Zesty Gourmand passed the plain, samey, civilian residences one at a time. Her own mental and spiritual home was on the other side of the city, in the district of restaurants which now were so much dust and disuse.
There was always more work to be done, more things to be perfected. Only a pony with vision could lead a resistance, not to mention charisma.
The reassuring heft of her coat carried her forward, the three unicorns and the net nearby.
Suddenly, she smiled to herself, wryly. She had recognized the name “Coco”, she was certain, but only now she remember from where. It was a small article in a trite magazine, the sort of thing she was occasionally given to reading for a moment’s relaxation, about the “ten rising stars of Manehattan fashion”. It made a great hullaballoo over her industry, and the size of her ouevre.
Well, she supposed it was a very equine temptation, to go for quantity over quality.
The route to the West’s terminus was uncomplicated, and she passed through it at a brisk trot. The bare sun was a little more than she would’ve liked, but on the whole the day wasn’t completely unsalvageable. A few captures and interrogations might make a world of difference.
When she stepped into the intersection of the castle and the district, it was with some hesitancy that she threw her gaze in all directions. There was no sign of enemy activity just yet, but signs were a blase and obvious way of discerning the world. She could feel, with the same certainty and straightforwardness that had made her the head of the Canterlot restaurant industry and the head of its underground guerrilla militia, that there was more ahoof.