✍️ Write based on the line prompt above

"Don't you think it's time to hang it up?"

"What?" It's noon on July 17, 2032: a glowing summer Saturday. Jeffery Mendoza stands in his newly-decorated apartment bedroom, facing parallel to the glass desk he will be committing to as he begins work on his comic autobiography sometime in the near future. His roommate and best friend, Zachary Xavier, stands behinds him, arm casually crossed. He, too, has been moving in this fine day. He and Jeffery had spent far too long camping out in an extra room of his brothers' house across the neighborhood. It was about time they both turned over a new leaf -- for better or for worse.

"Jeffery." Zachary's eyes shift down and off to the side, a gesture that goes unnoticed by Jeffery as he is facing the opposite direction in thoughtful emptiness. "You know what I'm talking about."

With a heavy sigh, Jeffery inhales and shakily exhales, then turns to face the box that Zachary inevitably had been looking towards. It's a small one, meant only to hold one simple possession. 

Despite the extreme amounts of packing peanuts and bubble wrap encasing its contents, Jeffery's feelings towards this thing remain mish-mashed and unclear. He hates what it represents, but somehow feels odd marking it as just another belonging of his. This one seems to have a mind of its own.

Zachary watches in soulful silence as Jeffery takes one small step over to the box, leans over, tears away the tape, and pulls out a mask.

Simple and light, it was designed for concealment and violence. Upon its glossy white surface there are two wide painted eyes, lime and moss striped, with scarlet markings on the cheek that extend down to the edges of its upturned lips, mouth stuck agape in some wicked displayment of satisfaction. Atop its round form sits two circular ears: those of a bear, to match the triangular nose jutting out from the center of the face.

Jeffery stiffly rises to his full height again, then glances uncomfortably towards Zachary, his breath caught in his chest. "What did you want me to do with it?"

"Hang it up." He nods and points his one arm simply towards an empty spot between the window above the desk and the edge of the closet's sliding glass door. "I made sure to leave some room for it there. It should fit well enough."

Jeffery holds onto the sentiment for a few moments, then lightly scoffs. "Why would I hang it up?"

"Because it's your mask?" Zachary, now concerned, steps towards Jeffery and lightly sets his hand upon his shoulder. "Come on, dude, it's... it's your mask."

Jeffery pulls away and squats down again to place it back into its box, shaking his head, eyebrows furrowed with annoyance.

"No, no. Come on, Zachary. You know that Marshal doesn't deserve that kind of well treatment, right? Marshal doesn't deserve that."

Zachary now stands stiffly, looking quite bewildered facing Jeffery as he stands back up again with the closed box in his hands.

"Marshal? Wh-who is..."

"Shit." Jeffery slaps his forehead as if he'd revealed some sort of secret. "I'm sorry. Marshal. The mask. He's a mask. I mean, it's a mask." He suddenly raises his voice at no one. "ZACHARY-"

As Jeffery meets Zachary's gaze once more and sees his look of concern, he shakes his head once more to clear it, then heads towards the back of the deep closet.

"Long story short: the mask is going in the back of the closet. There is no way in hell that I'm hanging that mask up to watch over us while we sleep, no way. And that's it. That's the end of it."

Of course Jeffery is entitled to his own opinions, Zachary thinks, but as Jeffery quite simply places the mask's box atop his sealed box of old weapons, he cannot stop himself from thinking that perhaps this isn't the healthiest way for Jeffery to deal with this. To mask his past in such a way. To leave it all in a box at the bottom of the closet. To tear off a part of himself and cast it away like an unwanted shell.

"Well, that-" Captain Halley said cheerfully and leaned against a heavy collapsed beam to move it out of the way so he could deactivate the fire suppression system, "- did not quite go as expected." 

"No shit, Captain," first officer Valiant shot back, his usual decorum gone. He wasn't scared - not anymore, anyway - but quietly seething, resenting the unwelcome change of plan. The shuttle crash hadn't been the Captain's fault, not really - just a technical malfunction and neither of them had been paying attention, too tired to care and too used to trusting autopilots to consider that anything could go quite that wrong. In that moment, Nick didn't really care. 

The fire suppression shut off after that and revealed the full extent of the damage: Twisted metal, charred polymers. The board computer had been well and truly dead for twenty-five minutes. Even if the cots had survived, there would be no way to get them out of the walls without the computer. 'Serious design flaw,' Nick thought, 'gotta make note of that for the developers' - and then realized that they'd been hunted as rogue elements for over two months now. The devs wouldn't give a rat's ass about his complaints. 

The captain gave him a strange look. "You alright, Nick?" he asked. 

'Nick', not 'Valiant'. Asking as a friend, not a captain.  

"I'm fine," he replied begrudgingly.

"You sure?"

"... no. Yes. Maybe? Look, I'll be fine, really."

"Just shaken?"

Nick sighed, all the fight and the righteous anger evaporating. "Pretty much. Little banged up too, now that I think of it, but nothing worse than a bruise." He paused, really looked at the captain, damp and bedraggled from the sprinklers and still leaning against that metal beam. There was a weird stiffness to it that Nick hadn't noticed before, but now he had and was duly concerned.

"How're you, Halley?" 

'Halley', not 'Captain'. Not 'Evander' either. One day, perhaps.

"Uh."

The captain held his right arm - the organic one - cradled against his abdomen. Nick hadn't noticed before. 

"Captain Halley, are you injured?" Nick asked again, more urgently now.

A sheepish look.

"Nothing the nanobots won't fix," he replied, "and I didn't want to worry you."

"Ev- Halley. What's wrong."

"Cracked something. Collarbone? I think? Look, I'll be fine in no time, it's not a big deal these days. More importantly - how are we going to get off the planet?"

Nick sighed, already surveying the ruined shuttle for usable scraps.

"Guess we'll have to improvise," he said and set to work.

"Wow, that was a terrible idea."

"Listen- I just wanted to have a nice dinner! He's always the one cooking, I thought I'd try for once."

"Aw, that's really sweet. You definitely still tried to kill him though."

"I didn't try to-! He didn't tell me he was allergic to shellfish!!"

"Yeah. Still tried to kill him."

"He's throwing up, he's not dead."

"Yet."

Anvil looked at Santiana with such horror in his eyes that she immediately felt the need to apologize.

"Sorry, yeah no, Armin'll be fine. He's dealt with worse than an upset stomach, definitely."

"But it's still my fault! What if he's angry?"

"What, at you? I've never seen him looking anything other than 'totawwy in wuv' with you."

"Oh shut up."

"Seriously! He loves you, he's not going to come after you just 'cause his stupid little body can't eat clams."

This got a snort of laughter from Anvil, and Santiana felt herself relax a bit.

"Annie, you're fine, and Armin will be fine. You should probably uh, go check on him or something though."

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, shit, sorry! I'll take care of the kitchen when I'm back-"

"Nah, I got it. I'll take care of this mess; you go deal with yours while he's still throwing up."

It was the night after finals, and everyone was out partying away their stress and pain. Distant cheers and shouts rang up and down the halls for most of the evening, and music from neighboring rooms was on full-blast up until the last half hour or so. This late in the night, the early-birds were already long gone, and the hardcore party people were just starting to trickle out, most of them intoxicated and stumbling out in pairs. At that point, all they could think of was going home, crawling into bed, and passing out.

The only two souls left in this particular dorm room were Calypso and Sol. Calypso was in the middle of drunkenly contemplating his next track, barely noting the change of the room's atmosphere. Sol was moving in the background, cleaning up after the folks who had left, and watching with fascination as the young man continued not to notice the change in environment. In a way, he was grateful, as this was his dorm room, and he liked to keep the place clean for special guests.

Once he finishes tidying up, he positions himself in Calypso's peripheral vision, clears his throat, and proceeds with the line he's had prepared all night.
"Ah, it's just you and me, isn't it? What a funny coincidence!"

Before Calypso could even eke out a reply, Sol had already sensed his opportunity to glide deep into his personal space and was pressing up against him, his arms loosely settling around his waist.
"Hey, you smell nice. Sit down."
The taller man was definitely not prepared for the smaller's weight to suddenly - drastically? - increase, tipping him backwards and toppling them both onto the sofa behind them.

A startled, quiet "...What?" escapes Calypso's mouth, his mind slow to catch up.

"Scootchie scootchie," Sol purrs, pointedly ignoring the other's bewilderment.

Calypso, face flushed as he catches on, silently complies, making room for the other boy to crawl on top of him as he leans back and gets comfortable. He's about to open his mouth to question Sol's intentions, but the other is quick to talk over him.

"Good, perfect! You're so cute, I just wanna kiss your face." The praise makes Calypso avert his gaze.

Sol leans forward and smiles down at him. The sight makes Calypso's heart skip; he bites his lip. It's not often that Sol takes his mask off. His face is very pretty and soft looking.
Satisfied, the white-haired boy continues, fluttering his pale lashes and putting the charm on. "Hmmmmm... I suppose we could do that... But, I think I might wanna cuddle and play with your hair more. Kihi~"

"Oh dear lord," Calypso groans, his mouth running before he could stop it.
Being near the boy was nigh on torture on his heart as it was, let alone under the influence. He covers his face with an arm, half-tempted to shove Sol off of him. His curiosity gets the better of him, though, and once he takes a second to compose himself, he meets Sol's eyes again.

Sol's pink eyes were boring into him, a toothy grin plastered on his face.
"Kihihi... Unless my darling Calypso wants to play?"

"D-Darling?" Calypso sputters, taken aback.

"Did I stutter, sweetheart?"
Sol leans back, flipping his hair over his shoulders and making a motion to shrug his jacket off. He squints gleefully as he watches Calypso's expression contort before him.

Calypso swallows, trying his best to sound cool and composed. He fails, miserably, and his voice cracks.
"Are you... Propositioning me?"
Fuck.

"What if I am?~"

"... I've never-" Calypso starts.
Sol shushes him before he has the chance to continue his train of thought.

"Don't worry about it! I've got it covered. 'Sides..." His expression darkens, his smile becoming more sinister, more enticing.
"I can read you. There's nothing you need to hide from me."

Sol's face is hovering inches from Calypso's own at this point, waiting for his enthusiastic consent. Calypso can smell the vodka on his breath.
He lets out a dramatic sigh, holding onto his pride until the very last - he wasn't sure if it was just for show or not, but it hardly mattered.
"... If you insist."

"No lies, no vague statements! Yea or nay, say it direct!" Sol chirps. The sternness in his voice tips Calypso off that he's trying to provide him an escape, if he's not comfortable.
He snorts, finding it kind of funny, but ultimately so like him, to be worried about his comfort level only after invading his personal space. Not that Calypso really minded - he tended to be a bit more closed off than he liked to admit. Having someone be direct and proactive was refreshing, in a way.

Sol was about to speak again, but this time, Calypso was the one to interrupt him, gently placing a finger to the other's lips.
"... Yes."
It was soft, like a confession, and genuine.

Sol's eyes widened, narrowed, and closed, one of his characteristic giggles erupting from him in his excitement. Calypso knew at this moment that he was utterly defeated.
This was going to be a long, long night.

"I'm not exactly the most morally upstanding person, you know."

"If you're trying to be funny, you're not doing a very good job," Remiel warned, swirling whiskey in his glass--but his eyes were on the younger angel.

"I mean it," Sigourney Alice said, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her. "I've done some pretty bad things."

"And?"

Sigourney Alice stared at him for a moment. He'd thrown her off her rhythm.

"Well, I stole from a store--"

"This isn't confessional, sweetie."

"I--I can be very mean! I can be downright insulting! I could insult you if I so pleased."

"You're a textbook angel. You've got wings, kid. I saw you walk an old lady across the street not ten minutes ago."

"I thought mean things while doing that," Sigourney Alice whispered, near tears.

"Christ," Remi sighed, rubbing his temples with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, hiding his eyes momentarily. Even now that he'd lost his wings, he couldn't bear to see people cry. It was physically painful. "Don't cry about it. Why would you want to be a bad person, anyway? You're fine as you are."

"I don't want to be the way I am," Sigourney Alice said, voice still soft--but at least she hadn't shed any tears. Yet. "I don't want to be this way. I want to be more like you."

"Don't make me your role model," Remi warned. "Look, there's nothing rewarding about being an asshole. It doesn't get me anything. I don't derive any real pleasure from it. When I say something cruel to someone, I let them go home and think about it for hours and feel horrible, and I go to sleep not remembering what I said. That's not admirable. You don't need to look up to that."

"You're a good kid. You might not like it--and I mean, I get it, you're half-human, you feel the need to be something other, something new--but you can't will yourself to change just because you don't like being classically angelic."

"I don't want to be like them," Sigourney Alice said firmly, grabbing Remi's wrist to pull his hand away from his eyes. "You are much more admirable. They--"

"They didn't love you. I know." Remi pulled his hand from her delicate grip. "Then what better way to set yourself apart than to be loving? The angels never cared for you, right? If you know how bad that feels, then why don't you do the opposite? Keep caring for others. Take care of yourself. I don't see how any assholishness could be more radical for you than that."

A silence settled over them, but it was almost comfortable. "Thank you," Sigourney Alice said after a while. "You really are a good person."

Remiel rolled his eyes and downed his drink.

She knelt, skirt and apron covered in mud, and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. It left a smear of dirt in its path. Virgo--her real name was Diva, but nobody in the coven called her that, they had renamed her--straightened up, stretching. She didn't need to; she felt no pain, no soreness despite having worked all afternoon, but the motion helped her feel finished with her work.

The atrium had been dead for years. Centuries. It had lain untouched since their queen had thrown out her first companion--she had been the one to keep the plants alive and well--and the dirt had turned dusty and pale, devoid of nutrients. Even if they'd brought plants in, there would be no way to make them grow in those conditions.

But Virgo had a green thumb, and the right attitude to get it done. She'd spent a few days working the soil, replenishing nutrients, testing pH... And when she was satisfied with the state of the earth, she'd brought in seeds, sowing them by hand, one at a time, in neat rows. She watered, she cast shade when it was needed to protect the sprouting seeds when they began to pop up, she made compost out of food scraps that stank up the place.

And now, just a few weeks later, she had a garden. It was small, still growing. But it was hers.

"--saw that maid around here somewhere," came Angelique's peevish voice, and Virgo nearly hid despite herself. She shouldn't be made afraid or uncomfortable by the other vampire. She stayed where she was, kneeling in the muck, waiting for the nobles to pass the atrium.

"Oh my..."

Virgo turned, looking over her shoulder. She'd been expecting only Angelique, but she wasn't alone--their queen Daiva stood in the entrance, staring around in awe. Her mouth hung open, sharp fangs on display. She clutched a hand over her heart.

"Where... did these plants come from?"

Angelique shot a quick, withering glare at Virgo, as if to say "oh now you've surely done it!" Daiva didn't notice, enraptured as she was by the new green life in the atrium.

"I planted them," Virgo said, standing and bowing to the nobles.

"How on earth did you manage that? That hasn't been possible since..."

Since the betrayal, surely, when her first companion's name had been banished from all their tongues.

"You didn't have permission to do this," Angelique snapped at Virgo. The maid lifted her head.

"The atrium was dirty. So I fixed it up."

"It's beautiful," Daiva said, wandering past her with longing in her voice. "Oh... I haven't seen this in so long. Virgo... No, Diva, this is so splendid. Thank you."

Angelique snapped her mouth shut, looking somewhat sulky. Virgo bowed again, watching Daiva out of the corner of her eye.

"So beautiful," Daiva said softly, brushing her finger over a fresh green leaf. Her pink eyes looked glassy with tears. "Thank you, Diva."

Silence blanketed that night’s campsite. Sispa was on watch, her bow laid across her lap. She prodded at the fire occasionally, looking lost in thought. Akira was also awake, too anxious to sleep. It felt awkward, just sitting across from one another without saying anything, but what was there to say? No, seriously, he was bad at conversation. Nice weather, isn’t it? And then there was the matter of the nightmare… He hadn’t felt right all day. Remembering that side of his family just upset him that much.

”Something is troubling you,” Sispa said, stirring the burning coals. The light flickered over her eyes, half her face cast in shadow.

Akira straightened up when she addressed him. “Me?” he asked, then immediately felt like slapping himself. Mukuro was sleeping. Of course she meant him.

”Is Chikapi awake? No. You’re the one with troubles.” She pointed her fire-poking stick at him and the end glowed with heat. Akira swallowed.

”I was thinking about a dream I had,” he admitted. Sispa lowered the stick, back into the hungry flames.

”Go on,” she said.

”It’s… family stuff,” Akira said, picking each word with care.

”Family stuff,” Sispa echoed.

And without meaning to, he started speaking, spilling it all. “I lived with my mom for most of my life, but for a few years I tried living with my father’s family. I hated it there… but mom was so sick, and she was spending so much time in the hospital, and staying alone in our apartment wasn’t an option. So I ended up with this family that loved each other and hated me until I was eight.”

”What did you dream?” Sispa asked, eyes on the fire.

”It was… My half sister Keiko. Sispa nodded, silently encouraging him to continue. “She was the legitimate heir. Talented. Smart. They adored her. And then I was just this interloper. The child of an affair.” Sispa nodded again, understanding. “I didn’t hate Keiko or anything. But we didn’t get along. She disliked me, I guess because her family disliked me. There was this time…”

He paused, unsure of continuing. Sispa made no move to prod him along. “I got in trouble for something,” Akira plowed on. “Something I did wrong, I don’t know. I think I ruined some of my father’s work. He was an artist and a poet. I think I spilled ink all over something.”

”Keiko found me and she ran to get her grandmother. That old hag just hated me completely. I was afraid to tell mom about her.”

”Why was that?” Sispa mused.

”She used to hit me. Call me names. I think she just got some kick out of tormenting the bastard child. When it got really bad, mom left the hospital for me so that I could come home. But for a couple years…”

”I don’t even remember what I did, or what she did in response… hurt me, obviously. I just remember Keiko standing there in the doorway. She didn’t do anything to help me. I think she was happy that I was being punished, actually.”

”Something about her face just stuck with me, even though I forgot everything else about that day. Just staring at me, with no expression on her face.” He took a breath, what felt like the first one in a while. “I had this dream that… we made it back to Tokyo, and none of the people there had changed back. And Mukuro got bit, but he wasn’t immune to it this time. He turned… and I saw her, just looking. Waiting for me to be eaten.”

Sispa sighed heavily, probably processing all that he’d said. “Sorry,” Akira said instinctively.

“You know one of these days,” Sispa began, “you're going to have to stop pitting yourself against her.”

Akira stared at her, dumbfounded. “What? I’m not… pitting myself against her. I just--”

“It's not going to end well, one way or another.”

Akira’s face burned in the dark. He liked Sispa well enough, but she could be so blunt.

”Do you think that your sister is still above you, even after the end of the world?” Sispa asked. “Is she still living the life that you want?”

”I never said that,” Akira snapped. Nevermind that she was right.

”You deserved to be loved,” Sispa continued. “But now you are. There’s no reason to let a memory of a child hold you back. She lives in the same world you do.”

Akira turned away without a word, laying out his bedroll beside Mukuro’s and flopping down onto it. Sispa was quiet again after that, but he could hear the embers crackling as she added another small log to the fire.

”Sweet dreams,” she called.

         Precisely, that is the situation Tributs finds himself in. And already he gets used to in.

         That is until another unit shows up. Unannounced. Perhaps just walked here straight from the Dalzavod Shipyard a few kilometers away.

         “I don’t know you get a ‘day off’ today,” gray lenses under reddish brown brows slip from his own food tray, the other frame joining his table is near identical to him. Why won’t he? They’re androids of the same project, wearing the same uniform, standing the same height. Even their heads share reddish tone. Only Boryushka’s is lighter, reddish blond against Tributs’ reddish brown. Glancing at a few vacant tables, the ‘black sheep’ of the Fregat clan wonders if he should feel honored Shaposhnikov decides to share the table with him?

         “No need to stain an additional table. We’re here to eat, not conversing.” Ah, well. There goes his hope that Boryushka’s system may get tweaked during the modernization.

         “Awww. And here I am, overjoyed to see my closest brother back.” 

         Bingo. The next thing he knows, the slightly younger unit stabs him with a dagger glare. Somebody in the kitchen area should have seen this and bang the pot to mimic boxing bell because the battle is on. A smirk spreads across Tributs’ face. Now he has Boryushka all to himself, though probably in a less ideal way than every other people in the fleet hope for. After three decades together in this eastern fleet, he learns all the buttons he can push to get the fiery ‘Kaliningradskiy’ unit’s attention on him at once.

         “You want me to stab you with a fork or what?” hisses the inactive android who listed as ‘in modernization’ status.

         Isn’t that a cute threat? “Pretty sure no one design a regular utensil with capability to pierce through a two-inch thick metal plate.” That’s a basic structure of warfare androids like them. However, his primary focus is something regarding their future. “Boryushka,” again he calls for attention from the one sitting opposite to his own seat. “This modernization you’re going through says it all. Our service lifespan is being extended. We’ll be seeing each other for many more years. Why don’t you just… finally end this ‘lineage’ stuff? Nikolka is tired of it. Yurka quitted his problematic attitude far earlier, yet you keep holding bias on me still?”

         A disgusting stare precedes his answers, and Shaposhnikov spare not one second to consider. “The fact that you’re a Leningradskiy cannot be changed.” Here they go again…

         “For the love of- WHY, Boryushka!? You accept Bystryy, who ‘born’ in the same shipyard as I did. So it’s clear you don’t hate Saint Petersburg itself. Yet with me, why it’s always ‘Leningradskiy! Leningradskiy!’ that poses so much trouble?!” Tributs’ rant resembles a Red Arrow train from Moscow to his hometown. It’s that long. Here they are, facing a demotion from ‘destroyer’ classification to a frigate, and yet that fact bothers the first of their clan to enter modernization so little.

         “If you can’t see what’s wrong with that, that’s your problem.”

         All right. So according to his ‘dear’ Boryushka, he either possesses no eyes. Or brain. Who ever knows what this most frustrating brother of his implies exactly?

         Their exchange is getting louder, drawing attention from humans - servicemen and canteen workers alike. Why should they be surprised? This ‘Lineage War’ obtained a near legend status in this fleet. All the people know about it, but no one knows how to end it, permanently.

         Fearing the escalation of this pair bickering may bring materialistic destruction, a heavyset lady in apron approaches them fearlessly. “Finish your meal and just move! If you throw the dishes, tray or chair at each other, the fleet commander will hear about it before you know what’s hitting you!”

         To the amazement of men serving in the fleet, the two Fregat units actually adhere to her command. They grudgingly finish their given portion amidst the curious eyes of servicemen, then, shockingly, leave the canteen together side by side with low grumbles between them. Murmurs from new conscripts who joined the fleet months ago echo how they seem to perfect the relationship of either close friends, or brothers out to get each other.

VOICE LOG:

LOG DATE: Day 3478

TEST SUBJECT:

#051
Female, 34 y.o
No history of long term medical issues; hospitalized for drug overdose age 30

DOSAGE: 0.75 cc

T.O.D: 20:54

CAUSE OF DEATH: Internal hemorrhaging mostly in the lower abdominal region, multiple organs affected. Massive blood loss.

TIME ELAPSED BETWEEN DOSAGE AND DEATH: 45 min 12 sec

NOTES:

I expected higher tolerance due to the subjects previous drug use, inconclusive.

PERSONAL NOTES:

Reminder: call the assignment office and ask why they’re sending me subjects with previous substance abuse issues when that could bias my entire study!
Like they’ll even listen to me.
They’re getting impatient. I can tell. Do they think Rome was built in a day? Ridiculous. What do they think they can accomplish by giving me subpar subjects?
Reminder: I should check the assignment office schedule. I know that Harrison and Bennett are both easy enough to convince. I just need to call when one of them is on shift.
I should probably sleep. It’s late. Well, early technically. A’s been getting on my case about that. He’s always been like that, even when we were students. It’s irritating. I know my own limits. Though it is a bit endearing as well I suppose.
I can’t stop. Not when I’m so close! Almost ten years of research, four of testing. How could I stop now. Even if I’m tired. Even if I’m hungry. Between completing this task or my body falling apart, I wonder which will happen first? I wonder if I should care that it doesn’t really matter what happens to me as long as the project is finished.
I’m going to finish it.
No matter the costs.
Huh. I’m rambling. Maybe I should get sleep.
Set an alarm for… let’s see… Three hours from now. That should be enough time for my mental faculties to reset and the assignment office should be open. I’m fairly certain that Bennett works Tuesday mornings…

END LOG

"I thought you were smarter than that,” Sunslammer snarled, snapping her teeth at the unicorn. Dawnbright recoiled and teleported out of the way just as the queen’s hooves slammed into the spot where she’d been standing.

”It doesn’t have to be this way!” Dawnbright called, teleporting again as Sunslammer charged at her. “All we want is our freedom!”

”You can’t have it!” Sunslammer cried, blasting her with magic. Dawnbright hurried out of the way. The queen shook her head from side to side, enraged. Her eyes were green all over, not a hint of pupil.

”Why?!” Dawnbright asked. “We would still be loyal to you! We would still work--”

”No!”

”We just want to be free to do other things!”

”Liar!” Sunslammer screamed, eyes glowing white. Dawnbright tensed, readying herself to move, but the queen teleported behind her, slamming a hoof into her back to force her to the stone floor.

”You can’t… Keep doing this to us!” Dawnbright grunted. She was afraid; if Sunslammer wanted to kill her, now was the time to do it.

”It is my Citadel,” the queen said, ice cold and low. “They are my ponies. I will do with them as I see fit.”

Fear rolled in Dawnbright’s stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut, only opening them when the great stone doors slammed open...