Jacques looked up at Ghost with hate-filled eyes. Looking behind him to the other ponies on the far side of the cell, he saw the black guard over Wind Chill's withers. He saw the small flash of green over its eyes beneath its helmet. He looked back over at Ghost, maintaining his angry expression before, with difficulty, returning to his normally calm expression. And with a wavering voice, so convincingly like that of a stallion who knew he had been beaten but wished to save face, spoke.