Tyranny without a Tyrant

When Ignition stepped out of the medical bay, he was greeted by a crowd of wastelanders all enthralled to see him walking. Cheers of "blood talisman" swept around the main floor, like a chant. A chant that was more damning than any of them would ever realize. The stallion did not bear this new scar of that title with any resemblance of pride, but despair and shame. And that flickered on his face now as he began to move through the crowd slowly, painfully. It parted for him of course. And he was able to see clearly the blood-red trail that led from the stable door to the medical bay. It was a stain no one would waste time trying to clean, because of its significance. After all the good I've tried to do, this is what they see me as. What have I become? The thought raced through his mind as he forced himself to keep moving. To ignore the chants. To just get the fuck out of here. Every nerve in his body felt as if it were on fire. His ears rang with the stomps of wastelanders who loved and admired him. And he resented them for it. He resented them so strongly he felt something integral break and die in his chest. And suddenly his voice rang out in a thunderous baying. Because he couldn't take it anymore. "BE SILENT!" The crowd shut up imediantly, one of the members of which appeared to be a member of the herd, unnamed, who survived. But Ignition didn't care. He couldn't care. The imposing stallion swept the main floor in his gaze, recognizing Ringers, a ragtag named Teacup, zebras from the Striped Conglomerate, and others. Each of them cringed underneath the brilliant nuclear green radiance of his eyes. When all eyes were fixated on him, his body seemed to strain and well with contained wrath. "Be silent." He was in the best of ways, tyranny without a tyrant. The anticipated response was not fear, but deep respect blossoming among his stable like a weed he wanted to destroy. His blood-red mane and tail seemed caught in its own perpetual hurricane. The clumps of fur bristling in several different directions. And that only served to make him seem massive and powerful, the edges of his mane catching the lights of the stable above him as some strange ethereal crest. And that scar was enough to make any of the wastelanders imediantly regard anyone with a little wary resignation. Ignition looked more like a god to a pony to them. And that wasn't far from the truth. What regular pony could survive a wound like that? What regular pony could die and come back repeatedly over one hundred times? What normal pony could endure that, all of that, and still walk out of the medical bay with his head high and eyes blazing? They parted for him silently but watched him begin to leave the main floor behind with whispers of awe and genuine wonder. They would maintain a healthy fear of him. And they would only listen to him. Even if that wasn't his intent.