//------------------------------// // Chapter 2: Supplies, Spies and Secrets // Story: The Romance of the Open Road // by Jordan179 //------------------------------// The Clever and Cunning Trixie sat at the counter of the little greasy-spoon diner, munching on her beanburger and hayfries while she casually listened to the conversations around her. She was inconspicuous, listening to the conversations around her, like the accomplished intriguer she knew herself to be ever since she had eavesdropped on her older sisters as a little filly. This was a rough workingpony's restaurant, and the ponies around her were but rough workingponies, which suited her just fine. Who would suspect a refined and respectable showmare like Trixie to frequent such a low and sordid place? Her brown cloak was quite modestly concealing, which not only should help keep the low and sordid Ponies surrounding her from getting any low and sordid notions regarding her presence in this establishment, but also served to obscure her identity from prying eyes. Its hood hid the fine, bluish-white mane whose beauty was such a source of pride to the Lovely and Well-Groomed Trixie -- but was, alas, her second most distinguishing feature. It was also long enough to cover her most distinguishing feature -- her Cutie Mark, composed of star-tipped wand and crescent moon, indicating to all who had the wit to interpret it her high and singular destiny. With mane and mark both hidden, she was nothing but another breathtakingly-beautiful blue Unicorn mares, sitting alone in this ordinary diner. The diner entirely filled with big, muscular Earth Pony stallions. It belatedly occurred to the Intelligent and Observant Trixie that she didn't fit in very well into this setting. To put it bluntly, she stuck out like a sore hoof. She wondered worriedly if some unpleasant incident would ensue. Would there be some resurgence of race-hatreds, perhaps led by the radical Levelers whose strength had been growing among working-class Earth Ponies? Or would some of the stallions, driven mad by desire for her beauty, make a crude and lustful attempt upon her nearly-spotless virtue? If so, of course, she would escape with her usual combination of coolness, guile, illusion, magic and sheer style, for which she was famous! For a moment, she tensed herself, readying for a fight. Then she realized that the numerous rough and hungry workingponies all around her seemed too busy eating their rough workpony meals to spare much in the way of crude and lustful attempts upon Trixie's virtue. Indeed, they seemed not even to be casting any crude and lustful glances in her direction, save for one runty stallion who -- perhaps mistaking Trixie's gaze of vigilance for something more inviting, smiled and waved timidly in her direction. A scowl soon set him to rights! She felt almost mffed at the nearly total lack of attention she was receiving from the denizens of this place upon which she had so graciously bestowed her patronage. Then she remembered that she was trying to not be noticed, and commended herself on her skill at evasion. She continued to eat her meal, and wondered what sinister conspiracies, or rumors of a massive hunt directed against none other than the Heroic and Elusive Trixie herself she would overhear. She learned that the Jersey Griffons were going to cream the Manehattan Sea-Pegs in the playoffs, by majority opinion, but that one dissenter believed that the Sea-Pegs were going to "moidelize dem bums." A profound philosophical debate erupted, during which the supporter of the minority position was challenged to "put his money where his mouth" was, and the challenge was accepted. She learned that a rather average looking brown Earth Pony was stepping out with a mare who was either named, or (more likely) nicknamed "Hotsie Trotsie," and that according to him, her nature accorded well with her name. When Hotsie's beau proceeded to go into detail about the precise merits of such social enagements, Trixie switched her attention to another conversation, to preserve her appetite. She learned that one stallion was building a new porch on his home, and also discovered in mind-boggling detail exactly what size lumber and measurements of nails were most efficient for performing for such a feat. As Trixie herself sometimes did carpentry on her van and larger props, this was actually somewhat professionally-interesting to her, but not really worthy of her cunning infiltration. Most of all, she learned that, contrary to certain works of pulp fiction, one is unlikely to hear much about any secret conspiracies by walking into a random diner. Her stomach but not her curiosity filled, she paid her bill and departed. As she did so, she noticed that an Earth Pony wearing a hat, trenchcoat and dark glasses; accompanied by a huge, scarred sailor-pegasus with an eye-patch; and a curiously fishy-looking equine who must have been some kind of pony, but seemed not to blink very much, entered the restaurant. She stood at the door, looking back indecisively for a moment, then shrugged and went on her way. She had supplies to purchase -- no more time to waste fooling around. She soon located a general store and purchased all manner of foodstuffs for the road, and some materials to do some maintenance on her caravan wagon. To her surprise she found that the porch-builder had been right regarding the greater efficiency of purchasing the wire-cut 10d box-heads in bulk. She bought some of these as well, in addition to some newspapers and magazines for the road. She trotted back to to her wagon to bring it around to pick up her purchases. As she passed the greasy-spoon diner again, she noticed that the three ponies she had seen before had some kind of nautical chart, a musty old book, and what looked like a bag of bits on their table, and were examining a strangely-shaped gold tiara that looked as if it couldn't possibly fit anypony's head. It takes all kinds, she thought to herself. Personally, I think that tiara is crass, and silver looks better on Trixie's beautiful blue head anyway. Loading her purchases into her wagon, Trixie set off down Route 9, glad that she had learned some useful things in Lionsville. That she really could be inconspicuous when she wanted to be. That the price of nails had gone down amazingly. And that one can't really expect to find adventure and excitement in some random restaurant. Which was perhaps a good thing, for otherwise life would be entirely too dangerous. *** Belle View Hospital was a huge pile of masonry, raised almost two hundred years ago as the Enlightenment started to spread from salons and laboratories to the more practical world of medicine. It had been founded by Claria Belle, a rich Manehattan society widow, heiress to a shipping fortune, who had decided to devote her declining years to good works: there were institutions named "Belle" all over the city. The Belle family was extinct now in Manehattan, but many of Claria's good works remained. This particular one now sprawled over four city blocks, taking up the space between 26th and 28th Streets, and from 1st to Eastside, overlooking the East Channel. It had emergency rooms, surgeries, therapeutic rooms, research facilities, a large psychiatric ward, a garage for ambulances, its own docks for the landing of casualties by ship, and a staff of a thousand doctors and several thousand other staff. It was the largest hospital in the known world. It contained everything one could possibly seek in a hospital. Everything except Trixie Lulamoon. "Yes, she was admitted on the morning of the 22nd," said Puller File, one of the hospital's many medical records clerks. He was a small unicorn stallion, even smaller than Silent Shadow, with a pale yellow coat, orange mane and green eyes; his cutie mark was a tilted orange file-folder, the acquisition of which Straight figured must have been one of the most boring Cutie Mark stories in the history of all Ponykind. Puller flipped through the papers in the opened folder, read some more. "Beatrix 'Trixie' Lulamoon, itinerant showmare. Fainted on stage, brought in at 11 am, assigned at 11:30, judged non-urgent, and examined at 1 pm ..." Puller looked a bit apologetic. "We were pretty crowded that morning, as you can imagine." He turned the page. "Over-channeling, thaumic and physical exhaustion, needed fluids. Put her on IV, had her on solids the next day, and she checked out this morning, 9 am." "I'd like to see those," said Straight Arrow, in a tone that conveyed that it was only formally a request. Puller passed them over in his aura, and Straight took them in his own. Straight skimmed the files. They confirmed Puller's statement. "Quick recovery," he commented. "It was just exhaustion," Puller said. "A young mare like that -- only twenty, good health -- all she really needed was some bed rest. We kept her only as long as we did because there were some weird cases that morning. Straight knew about some of those cases. The Shadows had been drawn to some ponies -- had in some cases changed them in curious manners. They were keeping Blue Bower -- the teenage were-chalicothere -- under observation in the Watch's special hospital at Canterlot, largely to see if there would be any long-term consequences resulting from her unexpected and dangerous transformation. Trixie Lulamoon had not behaved dangerously: according to the reports, she had only fought when directly attacked by the Shadow Coven. Mostly, she had kept Tompkins Town quiet during the Longest Night. In doing so, she had saved a lot of lives and property. Whether or not she had experienced an unusual transformation was a question entirely dependent upon what one made of the Alicorn Illusion. Straight wondered if it would prove necessary to bring her in to the Secret Archives, rather than merely interview her. He also wondered if she would be a good candidate for the Watch itself. There were several cases of Ponies who were both classified WCP's and agents of the Watch. Some were a bit crazy -- it came with the territory of being contaminated, mutated or possessed by things so dangerous that they needed Watching -- but they were still good Ponies. Though from the records he'd reviewed back in Canterlot, Trixie seemed a bit unreliable -- she had been in and out of minor trouble ever since her mentor White-Beard had died. Still, she'd never committed any serious crimes, nor done anything at all on record that seemed actually evil. Straight knew some Watch agents with far more checkered pasts than that of Trixie Lulamoon, who'd been changed for the better by the assumption of serious responsibility. He put down the medical file, handed it back to the records clerk. "Did she tell anypony where she was going after leaving the hospital? Leave any more contact information?" He had noticed that the only contact given was Morgana Lulamoon, of Hoofington, listed as "mother." Trixie was offically still resident at that address in Hoofington, but given her career probably wasn't heading home right now. "I wouldn't know about that," said Puller, taking back the file. "Whatever she said, it didn't make it into the records." Straight Arrow and Silent Shadow walked out of the records room, Straight dissatisfied at the results of their inquiries. "Looks like we've hit a blank wall here," he said. "And Miss Lulamoon could go on the road any moment, go anywhere." "We could check at City Hall," Silent said. "They might have her agent on record Right on the way to Tompkins Town, too." "Good idea," agreed Straight. "Her agent would have at least a forwarding address for her." *** Sustained, if not filled, by his recent meal, he who was now the Nightstallion of Manehattan retreated deeper into the old smuggling tunnel. There was a place where, years ago, he had found an old rotten wood door, whose presence -- coupled with the fact that it had fallen to choking dust the moment he shoved it with with one hoof -- proved that noponies had been into this part of the tunnels for centuries. It led to a chamber which had probably once been used for the storage of illicit goods, judging by the presence of a few piles of equally-rotten staves which appeared to have formerly been barrels. If they had held some wares, those had fallen to dust long ago. The other end of the chamber overlooked a storm drain, at a sufficient height that the Nightstallion was fairly certain that the danger of flooding was minimal, barring a return of the tsunamis that had toppled the titan towers. The masonry in places was very old, its sharp edges eroded: in places it might have even seen and survived that Cataclysm. From the fact that there was an open pit, big enough to have admit one of the old barrels, he judged it to have been a place where goods had been accumulated for transfer to a smuggler's skiff. The Nightstallion had, of course, made certain improvements upon this facility. He had installed a new door to the smuggler's tunnel, choosing old but still-sturdy wood and staining the exterior so that it looked half-rotten, despite its soundness. He had placed a sturdy wooden hatch over the shaft to the storm drain, and weighted it down at the corners so that it would be difficult for anything save a truly severe storm surge to enter. He had already ascertained that some openings at the upper corners of the room led to some sort of ventilation shafts, and that fresh air might enter by that apeture. When he was finished, he had a nice, quiet and very private place -- one he of course did not reveal to any of the other members of his Coven, much as its ownership might have enhanced his status in their eyes. He did not fully trust his Coven -- with good reason, as the events of the Longest Night had proven -- and he did not want to risk his ultimate hideout being revealed to the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Night Watch. He knew that there was a good chance that some of them were now in official custody, so he was glad that he had taken that precaution. He believed that it was to just that measure that he owed his continued liberty. Of course, he furnished his hideaway. He brought down a cot, a couch, table, chairs, some boxes of dry crackers and cans of fruit -- he had starch to supplement the fats and proteins he had just consumed. Bookshelves. Some glow-crystals -- not as many as he would have liked, because he had to keep the thaumic emissions down to what he calculated the surrounding concrete and stone would absorb -- but enough that, given his now-excellent night vision, he didn't have to sit and brood in absolute darkness. Before The Night had come, he had moved down much of his personal library, including most especially his special collections -- his grimoires, his works on occult history and other lore. He did not have the authentic Codex of Shades -- that had been last seen in the possession of Sugarwing, and Grogar only knew where she'd gotten to after that disastrous fight in Tompkins Square -- but he had his pirated and incomplete Golden Goblin copy, the one that had given him most of the information he'd needed to contact the Shadows in the first place. And he had something else, a relic beyond all mortal price. He looked at the place on his shelf where he had placed the Alicorn Amulet. It seemed to whisper to him. Don me, it said to his soul. Don me and gain might beyond all mortal reckoning. He looked it -- shivered at its silent regard -- then took a thick black velvet cloth and with a convulsive action of his aura lidded the deadly little thing. The crimson quartz crystal that was its central element winked mockingly at him before it disappeared. He felt as if a great weight had been removed from his soul. He wanted power, yes -- and he was willing to merge with a Shadow to gain that power. But he had been careful to only summon a Shadow of limited strength, a Shadow which he felt he could control, most of the time. The Shadow that lived in that amulet was one which had been great enough to overwhelm one of the strongest unicorn sorcerors in the history of the North-Realm, Prince Crimson Quartz himself. In that amulet, the Codex said, that Prince -- transformed by the power of the Shadows into the mighty King Sombra -- had placed much of his malice and might -- and a specter of his very soul. He was fairly certain from his studies that if he donned that amulet, it would smother his own soul in an instant, snuff out his identity as if it had never been. His body would become only a vessel for King Sombra reborn. Only an incredibly powerful mind and will could possibly survive such an experience. A true Alicorn, perhaps, or at least the Avatar of an Alicorn. Only a fool would don that amulet. And the Nightstallion of Manehattan was no fool. He was almost sorry he'd stolen the Amulet. But he knew that it was a powerful talisman of the Great Dark, something he might be able to figure out how to tap, or at least trade to some other entity for some power more manageable. He was tempted to take the thing and toss it into the sewers -- but he knew that something like that would make sure it would be found again, and he did not like to think of somepony else profiting from his own efforts. Like all who willingly served the Shadows, he was a very selfish Pony. He wanted to go up to the streets. He did not dare enter a restaurant, but he was certain that he could find some food, both of spirit and flesh, which would be tastier than rats. And he wanted to find as many of his Shadow Coven as he could, though he knew this was dangerous, that some at least might have been picked up and released as bait, or identified and left at large under surveillance. He wanted them not out of love for his followers -- for there was no love left in his shrunken soul -- but because he knew he would be stronger with others to command. And besides, though he had fallen far from his native Pony estate, even the Nightstallion preferred to lead a Herd. By day this would be too dangerous. By night -- still dangerous, as the Night Watch operated with great facility by both day and by night -- but a little bit easier. Only a few could see him then, and even less could stop him. And, everywhere in this great and ancient city, built as it was over the festering ruins of its own antiquity, he would have access to the tunnels, should he need to make a hasty retreat. He knew that not even the Night Watch could find him down there. So he waited. Waited, for the setting of his great enemy, the Sun. Waited, to resume his revenge against all Ponykind, for its failure to worship him. And especially, for his revenge against one accursed little showmare.