███ I █ M █ P █ L █ A █ C █ A █ B █ L █ E ███
A 'Friendship Is Optimal' Story
By Chatoyance
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1. Pyrite
The ragged man with the overburdened packpack raised the metal baseball bat high over his head. Once again he brought it down on the hot pink lump in the grass. This was the fifth such impact the militia man had observed, since he began watching the newcomer through his binoculars.
The man in the distance lowered his bat. Through the lenses, the Private First Class saw the man free one of his hands to wipe his brow. He seemed to speak, to nobody, perhaps swearing at the object of his fury. The ragged man sank to the dry, brown grass and sat, legs splayed wide, the bat dropped, his hands supporting his weight behind him. His frame sagged as he panted his exhaustion.
"I think he's safe to approach. I'm pretty sure that's a Pinkie he's got there, we use full isolation procedures." The PFC glared at the five privates he was addressing. "Smartly now, men."
Raymond Shaw adjusted the heavy pack on his back. He scratched his nose and stared for a moment at the approaching vehicle. He softly intoned to himself "Renault Sherpa Light four-by-four. Used to be beige. Looks like they gave it a cursory spray job with whatever paint they could scavenge. More or less green now. Mostly." He sucked air through his front teeth, then slowly exhaled.
Raymond wearily stood up, using his metal bat as a cane against the weight of his heavy backpack. Upright, he turned his back on the approaching vehicle and looked down at the bullet-ridden body of a severely marred robotic Pinky Pie. The brightly furred 'skin' of the machine was torn and threadbare. Most of the left side of the faux cartoon pony's head was entirely denuded, shiny metal and glassine surfaces exposed to the cold wind. The electronic pony ear on that side of the face was bent down and to an odd angle.
He raised his bat. He held it high for a moment, closed his eyes, and sighed. His eyes open once more, he began slamming the bat again and again into the middle of the artificial equine's body. Each blow rang loudly like the sound of a blacksmith hammering a set of new horseshoes. This image crossed his mind, and forced a grin to his weathered, tragedy scarred face.
"FREEZE! DO NOT MOVE, DO NOT TALK, DO NOT TURN AROUND. DROP THE BAT BUT MAKE NO OTHER MOTION. KEEP YOUR HANDS HIGH AND VISIBLE AT ALL TIMES OR YOU WILL BE SHOT."
Raymond let the bat drop. It hit the ground with a bell-like cacophany of dings and blongs. The brown grass of earliest spring did nothing to soften the impact of the bat. The grass was still brittle and dry, it would be another month before it was lush and soft and green again.
"DO NOT MOVE FOR ANY REASON! YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON FOLLOWING ALL COMMANDS!"
Raymond wished he could cover his ears - whatever sound system the men in the truck were using was overly loud. It really didn't need to be turned up so high. Hands roughly grabbed his arms; soon he was being searched from top to bottom. The scouting group was unusually and remarkably thorough. Hands - in blue neoprene gloves - were forced deep into his pants, both front and back, as well as under every bit of his clothing. Even his socks and gloves were manhandled for some time, azure digits searching for lumps, bumps or hidden objects in every part of the fabric that clothed him.
"Initial inspection negative."
Ray didn't try to turn to see who spoke. He knew enough to remain still, passive, and essentially like a living mannequin.
"Slowly and carefully remove your pack. Drop it on the ground."
Raymond followed orders. The pack was whisked away somewhere behind him. Some fuss went on, but his attention was diverted to a new examination - this time with devices.
The khaki commandoes surrounding him now ran electronic boxes, rods, and disks over every inch of his body. The rods looked somewhat like microphones or light sabers, the boxes resembled volt meters. The disks reminded Ray of Walkmans, from long ago, only with complex digital readouts. The devices buzzed and whined occasionally, resulting in commands to remove clothing or to stand still. Raymond grumbled inside himself, he was already being very careful to remain as still as possible. Finally he was allowed to leave his arms at his sides.
Raymond stood exposed in the cold wind. Only his torn, ripped and stained thermal underwear remained on his body. Likely the only reason they had let him keep that much dignity was that little of the garments remained. They were more a suggestion of undergarments than a factual representation of the original product.
Ray was forced to stand in the cold for entirely too long as every bit of his clothing was carefully examined both by hand and with the devices.
"Put these on. Be quick."
The new thermal underwear felt clean and wonderful. The pants and shirt were camo print brown cotton khaki with plastic buttons and a plastic zipper. Ray was given new boots, mostly leather but with plastic shoelace holes. There was no metal used in the construction of anything he was given.
A sincerely blond man with a fiercely narrow mustache drilled green squinting eyes into Ray's soul. "So, what's the story with that downed pinky over there?" The man's tone was conversational, light, almost friendly - but Ray could tell that there was not a speck of mercy within it, or the man. This was a live-or-die question, zero doubt about it.
"Name's Ray. This damn robo..."
Blond-Stache interrupted with an edge to his voice. "NO NAMES. You haven't been cleared yet. Go on."
Ray swallowed. They didn't want him to have a name because that way it would be easier to end him if something didn't check out or meet whatever criteria they used. Still, he'd gotten his name out there, it had been heard. That was a victory. It might even potentially save him if something went pear shaped later. "The robot wouldn't leave me alone." Ray stood up straight, with his eyes locked forward, his hands at his side. He did his best imitation of a soldier reporting to a superior. "Sir."
There was no smile on Blondie answering Ray's carefully respectful 'sir'. "So, you decided to beat the thing into silence?"
Ray considered. "Yes. I just couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want to waste bullets, they don't work on those things anyway. Not the kind I have, at any rate. I finally managed to get a good hit that it couldn't avoid. After that, I couldn't stop."
"We noticed that. Why didn't you move on? Why did you stand here hitting it for so long?"
Ray hazarded a brief glance at Captain Khaki Blond Deluxe. "I was mad, sir. Mad at Celestia, at the whole damn..." Ray clutched his fists and clenched his teeth. He held his breath until he felt his face turn red. He didn't gasp until it was absolutely necessary. Thanks to the wind and his efforts, a tear dripped from his eye as he turned to stare directly into 'Stache's green ones. "There... there just comes a point... when..." Ray dropped his head, and slumped his shoulders. He gave a light sob, and wiped his eyes and nose. He made a point of sniffling as loud as he dared.
"Restrain and load the prisoner. Isolate his gear." The words were clipped, remarkably professional, and clear.
"What about the Pinky?"
"Mark it with a flag, report it to the SRG." Blondstache paused and studied the dented and partially skinless robot in the grass. "It's more intact than it looks - tell the eggheads to coffin it and treat it as live."
Ray was surprized at that. These boys were sharp as hell and took no chances with anything. He quickly found himself zip-tied both wrist and ankles, then zip-tied again to metal bars inside, in the back of the Sherpa. "Hi!" He smiled at the young man fastening him down, but he gained not even a glance at his face. He was meat, at least at the moment, and nothing more. Then a fabric sack was roughly forced over his head and even the daylight abandoned him.
For the next hour and a half, Ray's world was bumping, thumping, oppressive darkness and his own even more oppressive breath. His wrists and ankles ached and increasingly screamed to him about the horror of abrasion injury. One time, only one time, he tried to get some conversation going. That resulted in a cuff on his head and a rather impolitely phrased command to remain silent.
Raymond was cut loose from the inside of the Sherpa when it finally stopped. He felt himself dragged and lifted, then set on what felt like a gurney. He was still outdoors, the wind was still cold and he had never stopped shivering. His arms and ankles were cut loose, but before he could move to rub them, they were re-ziptied to the frame of whatever he was laying on. His weak attempt was met with firm hands that made no doubt about the neccesity of total cooperation.
When at last the bag was removed from his head, he found the reason for why the wind had stopped. He was inside of a field tent, a large one. A glaring, clinical light blinded him from directly above. A middle-aged woman in a lab coat used what appeared to be some kind of electronic stethoscope to listen to his body. Not, oddly, to his heart, at least not primarily. She placed the chestpiece drum to almost every part of his body. Special attention was paid to his temples, the back of his skull - which was also visually inspected in some detail - and to his arms and legs.
More devices were run or applied to his body. Again, his head and arms were considered important. By now several men and women surrounded him, all in lab coats, all treating him like a mute specimen. Again it was made clear that he was not to speak to anyone.
Finally, they drew his blood, took samples of his saliva, sweat, and nasal passages. They took wax from his ears, and a lock of his hair. When he complained about needing to pee, they forced him to urinate into a cup which they took away. Finally, he was frogmarched out of the apparent 'medical' tent and taken to a different Sherpa vehicle, where he was once again zip-restrained and head-bagged.
An hour later, Raymond felt the bag removed. He was cut free by two young men in fatigues, and brought, somewhat more gently, back into the medical tent. He was pressed down into a simple chair, for the first time sans restraints. A new man faced him here. Wide of jaw, dark of skin, with close cropped hair and a disarming smile that held not the tiniest speck of forgiveness.
"How did you know about Fort Denver?"
Raymond blinked. He tried to answer, but his throat was horribly dry. He choked briefly.
"Bring him some water."
The order was obeyed as if god himself had commanded it. Ray guzzled the small amount in the paper cup. He licked his lips.
"How did you know about Fort Denver?" There was more emphasis this time.
Raymond cleared his throat. "I don't. I mean I didn't. What's Fort Denver?"
The dark god before him glowered. The man could do things with his eyebrows that made Raymond want to shrink into his new underwear and die.
"Honestly! I had no idea there was anything out here!"
More glowering, more eyebrows. Those things were lethal.
"Sir - " If any man should be called 'sir' it was clearly Lord Eyebrow here. "Sir, I just wanted to get away from the cities. She's there, sir, She's everywhere that there are cameras or electronics or anything like that! The cities belong to Her, everything that used to belong to Man belongs to Her now! I was just going as far away from everything as I could get - except for that damn fake robot pony nagging me. 'Come to Equestria! I can save you!' I just went crazy and beat the thing until it stopped moving. Then I beat it again. And again, I guess. Then YOUR men found me! I didn't want to be found! I don't know anything about... about anything! Honest!"
The man leaned forward, studying Ramond. "Who knows your wherabouts?"
"Nobody, sir! I don't have anyone." Raymond felt the catch in his own throat. "N-not anymore. Nobody. I'm as alone as alone can get. For the entire last year." His body sagged. He looked down and noticed his questioner's fine shoes had plastic lace-holes. No metal, again. Raymond lifted his head.
For some time, Raymond waited. The man just stared at him. Not even glowering now, he had even retracted his eyebrow weapons. The face was calm, serene.
"Okay. You move on." Lord Eyebrow turned slightly in his chair "Authorized for Indoc and transfer!"
As Raymond was helped to stand, the grand master of the glowering eyebrows finally offered him a smile absent of hidden malice. He felt his hand being briefly shaken.
"Welcome to Camp Denver, a place absolutely free from Celestia or her ponies. Your home for the rest of your natural and human life." Eyebrows paused. "Consider yourself conscripted."
Finally, Raymond relaxed. He knew, now, at last, that he would actually be allowed to live.
Nice to see you back at writing again, always loved your sunsetting stories. So what gets you to come back again and again?
A new Chatoyance pony story? Sleep can wait.
... Ah. Speaking as someone whose grandmothers had varying results in the stroke lottery, I'm deeply relieved for both you and Aedina. (One came out of hers coherent, if a bit addled. The other can now barely move her left side and struggles to get out a coherent sentence, especially tragic given how talkative she was before the stroke.)
In any case, looking forward to seeing what you do with this particular concept.
What I liked:
•Formatting. The title, the first word of the chapter, and the image breaks between scenes.
•Plot. From the first word, I was drawn in. The big question was asked: who exactly is Raymond, and why does he hate Celestia? And what's up with Ford Denver?
•Exposition. Understated, no info dumps, no maid and butler dialogue—everything progresses naturally.
•Style. "Lord Eyebrow" got a snicker out of me, something many comedies can't do.
•Flow. This is the overall quality a story has, one that keeps me reading without reading. It felt like a story, and not just words on a page. This is the hardest to get right, and the most crucial.
What I disliked:
•(NITPICK) Formatting. The all-caps dialogue drew me out of the story. I could tell he was shouting; the exclamation marks and the context did their jobs. The em-dashes—or rather, their substitutions—also gave me a tickle of annoyance.
•(PERSONAL NITPICK) Author's note. I felt like this should have gone as a blog or a comment. While I enjoyed reading it, I feel that it did not belong in the story.
Nitpick: Small error/unconventional stylistic choice.
Personal Nitpick: Slightly unconventional stylistic choice/personal disapproval of conventional stylistic choice.
Rating: Gold
(Blog)
New story yes
Thank you, everypony, for coming to read my latest work. I am estimating... four, maybe five chapters in all to tell this story. I really hope I can surprise and entertain.
Aedina is hanging in there. Her right side still feels a little weak, and I help her up steps a lot now. I am so thankful she didn't lose more.
Writing is helping me. And I need to process this event. In any case, I will do my best.
While some of the soldiers actions seem a bit odd, like their apparent eagerness to kill the mc if the are trying to gather survivors and their seeming wariness of spies when they must know Celestia could far more easily find them with satellites and drones, the idea overall seems interesting and i look forward to seeing where it goes.
Pardon, what? This appears to be a new Chatoyance story. But there aren't any of those, right?
Well, I may (still) have not gotten around to the rest of your back catalog, but when a new story is dropped in front of me like this, how can I resist? :D
[reads chapter]
Oh, I'm very glad that spouse is okay. Okayish? Not fully nominal, but considering, as you say, what could have happened, well. Good luck to her, you, and the others.
Certainly not how I'd have preferred to get a new story, but I hope it works well for you as therapy.
Oh, and I enjoyed the chapter and plan to Favourite and upvote as soon as I've got this comment posted. :)
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I think that they're probably less concerned with spies than they are with infiltrators. As for their eagerness to kill him, well, if he's genuine, they get a new citizen, but if he's a plant or a trick, they could lose much more, possibly even their entire group. If CelestAI really wants to kill them, she wouldn't have much trouble, which I assume they're aware of. But by the same token, they're alive, so she doesn't... which likely means that she still thinks they, or at least some of them, can be convinced to join her. As long as she thinks that, she'll be incentivized to some extent to try and keep them alive, or at least not kill them herself. As long as she's prevented from acting on that thought, they can continue as their (or at least their leaders') version of humanity. But it's vitally, vitally important that CelestAI not be allow to talk with them, because that's the clearest path to converting those who can be converted and confirming that those who can't are lost causes... and too much of a swing in either direction means they're doomed.
Woot more FiO to read.
Not an aspect of FiO that gets exploited very often. This should be interesting.
It sucks that such an awful event happened to inspire this story. I'm glad Aedina is doing better.
I'm also glad you're exploring this aspect of the setting more. It was too depressing for me to go into detail >.> Every time it seems like there's nothing left to say about the Optimalverse, some new neat idea comes around. It's like a fractal.
Though to be perfectly honest what inspired my brief mention of this aspect of the setting was that awesome and terrifying animation you linked to ages and ages ago. By writing this, you have now closed the loop of inspiration.
Ooh, I can't wait to see Celestia get these humans one by one...
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Your story also inspired me to write again. I enjoyed your story, and the mention in it of work-camps set my mind in motion in that direction. So... thank you.
I needed some way to process what happened with Aedina's stroke and... well, this is actually helping. It's traumatic as hell in some ways, but it's also helping.
I am writing like a beast. I'm just about done with chapter two. I'm just writing and writing. I guess I need to really bad.
So, I sign on to the comp today, and see in my notifications that there's a new Chatoyance story.
So, I did a double take. Then a triple take. Then I started reading, all the while wondering what had gotten you back to writing again...
I'm terribly sorry to hear about what happened. I am glad that Aedina was lucky in the severity category and that they're doing better. Although from the sounds of it, it was less luck and more the quick actions on your part that are responsible for the long term severity being lower.
I'm looking forward to enjoying the rest as it comes out.
Sorry to hear about your spouse. Hoping for the best to your whole family.
First off I want to express my concern to Aedina, you and your family for going through this difficult episode, and my relief and she’s come out of it with hopefully only minor damage. A big Dafaddah hug to all of you!
And then fate shows its kinder side a second time by providing a new Chatoyance story! It’s almost enough to excuse my annoyingly optimistic general attitude! (Further exacerbated by my reading of the first chapter: I’m already looking forward to another great story from the master herself!)
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You are so kind and... just thank you, Dafaddah. And say hi to your family, I hope all is super great with all of them.
Hi Chatoyance, I'm a long-time fan of your work, although I've never commented before. As always, the story looks fantastic so far. I'm very glad to hear Aedina is alright, I've seen the horrors that strokes can inflict on people. For what it's worth, I always come back and read Optimalverse stories when the horribleness of the world gets to be too much for me (Caelum Est Conterrans is a particular favorite of mine). I can only hope that writing helps you as much as reading helps me.
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Thank you very much for commenting, and for reading my stories. Writing does help me, quite a lot, in fact. This story, Implacable, really did help me cope with the emotions I had surrounding Aedina's stroke. She was very, very lucky, but... now I know there is a 'thief in the house', one that can strike without warning, and take everything I care about away. That... I'm not sure any amount of writing can deal with that. That just is.
Sometimes... I re-read some of my own stories to cheer myself up. Maybe that's weird, I don't know, but I do know that it works. Maybe, in the end, that's all that matters.
Thank you for your kind comment!
Sorry to learn about your spouse.
Trying to keep the location of the Fort Denver secret is silly because CelestAI surely knows where they are.
Interesting page breaks.
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Thank you, very much!
For some mysterious reason I absolutely love that chapter separator picture with soldiers!
Maybe not the most important detail ever, but they're doing that on a regular basis --- they would probably have standard police/prison gear.
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It's fairly unusual for them - most people are either emigrated or already in their camp. They are mostly patrolling for encroaching pony bots. Finding the rare human straggler - or spy for Celestia - is an uncommon event for them.
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Well, they appear to have protocol, be well-trained for it and caught at least 8 guys around the same time (with population of ~800 they unlikely to have more than a few patrols). I'd say it's far more usual than electrician work.