//------------------------------// // Chapter 10 // Story: Soarin's Folly // by a human //------------------------------// The rain poured down in torrents, coating the Manehattan air in a fine mist. Lightning struck. On the streets, water rushed down into the drains, defiled by a strange rainbow pattern. No one was quite sure what it was. The humans said it looked almost exactly like pollution in their world, but that made no sense here. Here, there were no vehicles save for pony drawn carriages, no forms of energy that exuded that kind of waste. What was it? The city's residents wondered as well, and for a while, there were many explanations, each more ridiculous than the last. After someone had the gall to say it was a waste product excreted by Celestia's hair, people began to lose interest. But then, one rumor captured the city's imagination. Once, people said, a tourist came to Manehattan, noticed the substance, and stopped a mare on the street. He asked her what it was. The mare, in response, looked up to the sky. "The sky is weaker here," she said, eyes dead. "It's letting in the rain from outside." No one was quite sure what it meant, but somehow, it sounded right. Crowds passed down the sidewalk, uncaring. Such tumultuous weather was normal here, after all. It always seemed like urban areas were the hellhole of Equestria. Yes, the wilderness was technically more dangerous, and no one even wanted to consider what the other, smaller countries were like, but still, nothing was quite like the cities of Equestria. They always seemed to be… experiments. The equivalent, in flesh and stone, of a god burning ants with a magnifying glass and watching what happened. If anything truly strange happened in Equestria, chances are, it was in one of the cities. Or Canterlot. But there, "truly strange" was the best you could hope for. Some people, of course, thought the entire country was like that, but they were clearly deranged. Celestia said so, after all. A lone figure pushed through a crowd. He was only one walking the opposite direction. Everyone in the crowd ignored him. They either pushed him out of their way, or subtly moved away, just enough to radiate distaste, but not enough to actually be helpful. Still, he slowly made his way through the mass of people until finally, he managed to burst free into an alleyway. The alleyway, unlike the street next to it, was pitch black. The only light was the reflection of skyscrapers in the rainwater. It was completely empty. All undesirables, including the homeless, had been purged from Manehattan recently. Not for any moral reasons—just so that he would be more alone. Words could hardly describe how alone he was. One would assume not talking to anyone was the worst being alone could get. But this was worse. He should've known, with the weight of one of them behind it, that his fate would be much more thoroughly violated. Not only was he alone, but there was no chance of him ever finding solace. Most of the populace had been… well, the best word he could think of was programmed. Programmed to ignore him. But not just ignore him, since that could provide him with some benefits down the line—they were programmed to actively impede his progress in any way. If he tried to steal food, that's when they would notice them. If he tried to sleep on a bed, that's when they would throw him out. If he found shelter, that's when they would seek him out and beat him. And those who weren't programmed, whose numbers were rapidly dwindling, and were small to begin with, were not inclined to help him either. Because he was Soarin, former captain of the Wonderbolts, and every part of his reputation had been smeared. He let the ice cold rain caresses his body. At this point, he had grown used to the pain. Physical pain, he felt he could deal with. But emotional pain, the type of which was inflicted upon him for this punishment, was almost impossible to bear. He wished they had just gone all the way and executed him. It would've been better than this. If he died like a dog, he would have had more dignity than this. He leaned upon the wall of a brick building, feeling a sting as an acid raindrop hit him. He began to laugh, but to an outside observer, "pant" would have been the more accurate word. He looked at the small scrap of food he managed to get away with. Half of an apple, rotten and moldy. He took a bite. If it expedited his demise, he would only be grateful. He was beginning to suspect, however, that the populace was programmed to maintain his life as long as possible, so he could not escape his fate with mere death. If he got food poisoning from the apple, he would probably wake up in a hospital, all fixed up. But then, as soon as anyone noticed him, he would be kicked out, the cycle beginning again… How did things become like this? He could hardly believe the truth himself. Betrayed by all he considered dear. And for reasons incomprehensible to him. Reasons formed from pure madness. Just how many in this country were genuinely insane? And were they wrong? Or was he wrong, for expecting the world to follow any sort of order? She was right. She had been his last chance. He was here now, specifically, here, because of his own obstinance. His own petty ideas about what pride was. Now, he could no longer afford to be as picky about pride. He could not afford any luxuries whatsoever. Tears streamed down his eyes, mixing with the dirty, acidic rain. Soarin could only other two words: the name of his destructor. "Peanut butter… peanut butter… peanut butter… peanut butter… peanut butter… peanut butter… peanut butter… peanut butter… peanut butter…"