Whereas Elrod knew little about the level where the Bottlebrush Society chose to make their home, Morgana knew it all too well. She stared out one of the vast glass windows at the city below, and the lights that shone through the eternal night below. The city sprawled out before her, and endless array of perfect glass buildings modeled like the grand cities of old. She knew their contents: offices, insurance companies, penthouse offices and second homes for the highest level of management that had not yet been replaced by computers. There were residences here, too, but not many. In a sense, this place was the mirror of the Upper Levels: whereas the wealthy built their homes in faux-nature, they built their workplaces in a dark and sterile metropolis.

Morgana turned her gaze up toward the rooves of some of the other towers, to where their communication cables stretched upward to the ceilings above.Her eyes were far better than most, and she knew what she was looking for. At a distance of about nine hundred meters, she saw Forth, half of her body unfolded into a sniper configuration. Lilium was standing beside her, dressed in a black cloak with a visor over her eyes to help assist with any shots that Forth needed to take. Morgana nodded slowly, and Lilium returned her nod. This was reassuring, but did not make Morgana feel much better. She left the window, returning to the exhibition hall.

The scope of the event was substantial, even though the party was relatively small. The exhibition hall itself dominated what would otherwise have been four or five floors of the building it resided in. The architecture inside was a somewhat jarring mixture of interpretive art deco and modern construction: floors tiled with absurdly expensive stone cut into vast triangles, walls of colored glass, and ceilings with graceful arches that left absolutely no metal exposed. Running through it were planters, and, as expected, each of them were filled with perfectly manicured Callistemons in full bloom, lit overhead by glowing rings. The edge of all of it was surrounded by enormous plates of glass to allow the guests to look down on the city from every angle.

The extravagance was astounding, if only in space alone. Even in the poorer levels, a space this large would have costed the yearly wages of several million workers; in this district, though, the land value probably left it costing several hundred thousand times that. No expense had been spared, and it was apparent.

Lynnette had been correct. This was a party meant for a small portion of the city’s most elite. The flowers did not really matter all that much; they were an excuse, something that the wealthy had brought into the world to mark themselves apart from the rest. The real point of this party was for them to do what humans always did: attempt to assert dominance over each other and everything else, in this case by demonstrating superior wealth and breeding.

There were many of them. Morgana took note of them, cross referencing the faces she could with her internal records. The results were almost always the same: heirs, tycoons, CEOs, fund managers, politicians, mayors, rulers of subvassals, and so on. Each and every one of them wore spectacular clothes that showed the slight errors characteristic of hand-stitching, no doubt by famous designers that were probably died long ago. Virtually all of them wore jewelry, and all of it was crafted from rare elements: neodymium, iridium, platinum, uranium, whatever was valuable.

Morgana took note of their appearances. The humans in attendance could be almost perfectly divided into two categories. The first group consisted of individuals who towered over Morgana. While humans were by definition taller than ponies, these humans were immense: each of them stood at least eight feet tall, with perfectly shaped bodies to match their height. All of them had similar looking faces, each of which was marked heavily by scars from repeated cosmetic surgery. These were the people that society considered perfect: they had been custom built in the most prestigious factories in small batches, built from their parents genetics with the most advanced chromosomal modifications to ensure that they would be stronger and healthier than lesser beings. They were the master race, the most genetically pure of all humans. They arrived from the factories as babies, and would be custom-raised by nannies. They themselves were even capable of bearing children, so long as they mated with one another- -but few bothered to. It was considered a waste of status to not spent at least several hundred million vod on a custom child.

These beings were the bankers, managers, and CEOs of the corporations that existed under the aegis of Aetna-Cross. They were the elites of Bridgeport- -but not the highest echelon. That ranking belonged to the much smaller number of humans who walked among them: humans who were short, often sickly, who walked around the room in ignorance of the virtual overlays that drifted about the room. They were natural-born. They had no genetic engineering and no cybernetics- -and they were destined to rule.

“Twilight.”

Morgana turned her head at the sound of her surname. Roxanne approached from the crowd. Morgana stared at her, finding that she could not take her eyes away. The dress she wore was black, decorated with silver accents and inlaid patterns around the numerous splits and rises that ended up showing off far more of Roxanne’s body than the dress actually did cover. It was indeed an elegant dress, and one that was more than appropriate for an event of this caliber, and yet Morgana could not help but notice the stares of the humans as she passed.

“Rainbow Dash,” replied Morgana.

Roxanne looked out the window for a moment. “They’re out there?”

Morgana nodded. “Two on that side. O’Toole on the other, but I can’t see her. She’s cloaked.”

“Right.” Roxanne shifted her exposed and jewelry-laden wings and stared out at the other guests to the party. “So. There’s not a lot of ponies here.”

“There’re a few.” Morgana pointed out toward several tall, exceedingly expensive units walking amongst the humans. Like the humans, they were dressed impeccably. “You’re right, though. Not a lot of us here. I guess there aren’t that many pony elites here. Or anywhere.”

“Or they don’t like coming to a flower party.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow. “I thought you liked this sort of thing. When we were together, you always complained I never took you out.”

“That’s not what I was complaining about. And yeah. I’ve been to parties. Fancy ones too. But this is way above my pay grade. Top-shelf callgirl shit. Not my thing.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been to something like this.”

Roxanne looked surprised. “Really?”

“I’m a detective. I do what it takes to get information. Even if it means coming to shit like this.”

“Huh. You don’t like being around all this wealth, right? You never struck me as a socialist. You don’t care enough.”

“That’s not what bothers me. I don’t care about their money or what they do with it. Let them eat gold-plated shrimp in front of starving Swiss children for all I care. It’s the fact that everything is connected in places like this. If you mess up, if one of them puts you on the right list? You’re fucked.”

“Do I look like a novice? I know how to handle this. Better than you do. Career history in ‘customer service’, remember? I know how to deal with people.”

“If you didn’t I wouldn’t have let you come along. I still don’t feel good about it. This whole place feels like it’s about to go up.”

“Yeah,” admitted Roxanne. “I noticed.”

“So you saw it too.”

Roxanne nodded. “Security everywhere.”

Morgana looked out at the room. In addition to the guests, there were a number of other individuals wandering around the party. Some of them were workers serving drinks or tending to the Calistemons, but there were others that were quite clearly security. Most of them were private security drones: they were assembled like sculpted females with porcelain faces, with all of their AIs linked to the synth guarding the door and perimeter. Among them, though, were others. They appeared to be human, largely, but there were also several synths as well as some well-concealed zoonei. They wore armor in the same colors as the drones, but they were quite clearly recent hires by the security company.

“Mercenaries,” said Morgana. “I’ve identified at least six different factions, and there’s some I haven’t even seen before. None of them are low-tier, either. These are high-grade professionals. And- -”

“And all of them are running under network isolation.”

Morgana blinked. “How did you know?”

“Because I actually went out and talked to people.”

“And?”

“And people are nervous. Especially the natural-borns. A lot of them almost didn’t come. They wouldn’t have either, except for all that security.”

“Security that can’t be hacked. Not by me…or even by the War Stone itself.”

“A few groups have bodyguards too. It’s like they’re expecting something bad to happen.”

“Because I’m pretty sure it IS going to happen.”

Roxanne’s face darkened. “Yeah. I figured as much.”

“You just keep your eyes out. When this goes pear-shaped, I need you to be ready.”

“Don’t worry about me. I know how to take care of myself.” Roxanne leaned close. “But if it DOES go to shit, youhad better cover Valla. I’m the one who got her into this. I’m not going to abuse that trust.”

“Do you trust Lilium?”

Roxanne did not hesitate in her response. “Yes.”

“She’s out there. Watching. If you can’t trust me, trust her.”

Roxanne frowned, but then nodded. “I’m going to mingle a little more. See what I can learn. To be honest, I’m pretty sure I’m a hit here. You should do the same.”

“Do I really have a reason to?”

“Yes. Because one of them is your contact. And the quicker we find him, the sooner we can get out of here.”

Leaving Roxanne, Morgana moved through the floor. The venue was large, and she counted at least a hundred individuals overall, excluding security and servantly. That left them relatively diffuse on the floor, with some contemplating the red-flowered shrubs and many mingling in various groups throughout. Any one of them could be the contact- -or a killer. Morgana did not know why they had called her. She had tried to dismiss the possibility of this being a trap, and had convinced the others, but the more she walked through the well-dressed guests the more she began to wonder. Yes, they could have killed her at any time- -unless they wanted to do it here, for some specific purpose. As a demonstration of something that Morgana could not yet grasp, or for a reason that she could not yet conceive of.

She crossed the floor to the far side, the one where Lynnette was supposedly watching over her. Although hors d'oeuvres and wine were being served throughout the party, this area contained a region that seemed to be dedicated to more substantial meals. It was attended to by a number of servants. They were the same height as the natural-born humans, but they had clearly undergone substantial genetic engineering. They stared with blank, broken eyes as they moved trays about and set up food. Morgana understood what they were- -like everything else here, a status symbol. They had been grown in the factories specifically for this task.

A bell sounded, and some of the nearest humans moved toward a large table between two stately Callistemons. Two servants removed a tray, and the room filled with the scent of perfectly prepared meat. Some of the humans visibly started to salivate, although Morgana had no interest in the meat beyond an academic one. She looked at it only for a moment as she passed: a whole creature, humanoid in shape, prepared in one piece. It’s charred and cooked body lay face down, and Morgana could see one of its hands outstretched as the servants began to carve its meat. The hand only had four fingers.

Morgana passed it, checking through the crowd once more. In the distance, she saw Valla looking completely awestruck at the wealth around her, and Elrod sniffing the air in an attempt to find the meat. That seemed to confirm one of Morgana’s darker suspicions about him, but it was of little consequence in the current situation.

As she crossed, a voice called out to her.

“You! Do you want a snack?”

Morgana looked up, her eyes immediately tracking the call of the voice. It came from a large, tub-like container. She stood up on her hind legs and looked in, only to find that it was full of ice- -and one pony. She lay sprawled out in the ice, completely nude, save for numerous samples of food that had been arranged precisely over her body.

“Goddamn this is weird…”

“It’s not weird! The delicious and well-refrigerated Trixie bids you to try her delicious snacks! You’ll find their savory and well-seasoned! Come on, try them!”

Another voice whispered from a second ice tube. “Mila, we’re not supposed to talk!”

Morgana took note of a second nude pony laid out in ice. This one was a Coco Pommel unit- -themselves a rarity despite their popularity- -who had been decorated with a number of small confections placed against her bare skin.

“Quiet you!” The Trixie unit turned her head carefully toward Morgana, nearly spilling a piece of beef tartar off her forehead in the process. “Don’t go to her! Her desserts will make you fat!”

“No,” moaned the Pommel. “They’re fine in moderation!”

“No! They’ll make you fat! Fat I say, FAT!”

“I’m a pony,” said Morgana. “I can’t get fat.”

“Well you’ve certainly done a good job of it regardless! Trixie has low fat options for you, fatty!”

“I don’t have to take this from a serving tray pony. I think I’ll have a macaroon.” Morgana pulled herself down from the tub and went to the Coco Pommel unit. The Coco Pommel seemed as though she was about to burst into tears, but when in awe when Morgana came to her.

“No! No, wait!” called the Trixie. “I’m sorry! Don’t tell my manager! One more complaint and Trixie gets fired!”

Morgana picked up a macaroon and took a bite. It was certainly expensive, but to her pony senses it tasted like paper. “Right. Fine. But I was wondering if you two could help me.”

“We have a concierge on staff,” said the Pommel, trying to be quiet. “You can ask him for assistance.”

“I don’t want to ask him. I want to ask you two.”

The Coco Pommel looked afraid, but Morgana saw the Trixie almost visibly inflating with self-importance.

“Trixie would be glad to be of assistance…if you take some couscous.”

Morgana walked over and did so. It, like the macaroon, tasted like paper- -and likely cost more than Valla’s monthly paycheck.

“There. Is Trixie delicious or what?”

“It all tastes the same to me. Now. Are both of you network-sealed?”

The Trixie looked confused, but the Coco Pommel answered. “Yes. It was a requirement for the job.”

“Good. Stay that way. Second question. I’m looking for somebody.”

“The concierge- -”

“I’m not looking for the concierge. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Then…then who?”

“Have you seen anything unusual? Either of you?”

The two shook their heads, and the Trixie’s beef tartar started to slide. Morgana scooped it off her forehead and took a bite of it. As she reached, she noted that the tubs were made of thick insulated material. The filling was most likely plated and extremely thick nonconductive alloy.

“Sorry to bother you two. You can go back to…this. But I’m going to give you a warning: stay inyour trays. No matter what happens.”

“Of course.”

“The elegant and well-stocked Trixie is not an idiot!”

Although Morgana doubted that assertion, she did not say so. Instead, she left the pair of them as more guests came for their respective pastries and chilled meat snacks. She progressed outward, intending to move toward the windows and take a lap around the entire venue. That would prevent anyone from sneaking up on at least one of her sides, and give her both a view of the floor and of the rooves of buildings outside.

Morgana stopped, though, when she heard the distinct sound of a violin being played. She paused, listening. The song was slow and sad, but technically precise. To a human it would likely have sounded quite beautiful; to Morgana it sounded like the sum of frequencies generated by a clearly expert player. Her ears pricked and turned toward the sound, her head following them. It was coming from across the floor, where a group of people were standing.

Curious, Morgana approached. The area in question had clearly been meant for a band, but the band was still in the process of setting up their instruments. All of them had paused, turning their attention toward the song being played. It was immediately apparent that the man playing was not one of their members at all. He was shorter than the rest, and dressed in a red velvet suit. At his feet stood four Scootaloos.

The song slowed as Maurice finished his song. Morgana was sure that she saw a blood-stained tear drip from one of his asymmetrical bright-green eyes. He gave a long sigh, and the crowd actually began to clap for him. His Scootaloos did as well, and he handed the violin back to the player it was meant for before stepping down from the stage.

“Maurice.”

Maurice’s eyes turned sharply toward Morgana. Upon seeing her, he smiled broadly- -but only with his mouth. His freshly transplanted eyes showed no signs of levity or enjoyment, only tiredness.

“Hello there,” he said, stepping toward Morgana as the remainder of the crowd dispersed. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” One of his Scootaloos giggled, as if to punctuate the point that he was obviously lying.

“I didn’t know you played.”

“My mother insisted I learn, back when I was a kid. It’s harder now.” He held up his hands. They were both different sizes and skin-tones, and the finger he had lost before had been replaced with a fresh one. The surgical delineation at its base was still fresh. “But that’s only the second time I’ve ever played that song. I played it the day she died. Do you know what from?”

“Tuberculosis. Age twenty four.”

“You know me well, don’t you?”

“I know what I need to know.”

“But not that I play violin. So not everything.” He sighed and threw his head back for a moment, before laughing and leaning forward. This laugh was genuine, but sardonic. “And I’m sure you know who I am, don’t you?”

Morgana did not know where he was going with this, but she stayed silent, instead electing to slowly shake her head.

Maurice laughed again. “Today? Today I’m Nero. Playing the fiddle on the hill as Rome burns. One last party, one last look at the life I should have had if I hadn’t been an idiot.” He walked to a large chair and sat down. The least-dressed of his Scootaloo’s jumped onto the chair with him, while the only one of them that wore a suit stayed at his side on the floor. “Because it’s all over. It’s all burning in Hell. And it’s all my fault, isn’t it?”

“You’re going to have to forgive me if I don’t understand. I’ve been dealing with…things.”

Maurice leaned forward and put his head in his hand, looking down at the floor. “It’s funny. Do you know why I did it? Don’t answer. You already know. Peace. That’s why I did it. Peace and love. And I had it. I almost had it all. Peace between the dark vassals, the criminal underworld.”

“There has been peace. For the last hundred years.”

“Because I was here. Because of the blood, sweat, tears, and flesh I put into this city. Rising to the top, taking command.” He shook his head. “You have no idea how many Scootaloo’s I’ve lost…” The Scootaloo’s at his side sensed his depression and hugged him, attempting to make him feel better. He smiled and put his arms around their largely naked bodies. “But it’s all over now. The underworld is burning. The war is back on, and I can’t put it back this time.”

“The gang war? You mean there’s over fighting?”

Maurice nodded solemnly. “There is.”

“That could tear the city apart. Aetna-Cross hasn’t had to deal with all-out turf ward in ages…and I would bet my horn that almost all of them are spread thin looking for a certain violet pony.”

“Yeah. I know. They’ve really got their hands full, don’t they? They already let it go too far. Too hot, too fast. Too late. But it’s not really their fault. I should have seen this coming. But I was an idiot. Me. Maurice. King of Scootaloos. And they bent me over and rammed me like a cheap whore…”

“You mean the Cult of Humanity.”

Maurice looked up suddenly, his eyesnarrow and fiery. “So you know.”

“You put me on the right track. I hope that isn’t why they turned on you.”

“It is. But it also isn’t, isn’t it? Because that whore would have turned on me anyway. They were waiting. Planning. And I danced to their tune until they decided to burn it all to shit.”

“What do you know about them?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I didn’t even know that was what they called themselves. ‘Cult of Humanity’. That’s a stupid name. But if their a cult…that makes sense. A bunch of freaks…”

“If you don’t even know their name, why did you work with them?”

“Because names aren’t strictly required in my business. Trust is. But I broke my own rules on that one and screwed myself. Their offer was too tempting.”

“What did they promise you?”

“I already told you. Peace. To finish what I started. Uniting the gangs.”

“Under yourself.”

“Who else? Nobody else is as old as I am…or will live as long. Or would have. So yes. To unite all the city’s crime under me- -and to declare myself a vassal.”

“They lied, then, didn’t they?”

“Of course they lied!” shouted Maurice. “Look at what they did to me!” His voice dropped, and he leaned forward. “Look, Morgana. You’re in deep shit. Deeper than you know. I’m already dead. One last party before everything I have is gone. But I’m going to be nice. One last warning. If they come to you? Don’t believe anything they say. Don’t make deals with them. Don’t trust them. Or you’ll end up like me.”

He leaned back and hugged his Scootaloos. He then set one on the ground. “Eight nine six, get us some champagne! Four glasses- -hell, just bring a bottle! I’m going to toast my own downfall and enjoy the hell out of it!”

Maurice laughed, and Morgana knew that she was not going to get any more out of him. He knew almost nothing; they had only used him as a puppet without revealing any of their true nature to him.

The crowd that had listened to him had mostly dispersed. Standing where it had been, though, was a Roxanne. She was speaking to a tall human. He was dressed in what appeared to be white and blue dress armor, complete with a side arm. His face was exposed, and it was apparent that it had been ravaged by endless cosmetic surgery. The result made him look barely human- -his skin was nothing but a receding mass of scars tightly stretched across a repeatedly reconstructed skull. The cost of his surgeries had clearly been great, though, so by the standards of those around him he was immensely beautiful. He seemed to be quite aware of this; while he spoke, he stood tall and straight, occasionally sipping from a flute of champagne.

“Darling,” said Roxanne, pivoting toward Morgana. “Have you met Commander Nikolosov?”

“Please, please,” chuckled the man. “There is no need for formal titles, my lovely dear. Dimitri is more than adequate.” He turned toward Morgana. “Pleased to meet you, miss…?”
“Lily. Lily Twilight Sparkle.”

“Indeed.” The commander eyed Morgana somewhat suspiciously. “You may have heard that we are actually on the lookout for one of your kind.”

“And you think she would be here, at this party?” asked Roxanne.

Nikolosov laughed gracefully. “No, no my dear, of course not!”

“To be honest,” said Morgana, “it was something of a concern for me. Myself, as well as my six sisters. And mother. All Twilight Sparkles. We are quite aware of your search for this…criminal.”

“And you’re worried about profiling. A more than legitimate concern, I’m sure.” Nikolosov’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say your name was? I’ve attended the Bottlebrush galas since their inception, and I’ve never met you.”

“Lily is adequate. My family works in antiques. The sort of very high-end antiques that favor merchants having reclusive personalities. I was born six months ago. I apparently do not share my sisters’ or mother’s aversion to proper social behavior.”

“Of course, of course. Sometimes I forget how different you ponies can be from one another.”

Roxanne smiled her best smile, one that Morgana knew well as the kind she used for customer service. “Dimitri and I were actually just talking about that beautiful violin song. He’s really knowledgeable.”

“Yes,” said Morgana. “And you are aware of who it was playing it, weren’t you?”

Nikolosov smiled, or at least tried to, as he did not have lips. He raised his glass toward where Maurice was sitting. “Of course! A beautiful swan-song for organized crime in this city!”

“It’s just surprising seeingMaurice Shooker and the commander of Aetna-Cross’s primary Enforcement precinct at the same party.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Nikolosov looked surprised by Morgana’s assertion. “We’re from the same status in society. Myself by heritage, him by effort. Which puts me higher, I suppose. But we of course need to be civil. Bickering over professional differences will not do.”

“And yet you toast his downfall.”

“Of course. I’m still an officer of the law. It’s just that that sort of crime…well, you can’t handle it through the normal ways. It’s complicated. I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“What you mean is that Enforcement is political.”

Nikolosov’s expression hardened slightly. “Enforcement is a division of the Corporation. Corporations are inherently political, yes. If law could be enforced evenly, there would still be courts.”

Roxanne broke into the conversation. “Come on now, you two don’t need to fight! Unless it’s over me.” She giggled to herself. “I mean, that would make sense.”

Nikkolosov smiled again. “To be honest I would almost consider it. You clearly have an eye for design. Do you dance?”

“Why yes. Are you asking me to the floor?”

“Once the band starts, I will indeed. That is, if your date does not mind.”

Morgana was about to protest, but Roxanne interrupted her. “But while we’re waiting, there’s something that’s bothering me.”

“Oh? What exactly?”

“Well it’s just that you’re the commander of Enforcement, right?”

“I am.”

“Alright. Well, just having you here makes me feel so much better…but this place uses private security. I was kind of hoping I would see some of your soldiers guarding us. I mean, after talking with you, I’m sure under your guidance your troops would be so much superior to these guys. And I don’t think you all alone displays just how powerful you really are.”

“Of course, of course,” chuckled Nikolosov. “But I can’t flaunt my power everywhere, now can I? I would hate to embarrass the others. No. Bottlebrush employs private security, and that’s their prerogative. I suppose it makes some of the guests feel at ease.”

“It doesn’t make me feel any better.” Roxanne brushed up against Nikolosov’s leg. “I’d feel so much safer if I had another ten of you here with me!”

“Unfortunately, I’m the only one of my kind. But one should be enough.” Nikolosov bent down and patted Roxanne’s back. “If you want to feel better, though, I do have a small detail nearby. Just in case.”

“That does make me feel a little better. And you’re so humble about it…”

Nikolosov patted her again and then stood up. “Indeed. Although nothing will happen. I’m sure of it.”

Morgana spoke. “Or did you just devote your troops to more productive endeavors?”

“Perceptive. To be positively candid, yes. You are right. We are devoting our full attention to capturing the criminal Morgana Twilight Sparkle, and ending her as quickly as possible.”

“Is she really that dangerous?” asked Roxanne. “I’ve heard stories! She sounds like a terrible, horrible person!”

“I cannot attest to her personality, but if the Corporation wants her eliminated then it is guaranteed that she is an extremely reprehensible individual. We are devoting our full effort to capturing her.”

“Because she’s dangerous?” asked Morgana.

“Of course.” Nikolosov paused. “And to demonstrate Aetna-Cross’s superiority over other vassals.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning our Enforcement is vastly superior to what other vassals possess. I’m sure you’ve heard that the order for her death is present throughout the continent. Many Corporations are seeking her- -but we will be the ones who find her.”

“And you’ll be the one who presents her processor and head to the unified boards personally.”

“Of course.”

“So heroic!” giggled Roxanne. “Like a knight with the head of a dragon!”

“I like that analogy. And like a knight, there is glory to be won here. And I intend to claim it. For Aetna-Cross, of course. Whatever it takes.”