“Auto-arms are probably the most important invention of the modern age. They are essentially four to five-fingered robotic arms that are strapped onto a hoof and function by automatically detecting the whim of their users. With these devices, and of course, once they finally got the hang of walking around on their hindlegs, ponies and other hoofed mammals were able to build and operate a huge range of complicated machines that require thumbs to use, such as cash registers, flushing toilets and doorknobs, and more recently, guns, battleships and ballistic missiles. Without them, pony civilization would have probably developed into a race of helpless pacifists with only their magic and friendship to defend themselves, or would have just had to use automatic weapons with their teeth or something very silly like that.”

Equestrian History, Chapter 13 – “The Industrial Age of Ponies”

Ponyville

The sun was setting on the small rural town, and it had been a fairly magnificent day by anyone’s standards. There was a clear sky dotted by crisp swirls of cloud, the hills were green and covered in trees and meadows and, for a little while anyway, the singing of the birds had filled the air. To the distant west, the warm, orange sun was setting behind some hills, and there was a little bit of a breeze whistling through cracks in walls and the thinner branches of trees. There were also large black plumes of noxious smoke rising from the dozens of ruined buildings, bodies strewn across the bare earth streets covered in rubble and fresh craters and, in the skies above, a formation of three airborne Equestrian Mechasi streaked over the town, leaving long, white contrails in their wake. The elite Pegasi turned sideways slightly to scan the ground for anything they could kill, before raising their noses and rocketing back into the safety of the heavens.

Lieutenant Crinkle, a humble Dragoon of the Pink Army, pushed himself a little further into the devastated bakery he’d crawled into, hiding himself at the sound of their jet engines. A bullet had skimmed his upper left foreleg, he was almost out of ammunition and as far as he knew every other creature – pony, mule, zebra, bison, everyone – in Victory Company had been butchered from above by Equestria’s lethal air force. All he could do now was escape the town before the rest of the Kingdom’s army arrived to clean out the rebels for good.

It was sad, really. He’d lost a lot of friends taking Ponyville that morning, and barely hours later, they’d got a radio message that the siege of Canterlot was lost, the Pink Lady was on the run and, more or less, the Rebellion was over. And now every single one of his Victory Company Comrades, and close friends, was dead. It felt pretty pointless and unfair, but hey, if you play war the fair way you’re playing to lose.

Anyway, Crinkle sat himself up against a collapsed plaster wall and reached an auto-arm up to his face to pull his gas mask off, dropping it, along with his metal helmet and AFK-93 rifle, to his side. He reached into the front pocket of his bulky pink greatcoat, pulled out a thick cigarette, jammed it between his lips and lit the roll of wafer paper and dried cough-weed by snapping his auto-arm’s metal fingers below it, making a little spark. He took a long, deep breath, the sides of his coat expanding by at least half a foot, held it there, and blew the white smoke out through his nose; between the cigarette and the morphine shot he’d jammed into his foreleg to cope with the pain of his foreleg, there was a small chance that he could feel almost comfortable.

As the sun went down, it was getting a little chillier, and Crinkle’s abandoned building – it looked like it had been some kind of funky bakery, like a gingerbread house – had a lot of new holes in the roof and sides to let the cool air in. There was wreckage all over the wooden floor, and upturned tables, chairs and fancy things strewn around, most of which had been half-burned by the bazooka rocket that some dumb Equestrian Custodian hadn’t aimed properly. Not having eaten properly for days, he’d consumed the remaining half of a cake he’d found under the destroyed counter, which explained what all the charred, sticky stuff on the walls was.    

Sad, really, Crinkle thought as he glanced around, wiping little bit of bright green icing from the corner of his mouth with a robotic finger. It looks like some pony, or maybe even a couple of them, had a good time running this place. I guess this is the end of yet another dream.

Once, he’d had a dream; it involved leaving the family farm back in the country’s west, and a life of pulling big hay carts around, and heading off to Manehattan to study medicine with his sister. His specific dream had been to work with children, actually, but then…

His right ear twitched; there was the sound of hindlegs on the ground outside.

Crinkle spat the fresh cigarette into a muddy puddle, where it hissed and went out, and silently fell flat on his stomach. He picked up his gun in one auto-arm, and crawled over to the open hole in the wall where the door had once been, hiding himself behind some plaster. He craned his head sideways, and listened.

“See anything, dude?” a young stallion asked.

“Nothing, man,” another, slightly grizzlier voice replied. “Looks like those fucking pinks have galloped the hell out of here. That or they’re all fly meat by now.”

“Let’s hope,” the first voice laughed.

There were two different ponies walking on their hindlegs outside. They were probably military, then – civilian ponies didn’t usually walk around upright, it was too uncomfortable. It took hoofed soldiers quite a lot of getting used to, and every pony left the military with some serious back problems to deal with later. Crinkle heard the whine of a jet engine, and noticed a small, moving shape in the corner of his eye. The noise grew louder, and louder, until he heard an Equestrian Mechasus swoop in and land on the ground outside.

He heard the female Pegasus speak as she shut off her suit’s twin turbojets. Her voice was tinny and mechanical, relayed through the electronics of her helmet’s comms system, but not unlike the kind you’d hear discussing boys between classes.

“Custodians,” she barked. “Report. Have you encountered any separatists in Ponyville?”

“No, Ma’am,” the gruff voice responded. “Looks like the town’s clean, Ma’am.”

He heard the lady Mechasus’ suit squeak as she looked around.

“I’m not convinced,” she said. “The heat scans show that the town’s deserted, but we haven’t seen them retreat and those rebel fuckers are hard to kill. Where have you checked?”

“We’ve looked all through the town’s centre, Ma’am. The other guys are still searching for any trace of the communist traitors.”

Crinkle started to edge his way away from the doorframe, towards a hole in the wall on the other side of the ruined bakery. It was about time he made a run for his life; if even one enemy soldier spotted him and raised the alarm, he’d be as good as dead.

“Move into the suburbs. Check every house,” the Pegasus ordered. “When we leave Ponyville, I want to know that every socialist here is tangled up in their friends at the bottom of a mass grave. We can’t take the chance that…what’s that?”

There were some metal clicking noises on the other side of the wall as the Custodians loaded their pump-action shotguns, and the muffled sound of a young pony made a kind of surprised, possibly kinda scared whinnying noise. Crinkle paused.

“DO NOT MOVE!” the Mechasus howled, galloping in her heavy metal armour across the open ground. “OUT OF THE SHADOWS, HOOVES IN THE AIR!”

The Custodians were following her.

“Looks like…two kids,” one of them said thoughtfully. “What the hell are they doing here?”

Oh fuck, Crinkle thought to himself, chewing his lower lip.

There were grabbing noises, and a colt gasped in pain. It was hard to tell the age.

“Why are you here!” the Pegasus demanded. “Where are you going! You, soldier, search that bag on the ground. Watch for explosives.”

Something was unzipped, and rummaged through.

“We’re…just…leaving,” a young, female voice said softly. She seemed to be struggling for breath, as though something was holding her tightly by the neck.

“ANSWER THE QUESTION!” the female officer shouted. There was a knock, and a cry, like someone had been slammed against a

solid surface, like a wall. “Where are you going?”

Crinkle ground his teeth; he’d joined the Pink Rebellion as an infantry stallion because he was sick of seeing other ponies, like his family, being bullied, exploited, enslaved and occasionally murdered by the Equestrian Kingdom. It was hard to sit there and listen to ponies, and probably young ones at that, being physically abused just outside; but then again, if he went out there he’d almost definitely be killed. He decided to wait. It was cowardly, but there wasn't much of a choice.

The clicking, rummaging noise finished.

“It’s just…personal stuff in the bag, Ma’am,” one of the Custodians said, sounding uncertain. “They were probably left behind during the evacuation, and are just getting out of here.”

“I’m not so certain,” the officer said darkly. “The enemy uses children as spies, agents, even assassins sometimes. They could be sneaking our secrets out to their army, or worse.”

“Should we…take them somewhere, Ma’am?” the gruff Custodian asked. “Or, maybe stick them under guard somewhere?”

“No time for that, we’re sweeping Ponyville,” the officer replied bluntly. “And today, the Princesses’ armies will make no mistakes. We’ll have to…finish them. I want you to arrange their bodies so it looks like it was the enemy.”

Crinkle thought for a moment, sighed to himself, gently put down his gun, and slowly drew a serrated combat knife from his belt. If he was going to do this, he’d have to do it as quietly as he could; gunfire would attract very unwanted attention. At any rate, he had a simple choice: go out there and die, or run away and probably commit suicide within days from guilt. Children were children; there were no two ways about it.

Anyway, he might as well go out the Pink Army way and die a faceless and forgotten hero, like all of his dead Comrades.

“What?” a Custodian exclaimed. “But, Ma’am! We can’t just…”

“What can’t I do, soldier?” the officer asked. There was something extremely strange about her tone of voice that Crinkle couldn’t put his hoof on, but for one thing, it definitely didn’t leave him feeling particularly comfortable. It was both an invitation, and a warning.

There was another silence.

Crouching down, Crinkle slowly worked his way around the empty doorframe until he was standing on the one side of the ruined street. In the middle of the road, there was a wrecked Pink Army Frogroach transport vehicle – a funny looking machine with six hydraulic legs, an insect-like body and a four-barrelled AA turret on the top – that had taken a Mechasus rocket to the side and still lay where it had collapsed and burned to a crisp. Crinkle didn’t pay attention to the charred pony skeleton, still wearing a metal helmet on its skull, of what appeared to be the Frogroach’s turret gunner hanging over the side. He or she had probably dragged him or herself halfway out of the turret before succumbing to the flames and collapsing.

It was another sad little story, one of about a dozen that he’d stumbled across so far that day, which the history books would forget to mention.

Anyway, just visible on the opposite side of the transport, he could see two Equestrian Custodian troopers in visored helmets and blue and silver uniforms with shotguns cradled in their auto-arms. It looked like he was in luck – they were both facing away from him. There was also a Mechasus in gleaming silver armour with gold and red officer’s stripes painted on the side of her suit, who was standing on her hindlegs and pressing a pair of grey-coloured foals against the wall of a burnt-out building. The suit’s metal wings were folded by her sides, and her two engines were still smoking slightly. She was holding the children there with the retractable fingers built into her suit’s forelegs, which she had wrapped tightly around their necks. The foals, for their part, were hanging three feet clear of the ground and were struggling for their lives. Their squirming was fairly pointless, however; Mechasus power suits could turn your average skinny weakling into a raging powerhouse that could headbutt a door clean off its hinges.

Anyway, there was a lighter-coloured, blonde-haired Pegasus filly who was a little on the fat side, and seemed to be trying to pry the metal fingers from her legs with her front hooves and kick the armoured mare in the face at the same time. She was short of breath from having her neck squeezed, her wings were flapping uselessly, her eyes were wide and her cheeks bulging like tennis balls. The other was a much smaller and more fragile-looking colt, who was black-haired, golden-eyed, and a darker shade of grey. He just looked incredibly scared, and was wriggling weakly like an earthworm stuck in a puddle during a rainstorm.

Crinkle noted that the Custodian who’d searched their little green backpack had discarded the bag, dropping it in the dirt to his side. What looked like a couple of bits of clothing, a colourful, leather-bound book and a rubber bouncy ball had fallen out of the open zip. Crinkle narrowed his eyes; the sight reminded him of being bullied, back at school, when the town foals had taken turns emptying the big, shy farm boy’s schoolbag into one of the bins every Monday morning.

Lieutenant Crinkle wasn’t very fond of bullies.

Finally, the Custodian that had briefly objected to executing children broke the silence.

“Nothing, Ma’am,” came the emotionless reply.

Crinkle held his knife in his right auto-arm, blade up and ready, and stealthily crept up to the destroyed Frogroach. He leaned himself against its side, and silently edged closer to the three Equestrian soldiers.

“More like it,” the officer remarked. “Now, Custodians, do exactly as I tell you. Once I’m done… asphyxiating these two separatist probables, put the carcasses up against that wall over there, find an enemy rifle and shoot them full-auto. Do not use your shotguns. And once everything is in place, tell no-one. If you do happen to, I won’t start with you both. I’ll have the Contentment Police begin with your families, and by the time you end up in a military court, you’ll both be begging the judge for a firing squad. Is that clear enough?”

Crinkle reached the front end of the Frogroach, and peeked around. The two Custodians were barely a meter away from him, and no-one had seen him yet. It was a miracle.

“Yes, Ma’am,” they both replied together, in perfect unison.

“Good,” the officer said, and tightened her grip. The desperate gasping noises abruptly changed, and became a sort of soft, barely audible squeaking. It was Crinkle’s time. As he began to rise onto his hindlegs, he whispered a quick prayer for the gods to watch over his mother and sisters, edged around the corner, and crept hastily up behind the Custodians, gripping his combat knife hard. As he rose to his full height, he found it comforting that he was both taller and much wider at the chest than both of the Equestrian ‘peace keepers’. A little comforting; they both had shotguns.

“This shouldn’t take a…” the officer began, glancing around, and at last, noticing that Crinkle was there. “LOOK OUT!” she screamed.

As the Custodians began to raise their shotguns and turn around, Crinkle took two giant strides forward in about the same time it takes your average sniper to blink, standing between them. He raised his blade and slashed at the taller one’s unarmoured neck, carving through the skin and muscle like he was back at home, cutting the top off a turnip. Bright crimson cascaded from the wound, instantly turning the soldier’s bulletproof vest from blue to red as he collapsed into a twitching, limp, choking heap. Now, it was time for the other one.

Turning around, Crinkle grabbed the barrel of the second Custodian’s shotgun with his spare auto arm (which looked like it was about to be aimed under Crinkle’s chin), flipped the knife around in his other, and plunged point-first it into the unlucky Equestrian’s shoulder, right next to his neck. The knife was buried all the way to the hilt, and its serrated side stuck it there; behind his reflective visor, the enemy stallion screamed, dropping his shotgun and staggering back a few steps whilst grabbing desperately at the knife’s handle with his fancy, shiny auto-arms (the Pink Army used the old steel and brass models), which Crinkle had released. He then tripped on a suitcase that some fleeing pony had forgotten, falling over backwards and writhing in fear and agony on the ground. Hand-to-hand was by far Crinkle’s least favourite way of fighting.

Now, for the last, and by far the most interesting problem; it was time for Crinkle to figure out a way to deal with the Mechasus, who was stronger, faster and better armed than him, and willing to kill children, and also had the ability to fly.

If I survive, Crinkle thought grimly to himself, I’m going to award myself with a fucking gold medal, that I designed and made myself, specifically for this. The ‘I survived the dumbest decision of my entire life’ medal, I think. The ISDDEL for short. But first, I think I’ll have sex.

Staring at him through her faceless helmet, the female Mechasus released the foals; they fell to the ground and onto their sides, where they hugged their stomachs, wheezed and coughed uncontrollably. Miraculously, she did not decide to shoot him with the two machine guns built into her forelegs. Instead, she sprang into the air and landed facing him directly, falling smoothly into a practiced martial arts pose. She tapped an armoured foreleg against her side, and with a loud click, a foot-long, spring-mounted blade extended from above the metal hoofcap. Mechasi didn’t have belts; everything they could need was built into their armour. Crinkle looked down at his own auto-arms, and remembered that his own knife was buried in the shoulder of a noisily dying Custodian behind him. Oh, shit.

“For the Kingdom!” The Mechasus growled, and charged at him, stabbing the hoof blade straight at his chest. Crinkle twisted to the side, and the Pegasus mare missed, skewering the air a couple of inches in front of him. He grabbed her bladed foreleg, then turned in an attempt to flip her over his shoulder; the Pegasus was a little quicker though, and knocked his hooves out from under him with a sharp spinning kick. The force of her hindleg was like a kick from a cow; a cow made of metal. Crinkle landed painfully on his back, and the Mechasus sprang about four meters into the air, clicking her hindlegs together above him. They both had a spring-mounted blade built into each of them, which both extended with an uncomfortable ‘ching’, and she aimed her back hooves straight at his head as she came down.

There was only one thing that Crinkle could do. He reached up and made a grab for her hindlegs, misjudged distances, and was stabbed through the hand by a foot-long, needle-like, chrome steel combat blade. Fortunately though, it wasn’t his hand, and even more luckily, because it was an older auto-arm built for the Pink Army, it continued to work even after it had been impaled. Wrapping his fingers around her rear hooves, Crinkle slammed the Pegasus sideways into the ground. The female officer grunted painfully as he yanked his damaged hand off the blade, and then sprang up off the ground, twisted in mid air, and landed facing him on all fours, angrily snorting hot steam out of the air filters built into her helmet’s nose.

Crinkle stepped back, auto-arms raised defensively, and his back hoof touched something heavy, and made of metal. He looked down, noticing one of the Custodian’s shotguns lying dropped on the ground. It wasn’t like had had any other options.

He dropped down and made a grab for the short-range gun, and the Mechasus lunged at him a little more aggressively than usual. As he was closing his robotic fingers around the stubby barrel, the Pegasus kicked him under the chin, sending him – and the shotgun – flying backwards, and landing in a tangled heap against the wrecked Frogroach. Crinkle’s head spun for a moment, and as his vision cleared and he began to pick himself up again, he saw a large, dark, vaguely pony-shaped object towering over him and raising a front hoof, from which a long, needle-like piece of metal was sticking out.

He guessed he had about half a second before she stuck him like a marshmallow on a stick. Curtains for me, Crinkle thought to himself. I guess it was an okay life. Better than a few.

The Mechasus trying to murder him was interrupted by the kinda fat filly from before. Like a flash of ashy grey, she darted up from the side, attached herself to the female flyer’s back right leg and held onto it like it was made of diamonds. The angry-looking girl then proceeded to bite the powered armour plating with her teeth, multi-coloured bracers and all.

Maybe not diamonds then.

Crinkle was fairly impressed. He sure wouldn’t try to use his face to attack an angry Equestrian Mechasus in full armour; maybe she was braver than him. But anyway, the annoyed Mechasus wound up and kicked the filly off her back leg, sending the surprised child flying about twenty feet through the air and landing in a muddy puddle.

That would have been that, if not for how Crinkle had taken the opportunity to grab the shotgun, rise onto his knees and swing it like a baseball bat straight at the Mechasus’ glass visor. It was bulletproof, bird-proof and shielded the user from heat, radiation and even the vacuum of space (not that they could fly there), but it was not Crinkle-proofed. Thus, Crinkle smashed her visor in as she turned back towards him. Her eyeballs didn’t stand a chance.

“My…!” the unfortunate mare began, before she reared up and screamed, grabbing at her face with her suit’s built-in auto-arms. She staggered back a bit, with blood flowing from the cracked visor on her helmet. Crinkle pitied her terribly. But that didn’t stop him from standing up, striding up to the lurching Mechasus, pumping the shotgun in both arms, sticking it under her armoured chin and pulling the trigger.

Instantly, half of the Mechasus’ helmet – and probably more of her head – disappeared in a shower of shredded metal, bright red meaty bits and shards of bone. Crinkle, and what was left of the Pegasus’ body, were instantly covered in blood, and the upright corpse fell onto its knees, balanced unsteadily there for a moment, then keeled over backwards. The damaged power suit sparked and hissed, and from somewhere, jet fuel was leaking. Or, it could have been urine; either way, it would smell pretty bad in a minute.

Crinkle studied the shotgun in his robot hands, and then dropped it. It was an extremely unpleasant weapon to use point-blank; at least you could be sure that whatever you shot was dead.

Really, really dead.

He looked down at his front, observing the blood and splattered gore that coated him. You got used to it, but all that meant was that you didn’t throw up as easily; it was still just as gross. Then, aware that he looked like he’d just fucked up an operation on some poor bastard who’d swallowed a handful of firecrackers by mistake, he turned to look at the two foals. The little guy had gingerly put the stuff back into his mud-streaked bag and picked it up; the filly who’d saved his ass had limped over to her little friend, nursing a foreleg with a pained expression. They were both eyeing Crinkle nervously, like they weren’t exactly sure what he was about to do next.

Well, he had just blown someone’s head to pieces with a shotgun.

Crinkle wiped some blood from his eyes with the back of his hoof, and then smiled at them.

“Thanks,” he whispered softly. “I owe ya for that.”

“…don’t mention it,” the filly replied weakly, still eyeing him. For a second, they all stood there, looking at each other without a clue what to do. Then, Crinkle’s ear twitched, and he heard the sound of hasty hoofsteps in the distance. Crouching down, he made his way back to the ruined bakery, looking over his shoulder at the two younger ones. He beckoned them over with a mechanical finger, trying to look sincere.

Follow me, he mouthed slowly.

The foals exchanged looks, the little colt nodded, and they cantered after him. Feeling slightly relieved that he wasn’t going to leave them behind, Crinkle scrambled into the half-demolished building before more Equestrians arrived.

He’d tested his luck enough for one day, that was for sure.

Half an hour later

They didn’t speak again until they’d left Ponyville, and the soldiers there, far behind. Fairly exhausted, the three of them collapsed on the grassy bank of a river, under the shelter – and hopefully, the cover – of an ancient oak tree. It was getting pretty dark by then, and a little further off, they could just make out a crashed Pink Army helicopter.

They wouldn't get too close to that.

Once he'd stopped, Crinkle took a couple of seconds to catch his breath, then unbuttoned his blood-splattered trench coat, dropping it on the grass beside him. Next came his boots, then his armour, and finally, his auto-arms. All the while, the two foals were watching him. He picked up the pile in his forelegs, walked it over to the flowing stream with reeds and lily pads, and dropped it into the water. The arms, armour and boots sank, while the pink coat floated near the top, and drifted steadily down the river. Almost instantly, the water around it turned red.

He watched the pink coat disappear. It felt good.

Remembering that it wasn’t just his coat that had been messed up, Crinkle trotted up to the bank, standing with his head over the water, looking down at his reflection. He looked terrible; his curly brown mane was so oily that he could probably lubricate engines with it, and his olive fur was covered in dry, red blotches. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and in less than a day, it looked like he had aged a full ten years.

He plunged his head into the water, shook it violently around in there for a few seconds, and then pulled it out. He gasped for air, shook drops of water from his face, and then plunged his head in again for another round. Leaving her companion by the tree, the filly trotted up beside him as he yanked his head out for the last time. She was wearing her little green backpack; it was ridiculously cute, and a little gut-wrenchingly tragic at the same time.

“There’s…one little bit there,” she said, looking up at him and pointing at her cheek with a hoof. “It’s kind of…just to the right of your nose.”

Crinkle wiped at the spot of dried blood, and then presented his cheek to her.

“That get it?” he asked.

“Yep,” the filly said, nodding. “You’re all good now.”

"By the way," Crinkle said, remembering her limp from before. "How's your leg?"

The filly held her foreleg up, studying it.

"It feels okay," she said thoughtfully. "Thanks for asking."

Crinkle nodded. They were lucky she hadn't been kicked in half.

There was a short silence. Crinkle was suddenly aware that standing on all four of his hooves again felt amazing. If possible, he'd probably never stand upright again. He blissfully stretched himself, back legs, then front legs.

“Well,” said, turning to face her. “My name’s Crinkle. What about you? Do you have a name?”

“Yes,” the filly answered, sat down on the grass, and then thought for a second.

“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly. “You were asking. Okay! Well, I’m Tickles, and I’m twelve years old, and that’s my brother Squeezie up there by the tree. He’s nine.”

Tickles pointed at him with a hoof, and Crinkle turned to give Squeezie a smile and a wave. The little kid waved back, but he was still looking pretty concerned about everything.

“Nice to meet you both,” Crinkle replied, turning back to Tickles. “What were you guys doing by yourselves in Ponyville? Is there someone around who can look after you?”

“Nah,” Tickles said, glancing at the river. “Dad’s hasn’t visited for a long time, and Mum, well, Mum’s kinda gone now.”

“Oh,” Crinkle said. He felt a pang of sadness in his chest; too many kids he met these days had lost family, or were straight-out orphans. “I’m sorry, Tickles.”

“No, she’s gone,” Tickles explained, glancing up at him. “A couple days ago, she just disappeared, we have no idea why. She went out to buy a couple of eggs and some flour, I think, and she never came back. We told one of our friends, and he said we should get out of Ponyville; but, before we could go, the fighting started, and everyone else went too.”

She turned her head sideways at Crinkle.

“Hey,” she asked. “You’re one of those Pink Army guys, right? A Dragoon.”

“Yep,” Crinkle said, sitting himself down on his bruised rump as well. “Or at least I was.”

“You’re not anymore? Well, you did just throw all your army stuff away... But still, it’s weird. You’re a lot nicer than they said you’d be at school.”

“What did they say I’d be like?”

“They said you would steal all our food and piggie bank money and mothers,” Tickles said, glancing up and biting her lip as she

remembered them all. “I didn’t get it. What would army guys want with Mums? Don’t you know how to cook breakfast and do laundry and stuff?”

“Um…yeah,” Crinkle said gingerly.

Tickles nodded emphatically, her chubby sides wiggling.

“I knew you did! But anyway, thanks for saving us from that mean lady before, Mister Crinkle. I thought she was about to strangle us

or something. I didn’t like her one little bit, I didn’t.”

Crinkle reached over and patted Tickles thankfully on the head.

“Are you kidding? I should be thanking you for saving me,” he laughed. “If you hadn’t bitten on her leg, she would have…punched me, really hard. That was brave, honey. I'm really impressed.”

Tickles beamed at him.

“Thanks!” she said with a wide smile. “I had no idea I could be that brave. Now that I know I am, I feel a lot better about going

someplace safe with my brother.”

“Where are you going?” Crinkle asked.

“We’re going to…” Tickles began, thought, and then paused. “Actually, I don’t know where we’re going, sorry. Mr. Turner just said we should go, he didn’t say where. But…now that Mum’s gone and those army guys are there, I don’t think we should go back to Ponyville. Maybe we could go on an adventure? A Mum-finding adventure.”

A big red flag went up in Crinkle’s head. The least he could do was help these two kids end up somewhere remotely safe, and at that particular moment, there wasn’t a single place in Equestria that was like that.

“You know what?” he suggested. “If you two go somewhere nice and quiet, you can look for your Mum from there. You could call your family, check the internet, ask the police, stuff like that. Maybe you could come with me? I think I’m going to a place like that.”

“What place are you going to, Mister Crinkle?” Squeezie asked from over by the tree. He’d stood up and trotted over to them. At least he wasn’t sitting there on his own any more.

“I’m not sure myself,” Crinkle admitted. “But, my leader, the Pink Lady? She said that was a new country, a long way north, and over the sea. She said that there’d be food there, and lots of nice ponies, and houses with gardens with lots flowers. And she said there’d be lots of fun. And cake.”

Tickles seemed to be thinking about it. Her brother piped up.

“Will there be no Princesses there?” Squeezie asked. He was now standing very close to his sister’s side. Now that he had a closer look at him, Crinkle noticed that Squeezie’s eyes were moist and a bit puffy. It looked like the little guy had been doing a lot of crying recently.

He couldn’t blame the poor kid.

“No, Squeezie,” he replied. “There won’t be any Princesses, or mean guys with shotguns, or ponies that disappear. Also, there will be lots and lots and lots of snow.”

Squeezie’s face lit up.

“That sounds awesome,” he said, turning to Tickles. “I wanna make a snowman! Do you think we can we go, sis? Can we go?”

Tickles chewed her lip.

“I dunno, Squee,” she said. “I mean, we’re gonna have to find Mum, right? I don’t think we should go really far. We might have to come a long way back to find her.”

Crinkle didn’t want to tell the foals that the ponies who disappeared in the Kingdom these days disappeared for a reason, and were not going to be coming back. He had to think of a…gentler way to persuade them.

“The new country’s going to be a pretty awesome place,” Crinkle told them. “If your Mum’s as clever as she sounds, she’s probably on her way there already.”

Tickles’ eyes widened.

“You really think so?” she asked.

Crinkle closed his eyes, nodding.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Just about everyone I know is going there.”

That was pretty untrue. Most of the creatures that Crinkle knew, or had known, were dead. Including his father and older brother.

Tickles thought about it some more, glanced at Squeezie’s eager face, and made a decision.

“Okay, Mister Crinkle,” she announced. “We’ll come with you.”

Crinkle smiled on the outside, and wanted to buck himself in the face on the inside. He was lying through his clenched teeth to two probably orphaned siblings, but, there was nothing else he could do, unless he left them to venture out into a violent Equestria that was being ripped to pieces by a rebellion and a cruel Kingdom that was trying to smash it back together.

“I’m really glad,” he said warmly. “But first, we’re going to need to find a place to sleep, and maybe even something for you two to eat. Know any houses around here?”

Tickles gave Squeezie an evil smile.

“Hey, Squeezie,” she said. “You know how we've always wanted to raid Tiara’s treehouse?”

Squeezie paused, and then grinned back.

“Yes,” he agreed bluntly. “Yes, please, big sis.”  

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