Dr. Thomas Howards noted that the precinct was more empty than it had been when he arrived. Many of the officers were working hard to process everyone, at the orders of that FBI agent who had arrived just earlier that day. Still, there were still quite a number of ponies sitting, standing, idling around. He, however, was looking for a specific one.

Reddish-pink coat, cream mane, red streak...

He smiled when he saw her. His friend and boss, Raspberry. He'd tried and tried but no one could tell him if they'd seen her safe and sound; for half the day, he'd worried that she was one of the few who didn't make it out, or...

Howards shook his head and approached the pony. His happiness on finding her was diminished a bit when he took a closer look at her. The mare looked exhausted, with her hair ruffled, like all the others did. She hadn't even noticed him yet, and he was standing right next to her. She sat in one of the precinct's many chairs; though meant for humans, a pony could make use of them if they needed a rest. Seeing her now, he realized he didn't know what to say. What do you say to a friend–of another species at that–after she'd gone through two days of fear and pain?

The doctor chided himself. He sat in the seat next to her and looked over. Then, he chuckled, because he noticed she was asleep. No wonder she didn't notice me...

“I really need to pay more attention,” he whispered to himself. He lounged back in the chair, there wasn't any need to wake up her now. She, and all the others, needed some rest.

Howards looked down the hall. Another pony was being ushered into an office. They needed rest, but the police seemed intent on keeping them up. He couldn't help but sigh.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Pascal reviewed his notes. How many ponies had he interviewed now? The afternoon had dragged on into its later hours, and what little light that shined through the windows was now gone. His fourth cup of coffee laid empty on his desk, next to his feet, casually propped up on the surface. Rain was still pattering on the windows, of course.

It wasn't going to stop raining any time soon.

And of course, Lt. Gagnon sat in the plain office too, in the corner, reviewing whatever files he'd dug up about the Bureau, the employees, and whatever else he felt was important. Pascal had noticed that the two certainly did not feel like they were cooperating; the agent was focused on the “how” and “why” of the incident, while Gagnon seemed quite fixated on the “who.” Willard, however, was fine with that. Perhaps it was the best idea that they handle different aspects of the case.

Speaking of which, Pascal was tired of pretending he was working. Every pony said pretty much the same thing, and it was always the stuff he already knew. Some were tired or stressed, and that did not give him a lot of reliable information to work it. In retrospect, it probably was a bad idea to shove every victim into the same place and make them wait. At least some of the Bureaus sent some food for them, he thought.

“So, Mr. FBI,” Gagnon started, causing Pascal to snap out of his idle musings with a tiny flinch, which the lieutenant chose not to comment on, “what have you figured out so far with your super-agent deductive reasoning? I mean, clearly, all these ponies know more than the officers who apprehended the hostage-takers and intercepted their radio communications and probably saved all those little horses from a terrible end.”

“Sarcasm. Cute. How old are you again?” the agent shot back.

“Old enough to know when a man is only pretending he's doing something important.”

Pascal sighed, rubbing at one of his eyes, and responded, “Listen, all I'm getting is the same vague details over and over: they were forced to sit in a room, guys waved guns around, then there was screaming and yelling and explosions and gunshots and then the police came and saved 'em all like superheroes. Forgive me for hoping that the people who were there on the inside would know something.”

“Well, it sounds like they did what I told them...”

“...Excuse me?”

“I told the boys to send you all the ponies extracted from the cafeteria first. That was about two-thirds of the group. The rest were held elsewhere in the building: staff rooms and bunk quarters mostly, from what I could tell. Guess they felt uncomfortable shoving that many ponies in one room; I heard the stronger ones can kick a man's legs out from under him...”

Pascal tapped a finger on the desk in front of him as he reviewed that information in his head, an annoying realization hitting him: “So you've been wasting my time by sending me all the ones who could only say the same things over and over?”

“Yep,” the lieutenant replied in that casual kind of way that irritated the agent. With a yawn, Gagnon rose from his seat, dumped the files he had been reviewing on the desk, and headed for the door. “It was just getting the easy part out of the way. Tomorrow, you can talk to the others. I'll be sending everyone home for tonight...”

In the open door frame, he turned back to look at Willard, “Because I actually care about the well-being of the people I'm charged with protecting, regardless of who they are. They've been through a lot, FBI, and they need time to settle. If you're going to be working here, you better learn to start caring too.”

Gagnon left, leaving Pascal alone in the office, the only sounds being the rain on the window and Willard's displeased sighs, mumbling to himself, “So he's going the 'holier than thou' route, wonderful...” He reached in his pants pocket and withdrew his audio recorder, and began to play back his records for review. He would need to find a hotel room to sleep in...

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

The air of the Bellton Conversion Bureau was nearly suffocating. The cafeteria was a big room, but with about twenty ponies and a handful of humans packed into it, combined with the darkness and the intimidation, it was hard to bear. The metal tables and few chairs had been cleared out, some shoved up against windows to serve as improvised barricades. The ponies where stuck in the middle of the now-empty room, circled and patrolled by humans carrying large firearms. Many of the ponies did not recognize the various designs of the guns, but they all knew the danger they posed to the life of anyone caught at the end of them.

Melodia was just an average assistant pony, purple and blue, who simply liked to write music and hoped to be a composer. But like many before her, she had heard of the plight of the strange beings called humans from the strange world called Earth. Many were destitute, weary, miserable, weak, trapped on a slowly dying world that was, somehow, sinking into the sea. That was what she had heard from all the Equestria officials, anyway. When she had arrived on her own, it did not seem that bad on the surface, but as she talked with the humans, learned about them, she realized that things really could be worse than they looked. The humans she'd seen in the larger Bureau she used to work in would share stories of pain, depression, heartbreak, fear, anger, so many that it made her dizzy to look back on all of them. Humans that lost their loved ones, had their lives ruined, were sick or abused, or did terrible things to their “fellow man” and felt horrible guilt. Yet at the same time, many of those humans were as kind and gentle as any pony. It was a confusing job.

But now, the young mare was experiencing first-hand the kind of pain and fear that humans could inflict. In the dark cafeteria, the only lights were flashlights hanging off of the jackets of humans with the weapons that had forced their ways in and herded half the Bureau's occupants wherever they demanded.

It was quiet–the enforced kind of quiet that just made one want to speak out even louder. But that was why they had guns. Two stood in the corner, whispering to each other, clad in dark colors that made their details hard to make out in the shadows. The covered windows, dwindling daytime, and cut lighting gave them the advantage of sight. A third and fourth paced along the walls of the room, their flashlights passing over the fearful and confused faces of the ponies, employees of the Bureau and innocent newfoals alike. Melodia squinted her eyes, following the beam, trying to see who was there. There was Blue Breeze and Fogs, the pegasus brothers who always pulled lame gags and pranks and helped the pegasus newfoals learn to fly; Dixie Drums was there, all the way on the other side of the room, who looked like she was sobbing as quietly as possible, a sight that made Melodia's heart ache for her good friend; there was Mr. Yeager, the Bureau's handyman who fixed the lights and wires when he needed to, always the stoic type, even now...

A heavy footstep next to her made Melodia nearly leap to her feet. Swinging around to see, she looked up at the tall man. From what little she could see wore regular clothes, jeans and shoes, and a thick padded gray coat with straps going over it, holding a couple of bags on his back and side. In his right hand was a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. His left hand adjusted his flashlight to shine right in the purple mare's eyes, making her wince and shut them tightly. She could hear him chuckle coldly, a kind of laugh that made her skin crawl just from hearing it. The light left her face, and she opened her eyes, seeing spots in the darkness that seemed even darker than before. The human was walking away, around the group, and stopped in the center of the end of the room. He turned, light shining on the group. He took it out of his pocket, and shined it on himself, revealing himself to be a pale, blonde-haired man with notably bright blue eyes. Being the most illuminated thing in the room certainly drew attention, but then he spoke with a booming voice, completely shattering the suppressive silence of the room.

“Okay, you little freaks! It's time to set some ground rules!”

The other humans turned and paid attention to the man; from appearances, it looked like he was some kind of leader to them, and they wanted to see what he said.

“You're going to sit here, be fucking still, and keep your mouths fucking shut, unless one of these guys tells you to move or say something. If they tell you to do something, you're gonna do it, and you don't have a choice! Follow these really simple rules, and you'll all be fine! If you break these rules, you die! Or maybe worse if someone thinks of it!” He capped off that last sentence with another disturbing laugh, and one of the humans in the corner also chuckled a little in response, though, oddly, he didn't seem nearly as scary as the speaking man.

He continued, “You don't ask questions, you don't go anywhere, and you listen to these guys,” he motioned at the other humans standing in the room, “and anyone else who comes in here to watch over you little shits! Hope we're clear!”

As quickly as the silence was broken, it returned. The speaker, now using a normal voice, turned and spoke to one of the humans who had been patrolling along the wall earlier, then walked away, his hard steps impossible to miss. He left through the door he had come in, and then everything was the same as before.

Time passed. At least, it felt like it was passing. As the sun's diluted rays finally vanished, some of the humans attached lights to the walls, just small lamps, but enough to at least see the outlines and silhouettes of the others in the room. As the hours passed, the boldness of some of the occupants steadily rose, and one could hear the ponies whispering with each other, or the occasional sobbing from a scared, stressed one. Once, Melodia thought she heard someone in the group laughing. He was quickly yelled at to quiet down by one of the humans, and for a while things were silent again, but the whisperings eventually continued. Even she herself would share the occasional thought with her neighbor, a white stallion newfoal who said he used to be called Reggie, who seemed even more nervous than herself. Melodia would ask him about the things their captors were carrying, and he explained what the weapons were and what they did, to the best of his ability; he admitted that he was an engineer, but he focused on engines, the things that made those machines called “cars” go, so he didn't know very much to tell her. But if she needed to know the most reliable brands of transmission fluid, she could ask him.

As time passed, Melodia's eyelids began to droop lower and lower. Eventually, she just laid down on the floor on her stomach and shut her eyes. The whisperings faded, either because of her rising fatigue, or because the other ponies were also growing too tired to talk. She yawned, and focused on the silence. The floor was cold and uncomfortable, and the silence was not a replacement for peace, but sleep was a strong force, and it gradually claimed the occupants of the room, one by one.

Their captors relaxed for the night with several thermoses of coffee to keep them awake.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

Gagnon was heading home, like many of the officers had already done so. He had to hang back and do paperwork; finding lodging for all these ponies was turning into a miniature nightmare. He had to keep them close because of their vital nature to the case, and finding them places to stay, and finding appropriate security for them–it was just another crazy affair in papers.

He looked over to his left, passing a series of seats in the hall. He recognized Dr. Howards, who was asleep in the chair, head slouched over to the side and his arms crossed. Next to him sat a raspberry-colored pony, who looked like she was waiting for her friend to wake up.

“Excuse me,” he said, catching the pony's attention instantly, “but it's getting late, and we've set up temporary shelter for you ponies. I hear they got the local motels to lend some rooms, so–“

“Um, actually,” she interrupted him with a tired but surprisingly lively voice, “I was going to ask Thomas when he woke up if I could...stay with him...” She trailed off, looking rather awkward. “What I mean is that, well, I know a lot of those ponies could use some guidance but I've never been a great boss to them and they probably don't need to see me around but Thomas has probably been really worried about me all day–“

“Okay, I understand, miss,” the lieutenant said, his gruff, deep voice easily cutting her off. “Here, let me wake up him for you.”

“What? Oh, no, let him–“

Gagnon delivered a swift kick straight into the side of Howards' leg, the doctor instantly springing up in his seat and clutching his leg with a loud whine of pain. A shocked Raspberry gasped with her hoof to her mouth as she watched her friend grumbling and half-shouting, while Lt. Gagnon continued to make his way down the hall, as if he never did anything at all.

Humans can be really rough sometimes...

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The door to the motel room creaked open, and Willard Pascal made his way in, fumbling for the light switch in the dark. Upon finding it, he tossed his soaked FBI coat onto an armchair in the corner, placed his computer on the small desk and emptied his pockets, placing all his miscellaneous items on the cheap wooden surface. He removed his tie, tossing it aside, and set himself down on the bed. He kept one thing with him, which he fumbled with in his hand. His cellphone wasn't the most cutting-edge device, but it did do what he needed it for. Dialing a number while simultaneously removing his shoes, he waited for the person on the other end to pick up. With an audible click, his call was answered.

“Hey, honey. Are the girls in bed yet? Good, good. Tell them I love them in the morning for me, will ya? I'm probably going to be stuck here longer than I thought...”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Lieutenant Richard Gagnon sat alone in his apartment, a single lamp and his television providing the only light. In his hand was an empty beer can, the third one of the night. He laid on his couch, staring at the ceiling. The TV displayed a national news network, which was continuing its report on–what else–the incident that had occurred only a couple of days ago; the “Bellton Siege” as they called it. Groping for the remote on the table next to him, he changed the channel as soon as he got a hold of it. He had had enough of it for one day. The alcohol in his system was not doing much to relieve his aching muscles from the constant hours of working. Setting the can down, he rubbed his eyes.

He heard his phone begin to ring, but Gagnon didn't want to answer it. He knew who it was, and he couldn't talk to them, no matter how much he wanted to.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Raspberry, the Bellton Bureau's head manager, was grateful that Thomas offered to share his home with her for the time being. Even more so when he insisted she take his only bed. The problem was, she couldn't sleep. She faded out once in a while, but would snap back to reality, no matter how hard she tried. All day she'd been randomly going out like a light, then flicking back on. It certainly didn't feel like sleep, she'd be just as tired as before. She sighed and turned in the bed. It was a pretty big bed by pony standards, but it was clear that it was on the small side for a human's. Still, there was plenty of space left over; it's not like she was a huge stallion.

That couch really didn't look that comfortable...should I tell Tom that we can just share the bed? Would that be weird? It kind of is weird, but kind of...not...at the same time...

She tossed and turned some more, her restless mind annoying itself. To her, it felt like everything was going a little crazy. The room brightly flashed, followed by a loud rumble. More lightning, just like before...

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Pascal couldn't sleep. He kept playing it over in his head again. He'd figured out what had happened in the cafeteria for those 40 hours. It was simple, and backed by a dozen testimonies that he had sat through again and again. He replayed it in his mind because it was the only thing he knew so far. He needed to know more, because this constant focus was keeping him awake. He scribbled down notes on various sheets of blank paper, trying to work out everything to the most minute detail.

I need to lay off the coffee.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

In the broken, charred ruins of the Bellton Conversion Bureau sat a lone figure wearing a red raincoat. Surrounded by broken concrete, metal, and slag, it stared at the wreckage in front of it: the skeleton of a helicopter. There was something inside of it that the figure needed to protect. It knew that the right person would come along eventually. They would come, and they would know what to do with the object that the figure guarded. The rain ran through the cracks and holes of the building, lightning flashed across the night sky, the wind howled, but the figure did not care. It had a duty to uphold, and it would not be placated or dissuaded.

The lone figure would be its guardian until the right person came to receive it, willingly or not. Only they would be able to uncover the truth behind it.