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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Shekel!” shouts Rotes.

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

Rotes raises his hoof. “March!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it hurt?” asks Rotes carefully.

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

“The enhancements. Do they hurt?”

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

“Whaddya think?” says the cyborg griffin snidely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

“Sir, he hasn’t-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So the packages are safe?”

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

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

“Are the targets the same?”

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

“Understood.”

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

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

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

But his smile does not last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?” says Rotes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canterlot, Equestria
Monday, 5th of May

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dafuq!?” swears Rumble.

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

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

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

“No! Go read a book or something!”

“You jacked my book!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“WHAT!”

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

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

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

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

“Alright!” cheers Rumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is pretty specific.”

“And it is all hypothetical.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not exactly,” replies Thunderlane swiftly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your kissing sucked!”

“You mouth raped me!”

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

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

“Get a job, Rumble,” snaps Thunderlane.

“He sucked at it,” reiterates Rainbow Dash.

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

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

“Buzz off, Rumble!” snarls Thunderlane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rainbow Dash, relax!” barks Thunderlane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re going outside, too,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“RUMBLE-!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get up, boy!” snarls Gale's voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rainbow...” wheezes Thunderlane weakly.

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

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

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

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

“Come and find out,” replies the Painter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Find Rumble.

Find Rainbow Dash.

Bring them home.

“Stand up like a Hurricane!” yells Gale.

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

“Find him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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