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.”