldn't have me to mess everything up and Rumble wouldn't be around to have his face blown off.”

Thunderlane is immediately assaulted with a very sharp, stinging slap right across his face. The impact stings him and brings a flash of white and a ringing to eyes and ears. It takes him a moment to comprehend what just happened, considering he has never seen his mother raise a hoof to anyone for any reason. Sure she yells and gets stern from time to time, but slapping? That is completely alien to him, and now that she has done this, Thunderlane realizes that he just said something completely stupid. So stupid, in fact, that it is making his mother tremble in rage and is choking them both, with grief for her and guilt for him.

“How dare you wish something so horrible!?” yells Amber Grain furiously. “How dare you! Being angry is no reason to wish something so awful! Without Gale, I wouldn't have you or Rumble! I would have nothing but a darkness and misery that I do not want again! Yes, Gale is hard to be around, but do you know why?”

When Thunderlane answers with a swallow, Amber Grain sniffles and takes a step back, lips quivering and head lowered with her hoof covering her mouth.

“It is the pain he is carrying with him,” she whimpers. “You don't remember what he was like before the guilt and anger and sadness took him like it is taking you.”

Amber Grain takes a deep, shaky breath and looks at Thunderlane with bloodshot eyes and her soaked cheeks shining in the hospital's light.

“Back then, he was happy and soft and always searched for a bright ending,” says Amber Grain, taking a depressing breath after and staring at her hooves, “but when he lost his brother and parents, everything became dim. He blamed himself, and only himself, for what happened to them.”

Thunderlane swallows again, trying to keep the ball of tears at bay as he watches his mother falling apart in front of him, feeling helpless and unsure what to do to stop it.

“Watching Gale breakdown was one of the hardest things I endured because I was powerless to stop it!” continues Amber Grain, her voice cracking into nigh hysterical weeping. “He-He was his greatest enemy and he thought he could starve all that hopelessness, all that despair by holding it in, but it only grew worse and it ate him alive! It ate him... It ate him like it is eating you. His joy became bitter, his softness hardened, and now he is just a shell of the pony I fell in love with. But I know that the real Gale is still in there somewhere.”

Thunderlane frowns skeptically at his mother, despite the tears bleeding down his cheeks. “How?”

Amber Grain smiles at Thunderlane and blinks tears out of her eyes. “He still tells stories.”

Thunderlane raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Amber Grain nods. “You two were more alike than you realize. Like you, Gale was once very caring, fragile, easy to embarrass and was very reserved.” She chuckles for a moment and wipes her nose before she glances at Thunderlane with a sad, reminiscent smile, blinking away the tears wetting her eyes. “He even looked like was going to be sick when he first started talking to me. But he was always trying to please others, especially his parents. Why, at one point, he even tried getting his cutie mark in storytelling like his father! He would tell his mother stories and would watch his father do his ghost-writing, and before we started officially courting, he always asked me if I had time for a story when he would get his morning coffee at the cafe I worked at. He really does love telling stories to others, and when we have company or are at an event, he would tell others about the day we got you.”

Thunderlane points at himself, unsure that he heard her right. “Me?”

Amber Grain rolls her eyes up in thought. “Well, he also talks a lot about when I gave birth to Rumble and how he had to run out because he got sick from seeing it, but, yes, he talks about you a lot, too.” She looks back at Thunderlane, gently places her hoof against his cheek and starts rubbing it in smooth, loving strokes while looking in his eyes with a proud smile tainted by her tears. “You are a gift to us, Thunderlane. I know you don't believe it, but you are special to me and Gale and I know you have a purpose. I know you are meant for great things, and when the time is right, you will know what that purpose is. But, please, stay as the kind soul I know you are. Don't lose yourself the same way I lost Gale.”

Thunderlane nods, sniffling and trying to clear the tears from his eyes as his heart becomes heavy with a sense of guilt and confusion while he grabs his mother's hoof.

“Okay,” says Thunderlane quietly.

“You promise?” asks Amber Grain.

Thunderlane hesitates. “I promise.”

“Good.” Amber Grain leans up and gently kisses him on the forehead, then pulls away and nudges him up. “Now, go out with your friends and be happy for just one day. Please.”

Thunderlane almost tells her that the only friend he really has is Rainbow Dash, and that is very loosely speaking, but that would take the conversation in another sharp turn, and possibly make things awkward. Quite frankly, he's not sure if he can handle another emotional curve at the moment, so he simply nods, hugs his mother really quick, then walks away with his head down and all that has been revealed to him holding his mind hostage.

Sitting just around the corner, in the darkness of the desolate hallway, listening to the whole conversation and hearing Thunderlane leave, is Gale. He cannot move, only listen to Thunderlane's steps fade from his ears. He wants to move, he wants to go to the stallion he raised, but he cannot get himself to stand. His back remains pressed against the cold brick, and his wet eyes are shut, leaking trickles of tears down his wrinkled face as he presses his hooves against his muzzle.

Seeing the pain in Thunderlane's eyes when he tried to talk to him, seeing the anger, the sadness, all the resentment, it is something he knows all too well. He remembers giving his father that same look, and turning him down the same way like Thunderlane did to him. With angry words and furious steps, he turned his back on his father when he wanted to talk, leaving him broken and alone at the Air Guard graduation ceremony. Those big eyes, red and wet, and trembling lips void of words is the last face he has of his father before alcohol finally claimed him shortly after his brother was taken in Bernese.

Gale carefully removes a photo from his pocket, and he has to squint his eyes in dim light to see the details, but it amazes him every time he sees it. The stallion in the picture can easily be mistaken for Thunderlane, and the little sleeping colt wrapped in the blanket looks just like him, too. They are near perfect copies of each other, made all the more obvious with how the outgoing stallion is pressing his face against the oblivious, sleeping baby's cheek to show off this amazing outcome.

The more Gale stares at the picture, the clearer that day becomes when he first laid eyes on Thunderlane.

“What are you going to name him?” asks a thirty years younger Gale brightly as he stares at the charcoal coated baby in the crib. The crib that he is looking at is set in uniform with a dozen other cribs, all occupied by newborns and shielded by a pane of glass.

Next to Gale is the father of the child. He is a few years older than Gale, and has a dark coat with a gray mane, and a cutie mark of a syringe inside a red cross. Though, unlike Gale, who is wearing his blue and green uniform of the Frontier Watch, he is wearing a simple tie and is carrying a saddle full of books and papers. The older stallion is about to answer, but stops himself when a couple of nurses walk by and give Gale some flirtatious looks. Gale pays no mind to this, though, and returns the look with a teasing smile and a shrug.

“Sorry, ladies, already taken,” says Gale.

“Lucky mare,” chirps one of nurses.

“Yes she is!”

The pair of nurses giggle and trot away, and the two stallions shake their heads, smiling broadly, then they look at the sleeping colt and sigh.

“Man, that Grape Muffin guy corrupted you, big time,”teases the father. “The Gale I remember would have a heart attack if he saw what you just did.”

Gale shrugs. “What can I say? Some dirt stompers are actually decent if you get to know them. Now, for the baby. Have you and the missus thought of a name, yet?”

“Well,” begins the father slowly, tilting his head this way and that. “I was thinking something cooler than Gale.”

Gale playfully slugs the dark furred pegasus in the shoulder. “Hey, don't you start with me! Anything is be better than your name, Good!”

Good snickers and tenderly rubs his shoulder. “Yeah, our parents sucked at naming us. I don't know, though. How about Bob?”

“Okay. No! Definitely not! You're still a Hurricane, whether you changed your name or not, so your boy needs something a whole lot stronger than Bob.” Gale taps his chin for a moment, eyes to the floor and lips sealed as he hums thoughtfully. Seconds later, his eyes light up and he points at the father with a wide grin. “I got it! How about 'Thunderlane'?”

The father returns the grin with more glee than Gale, and he ruffles his feathers as he rubs his hooves together eagerly. “Sounds, cool. I'll run it by milady!”

Gale wipes his eyes and bows his head, then he takes a deep breath and hugs the picture tight against his chest, and in the dark hall, no one sees the hardened soldier cry.

Rotes stares down at a ditch, his glasses freezing against his coat and puffs of iced air floating in front of his face with Gilda and Grim flanking him. Grim is actually standing further away, peering down the recently dug grave, pulling off the curious look, but Rotes knows that the buff griffin is trying to keep his distance from Gilda. He knows he would, too, if he were in Grim's position. He also knows that what happened between the two can work to his advantage if he plays his cards right. The Painter has made a grave mistake by thinking he is clever by having these griffins watch him, fully prepared to kill him once his use has run out for the strange unicorn. But, just like all of Rotes' enemies, the Painter has underestimated him and will pay dearly for it.

Thinking about the best way to counter the Painter and preserve Perfect Harmony's ascension, Rotes glances at the stone in Gilda's mechanical hand. He remembers how it had glowed an eerie green a few minutes before, but he is not sure if it had the same effect when he punished Post for his betrayal since he was not looking at Gilda when it happened. Seeing the glow had actually been a mistake since he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Nonetheless, regardless of the situation, interest in stone from its activity has been growing in Rotes, and he feels a a strange lusting in his heart for it.

When Gilda shifts in her spot, clenching her mechanical hand into a fist to shield the stone from the outside world, she looks at Rotes with a suspicious glare. Feigning disinterest of the mystical object, he looks back at the ditch. The ditch is now being filled with frosted sand and lime to cover the corpses inside. The bodies are easily buried since their grave is about six feet deep and eighteen feet long. It took a great amount of time digging it, but it was nothing that the dozen executed detainees with shovels couldn't handle.

The armed guards watching them encouraged the doomed prisoners to dig faster, but it did not keep them quiet. Some cried and others muttered prayers, which annoyed Rotes to an extent, but it also interested him to a degree to see if they will be delivered from their troubles. By the time the bullets tore into them while they were still inside, he got his answer.

Faith has once again failed the faithful, and now the foolish are being sealed in their mass grave.

“What's the reason for killing this batch?” asks Gilda when a shovel full of lime covers a young ibex barely in her teens, soon to have some frozen dirt tossed on top of her.

That makes her face scrunch in disgust behind her mask, but Rotes merely releases a bored sigh as another round of lime and dirt covers yet another body.

“They were uncooperative when I asked them about Ozean and Post,” he replies simply. “It really is no different than you killing ponies because they didn't pay on time or griffins for lying to you when they said they weren't informants.”

Gilda growls at him, her natural and bladed talons flexing and the gears clicking as she stretches her robotic fingers. “I didn't do mass graves, dip-shit, and rather than assuming you know me and what I did-”

“The Painter already told me everything I need to know about you, Gilda,” interrupts Rotes impatiently. “So, unless the rejected child wants to explain to me how she was a saint for poisoning the lives of the desperate for greed, I would suggest you let me assume freely. Chances are I would be right, anyway.”

Gilda narrows her eyes, but Rotes ignores this and the distorted rumble coming from her breathing mask, and he approaches Grim. The buff griffin's face is covered in more scars from Gilda's sudden rampage, and anyone can see that the muscle of the two now has a meek appearance to him. No longer is he standing tall and daring someone to say something insulting to him. Now he is sulking and finding any reason not to look at Rotes or Gilda. Even if that means staring at bodies being buried under a mountain of lime and dirt.

When Rotes is next to Grim, he sizes up the griffin, studying the muscles under his dark gray coat and gray plumage. They are impressive, even for a griffin, and he sees more faint scarring covering his body, and he notices how one of his talons is slightly crooked, as though it has been broken at some point. Rotes hums quietly to himself and glances at Gilda out of his peripheral vision, prompting Grim to look at him quizzically while ruffling his feathers and tensing his muscles. Gilda, from what he can see, is back to inspecting the stone in her hand.

Rotes knows the stone is special, he can feel it, and a growing part of him knows that he can use it to his advantage if he can get a hold of it.

With the thought of apprehending the stone, Rotes looks at Grim and flashes a thin, toothless smile at the large griffin and gently pats his shoulder before staring at the grave. Grim twitches and glances at Rotes curiously, but the ibex casually scans the corpses, finding his focus on a pair of bloodied ibexes hugging each other in their final moment of comfort. It sends a shiver all through his body, thinking about how eerily similar this scene is to when he had been fleeing Bernese.

The mass grave, the lime and dirt being shoveled on top of the bodies, the officer barking the order before the barely heard sobs and begs are silenced by a volley of gunfire. He remembers having the same fear that his executed prisoners had, and while some hugged and others tried climbing out, most remained frozen, knowing their end has come. It is the same fear that froze him while other refugees walked past him with Post and Cutter shepherding them through the very same forest he is in now.

Rotes closes his eyes and inhales the chilled air, freezing the lump in his throat and stiffening his shaking legs.

"Keep walking. You are almost safe," is what Post whispered to him so the executioners would not find him.

Rotes exhales and opens his mouth to break apart the clog that has taken his throat hostage. A layer of tears freeze on his cheeks, and thinking about Post and how similar his execution and the executions of his accomplices are similar to the purge in Der Tal thirty years back threatens to bring more tears.

A pair of militants shovel the lime and sand over them and Rotes sniffles and looks away from the bodies with a growing frown and his eyes freezing from a thin amount of tears building up in them.

“The things I do for us,” he says quietly.

With a depressed sniff, Rotes strolls towards the motor wagon he arrived in, where Kirche is standing, ignoring Gilda's raised brow look, and stops when he is by the Commissioner.

“Kirche, what is the status of the quarantine?” says Rotes, forcing his depression back so no one can see his weakness.

Kirche sighs and nervously rubs the back of his neck. “We are very fortunate that the operation is a lot simpler than anticipated, Herr Leinen.”

A thin smile is forced across the blonde ibex's muzzle. “Do tell, Commissioner.”

“With your army and my police, we have managed to keep this valley sealed, and even the military seems blind to us. We are very fortunate that the Chancellor has not ordered the military to attack us, but what if our luck ends? We are in no condition to engage the Republican Guard should they do large operations against us.”

Rotes sighs and puts his hoof on Kirche's shoulder. “Commissioner Kirche, the Chancellor will not dare wage war on us, for if he even so much attempts such an act, the retaliation will be devastating, and he knows this.” Rotes pats the older ibex's should and continues in a louder voice when Gilda approaches. “Besides! You honestly did not think I would do all this without positioning my assets in key positions, did you?”

Kirche smiles nervously. “I guess not. Forgive me for being foolish, Herr Leinen.”

“Ah, not to worry, as long as you are loyal to me and to my cause, I will forgive you for just about anything, but...” Rotes glances at Gilda out of the corner of his eyes. “If you give me reasons to doubt your loyalty, then you should have reasons to be afraid.”

Gilda stops and snorts a puff of frosty air from her breathing mask, and Rotes smirks and looks back at Kirche, who now appears more uneasy now than before.

“Go back to town and talk to Birch,” orders Rotes. “Perhaps he has remembered more about Post and this assassin after some days of rest. Then ask March if he has gotten any word of Cutter.”

“Yes, Herr Leinen.” Kirche says with a quick nod.

“And be kind to Birch. He has proven to be loyal, and loyalty needs to be treated with kindness.”

Kirche nods again. “Yes, Herr Leinen.”

The old ibex trots away and barks at a couple of the local guards. They are smoking and chatting quietly amongst themselves, but are quick to snap to attention with one even going as far as stomping his cigarette out. After Kirche explains their orders, they nods and hastily get inside one of the armored wagons with the Commissioner and drive off, leaving a cloud of gray exhaust and kicked up smoke in their wake.

Rotes coughs and hacks hysterically, and waves his covered hoof in front of his face to beat the poisonous fumes away from his nose. Even though the deadly mix of snow and exhaust is thirty feet away from him. Once done expelling his lungs of the threat, he glares at the leaving vehicle, silently cursing himself for forgetting his gas mask.

Seconds later, he releases a loud sigh and lowers his head to look at the white ground while inhaling the wonderfully crisp, cold air, no longer ruined by the lingering pollution.

“I was wondering why we haven't been bombed, yet,” says Gilda from behind, “but now that you mentioned placing moles all over the place, I'm surprised that you haven't found Nasty Hick.”

Rotes sniffs up more of the great air and straightens himself out. “Some individuals are sneaky, others think they are sneaky.” He looks at Gilda from over his shoulder. “Your friend is the former, surprisingly.”

Gilda's hum is like a weakly purring engine, and Rotes catches what he thinks is a flicker of pride in her eyes. That suspected pride quickly turns into annoyance, though, when she realizes that, just like Rotes, Nasty Hick was grossly underestimated in her eyes.

“When you do get him back, he better be in one piece,” says Gilda.

“Duly noted,” replies Rotes, now walking back to the ditch.

When he is next to Gilda, she stops him with her mechanical hand, inadvertently placing the stone above his heart, giving it Rotes' undivided attention.

“Hello?” whimpers a familiar voice.

Rotes furrows his brows, thinking he is just hearing things, but then a painful tingling, like that of a hundred pinpricks, runs through his hooves. A cold seeps through his veins like mercury, where it pools at his hooves and commands the snow to lift up around. It barely rises a thin cloud, though, and Rotes is too stunned at the sight to see if he can do more. However, Gilda does not seem to notice this anomaly and her emerald eyes have once again reverted to the gold color as the familiar voice seeps into Rotes' head, like a rodent seeking refuge from the cold.

“Rotes?” says Post weakly.

Rotes' immediately recoils from Gilda, with his heart racing and breathing ragged as he stares at the robotic hand with his eyes large enough to explode and his pupils tiny like dots.

“I mean it,” growls Gilda, dropping her robotic appendage to the ground. “Grim and Nasty are all I have left, and if anything happens to them because of you, I will rip you apart and gut you like a fucking fish.”

Rotes swallows and hastily leaves Gilda's side to get back to the ditch where the traitors will rot.

“And yet you beat Grim senselessly that one time for a mere slip of the tongue. You are truly caring. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do,” remarks Rotes with a tone as brisk as his panicked steps when he restarts his trek. The taste of power lingers in his mind and body, and in spite of the pain he felt, he wants to stay to feel it again, but at the same time, he does not want to hear Post. There is no way he should have heard him. He knows what he hears and just the sound of that voice is a terrible reminder of what he had to do to ensure the safety of his comrades, Storm Cloud and the rise of the Gold Star Movement.

“You mean like killing more unarmed people!” yells Gilda, her angry voice booming over the frozen landscape.

Rotes stops cold in his tracks, staring at the ditch and thinking about the gunfire that ruthlessly mowed down unarmed ibexes like him during the Prosecutions. The guards covering the bodies stop their shoveling and look at Rotes and Gilda, as does Grim. The androgynous ibex's hooves start to shake with the memory of the blood in the snow and the cries of mercy from the defenseless swirl in his mind, blurring into one mass of confusion.

“We'reunarmedcloseyoureyesyouralmostsafeabominationshelperofgriffinswe'reinnocent!”

Rotes slams his eyes shut and bangs his hoof against the snow, then he spins to Gilda, scowling as threateningly as his soft facial features will allow and starts towards her.

“Gilda, you are not a saint, please stop acting like one!” orders Rotes. “What I am doing is what is best for all of us!”

“You are so full of shit!” Gilda storms over to Rotes, and the militants rush to his side and aim their battle saddles at her while Rotes remains standing firm, meeting her fiery gaze with his narrowed eyes.

A pair of guards keep their guns trained on Grim, though, and he takes a couple of steps back while reaching for his holstered pistol. When Gilda is a few paces away, she stops and flaps her wings challengingly while blowing puffs of air through her mask.

“None of this shit makes any fucking sense!” accuses Gilda. “You said you have 'assets' all over the place, and yet you are playing this fucked up game by putting the whole damn world at war and ordering your chumps to kill kids because they don't know a damn thing about Ozean or Post!”

Rotes scoffs. “Well, someone is emotional, today.” He looks at the militants aiming their weapons at Grim, and he frowns and motions them to lower their weapons. “Please, lower your weapons. He is no threat.”

The militants reluctantly lower their weapons, and Grim sighs with relief and relaxes as Rotes looks back at Gilda.

“As for you, Gilda,” continues Rotes. “You obviously do not understand how things work. An idea does no good if it constrained. Ideas are meant to be spread in the most efficient way possible, and believe me, if I could, I would not have Storm Cloud, I would have fairy dust and wish Perfect Harmony graced the world like rain. But not everyone wants progress and I have seen first hoof that the only thing that people truly respond to is fear. Fear united Bernese during the Griffin Invasion. Fear kept Equestria out. Fear led to the slaughter of my kind! Fear is why we don't have progress! Storm Cloud will use fear to unite the world into a perfect state of harmony! Are we clear, Gilda?”

By the time Rotes is done, his face is red and he is breathing heavily with a bubble of snow surrounding him. He does not even realize how cold he is until he stops talking and gets a feeling of his hooves being ripped apart by the cold and his eyes freezing over. He looks at the Gold Star Militants and at Grim and sees their shocked expressions, then he looks at Gilda and sees her defiance still stands. It actually looks like it has gotten stronger, and that is infuriating to him, but, rather than making her explode like he wants to, he merely closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. After opening his eyes, the cold in him fades, but his anger remains in his eyes.

“The Gold Star is rising, Gilda,” says Rotes grimly, “and when Storm Cloud ends, when Perfect Harmony has taken its rightful place, you best have found where your loyalties lie.”

A Bad Night To Want Things

“I remember one time when I was a colt. A little, itty bitty colt who could barely spell his own name. I was a small colt, and I was sad, very sad, and crying because I was so sad, so very, very sad,” says a stallion over the dial radio.

The audience chuckles, but not a smile is found on Thunderlane's features as he stares at the Scientific Equestrian article he has taped in his notebook, with the now empty bowl of Dash's breakfast and his transfer paperwork next to it. He is no longer in uniform, and his eyes may be on the interview with Strongwind, but they are unfocused as he wanders through the words his mother spoke about Gale and his desolation. Overall, he is having a hard time seeing any kind of sadness and guilt in his father. All he sees is an ever present wrath that likes to rear its ugly head whenever it gets the chance.

“My grandpa, Celestia rest his soul, was not one to mince his words around kids. He put plenty of sugar on his sentences with a little cherry for the dots when talking to fellow adults, but kids? No, that old man carried a freaking brick and smacked us in the face with it when he talked to us!”

The stallion over the radio stomps his hoof to emphasis his point, and by that time, some of the ponies in the audience -especially mares- seem to be howling with uncontrollable laughter. Thunderlane, however, mindlessly turns the page of his book to look at the section about Compound 505, and the words “advanced healing” circled in thick, red ink.

“My gramps said: 'Oi, Butterscotch, why're ya cryin'?'. And I said to him: 'I broke my hoof, grandpa!'”

Now the whole audience seems to be dying from laughter, and Thunderlane stops and stares at the radio, scrunching his brow and wondering what the heck this comedian is talking about. From how hard and loud some of the patrons are laughing, he will not be surprised if one or two black out from lack of oxygen.

After almost thirty seconds of laughter, a cue to quiet down must have appeared since the noise level drops considerably, with the occasional giggle breaking the silence. The stallion continues with a deep breath seconds later.

“I said to him: 'I broke my hoof, grandpa!', and he just snorted and said: 'Big deal. It'll heal, just like everything else. All ya need is some ice packs, tape, a broom and some Scotch, and you'll be fine!'. 'But, grandpa! My bone is popping out!'”

Thunderlane takes a double take at that statement, grimacing as the audience laughs hysterically at the imagery of a colt with their bone popping out of their hoof.

“'Well, I'll put it back for you! Here, I'll even give you my cane so you can bite on it!'”

The audience is now roaring with laughter, possibly due to some stage antics or facial expressions that Thunderlane cannot see, but despite the glee from the audience, he still finds the act to be disgusting. How anyone can find that kind of abuse funny is beyond him, and so he changes the channel to another comedy station, he slouches on his couch, and completely ignores the words as boredom quickly replaces his moment of disgust. Seconds blur into minutes, and his eyes drift between his notebook, his mostly done transfer paperwork and Tank, then back to the paperwork and his notes.

“This is so much fun,” grumbles Thunderlane sarcastically as his hoof flips the pages of his notebook to land on the interview he saved of Trixie and her rehab. He sighs, stretches out on his couch, rests his chin on his hooves and looks at Tank, who is smiling lazily back at him, like he always does. “I bet you are having loads of fun, too.”

The tortoise blinks.

“Thought so.”

Another sigh leaves Thunderlane, and he shifts his body so that his forehooves are snug underneath him and his chin is lying on the arm of his couch. He watches Tank crawl across the floor in such a speed that makes him wonder why Rainbow Dash chose such a creature as a pet. The shelled reptile is slower than anything he as ever seen before, and Dash being the speed demon she is, he thought she would take something cool and fast, like a hawk or an eagle. Heck, even a hummingbird over a tortoise!

The locks on Thunderlane's door suddenly click, and he turns a lazy eye to his apartment's entrance, watching with a mix of depression and boredom as the mare he just thought about enters. Her uniform is a mess with some of her buttons misplaced, a big, dark spot on her uniform jacket and her hat crooked on her head. This is a cause of concern for Thunderlane, and he watches her with weary eyes as she stomps past him, fuming, and slams the bathroom door shut.

A rush of water echoes from the bathroom, and Thunderlane and Tank exchange looks before he slides off his couch and approaches the bathroom, carefully knocking.

“Rainbow, are you okay?” he asks.

“Just fine!” yells Rainbow Dash. “I just love having a drunk dump his drink all over me!”

Thunderlane blinks curiously, but before he can ask about the situation, the door is shoved open and Rainbow Dash stomps past him with her jacket soaking in his sink and her hat next to it. Despite her angry look, he can't help but think how cute she looks with her tight-fitting white shirt on. Though, that pleasant view does not last long since she storms into his room and slams the door shut before Thunderlane can say another word.

He takes a breath and walks over to his bedroom, then swallows nervously before lightly tapping the door.

“Rainbow, can I come in?” he asks.

“Don't be stupid! This is your room, you can come in whenever the heck you want!” replies Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane cringes. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure that-”

The door opens and he is greeted with an up close view of Rainbow Dash's eyes. With his close proximity, he can see his reflection in her pupils, as well as the ceiling fan and the light hanging from under it.

“Have I ever told you how much your timidness pisses me off?” says Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane frowns. “And you're mad at me because...?”

Rainbow Dash's expression softens as she looks away with drooped ears. “Sorry, I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at Filthy Rich. That guy was completely plastered and dropped his drink all over my uniform when he got all flirty with me again.”

“So, you're mad at Filthy Rich, but you got snappy with me? That makes total sense.”

Rainbow Dash snaps her focus back to Thunderlane, her eyes once again narrowed and sizzling from the annoyance inside her.

“You can be quite a dick, too,” adds Rainbow Dash. “You left the ceremony without telling me, and me and Fire Streak got worried because we didn't know where you flew off to.”

Thunderlane scrunches his brows. “Why? There was nothing to be worried about.”

“You worried us, anyway. I don't know what Fire Streak wanted with you specifically, but he said he needed to talk to you about something, and the last I saw of you, you looked like you wanted to stab that old guy you were sitting with in the face.”

“You mean my dad?”

Rainbow Dash tilts her head slightly. “You wanted to stab your dad in the face?”

Thunderlane's body becomes petrified and his eyes feel like they are going to pop out of his skull from how wide they have become. “No. I... Never mind.”

He hurries to his couch and Rainbow Dash goes back into his bedroom. Once Thunderlane plops down, Tank crawls towards him, but he ignores the large reptile and stares straight ahead, wondering if he carried that some murderous look with him to the hospital. He knows he was mad for his father's actions, and he's still mad, but he didn't realize that he looked like he wanted to kill him. Though, he tries telling himself that what Rainbow Dash saw could be an exaggeration. She does have a history of stretching the truth, after all.

“I ate a pickle!” screams a stallion suddenly over the radio, bringing him out of his thoughts with a jump and a missed heartbeat.

Thunderlane quickly changes the channel to a random station playing some song he can care less about, but it is not the dark comedy station where people laugh about kids compounding their bones. Rainbow Dash walks in front of him seconds later, wearing her old saddle and staring at him with an aggravated frown and drooped ears.

“So, you got any plans for tonight?” asks Rainbow Dash, her eyes wandering to the Trixie article in Thunderlane's notebook, specifically at the circled segment of 505.

“Sit here and rethink my life and everything I thought I knew,” says Thunderlane. He realizes where Rainbow Dash's eyes are, and he quickly slams his notebook shut. “Sorry, that's private.”

Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes.

“What are you, uh, what are you up to?” asks Thunderlane, nodding to the old, smelly saddle she is wearing.

Rainbow Dash shrugs. “Twilight and Rarity said that Pinkie Pie wanted to meet us at the Card Casino tonight before curfew kicked in. I figured I'd get there a bit early and try my luck at those slot machines. Why don't you come with me and get some fresh air? Heck, you could probably win big over there. They advertise those winners all the time, so I think we'd have a good shot of making some quick cash.”

Thunderlane shakes his head. “No, that's okay, I'd rather mope and rethink everything.”

“Mope? Dude, you won a medal! You should be celebrating and-”

Rainbow Dash suddenly stops, and at first Thunderlane is confused, but when he sees her eyes on his transfer paperwork, he quickly slams his hoof on top of it and makes a mess as he hastily flips it over. After he is done, his notebook is on the floor and his bowl is upside down, probably staining his table in the remnants of barbeque sauce. He looks at Rainbow Dash and offers her a very broad, nervous, face scorching, smile of pure innocence with sparkling white teeth and floppy ears. The blank look she has fades to a suspicious glare very quickly from his little stunt.

“What was that?” asks Rainbow Dash.

“Nothing,” squeaks Thunderlane.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“It didn't seem like nothing.”

“It was nothing.”

“If it was nothing then why did you make a mess covering it up?”

“Because... I like my nothings to be private?”

Rainbow Dash sighs and lowers her head to rub her brows. “Okay, fine, whatever, but do you want to go to the Card Casino with me or not?”

Thunderlane swallows and shifts uneasily in his seat. “Well, I... uh...” He looks at the upside down packet. “I can't. I got doodles to write.”

Rainbow Dash raises a brow at him. “What happened to the moping?”

“Writing doodles is a form of moping.”

“I don't think the transfer department would like you doodling all over their paperwork, though.”

Thunderlane's expression suddenly sours and he looks away from his roommate to glare at the paperwork under his hoof like it is all its fault. Seeing his look harden, Rainbow Dash's demeanor softens and she carefully steps forward.

“So, what's the deal with that? Why do you want to get transferred?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane grabs his packet and slips it underneath one of his couch cushions, ignoring the puzzled look on Rainbow Dash's face.

“I don't want to talk about it,” mutters Thunderlane.

“Why not?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane sighs and flops on his couch, specifically on the cushion above the packet. “I just don't want to talk about, okay? Go have fun and let me mope.”

“Let you mope? You've been acting weird all day, and this is why, isn't it? You're planning on abandoning our team! You're planning on abandoning me!”

“Abandoning?”

Thunderlane rolls off his couch and marches towards Rainbow Dash until he is almost muzzle to muzzle with her and points at where she punched him those many nights ago.

“Why do you care if I leave the team? You punched me in the face, Rainbow!” screams Thunderlane, and he stomps his hoof and a flares his wings, making her jump back and expand her own wings as she stares at him with eyes wide from shock. “You punched me and made a big deal about a rumor that you probably would not have minded if it was somepony else like Soarin or any other stallion but me! And now you don't want me to leave because suddenly I am so cool for doing my job?”

That last part of the statement makes Rainbow Dash cringe and coil back slightly, now finding it hard to look Thunderlane in the eyes. “I... I've been emotional lately.”

Thunderlane snorts. “Yeah, emotional. I wish I knew how to feel something other than disappointment. And you know what? You talk about me abandoning the team, but what team was I ever part of? It wasn't the team before Spitfire's. Oh no, I was Mister Rug or Madam Secretary. I certainly wasn't a part Spitfire's team. I know because Silver Lining said plenty! You can't abandon what you aren't a part of!”

“But Silver Lining is an idiot, you know that!” yell Rainbow Dash, her eyes becoming wet and red with tears as she points at the doorway as if the obnoxious sniper is standing there. “You are a part of the team, Thunderlane! You have always been a part of this team from the moment you walked in late with that armor all the way til now, and we all know that. We all need each other, which means we need you. I need you.”

“Why, so you can have a punching bag?”

Rainbow Dash's jaw drops and Thunderlane's snarl gradually evaporates to a look of horror. Seeing the pain in her big, wet eyes, Thunderlane's heart sinks into his stomach and both his ears and wings droop while the two ponies look at each other. He wants to say something, he wants to apologize, but the words are stuck in his throat. Panic sets in as Rainbow Dash back away, her pupils shaking with her limbs.

Why can't he apologize? Why is it so hard to apologize!? He wants to do it, but every step she takes away from him only makes the words harder to come out. It is like trying to cough out a stone lodged in the throat.

Thunderlane gets his hooves moving, but by this point Rainbow Dash has turned tail and is already at the door.

“Rainbow, wait!” calls Thunderlane.

“Enjoy your moping,” says Rainbow Dash.

She does not even look at him when she says those words, and as quickly as she opens the door, she slides out and slams it shut behind her. The gunshot-like bang of his door being slammed shut makes Thunderlane jump in his spot, and there he is left, alone with his radio playing music and Tank staring at him.

Seconds tick on by and Thunderlane expels a heavy sigh and walks back to his couch. Tank watches him the whole time, but he ignores the pet and pulls out his transfer paperwork from under the cushion. From there, he wipes off the ring of barbeque sauce from his tipped over bowl and starts filling out whatever part of the paperwork he has not done.

His mind is on autopilot for the most part. He hears the words and music of the songs, but he is not deciphering them, and he reads the words on the packet, but all they are are a collection of letters instead of a life changing move. Every check in the box, every written response, every signature, it is all just motions of his pen, completely meaningless to him at the moment. When his last box is checked and the last signature made, he spits out his pen and slouches on his couch, staring off into space.

Thunderlane can't believe he made Rainbow Dash cry. He already made his mom cry, and now this?

He knows he can do better than this. He has always kept a check on his emotions like a proper Hurricane, and now that he today has been a colossal failure on that he hopes he can make amends. Starting with his transfer and the mission to Bernese.

Thunderlane looks at the transfer packet, trying to think about what lies beyond his mission once it is accomplished if it goes through. No doubt there will be better pay and better benefits for guardians of high ranking officials, as well as more traveling. That might be a problem with Rumble, but Thunderlane is certain that he will be able to figure out something to help his brother while he is abroad with Signal Horn. That is if he survives the mission to Bernese, in the first place.

Thunderlane frowns at himself as he thinks about what his mother said about him possibly dying over there. It is not a thought he needs, but it is one that has resurfaced and quickly fills him with worry. If something happens to him, who will take care of Rumble? His parents never did, so why would they start now? And he left on a bad note with Flitter and Cloudchaser, and there is no way in the Seven Rings of Tartarus he will let Cloudchaser near Rumble again, anyway. Maybe Rainbow Dash will take care of Rumble, that is assuming nothing happens to her and she forgives him for making her cry.

Thinking about the next to nonexistent list of who will look after Rumble should something horrible happen to him sends a cold, depressing feeling all over Thunderlane. In that frosty cloud of misery, a single thought pokes its head out.

'I should have made some more friends.'

Thunderlane shakes his head and looks at his clock, seeing that there is a few hours left before curfew kicks in, and he starts to wonder if he has enough time to find the closest pony he has to a friend and at least apologize for making her cry. But, right as he is about to get up, he realizes two things. First, Rainbow Dash is going to the Card Casino, and that is where Trixie is, so he can at last get some answers from her about why he is seeing 505 everywhere. Number two, he already filled out his transfer work, but since the DOA hub is closed by this time he will have to turn in his packet tomorrow. That is no reason for him not to inform Brigadier General Signal Horn about his decision, though. It is only polite.

Forcing his sluggish muscles to move at a fast pace, he slides his transfer packet underneath his couch cushion again, puts on his saddle and slips his notebook inside. Then he goes over to his communications rig and uses pure momentum to dial those numbers, for any moment of pause will surely cause him to want to hang up and vomit from his nerves. Which happens as soon as the phone starts ringing. The more the phone rings, the more he feels that sickly feeling in the gut, like a dirty hang has reaches inside and is twisting the stomach like an indestructible water balloon. He wants to puke. He needs to puke. It's all too much!

“General Signal Horn's office,” says a mare on the other end.

Maybe he should say its a wrong number and hang up and call back tomorrow after he turns in the paperwork.

“Hello?” says the mare.

Though, that idea seems to be stupid on an epic scale since the calls are connected, so Thunerlane takes a deep breath and runs his hoof through his mane to keep his shakes down. “Um, yeah, hello, this is Airstallion Thunderlane Hurricane, and I-”

“Oh, I was told to wait for a call from you. Hold please.”

Boring tropical music starts playing right after the click, and Thunderlane frowns and sits on the floor, now rubbing his brow and wondering why he is shaking so much.

“Brigadier General Signal Horn speaking,” says the earth pony he met just a few hours earlier.

“General, sir, this is Airstallion Hurricane from the ceremony,” says Thunderlane. “I'm sorry about calling your office, but I didn't know if you'd be there or somewhere else.”

The Brigadier General chuckles on the other end. “I remember you, son. I may be old, but I can still remember what happened a few hours ago. So, have you called to give me a response to my offer?”

“Yes, sir.” Thunderlane swallows and looks down at the floor as if it will give him last minute advices or objections, but when it remains silent, he looks back at the blocky communications rig. “I accept your offer and will put in the paperwork for processing tomorrow.”

“Glad to hear. I'll pull my strings and get you on my detail as fast as time will allow.”

A small smile flickers on Thunderlane's muzzle. “Thank you, sir.”

“I'd be dead without you, so I need to be the one thanking you, Hurricane. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Yes, sir.”

The other end clicks off and Thunderlane sighs and tilts his head to look at his saddle. Only two things are left to do for tonight, and curfew or not, he's going to finish them. After removing his nausea via bathroom usage first.

Around forty minutes later, Thunderlane pushes his way through the entrance of the Card Casino and is immediately blasted with an earth splitting, eye gouging, seizure causing array of noises and lights. Everything from falling bits colliding into each other and falling to the floor with obnoxious ding-dings and strange celebratory sounds that remind him of strange whoops. Then there are the displays of everything from glowing decor ranging from sea-ponies to aliens, and wild west to mystical east, all matching the theme of the slot machines.

It is so stuffed with slot machines that he finds it a miracle that nobody has spilled anything yet. And with all the hundreds of ponies walking around as guests or employees wearing red or black shirts with card values stitched on them, he wonders how he will be able to find Rainbow Dash in this swarm.

“Sir, are you okay?” asks a mare.

Thunderlane jumps and stares at a mare he did not even realize was in front of him, and next to her is a unicorn guard wearing a suit and a radio pack.

“You've been standing in the entrance for almost two minutes looking a little brain dead,” says the mare.

Thunderlane swallows and looks at the guard, not liking the way he is clearly visualizing maneuvers to take him down if trouble surfaces.

“I'm sorry, I'll move somewhere else,” says Thunderlane.

He steps forward a pace, but the unicorn presses his hoof against his barrel, stopping him in his tracks while dismissing the mare that snapped him out of his trance.

“I need to see the contents of your saddle,” says the security pony.

“My saddle?” Thunderlane looks at his saddle, then at the leaving mare, and back at his saddle again. “Oh, my saddle. I got nothing in there but a notebook.”

“We'll see.”

The unicorn uses his magic to open the saddlebags and he removes the notebook and nothing else, but that does not stop him from zapping his saddle with another spell that makes it shimmer in the light for a couple of seconds. As soon as its done glowing, though, the unicorn grows a very disappointed frown.

“Just a stupid notebook,” says the guard to himself, then to Thunderlane: “You expecting to win big?”

Thunderlane shakes his head. “No, I just came to meet somepony, here.”

The guard hums and levitates the notebook back in Thunderlane's saddle. “Carry on.”

“Thank you.”

Thunderlane walks ahead, and the guard does not even wait until Thunderlane is out of ear shot until he orders other security officers to watch him using his radio. Knowing that he is now being watched, he sighs and shakes his head. They are in for a disappointing night.

Thunderlane has no idea how long he has been zigzagging through the slot machines in his search for Rainbow Dash. Everything looks the same to him, despite the different colors and themes. They are all obnoxious, visually and audibly, and everyone is so transfixed on their bits that some scream for pure joy of winning five after giving up thirty. No matter how many paths Thunderlane takes in the labyrinth of the casino, they all lead back to the stage and bar where ponies are sitting in either the darkness with little lamps waiting for the show, or crowded around radios in the bright bar to listen to whatever games are playing.

At the bar, Thunderlane stops by its entrance and scans the crowd, hoping to see Rainbow Dash's colorful mane, but he has no such luck. Huffing, he goes back inside the maze of money sucking machines, nodding politely to a security officer along the way and steering clear of the cleaner's cart that is being pushed by a zebra.

Thunderlane is about ready to call it quits and just find Trixie when he is by a racing theme section of the casino that he searched ten times already, but he figures what the heck? One more scan can't possibly hurt.

Taking a deep breath, he leans against a large slot machine with a stream of lights leading up to a large, fat bulb, all turning on and off, one after the other in rapid succession, like signal lights for a runway. That is when he sees Rainbow Dash sitting by a slot machine with an alien racer theme. She is still wearing her saddle and she looks bored pulling down the lever, and when a straight up flop comes up, she scoffs and slips another bit in the machine.

Thunderlane shakes his head and walks over to her, once again noticing a security pony watching him move through the seizure worthy displays of gambling games. When he is next to her, she has lost another round, and she is shaking her head as she feeds the machine one of her last bits, if the flat bag is any indication.

“C'mon, give me something,” says Rainbow Dash to the machine.

A green pony with an antennae, a silver saucer, and a equine skull roll up in the different slots and the machine makes an evil laugh as it flashes red with “Loser” lighting up above. Rainbow Dash screams and bangs her hoof against her evening bane's side.

“You dick!” yells the mare.

Thunderlane puts his hoof on Rainbow Dash's shoulder. “Rainbow?”

Rainbow Dash jumps in her seat to look at Thunderlane with enormous eyes, bristled fur and ruffled feathers. When she realizes that Thunderlane is, in fact, Thunderlane and not some other pony who sounds like him, she sighs and leans forward, rubbing her head and steadying herself against the slot machine as she deflates in her stool.

“Jeeze, Thunderlane, what the hell?” she says. “I thought you were moping.”

“I... I was. I've finished moping, now, but I wanted to apologize,” says Thunderlane.

Rainbow Dash looks at him with a raised brow. He can tell she has been crying, even if she won't admit it.

“About what?” she asks as she stuffs her empty coin bag in her saddle.

“I want to apologize about my behavior. It was wrong of me to get snappy about the transfer thing and for accusing you of wanting to use me as your punching bag,” says Thunderlane.

Rainbow Dash forces a chuckle and wipes her nose, sniffling. “Are you even listening to yourself? You sound like an overly mature foal talking to his mom.”

Thunderlane flashes a quick, uneasy smile. “I'm sorry, but I still want to apologize about what I did.”

“Thunderlane, there's nothing to apologize about. You were right to get mad at me for punching you and you should've kicked me out as soon as I socked you.” Rainbow Dash shifts uncomfortably in her seat, staring up at him like she is afraid of what he will say next. “Why did you let me stay, anyway? I know if I let somepony crash at my place and they punched me their ass would be on the curb quicker than they could blink.”

Thunderlane looks down. “I guess I didn't want to be alone.” He barely lifts his eyes to look at Rainbow Dash, like a miserable puppy begging not to be left alone in a life sucking blizzard. “And truthfully I still don't.”

Rainbow Dash nods and looks down at a random card stitched on the floor. “Yeah, being alone sucks.” She sighs, stands up and places her hoof on his shoulder and tilts her head up so she can look him in the eyes. “But if you want a special somepony, it can't be me. I'm sorry.”

Rainbow Dash's hoof slides off his shoulder and lowers her eyes to the floor so she can't see the disappointment and crippling sadness in Thunderlane's eyes.

“What? But, Rainbow, I'm sorry for snapping at you, I won't do it again,” says Thunderlane.

“That's your problem!” says Rainbow Dash, now standing up to look him in the eyes. “You're scared to get mad, and even when you are rightfully mad you apologize! I mean, I should not have gotten mad at you for wanting to do something better for yourself and I should have never punched you or gotten on your case about a rumor that nopony believed. That was my bad and I'm sorry for doing that to you, and you should be mad at me for doing those things.”

“But getting angry doesn't solve anything.”

“Yeah, and neither does bottling everything up.”

Thunderlane's vocabulary disappears, and apparently so does Rainbow Dash's, because as soon as she finishes those words, both ponies fall silent. All they can do is stare at each other or the scenery, trying to figure out who is going to talk first and what they will say. When Rainbow Dash takes the initiative to speak first by sighing, Thunderlane's ears perk and he looks at her after his eyes wandered to a happy pony carrying a large bag of bits in her mouth.

“Look, you caught me at a bad time. It's almost time for me to meet the others, but we can talk about this later in a more private place, okay?” says Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane lowers his eyes, nodding and barely able to speak. “Okay.”

“Cool. I'll see you later, Thunderlane.”

And with those parting words, Rainbow Dash hurries away, leaving Thunderlane alone by the slot machine, feeling another failure taking a seat on his shoulder. He watches her leave until she is out of sight, then he watches the corner some more, hoping that she will come back. When the time drags on, though, and all he sees are gambling patrons and servants of the establishment making their rounds, he sighs and sits on a bench placed against the wall, running his hoof through his mane.

“Great. Just great,” mutters Thunderlane.

He sits there by the wall in total silence, loathing himself for pushing Rainbow Dash away watching everyone come and go, many smiling, but a few are frowning, with one downright furious. The furious pony has to be forced out by a group of unicorn guards who are using their magic to drag him to the exit.

“This place is rigged! Rigged I tell ya!” screams the stallion as he thrashes in their magical grips. The guards, to their credit, don't say anything to him, they only order patrons and employees to move out of the way, but it only makes him yell loud. “Where's Monte! Where's Trixie! I wanna give 'em a piece of my mind!”

Thunderlane watches with the growing crowd as the guards kick open the exit and literally throw the unruly pony out into the street, and he winces when he sees the nose dive that occurred because of it.

“You better stay out!” barks one of the guards. The said guard slams the door shut, then he turns and flashes an easygoing smile at the guests. “Resume your business, everypony. Nothing to see, here.”

The crowd reluctantly dissipates, all murmuring amongst themselves about what just happened, and Thunderlane sighs and slouches against the wall again, this time noticing a vintage picture of a younger Trixie performing on her portable stage framed directly in from of him. She looks excited and full of life, she is truly happy for performing in front of others, and seeing that little bit of joy brings a small smile to Thunderlane's face. Then he remembers that he needs to see her, anyway, and with his apology to Rainbow Dash being a complete flop, he hopes that talking to Trixie about the stalker number will produce better results.

After a good ten minutes of searching, Thunderlane finally finds a hallway labeled as “Administrative”, and spots an earth pony and a unicorn, both stallions, sitting in front of the entrance, behind the comfort of a simple, folding desk that has a large table cloth covering it. He really cannot see much beyond them, save for framed posters illuminated by fat light bulbs whose contents are blocked by the glare. The carpet is nice, too, with its stitches of cards leading up to the rooms like crumb trails.

Thunderlane looks at the guards again, noting how they are wearing dark suits and have radio packs strapped to them. He swallows, takes a deep breath for courage, then struts forward like how a proud and proper pegasus is supposed to be. His chest is puffed, his feathers ruffled and his eyes are locked right on his targets and by the time he gets there, he feels like a colossal idiot because they aren't even looking at him.

The unicorn guard off in lala-land and the earth pony has his attention devoted to his magazine. On its cover is a purple earth pony mare with a striped, light pink and very light pink mane and tail, sitting spread-legged on a desk with her butt as the main focus of the picture and a stack of books with an apple next to her. The mare has half lidded, alluring eyes, is licking a ruler for some reason with a smile and is wearing a loose, white shirt that barely reaches her flanks, which is hugged by black, flowery laced panties. So tight is the hug that it outlines her nethers, and behind her is a dirty chalkboard with various innuendos with the top of the cover displaying: Playcolt Magazine: Teacher Edition.

Thunderlane has to look away from the picture because he can feel his face burn up and more than just his wings stiffen, and the last thing he wants or needs is being dragged off for public indecency. The image is stuck, though, so he forces himself to think about why he is here. He is not here to ogle at scantily clad teachers, he is here to talk to Trixie about that evil number that is following him. It does not help much, since now Trixie is in place of that, but she has more of an evil smile and is holding a paddle instead of licking a ruler. He does not know how he should feel about this.

“So, then I said to the donkey: 'Look, do you realize how rotten this food is? This food is so rotten that a dead guy could eat it, burst into flames, and die again',” says the unicorn, bringing Thunderlane out of the fantasy he wandered into.

Not wanting to waste any more time, Thunderlane clears his throat and meekly calls out to them. “Excuse me.”

“Yeah, that sounds pretty bad,” says the earth pony guard, completely uninterested in his partner's story and oblivious to Thunderlane as he flips through his Playcolt magazine. His eyes widen when he gets to his next page, and he whistles as he turns it vertically. “Now that's a plot.”

“Um, excuse me,” says Thunderlane again in the same meek voice and giving them a nervous smile when they look at him with suddenly deadly serious expressions. “Uh, yeah, hi. I'd, um, I'd like to meet with Trixie Lulamoon.”

The two guards look at each other, then they look at Thunderlane, and he stretches his nervous smile as far as his lips will allow while simultaneously forcing his blood back to his brain and his wings to stay down. To put simply, it is very uncomfortable for him.

“Fanboy?” asks the earth pony.

Thunderlane shakes his head, his forced smile now gone.

“Reporter?” asks the unicorn.

Thunderlane shakes his head again. “No, I just need to ask her something.”

“But you aren't a reporter?”says the unicorn.

“No, sir,” says Thunderlane.

“How about an assassin?” asks the earth pony.

Thunderlane shifts uncomfortably. “No, I-”

“Are you with the government?” asks the unicorn.

“Yeah, but I'm in the Air Guard.”

“Ooh, aircolts? I like aircolts. I like airmares more, though. Something about those thighs and wings give me boners,” says the earth pony.

Thunderlane get a hot flash in his cheeks and ears, and he presses his wings tighter against his sides as he shifts uncomfortably in his spot, now thinking that this is probably a bad idea. From the magazine, to these questions, and the direction of the conversation in general, it is all bad and he wonders why anyone would hire a pair of guards like this.

The earth pony guard now flips the page of his magazine and as he turns it the proper way, he hisses: “Nice.”

The unicorn guard looks over and nods with a suggestive smile of his own, mimicking his partner. “Nice.”

“So, uh, can-can I go or...?” starts Thunderlane, hoof aimed limply at the hallway, getting both guards' attention again.

“Go where?” asks unicorn.

Thunderlane sighs heavily and droops his ears and eyelids. “Trixie Lulamoon. Can please I see Trixie?”

“Well, for one, its Trixie Fountain since she got married to the Magnificent Monte Fountain” says the earth pony while leaning forward and putting the adult material down. “And two, I'm thinking of a number between eight and sixty seven. Guess right and you can enter.”

Thunderlane's eye twitches.

Rainbow Dash stares at the metal door leading to a place labeled as: Stairway Minor. The door has a picture of an Ursa Minor sucking on a baby bottle, looking adorable for a carnivorous beast that can destroy a whole town if prematurely woken from a nap. However, underneath that picture is a not so pleasant written note taped to the door demanding one simple task.

CHANGE THE DAMN PICTURE!

-Trixie

Rainbow Dash sighs and shakes her head, not in the least bit surprised that Trixie would do something like that. A part of her actually misses the old Trixie, since back when she was a stage magician, all she had was an ego problem with generic tricks. Now she's got a bigger fan base, fights crooks for a high-life salary, and has her own palace in the form of a casino that gives her more money and she probably has an even worse self-adoration problem. But, not wanting to think about the annoying unicorn, Rainbow Dash pushes open the door and steps inside to see Twilight and Rarity already there, conversing amongst themselves in their attire from the ceremony.

“Pinkie Pie said she would be here,” says Twilight, a lit cigarette in her mouth and her one eye scanning the stairwell for any signs of the eccentric mare, completely unaware of Rainbow Dash stopping next to her. Twilight notices Rainbow Dash out of the corner of her remaining eye seconds later, though, and she nods in a welcoming manner to her. “Hey, Rainbow Dash.”

“Hey,” replies Rainbow Dash glumly.

“Do you think Pinkie forgot about us?” says Rarity. Then she sees Rainbow Dash next to Twilight. “Oh, hello, darling. I didn't see you come in. Got what you needed?”

“Yeah,” says Rainbow Dash.

“How could she forget the meeting she set up?” asks Twilight skeptically in regards to Pinkie Pie.

Rarity cringes and looks to the floor, stammering: “I mean, Pinkie has been awfully busy the past few weeks and ponies do forget things for time to time.”

“What's Pinkie been doing?” asks Rainbow Dash with a raised brow.

Rarity shrugs. “I don't know. She bought a lot of fabric and a sewing book from me a few weeks ago. She hasn't given me my book back, but she keeps buying more fabric and memory cloth from me. I think she might have developed a sewing hobby.”

“Pinkie doesn't sew.”

“She also doesn't disguise herself as another mare, rewrite her entire life, turn terrorists into super-vigilantes, and stop right-wingers from taking over the country,” says Twilight flatly.

There is a moment of silence between everyone, with Rainbow Dash and Twilight frowning at each other and Rarity moving her eyes between them curiously.

“Okay, so she might have developed a sudden sewing hobby to cope with whatever psycho-drama stuff she got because of that craziness a while back,” admits Rainbow Dash.

“I think you might be looking for post-traumatic stress disorder,” states Twilight smugly.

Rainbow Dash ruffles her feathers, her frown growing. “Really, Twilight?”

“I don't have that, but I'm pretty sure Trixie does,” says Pinkie Pie from behind Twilight.

Twilight and Rainbow Dash both yell and jump back with their fur and mane going up, and they both backpedal, with the pegasus hitting the wall and the unicorn hitting the other unicorn. The three mares stare at Pinkie Pie with wide eyes as she hangs upside down like a spider from a chubby gauntlet beneath her glittery, light purple blouse's bell-bottom sleeves. She is also wearing dark purple cape that she has clipped around her neck with a three-balloon pin, also sparkling in the light. The gauntlet on her hoof has a metal cord that goes all the way up to the ceiling, ten floors up, and is wrapped in wires. As much as Pinkie Pie has survived, Rainbow Dash still gets worried that whatever it is that she is using will break and she'll fall right on her head and spill her brains all over the floor.

“And I think you meant terrorists when you were talking about the guys I helped Trixie stop,” adds Pinkie Pie, now carelessly swinging herself back and forth, getting nervous cringes from everyone. “And for the record, they wanted to kill everypony, not rule them because Shock-A-Lot had a death obsession, which reminds me of a time when I died and-”

“Pinkie, get down from there before you hurt yourself,” interrupts Rainbow Dash sternly, her hoof extended and wings expanded, ready to catch her friend just in case the cord snaps.

“Did you forget who you're talking to, Dashie?” asks Pinkie Pie with a big, carefree grin.

“No, and that is why I'm telling you to get down before I make you get down.”

“Oh, fine. Party pooper.” Pinkie Pie twists her body so she is standing on her hind legs, then she presses a button on her device that looks like two arrows pointing backwards. There is a click, followed by a more distant clank and Pinkie Pie motions everyone under the stairs. “You guys should probably get back or you might lose an eye.”

Twilight scowls for just a moment, but when she and the others look up and see a set of metal claws falling their way, they scurry under the stairs. From there, they watch with wide eyed wonder as the grapple zips down from the ceiling, and they jump in their spots when the metal claws hit the floor with a metallic thud! After that, the rest of the cord is eaten up inside Pinkie Pie's device and it locks itself with a click when she slips a red slider over the top. The Element of Laughter then slides her bell-bottom sleeve over the gauntlet, covering it perfectly and grins at her friends while proudly showing off her covered device.

“Viola! It is nearly perfect!” cheers Pinkie Pie

“Pinkie, what is that?” asks Twilight as she comes out of cover with the others.

“A homemade grapple gun made with the finest quality clearance items money can buy. Pretty cool, huh?” replies Pinkie Pie cheerfully.

“Why did you make a grapple gun?”

“I was bored and wanted to swing around from roof top to roof top as-” Pinkie Pie twirls and covers half of her face with her cape, saying in a horrible impersonation of the Spanish accent “-Countess La Pinkie de la Pia!”

There is a moment of silence between the mares as they inspect Pinkie Pie's getup from their spots, and that moment is broken by Rarity and the unimpressed frown that comes with her voice.

“Fascinating,” says Rarity flatly. “But now that we are here, what did you want to tell us?”

Pinkie Pie holds up her hoof. “First. Congrats on your new medal, Dashie!”

Pinkie Pie grabs Rainbow Dash and stands on her hind legs to squeeze the pegasus as tight as she can. Rainbow Dash's eyes bulge and she gaks as she squirms in the earth pony's grip, feeling uncomfortable pops traveling all up and down her spine, and since her wings are stuck in the grip, she really can't go anywhere. All Rainbow Dash can do is squirm and fruitlessly push her hooves against Pinkie Pie's chest.

“Th-Thank's, Pi-Pinkie,” says Rainbow Dash between her strained grunts. “But ca-can you let me go? I-I think I'm gonna SNAP!”

Pinkie Pie drops Rainbow Dash right at the end of her sentence, and the pegasus falls on her rump, gasping for breath and flapping her wings to get the blood flowing again. She sighs with relief when everything seems free of breakage, and stands up to shake away the rest of the pain that came because of Pinkie Pie's death hug.

“Secondly,” continues Pinkie Pie. “I am going to be going on a super duper, very extremely, utmost-ly secretive assignment of brobdingnagian proportions that could mean the difference between ultimate doom or a big shiny rainbow after an ugly storm.”

And she leaves it at that. A cliffhanger.

The other girls stare at the Element of Laughter, each waiting for her to continue, but she just stares back at them with a broad smile. The seconds tick on by, and Twilight's curious look dissolves to a frown, Rarity coughs awkwardly in her hoof, and Rainbow Dash looks at her hoof to check the time. Only to remember that she has never owned a watch.

When the silence reaches the ten second mark, Twilight removes the spent cigarette from her lips and grinds it into the concrete using her hoof. “Care to elaborate?”

“Absolutely!” blurts Pinkie Pie. “But first we need to go somewhere without echoes.”

It takes a couple of minutes to find a place suitable for Pinkie Pie, and when she shoves them all in the broom closet, Rainbow Dash she sees a pair of young stallions watching them. Before the door slams shut, the pegasus sees their ears perk and their eyes grow excitedly, and all she can think is: Great.

It is just her luck that she tries so hard to prove to everyone that she is not a lesbian, only for Pinkie Pie to shove her and her other friends who just happen to be mares inside a closet with colts watching. Only Celestia knows what they can be thinking now.

And speaking of thinking, Rainbow Dash thinks she might have a panic attack very soon from how cramped it is inside their hideout. The four mares barely fit inside with all the racks of cleaning chemicals, brooms and mops, and wet-floor signs. In fact, with the brown coloring and dim light, the place almost seems completely dark inside! And they are so crammed that Rainbow Dash can barely move without feeling a tail, clothing or mane.

“Okay, now that we are stuck inside the janitor's closet, what's this secret mission you're talking about?” asks Rainbow Dash, grunting in aggravation as she moves to find a spot where she is not rubbing against another mare. The mission proves futile.

Pinkie Pie gets a large, conniving and toothless smile that stretches across her muzzle, and she motions all of them closer. Once all of their faces are pressed together in front of Pinkie Pie, she leans closer to them until their muzzles are almost touching.

“I know where Applejack is,” says Pinkie Pie in a hush-hush kind of tone.

Rainbow Dash's eyes widen and she loses weight from sheer excitement filling her up like helium. She has not seen her gambling and all around dare buddy for over a year. In fact, now that she thinks about it, she hasn't seen Applejack ever since Pinkie Pie's fake funeral!

“Forgive me for being skeptical, darling, but how could you possibly know where she is? Nopony has seen Applejack ever since Twilight's coltfriend and his goons took her away,” says Rarity, also looking excited, but cautious at the same time, much like Twilight.

“Glimmer's not my coltfriend!” hisses Twilight, her smile replaced with a pointed look aimed at Rarity, even though the area around her ears and cheeks darken. Various looks of skepticism meet her and she bumps into the wall behind her when she tries backing away from her friends. “He's not! We just work closely together... Besides, it was Brisk Wind that did that to Applejack, not Glimmer.”

“First name basis, huh?” teases Pinkie Pie.

“Shut up!” snaps Twilight. “And Rarity's right, how can you possibly know where Applejack is when the government can't even find a trace of her?”

“Do you want me to talk or stay quiet? Becuase it's hard to do both.”

“Pinkie!”

“Oh, all right, yeesh. Let's just say Fluttershy found Applejack and now they are hiding out in some little town near the Equestrian-Neghico border. Now, my super-secret mission that you guys don't know about will be to find Jackie and apologize about what happened to Big Mac so we can be friends again and restore the Elements to their full power! See? Easy secret job.”

“Hold on a sec. Fluttershy is with Applejack? I haven't seen her in forever!” says Rainbow Dash excitedly.

“How come she contacted you, but not me?” asks Rarity hurtfully. “I thought we were close.”

Pinkie Pie puts her hoof on Rarity's shoulder, offering a small sigh. “Rarity, sometimes saving a nation together brings ponies closer together than day spa trips.”

Rarity's rump falls to the floor, and her mouth hangs open with a loud whine as tears form in her eyes, but no one really puts much thought into her drama. Especially Rainbow Dash.

“So, Pinkie, since you're going down south, does that mean you'll be moving a lot?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Pinkie Pie frowns. “Noooo, it means I'll be sitting in my living room, playing chess with Joe all day. Which reminds me.” She looks at Twilight. “You still owe me ten more games of chess.”

Twilight sighs, her whole body drooping due to a stream of predicted defeats. “I know, Pinkie, I know, and I will beat you one of these matches.”

“Forty and counting, just remember that.”

Twilight groans and Rainbow Dash smiles with relief as Rarity pats Twilight's shoulder sympathetically.

“Awesome. That means you can keep an eye on this forged note I got until I can find somepony who can prove that Fuller-” Rainbow Dash's smile turns to a glare aimed at Twilight “-used it to try to kill me with a bomb!”

Pinkie Pie opens her mouth to say something, but closes it when Twilight stomps her hoof with an angry groan.

“Oh, don't start that again!” says the Element of Magic. “You know as well as I do that Glimmer is innocent.”

“Innocent my ass!” snaps Rainbow Dash. “That psycho has been trying to kill me ever since I punched him in the face!”

“He's not trying to kill you or anypony! He's trying to protect everypony from danger!”

“He is the danger!”

“Girls! Girls! Stop!” says Rarity over their bickering as she squirms her way between them. “Arguing is not going to get us anywhere. Twilight, I know you are very fond of Fuller, but even you have to admit that he can be quite unsettling at times.”

Twilight sniffs and turns away from Rarity, grumbling under her breath, and Rarity looks at Rainbow Dash, who is now sporting a smug smile.

“As for you, Rainbow Dash, you can't go around making wild accusations just because somepony gives you the creeps,” says Rarity.

Rainbow Dash's smile disappears in an instant and she sneers at Rarity as she ruffles her feathers. “Seriously? I got all the proof I need that he's evil right in my saddle, but until I can find somepony to look it over without them winding up dead or too spooked to do it then I'm screwed with these 'wild accusations'.”

Rarity frowns and extends her hoof as if she is expecting a token of some kind. “Fine. Then give me the note and let me look for Fuller's traces.”

The three other ponies look at Rarity skeptically, especially Rainbow Dash. She knows Rarity has a knack for detail, but forgery is not the same as stitching pieces of cloth together and gluing diamond specks on a hat.

A few seconds of silence later, and Rarity drops her hoof and releases a loud sigh. “I wasn't exactly a star child growing up, you know? I did forge signatures to go on field trips and write parental excuse slips or doctor notes so I didn't have to go to school, among other things I'd rather not discuss.”

Three jaws and two and a half sets of eyes now go limp and bulge from the unexpected confession of the most prim and proper pony of their group. Seeing their faces only makes Rarity uncomfortable, and she tries backing up to escape the attention she did not necessarily want, but all she gets is a rump full of metal shelving and cleaning supplies.

“I had a very troubled childhood, okay?” says Rarity defensively. “But if we can ignore what charges I may or may not have, I can prove Fuller's innocence or guilt if I have a sample of his writing, as well as Twilight's. If Fuller really did forge Twilight's writing to lure you into the bombing, then a trace of his style is bound to have seeped in.”

Twilight's shock disappears with an annoyed groan and face-hoof. “Ugh, I can't believe this.”

Rainbow Dash's demeanor relaxes somewhat, now feeling a little better since she has someone she can sort of trust to have a look at the note. However, not wanting to flaunt her victory too much, she grins and pats Twilight on the shoulder.

“Look, Twilight, think of it like this, if we do that comparison thing and it proves that Fuller is innocent, then I will leave him alone and never bug him again. Junior Speedster honor!” says the Wonderbolt.

“Uh huh, sure,” mutters Twilight.

Rainbow Dash slips off her saddle, grabs it with her mouth and gives it to Rarity.

“Here, the note's inside, but you can just take my saddle. It's kinda old, anyway,” says Rainbow Dash, her voice muffled by saddle straps.

“Er... Thanks.” says Rarity.

Rarity hesitantly grabs the saddle with her magic, seething and keeping the item at hoof's length to inspect the stains and poor stitch and patch jobs. She mentions something about it smelling like a mix of body odor and barbeque sauce, but Rainbow Dash thinks she's making it up since she hasn't smelled anything from her old saddle in a very long time. Not that she says her disagreement verbally since she does not want to argue with the high maintenance unicorn about an imaginary scent. Besides, she has bigger fish to fry.

Rainbow Dash groans obnoxiously and stretches out her legs and wings as much as they can go, forcing the three mares to squish themselves against the racks.

“Well, this closet bonding has been fun, but now I gotta go and find Thunderlane,” says Rainbow Dash, meeting their annoyed stares with a thin smile.

“Ooh, Thunderlane is here? How's he doing?” asks Pinkie Pie.

Rainbow Dash shrugs. “He's close to having an emotional meltdown, but other than that, he's fine.”

“Is his mane still soft?”

“...Eh, I really gotta go and find him before he does something stupid.”

“What can he possibly do around here that will get him in trouble? Just let him roam around and enjoy himself for the night,” says Rarity, pushing down Rainbow Dash's wing so she can look at her and adding with a wolfish smile: “Unless you're worried some other mare will snatch him.”

Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes and resumes a proper, tight space friendly stance. “Very funny. But I don't care about that. I'm just worried because he's been acting weird all morning. Like, I cooked him breakfast and he freaked out about it, then he was in his own world for a long time, and then he left the ceremony party pissed off. Like, no joke, that old coot he was talking with before he left, I thought he was gonna stab him or something! Then when I dropped by his apartment, he snapped at me for asking about his transfer and then he followed me here trying to apologize! I've never seen him like that before, so, yeah, I'm worried and... and...”

Rainbow Dash's voice drifts off and she looks at each of her fellow Element Bearers. All three of them are giving her strange looks. In Pinkie Pie's case, she has a devious, bedroom eyes expression that Rainbow Dash is afraid is suggesting something other than what it was. For Rarity, she has a blank look, as if the idea of the most amazing pegasus ever born cooking breakfast for someone who deserves it is a form of calculus. Then there is Twilight. She is also confused, but has her eyebrow above her remaining eye raised, and she also looks suspicious. Confused and suspicious.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?” asks Rainbow Dash, shifting in her spot and looking at each of them as an uneasy feeling runs up her spine.

“Why did you cook Thunderlane breakfast?” asks Twilight.

Rainbow Dash cranes her head back, screaming in aggravation. “Oh my gosh, are you kidding me!? Why is everypony acting stupid about breakfast!?” She snaps her head back for a face hoof, seething. “I was only trying to be nice and he freaks out about it, and now you guys are doing the same thing!”

“I'm pretty calm, actually,” informs Pinkie Pie. “But, maybe Thunderlane isn't used to breakfast in bed. I know Joe isn't and when I made him a big pancake breakfast in bed, he was all speechless and whoaaaaa, and I was all like: 'Yeahhhhhh'.”

Pinkie Pie grins suggestively at her friends, waggling her brows and nodding slowly, too. Her friends stare at her with various degrees of confusion for a few seconds before Rainbow Dash frowns.

“I didn't cook him breakfast in bed, though. It was all on the table,” says the pegasus.

“Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” suggests Pinkie Pie. “I know I get grouchy when I wake up on the left side of my bed.”

“He sleeps on the couch.”

“The wrong side of the couch, then.”

“I'm being serious, Pinkie!”

“Something's probably heavy on his mind. Do you have any idea what is bugging him?” says Rarity.

“No,” sighs Rainbow Dash. “Well, maybe. I mean, he said he didn't feel like he was part of the team, and he got all weird when I looked at this notebook he filled with junk about some five-oh-five number and all these weird connections he probably imagined.”

“No way! Are you serious!?” says Pinkie Pie excitedly.

“Uh, yeah. Why would I lie about something like that?”

“I have no idea! But if he's being haunted by five-oh-five like Trixie was, and probably still is, then I am ninety nine point nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine percent positive he's going to be seeing her to figure out what's going on.”

“Pinkie, you just can't throw numbers out like that,” says Twilight deadpanned.

“You can when you're me!” Pinkie Pie suddenly grabs Rainbow Dash's head, making her cheeks puff and her body stiffens, and she turns the captured pegasus to the door with her hoof extended. “Now, onward, my cuddly, blueberry, rainbow missile! We got ponies to find!”

And they leave in a flash, leaving the unicorns behind and slamming the door shut before either of them can think or take a step.

Twilight and Rarity stare at the closet door, not really understanding what just happened. As far as Twilight is concerned, Pinkie Pie is going back to her old self after the fiasco revolving around her and Trixie's insane adventure. It is refreshing, in a way. However, that still leaves Twilight confused by Pinkie Pie's antics and her sudden excitement about a random number that she is sure she would know about if it held any significance.

“So... How are your magic tutoring sessions with Trixie going?” asks Rarity casually, bringing Twilight back to Equus.

Twilight scuffs the floor with her hoof, huffing angrily. “A big pain in my-”

Click.

Thunderlane jumps from the sudden noise and turns from observing a vintage poster hanging on the office wall of Trixie in her traveling magician days to see none other than Trixie herself.

Or, the new Trixie.

The new, big, buff Trixie with muscles not meant for such a small body, covered in bruises and scabs with tired, near black bags around her eyes and a mane barely kept in check.

The two stare at each other, each with differing expressions. Thunderlane's mouth is sealed shut and his pupils are like tiny dots and his heart rate is jacked from seeing a mare that looks like she can crush his skull with her bare hooves. Trixie, on the other hand, is giving him a tired, defensive glare. He also spots the subtle twitches in her muscles and can see her eyes barely moving to analyze him for potential weak points should he be a complete dumb-ass and attack her.

So, there they stand, completely silent, one nervous to near self-wetting, and the other waiting for a confrontation. Finally, after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Thunderlane flashes an anxious smile and extends his hoof in greeting to Trixie. This causes her to flinch.

“Hi, my name is Thunderlane,” he says, his voice shaking with nervousness.

Trixie snorts and starts hobbling past him, not making any attempt to return the gesture. “That's nice.”

Thunderlane inspects his hoof for any signs of gunk or other unfavorable things, but when he sees nothing, he lowers it and looks at Trixie crossly. However, that look changes to worry when he sees her limping around and realizes just how extensive her injuries are. They cover her whole body, from head to rump, and he also realizes that she has thick pads taped to her ribs with gauze. Thunderlane knows he would be grumpy, too, if he was in her condition and had to meet somebody instead of resting.

“Are you okay?” asks Thunderlane.

Trixie stares at him, but when he motions towards her collection of injuries, she snorts dismissively and continues limping towards her desk, wincing slightly with each step.

“Its nothing that concerns you,” she says. “Have a seat.”

Thunderlane sits in the guest chair while Trixie eases herself down in her larger, throne-like, rolling chair and uses her magic to pop open a container of pain pills and a bottle of hard cider kept in her desk. She tips the pill container in her mouth as if the contents are candy, then she takes a big gulp of her drink and gasps loudly while relaxing in her chair. It takes her a few seconds to realize that Thunderlane's eyes are about to explode from how wide they have gotten.

“So, what do you want?” says Trixie condescendingly. “Is somepony giving you crap and you need me to curb stomp them for you? You kinda look like a rug to me, so I can actually see that.”

Thunderlane shakes his wide eyes away, stammering: “Oh, um, n-no. No, I'm actually here about the number five oh five.”

Trixie's eyes narrow. “Buddy, if this is some kind of joke, you're just asking to get your ass kicked.”

“No, this not a joke, I swear!” says Thunderlane with a wave of his hoof. “I just need some answers about the number five-oh-five, and you've said it 'stalked' you when you did that interview at the rehab... place...”

Thunderlane's voice drifts away when he observes Trixie taking out another bottle of pills, this time from a white container with a basic picture of a joint. Just like with the other pills, she eats a liberal amount like a foal with a candy stash and takes a large swig of her drink, gasping loudly when she is done.

“I thought you were rehabilitated,” says Thunderlane carefully.

“It's called 'relapse', genius,” sneers Trixie as she puts the pills away. “And I don't need shit from anypony about this, much less a pegasus that knows nothing about me. But to answer your question about the doom number, yeah it stalked me, but if you paid attention then you would know that it was some mental thing to help find a pattern in the insane bullshit I got myself into.”

“But you don't understand, I'm seeing this number, too! When I was on tour and my unit got ambushed, I saw it. When I was in training, it was everywhere. Cloud five-oh-five was my unit and I have an apartment number of that same number. I was even at the stadium bombing and that number was the date and in the address!“

Trixie shrugs. “Sounds like a horrible string of coincidences.”

“But you said you were stalked by the number five-oh-five, and now this number is going after me, too!” says Thunderlane in a panic. “Please, you have to help me understand what's happening to me! Why am I seeing this number everywhere!”

Trixie sighs and rubs her head. “Look, I can't tell you why you are seeing this number, alright? I have asked numerologists about that stupid thing and there is nothing significant about it. I even tried using it for the pick-three lottery thing and...”

Trixie takes a swig of her drink and Thunderlane stares at her, confused and slightly annoyed that she is leaving on a cliffhanger like that.

“And... What?” asks Thunderlane, careful to keep his tone free of negativity since it is obvious to him that Trixie has a hair trigger.

Trixie puts her bottle on the table. “I won five hundred bits and put that into Braille's college fund.”

Thunderlane's body droops with disappointment, and Trixie snorts and looks at a hanging picture of Monte smashing a slice of their wedding cake against her face.

“I'm more confused about it than you are,” reiterates Trixie. “I doubt even Celestia knows what the deal is with that stupid number. My guess is that the universe is just screwing with us and you're just another victim of this sick joke.”

“No it can't be a coincidence,” says Thunderlane. He removes his notebook from his saddle with his mouth and puts it on the table. Trixie arches a brow, but proceeds to pick it up and flip through it, quickly becoming interested in what he has found so far. “The Celestial Spire is on five-oh-five Magic and the Stadium is on five-oh-five Kindness. Both had a terrible thing happen to them.”

“And you think something is going to go down at the Rich Apartments on Generosity or that big bank on Honesty?” asks Trixie skeptically without taking her eyes off of the notebook's contents.

“No... Maybe... I don't know! All I know is that a lot of bad things have happened with that number. Like the Lulamoon Monastery, fifth of May, over five hundred refugees were killed by griffins. Dozens were killed in the Celestial Spire last year. And this year, nearly fifty were killed and injured in that stadium bombing on the fifth of May on five-oh-five Kindness! Then there is Roam. Historians believe that the city held five hundred thousand zebras, and it was completely destroyed in a second by a meteor. That number is everywhere! It can't be a coincidence!”

Trixie shakes her head, still flipping through the pages. “Yeah, but the whole Spire thing was in January, and I think those archeologists put the destruction of Roam in June-ish. That puts your whole cosmo-conspiracy theory in a pickle.”

Thunderlane sighs in defeat, knowing she has him there. Any ounce of inconsistency can throw out any and all theories, regardless of the vast amount of favorable evidence towards it, that much he knows. But, even with that depressing news, a part of him clings to the twisted hope that there is more to the Spire, Roam, and 505 than meets the eye.

“What's this Compound Five-Oh-Five thing?” wonders Trixie.

Thunderlane snaps out of his depression spike and looks at the notebook now floating in front of him. He notices that she is on the Scientific Equestrian page, and Thunderlane has to think for a moment to get his gears turning again.

“Doctor Good Strongwind claimed he could make a long lasting healing serum using natural herbs found here, in Roam and Bernese,” says Thunderlane, cringing on the inside as he remembers the odd dream he had about the scientist. “But he never got the grant because the Starswirl Society thought his theory was, I guess, stupid.”

Trixie hums, closes the book and levitates it back into Thunderlane's pouch. “You got a lot of stuff in there, Thundergrain.”

“It's Thunderlane...”

“You got more stuff than what those numerologists dug up, so kudos for that.”

“Thank you.”

Trixie leans forward and puts her hooves in a steeple, eying him intently. “But I got a question for you.”

Thunderlane shifts a little in his seat. “...Okay.”

“Has a creepy, all black, faceless unicorn been stalking your dreams and forcing you to relive unpleasant memories to give you life lessons?”

Thunderlane blinks. “Um, no. Why?”

Trixie scoffs and throws her hooves down . “Unbelievable. Did you at least see Luna?”

Thunderlane thinks for a moment and remembers when curiosity got the best of him regarding Rumble's comic books a few months back. The revealing position, her flushed, half-lidded eyes and drooling tongue along with the tentacles clutching her in all the right places and rubbing between her shiny flanks certainly did their jobs of stimulating the hormones. He only snaps out of the arousing mental picture when Trixie clears her throat, and that is when he realizes that his wings have decided to expand for a treat they will never get.

“You must've had a pleasant dream,” says Trixie, her tone darkening and her hoof starting to tap the table.

“No, it wasn't a dream!” blurts Thunderlane with a sporadic wave of his hoof. “I didn't see Luna anywhere! I just saw her in a comic I accidentally read!”

“How do you accidentally read a comic that gives you a wing boner?”

“It was lying open and I just... um...”

Trixie's frown becomes a clear signal that she is about to snap, and Thunderlane shifts uncomfortably in his spot while clearing his throat.

“I swear I don't read that stuff,” says Thunderlane meekly, smiling embarrassingly at Trixie as his cheeks flare and his wings defy his commands to stay down. “I... um... I'm sorry, it's a pegasus thing. Sometimes our wings have a mind of their own.”

Trixie downs the last of her beer without taking her glare off of Thunderlane, and when it is empty, she rests the body of the bottle against the table's edge. Thunderlane's eyes flick to the bottle, not liking how she looks ready to smash it into a crude knife. Though, it does convince his wings to go down and as his heart beats faster, his feathers do unconsciously ruffle in preparation for something he hopes to Celestia does not happen.

“Believe me, I've got plenty of experiences with pegasi and their urges,” says Trixie viciously, now tapping her empty bottle against the table. “In fact, to be quite honest with you, there is only one pegasus I actually like, and she's waiting for me outside. So, get out of here right now and take your pervy mind with you before I hurt you.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-”

Trixie smashes the bottle against the table and jabs the crude, jagged weapon at his face, stopping just shy of his eye.

“Jeeze!” shouts Thunderlane frantically as he leaps back in his chair, causing it to fall over and for him to land awkwardly on the floor. He scrambles to his feet and backpedals with his eyes enormous and heart beating like a terrified hummingbird when Trixie stomps towards him, snarling with sparks hopping around her hooves and horn. He takes another step back and holds up his hoof defensively. “What the heck is wrong with you!? I just wanted some help!”

“Either you get out or I'll kick your ass, you pervert!” shouts Trixie.

Rainbow Dash rounds a corner to a near dead hallway lined with framed posters and schedules, looking for Thunderlane with Pinkie Pie hopping next to her. After dealing with the two unicorn guards upfront, though, her mood has been soured, and possibly meeting Trixie is something she is not too thrilled about, either.

“Trixie's office is just down this hall,” says Pinkie Pie. “You won't believe the number of ponies that come by to get her autograph or try to interview her! In fact, just last week she went to one of those comic convention things in one of those San places and posed with a bunch of girls in home made copies of her Mare-Do-Well suit! The whole thing was sold out because of her and it was awesome! Oh, and she got me a figurine of the original Mare-Do-Well made out of colored glass and glow in the dark paint! It was ep-ic!”

“That's nice,” says Rainbow Dash unenthusiastically, stopping for just a moment when she notices that out of all the rooms they passed -501, 502, 503, 504, 506- the room 505 is apparently nonexistent. Shaking her head at the strangeness, she continues walking after Pinkie Pie. “So, you and Trixie must be close, huh?”

“After all we've been through together? Totally. Like fridge magnets,” says Pinkie Pie, unknowing of Rainbow Dash's envious stare, and the grossed out look that follows with her next bubbly toned statement. “In fact, there's even this rumor that says we're closet lovers, like when you and me were in Ponyville! It kinda gets Trixie ticked off when somepony mentions it, but I don't care because the ponies that want us to be lesbians are just desperate for some clop material. Not that I would mind somepony writing a porno of me, you and Trixie getting it on in a lesbian orgy of some kind. I think it'll be funny to read, actually.”

Rainbow Dash ruffles her feathers and her nostrils flare from the hot air being snorted out. “There is no way in hell I'd want to be part of any dyke sex.”

“Even fictional?”

“Especially fictional. Ponies can come up with some pretty messed up stuff. Like diapers and urine drinking and poop on the face.”

Pinkie Pie stops and looks at Rainbow Dash with an amused smile. “Maybe you should stay out of the fetish section next time you go to the adult book store.”

Rainbow Dash's ears and cheeks heat up. “Let's change the subject.”

“Okie dokie loki!” Pinkie Pie starts hoping down the hall again with Rinbow Dash following close behind. “So, this one time, Trixie asked me if I was going to do the Mare-Do-Well thing with her again and I said- Hi Trixie!”

Pinkie Pie stops and waves with a massive grin, and Rainbow Dash stops next to her and sees Trixie briskly limping down the hallway with a sand colored pegasus mare with a braided, red mane struggling to keep up. The pegasus is saying something, but Rainbow Dash is not listening. Instead, her brain has fried at the sight of how huge Trixie has become since she last saw her. Last time she really saw her, she had noticeable muscles, but despite her build, she appeared to be terrified of everything. Now? Now she is a big butch who looks like she is afraid of nothing!

Trixie's muscles look like rocks barely covered by her azure coat, and her purple eyes may have bags under them, but they are anything but weak. She appears to be in a constant state of alert, and while Rainbow Dash notices a slight limp in her walk, she has a feeling that the unicorn might be using it as a ploy to make her opponents lower their guard so she can shatter their faces with her bare hooves!

But, naturally Pinkie Pie does not see a potentially murderous rock golem in pony skin since she jumps towards Trixie with an ear to ear grin.

“Hey, Trixie-Trix, how ya doing?” chirps Pinkie Pie, landing next to the unicorn and wrapping her hoof around her neck for a hug.

Trixie returns the hug, but keeps a threatening eye on Rainbow Dash. In turn, the Element of Loyalty frowns at Trixie and ruffles her feathers slightly. In all actuality, if she didn't know any better, she'd think that Trixie is trying to tell her that Pinkie Pie is her best friend just by the way her hoof is tightening and her gaze is hardening.

Without breaking eye contact with the vibrant pegasus, Trixie says: “I'm doing just peachy, best friend.”

Suspicions confirmed. Rainbow Dash's eye twitches. 'She did not just go there.'

Even the other pegasus gets flicker of pain from Trixie's statement.

“You don't sound peachy. More lemony, actually,” says Pinkie Pie, seemingly unaware of the growing tension between her two friends.

Trixie releases Pinkie Pie, and she sighs and rubs her forehead. “Well, today has been a bad day, with getting hit by a wagon during an attempted bank robbery, Monte and Fancy getting on my case about my pills, and those social service idiots trying to take Braille from me... It's been a really, really bad day, so far.”

Pinkie Pie cringes and steps back. “Well, you did say you would stop all that drug stuff, so I can see why they might be just a little itty bitty mad at you for doing those things.”

Trixie frowns with a flicker of barely contained rage illuminating her eyes. “Yeah, I said I would stop when I was pregnant. I'm not anymore and the pain has not gotten any better, so everypony needs to back off about it.” Trixie looks at Rainbow Dash again for a couple of seconds before looking back at Pinkie Pie. “I've gotta get going. Clockwork wants to take me to a....”

Trixie looks at the sandy pegasus, Clockwork, as do the other two mares, and in all actuality, Rainbow Dash completely forgot that she was there. As for Clockwork, it takes her a few seconds to realize that she has the spotlight, and when she does notice the attention, she looks at each of them, then smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry. I'm going to take Trixie to the Easy Hooves Day Spa before curfew kicks in,” says Clockwork.

“Yeah, that place,” mutters Trixie unenthusiastically.

“She's really nervous about it.” Clockwork wraps a hoof around Trixie and pulls her in for a sympathetic hug, smiling reassuringly at the more visibly nervous unicorn. “But I told her that I would be right next to her the whole time and wouldn't let anything happen to her. Or to the massage therapists in case she flips out about something innocent.”

“Oh, that's a good idea. We don't want you going crazy over a hoof rub, do we Trixie?” says Pinkie Pie, getting a bemused eye roll from Trixie.

“Yeah, yeah, that's nice and all, but before you go get yourself pampered, have you seen a pegasus stallion? Dark coat, a gray, cropped mane and tail. Very reserved,” says Rainbow Dash to Trixie.

Clockwork looks at Trixie uneasily, and the super-heroine raises an eyebrow.

“Is his name Thundercane?” asks Trixie.

Rainbow Dash scowls. “Um, no. His name is Thunderlane.”

Trixie snorts and continues walking. “Yeah, that sounds right, and I did meet him, but I don't think we got along.”

Trixie shoves her way past Rainbow Dash, making the pegasus stumble and growl while rubbing her shoulder. Clockwork trots by and says a quick apology on Trixie's behalf. An apology that Rainbow Dash does not accept.

“If you want to know where he went, I last saw him running towards the bar,” continues the bitchy unicorn.

Rainbow Dash raises a brow slightly and she and Pinkie Pie watch Trixie round the corner.

“Thunderlane doesn't...” begins Rainbow Dash, then her voice drifts off as a horrible thought crosses her mind. “Oh, no.”

“But that's what I'm saying!” says Rainbow Dash as quick as her steps as she and Pinkie Pie round a corner into a crowded bar near the stage where the Magnificent Monte Fountain is performing. “Thunderlane doesn't drink! He hates that stuff, and if he's drinking then Trixie must've been a class A, royal bitch to him!”

Pinkie Pie cringes. “Trixie can be hard to handle, sometimes, but-”

“But nothing! I swear to Celestia, I'm very close to kicking her ass!”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

Rainbow Dash stops and scans the bar, thinking about how she does not need luck to take down Trixie. Sure she looks stronger than the last time they met, but she's got military training and speed on her side whereas Trixie has a lot of glorified bar fights and a flashy cape.

Seconds later, Rainbow Dash sees Thunderlane sulking in the back, isolated from a group of jocks wearing jerseys and talking obnoxiously about some obscure hoofball game. He is staring at an empty cup in front of him with no shred of happiness in his features, and nearby, a unicorn bartender puts away a half empty, eight liter bottle of vodka. That does not sit well with Rainbow Dash at all.

“C'mon,” she says to Pinkie Pie, nudging her on the shoulder and pointing to Thunderlane.

Pinkie Pie nods and the two mares quickly approach Thunderlane, who has yet to notice the world around him or the ponies that inhabit it. Even when the two mares are next to him, he is oblivious to their presence.

“Thunderlane, how drunk are you? Scale of one to ten,” says Rainbow Dash quickly.

“Huh?” says Thunderlane, looking at Rainbow Dash dumbly, caught completely off guard by her and Pinkie Pie's appearance.

“You gotta be a ten by now! How many faces do I have?”

“...Is this a trick question?”

“Relax, all he had was chocolate milk and a whole lot of celery sticks,” says the bartender as he takes Thunderlane's dirty cup and plate with his magic.

“What!?” Rainbow Dash grabs Thunderlane and spins him so his orbs encased an endless void of depression can meet her fiery eyes. “You go to a bar and drown your sorrows in chocolate milk!? What's wrong with you!?”

“Drowning sorrows in chocolate milk...” hums Pinkie Pie. She then pulls out a random notepad and pen from her mane and scribbles something down, smirking without taking the pen out of her mouth when she's done. “Another thing for my bucket list!”

Not paying any mind to Pinkie Pie, Thunderlane shrugs. “I hate alcohol and they said their chocolate milk was almost expired. So I decided to help them out and drank a whole gallon of it.” Thunderlane sighs and deflates in Rainbow Dash's hooves. “It's the least I can do in this miserable existence.”

Rainbow Dash glares at the bartender. “You actually let him drink a gallon of near expired chocolate milk?”

The bartender grins and gives Thunderlane another glass of chocolate milk. “Hey, it wasn't expired. Besides, he did help me quite a bit with how much he paid, and its one less thing for me to inventory. Here's another one, buddy.”

“Thanks,” grumbles Thunderlane.

His hoof extends to grab his chocolate beverage, but Rainbow Dash frowns and pushes the drink away, which Pinkie Pie takes and drinks in one gulp, much to the bartender's surprise. His surprise then changes to worry when Pinkie Pie gets a very strange, scrunched up face.

“I'm taking you home,” says Rainbow Dash, tugging on Thunderlane's shoulder.

“But what if I want to wallow in this bar like a proper stallion?” counters Thunderlane as he braces himself on the counter. He frowns and slams his face on the bar, prompting Rainbow Dash's eyes to nearly fly off her face. “Never mind. Real stallions like beer. Real stallions love getting trashed and real Hurricanes don't 'wallow'. Hurricanes bottle everything up. Hurricanes are robots. I'm a terrible robo-stallion.”

Rainbow Dash looks at Pinkie Pie worryingly, but her friend is too busy analyzing the taste with loud smacks, hums and exaggerated eye rolls.

“I think this milk is be expired,” says Pinkie Pie. “Can I see that jug?”

The bartender shifts uneasily in his spot, eyes darting everywhere but at Pinkie Pie and her scrutinizing stare.

“You mean like right now?” asks the bartender.

Pinkie Pie jabs her hoof at him. “Don't make me climb over there."

“I feel sick,” moans Thunderlane.

“You did just drink a whole gallon of chocolate milk,” points out Rainbow Dash. She sighs and gently forces Thunderlane to stand up, and she keeps him steady with one wing over his back and a hoof against his barrel. “C'mon, let's get you home.”

It is at that moment that Pinkie Pie is given the jug and she takes a one second peek at the plastic container. That one second is all she needs for her content look to break down in a vengeful, wrinkled face of Tirek-spawn rage. The bartender gulps, then yelps when Laughter throws the jug of two week old chocolate milk at his nose.

“You're in so much trouble, mister!” scolds Pinkie Pie.

Thunderlane's face starts turning green and a sickly, rolling sound of chunky, sloshy liquid comes from his stomach as his eyes become distant and his legs wobbly. While this happens, Pinkie Pie demands to see the manager, which only goes down a snowy hill on a greased sled when the bartender admits to being the one in charge.

Rainbow Dash, however, pays no mind to Pinkie Pie or the stallion that got Thunderlane sick. Instead, she is focused on Thunderlane, seething and wrinkling her nose as he tilts dangerously far to falling over.

“On second thought, let's get you to a bathroom first.”

The Confession

“Did you find the Gold Star's informant?” asks Soarin.

Fuller and Andromeda exchange looks. Both are standing in front of Soarin in his office in the Royal Guard Headquarters, which is quickly becoming one of the most fortified places in Equestria. Not that it was lightly defended in the fist place, but after the attack, it was determined that a major overhaul was needed.

With the construction of thicker walls, new barricades and towers, the installation of anti-aircraft turrets and pillboxes, and plans for a network of bunkers and tunnels to go all around Canterlot and leads to the Royal Palace, the Crystal Mines, and the surrounding countryside, it will be yet another engineering marvel. Though, like all upgrades, it is a noisy, dirty mess, so the once beautiful, quiet facility is now butchered by roaring machinery, metallic saws, bangs, shouts, cranks and screeches, and all the dust and mud that comes with them.

The two unicorns look back at the first pegasus Captain of the Royal Guard and the EIB Director is the first to speak.

“We traced the evidence to one of your secretaries,” says Andromeda.

Soarin arches a brow, even though a part of him is not very surprised since secretaries are given access to a lot of information for the sake of scheduling. Plus, there seems to be an unwritten rule that every secretary must be a mare and an eye-pleasing piece of tail. It will be easy for them to flirt their way to get more information if need be.

“Her bank informed us of a hefty sum of bits deposited in her account, and she has a son and daughter, both of whom have graduated from college, placing her under partial responsibility for a large student loan debt,” adds Fuller.

“How much was she paid?” asks Soarin, wincing quietly from his injuries protests when he shifts in his seat.

“Enough to cover all the debt, then some.”

“My agents are interrogating her right now, but so far she swears that she is innocent,” says Andromeda.

“The guilty always say they're innocent,” mutters Soarin.

“And not all who are interrogated are guilty,” says Fuller. Soarin and Andromeda stare at Fuller, and without breaking eye contact from Soarin, he adds for both of them: “Experience.”

Soarin nods in agreement while Andromeda rolls her eyes.

“The trail leads directly to the suspect,” says Andromeda. “We got call logs and bank statements that mark her guilty.”

Fuller glances at Andromeda. “The Gold Star Movement was able to orchestrate military attacks to pit us in a war against Bernese. I highly doubt that they will leave obvious trails to their real informant. If I were you, I would take a closer look at your evidence. I have a feeling they might be misleading. As for me, I will have the CDA continue searching the public for any leads regarding the Gold Stars, starting with known supporters of Perfect Harmony and moving on from there.”

“This is ridiculous! We have the suspect. She is guilty. End of story!” says Andromeda. “There is no need to continue wasting time by chasing shadows!”

“If the shadow is holding the knife, then we will not be wasting time chasing it,” comments Fuller.

“Okay, okay, stop it, you two,” says Soarin. This gets them to stop and look at him, and he grunts quietly as he once again shifts in his spot so he is leaning forward, hooves on the table and eyes locked on the mare. “Director Cluster, thank you for your help, but I'm going to need a word with Fuller alone.”

Andromeda looks at Soarin quizzically, then at Fuller, who remains staring at the Captain of the Royal Guard, stone still and completely focused. When Soarin tries to tell her to leave again, the words do not leave his lips, for the new EIB Director nods, wishes them a pleasant evening and trots out of the room. Soarin looks past Fuller to watch Andromeda leave, which brings him to wishing they would shorten his office. It seems like a mile from his desk to the door.

When the door closes, Soarin looks at Fuller, bringing him to wonder if the unicorn has even blinked, and then he takes a deep breath and lightly beats his hoof against the table. He blows out some air in an attempt to buy some time so he can think of some words to say. He has an idea of what he wants to say, but the words elude him, and the ruckus of the construction projects is not helping his mind in any way.

“You confuse me, Director,” says Soarin after a long strain of awkward silence, adding with a scoffing laugh: “I mean, you helped me get this far when you could have easily gotten this position, but you chose to be the CDA Director, and now you are defending the obvious guilty.”

“Just as we were obviously guilty of the bombing in Bernese, and Bernese is the obvious guilty party in the attacks against our nation?” counters Fuller calmly.

Soarin falls silent.

“Captain, you must understand that the Gold Star Movement and their ideology is deceptive by nature,” continues Fuller. “They mislead for control, and we already fell for their first trap which has plunged us in a war we cannot win conventionally, and we cannot fall for their other traps by going after the first mannequin they display.”

Soarin clicks his tongue. “Fair enough.”

“As for the reason I chose not to go for the title of Captain of the Royal Guard, it is because of two reasons. First, I feel I can do more good in the long run in my current position. Secondly, I do not want to be put in a more compromising position than what I was already in.”

“More compromising? Director, I think you are possibly one of the most hated ponies in Equestria for the secret police stuff the CDA does. You compromised yourself beyond redemption the moment you took that position. At least with the Royal Guard there is a sense of trust and you have a group of friends who will have your back no matter what. You should know that. You were a military pony, after all.”

“Friends?” Fuller shakes his head in disbelief. “Friends are dangerous. More so than the enemies you see.”

Soarin raises a brow. “What do you mean?”

Fuller stares at Soarin, and he stares back, and when the seconds tick on by to an extended amount of time, the older unicorn sighs and takes a seat.

“If you must know, I once had a group of friends,” says Fuller.

His voice is mostly intact with his normal neutral tone, however, there is a slight taint of painful nostalgia in there. Despite the tone, Soarin still lets out a quick laugh.

“You? A group of friends? Quit pulling my tail,” he says.

“It is because of this group that I realized the dangers of friendship,” says Fuller, his voice sharpening and his eyes narrowing.

This wipes the smile off of Soarin's face quickly, and Fuller lowers his eyes, which are now glowing faintly with nostalgia.

“We were like brothers and sisters, and I was considered to be the honest one of our group,” continues Fuller. “I like to think that they were right, but at times they got annoyed because I would see past their lies, read them like books and made their fears the source of unpleasant pranks. I never wanted to see my friends or my family hurt, though, so I used my gift against those that wished to harm us. I studied them and turned their fears against them, made their nightmares a reality, and in one case, even removed a particular fiend permanently.”

Soarin sits up a little straighter, his interest piqued, and the Director of CDA barely lifts his eyes, but it is enough to show a concoction of emotions, from rage to sorrow, and pride to regret. It is the first time Soarin has ever seen Fuller confused about anything, and now here he is. Vulnerable.

“I will not explain the details, but upon my return from keeping the ones I loved safe, I discovered the greatest truth there is. Friendship is dangerous,” says Fuller, the anger simmering in his voice. “My most loyal friend was the first to betray me and the others followed soon after. They even convinced my first wife -the smartest and kindest mare you would ever meet- to turn her backs on me for what I have done. It was on that day that I discovered loyalty and friendship's true nature, and for the longest time I have been afraid to let others close to me.”

Soarin keeps silent and watches Fuller more intently. His anger has subsided, and now an unquenchable sadness looms over him.

“When I attempted to let friendship into my life again, I found a mare I thought I could be happy with,” says Fuller. “I thought that my first real friend in so long would be the light I was afraid to have, but fate had other plans.”

“I apologize if I am being rude, but are you talking about Aural? That daycare teacher who... died in our custody?” asks Soarin carefully.

Fuller stares at Soarin, and with his silence and gaze, the Captain becomes a little paranoid that he might have just crossed a line. However, when Fuller nods without trying to stab him or bludgeon him, he relaxes in his seat a little bit.

“Yes, that is her, another kind and smart mare that I regret not a single moment with. But, in the end, friendship is something to be feared, Captain, for it is only a path to greater pain, which is something you have yet to realize,” claims Fuller. “You need many allies to get anywhere, that is how I was and still am able to do what I do, but you cannot risk having those allies become your friends or they will become your downfall.”

“So, what does that make you and Twilight? Really good allies?” asks Soarin, sporting a playful smile.

Fuller breathes slowly through his nose and without saying another word, he gets up and heads to the door, saying without looking at Soarin: “Good night, Captain.”

Soarin watches the unicorn leave, and once the door shuts with a quiet click, he blows through his nose and drums his hoof on his desk, his eyes going back on some paperwork, but his mind blank.

“Well, okay then.”

“Your friend is on his way back to Bernese, Leinen, as are the others, and I have found the one who betrayed us and will be taking care of him soon enough,” says the Painter

“I am happy to hear that, but Gilda would like that rat spared so she can deal with him herself,” says Rotes, though his tone is the opposite of pleasant.

The Painter takes a moment to contemplate his next words. “You can tell Gilda that I am sending Nasty Hick home.”

In a dimly lit room, a lone stallion sits in the center of a lavender carpet with frilly, green trim, his mind on the short conversation he had with Rotes just a few minutes back. In the middle of the carpet, where he sits directly above, is a tree with an alicorn curving around its top, and in the middle of the tree's trunk is an eye.

The lone stallion stares at a stone pendant hanging around his neck, his hoof gently rubbing the engraving of an eye surrounded by crystals as its symbol. It glows an eerie green and whispers of confusion, fear, sadness and rage all fight for attention, each wanting their new warden to hear their demands for release. While most burdened with such artifacts try to ignore them, or are driven mad, he has grown accustomed to them and has accepted everyone trapped inside as a part of him. He can even name every single one of them, which makes dealing with them easier for him.

Thousands of souls, thousands of personalities, all his until their use has ran out. Such has been the way for the centuries he has wandered after the flash of fire and brimstone consumed Roam.

He stops stroking his pendant and lifts his emerald eyes to a series of shelves contouring with the curve of his wall. All of them are filled with crystal carvings of ponies in various poses, all protected in glass containers. Some are prancing, others are laying down or walking, while quite a few are snuggling or rubbing noses. Every pony in there is carved with great care of different pieces of gems varying in colors across the spectrum and held together by what many will think to be glue. However, they do not realize that every piece making every pony has been fused with the power of magic. Not that he wants anyone to see them, anyway. They might accidentally ruin them out of curiosity.

Huffing quietly, the stallion stands up and turns to face an oil painting made of rough strokes and dark colors that vaguely represent chained ponies holding their grimy, bloody hooves towards a tiny light. It is a light at the very top of a pit, mocking them for the salvation they cannot have.

He picks up a platelet of paint and a bundle of brushes with his magic and starts adding small touch ups to the ponies. Each of them getting a face that he vaguely recognizes, and by his own mind wandering, his brush dips into the brightest blue it can find and starts stroking the highest pony in gentle brushes. The chained pony is above the rest, her desperation for escape is admirable, but even though she is suffering and the chains are digging into her skin and pulling her into the abyss, she has hope in her eyes. The tears of hope shine and she is trying to take another with her. Who that pony is, he does not know, nor does he really care, all he sees is one pony trying to save herself while trying to save someone she cares about.

The blue pony, he realizes after finishing up the wings wrapped in chains, looks striking similar to a certain mare that has been giving him a lot of problems as of late. She is a bug. But even bugs have to be admired from time to time for their resilience and perseverance.

The painting comes to an abrupt stop, and he places his brushes in a cup of stained water. His eyes become fixated on his masterpiece that no one will see and he focuses on the blue pony being dragged to the inferno.

“How much longer must you suffer until you realize that Loyalty will betray you and those you hold dear in the end, as it does to all who bear it?” wonders the stallion, almost expecting the blue pegasus in the painting to answer him.

Seconds later, a clock chimes and he glances over his shoulder, watching the grandfather clock behind him ring with its golden pendulum swinging back and forth hypnotically.

It chimes again and he stands up and uses his magic to summon his full body painting suit, fully clothing him with a mist that hardens into thick thread. Another chime calls out to him and a pair of tinted goggles materialize over his eyes. The third chime echoes in his chamber, and his sharp, gem tipped baton appears in front of him, soon to be holstered. By the fourth chime, he disappears in a flash of green light, leaving his art without an audience.

An elevator door dings pleasantly and slides open to reveal four ponies inside, three unicorns and one earth pony, all stallions. The earth pony and one of the unicorns leave and walk down a hallway, passing marked doors, all rigged to stay shut courtesy of the CDA.

“Why are you so paranoid? We got this guy guarded pretty good,” says the unicorn that left with the earth pony. He has a black coat with white spots, carries a Trottingham accent and has a cutie mark of a hat and sunglasses over each other like a cheap spy. His name is Suit.

“He ain't guarded 'pretty good' from what he knows. Mah pa kept his liquor stash more guarded than this place,” quips the earth pony stallion next to Suit with a heavy Ozark drawl. He has a gamboge and amber streaked mane and a light gold coat with his cutie mark hidden by the frayed duster coat, which has a revolving rifle strapped to his side. It took many hours of arguing before Suit and the other agents realized that this earth pony will not be giving up his prized possession, so they just let him carry it around. If anything, the visual of an agent armed with a big rifle keeps unwanted company back.

The two stroll down the hallway, which is guarded by four other CDA agents, two of which are guarding the elevator they just came out of.

The earth pony tries to ignore the looks he is getting from the fellow agents. He thinks one of the reasons they are staring is because of his rifle and the fact that he is one of the few earth ponies in the Civilian Defense Agency. Another reason he thinks they are staring is because of his curse. The curse of being really, really, really, really ridiculously good looking.

Every mare he has passed so far has blushed and giggled around him when he offered a “Howdy” and every stallion has muttered a return greeting, then both genders proceeded to stare at his amazing country flanks. That being said, Special Agent Braeburn Apple really wishes he looked average so he did not have to deal with that kind of attention on a daily basis.

“You're just paranoid,” repeats Suit while levitating a folder and flipping through the pages, thus bringing Braeburn out of his thoughts.

“Look, Ah jus' got a bad feeling about this, alright? Ah don't like this set up. Its jus' askin' fer a lotta trouble,” says Braeburn.

Suit hums. “Well, take it up with Fuller after we get this Top Soil bird out of here.”

Braeburn rolls his eyes, distinctly remembering how Fuller convinced him to join the Agency after watching him shoot at a competition in Appleloosa. It really does take someone special to carry a conversation with that unicorn without feeling unnerved in someway, and Braeburn has made it a personal mission to keep conversations with the Director of the CDA down to a minimum. Even though he did give him a job with great pay, benefits, pensions and nice vacation time.

The two stallions stop in front of a metal door guarded by two more agents, and after they show their badges and have their credentials checked via radio, they are allowed entrance.

The room they enter is simple, with a great view of the city and furnished with a metal table and a few cushions. Inside are four more unicorns wearing suits and the CDA badge, guarding none other than Nasty Hick.

The griffin is pacing in circles, eyes bugged out and talons twitching, and the only thing Agent Braeburn can think is: Wow.

Never before has he seen such a pathetic griffin. Not that he has seen a whole lot, but the few he has met ever since he has started his career as a Civilian Defense Agent has had something going for them. Pride and bulk, mostly, but even the skinny ones had kept themselves looking sharp with their preened plumage. All of them also had a sense of menace to them. But their griffin? Top Soil, also known as “Nasty Hick”, is none of the above. Dirty, jittery, cowardly in appearance, it will be no surprise to Braeburn if their assignment was probably very unloved in his community.

“Top Soil,” calls Suit, getting the griffin's attention. “I am Special Agent Cuff and this is my partner, Agent Apple.”

Nasty Hick swallows anxiously. “Is it just you two that's going to... protect me?”

Braeburn shakes his head with a reassuring smile, even if his gut doesn't believe in it. “Nah, you got these colts here, outside, and all those guys waiting downstairs. Think of it like a small army that'll be protecting you.”

“Oh... Okay. Um, where will I be going exactly?”

“We'll be taking you to a safe house in Stalliongrad,” explains Suit. “It's got the largest griffin population in Equestria, so you'll be able to blend in easier.”

Braeburn adds with a teasing smile: “We'll probably dye your plumage and fur to make you blend in better, too. Maybe something cool, like red and black.”

“That's a good idea,” says Suit with an approving nod. “Probably add in some really bright blue contact lenses to bring out the eyes a bit.”

The agents chuckle and Nasty Hick flashes an uneasy smile.

“Yeah, how about not.” says Nasty Hick, his tone matching his smile.

Braeburn forces a laugh. “Oh, c'mon! It'll be great! I'll even pay for it with my own bits!”

The agents laugh louder this time and even the dirty griffin manages a chuckle and shrugs, feeling a little better about the lighthearted joke.

“Well, if you're buying...”

“That's the spirit!”

Down the hall, the elevator door dings and slides open, and the two agents guarding it turn, both cocking their brows in question. But that is as far as they get before their brains are burned out by thin, green electric beams that snap their heads back and throw them to floor, leaving smoking holes in their foreheads.

Their killer, an elderly earth pony, steps out of the elevator, leaving two corpses inside with caved in skulls and crushed ribs that have hoofprints burnt into them. He fires four more more times and kills the other two guards with shots to their chest before they can react. He keeps keeps his pace quick as he approaches the targeted room, not paying any mind to the trail of bodies he is leaving or the green mist that is being absorbed into him, adding to the voices in his head.

The black spots around his focused eyes have become more faded and wrinkled, and his fully buttoned trench coat is seared along the edges. The only part of his attire that is not damaged in any way is his fedora, but even then it is discolored with age. The saddle he is wearing has a slim, gem studded cannon that has three curved claws pointing at the barrel, where a large, green gem rests, with the barrel and gem smoking from their use.

As he walks down the hall, his ear twitches from the sounds of thousands of tormented voices crying and begging him to help or release them. The voices did not come until after the Stallion With The Glasses gave him a pendant made of a strange stone. That is when his eyes changed to the emerald, too, and he can frequently see his original color returning, but more often than not, his eyes are green.

Just the mere memory of how he became like this leaves a foul feeling in his brain and heart, like someone has poured rotten meat in his skull and ribcage. But, as awful as the feeling is, his mind always replays the conversation to needlessly remind him of where his choices have led him.

“Do you fear death?” the Stallion With The Glasses asked him when he was at Black Sun Prison Infirmary, and the old earth pony strongly recalls telling him “No”.

“He knew you would deny me. So, we have a back up plan,” is what that damn pony told him in response with that equally repulsive, never faltering grin.

The old stallion remembers the Stallion With The Glasses putting an audio recorder next to his cot and playing the message.

“You do not know me, but I know you, and I know your brother and your niece, whom you consider to be the daughter you never had,” says a stallion on the recorder. Never before has he heard anyone sound so cold, so emotionless, and it is the first time since his confrontation with Trixie at the Spire when it was collapsing in an inferno that he has truly felt fear. “I also know that you have become so numb that an eternity in hellfire will be more pleasant than the shell you have become. However, I should let you know that I have your family in my custody, and they are already suffering, but you can save them if you cooperate. If you want proof, Case Study still believes that her Uncle Grape will save her, and Love Joy is still being a thespian and has lost his sight again, giving him plenty of opportunity to use his gift.”

The elderly earth pony lowers his eyes when he passes the two other guards he shot and stops in front of his target's room.

“You now have a choice, Grape Muffin. Will you embrace death, or postpone it to save what little you have left?”

Gray Muffin lifts his eyes to the 505 stamped on the door, then he takes a deep breath and presses his hoof against the door. As soon as his hoof touches the wood, there is a roar of laughter on the other side and he hears one of the voices beg him not to do it. He does not know if the voice is old or new. All he knows is he has a job to do, and by doing this, it will bring him one step closer to saving the only ones he can rightfully call his family.

Gray Muffin's eyes glow brighter as well the amulet around his neck and a hidden circle of gems in his chest that barely show from under his trench coat. The coils spark around his hooves, burning the carpet, wall and door, and-

Braeburn's ears flick to the door, not sure if what he heard is real or if it is in his head, but out of his peripheral vision he can see the other agents making the final preparations in their bright mood. He thought he heard a pair of thuds earlier, but nobody else reacted, so he figured it was his mind playing a joke on him. However, when he hears a humming comes from behind the door with a green light bleeding through the bottom, Braeburn's heart skips and his eyes snap wide as he leaps towards Nasty Hick.

“Get down!” barks Braeburn.

The windows of the complex explode from a ball of rolling, electric flame, carrying with it burning debris of furniture, flooring, walls and glass. Sirens and screams follow seconds later over the noise of the dying traffic, and the darkening sky is polluted by black and red smoke billowing from the gaping hole. Guard vehicles zoom through the traffic while the ones on hoof bully their way through the crowd of ponies in a state of comatose or fleeing from the site.

Watching the chaos with satisfaction from the safety of a roof a few blocks down through a sniper scope is the Painter. After spying on the room for some time and seeing the devastating attack of his newest recruit, he is confident that the backstabber is dead. With that pleasant thought, he packs up his sniper rifle and goes to the maintenance stairwell that leads to the roof, and disappears in a flash of green light when the metal door closes behind him.

The Flight To Perdition

“Okay, down you go,” grunts Rainbow Dash as she tries to lower Thunderlane on his bed.

She ends up dropping him instead and since only half of his body makes it on the mattress, he ends up bouncing off and landing on his back, barely making a sound with the thud of his body hitting the floor.

Rainbow Dash cringes and extends her hoof to help Thunderlane up. “You okay?”

“I've had worse,” replies the stallion, his head still swimming like a blissful fish in a sea of molasses.

Thunderlane crawls on his bed and turns on his back so his eyes are staring straight up at the ceiling. His back really loving the soft mattress and blanket while his head enjoys the cradling of his pillow. He honestly forgot how comfortable his bed was. Too bad the uneasy stomach from rotten chocolate milk is spoiling the comfort for him.

“Soooo,” drones Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane looks at her with droopy eyes and sees his living rainbow roommate rubbing the back of her neck and staring at the ceiling.

“Rainbow?”

She looks at Thunderlane with an uneasy smile. “I guess now would be a good time to talk, huh?”

Thunderlane raises a brow. “About what?”

“About... well, today. You've been acting weird all day. Like, I made you breakfast and you freaked out, then you looked like you were going to sock that old guy, and the transfer thing happened, and now you got all mushy about not wanting to be alone.”

Thunderlane frowns and looks back at the ceiling, hooves folded across his chest and the sickness turning into disappointment.

“What's there to talk about?” he says moodily. “You said at the Card Casino you didn't think of me the same way I think of you, and the reason I'm acting 'weird' is because I'm being congratulated for doing my job and I don't get it.”

Thunderlane feels the bed shift and hears the springs squeak as Rainbow Dash climbs on, but he does not look away from his designated spot on the ceiling. He finds the blandness to be welcoming. Such simplicity with an all white ceiling. No crazy colors, no crazy days, no fake praises or convenient love. It is all there, just doing its job and loving it with no trouble or complications.

“Look, Thunderlane, we've known each other for a long time, but... well, to be honest, its not you, its me. I know I will disappoint you in some way and with me being an Element an all something bad could happen to me. By that I mean if somepony had some kind of vendetta against me for some reason and tried going after me you could get hurt. You're a good friend, and I don't want you to get hurt like Rumble because of me.”

Thunderlane's frown disappears and he turns his head, eyes widening and ears drooping when he sees the Element lying next to him, her glazed eyes staring straight at the headboard with tears rolling down her cheeks. Her ears are limp like her wings and her tail is tucked to her chin as she sniffles and tightens her body into an ashamed curl.

“What are you talking about?” says Thunderlane.

“What happened to Rumble was my fault,” says Rainbow Dash, her voice cracking and more tears flowing down her cheeks. “It was all my fault. The guys responsible for the bombing were after me, but they hurt you, Rumble, and everypony else but me.”

Thunderlane sits up, trying to find the right words to say, but all he can do is swallow as the Element shivers and whimpers in her ball.

“They hurt you and everypony else to get to me,” says Rainbow Dash, having to take wet breaths of air to continue speaking. “They-they knew that if I survived, then I would know they were after me and would hurt anypony to get to me, but if I died then I would be some unfortunate casualty. I lose both ways.”

Thunderlane gently puts his hoof on Rainbow Dash's shoulder, making her flinch. “Rainbow, look at me.”

Rainbow Dash sniffles and lifts her head up to look at him. Her beautiful purple eyes are stained with red around the edges, and the endless supply of tears soak her cheeks and eyes. Thunderlane looks at her, swallowing and gently lifting her up so she is eye to eye with him. He puts one of his hooves on her shoulder, and the other he uses to wipe her tears away.

“What happened was not your fault. I should have protected you and Rumble better, but-”

“But it is my fault! They were after me and if I didn't go near you in the first place Rumble wouldn't be in the hospital and nopony would be hurt!”

Thunderlane pulls Rainbow Dash in for a hug and rubs the back of her mane with loving strokes as she buries her face in his shoulder and hugs him tight.

“I'm sorry. I never- I never wanted you or Rumble hurt because of me.”

Thunderlane wrap his wings around her and holds her close while closing his eyes and resting his chin on her shoulder. He can feel every tremble and her ragged breaths and tears sliding down his neck.

“I'm sorry,” repeats Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane remains silent, but continues stroking her back and keeps her wrapped lovingly in his wings. He lets her cry in his shoulder and neck, muffling her sobbing and shaking his body as she trembles in his embrace. She needs to let it out, and he will gladly be the shoulder she needs to cry on.

“I'll make this right,” says Thunderlane. “I'll make sure nopony will hurt you or Rumble ever again. I promise.”

Rainbow Dash sniffles and pulls away so she can look at him. Her sunken eyes have trouble focusing on him, but Thunderlane keeps his eyes locked on hers. Unlike the Element's vulnerable state, Thunderlane is the exact opposite. On the outside, at least. On the inside, his heart is thumping like a drummer boy struggling to remember the beats and his mouth has gone dry as his brain spews out an assortment of logical arguments against his plan.

“How?” says Rainbow Dash.

That question being one of them.

“Should it matter?” says Thunderlane.

That answer being one that his logical part of the brain is slapping him on the back of the head for.

“You don't know how you're going to do it, do you?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Thunderlane sighs and lowers his eyes. “No. No I don't. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I will.” He looks at Rainbow Dash again, keeping his golden eyes hard with determination. “I already almost lost you twice and Rumble is hospitalized because I couldn't keep you two safe. When we go to Bernese the ones responsible will be brought to justice, I'll make sure of it.”

Rainbow Dash searches Thunderlane's face. He knows she wants to say something by the way the gears turn behind her eyes and how her lips barely move, but she cannot find the words. He can sympathize with that. He does not know how many times he forgot how to talk over the course of his bland existence. That said, if Rainbow Dash has figured out what to say then she does not get a chance to say it because there are three loud, heavy knocks on the door that sound too much like shotgun blasts.

The ruckus makes Thunderlane jump and his heart spike, but when Fire Streak calls out to him and knocks again in the same set of three, his burst of anxiety switches to confusion. He quietly excuses himself, leaving Rainbow Dash to lay curled on the bed with her head plopped on a pillow, and he goes to the door. By the third round of knocks, he is cringing internally, wondering why no one has any patience, nowadays.

Thunderlane opens the door just in time to see Fire Streak -still in his uniform- getting ready to leave. That brings up the question of why the Lieutenant is at his apartment in the first place, and why he is looking like an antsy Charon coming to claim a soul. Fire Streak, being in mid step, stops and looks at Thunderlane in a mix of relief and surprise.

“Thunderlane, is Rainbow with you?” asks Fire Streak.

“Yes, sir,” says Thunderlane.

“Good.”

Fire Streak slides in and calls Rainbow Dash as Thunderlane closes the door and follows close behind. When Rainbow Dash comes out of Thunderlane's room, wiping her eyes, the Lieutenant stops and checks to make sure Thunderlane has not vanished from thin air. Seeing the two pegasi near him, he takes a breath to collect his thoughts.

“We're leaving for Bernese today,” says Fire Streak.

Rainbow Dash and Thunderlane both exchange confused looks, then look at Fire Streak.

“What about that week of preparation thing?” says Rainbow Dash.

Fire Streak shakes his head. “We don't have time for that. A CDA sub-station just got hit hard by the Gold Stars and killed a whole lot of guys trying to kill our informant. Plus, we got reports that Zäh Ausstecher was in Equestria for quite some time and is leaving for Bernese today. The Harmonious Light is going to Bernese is five hours and we're going to intercept him at Der Tal while they are still unpacking.“

Thunderlane scrunches his brow. “Wait, one of our targets was under our nose the whole time?”

Fire Streak nods. “Unfortunately. I'd like to see Fuller talk his way out of this one. Which reminds me, I want to talk to you. Alone.” He looks at Rainbow Dash and points at Thunderlane's bedroom. “Get dressed, Rainbow.”

Rainbow Dash nods and after she locks herself in the room, Fire Streak looks at Thunderlane.

“Is there something you want to tell me before we go to Bernese?” asks the Lieutenant.

“What do you mean, sir?” says Thunderlane uneasily.

“Zäh Ausstecher. What do you know about him?”

Thunderlane's chest tightens. “I don't know what you are talking about, sir.”

Fire Streak sighs heavily. “Thunderlane, you got two choices. You can either talk to me or you can have Spitfire shove her hoof so far up your ass that you become her sock puppet. Spitfire and I both saw that look you got when Ausstecher's face popped up on the screen. So, I'm going to ask you again. What do you know about Zäh Ausstecher?”

Thunderlane swallows and glances over his shoulder to look at his room. The door is still shut, but that does not mean Rainbow Dash is not eaves dropping. He looks at Fire Streak again, trying to keep himself steady, but the shakes still break him and his eyes have trouble focusing on his superior. He has to swallow again in order to speak.

“Nothing. I only saw him briefly in a dream, sir,” says Thunderlane quietly.

Fire Streak raises a brow skeptically. “A dream?”

Thunderlane nods, his eyes lowered and his hoof stuffing at his carpet, almost brushing against Tank in the process, who has made a slow trip up to see what is going on.

“It was just a dream, sir,” says Thunderlane. “I don't know why or how he got in there, but he was there.”

Fire Streak stares at Thunderlane for a few seconds, lips twisted to a frown, before he breathes through his nose and runs his hoof through his mane.

“Thunderlane,” begins Fire Streak, his tone dangerously calm, “that is probably one of the shittiest excuses I have ever heard. If I were in charge of this operation I would send in another team just because I know you are connected to Ausstecher, and you lying through your teeth about that bullshit dream excuse makes me question what respect you have for me or the chain of command.”

Thunderlane's ears droop and his wings go limp from the sting of his superior's words. “But, sir, with all due respect, it is true! I've been-”

Fire Streak's hoof snaps up. “Don't. Not another word. You got ten minutes to pack up and get dressed, and only ten minutes, are we clear?”

Thunderlane nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Get going.”

Thunderlane scampers away and slips in his room right as Rainbow Dash comes out, fully dressed in her lackluster way with her uniform damp and still having remnants of its alcohol stain. This earns her an unimpressed frown and brow raise from the Lieutenant.

“Dash, is there a reason you look like a hobo?” asks Fire Streak, either oblivious or uncaring of her defeated expression.

“Tank used my spare uniform as a bed,” replies Rainbow Dash lowly, adding with a nod and hoof aimed at the said pet, who is looking at her with a worried frown. “And somepony needs to watch him while I'm gone.”

Fire Streak looks at Tank.

Tank looks at Fire Streak.

Tank blinks.

Fire Streak sighs.

“What?” says Silver Lining, his shoulders slack and his eyes wide and his voice almost drowned out by the whirring gears, running motors, turning tires, clanking metal and shouting ponies.

Misty and Thunderlane are holding similar expressions, only their mouths are clamped shut. Between the two, Thunderlane is at a complete loss of words for his luck and the kind of roller coaster his day has been so far. Heck, he's starting to wonder if there has been some kind of time warping spell gone haywire with all the stuff that has been crammed in less than twenty four hours.

“You heard me,” says Fire Streak sternly, having to raise his voice so his subordinate can hear him over the chaos.

“...What?” repeats Silver Lining.

“You heard me,” says Fire Streak again, no change in his tone.

Silver Lining points at Thunderlane. “Why do I gotta watch him, though? Why can't I watch Rainbow? At least she's hot!”

Thunderlane and Misty both frown at Silver Lining, not that Thunderlane wants to be seen as a hot piece of flank by another guy, but still, he never thought of himself as ugly. Average at best, really.

Fire Streak rubs his brow. “I'm telling you to watch him because I have to do a last minute meet-up with Spitfire and Soarin.”

“But why I do I have to watch him?” whines Silver Lining.

Fire Streak stomps his hoof. “Because I'm ordering you to! Now stop complaining and watch Thunderlane until I get back!” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he trots away: “Goddess damn, freaking five year old, I swear.”

The three ponies watch their superior leave until he is out of ear shot, then Thunderlane looks at his saddlebag, which is holding his transfer paperwork while Silver Lining continues his pouting. Misty, on the other hand, merely looks at the scene in front of them, bored.

“Quite the ship, huh?” she drones.

Thunderlane looks away from his saddlebag to stare at the ship in front of them. The massive zeppelin is resting on a platform that looks like half a dozen pudgy, metal fingers gripping its sides. The armor plated, oblong shaped balloon with the Equestrian sun painted on it is being inspected by pegasi with clipboards, and on its four fins rests four, round engines, each one snug in a corner of where the fins meet. The engines bulge out and fuse with the long, cylindrical body that also has armor plating and a golden stripe running horizontally through the body, starting at the fins and stopping at the head. The observation deck has made its home as a half circle with thick glass and sturdy metal crisscrossing over it, like the longitude and latitude lines of a globe. Dotting its side is an entire row of canons with perches for pegasi to take off, and beneath the body is a platform that is allowing the traffic of mechanics and soldiers easy entrance and exit as they load and check the ship. Lastly, painted on the side in gold lettering is: The Harmonious Light.

It is a magnificent -and deafening- sight with all the vehicles and ponies swarming around the war-zeppelin, and Thunderlane finds himself lost in the commotion. His eyes follow a crane system sliding along the ceiling of their hangar, carrying massive boxes of ammunition with the guidance of pegasi and unicorns. The boxes are brought to a platform where a group of earth ponies are, and they carefully lower the box on a big furniture dolly and roll it out of view.

“That's supposed to be the fastest ship we got?” says Silver Lining skeptically.

Misty nods. “Yep.”

Silver Lining snorts. “How is something that big supposed to move fast?”

“The power of technology.”

“I don't trust it.”

“Then don't. But we're still going on it, unless you would rather fly across the ocean with all that gear."

“I'd rather not do this mission, period. This whole thing is stupid. We should be here, rounding up all the goats in Equestria to put in some kind of internment camp and forming a big wall of death or something to keep the others out.”

Seeing Silver Lining distracted, Thunderlane finds it as the perfect opportunity to sneak away and drop off his transfer paperwork. He looks around for only a moment before spotting a mailbox bolted into the wall, and he barely takes a pace towards it before a hoof slams on his back, stopping him cold.

“Where do you think you are going?” says Silver Lining.

Thunderlane sighs and points to the mailbox. “I'm dropping off some mail.”

“What kind of mail?”

Thunderlane frowns at his annoying teammate. “Personal. You don't have to follow me. I'm just going to the mailbox.”

“Ah, but I have my orders to watch you, so I will! Unblinking. Unwavering. In fact, I'll be watching you so hard that I will see every breath you take, every move you make, and every step you take. I'll be watching you until-”

“I think he gets it. Just let him drop off his mail,” says Misty, now walking to Thunderlane's side.

“What if its evil mail?” accuses Silver Lining.

“My mail is not evil. Its just some paperwork I have to turn in before we go,” says Thunderlane.

“That's exactly what an evil pony would say about his evil mail.”

Thunderlane's eye twitches and very uncomfortable ball of air rises in his throat that demands he screams his head off at Silver Lining for him being such a colossal idiot. He really cannot remember at any point in his time with his so-called team that he has shown any lack of loyalty, and with such a stupid statement, he really wants to knock some of Silver Lining's teeth out.

“Leave him alone, Silver,” says Misty, now putting her hoof on Thunderlane's shoulder and turning him to the mailbox. “Just ignore him and drop off your mail.”

“Easier said than done,” mutters Thunderlane.

Thunderlane walks towards the mailbox, stopping seconds later to look over his shoulder. Silver Lining has trailed him and stopped when he stopped. With the two looking at each other, the sniper puts his hoof to his eye and then points at Thunderlane, making the labeled rug of the group scrunch his brows.

“I'm watching you,” mouths Silver Lining.

Trying to keep his eyes on Silver Lining for as long as possible, Thunderlane turns around and resumes walking towards a mailbox bolted into the wall. It has the Equestrian Royal Guard seal on it with an envelop in its center and a slot on the top just big enough to fit the envelope the paperwork is in. When in front of the mailbox, he sits down and removes the said envelope from his saddle with his mouth, only to freeze from a hot breath and a disturbingly eager panting brushing up against his neck. His black fur stands, his ears droop and his gold eyes widen as he turns his head to get an up close view of Silver Lining's face.

“I'm still watching you,” whispers Silver Lining huskily.

He is quickly shoved away by Misty and forced to march back to their original spot, lightly protesting the entire way. Thunderlane, however, might as well have turned into a wide-eyed, terrified statue at that point.

In a conference room Fire Streak is standing next to Spitfire, who is looking down on Soarin. The Captain of the Royal Guard has taken a seat at the head of the long, glass table and is appearing to be drained off all his energy. Bags are under his watery eyes, his shoulders are slouching like his wings and his uniform is just barely passing acceptable in terms of appearance. It really is a despicable sight for Fire Streak, and he knows just by glancing at Spitfire that she really wants to rip him a new one for his lack of care. Soarin, however, is too tired to care.

“Remind me again why I should even consider your proposal,” says Soarin, rubbing his brow and his tone low and tired, but holding the hostility of honey badger.

“Sir, during the meeting Thunderlane has given me reason to believe that he has information about Ausstetcher,” says Fire Streak. “I confronted him very recently about this but has denied any connection with our target. I know he's lying.”

“You know because of his funny look?”

“Yes, sir. We can't risk it. We need to swap teams while we still can.”

Soarin shakes his head and adjusts his position, his jaw clenching from the pain that comes with it. “No, not going to happen.”

“Soarin, don't be a dumbass,” says Spitfire sharply, getting a razor sharp look from her superior. “Hurricane's expression said enough when he saw that picture, and just the minimal possibility of those two being connected can compromise everything.”

“Not to mention that Thunderlane's brother was crippled in the bombing at the Stadium,” adds Fire Streak. “That alone should have been enough to veto our role in this. If we act quickly enough we can swap out with another team or leave Thunderlane behind and put him in state custody for investigation until we get back.”

Soarin averts his eyes to the floor and rubs his brows, growling irritably. “That's not going to happen. I understand your concerns, truly, I do, but the plan is not changing and let me tell you why. First, I gave you detailed information that has to be kept with as little people as possible. Second, changing teams for a mission is not like changing shirts, both of you know this and are being dumb asses for thinking something of this magnitude can be changed like one. Thirdly, we do not have the time to cherry pick and every piece I have is in motion and you need every pony on your team for this. Besides, if we go through any alterations because Hurricane looked funny then we will be throwing away a perfect interception opportunity. Hell, maybe if we're lucky, Leinen will be there to greet Ausstecher and your mission will be over without having to hop all over Bernese.”

“How do we even know Ausstecher is going to Der Tal?” asks Fire Streak crossly.

Soarin glares at the Lieutenant. “My ally told me.”

Spitfire is about to say something about Soarin's claim, but the Captain brings his hoof up, keeping her quiet.

“We've wasted enough time with this meeting,” says Soarin sternly. “If you have to, use Hurricane in whatever ways you can against Ausstecher, but you are still going to Bernese and you are going to get me Ausstecher and Leinen, and that is final. Dismissed.”

The two verbally acknowledge him and bring their hooves up for a salute, which is halfheartedly returns, then they leave conference room, pissed. Soarin leaves behind them and hobbles off in the opposite direction, surrounded by unicorn guards that waited for him in the hallway. Fire Streak and Spitfire continue walking, and only when Soarin's group is out of earshot does the Lieutenant start talking.

“That went well,” says Fire Streak sourly, stopping by an observation window to see Silver Lining still guarding Thunderlane with way more enthusiasm than before.

Spitfire snorts and flaps her wings. “About as well as a stallion giving birth.”

“What are we going to do about Thunderlane?”

“You're still going to watch him. I don't trust Lining, and he's tied to Cloud, anyway. We'll need them as our sniper cover. I've never seen him talk to Dancer, and I think he'll be extra cautious around me, but if we put him with Dash she probably won't rat him out if she picks up something. You are the most level headed out of all of us and frankly I trust you more than Soarin or anypony else around here.”

Fire Streak nods, his chest puffing slightly and lips twisting to a proud smirk. “Good to know.” A hesitation later and his pride is gone and curiosity sets in as he looks at the Major. “You don't believe Thunderlane's dream excuse do you?”

Spitfire shakes her head. “I don't think dreaming is real. I've never had one, so, as far as I'm concerned, anything with dreams is bullshit.” She puts on her sunglasses and walks towards the exit. “Meet up with the others. I'm going to find Dash.”

In a small, dimly lit room, Rainbow Dash sits on a cushion in front of the monstrosity that is the military telephone. The fat headset covers her ears and the mouthpiece is equivalent to a rolled up sock in terms of appearance. She long gave up wondering how they manged to fit such a large block of wires, dials, wood and metal inside the room, considering that they are way too big for the doorway, no matter how it is turned. If there is a plus to it, it is that it has amazing reception.

“So, you'll get Tank then?” asks Rainbow Dash, her tone failing at being cool.

“Yes, I will get Tank and look over him while you are gone,” says Rarity on the other end. “Maybe I could make matching sweaters and hats for both of you.”

Rainbow Dash shakes her head, even though the idea is kind of amusing to her, but it will tarnish her image more than it already has been over the past few years. “Please don't do that.”

“Why not? It'll be adorable!”

“Because matching sweaters is not cool. Its nerdy.”

“Honestly, Rainbow Dash, I thought you outgrew your phobia of geek culture.”

“You thought wrong.”

There is silence on the other end, and Rainbow Dash feels somewhat guilty about snapping at her sort-of friend. Rarity is probably more like an acquaintance, now, since Rainbow Dash still has dormant hate for how her fellow Element treated Pinkie Pie after Spike's murder. That aside, Rainbow Dash did not call Rarity just to see if she can watch Tank, and she hopes that what time has passed has given her some answers about the forged note.

“So... Rarity...” begins Rainbow Dash slowly.

“Yes?”

“Did you prove that Fuller forged that note?”

Rainbow Dash can see Rarity cringe perfectly from the silence on the other end, and it sends a sickly feeling plunging in her gut.

“Rarity?”

“Rainbow Dash, darling, I... I barely started, but even then I haven't found anything that remotely points to Fuller. In fact, the note and samples are still in front of me, and from what I have found, the forger and Fuller's style appear to be completely different.”

Rainbow Dash slams her head against the blocky device, her tight throat managing a groan as growing tears burn her eyes. Of course Fuller would not forge the note. How could she be so stupid in thinking he would be that careless? He is the head of the Civilian Defense Agency! He didn't get that spot for being careless!

“Rainbow Dash?”

Rainbow Dash lifts her head, sniffles and wipes her maw with a quivering hoof. She then licks her lips and swallows a gulp of air before continuing in a weak, desperate voice. “Maybe he paid the forger.”

“Rainbow-”

“Maybe you can figure out who the forger is and you can make them squeal!”

“Rainbow, I don't know if I can.”

“Fuller is trying to kill me, Rarity!” cries Rainbow Dash, jabbing her hoof at her chest as if her friend is in front of her as terrified tears flow down her cheeks. “Do you understand? He's trying to kill me! Please, Rarity, I need you to do this for me! I need your help!”

Rarity takes a shaky breath after a moment of silence. “Okay, I'll help you. But I need Twilight's help as well. She has connections in the government that I'm sure we can use to help find the forger.”

Rainbow Dash shakes her head. “No, don't get Twilight involved any more than she already is. Actually, butt her out entirely. As far as we're concerned, she was right, I was wrong and Fuller is a saint and we're dropping it. Just please pick up Tank and whatever you do, do not talk to Fuller or anypony in the CDA. In fact, don't talk to anypony. Just get Tank and pretend that nothing is wrong while you figure out who the forger is. If you can find the forger we can finally nail Fuller.”

“But, with Twilight's help-”

“That egghead's been discorded by Fuller. She can't be trusted. Besides, if anypony in the government is dragged in then Fuller will probably get an idea of what's going on and do something horrible to stop it before it takes off. You have to do this on your own. Can you do that?”

“It is not an easy task that you're asking me to do... but I will try.”

Rainbow Dash breathes a small sigh of relief and manages a weak smile. “Thank you.”

“All I ask in return is that you come home. Can you do that for me? For all of your friends?”

A genuine smile grows and the Airmare chuckles and sniffles. “I can do that. Stay safe, Rarity.”

“I'll be fine. You're the one that needs to stay safe.”

“I'm always safe.”

Rarity hums skeptically on the other end, and Rainbow Dash chuckles again, but frowns when she looks at the clock hanging above the telephone. Seeing the time, she realizes that almost fifteen minutes has passed since she first called Rarity in asking her to take care of Tank. Originally, she called Pinkie Pie, just to say her farewells, but all she got was Joe and he told her that Pinkie Pie had already left to “see her cousin down South”, so she just left him a message instead. She hopes he can get in touch with Pinkie Pie and tell her that she said good bye. As for Twilight? All she got was voice mail, so she left her a message as well. Last on her list had been Rarity, and frankly she is glad that her high maintenance friend accepted pet sitting Tank, and there wasn't even an argument. She jumped on the chance as if it were a shiny diamond.

“Hey, Rarity, I gotta go, okay? If you leave right now you might be able to get to the base before they really start enforcing curfew,” says Rainbow Dash.

“Alright. When you come back, all of us will be waiting for you,” replies Rarity.

“Got it. Goodbye, Rarity.”

“Goodbye, Rainbow.”

Click.

That simple sound feels like a calling card for the universe to fall on Rainbow Dash's shoulders. She sighs and lowers her head as one hoof runs through her colorful mane and the other props the headset on its hook. A moment later, she steps out into the hallway expecting to see someone waiting to use the phone room. What she gets instead is Fuller standing by the wall in his dark blue blazer, looking directly at her. Her heart skips a beat and her hooves move on their own accord to back up as the warning bells deafen all senses and the thoughts buzzing in her head.

“What are you doing here!” demands Rainbow Dash.

“I came to wish you luck and to advise you to be careful on your mission,” replies Fuller nonchalantly.

Rainbow Dash ruffles her feathers. “I don't believe you.”

Fuller pulls away from the wall. “I know you think ill of me, but I think you need to take this moment of peace and quiet to reevaluate why you think of me as a villain. I know Twilight and myself see no justification in it.”

“Twilight doesn't know how you locked me in your office and pointed a gun at me!”

“That was last year. I am certain you would have forgiven me by now. Besides, the gun was empty, and I hate being spied on. It is a gross invasion of privacy.”

“And then there was that time you locked me in the bathroom and cornered me!”

“Again. Last year and privacy. You invaded my personal space and I invaded yours. It was an act of equivalent exchange that I thought would make you think twice about your actions. I was obviously mistaken.”

“Then you tried to kill me with a bomb!”

“No, a goat did.”

“You paid the goat!”

Fuller sighs. “Airmare Dash, have you thought about how these wild accusations have strained your friendships? You are digging in the wrong yard, but that has not stopped your real enemies from nearly killing Thunderlane and Rumble in exchange for your life.”

Rainbow Dash snarls and rams Fuller into the wall. He does not make a sound as his body collides with the brick and remains silent and apparently bored of her antics as her hoof crushes his neck and her tearing, furious eyes stare deep into his.

“You did that! You hurt them! You hurt Thunderlane and Rumble and all those people!” cries Rainbow Dash as the tears stream down her cheeks.

“I did no such thing. You did that with your carelessness,” says Fuller calmly. “The enemy is watching your every move and you go after the only pony who can protect you and your friends.”

Rainbow Dash pulls Fuller away from the wall for a split second just to slam him back into it, creating an echoing thud that is carried down the hall. Fuller remains unfazed, however, even when Rainbow Dash is screaming at his face, her face red and soaked in tears as her vicious snarl crumbles into deadly vulnerability.

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! You're the one! Its all you! You're doing this to me and my friends!” sobs Rainbow Dash angrily, her hot tears now splattering on her uniform like droplets of blood. “You may have everypony else fooled, but not me! I know what kind of monster you are and I swear to Celestia I will personally drag your ass to Tartarus for what you did to Rumble and Thunderlane!”

Fulle's horn lights up and a green tendril wraps around Rainbow Dash's hoof and traps her wings against her body, and she grunts and winces as the magical appendage twists and crushes her bone. She whimpers and crumbles to the floor, trying to pry her hoof free from the artificial tendril as Fuller towers over her. He then uses his magic to pull on the tie of her uniform, choking her as he drags her up on her hooves and slams her against the wall. Her ears ring and the back of her head throbs as she gulps for air tries to free herself by pushing her hooves against his chest and scrape against the floor, but she is not strong enough to combat his magic. He keeps dragging her up the wall until her hooves are off of the floor their noses are almost touching, forcing her to look down his eyes to see her terrified reflection in his emotionless gaze.

“Threatening a government official is illegal and dangerous, Airmare Dash. Especially when that threat is directed to somepony like me. You best be careful, because,” says Fuller, ignoring the Element's chokes and snaps for air. He gives her tie another hard tug, yanking what little air she has right out of her and forcing her to see her reflection in his eyes, but she cannot make a sound because her muzzle and nose is blocked by a green, misty tendril that wraps tightly around them. “There is no telling what consequences may come to you and your friends should I take your threat to heart. You already have enemies. Best not make more.”

A metallic door bangs open around the corner, and Fuller quickly drops Rainbow Dash to the floor and uses his magic to casually adjust her uniform and hat. Spitfire rounds the corner seconds later and raises a brow at the strange sight of Fuller doing his touch ups. However, despite the brave stare the Element is giving the CDA Director, her trembling legs, gulps of air and red, watery eyes give away plenty.

Spitfire's eyes zero in on the unicorn as she storms forward, wings expanding for a fight and muzzle twisted to a snarl. “What the hell are you doing to my soldier!”

“Major Temper, Airmare Dash threatened and assaulted me and I acted accordingly,” says Fuller coolly. He steps away from Rainbow Dash, just barely giving enough room for Spitfire to take a spot between the two. With the Major now between him and the Element of Loyalty, the Director starts towards the exit. “I best be tending to my other duties. Keep Dash safe in Bernese, Major. It will be a shame if something were to happen to her.”

With hostile eyes, the two pegasi wordlessly watch the Director leave, and after he rounds the corner and exits, as implied by the metallic thud of the door opening and shutting, they remain silent for a few more seconds. The silence is ended when Spitfire looks at Rainbow Dash, whose head is now lowered and her jaw is tight. In spite of her best efforts, tears still flow from her eyes and her lips tremble with her ragged breathing. She barely looks up when the Major places a hoof on her shoulder.

“You okay?” asks Spitfire.

Rainbow Dash nods quietly.

“You sure?”

Rainbow Dash sniffles, nods again and moves forward glaring hellfire straight ahead and silently vowing to kill Fuller when she gets back from Bernese. Even if she has to drag herself to the grave with him she will do it, and not just for her, but for the sake of all of her friends. Her only requests to the Higher Powers is that she lives long enough to end him and that her friends survive Fuller while she is gone.

Thunderlane sits on a the floor, staring at the metal container holding his suit. Specifically, his eyes are locked on HURRICANE stenciled in bold, black letters. The longer he stares at the metal box, the sharper his scowl becomes and the stronger his anxiety beats his heart.

His transfer paperwork has been stuffed in the base mailbox, but he hastily filled out the addresses needed after realizing the envelope had been blank. A little hunt for a pen, a quick scribble later, and a very unprofessional cramming of mail in a mailbox later, and Thunderlane has a feeling he might have done something stupid. Something such as misspelling his name, putting down the wrong address, forgetting his rank, or, Celestia forbid, mailing one of Rumble's porn comics. He really wishes he can rip open the mailbox, pull out the envelope and open it up just to make sure everything is as it should be, then put it all back as if nothing happened.

That said, if everything is right as a little voice in his head is trying to tell him, then he will be off of this team and be guarding a General in a short time. Not only is that an increased pay grade, but that means more traveling and better benefits and pensions. Sure, there is the increased responsibility of protecting a high ranking official, but it is certainly an honorable position that will surely make him a worthy Hurricane when he is done with the mission. Besides, he's done with Spitfire's team.

He is tired of being their rug. He is tired of fighting side by side with ponies who lack respect for him when he has done nothing but follow their orders. He has been a good soldier for them and for his father and mother, and all he gets in return is discontent, disappointment and his loyalty and respect questioned. He is sick of it, and when he is finally on Signal Horn's protection detail he can put it all behind him and move on to greener pastures.

Thunderlane looks away from his case when he spots Rainbow Dash and Spitfire approaching him, Silver Lining and Misty. His sour look melts to shock when he sees how shaken up his roommate is, and even Silver Lining's never ending mocking smile fades.

The Element can barely walk, much less look up. Her vibrant coat has paled, her ears and wings are sagging, and she is trembling so much that her knees are in a constant battle of buckling and keeping her up, and when she does sit down near her box, she falls like a brick and stares at the floor.

Thunderlane immediately gets up and trots to her side while Spitfire remains by her side. Fire Streak and Fleetfoot also walk up from seemingly out of nowhere with Silver Lining and Misty being the last to join. With all the ponies surrounding her, Rainbow Dash shrinks in her spot and dips her head lower.

Thunderlane sits next to her and puts his hoof on her shoulder. Her shakes vibrate his hoof and her lips tremble as droplets of tears fall to the metal floor.

“Rainbow, what happened?” says Thunderlane, having to keep his voice raised so she can hear him.

Rainbow Dash mumbles something that he cannot understand because of how low it is. The only reason he actually knows she had said anything is because he saw her lips move.

“I'm sorry, what was that?” asks Thunderlane, leaning in closer.

“I said nothing happened!” yells Rainbow Dash, practically blowing out the stallion's ear drum as her head snaps up to snarl at him. Thunderlane recoils and folds his ears back, and the Element sniffles and looks down. “Nothing happened. I'm fine.”

Fire Streak looks at Spitfire. “What happened?”

“I didn't see what happened, but an asshole shook her up bad in the hallway,” says Spitfire.

“Tell us what they looked like and we can kick his ass!” says Silver Lining, slamming his hooves together with an eager grin stretching across his muzzle.

“It was Director Fuller.”

Rainbow Dash stiffens, but Silver Lining raises a brow in confusion.

“Who?” asks the sniper.

Thunderlane sighs, unimpressed. “He's the director of the CDA.”

Silver Lining's face contorts to a disgusted frown and he gives his ruffled wings a hard flap. “So, he's got a fancy title, who gives a shit? Thunderlane, he just scared the piss out of your girl! You gotta be a stallion, go up to that Fuller guy and be like 'Bitch, you just scared my ho! Imma kick yo ass to next Thursday!'. Am I right or am I right?”

By this point, Rainbow Dash is too stiff to blink, and not even the gentle shoulder rubs from Fleetfoot and Misty can save her. Fire Streak, on the other hand, shakes his head while the hate in Spitfire's eyes burns through her sunglasses like an accelerated flame on tissue paper.

“We aren't doing that. We have too much at stake,” says Fire Streak.

“What!? Hey, if you're worried about Thunderlane getting his ass kicked you don't have to worry. I'll be there for moral support,” says Silver Lining.

Thunderlane glares at Silver Lining, but remains silent about the insult since Fire Streak is already talking. Spitfire is also leaving the group, but she is quiet and her steps are heavy. When the Major is a few paces away, she completely ignores the no-flying rule and zooms away from her spot. Thunderlane is certain that he is the only one who's seen her leave.

“What I mean is that we are about to go on a mission, and any disturbance can throw everything off and lead to our target slipping away. Even what happened to Rainbow can put us in a bad spot,” says Fire Streak firmly. “We need to... Where's Spitfire?”

Fuller strolls down an empty hallway, enjoying what peace he can get. He can still hear the ruckus of The Harmonious Light being prepared for lift off, but it is considerably muffled, thus allowing his brain to work properly and enjoy what privacy he can get. However, when he opens the door to the stairwell, his hooves are quickly tugged from the ground from a very unexpected blunt object hitting him on his backside.

He flips end over end. His colors blurring and sharp spikes of pain stabbing his body as bones snap and muscles bruise. His muzzle smashes against a concrete step, flattening it and shattering most of his teeth, and spraying his face and flooding his throat with blood. Another few moments of endless bounces and rolls and snapping bones later and Fuller's side crashes into the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Pain erupts from his splintering ribs and snapping femurs and hip. He's pretty sure he feels his lung being stabbed and cut out of place, too.

In his youth he would be screaming and sobbing in pain. He still feels the pain, but he has learned to deal with it, plus he cannot scream because he is drowning in his blood. However, he is not afraid. In all actuality, he feels very inconvenienced and a little upset about it. Laying at the bottom of concrete stairs, soaking in his blood, his body destroyed and tailored suit ruined is definitely not how he envisioned his night to go.

He decides to wait a few seconds before fixing the problem he is in just to see if his assailant would reveal themselves. Barely two seconds later and a blob of colors land in front of him in such a way that only a pegasus dropping down for a kill would. He blinks away just enough haze to see that his attacker is none other than Rainbow Dash's feisty commander.

“What a surprise... Major Temper,” wheezes Fuller, offering a weak smile full of broken and missing teeth.

Spitfire flaps her wings, but steps away from the blood creeping towards her. “I'm surprised it took me this long to toss your sorry ass down the stairs for what you did.”

Fuller gulps down some blood, then wheezes weakly. “Lecturing... a cause for death?... A warning would have been... appreciated.”

Spitfire snorts and moves so she is standing next to his head and lifts up her sunglasses so he can see her glare. “Ponies like you don't get warnings. Enjoy Tartarus, asshole.”

Then Spitfire zips off, straight into the air, leaving Fuller at the bottom of the stairwell to bleed out. The unicorn winces again and shifts weakly on the floor, feeling his shattered ribs scrape and poke at his ribs and parts of his femur snap out of place. Feeling his bones shifting and ripping at the muscles and organs, he grunts and coughs a spray of blood on his hoof, soaking his sleeve in more red. He looks around, glares straight up the stairwell, really regretting his painful encounter with the Major. A simple debate about his methods of lecturing would have suited him just fine, but he is not too fond of pain.

Taking a deep, wet and ragged breath, he closes his eyes and puts a magical bubble around him, and a moment later, a green orb glows underneath his suit. His body is wrapped in thin tendrils that bleeding into his injuries, and immediately he feels everything mend with a comfortably warm feeling. All of bones pop back in place and are fixed good as new, and his muscles and organs are stitched and fully healed in seconds. When he opens his eyes, they flash green for a moment, then he dissolves his bubble, adjusts his tie and uses a quick spell to evaporate the bloody mess that covers him, the floor and the stairs. After that, he stands up, cracks his back and then strolls out through the nearest door, smiling thinly to himself.

A group of unicorns wearing thick jumpsuits of the mechanics use their magic to lift the metal crates holding the armor of the Wonderbolts on to flatbed carts. Thunderlane is not paying attention to them, though. He is keeping his eyes on Rainbow Dash, and she is still petrified, and Fire Streak is not too far away, talking to Flash Sentry and a couple of military police officers. For the life of him, Thunderlane can't understand why Flash Sentry is even working when his shot up limb is still bandaged like a mummy and supported by braces.

Work ethic must be strong with that one.

“It's very important that you find her quickly,” says Fire Streak. “You don't have much time, so use everypony you can to find her before she does something stupid.”

“Not to be rude, Lieutenant, but do you mean stupid as in flying in a no-flying zone?” asks Flash Sentry.

“What?”

Flash Sentry points his bandaged hoof over Fire Streak's head and the Lieutenant and the rest of the team look to see Spitfire swooping down and blowing off her subordinate when he calls her. She walks straight towards Rainbow Dash and stands in front of her, looking down at her, and she continues looking at her until the Airmare barely looks up.

“Fuller won't be bothering you any more,” says Spitfire grimly when the two lock eyes.

Rainbow Dash lifts her head up all the way and silently stares at Spitfire with her wide eyes flooded with disbelief. It is obvious she wants to believe it, but it seems like one one of those claims that is too good to be true. She, Thunderlane and the rest of the team watch Spitfire as she takes a spot on the outer ring of their group, and the group is silent for the most part, but Fire Streak frowns and approaches the Major after dismissing Flash Sentry and his guards.

“What did you do?” says Fire Streak when he is next to Spitfire.

“Pushed Fuller down a flight of stairs. He got busted up pretty bad,” replies Spitfire calmly.

“You did what!?”

“He probably bled to death already.” Spitfire waves a circle in front of her face. “His nose was pushed into his face, had bones popping out, blood going everywhere, and general other injuries that come with taking a nosedive down five stories worth of concrete stairs. Just a really bad way to go out.”

Fire Streak's jaw drops. “Are you saying that you killed Fuller?”

“Not apologizing. I don't like anypony messing with my team. Besides, I think I just did Equestria big favor. Nopony liked that creep.”

“Well, that's just great, ma'am! And what happens if they find his body?”

Spitfire shrugs. “Well, let's hope we're airborne by that point.”

“ATTENTION, EVERYPONY! PRE-FLIGHT MEETING WILL BE IN SESSION IN TEN MINUTES! ALL PERSONNEL OF HARMONIOUS LIGHT ASSEMBLE IN LOBBY, IMMEDIATELY!” announces a stallion over the intercom.

Spitfire sighs and stands up. “Let's go.”

Thunderlane remains by Rainbow Dash's side the whole time, from the moment the team got up to go to the assembly, to them standing in formation in front of a hastily set up podium where Soarin stands. In fact, Thundelane realizes that the whole team has surrounded her, which appears to make her uncomfortable, but she is keeping enough of her bearing to stand straight with the other ponies standing in formation.

It seems like only a few short minutes have passed from scrambling to the assembly room and moving in formation to when Soarin makes his appearance. The Captain of the Royal Guard watches the soldiers from his perch, flanked on all sides by dozens of Royal Guardponies standing at attention with their horns glowing.

Soarin's jaded face twists from pain as he shift in his spot and adjusts the microphone. While other workers continue loading the zeppelin, the noise has dropped considerably, so everyone hears the echoing thumps of his adjustments from the speakers placed strategically around the room.

Soarin clears his throat. “Soldiers... Colts and fillies of the Guard, I want to apologize for doing this to you, for sending you off to foreign lands at such short notice without a grand speech to lift your spirits. I wish I could give you the time to say your farewells, to spend a few more days with your loved ones, but we have lingered long enough and our enemies have shown it. We cannot take comfort in hiding, any more. We must take the fight to the ones who are waging a war against our people, and when we go to Bernese and annihilate the ones who hurt our fellow ponies, they will know too late and without hope of peace that Equestria has had enough. I know you will return home to your loved ones as heroes. When you complete this task you will save millions of lives. You will save Equestria. But most of all, you will save your friends and families from a grim, unjust future. When you leave, leave knowing that I and all of Equestria is proud of you. Good luck and may Celestia bless all of you. Dismissed.”

Thousands of hooves snap up to salute in unison, and Soarin wearily returns the gesture, and when the army starts filing out, the Captain hobbles away with his escorts.

“Nice. Quick. Too bad he wasted it on a waste of time,” says Silver Lining.

Thunderlane rolls his eyes, but remains silent by Rainbow Dash's side while Fire Streak sighs and shakes his head.

“Silver, I got an order for you,” says the Lieutenant.

“Is it approved by our feisty boss?” says Silver Lining, grinning widely at Spitfire.

Spitfire only frowns, but Fire Streak nods.

“I'm sure she will approve, and that is to keep your mouth shut for the entire trip over to Bernese,” says Fire Streak.

Silver Lining's smile drops like a stone in water. “What? That's torture!”

“Listening you talk and complaining about this mission is torture,” quips Spitfire.

“Ooh, burn!” says Fleetfoot.

Silver Lining glowers at Fleetfoot. “That's not a burn.”

“Every word you say leads to five wing-pumps. You're at thirty five, right now. You want to add more?” says Spitfire.

Silver Lining gapes at his superior and holds a hoof up in protest, but a few fast seconds later and he retracts his hoof, frowns and looks down. “No.”

“Forty.”

“What!?”

“Forty five.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Sixty.”

“This is bullshit!”

“Seventy five!”

“But-”

A sudden crack echoes over the chattering crowd and thousands of hoofsteps, and Silver Lining stumbles forward and has to use Thunderlane's back as a grip to keep himself from tasting metal floors. Standing next to Silver Lining is Misty with her hoof raised, face beet red and teeth grinding.

“Silver, shut the fuck up! I mean, holy shit! Goddess-damn, fucking dumbass, keep your damn mouth shut! Shit!” yells Misty.

The team stops and looks at Silver Lining's spotter with various levels of surprise, but she says nothing and only shakes her head and continues trotting forward, swearing up a storm to herself. Silver Lining glares at Misty as she leaves as he rubs the back of his head, and then he inspects his hoof, opens his mouth to say something, but clamps it shut and mopes forward. The rest of the team follows suit, and while they walk, Fire Streak leans in close to Spitfire.

“I think we should have Thunderlane count Silver's wing-pumps,” says Fire Streak loud enough for the subject to hear.

Thunderlane can't help it. He smiles at the idea of watching his nemesis exerting himself to painful degrees. He can just imagine Silver Lining huffing and wheezing and sweating gratuitously with his puffy mane absolutely destroyed by his sweat as his body struggles every second of the way to complete the eighty wing pumps. When Silver Lining looks over his shoulder to glare daggers at Thunderlane, he returns the look with a long, toothless smile and the sweetness of revenge glowing in his eyes. Today might end on a high note, after all.

Then he realizes that he has not been able to contact his parents about his sudden departure.

With that thought, Thunderlane's smile fades and he looks to hide the sadness infecting his eyes. A part of him wants to forget about the letter since they already knew about him leaving for Bernese, and he reasons that with Silver Lining and Fire Streak watching him, he could not do much without raising suspicion. However, another part is telling him that he has nothing to hide. He never has, never will, and any who think otherwise does not know him. Like his team.

Thunderlane swallows and blinks as his muscles clench from the returning resentment. He will be glad when this mission is over and he no longer has to deal with the team he was never a part of.

It has been almost twenty minutes after Soarin's quick speech, and the Wonderbolts are now weaving their way through the narrow corridors of The Harmonious Light, with Spitfire and Fire Streak in the lead. Thunderlane can feel eyes on the team as they pass working ponies barely squeezing their way between the team and dark gray walls with their cargo. He looks out of the corner of his eye and sees Rainbow Dash still has her sunken look, and is eyeing every passing pony with caution.

Thunderlane looks ahead again, watching the bright lights above pass by and marveling at the network of pipes that snake in and around the walls. Speaker boxes blurt messages that he is sure no one can hear due to the commotion of banging hooves, squeaking wheels, slamming door and shouting ponies. Though, as he travels down the hall, there is one thing he notices about the soldiers aboard.

The pegasi are -for the most part- very cautious and seem downright uncomfortable being stuck in a metal can like the zeppelin. They eye every bolt, every bulge and welded piece with caution. Some even look around for a second or two before tapping or banging on the metal interior with either their hooves or whatever tools they have on hand. That said, the pegasi wearing the gray mechanic jumpsuits are not too impressed with their guest's behaviors. Their non-winged comrades share the same sense of anxiety, but they stare in wide eyed wonder at the mechanics of The Harmonious Light. Some even share a few laughs as their pegasus counter parts make a show of their discomfort of being trapped in such a large metal case.

For Thunderlane -and he is sure the rest of his team feels similar feelings- he is not liking being stuck inside the zeppelin. It is an amazing piece of technology, even if its interior is lacking color, but he has to fight his wings to keep them from expanding and finding some open air. Pegasi do like their space, due to their territorial nature, after all, and being crammed together like bargain priced sardines with other pegasi is just asking for trouble. Though, Thunderlane knows that he and other Wonderbolts can handle tight spaces. He still remembers what his Military Training Instructor, Burnside, told his Cloud when they arrived in regards to forgetting about personal space in the Wonderbolts.

“You guys are going to learn how to share. You will share your space. You will share showers, your food, your hoof. You will even share your beds if you have to. If any of you think you can be territorial bitches like teenage mares then I will work you so hard that your pussies will evolve into dicks!”

Unfortunately, some ponies did not comprehend the message and they had one dispute too many. By the time Burnside was done with them they voluntarily discharged the program with mental scarring, sore muscles and a collection of baby care products. Just reminiscing on the punishment inflicted on the unfortunate trainees makes Thunderlane shudder and count his blessings that he was smart enough not to make a big deal about personal space.

After minutes of swerving through narrow passages, bumping past mechanics and soldiers making last minute adjustments to whatever it is they are doing, Spitfire suddenly stops. The group stops behind her and Thunderlane cranes his neck to see Spitfire and an aged unicorn stallion exchanging salutes.

The unicorn has a light brown coat, a cropped, black mane and is wearing a white jacket with blue bands and a pin made up of a pair of silver bars with a blue circle in between them. His cutie mark is a compass rose.

“Pleasure to have you on my ship, Major Temper,” says the unicorn.

“Its a nice... ship, Captain Rose,” says Spitfire, putting a veil of intrigue over her discomfort of the position she is in.

“Fastest ship in Equestria. And from what Captain Pansy has told me of our mission, we will need to be fast and sneaky.”

“Just get us in and out as fast as you can. I don't want to be in Bernese any longer than I have to.”

Captain Rose nods in agreement while another unicorn stallion approaches. This one is around Thunderlane's age with a pair of swords crossing over a map as his cutie mark. His groomed, light blue coat is underneath a similar white outfit like his superior, only he has one silver bar instead of two. He has a cropped, dark blue mane, too.

Captain Rose looks at the newcomer for a brief moment before he looks back at Spitfire. “I fully understand, Major. We've all had a long day and we're about ready to go, so why don't I have Lieutenant Canvas show you and your team their rooms so you can rest?”

“Sounds good,” says Spitfire with a nod.

Captain Rose looks at the newcomer again and points at the Wonderbolts. “Canvas, show Major Temper and her team their rooms, and then meet me on the observation deck.”

Lieutenant Canvas salutes. “Yes, sir.” Then to the team of pegasi: “Follow me, please.”

The group follows the Lieutenant down the corridor, once again having to squeeze their way past ponies and supplies and having to mutter silent prayers that they won't lose their hearing from the noise. The walk is not long. It is only a few minutes long and a couple of levels above where they met, and to the zeppelin's credit, the living quarters are not nearly as loud and surprisingly not as crowded as below. It is still loud, but at least ponies can hear their thoughts.

Lieutenant Canvas leads the group down the slightly less noisy and crowded hall, passing identical room after identical room, all sealed with the same metal doors and all having red lights above them. Where they are led to, however, has a green light above the door and Canvas opens it without a second's thought.

“Ladies, this will be your room,” says Lieutenant Canvas, his hoof waving inside their destination.

The group crowds around the entrance, and Thunderlane once again finds himself craning his neck above the team so he can see what they see. The room is just big enough to fit the four mares, with two bunk beds pushed against opposite sides of the room and a pair of footlockers by each. Seeing the room, Spitfire pushes her sunglasses down slightly and stares at Canvas with a small frown, which he returns with an uncaring shrug.

“Limited space, ma'am,” he says.

Spitfire pushes her glasses back up. “It'll do. We won't be here long, anyway.”

Canvas steps aside to let the mares enter their room, and he points down the hall. “Gentlecolts, follow me just down the hall for your accommodations, please.”

The stallions are about to leave, but Rainbow Dash walks out and taps Canvas on the shoulder before he can go a pace. It does get his attention, though.

“Is there a bathroom nearby?” asks Rainbow Dash.

Canvas points down the opposite side of the hall. “Third door down. Left side.”

Rainbow Dash mutters a quick thanks, excuses herself as she slithers between Thunderlane and Silver Lining, and starts down the hall. Spitfire orders Fleetfoot to go with Rainbow Dash, and once again, Thunderlane finds himself having to side step a mare.

Thunderlane looks over his shoulder to watch Rainbow Dash go down the hall, still sulking and staying very close to the wall and watching everyone with extreme paranoia. Fleetfoot calls after her and gallops down the hall, slowing to a trot when she is next to Dash, and she puts he wing on top of the Element's back and quietly talks to her.

“Gotta keep up, Thunderlane!” says Fire Streak.

Thunderlane snaps his attention away from the mares and trots after his superior. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Fire Streak sighs and shakes his head. “You are one apologetic pony, aren't you?”

Thunderlane stays silent, but thankfully he does not have a long walk because in a matter of seconds he finds himself in the doorway of the group's appointed room. It is identical to the room the mares got with the layout of the bunk beds and the footlockers, so it really is nothing special.

“This is your room,” says Lieutenant Canvas.

“Thanks,” says Fire Streak, nodding appreciatively and offering a smile.

The unicorn returns the gesture, though with a large dosage of weariness and a hint of annoyance. “No problem. If you need anything, let me or the Captain know.”

“Sure thing.”

Lieutenant Canvas steps aside and lets the stallions enter, with Fire Streak being first, Silver Lining being second because he butts past Thunderlane, and Thunderlane being last. Lieutenant Canvas quietly leaves and Fire Streak wastes no time in unbuttoning his uniform jacket.

“Best relax, boys, we got a long flight ahead,” says Fire Streak, now shaking his jacket off and plopping it on a bed for folding. "Except for you, Silver, you owe us some wing pumps."

Silver growls and Thunderlane figures its safe to remove his uniform, so he starts on that. Naturally, with Fire Streak's head start, he finishes undressing himself before Thunderlane and Silver Lining, leaving just a dark blue shirt with the Wonderbolts seal and his name stitched on the upper left portion of the chest. By the time he has his uniform folded neatly and placed inside one of the footlockers, Thunderlane and Silver Lining are still trying to get their folding done.

“Well, I'll be back. I gotta go talk to Spitfire for a moment,” orders Fire Streak. He stops by Thunderlane, places his hoof on his shoulder and looks him in the eyes. “Don't forget, you gotta count Silver Lining's wing-pumps. And don't cut him any slack, either. I will know. Got it?”

Thunderlane nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He pats Thunderlane's shoulder and looks at Silver Lining. “Hop to those wing-pumps, Silver.”

Silver growls, then drops down, props his wings against the metal floor and starts pumping. Up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, grunting with each pump and staring viciously at the bed his uniform was tossed upon. Fire Streak casts a smirk at Silver Lining as he watches the pegasus go through the motions and when Thunderlane's counting goes past five, he exits the room, leaving Thunderlane monitor Silver Lining's brutal punishment.

In the tiny zeppelin bathroom, Rainbow Dash stares at her reflection with her bloodshot eyes looking back at her from behind the spots of old lime residue and black dots, and her ears hang limp as tiny claks rapidly resonate from her shaking hooves hitting the sink. She looks over her shoulder and sees that the door is still closed, but she also wiggles the knob as quietly as she can to make sure that it is still locked.

With the knob barely moving, she turns back to the sink, pulls off her jacket and tie, and gingerly unbottons her blouse. As each button pops loose, her whimpers become louder and her throat tightens with pressure from a need to scream. When her shirt falls opens, a ring of dark blue is around her neck is revealed.

Rainbow Dash shakes her head, quietly whispering in disbelief to herself with her cheeks becoming drenched and eyes burning from her flowing tears. Her legs give out and she crumbles to the floor, curled up and holding her tail and shielding herself with her wings as she rocks back and forth. As she lays on the ground, curled and alone, fear looms over her and seeps inside, poisoning every part of her to where she does not want to move.

Rainbow Dash wants to believe Spitfire's words. She wants to believe that Fuller will not be a problem, anymore, but her leader does not know Fuller. Spitfire does not know the evil she has seen in his eyes when he choked her, or the coldness she felt when those tendrils trapped her. Rainbow Dash has never seen anyone hold so much malice, and if she cannot protect herself from him, how can she protect her friends?

“Last call for mail!” hollers a mare from down the hall.

Thunderlane's ears perk up, and he steps around Silver Lining to poke his head out of his door, ignoring the unfortunate stallion's colorful mutters. The mare calling is an earth pony with a yellow coat with an orange mane, wearing a gray shirt and carrying a saddle stuffed with envelopes. She is poking her head in the rooms, repeating her call and having business related small talk with the occupants. When the mare approaches his room, he sees that fatigue has sucked the color right out of her eyes, leaving them as dark bags, and has ruined her mane, which is now a disheveled mess of a bun-tie.

“You got mail, hon?” asks the worn out mare.

Thunderlane shakes his head and she looks at Silver Lining.

“How 'bout you? You got any mail?” she asks.

Silver Lining pushes himself up yet again on his wings, thick globs of sweat dripping off of his muzzle and folded ears, and his eyes are narrowed to slits as he grinds his teeth, growling loudly. “No, I don't got any mail.” He goes down, then up again, his wings vibrating with his whole body and his face burning hot while his outfit sticks to his sweaty body. “How many am I at, Thunderlane?”

“Seventy,” replies Thunderlane.

Silver Lining screams and pushes up and down harder. “Seventy!? Now I'm at seventy one! And two! And oh, Goddess, I can't feel my damn wings any more!”

“Eighty. You're done.”

Silver Lining flops to the ground with a thud, whimpering and wings twitching and throbbing. Meanwhile, the mare silently eyes Silver Lining, gladly taking in the stallion's muscles that shimmer in the light from the sweaty beads and the soaked shirt that hugs his muscled frame. While the mare ogles him, Silver Lining looks up at her, panting with locks of his mane sticking to his face. The mare then rolls her eyes with a smile and walks away without saying a word. Once she is out of sight, Thunderlane goes into his gear and pulls out his container of pills and a canteen.

“Are you okay?” asks Thunderlane.

Silver Lining extends a trembling hoof to Thunderlane. “I might need help getting up.”

Thunderlane puts down his medication, pulls Silver Lining to his hooves and helps him to his cot. Once there, he gently eases him down, and the sniper sighs loudly and stares at the ceiling, eyes droopy and tongue hanging out.

“Oh, man, that was brutal,” says Silver Lining. “By the way, did you see that chick eyeballing me?”

Thunderlane nods and takes a few of his pills and a swig of water.

“Did you catch her name?” asks Silver Lining.

“I think her tag said Carry or something,” answers Thunderlane, not really carrying if he is wrong or not.

“Good enough.” Silver Lining yawns and shifts on his cot. “Man, those wing-pumps got me good. I wish somepony would close the door and turn off the light so I can recharge at my fullest capacity.”

Thunderlane sighs, closes the door, which does a little bit to muffle the noise of chatter and hooves and wheels going across the floor, then he shuts off the room's light. The room becomes almost pitch black, save for a tiny streak of light at the bottom of the door that is occasionally blocked by the outside traffic. Thunderlane has to shuffle across the floor with his hoof outstretched to find his cot, and when he does, he clumsily undresses and folds his uniform as best as he can in the dark.

Once that is done, Thunderlane places it on top of the footlocker and climbs on his cot. It squeaks and groans under his weight as he climbs on the stiff mattress. Though, while the mattress is not comfortable, the wool blanket they supplied more than makes up for it, and the pillow is not too bad on his head, either. After getting comfortable on his cot, Thunderlane closes his eyes and prepares to drift off to sleep to end one of the longest days of his life.

But try as he might, he can tell he is in for another rough night, for as soon as he closes his eyes, a terror grows inside that leaves a sick feeling in his gut and stuffs his throat with imaginary marbles. What if he dies over there? What if they fail the mission? What if they cannot catch Rotes Lienen and Zäh Ausstecher, and what if the war reaches Equestria's shores because of their failure?

Thoughts like these swirl around in his mind, taunting him with no end or mercy in sight. His only solace in the threat of failure is that he has a chance to set things right. When they get to Bernese he will have an opportunity to fix his mistakes and take down the ones who hurt Dash and his brother and all those innocent people at the Stadium and Headquarters.

While the terrible feeling of failure lingers in his gut and throat, Thunderlane does feel a creeping, wicked sense of glee from the thought of taking the fight to the Gold Stars. And if all goes well, the ironic outcome of the Gold Star Movement's plan is too much to not smile at, for if all works, the Gold Stars will be destroyed by the very storm they created.

It is a nice thought to rest on before they knock on Charon's door.

After having a quick talk with the mares of his team, Fire Streak steps out of the really tight stairwell, breathing a sigh of relief when he is out of the box inside the box. However, his destination has left him weary because it is almost completely abandoned. Thick pipes bulge from the walls, all hissing and clanging in some fashion, and dark red lights illuminate the hall, giving him only a black and red scheme. The nightmarish visual is strong enough to send imaginary spiders crawling up and down Fire Streak's spine and inject his thoughts with corpses stuffed inside the walls or under the floors. The demented hallway certainly fits the part.

However, he did not get as far as he did just to turn around and walk back out. He still has to talk to Spitfire about her killing Fuller, after all. Luckily for him, Spitfire is not too far from him, slumping against the wall, still in her uniform. Or, at least it looks like her from where he is at, anyway. It is a bit difficult to tell when everything looks like blood.

Fire Streak carefully approaches the mare, trying not to think about the genius that made this part of the ship so creepy, and when he reaches her, his initial plan goes out the window. The mare is, in fact, Spitfire, but her eyes are shimmering in the light from tears, and her face is hardened with an unhealthy dose of anger and resentment. He stops and tilts his head slightly, trying to get a better look at his superior.

“Ma'am?” calls Fire Streak gently.

Spitfire's ears and eyes barely move to his direction. “Shouldn't you be in bed?” she asks harshly.

“Saying that to a grown stallion is a weird thing to say, ma'am,” says Fire Streak. “I actually wanted to check up on you since you did murder somepony in cold blood. It just isn't like you to be... well, violent like that.”

“Violent like that?” Spitfire chuckles grimly. “You don't know me as well as you think. True, Fuller is the first I murdered, but it wasn't in cold blood. It was to protect Dash from him. If he could torment an Element with no problem, there is no telling what he did to others of lesser status.”

“So, it was some kind of crusade, then?”

“No. It was spur of the moment, get shit done kind of thing, because, let's face if I went for a complaint, it would have gotten lost. So, I did what I had to do to protect a pony that I am responsible for, and that's that.”

Fire Streak hesitates. “Are you okay, ma'am? Seriously, are you okay?”

Spitfire sniffles and wipes her nose with her sleeve, grimacing at the ugly stain that is smeared on it. She sighs, drops her hoof and rests her head against the wall, shaking her head with her yes shut tight, squeezing tears out.

“No, I'm not okay. Actually, I'm scared, Fire,” she whispers shamefully. “I know its weak to be afraid, but I still am. All of you are my responsibility and I don't want to lose any of you, no matter how much you guys piss me off from time to time. It is my duty to lead and to protect every one of you, and I allowed us to go on a mission that was poorly planned and for what?”

“To get those who put us in this mess in the first place, right?” says Fire Streak slowly.

Spitfire shakes her head and wipes her eyes. “I think there is more to the mission than Soarin wants to admit. You know, he hasn't been the same ever since he got that promotion and started talking to Fuller, like he tries to be like the backdoor politicians, and that is not the Soarin I knew. I guess that is another reason why I pushed Fuller down the stairs. He took Soarin from me, and I needed a good reason to do what I did. What better reason to kill somepony than to protect those you care about?”

Fire Streak looks around to make sure no one is giving them unwanted attention, and then he sits next to Spitfire and looks ahead at the pipes bulging out of the wall. “Well, ma'am, I think its good that you're afraid. If you're afraid, you make smart moves. Or stay stagnant, but we really can't be stagnant for this one, so you'll play it smart.”

“I already failed once, though. All those ponies died at the Headquarters because I could not protect them. I'm glad I get a chance to get the bastards that did all that shit to us, but I don't want to be at the cost of losing any of you.”

Fire Streak bobs his head a little to the left and right, lips puckered slightly as he thinks of what to say. “Well... What is it that they said about casualties in those leadership courses?”

Spitfire sighs and looks down for the briefest of moments. “One death is ten saved. So, in theory, if say... you died, you will die saving ten ponies, so those ten can save ten more and so on.”

Fire Streak grins. “If I die? Ma'am, I thought you liked me, but no, you go and name me first for death.”

Spitfire cracks a grin as well, and with it, a weak chuckle escapes. “Shut up, Fire. You know what I'm trying to say. Besides, you're supposed to be watching Hurricane, so I don't know why you're here with me.”

Fire Streak shrugs. “Somepony's gotta make sure you're okay. I mean, you just murdered the CDA Director in a stairwell and now you're sitting here in... whatever this place is, worrying and moping.”

“I just wanted some time to myself before I get drowned in estrogen.”

“So, you prefer to get drowned testosterone, then?”

Spitfire looks at Fire Streak and the Lieutenant immediately giggles to himself and lowers his head, pressing his forehoof against his forehead. If blushes can really burn, he would be a skull face pony, by now.

“Oh, man, I'm sorry, ma'am, that came out wrong,” says Fire Streak, trying with painful results not to laugh from sheer embarrassment.

Spitfire smirks and pats him on the shoulder. “Go to bed, Fire. You're tired.”

Fire Streak snickers and lowers his hoof, exposing his bright red face, and he keeps his eyes everywhere but at Spitfire as he stands up. “Yeah, I really should. And so should you. We need you to think clearly and not say stupid stuff like me.”

Spitfire nods and stands up, as well, albeit reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess you're right. I'll be glad when all this Bernese stuff is over. Hell, maybe if I'm lucky they won't figure out that I bucked Fuller down a flight of stairs and will live out the rest of my days with some peace and quiet.”

Fire Streak's smile fades to a worried frown. “And if they do?”

“Then I'll face whatever consequences will come, but I'll hold no regrets. Nopony messes with my team and gets away with it.”

The ship suddenly shudders and ear splitting groans and screeches, and brain shaking hums assault the two from all sides. Both look up and around with various levels of confusion and worry as the lights flicker and crackles echo from down the hall, blurting a stallion's message seconds later.

“ATTENTION! LIFT OFF IN FIVE MINUTES! ATTENTION! LIFT OFF IN FIVE MINUTES!”

After the message ends, frantic shouts are heard from down the hall, and the two look to see mechanics hastily pushing carts by the doorways.

Fire Streak grabs Spitfire's shoulder, stopping her cold, and he cringes and quickly releases and apologizes to her when he feels her muscles tighten under her coat.

“Spitfire, ma'am, I just want to let you know that we'll be fine. You'll lead all of us home,” assures Fire Streak. “We'll get these guys, stop the war before it gets here, and then we'll all have a beach party somewhere to celebrate.”

Spitfire silently stares at Fire Streak. Her misty eyes are having trouble focusing on him and her throat bobs from a swallow, and seconds later, she forces a smile and playfully bumps Fire Streak with her rump before walking to the stairs. “You just want to see me with a wet mane, don't you?”

Fire Streak looks down, shaking his head with a sigh and small smile, and he walks up the stairs after his superior. “Don't be putting ideas into my head, ma'am. Its unprofessional.”

“Says the one who started it.”

“Accidentally.”

“Uh huh, sure. Why don't you go to bed with your boys. Celestia knows this will be the last night we get to enjoy a good rest for a while.”

“Can say the same for you with your mares, ma'am.”

The two reach their floor and they both exchange smiles as they step out of the stairwell. Surprisingly the hall is dead, save for a couple of ponies ducking into their sleeping quarters. With them out on their floor, though, the two part ways, with Fire Streak walking backwards and Spitfire looking over her shoulder.

“Good night, ma'am,” says Fire Streak.

Spitfire's toothless smiles grows. “Good night, Fire.”

Fire Streak takes a few more backwards steps, then turns around and slides into his room. As soon as he enters the room, he spots Silver Lining and Thunderlane in the bright light of the hall, both passed out under their blankets. Silver looks worn out, but relieved, and has his tongue hanging out and his leg outstretched from under his blanket. Thunderlane is curled under his blanket, but his brows are scrunched and his ear is twitching, as well as his hoof. He hears a weak whimper from the reserved stallion and looks away from him when the sleeping pony shifts under his blanket to face the wall.

Fire Streak sighs and closes the door, covering everyone in pitch black darkness. He has to shuffle across the floor with his hoof outstretched to find Silver's bed, and once he does, he climbs on top, crawls under the blanket and closes his eyes for a much needed rest and a desire to dream of something pleasant. Like soaking wet mares playing on the beach, getting covered in sandy sprinkles while a gentle breeze carries a fresh ocean scent to them. And grilling some veggie kabobs, too. Those will be nice. Grilling and talking sports and mares with other stallions while they ogle said mares getting wet and dirty.

That is what he wants to dream of, and he tries to force the pleasant imagery to the front of his mind. What he keeps seeing, however, is a tombstone in the middle of a snow covered field. With his name on it. And surrounded by other tombstones with the names of his other teammates etched on them.

“Here lies Lieutenant Fire Streak of the Wonderbolts,” says a stallion with an oily voice, wanting oh so much to giggle. “Died a hero in a forsaken country.”

From behind Fire Streak's tombstone, a black unicorn wearing a ratty cloak steps out, his unkempt, wiry gray mane covered in flakes of snow and his pure gray eyes looking back at him as a wicked grin spreads across his muzzle.

“Sleep well, little soldier, for I'll be coming for you, soon. I'll be coming for all of you.”

Countdown

Soarin takes a deep, shaky breath and places his hooves on the bathroom sink as he bows his head, then he deflates with a steady exhale. The pain in his injured limbs throbs with every beat of his heart, and a heavy weight bears down on his chest and stuffs throat. He does not know what it is that is causing it. All he knows is that it is uncomfortable and it really wants to make him cry.

Swallowing the lump, he opens his eyes and stares at his reflection, searching for the easygoing, soft face that mares would love to squeeze and peck with loving kisses to show their admiration. Instead he sees a tired pony with growing wrinkles around his darkened eyes, a scowl of permanent pain, and some strands of gray going through his mane.

The Captain of the Royal Guard sighs to himself and hobbles out of the bathroom to meet with the guards outside, which waited patiently for him after they inspected the bathroom and put up a spell or two ensuring his security. From there, they escort him back to his office, coolly ignoring the looks that the paper pushers outside his office give them as they go through. However, Soarin's entourage stops when they see Director Fuller sitting outside the Captain's office. Reading the comics section of the local newspaper.

Soarin looks to the left. No guards.

He looks to the right. Still no guards.

He cautiously walks forward, confused beyond words why Fuller is reading comics outside of his office without any protection.

The unicorn's ears flick with the sounds of Soarin's steps and he barely lifts his eyes before folding the newspaper down with his magic, and when he stands up he extends his hoof in greeting. “Captain.”

Soarin presses his hoof against Fuller's. “Director. What brings you here?”

“I have something I would like to discuss with you in private.”

Soarin nods and lets Fuller in, and after stepping inside he orders his guards to remain outside. They comply and he closes the door behind him and escorts Fuller to a table lined with bottled drinks, cups and various flavor enhancers. There is also an empty pie plate, but that is quickly pushed in the neighboring garbage can.

“Can I offer you a drink?” asks Soarin.

“That would be most appreciated.”

Soarin nods and grabs a clear, glass bottle of scotch from his table and carefully pours a couple of small glasses for himself and Fuller. Once the amber liquid is at an acceptable level for both, he nods to the Director, who quietly approaches and gives his thanks as he levitates his drink.

“So, what brings you here?” asks Soarin, watching Fuller nurse the drink.

Fuller, after smacking his lips lightly and placing the glass down, calmly replies with: “I was debating with an idea to discuss with Celestia new security measures regarding our Elements. Influenced by your move to protect the Generals with teams of on-sight bodyguards, to be honest.”

Soarin raises a brow. “Oh?”

Fuller nods. “If she approves, the Elements of Harmony will have guards with them at all times. It is a dangerous time we are living in, and they need protection. If it goes through, then Twilight, Rarity and Pinkamena and their loved ones will have protection, as well as Rainbow Dash when she returns from Bernese and Applejack and Fluttershy when they are found.”

Soarin sets his drink down and casts a critical eye at the unicorn while having to tilt his head up slightly, not realizing until now how big Fuller is in height and muscle mass.

“So, are you suggesting that Rainbow Dash be discharged when she returns?” asks Soarin.

“For her protection. Yes.” Fuller points at Soarin. “That choice remains up to you, however.”

Soarin exhales and limps towards his desk, speaking as he goes. “I assume the CDA would be acting as their guardians, then.”

Fuller calmly walks after Soarin and pulls up the guest chair. “Given our track record as of late, I predict that it will not happen, which is why I am offering you a chance to propose a joint military-CDA protection detail in my place. Should it pass, the military would be in charge and the CDA would be in the background with the appropriate role.”

Soarin, now sitting, looks at Fuller, eyes wide with surprise. “Oh... Oh, you mean me go to Celestia and... propose more security measures? I mean, I will do it for their safety, sure, but I already enacted the security teams for the Generals, so this just seems a little sudden for more security. Shouldn't we wait?”

Fuller sits down, using his magic to adjust his suit and inch the chair closer to the desk. “Soarin, you must understand that security is all I am concerned about. The Elements of Harmony, the governing bodies, the citizens of this nation, they all need guardians and fate has put us in these positions to be what this nation needs. Lawmakers are good with pens, but a pen cannot defend itself, just like an idea cannot defend itself. It needs soldiers. It needs shadows. It needs us.”

Soarin furrows his brows and lightly taps his desk without breaking eye contact from Fuller. “And what idea are you talking about?”

“Equestria's resurgence to power. Stronger than before. Better than before. I know you want Equestria safer and stronger, as do I, and the Elements are the foundations of this society. If anything happens to any of them, Equestria will be devastated and the Elements will reset. Their safety is key, and that is why I am coming to you to ask that you do what I cannot.”

“You know, I think this is the most I have heard you speak in the past... ever. But I already sent Rainbow Dash overseas, so if-”

“She will be fine. I am more concerned about her friends. Twilight holds a valuable position and the unrest in this nation is growing. It is only a matter of time before we are faced with a full scale rebellion that will target the holders of power. Politicians. Military. The Elements. Celestia, herself. All of us will be targeted and the stronger the security, the less damaging the coming uprising will be. The war is not going to make things any better, and the rebels may very well side with Bernese should they reach our shores.”

“Now, hold on. I know that times are shaky, but I don't think a rebellion is coming. Protests, sure, but we've always had those.”

“Those who have nothing to gain from power despise it, Soarin. The commoners feel like they are being crushed and their voices unheard and their way of life betrayed. The CDA hears it every day and we try to contain the problems as much as we can, but it is only a matter of time before it becomes uncontainable.”

Soarin remains quiet, not sure if he has anything to counter Fuller's paranoia induced claim.

“Anger is a powerful weapon, Soarin,” continues Fuller. “When strong enough, anger manifests itself into hate that consumes everypony, and when that happens it will be merciless and destroy everything you hold dear and all you love. I have seen it before in various scales, and I promise you, Equestria will crumble from the inside unless we stop it.”

“You are basically asking me to integrate the Civilian Defense Agency and the military together, right?” says Soarin. “Is that what you are asking me to do? Just be honest with me, as proper allies should be.”

“I am asking for a tighter allegiance. You do care about Equestria, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you do want to protect our civilization from further discord?”

“I do.”

“As do I. It is evident that I cannot protect the Elements and our civilization as well as I hoped, but with your help, we can save this country together.”

The CDA Director then stands up and levitates a manila folder with the CDA seal on it, and he places it on the desk and slides it forward with his hoof. Seeing this, Soarin raises a brow and stares at the symbol curiously.

“Inside is the base layout of my idea,” says Fuller. “It is only bones, but seeing as how you will be the one leading, I am entrusting this idea to you, for you to edit and discuss with your own ideas. When you are ready for the fleshing out, call me.”

“You are putting a lot of trust in me for this,” says Soarin.

“It is because you remind me of myself when I was young, and I know you will do the right thing.”

Soarin chuckles and awkwardly rubs his neck bashfully. “Aw, now you're just being too nice.”

Fuller flashes a smirk and starts towards the door, wishing Soarin a good night. Soarin returns the gesture and then looks at the sealed envelope, contemplating on whether or not he should open it. With the mess Equestria is in, he knows Fuller's paranoia of a rebellion is not fully unjustified, but it is still a slight exaggeration of events. However, that said, he is right that problems must be contained and eliminated, and the Elements of Harmony do need protection from the mad world.

Right as Soarin goes to cut open the envelope, he hears Fuller call him, and he looks up and sees the older unicorn standing in front of him.

“Another thing, if is is not too disrespectful, I would like to ask you something on a personal level,” says Fuller.

Soarin lowers the envelope and gets an uneasy feeling in his chest. “I'll answer depending on what it is.”

“Do you fear death?”