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- >A loose piece of paper tumbles across the pavement.
- >For one second, it is the sole thing you focus on.
- >Not the oppressively dense fog.
- >Not the line of filthy people, yourself included, waiting for the line to move, if only just a tiny bit.
- >Not the heavily-armed, armored police keeping watch of the crowd gathered in front of the ration depot.
- >It's cold, being late fall, and your shabby jacket has no chance of keeping out the wind.
- >The surgical mask over your face has no chance of keeping out the sickness, either.
- >You try to quell a shiver, and burrow your hands a little deeper into your pockets.
- >You take a deep breath, and attempt to keep your thoughts away from the fact that they might run out of food before you even reach the entrance.
- >They have before.
- >You feel a tap on your shoulder.
- >"The line is moving ahead, keep going,"
- >The guard to your left addresses you in an irritated tone.
- >You don't need to see the expression behind his gas mask know that he's losing his patience.
- >You begin to take the few steps that mark the advancement of the line.
- >Then things start to go fuzzy.
- >"Hey!"
- >"Come on, wake up!"
- >Wait what?
- >"Wake up, we're here!"
- >Your eyes snap open as your dream of a time long past dissolves around you.
- >The plagues are over, and there's enough food that everyone can get by.
- >What more concerns you now is getting yourself a slave.
- >"Fell asleep on the bus, now did ya?"
- >That you did.
- "Great. Are we at the auction house already?"
- >You rub your eyes and step into the aisle.
- >"Yep,"
- >The guy sitting next to you hands you your coat, which you left on the seat.
- >The bus door squeaks open and you exit the vehicle.
- >You enter the local civic center where the auction is taking place.
- >Most towns host them like this, they're a decent source of funding.
- >With the war over, and so much of the population lost, enslavement of the ponies actually got enough support to pass through congress.
- >With a little bit of corporate nudging, mind you.
- >The man at the desk approves your papers, and you enter into the correct room.
- >You eye the ponies on display.
- >They all look kind of scared, but you have to suppress a chuckle at how terrified that yellow one looks.
- >Blue, rainbow-hair one looks like a bitch.
- >Mint-green unicorn? Maybe...
- >The big red earth pony doesn't look like he'd be good for anything other than farmwork.
- >Hmm...
- >You take a look at the others, too, but can't seem to make up your mind.
- >More people file in as the bidding begins.
- >First up is some earth pony mare, fetching an alright price.
- >You decide not to bid that time, and instead examine the ones in line to be sold.
- >Still don't have much of an idea as to which one you want.
- >They pull out the yellow pegasus you saw earlier.
- >You'd bid, but she seems timid as fuck.
- >Not the type of slave that belongs with you.
- >"Going once... Going twice... Sold to the man in the back corner!"
- >She's dragged away in tears.
- >Next up is a purple unicorn.
- >You bid twice, but stop after the price gets to be more than $1500.
- >It's a shame, telekinesis would have been handy for the job were looking to fill.
- >Looking back to the ponies in line, a light blue pegasus stallion with a darker mane catches your attention.
- >Might just be who you're looking for.
- >You're sure he's strong enough to move equipment around the boat.
- >Doesn't look too fucking dense, either.
- >You'll go for him.
- >He is led up after a couple more purchases, giving a weary look into the crowd with his green eyes.
- >You've got just about $3000 in your wallet, and you'll damn well spend it all to get the pone you want.
- >Bids start at $500.
- >One clueless fuck dooms himself to losing by wanting the same thing that you do.
- >"I'll go 500!"
- >Some other shitwad raises it to 600.
- >The first guy retorts:
- >"Six-fifty!"
- >You watch as they slowly raise the bid.
- >"Seven-eighty-five!"
- >"Eight hundred!"
- >"830!"
- >You decide to butt in.
- "One thousand!"
- >One of the two guys gives up, probably out of money.
- >But this other motherfucker...
- >"Fifteen-hundred!"
- >Oh no you don't.
- "Seventeen-fifty!"
- >He hesitates for a second.
- >"$2000,"
- >He looks desperate, $2000 must be close to all he has.
- "Twenty-two-fifty,"
- >"Going once..."
- >You smirk.
- >"Going twice..."
- >You're getting your pony.
- >That's right.
- >"$2500, that's all I can offer,"
- >Then he isn't getting the goddamn pegasus.
- "Three thousand!"
- >The auctioneer says his thing, this time uninterrupted.
- >"Sold to the guy in the third row, left side, in the black coat!"
- >Fuck yes.
- >You walk up to the side of the room where a desk is set up.
- >You receive his registration, miscellaneous documents you don't care about, and a shock collar.
- >One of the guys brings the pony over while the next, the big red guy, is dragged into place.
- >The stallion stares at the ground dejectedly as the man hands you his lead.
- >"Good choice sir, have a nice day,"
- >You look at the pegasus you've just purchased.
- >Depressed-looking, but overall not bad for the price you paid.
- >You're sure he'll be fine after a while.
- "Thank you,"
- >You leave the auction house, the pony only lagging slightly behind you.
- >He must be just about as tired as you are.
- >Stepping onto the curb, you find the bus idling a short distance away.
- "So..."
- >He slowly raises his head, his eyes dull.
- >Damn, he looks sad.
- >You forgot what you were going to say.
- >Instead, you take a look at one of the sheets of paper the auctioneer gave you.
- >It's a basic profile.
- >Name: Soarin'
- >At least you know his name, now.
- >Former Occupation: EUP reservist/show flier
- >Interesting...
- >Capture: Trottingham, eastern Equestria, by Senegalese Army.
- >You never really worked with them, you were on the other front.
- >You didn't really get why they put you, partially fluent in French, on the other side of the continent, with a bunch of Brazilians.
- >Anyway...
- >You continue reading.
- >Notes: Slight depression issue.
- >Fucking seriously?
- >*Slight* depression issue?
- >They think they can downplay *that*?
- >You look over at Soarin, who is staring sadly at the ground.
- >You also realize you've been standing out in the cold for five minutes.
- "Hey, you wanna wait on the bus? It's actually got a heater,"
- >He glances at you with a weary expression.
- >"I guess so,"
- >He replies in a gravelly, apathetic voice.
- >Yeah, put depression on your list of things you need taken care of.
- >Your squad and the Brazilians you are attached with are sitting around a bonfire, getting drunk as fuck.
- >Suspended over the fire by a spit is the skinned, sizzling corpse of a royal guard, a unicorn mare.
- >You don't care how immoral what you're about to do is, you haven't eaten anything other than meager, heavily processed rations for four years.
- >Just the thought of something fresh makes you salivate.
- >People saw meat off its body with combat knives in a fashion as orderly as 35 wasted soldiers can muster.
- >You get some leg meat and stumble back to the log you were sitting on, taking a bite of the morsel.
- >Tastes decent...
- >The 20-odd POWs, guarded by a few sober group members, are completely mortified, some crying or retching at what they see.
- >The leader of the Brazilian platoon removes the roasted guard's horn with his machete, and gives it to your sergeant.
- >A fine souvenir from your time in the Amazon, if you do say so yourself.
- >When you open your eyes, you are no longer in the rainforest.
- >Nope, you're in bed, at home, and you've put those times behind you.
- >People did crazy shit during the war...
- >You pull on some decent clothes while thinking about what to make for breakfast.
- >Wonder what Soarin would eat?
- >You'll just go with cereal.
- >Hard to go wrong with that.
- >Before you make breakfast, though, you take the tarnished royal guard helmet off your mantle and hide it.
- >Don't need Soarin seeing that.
- >You also put another picture in front of the one that shows you and your buddies dancing on the ashes of Canterlot.
- >You go over to the guest room, now occupied by your pony.
- >You locked the door last night, but in his state, you don't think he'll try anything.
- >Still, just to be safe, you unlock it as silently as possible, stand to the side of the door, and quickly pry it open.
- >He's just sitting there, casually flipping through a magazine.
- >No, not *that* kind of magazine, Anons.
- >You guys really do have dirty minds.
- "Good morning, Soarin,"
- >He looks like he's wondering how you know his name, but he rolls with it.
- >"Uh, good morning?"
- >Yes, he actually says it like there's a question mark at the end of the sentence.
- "Feel free to make yourself at home or something. What'd you like for breakfast?"
- >He looks at you unsurely and scratches his unkempt mane idly with a hoof.
- >"Uh... Well, I guess- uh... What do you have?"
- >What do you have?
- >Hmm...
- >"Let's see... Oatmeal, cereal, toast, maybe some fruit, yogurt, or bagels, if you want,"
- >His eyes brighten up slightly at the prospect of real, good-quality food.
- >"Toast sounds fine,"
- >He does a bad job hiding the slight smile forming on his face.
- "Alright, find something to keep yourself occupied, I'll go make breakfast,"
- >"Thank you, uh..."
- "Anon. My name's Anon,"
- >"Yeah, well thanks,"
- >He's genuinely happy.
- >You walk into your small kitchen.
- >It is time for master chef Anon to shine.
- >There's a loaf of bread in that drawer... Or so you thought.
- >You spend a solid minute searching for the goddamned bread, finally finding it behind the microwave.
- >How the fuck it got there, you haven't the slightest clue.
- >With your culinary prowess, you burn the toast like it's Ponyville after the firebombings, then manage to completely mangle it while trying to scrape off the burnt parts.
- >Comme un artiste.
- >While putting it on a plate, you realize you forgot to ask Soarin what he wanted on his toast.
- >Ah, fuck it. You're too lazy to ask, so you just go with butter.
- >Who doesn't like butter on toast?
- >You find Soarin in the living room.
- >He doesn't notice you, he's just kind of standing around, looking at the photos on the far wall.
- >There are a few ones with family that he glances at, but what catches his attention is one of you in a dress uniform, walking off the ramp of a C-130.
- >You still remember that day, finally returning home was nice.
- >He turns back to look at you.
- "Well, I've got breakfast. Go ahead, take a seat,"
- >"Alright,"
- >Good to distract him from that subject, you're sure he has bad memories of the war.
- >You can talk to him about those later.
- >Soarin complies and plops himself down in an armchair.
- >You hand him the plate, and he wastes no time digging in.
- >Shit, was this pony starved or something?
- >Yep, probably.
- >He finishes the first piece, and attacks the second one with zeal.
- >When he's done, he still looks hungry.
- "Yeesh, want something more? I've got more food,"
- >He looks up at you, eyes wide.
- >"I can have more food?"
- >Yep, those slavers sure do a shit job of feeding their ponies.
- >You nod.
- "Yeah. Want more toast, or something else?"
- >He takes a second, absorbing what he's hearing.
- >"M-more toast... Would be nice,"
- >The way he's tearing up about the prospect of getting a third piece of toast reminds you of when you first were drafted into the army:
- >After almost dying of starvation, your mind was fucking blown when you realized the military had enough MREs to provide *two* meals a day, not just one.
- >Shit, you felt guilty for being a damn glutton because of those two measly packs of shit-tier food you received daily.
- >Same thing is happening with Soarin here.
- >He looks like everything he's ever known was blown away just because you said he could have a second serving.
- >Tears well in his eyes as he embraces you with his forehooves.
- >"Thank you, Anon. Thank you,"
- >Even though the pegasus is weak with starvation, his hug still forces air out of you.
- >You have some understanding of where he's coming from, but you still can't help but pity him.
- >Those papers said he was, what? 19 years old?
- >You were only a bit older than that when you were drafted, but, I mean, you did win the war (and get a decent therapist afterwards).
- >And even though awful shit happened, you were the one doing it, not having it happen to you.
- >Soarin here has seen his entire adult life ruined by a conflict he probably never knew would start.
- >Sucks for him.
- >Either way, you should probably go make more food, Soarin wanted some and you haven't eaten yet.
- >And this whole hug thing is getting awkward, fast.
- "Okay, Soarin, uh, I get this 'undying gratitude' stuff, but if you want more food, I kinda have to go make it,"
- >He lets go finally, a sheepish grin on his face.
- >"Y-yeah, sorry..."
- >He sucks at hiding the flush on his cheeks.
- >You laugh it off and enter the kitchen.
- >This time, the toast isn't half as badly butchered, and you make some for yourself, too.
- >You head back into the living room with two heaping plates of toast.
- >Courtesy of Master Chef Anon.
- >You both begin to eat your food.
- >Neither of you talk, consumed by eating.
- >You look up at the photo on the wall, chastising yourself for not hiding it.
- >You don't care if he finds out you were in the army.
- >So many people served, it's only natural that there was a chance you fought in the war.
- >What you really cared about was little filly that was in your backpack at the time.
- >You wanted to make sure he'd never hear about her.
- >You are private first class Anon Y. Mous.
- >And you've found what was making the noises.
- >A small white filly, sprawled on the ground, a shattered horn poking through her pink-and-purple hair.
- >Where one of her back legs should be, there is only a ragged, gory stump that ends before the first joint.
- >Blood and ash are spattered all over her coat.
- >In between sobs, she cries, with labored breaths, for help.
- >She looks up to you, her tear-moistened green eyes desperate, almost pleading.
- >"P-please... It hurts, h-help,"
- >She begs in a voice laden with pain.
- >"I-it hurts s-so much,"
- >Does she care that you're the enemy?
- >"P-please,"
- >Of course not, she's a scared, hurt child who just wants comfort.
- >A corporal from your squad, who is going by, nudges you on the shoulder.
- >"She's yours, 'Mous, get it done and get moving,"
- >You sigh.
- "Yes, sir,"
- >Two conflicted, staccato words.
- >He runs off to catch the rest of the group.
- >You know very well what a "She's yours" means.
- >You ask for forgiveness.
- >You remove your pistol from the holster on your vest.
- >And pause.
- >Distant screams can be heard over the thunder of artillery and the pops of rifle fire.
- >The burning buildings can be seen, even through the thick cloud of smoke forming over the village.
- >And at your feet lies a terrified, broken filly, now fervently begging for her life at the sight of your weapon.
- >What a night.
- >You line up the sights on her head.
- >At least you'll make it quick.
- >You switch off the safety.
- >She's only a child...
- >The child of an enemy.
- >You move your finger to the trigger...
- >The hoof shaking your back brings you back to awareness.
- >You're breathing raggedly, cold sweat stinging your skin.
- >Your eyes begin to refocus, bringing the living room back into view.
- >Fuck...
- >Reminiscing a little too vividly on the old war days, now were you?
- >You look down to your right, where you're pretty sure Soarin must be.
- >The concerned look wipes off his face as he shrinks back from your gaze.
- >Does he really think you're enough of a dick to hit a pony because they were concerned about you?
- >Are you?
- >Dick enough to mess with the poor guy, that's for sure.
- "DID I ASK YOU TO CHECK ON ME?!"
- >You yell with unnecessary volume.
- >Soarin looks fucking mortified. He quickly tries to stutter out a response:
- >"Uh, well, n-no... B-but you w-weren't responding, I wanted to-"
- "BUT DID I ASK?! HUH?!"
- >He's looking like he's regretting his life choices at this point.
- >He shrinks away even further, clenching his eyes shut.
- >"Please! I j-just wanted to help!"
- >Too far, Anon, too far.
- >The joke is over.
- "Shit, man, calm down! I was just fuckin' with you!"
- >Soarin whimpers from the corner he's backed into.
- >"Huh?"
- >You sigh.
- "It was supposed to be a joke,"
- >He looks up at you and visibly calms down.
- >"A joke?"
- >Mmhm.
- "Yeah. I will say I was glad to see you were actually concerned for my wellbeing,"
- >The look of confusion still evident on his face, he responds.
- >"Uh, thanks,"
- >While you were spaced out, he could have easily left you there, broken a window, and made a run for it.
- >Hell, he could have even killed you.
- >But he didn't.
- >This pony is actually starting to gain your respect.
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