Out of the five pictures sitting atop Noir's desk, four were of a stallion's backside.

Noir poured over them, one hoof clutching a pen and jotting down notes and the other filling in the spaces between the scribbles with an awkward two-beat. Occasionally, he would circle some outstanding detail and rub his temple. The pieces were all present, faded at the edges and yellowing in spots. All Noir had to do was think.

It was not a day to be thinking.

From the other side of the room, Rarity cleared her throat for the second time.

“You don’t have an appointment,” Noir said, looking up from his papers. The windows opposite him flew like retreating clouds. “Do you care about my time at all?”

“I'm here to ask you to reconsider your robbery proposal,” she explained. “Recent developments have arisen which will put a very large sum of bits into my hooves at the end of the month. I can get you money with interest through perfectly legal, straightforward means. No police, no EQUIS. I just need time. If you give me one month--just one month, Mister Noir, that’s all I’m asking for--you have it at my word that you’ll be more than compensated for your patience.”

Noir looked down at the photographs again. “I used to think I was at an age where I could afford to be patient. Recent events have proven this is not the case.”

“I plan on releasing a new clothing line by the end of the week inspired by the elegant romanticism of Manebocher’s bridal wear and translated into the everyday wear of the common pony. I call it, All That Glitters is Gold--”

“Rarity, I gave you a simple ultimatum. My money is due back to me by the end of the month. I am truly sorry to hear about your business failures, but the reality is I simply don’t care. You’re worth as much as you’re worth, and that’s it. Don’t embarrass yourself by pleading twice.”

“You’re being unreasonable--”

“And I refuse to argue the same thing twice.”

Rarity shot back, "You of all ponies should know how difficult it is fighting a two-front war.”

Noir tapped his hoof against the hardwood floor and sighed. “If this is about the heart--”

“It is.”

“Ok, then--look at it from an objective perspective. You pulled off the most significant robbery of the decade. The Crystallites’ entry into the war meant less Equestrians getting hurt. The only thing you did wrong was rat out the griffons you sold it to--but from an objective standpoint, you had already gotten your money, so why hurt all those crystallites? That’s not what I would have done, but I’m looking at it from an objective point of view.”

“Look, Mister Noir,” Rarity backtracked, “all I need is the extra month--”

“I have a better idea,” Noir said, cutting her off. “I’ve come up with a plan for your heist.”

Rarity took a step forward and immediately regretted it. “I want to work with you, but we have to be reasonable here.”

Noir felt a headache coming on. He twisted his head in search of a bottle and found only papers. “I am--” he paused to cough, “That is why I have devised a plan. In two days’ time, you will rob Barcleigh Jeweler’s in midtown. Get in, go to the safe in the back room, pick out the best gems you can find, and bring them back here to me. I know you're good with gems, so it shouldn't be a problem for you to get the cream of the crop." He tapped his desk. "This is important. Only take enough to get by. Not enough to be noticed. The old stallion who runs the place is going soft in the head with postwar madness, so he won’t notice if a few jewels go missing--so long as you’re very careful about which pieces of his stock you take.”

The air around Rarity flashed hot.

Noir continued, “You were a prolific thief during the war years. You kept half the town fed between your furs and your ration card heists. Doing bad in the name of good is the ultimate sacrifice.” Noir stilled. For a long moment, the room was silent. “That is a lesson which has served me well over the years. You helped others then. Now help yourself. You’re not an idiot Rarity, so do it.”

Rarity threw her mane behind her head, but it swung back into its original position. She blew it away in annoyance. “I don’t want to admit that you're right about not being able to help myself, so I won’t.”

“But you will concede this is the only way,” Noir pressed.

Rarity squirmed. “I’m not going to say yes.” The floor seemed to shift beneath her, stilted into two dimensions. “But, I will listen if you choose to talk.”

Noir nodded. “Think of it like a ration card fix. Only take what won’t be noticed--the stones he’s cut but not fixed into jewelry yet. Just remember, you must bring back enough to satisfy the debt. The last shipment contained--” Noir picked up pictures of the stallion’s backside only to find duplicates underneath. “Uh--I have the specifics of the last shipment organized and available, should you require it.”

“I would like to see them, yes.”

“It’s--Uh. Yes.” Noir shuffled the papers around. “About. Well. It’s about twenty six thousand bits.”

“Are you sure?”

Noir shot her a cruel look. “You do this, and your debt is settled.” His next words came out all at once in a leering whoosh. “You do not want to fight a two-front war, do you?”

Rarity’s mouth opened. Her head cocked to one side. Her eyes burned, an immense fire on the horizon, just close enough to catch the smell of it drifting over the horizon. A memory burned at the edges. Before her was the reality of suffering--her suffering. The reality of finance. Industry. Rationing inflation deflation living breathing machinery. Beyond was chaos. A way to end her suffering. The past.

“I do not wish to fight a two front war, Mister Noir,” she finally spoke.

“Good.” Noir arched his back and looked up to the ceiling, where a terrific battle was being re-enacted in his imagination. “See to it that the necessary preparations are made. I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Rarity.”

“Thank you,” she hissed.

Noir nodded. His henchmen descended from their places to usher Rarity out. She huffed, but offered no resistance.

Just before she passed through the innermost door, Noir spoke up. “Rarity.” She turned slowly, like an old model. “They called it a two-front war in the papers. It wasn’t exactly that. Mostly we were fighting our way up the mountains. The griffons would attack us from the high ground, then fly behind us. That’s why they called it a two-front war.”

“Ah,” she said vaguely. “The war of the Billy Goats.”

Once she was out of the room, a haunted quiet fell over the place. In the silence, Noir felt weak. Lightheaded. Exposed. The past came alive took Noir back to the Borderlands in the form of a tremendous explosion. A memory not completely buried clawed at the grey matter containing it, screeching like a griffon slicing through thin mountain air. The smoke above his head was a shadow, then ten, then twenty.

Without any warning the craggy earth around him exploded. He fell to one side, clutching his helmet out of instinct. His helmet--what a thing to keep him alive! He and a hooffull of his friends had the sense and paint to camouflage theirs before they set out on patrol. The others had laughed. Who needed camouflage? They would butcher the griffons like the animals they were. Keep them from ever coming back. They had it.

But now the ground was on fire and ponies weren’t laughing. It burned his hooves. There was snow everywhere, in his uniform, soaking into his belongings, his rations, the newspaper clippings he read in his spare time, his mane, everywhere except on the ground so he could extinguish his boots. What a sight he must have been--a pony with his jaw set half-open with a mismatched uniform and a snow-white helmet running around with his boots on fire. The sight of it! The fire!

He reeled as another explosion tore apart a nearby building. They were targeting the houses. His eyes could see the danger, but his hooves would be on fire soon, so he dove into the closest house he could find, stumbling on the single stair and falling to pieces all over the rough wooden floorboards.

His helmet fell off. He ignored it and flailed about like an injured animal until his boots were off. Another blast from outside shook the house, and he pressed his cheek to the floor to keep his head from spinning.

From across the room he heard somepony cough.

He shot to attention only to fall backwards onto his rear. Splayed out on the floor of the single-room building were the half-assembled bodies of his former friends. They reeked and spewed gas and blood, and he was right in the middle of it. One of them was on fire.

Training kicked in, and he rushed to throw the burning blanket away. Finally, mercifully, his legs began to burn. Thank the gods--he could feel again. The pain hurt enough to keep him focused.

The booming grew louder outside, churning the air into dust soup, fading, waiting, regurgitating. Blood in his mouth. Leaking from his broken nose. Among the half-soldiers he felt complete. The bombs would not fall on him that day. He was a hollow target. The munitions would go right through.

He threw himself outside and ran towards the front line. A few seconds later, a bomb fell right through the roof.

Nine years later, Noir shuffled the pictures of the stallion’s backside on his desk and eyed the partially shuttered windows. He saw a flash of white pass by the window, but other than that he was alone. Dull aches subverted the previous pain.

Out rolled the middle drawer. Out came the aspirin, rattling eight to the bar against the throbbing from his joints. Out came four tablets, then five. Take five, and take a ride. Out to lunch. Out of his mind.

He learned back in his chair as the aspirin took effect and left it all behind.