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.