Echo
Dream, noun: an involuntary vision occurring when awake or during sleep, frequently characterized by a succession of sensations, thoughts, and emotions.
I said once that Vision had to be real, because it was too internally consistent to be a dream, but don’t dreams always seem reasonable when you’re asleep? It’s only when the sun rises that you see that none of it made any sense.
Green Apple has a cutie mark for applebucking, for apple farming, for her family’s trade. She must have loved them once, and she must have loved the farm, or it wouldn't have become a part of her so. I suppose it’s possible they gave her a little guff for being a unicorn in an earth pony family, but... not like she says. I wonder, was any of it true, or did whatever poisoned her soul actually rewrite her memories of her loved ones? Did poison joke turn smiles into sneers and friendly teasing about her horn into genuine cruelty? Did she ever actually cry herself to sleep wishing she were born in Canterlot, or did she convince herself she did?
Berry Punch has a cutie mark for distillation, for winemaking, and for silly earth pony drinks. She must have taken pride in her work—come to understand the science and then to master the art. Her work was the love of her life, to the point that life without it wasn’t worth living, but she doesn't love anything now. That care was her talent, so why haven’t her talents faded? Why does she obey Trixie? Why was her apartment so well kept, when she could sleep on a bed of nails without complaint?
Trixie has a cutie mark for showmareship, maybe acting or stage magic too, with that wand and star. She must have made ponies giggle—been the sort of mare who needs the crowd’s adoration, prancing up and down a stage and calling herself ‘great and powerful’ for some cheap laughs. That sort of pony doesn’t need money or power to be happy. Why does she have so much of both? Why do Berry and Green love her, no matter how much she abuses them?
Siren Song has a cutie mark for expression, for emotion, for looking into ponies and seeing what makes them feel. She must have made the Princess very proud and had a lot of friends who loved her.
I’m waiting for the room to get brighter before I climb out of bed. It’s too dark to be awake, too quiet, but I’m not asleep either, just staring at the ceiling. There must be some light, because my eyes have adjusted. I can see the glimmer of water working its way across the white stone ceiling before I hear it drip to the floor. I’m in a small room, barely larger than the bed, but I don’t feel claustrophobic. Maybe it’s because the air is clear and the blankets are warm, or maybe I’ve just got a lot on my mind.
“Dear Princess Celestia,” I murmur, pretending the points of light on the ceiling are stars. It kind of works. “I had some time to think today, and I remembered the first time you ever lied to me. I mean, really lied, instead of asking a trick question or something. We were walking through the history museum, when I was seven I think, and you looked at one of the displays—a battle saddle. I asked you what was so special about it, and you turned to me and said ‘Nothing.’ Just ‘nothing.’ One word.”
“But it wasn’t true, Princess. You tried to hide it, but I could see it in your eyes. You were so tired then, so old. Did you know the pony who died wearing that saddle, or was it just a reminder that Equestria was not always so kind? You lied to me, because you didn’t want to face what was in that display.” I draw a breath and shut my eyes, taking a moment to collect my thoughts.
“That was the moment I realized you were fallible—that the immortal, wise, kind, eternally youthful Princess of Equestria could lie, could twist a fundamental truth because she doesn’t feel like having a painful conversation right now. And...” Nothing comes to mind after that, like my thoughts had simply run out, and for a time, I struggle for what to say next.
“And I think that was when you stopped being an impossible ideal and started being a pony to me. Knowing that you can be hurt, can turn away from things that cause you pain—it made me understand how much it meant that you never turned away from me. I know you’re going to blame yourself when I don’t come back, but please don’t. You aren’t perfect, but you deserve to be happy. I hope whatever pony you find to care for next gives you less trouble than I did.”
“Your faithful student, Siren Song.”
The sun doesn’t shine here, and the room will never get brighter. Time to get out of bed.
My spine pops as I give one long stretch, twisting my back and letting my legs go taut. Muscles strain, but they don’t burn, and I find my breath coming clearly. Relaxing forces a sigh from my lungs and I push the blankets off to one side, enough for me to lift them away with a foreleg and roll out onto the floor. I can see the outlines of the room, that there’s nothing in it but a bed and an end table, and that it has two exits. One is a door, under which a crack of light can be seen—the source of the faint illumination. The other is an open archway that leads to a dark space, though I do catch a glint of glass and metal, and some very distinctive outlines. A bathroom.
The facilities work fine, and there’s warm water for the shower. Not hot, but warm. I guess it feels nice. I assume there must be some way to make the lights in here come on, though I don’t bother fumbling around for it. Showering in the dark is odd, but it’s not much of a shower. I kind of stand under the water until I feel it’s been long enough, and shake off before I pull the curtain open. Water is still dripping off me, running down my legs and over the bare skin on my ankles. I’m already standing in a puddle though, so what does it matter?
I suppose I’ve been standing there for a while when I notice the shine by the door. Something glitters in the darkness to the left of the bathroom’s doorframe—something I didn’t see on the way in. Its shape is strange, like a bundle or a coiled serpent, and I don’t immediately recognize it. Reaching out for it proves to be a mistake, and the glow of my own telekinesis blinds me. Rose-tinted light lances into my eyes, and I reflexively snap them shut and turn away, a hiss passing through my teeth. I was too slow though—I can feel my eyes adjusting, and green blobs swim around my vision, drifting amongst ghostly after-images of the bathroom. It’s almost enough to make me drop whatever it is, but I manage to hold on, slowly opening my eyes while my gaze is cast down. The bedroom looks disturbing in this light, full of long red lines and dark shadows, but it’s light enough for me to adjust, and then slowly turn my head forward.
It’s my belt, of course. Somepony must have left it on a hook on the wall.
I slip it around my barrel, and it’s not until I tug it tight that I feel something is different. It’s heavier on one side than it should be, not very much, but enough to make it list slightly off-center. I balance on three legs, twisting around to pat down that side with a hoof, feeling for the source of the weight. My hoof hits glass, producing a muffled but clear tone—a bottle stuffed into one of the pouches of the belt, sealed with a cork.
I let my horn brighten slowly, giving my eyes time to adjust to the magic’s glow. Then I pull the bottle out and hold it in front of me.
It’s small, flat, and full of a silvery liquid that beads up when it sloshes. It looks a little like mercury, actually. There’s a wide label on one side showing a green and gold compass rose, under which dark brown characters read “Daring Do.” The label wraps around to the back, continuing with considerably smaller text. “Directions for use.” I scan down the rows of neat characters, squinting to see them in the dim illumination. “Consume contents of bottle with food, being sure to drink the entire bottle at once. Cutie mark will appear within seconds, and lasts fifteen to forty days, depending on build and metabolism. WARNING: Do not consume any poison-joke-based products until mantle has fully faded. Persistent exposure to poison-joke-derived pharmaceuticals can result in serious long-term side effects, including blindness, paranoia, intermittent explosive disorder, and death. Addiction Factor: 8%”
I uncork the bottle.
Dazed. I feel dazed. Like none of this is real. The bottle floats up to my face, and I sniff gently at the mouth. I suppose I was expecting that distinctive flowery smell, but there’s nothing—a slightly acrid scent, maybe, but that might be my imagination. I shake the bottle a little, and watch it bead up inside the glass.
It’s not that it’s tempting me—if I wanted to take the easy way out, I think I’d prefer drowning to poison. It’s...
I expected it to be magic: to glow, to churn, to give off that unnatural stink. I expected it to be malevolent, an emissary of the evil that’s taken root in the city’s heart. I expected it to be like those stories of cursed artifacts that whisper dark secrets to their bearers.
But it’s only a bottle, with a garish label and a cheap cork and a little chip in one corner. I could dump the liquid down the sink, toss the whole thing into the trash, or drop the bottle on the floor and smash it to bits under my hooves.
My horn shines a little brighter with the effort of forcing the cork back into its place, and I put the bottle away in my belt.
After that much light, the room seems pitch black other than the blobs and spots in my vision. I have to carefully feel my way out of the bathroom to the edge of the bed, and then around it to the door. It’s not locked. Though why would it be?
It’s not like I’m going anywhere.
“Good morning,” the soldier outside my door greets me politely. I smell tobacco smoke before my eyes have a chance to adjust. Then I see the uniform, then the knives on his wings, then his scarred face, then that the only door out is behind him. We’re in a common room of some kind, with a small table, a couch, a bookshelf, and some cabinets, all lit by those overhead strips. He’s seated on the far side of the table, and the table itself is set for two. Baskets cover the center of the table, piled high with food, and the pleasant, gentle aroma of fresh baked goods wafts through the air, soured by the smell from his cigarette.
He’s sitting between me and the door, but he’s at ease. His shoulders are relaxed, his tail flat on the floor, and his eyes are on the table instead of me. He’s rummaging through the pile of muffins for one he likes. A sentry would be more alert, but he’s not at all concerned I’ll make a break for it.
That’s it then. Sold out by the maintenance ponies. Kind of an anti climax, after...
After all that.
“Good morning,” I reply to him, and step up to the far side of the table, sitting like nothing was wrong. He’s a snow-white pegasus stallion, perhaps in his late forties. Once, his mane and tail were sky blue, but now, lines of silver show his age. He doesn’t brush or cut them, and his mane is so long that stray hairs hang down over his eyes, resting above his short, square snout. On another stallion it would look feminine, but not on him. Age has sapped none of his strength, and the lines and creases on his face serve only to draw attention to his bright, probing eyes. Some of those lines are the faint silver streaks of scars, barely visible beneath his coat. On such a stallion, long hair doesn’t show sensitivity—it shows contempt. The absolute certainty that he can do as he wishes. He has a cigarette resting between his teeth, a thin line of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.
He’s well equipped, his neat, organized gear making my rough belt full of tools and supplies seem embarrassingly crude. The black uniform clashes sharply with his coat, but somehow, not a stray hair has landed on it. It’s made from a fine fabric that draws taut no matter how he moves, pulling the silver stitching into neat lines. Two squares of blood-red fabric have been sewn onto the shoulders—like epaulets—and each side of his neatly folded collar is adorned by a pair of silver bars. I can tell there’s armor under the fabric—the torso and leg sections are too even, the straps there too tight. He’s even wearing wing-blades and those little hoof-ankle devices with the knives inside. He snaps one out as I watch, using the long blade to carefully dissect a muffin.
“You must be hungry. No need to wait on my account,” he says, gesturing me towards the table. It’s lavishly set—like it would be in Canterlot if we were entertaining a dignitary—piled high with more food than two ponies could hope to eat. The scent of toast, pastries, tea, jam, and more intermingles in the air, creating a heady aroma that not even the cigarette smoke can fully spoil. He wolfs down one of the sections of his muffin. I still don’t move, but he doesn’t wait, giving me all the time I want while he pours a cup of tea from the pot. I say nothing, only watching, and he leans his head down to pick a flask from one of the many discreet pockets in the uniform, shamelessly tilting its mouth into the teacup.
I suppose it has been a while since I’ve eaten, but somehow, the thought of eating anything right now makes my stomach turn. I nibble on some toast, just to be polite.
“Did you sleep well, Ms. Song?” he asks, his voice deep and rough. He moves slowly, but with a certain deliberateness that leaves me with no doubt he could spring into action when pressed. I’m not getting much from him beyond that—if I knew him better, or if the situation pushed him more off guard, maybe I could read more, but his body language is too controlled. All I can see in those eyes is confidence, arrogance, and a hint of curiosity. The smoke from his cigarette twists up towards the ceiling, weaving in and out amongst the little currents in the room, looping back and forth about itself. When he sees me watching, he takes a long draw off his cigarette and blows a sharp wave of smoke out his muzzle, ruining the aroma from the table. It was a very deliberate move, but his eyes never leave my face. He’s evaluating me too.
“Fine, thank you,” I say, coughing a little when the cloud of smoke finally hits me. “Could you put that thing out?”
“I could,” he says, with the sort of thoughtful, intellectual air one might use to ponder an abstract concept. Considering the notion is about as far as he gets however, shifting the cigarette to one side of his mouth so he can sip his tea. “Lieutenant Echo. Echo is fine.” He reaches out with a wing, the tip of the longblade there catching the edge of the butter tray and dragging it over to his side of the table. “So, Ms. Song, now that we’re introduced, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“You already know who I am. Or do you treat all prisoners this way?” I answer back, smooth and calm. I want to snap, to yell, but that’s what he wants too. This is a battle of wills, and the first pony to get emotional loses. Still, I catch a hint of a condescending smirk. Something in my answer he finds oh-so-amusing.
“Perhaps I have other reasons for being nice to you,” he answers, his gaze traveling down my neck. He leans around the table a hair, so that look can slide across my side until it comes to rest on my flank, my thigh. There it lingers for a moment too long, before lazily sliding back to my face, a chuckle escaping him.
“You’re disgusting,” I blurt out before I have a chance to think, leaning away from the table. I feel sweaty, dirty, like his stare left a trail of grease in its wake. He’s laughing before I’ve even finished, and my cheeks burn when I realize I played right into his hooves. He wanted to see if he could catch me off guard, and I let myself get pushed into a childish outburst like a stupid foal.
“I’m practical, Ms. Song,” he answers as that chuckle winds down. He flicks out a wing, and in an impressive display of agility, hooks his teacup by the handle using the edge of that wingblade, sipping at it quietly. “The way I understand it, getting you a doctor’s visit is worth one fairly passionate kiss—I figured that breakfast and some conversation would at least earn a smile.”
I don’t... for a moment, my mind goes blank. I stare at him in mute shock, unable to process what I’ve just heard. He gives me time to mull it over, sitting back from the table and lazily swirling the contents of his teacup.
“I don’t think that’s so unreasonable,” he says, fixing me with a stare over the cup’s rim.
“He didn’t know who I was when he helped me,” I say, but I can hear my voice trembling, my teeth set on edge. My perfect poker face is destroyed in a moment, twisted into a glare that only makes him smile. “He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
“Certainly a valid point of view. Then again, perhaps he knowingly aided a fugitive, and is himself a traitor who must be made example of. I haven’t decided,” he says, with a matter-of-fact air, tilting his gaze down, and then back up to my eyes.
Just for a moment, I consider taking the hint—some malignant and cowardly part of my mind weighing the advantages and costs of smiling and flirting for this creature, if it will make things easier. The thought is barely a flicker, but in its wake comes a torrent so sharp and sudden I’m swept away before I know what’s happening.
“The only reason you’re being nice to me is because you know what Princess Celestia will do to you!” I scream, rearing up onto the table and smashing a set of the dishes under my hooves. “You let me go! You let me go back to Equestria right now and maybe she won’t destroy this city and leave you to drown!”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and then his grin fades, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. “Ah, our dear Princess,” he says, sitting up and back, taking another draw off the cigarette. “And how is she doing these days?”
No.
“You already knew I was the Princess’s student,” I insist, like saying it will make it true, but he shakes his head.
“I knew you were somepony important to Trixie who she didn’t want the rest of the council finding out about. Security’s best guess was that you were some long-lost relative. Rider’s ghost—I did not realize she had the guts.” He glances up at the ceiling, putting on airs of being lost in thought. “Rainbow Dash has hated Trixie for years, but the others always held her back. If this gets out though, I don’t think a hanging will cut it. She’ll have the old showmare drawn and quartered and put her head on a pike.”
I...
Behind him, the door flies open, Zephyr rushing in. “We heard shouting,” she blurts out, raising her head to look at me over Echo’s shoulder. Berry isn’t far behind, entering the room at a more measured pace, and standing by Zephyr’s side. “Is everything okay?”
“Ms. Song and I were getting introduced,” Echo answers, his tone friendly, casual, smooth. “Sweet filly. Not very bright though.”
The knives are in my grip, floating in front of me. I don’t even remember drawing them, but suddenly, they’re there. His smug, ugly face is my entire world, like Berry and Zephyr and the room and the city all didn’t exist. My whole body is tense, my magic gripping the weapons so hard that a whine fills the air, and breath comes in uneven, quick starts. I need to do something! Need to wipe that look off his face permanently. He can’t do this! He thinks he can yank me around for his own sick amusement and I need to show him he’s wrong! He is wrong!
But all he does is sit there. And then, somepony is grabbing me, pulling me away from the table. Feathers—it’s Zephyr. She’s saying something, but I don’t hear her. It’s like her voice is distant, muted mumblings from far away.
“Siren,” Berry’s voice cuts through that haze. She’s by my side, looking at me. Just a single word.
I put the knives down. On the table.
Echo lets out a snort, finishing off the last of his tea and tossing the cup away, letting the porcelain smash against the floor. He reaches under the table, retrieving his helmet—one of those brutal steel things, capped with a spike instead of a horn. “Much obliged, Ms. Punch. Get her cleaned up for the trip. And, while you’re employing that unique charm of yours, keep her under control,” he orders as he rises from the table to go. “Oh, and Ms. Song, next time you’re about to jump to conclusions, you might want to pause to consider that prisoners generally do not get to keep their weapons. Just a thought.”
Nopony says anything. After a moment, the door swings shut behind him. The lights hum and flicker. Beside me, Zephyr’s wings rustle.
“Zephyr, I need to talk to Berry in private. Leave,” I order, my chest trembling as I try to draw a long, calming breath.
“I don’t—”
“I said get out!” I scream, so loud and so hard my voice cracks, a screech of primal fury that sends Zephyr leaping backwards before she has time to think. Her eyes go wide, and after one quick glance between Berry and me, she scrambles out into the hall, the door banging in its frame behind her.
Then it’s quiet.
“You are experiencing emotional distress.” Berry breaks the silence with her perfect calm, that bland sort of indifference. She picks up my knives, one at a time, curling her lips back in the oddest way so that only her teeth touch the handle, sliding each one back into its sheath. I don’t say anything at first. I don’t think she expects me to.
“I told him that I was Princess Celestia’s student. That’s what the screaming was earlier,” I manage, sometime after she’s finished with the knives. “I thought he already knew. But he didn’t.”
Berry doesn’t react of course, blankly staring at the wall. I know she’s considering it though, those gears in her head turning. After a few seconds, she indicates one of the baskets with her muzzle—the one full of grass and daisies. “Green will be discharged this morning. You will take this to her.”
Picking up the basket is almost instinctive, and it levitates alongside me as I move after Berry. When we step out into the hall, I can see Zephyr watching us, a few paces away from the doorway. She’s biting her lip, struggling to keep her gaze off the ground, and it doesn't take my talents to see that she’s hiding something. Guilt, shame, something else. “What should I do?” she asks, but her voice is stiff. She’s saying it just to have something to say.
“Throw all this away. Clean the room,” Berry orders, and we move on.
Our trip through the halls is uneventful. There’s no sun, of course, and the steady beat of the lights reveals nothing about the time, but I think it’s late morning. The work shift has obviously left for the day in any case, and we don’t encounter a single other pony on our way to Green.
The trip ends with a set of wide double doors that swing loosely on their hinges. Behind them lurks the pungent odor of ozone and antiseptics, a malevolent cloud that springs out into the hall at the first opportunity. We push on through the swinging doors anyway, and the worst of it passes after a few moments.
The recovery ward isn’t much, just a long room with a half-dozen beds, so clean that the white stone seems to shine. Each of the beds is guarded from water by one of those glass covers, but only two of them are occupied. The bed second from the left holds a sleeping silver pegasus, covered head to hoof in what must be a dozen lightning bolt cutie marks. He twitches spastically every few seconds, and sparks crackle over his coat, the source of the ozone smell.
The bed on the far right holds a unicorn, green and familiar.
“Hey there, Berry. Siren,” she calls out from the bed, her voice quiet, but clear. She’s on her back, legs bent around a pair of metal bars that run over the bed, her head in a padded brace to hold it still. The whole setup is so clinical it makes it easy to imagine she’s at death’s door, an impression aided by how weak her voice sounds. When I trot towards her though, I can see that her eyes are open and following me, her expression alert. “You two ready to get me out of here?”
“The doctors have not yet discharged you, however, a matter has arisen which Trixie must be informed of immediately. You will watch Siren until such time as you are discharged, and then prepare her to depart,” Berry says. Green can’t move her head much inside the brace, but she gives the faintest of nods, and Berry turns away, heading back out into the hall.
Watch Siren. Because the stars know we can’t let her out of our sight for five minutes without her ruining everything. Lucky that Green doesn’t mind playing foalsitter.
“Hey, Sweetheart?” she calls from the bed, snapping me out of my thoughts. I raise my head to look at her, and she smiles. “I’m watching you.” A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, though it’s a sickly, unsteady sound. “Come on over here. Is that grass for everypony or just you?”
“Oh. Berry thought you would want some,” I say, stepping up to the bedside. I hang the basket from the metal stand above her, so she can reach it easily without turning her head, and she levitates a daisy out, sniffing at it. I take one myself, just to... just because, a squeak emerging from my throat.
Just a squeak.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, reaching up to rub at my eyes with an ankle. “The air in here is terrible.” I blink the tears out of my eyes, but there seem to be more of them, my vision blurring as they run down my cheeks to the bed sheets. “It’s that ozone smell, it’s... I mean...” My throat is seizing up, tight and sore, twisting my words into an ugly croaking. I’m not hurt, I’m not even scared. I just got rattled a little by a guard, there’s no reason for me to be choking up. Green doesn’t care anyway. I force myself to straighten up, to look dignified, “I’m sorry, Green,” I manage through the pain in my throat.
“It’s okay, Sweetheart,” Green says, dropping the flower to the bed beside her. Her tone is even, gentle, but I can’t see her face—my vision is too blurry. “That smell stings my eyes too. Besides, you wouldn’t cry, would you?”
“No. Crying never helped anything.” I force the words out, a long sniffle marking the end of the sentence, as I try to hold my head up. “Had a bunch of foals in the orphanage who wouldn't stop bawling. I hated those snot-nosed little whiners. Bully magnets, that’s what they were.”
“That’s right, Sweetheart. That’s right,” Green murmurs. With the flower released, she’s free to focus her magic on other things, and she unlocks one of the bars above her. Her right foreleg goes free, and with some effort, she pats a spot on the bed next to her. “You can lay your head down if you like. Until your eyes clear. You get used to the ozone after a little while.”
I lay my head down across the sheets; Green puts her leg around me, and we wait. We wait and we pretend that I’m not crying. We wait and we pretend I’m not the kind of useless, pathetic overgrown foal who needs an adult to put a leg around her and tell her it will all be okay.
“I didn’t know you grew up in an orphanage,” Green says, after a time, when the sobbing has stopped save for the occasional sniffle. With my head so low, she can’t look at me, and I can’t see her—the brace won’t let her turn her head that far. She’s holding me though, able to feel my little motions, and I can hear her voice. Worried, soft, but touched with something. Something good. Surprise, maybe.
“I didn’t really. I was still young when the Princess took me,” I say, shutting my eyes and resting my head against the padded brace. “I hardly even remember it. I couldn't name the other ponies there, other than the matron and a few friends.”
“The Princess adopted you?” she asks, her tone perking up, voice rising from its low whisper as curiosity drives her on.
I say nothing.
“Oh.” Her voice sinks again, almost sighing the word out. “I’m sorry, Sweetheart.”
“She raised me—gave me everything I had. If she wants to call me her student, she can. It’s just a word,” I say. Green doesn't answer, but she pats my neck, her hoof making little brushing motions against my mane. She keeps doing that, until the silence grows long, and I feel like I have to say something, say anything to break it. “Besides, I never knew my parents, so she’s the closest thing I have.”
“Accident?” Green asks, and I give a little shake of my head. She’ll feel it.
“Abandoned. Not really, I mean, they didn’t leave me on the orphanage door and run away or anything like that. But, they couldn’t care for me and...” I bite my lip, drawing in a long breath. “Well, they didn't leave names.”
“That actually happens in Equestria?” Green asks, and it’s kind of bizarrely funny, that for once, I’ve shocked her notions of kindness and decency.
“Very rarely. Princess Celestia looked into it, when I was young and wanted to know. Apparently, it usually means that they can’t care for their child for some reason and feel ashamed. Illness, too young or too old with no family to help, or... mentally unfit,” I say. The effort of talking is strangely soothing, letting me get my tone under control as I put the words together. “She always said that my parents loved me so much they were willing to give up their only child so she could have a chance at a good life.” Green doesn’t say anything, and I have to laugh, a weak little chuckle. “You’re thinking something unkind about my parents right now, aren’t you?”
“I’m thinking something unkind about Celestia for telling you that,” she answers, and though her voice is still quiet, it’s picked up a distinct edge of strain.
“I know you hate the Princess, Green, but you shouldn't,” I plead with her, imploring her to reconsider. I’m collecting myself again, and I have it together enough that the words emerge not as a whine, but as an honest plea, brushed by the pain her hatred causes me. “She didn’t kill Sine. You think she’s some insidious mastermind, but she isn’t capable of what you’ve described. She...”
I realize Green has gone still, and I let the words die, trailing off into nothing. “Of course, no matter what I say, you’re going to insist that she’s pulling the wool over my eyes.”
“I know very well what you think of me, Siren,” Green says, but her tone is disappointed now, “but you’ve got too sweet a voice to spoil it with bitterness.”
“I didn’t—”
“Horseapples you didn’t,” she says. “Your Princess killed the pony I love, and you’re upset at how gosh-darn unfair that is to you.” Her words are quiet, but laced with unkind judgment. “It ain’t about you. Deep down you know that, but you’ve still got some real bad habits to break.”
“I’m...” It takes a second for me to collect myself, but she doesn't rush me, letting me find the right words, the right tone. “I still don’t think she killed him, Green. But you loved him, and he died, and expecting you to get over that just because I wanted you to... that was selfish and stupid. I’m sorry.”
“Are you really?” she asks, but it’s not cruel, or mocking. It feels like an honest question, and after a moment, I nod. She draws a deep breath, lets it out, and it’s only after a considerable pause that she speaks again, a short, contented “Good.”
“Maybe dying down here would be easier,” I say. At once, she jolts like somepony lit a fire under her, struggling to free her legs from the restraints and yank herself towards me. “Not like that, not like that!” I say as quickly as I can, pushing her back down to the bed. “I was joking! I just meant it’d be less awkward than trying to introduce the two of you.”
For a moment, she freezes—then, when it sinks in that I’m not suicidal, she relaxes, laughter floating out of the top of that brace. “Less awkward for you maybe, but that’s your bad luck, ain’t it? I intend to get you out of here in one piece.”
“You know, at some point, you’re going to have to decide if you have an accent or not,” I tease, lightening the air a bit, after that scare I gave her. “Your ain’ts and y’alls seem to come and go with the tides.”
“Hush, you. When I started modeling, my accent was so thick nopony could understand a word I said. My photographer said it was better that way, meant I talked less. Every time one of the models offered their opinion on his poses, he’d stare them right in the eye and say, ‘Young mare, when you walked in this morning, I thought you looked clever. Why’d you have to go and spoil that by opening your mouth?’” she chuckles, basking in an old memory. “We all hated him. Stuck-up jerk.”
“Well, he knew how to catch your good side at least, if those posters were any indication.” A little light flattery always goes well with Green, and she takes it exactly the way I thought she would, with a happy sigh and a smile I know is there even if I can’t see it.
“He did at that,” she says, the leg that rests around my neck seeming to relax, like some tension was leaving her body. “You mind giving me a hoof sitting up? I think I could go for some of that grass right now.”
As it turns out, I do mind helping a pony with a head wound circumvent their doctor’s instructions, but Green is perfectly able to eat from where she is, even if she does have to levitate the grass down two or three blades at a time. As soon as she sets in, the fact that I haven’t eaten in what must be more than a day catches up to me in a rush, my stomach turning into a yawning pit. I pace myself though, eating only one or two blades at a time like she does, forcing myself to make light conversation to space things out. I think she’s in about the same position, and we while away our time with amusing nothings until the last of the grass is gone.
“One piece left,” I observe, picking up the daisy she let fall to the bed beside her. “It’s all yours.”
“Nonsense.” She waves me off, as I levitate the daisy in front of her. “You can have it, Sweetheart.”
“I’m not stealing food from a pony in traction. I’m already on my hooves; you need it to recover,” I insist, balancing it on the tip of her nose.
The flower has barely hit her nose, though, before the scarlet glow of her own magic surrounds it, lifting it up and away. “I got a little bonk on the head,” she insists. “You were beaten black and blue for nearly two days straight.”
“Yeah, but I’m the toughest unicorn to ever live, remember?” I insist, a little grin tugging at my features as I look down at her from my perch beside the bed. “You’re the sort of sissy who goes down after one little concussion.”
“You are going to take that back, and then you are going to eat that flower,” Green says, firm. Her tone is forceful, but she’s smiling as well, her free leg resting over her undercarriage.
“Or you’ll what? Hit me with one of those perfectly polished hooves?” I shoot back, sing-song, raising one leg and letting my ankle go limp. “You’d get a scratch and faint.”
By the time the doctor shows up to discharge Green, she has me in a headlock, the rest of my body levitated off the ground so my legs flail uselessly in the air. He is something less than amused and doesn’t hesitate to let us know it, but Green and I just sit through his excoriating lecture on hospital safety, shooting each other sheepish grins as I take my time eating the daisy. When he’s done, he curtly pronounces Green fit and sends us on our way. When her legs come free of the braces, she’s so unused to walking she almost falls out of bed—but I catch her, and we head out together, her magic sweeping her saddlebags out from under the bed just in time for them to chase us out the door.
“I think you made me pull something there,” I say, wincing as we start down the hall. I don’t manage faster than a steady walk, every motion of my legs electing a painful twinge, a soreness that carries up my back to my neck. Green only chuckles though, shaking her head.
“If you’d pulled a muscle in your condition, you wouldn't be joking about it,” she insists, with a light, reassuring tone—though she does take a moment to carefully watch my walk before she continues. “It’s some lingering soreness is all. You’ll have a chance to rest it on the ride home.”
“That’s great! When do we leave?” I ask, a certain lightness entering my heart when I realize that, for once, fate is not going to conspire to turn a simple task into a nightmare. Green isn’t headed for the crawler dock, but from how often she stops to get her bearings, I gather she’s not too familiar with the building’s layout. Besides, we need to collect Berry first.
“Just as soon as we have you all cleaned up and ready to go. I had Berry make a supply run while you were out,” Green answers, opening her saddlebags, pulling out two small bottles and a thick envelope. It takes me a second to realize she’s giving them to me, her red glow fading to my more mild hue as I hold them up in front of me: Picture Perfect’s Coat Dye (Emerald Green), Brilliance tail shine (Lime Green), and a packet of rub-on cutie mark stamps.
“Hey, they’re still using you on the shine bottle,” I say, reflexively. I’ve got good instincts for these things, and the warm glow of pride that suffuses her when she smiles buys me a few moments to think. “But... what do we need all this for?”
“You’ve got a pretty distinctive profile, Sweetheart,” she insists, pulling open a door ahead of us. A bathroom? “Fuschia and rose unicorn, shaved on one side, and bald ankles. Right now, all it’ll take is one look, and anypony in the city can fix you to the description.” She pulls a silver horseshoe out of her bags—a spare for her usual set, I assume—and jams it under the bathroom door to prop it open as she gestures me inside. “That’s the sort of thing that’s prudent to fix, even if we aren't going to be parading you around in public.”
“But nopony is going to see me, right?” I ask, hanging back from the open door. My heart starts to beat faster in my chest, and for a moment, it keeps time with the lights above, the resonant sound carrying over my quickening breaths. “Because we’re taking the crawler straight to Neptune’s Bounty, and then I’m going home, right? There’s no reason not to just take it there. There’s—”
“Shh,” Green says, reaching out to press a hoof to my lips, her horseshoes hard and cold. “Crawlers are a very obvious means of smuggling. If we got you to Neptune’s Bounty that way, Security would know who helped you. Don’t worry though—you and I are riding straight there another way.” Her tone is quiet but firm, and she levitates me off the ground without removing her hoof from my muzzle. It should be terrifying, but there’s something oddly comforting about it, and she sets me down in the middle of the bathroom, facing the mirror.
“With the lieutenant,” I say, my voice so quiet I’m almost whispering the words. All the pieces from today fall into place in a moment, and there’s nothing I can do but stand stock still in front of the mirror, watching Green’s reflection uncork the first bottle. “Echo.”
“That’s right, Sweetheart. He’s arranged a special convoy for a security station near Neptune’s Bounty. We’ll all ride in the back, and once we’re close enough, slip out with nopony the wiser.” She pulls a comb, brush, cloth, and a few other items of makeup from her bag, and it’s only after she’s started brushing my coat that a thought seems to occur to her, her eyes perking up suddenly. “You two have met?”
“He threatened to hang a colt who helped me if I didn’t smile for him,” I say. After a moment, I swallow.
“Well,” Green says when the silence has grown too prolonged, going back to brushing the dye into my coat. “I’ll have a word with him about that.” Her tone is casual, polite—like he had caused me some minor inconvenience. But there’s a hard edge there. Is she angry with him? Seething with quiet fury at what he’s done? No. No, that’s not it. I catch her eye in the mirror. I see a glint, that faintest stiffness in the muscles around her eye.
It’s me. She’s angry with me.
Did I do something wrong?
“Will...” I swallow again, struggling to force words around the lump in my throat. “Will you really be able to hide the shaved patch with just makeup? I’m still missing a lot of hair there.”
“Mmhmm. You just let me work my magic, Sweetheart,” she assures me, like nothing had happened. There’s a pause though, a lull. She’s prompting me for something.
“Oh!” I laugh, and I think it sounds natural. I keep the tension out of my voice, at least, and I put a soft smile on my face for good measure. “Work your magic. I get it. That’s funny.”
She totally bought it.
The conversation mostly lapses into silence as she works, but that might be for the best. It gives me time to recover, and makes sure she isn’t distracted from her work. She is very good at this—there are a lot of unicorns with spells for this sort of thing, but she mostly works with her hooves, rubbing the dye into my coat. The dye is cheap and watery, but when she finishes with each section, the color shines through clear and bright. First my legs, then my undercarriage, then up along my sides.
“Did you never think about dyeing your coat before, Sweetheart?” Green asks, as her hooves massage the color into my barrel, along my ribs. “I know, you have a good natural hue, but it would mean ponies would mistake you for pink less.”
“I’ve thought about it,” I say, looking at my reflection in the mirror, sizing up the mare on the other side of the glass. She looks... bad. Not battle-scarred, not tormented or ragged or worn. All of those things have a dignity to them, some signal of inner strength to match the outer damage. She just looks dumpy, tired, with her pale coat and bald ankles and shaved sides and the patchwork of scars over her ribs. She has a bruise under one eye, scarring above it, and a cut on her ear that didn’t heal right. Her coat is pale, losing its luster, her mane full of tangles and split ends.
She doesn't look hideous. She’s not the kind of pony I would take pity on. She’s just... nothing special.
“Siren?” Green says, raising her voice. Her tone is pointed, and I realize I must have drifted away, missed something she said. A quick shake of my head serves to make it clear I wasn’t intentionally ignoring her, while I try to get my head back in the game.
“Sorry, I think I zoned out there for a moment. Could you repeat that?” I ask, sweetly enough. She doesn’t seem offended, but she’s giving me a funny look—eyes a little narrowed, ears up. Is she still mad? No, that’s not it. Something else. Concern, maybe?
“I asked: what color did you think about dyeing it? Back in Equestria,” she says, her hooves still against my side. She’s working as she talks, but her pace has slowed considerably, her attention now split between me and my coat.
“Oh. I never thought about it that much. It doesn’t matter,” I say, shaking my head again. “It’s considered bad form to dye your mane or coat. The tabloids go crazy with it, everypony insists they can see your real color. Besides, I’m the Princess’s student. It’s not like half the country doesn’t already know what I look like.”
“So, some pony on the street can have her hair any color she likes, but the Princess’s own protege can’t?” Green asks playfully. She’s trying to poke fun, but there’s not a lot I can do in response other than laugh and shrug.
“That’s how it works. I mean, it’s fine,” I answer, peering at my reflection still. Were those lines under my eyes always there?
“That’s how it works in Equestria,” Green corrects. Her voice is strong, but not sharp, too stern to be playful, but still friendly enough. She levitates the bottle of dye beside her, reaching up to hold my face with both hooves. “In Vision, special ponies can do and be whatever they please. Now shut your eyes.”
“Green, I—” She fixes me with a firm stare. I shut my eyes. Right.
We fall quiet again. It’s a little hard to talk with her hooves all over my face, and even with my eyes shut, the fumes from the dye itch and sting. She moves away from my face and down my neck, but insists that I’m not to open my eyes until the dye is dry if I enjoy not being blind. She needn’t have said anything—the caustic smell of the stuff is enough. It’s probably better not to think about exactly what dye is made from in Vision; I doubt they have the highest standard of safety and quality control in mind.
And so she works, down my neck, along my back, finishing my sides and my flanks. Then we wait for my coat to dry while she works a brush through my mane.
“Hold still,” she orders, and I hear her makeup kit open. She holds my head still with both hooves while her magic controls the array of tools inside. Brushes, pads, and other things work their way over my face, and I’m left wondering what she’s doing. If the dye isn’t dry enough for me to open my eyes, it’s probably not a good idea to start on the rest of the disguise yet. I consider asking, but, with how tight her grip is, I don’t think she wants me to speak. I’m supposed to sit there, holding still until...
“Done,” she proclaims, leaning away. “Take a look.”
For a moment after I open my eyes, my brain doesn’t recognize my own reflection. Too much has changed too quickly—she’s green, she’s strange, foreign and different, and instinctively, I pull away from the glass. It’s only when I see her mimic the motion that it hits me, that I recognize those eyes as my own, that mane, that face.
I’m dazzling.
Her—my—mouth falls open when I see what Green has done. She’s fixed up my face and mane just the way she does her own. The green shines through perfectly, a rich, deep color, and my mane hangs down dramatically over my right eye, hiding the bruses and the cut on my forehead. It doesn’t look like a cover though—it looks exotic, and when I glance to my left side, the little bumps and scrapes there are completely invisible. My ankles are still bare and my side is still shaved of course, but from the shoulders up, it’s like I’m restored. No, better than—I couldn't look this good when I was trying.
I catch my reflection’s wide-eyed, stunned expression, and it occurs to me then that I’m still miles below the ocean’s surface—that I’m still trapped in a nightmarish, blighted city, and that maybe I can worry about my looks when I’m not in mortal danger. I turn away from the mirror, starting to feel like I might be a very petty creature.
“It’s okay, Sweetheart,” Green says, her hooves finding my muzzle, gently tilting my face up. She’s smiling up at me softly, and with those hooves and silver shoes, she guides my gaze back to the glass. “Your actual disguise is going to be fairly ugly—pretty ponies stand out after all. I just figured, with how upset you were about the scars, you deserved to know things weren't that bad before I messed you up.”
“I...” In an instant, my mind goes blank. I look back at her for direction, but I can’t find anything in her face. It’s there—she’s not hiding her expression at all—but I can’t see it. It’s like she’s a book, and I just forgot how to read, leaving me staring at her dumbly. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, what I’m supposed to do. Something, anything. “Scars,” I stammer out, stiff and rigid, practically shouting the words as I point at the side of her face. “The doctor said you’d have scars.” The side of her face is unbroken though, without so much as a shaved section to indicate she had major head trauma not a few days ago. The bruise I gave her on the way to the station seems to have vanished too, leaving her in mint condition. “You look good,” I finish, lamely.
Green just laughs and smiles. And then, it’s back to work.
First, she wipes my face clean, and then, she starts in with her magic, telekinesis and petty spells making a host of corrections nopony could do by hoof. She discolors a few hairs in my tail, one at a time, until the once-perfectly-neat colors are messy enough that it looks natural. She presses one of the rub-on cutie mark stickers to my bare, shaved side, a little electric jolt running through me when she applies it. Then, she pulls out her makeup kit.
“Isn’t that a bit much just to cover the scars?” I ask as her brush and cloth work back and forth over my side and tug at the little half-formed hairs. “Visible makeup will be suspicious too, I mean.”
“Oh, a bit much,” she agrees, though the pace of her work doesn’t slow. The makeup is thick at this point, dense, like she had slathered it over my side. I don’t use makeup much, but even I know that it’s going to look terrible. “And... there!” she proclaims, abruptly snapping the kit shut. “What do you think?”
I turn so my side faces the mirror.
It’s not much of a disguise. My coat is emerald green, yes, and my mane is a flowing mix of forest hues, but a palette swap does not an effective disguise make. My ankles are still bare, my face is still the same as it always was, and the cutie mark she put on my side—a gear and silver bars—looks flaky and translucent, like the cheap rub-on it is. Worst of all is the makeup though. If she was trying to make my side look unshaved, she failed miserably. In fact, the thick coat of off-green does nothing but draw attention to my side, making it clear exactly how much hair is missing.
“It’s um...” I struggle for the words. “The color is—”
“You’re looking at it wrong,” Green says, smoothly talking over me. She sits down so she can reach out with both hooves, putting them over my eyes. “Shut your eyes,” she orders, a tad redundantly. “Clear your mind of all preconceived notions of what you look like. You’re not looking at a mirror—you’re looking at another pony you’ve never seen before.”
That seems like dubiously useful advice, since anypony looking for me will certainly have my description, but I nod. “Okay,” I answer, and I do actually make an effort, taking a deep breath, letting it out, trying to still my troubled thoughts.
“Now... open your eyes,” she orders, removing her hooves, letting me look at the mirror again.
I look...
“Ponyfeathers,” I whisper, reaching up to touch my face. It is like the transformation from before, only horribly reversed, encompassing my entire body. My hair is falling out in clumps all over my body—my ankles, my forehead, both sides, bits of my mane. I’m cut, I’m battered, my real cutie mark almost hidden in the encroaching forest of emerald around it. Worst of all though is my side, the skin there waxy and sickly, like a blight that’s seeping through my flesh, that weak, fading cutie mark in the center of it all.
She turned me into one of them.
I reach back to pat that spot, needing to confirm that it’s only makeup, but Green catches my hoof before I can. “Don’t touch it. It smears easily,” she warns. “All this stuff is meant to come off. The permanent version takes longer to apply, but this will do for the trip.”
“Green, this is...” I struggle for the words. Brilliant? Awful? “Won’t I stand out in a crowd?”
“Nope,” she answers, with a casual confidence. “In fact, you’ll about have the power of invisibility if you look desperate enough. Nopony wants to make eye contact with that sort. If you do, they’ll only hit you up for money. I’ve had to look ugly for a few jobs before.”
“That must have been a lot of work,” I speak without thinking, but for once, that leads me down the right path, and she smiles. “Thank you, Green. This is brilliant. And... I’m sorry. For earlier I mean.” I don’t know exactly what I’m apologizing for, but I give it a little awkward, bashful shame, and she takes it without question.
“You’ve got a lot of bad habits to break, Sweetheart, but you’re making good time. Think nothing of it,” she waves the matter off with a hoof before rising back to all fours, carefully securing my belt around me so as not to smudge her fresh work. “Let’s get you upstairs, shall we?”
The walk gives me time to think—Green gets us lost, and we spend a few minutes wandering the corridors, looking for somepony to ask for directions. I think about helping her navigate, since I seem to understand this place a bit better, but I could use the break, and she doesn’t notice how quiet I am when she’s busy trying to find her way.
I mean, I’m not thinking about anything in particular. Just thinking. Everything that’s happened today, over the last few days, it’s left me rattled. Disoriented, even. It’s like I’m a stranger in my own mind, finding things I’d thought long buried, fumbling for things I once could find easily.
Like my body language. I’m not controlling it the way I used to—things are slipping out, or worse, I’m forgetting myself entirely, letting instinct of all things choose how I look and move. Even now that I’m thinking about it, what used to be as natural as breathing feels like an effort, some conscious decision on my part against my nature. I have to remind myself to smile whenever Green looks at me, to glance at her mane like I was admiring how much it shines. It’s no wonder she was angry with me—when we met, I was graceful. Now, I’m practically stumbling through the day, just trying to keep from tripping over my own hooves.
Rattled. Unsettled. The shakes. I’ve heard a lot of terms for the disorder in one’s mind after a frightening event, but they were always just words. The closest I’ve ever come to tragedy or danger was when Cirrus Cloud snapped her wing, and that was really more dangerous for her than for me. Even if it was scary, the doctors told me she’d be fine, and the Princess was there to put a wing around me and tell me it would all be okay.
This doesn’t feel... rattling, though. Or shaky. I was a little emotional earlier, but now I feel like my thoughts are clumsy, slow and uncoordinated. I need a chance to clear my head, to talk things through, to find some solid ground to stand on.
But I guess it’s time to go now.
Green’s navigation takes us up a particularly long set of stairs, and when we reach the top, we emerge into a large half-cylindrical chamber, the roof arching high over our heads. The line between “hallway” and “road” was always a little blurry in Vision, but from the train tracks that run down the length of the room, I’m pretty sure this is the start of some kind of major thoroughfare. They’re not like the tram tracks that went outside—solid, braced things—but more like tracks you’d see in Equestria, smaller and recessed into the floor. There’s a stubby, boxy train car of some kind sitting on them—and while I know that aesthetics in Vision are different than those in Equestria, this thing seems to be making an active effort to be ugly. Short, squat, dark, with no windows other than a slit in the front, and no doors but a sliding cargo hatch in the side. Berry is standing in front of it, and through the door behind her, I can see it’s stuffed full of boxes.
“Hello, Berry!” Green calls as we make our way across the room. My eyes follow the train tracks as we walk. One end of this room really is just a wall—the start of the line, I suppose—but the other is one of those heavy security doors. There are a lot of little doors around the sides too, presumably more stairwells to the maintenance space. I’m not looking at Green, and so it catches me off guard when she shoves me forward, pushing me up towards Berry. “So!” she chirps, “What do you think?”
When I turn back ahead, I’m greeted by the sight of Berry’s muzzle barely a hoof’s length from my own—enough to make anypony jump. It’s a good thing she doesn’t care about interpersonal cues, because I am not at the top of my game right now, practically announcing my discomfort with a sign and a megaphone. I squirm away as she looks over every part of me, inspecting the disguise, eyeing Green’s handiwork. She actually sniffs at the fake cutie mark. Who does that?
“Acceptable,” she pronounces after a moment, her usual dead indifference coming across more as resignation in this particular context. “Regarding Lieutenant Echo, Trixie conveys that we are to trust him with the information he has acquired regarding Siren, and completely trust him once this assignment is complete.”
“Well, good to know,” Green says after a stiff pause. She tries to hide it, but I can hear that she’s a touch distracted by the news. She doesn’t like the idea of trusting that detestable monster? Not that I could blame her. “Are we waiting on him, then?” she asks, and Berry nods. “Well, no sense in sitting around. I’ll go find him. You watch Sire—”
“No,” I blurt out. For a second, I go stiff, Berry and Green both turning to look at me when I have no earthly idea what I’m going to follow that up with. I don’t panic though. I push through that disorientation, that fog, and I look Green in the eye, taking a deep breath and letting it out. “I’ll go fetch him. You’d only get lost again.”
“That is not a good—” Berry starts to object, only for Green to hold out a leg in front of her, as though to block her path. Berry looks down at the leg, and then at Green, and says nothing. I guess silence implies consent?
“Go ahead then, Sweetheart. And don’t dally—we should get underway as soon as we can,” Green says. I feel... tense, for some reason. Like all my muscles were wound up. I don’t show it though, and I nod to her, turning and starting back the way we came.
“Okay,” I say as soon as I’m out of earshot, my hooves carrying me down that long, twisting flight. “Okay, Siren. That wasn’t your best performance,” I add, with a suitably rebuking tone, but not one that strays into outright criticism. It’s supportive, reassuring. I’m good at that. “But you didn’t bomb it either. You hit all the key notes, and the audience knows what you were going for, even if you slipped up in the little details.” Put that way, it doesn't sound so bad. Green still wants to protect me, Berry isn’t going to try to poison me, I’m in good health. “I know you’re still rattled, but you’re in a better position now than you have been for a long time, and if you can keep it together, you’ll be home soon. Think you can do that for me?” Yeah, yeah, I think I can do that. “Right!”
“Now, first step: finding Echo...” I mutter when I come to a four-way split at the end of the stairwell. I have the feeling of this place, the ways and means of its architect, but that doesn’t tell me where Echo will be hiding. I could find somepony to ask, but with how abandoned this place is during the day, that would be a significant undertaking in and of itself, and there’s no guarantee they would know either. “Well...” I muse, biting my lip. He must have known we’d be leaving soon, so probably somewhere near the exit. Of the three tunnels I have to chose from, two are stairs leading downwards, so I pick the third one, following its level course that must run parallel to the train station above.
This floor doesn't seem like it gets much use. From the look of it, it was intended to be a proper train terminal—wide corridors, benches, spaces for little shops. It’s all locked up though, or converted to storage space, a number of storefronts packed full of dusty crates. I don’t think the space is abandoned; it looks more like it was never used. The benches are still pristine, other than the dust; the floor shows no sign of warping or wearing from passengers’ hooves; there are no neglected signs in the storefronts or inventory left behind. Maybe this was built before the war and wasn’t needed after? Maybe it was an ill-considered last-moment addition? It clearly wasn’t made by the same architect as the industrial space.
I’m abruptly jerked out of my reverie by the sound of splashing. Hooves in water, somepony moving through the pools and puddles that form under the leakiest parts of the ceiling. The sound is intermittent, irregular, like they can’t quite find their balance, but it’s definitely coming from up ahead. I pick up my own pace to a quick walk, ears twisting back and forth as I look for the source of the noise. There, just ahead, coming from that storefront. I hurry past the dust-covered windows, pushing my way in through the open door—
Dark. The inside of the storefront is dark, illuminated only by a thin, sickly shaft of light from the open door. Tall stacks of boxes and abandoned furniture cast long shadows, forming a pattern of scattered light against the rear wall, like glittering pieces of shattered glass. I see motion, a swaying. Then I hear the splash again, hooves in water, awkwardly moving back and forth. Breath, a hiss of exertion, the thump of something hitting wood. Muffled and muted words. A long, high groan. I take another half-step in, the light shifting around me, moving as my shadow does.
Zephyr’s face, yanked back and high, a bit in her mouth, her cheeks and ears flush. A white leg capped with a steel hoof-weapon, wrapped around her neck, pulling her back.
I’m frozen to the spot. I should leave, pretend I never saw anything, look away at least, but all I can do is stare. Light seems to dance over the scene, revealing something, only to let shadows conceal it again a moment later. Zephyr’s mane, wild and knotted. Their rear legs intertwined on the floor, caught in that puddle. The glint of that bit in her teeth. Echo’s face, brushing against hers. Their wings are outstretched, hers full of a tense energy, his steady and stiff. I see a shine in the darkness there. He’s still wearing his wingblades. The sounds tell more than my eyes ever could though, the panting, the grunting, her sudden hiss of pain. She tries to form words, at points, but it’s impossible now, her head pulled back, her eyes forced towards the ceiling by the taut cords behind her.
And then it’s over. There’s a sudden tension, a sharper grunt, a squeak and a long hiss, and the energy seems to flow out of them. Zephyr curls her lips in around her teeth, the reins behind her going slack, letting her finally lower her head back to level. Letting her see me.
She freezes. Her eyes go wide.
“Not bad,” Echo’s voice rumbles, and I see his head rub alongside hers, her left ear momentarily in his teeth. He sounds amused, and he whispers something to her, too quiet for me to hear. She abruptly spits out the bit, and the reigns slip over her head, clattering to the floor. He must notice how stiff she’s gone, because he turns his gaze to follow hers, eyes settling on me. They seem to sparkle in the reflected light, and he laughs.
“Hello, Ms. Song,” he greets, sliding off Zephyr’s back, his forehooves splashing in the puddle around them. She seems frozen to the spot, the two of us like statues, staring at each other in mutual wide-eyed horror. “Do excuse me; I’ll be with you in a moment.”
It’s hard to see in the shadowy storefront, but he turns away from her, taking a few steps towards something in the back. A table, maybe. I hear a rustling of fabric, and the clink of metal, and then he’s beside her again, a small bag balanced on one of his wings. “My apologies for being so abrupt, Ms. Zephyr, but duty calls, and it is rather urgent. Do give my regards to your family.”
I have never seen a pony look so small as Zephyr does at this exact moment, glancing between Echo and me, seeking some, any escape, her wings tucked tight and stiff against her side.
“You can go now, Ms. Zephyr,” Echo repeats, more firmly this time. She gives me one last frightened look, takes the bag in her teeth, and gallops out the door—rushing past me without ever making eye contact, her gaze on the ground. I can see deep bite marks on her ear, bruises on her side, her flank. Then, she’s gone.
“She’s sixteen.” The words should be an accusation—they’ve every right to be. Yet somehow, they come out like Berry would utter them. Dead, indifferent, stating a fact.
“So she is,” Echo agrees, returning to the back. My eyes are adjusting a little now. I can see the table he went to before—no, it’s a crate he’s using as a table. There are objects scattered over it, though I can’t make them out clearly. His uniform, probably? He starts attaching the armor plates, slipping the loops around his legs, his barrel. “So rare in this city to find a pony who is actually the age they seem to be. My compliments to Ms. Apple on your disguise, on that note. I’d think you were her daughter if I didn’t know any better.”
“Why?” I ask, and he pauses in his labors, looking up at me from across that dim space.
“You need me to explain how you two look rather similar at the moment?” he asks, a tad quizzically, a tad dry. I start to answer, but I can’t seem to find the words, my mouth opening and closing without a sound. “Or, you mean, why would she?” He seems to understand now, and I dumbly nod.
“I suppose that would be a bit of a shock to you, what with your recent immigration.” He reaches down for something on the table, and when he lifts his head up, a cigarette is held between his teeth. “Light this, would you?” he asks, stepping over towards me, holding the object in question towards my horn. After a moment’s pause, I tilt my head forward, a soft magenta spark lighting the cigarette end. “Thank you,” he says, before turning back to his uniform.
“I don’t know how much the other two have told you, but she’s one of the maintenance ponies down here. It’s a good job—food, board, full medical coverage, protection, plenty of friends to support you. Not a lot of money, but then, with all those perks, you don’t need to spend much,” he explains, snapping on the last of his leg pieces. I can see his side now, in the light. His original cutie mark is a silver medal, and the others...
Nothing.
“Sometimes though, a pony finds herself in need of some spending money. Maybe she has a taste for luxuries, maybe she has a family to support,” he continues, oblivious to my observations. “It’s all strictly at her discretion of cour—”
“Where are your extra cutie marks?” I ask, abruptly, pointing at his barrel. “I don’t see any.”
“I’m not a marker,” he replies, after a thoughtful pause, sliding another one of the armored plates over his back. I can see he’s smirking, the light from that cigarette bobbing up and down. I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I say nothing, and after a moment, he takes that as his answer. “No mantles, tonics, or medication. Contrary to popular opinion, Ms. Song, not every pony in security puts poison joke in their cereal in the morning. Call me old-fashioned, but if I’m going to drink something that will kill me, I think I’d prefer alcohol. Speaking of which.” He pulls his flask from the folded uniform, taking a long swig from it before tucking it back into his pocket, pulling the cloth exterior of the uniform over his head, and sliding it across the hard plates beneath.
“Why, then?” I ask.
“Ms. Song, if you want a helpful answer, you really are going to have to ask a slightly more detailed question,” he asserts. He’s not really annoyed but his voice is a touch stiff. He tugs the sleeves of his uniform straight as he talks, before doing up the front and reaching for his helmet last of all.
“Berry and Green both work for Trixie because they’re addicts. They need the money. Why are you doing this?” I ask. He doesn’t answer at first, busy adjusting those little epaulets and making sure his pins are straight. It’s only when he’s ready to go that he turns to face me, trotting towards the door. His face is on me, but his expression is guarded, just like it was this morning. All I can get from him is that he finds the question curious, and that he’s evaluating me for asking it.
“Perhaps I didn’t think you deserved to die simply for being related to an unpopular councilmare.” It’s an obvious lie, but there’s no way to question it without looking like a whining little brat, so I nod. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say, and we spend the rest of the walk in silence, back along the corridor, up the long stairs, into the rail chamber. Berry and Green are still there, sitting in the open cargo door. They look up when we enter, Green giving the pair of us an alert glance. Echo doesn’t show her anything though, and I don’t either.
“Ladies,” Echo greets, one long gaze taking in the three of us. “Shall we be on our way?”
“No reason to wait,” Green agrees, but after a moment, she looks back at me. “Everything went okay?”
“It went fine,” I reply, pushing past her and climbing up into the traincar. “Let’s get out of here.”
“All aboard then,” Echo says, and once Green and Berry are inside, he pulls the cargo hatch shut, locking it. There’s not much to the interior of the vehicle, just a small control panel near the front and some tied-down piles of crates and barrels in the back. “If you ladies would please stay away from the windows, our total trip time should be a hair over two hours. Next stop...” He turns to the front, pulling one of the levers there. The train car jumps forward a half step, and then slowly starts to roll, the security door sliding open ahead of us to let us pass.
“Neptune’s Bounty.”
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I feel like this has started to drag on a little bit too long. Ending fatigue is a serious issue, so I think that you should wrap this up in two or three chapters.
2453850
Vision, Book 1 is 14 chapters long. Echo is Chapter 10, so, you'll get your conclusion in four chapters time.
Still don't like Siren, but I'm starting to hate her less. I'd cut her throat instead of setting her on fire now.
2453968
It was supposed to be sad.
Bout damn time!
I want the next chapter.
*Whine* *Whine*
2454041
Read the chapter I just gave you first!
2454062
I just did!
Just as I finish reading it updates...
That's because it's true
Ah, poor Zephyr.
2453959
Book 1? so that means there will be more vision histories?
The one pony that isn't a marker is the worst of the lot. This should mess with her head quite a bit later.
'Trust completely' is code for kill right?
I keep expecting twilight to just pop out of the woodwork and announce that she was never truly dead. It would fit the crossover
2455494
Evil Overlord List, Rule 147: I will classify my lieutenants in three categories: untrusted, trusted, and completely trusted. Promotion to the third category will be awarded posthumously.
I shouldn't but I do just love references.
As for the rest of your post, well. Spoilers~
2454921
As I mentioned in my blog, it's going to take a long time to finish Vision, and a lot of people have been asking if I'll finish my other fic, IFIWT, sometime this decade. So after Chapter 14, I'm going to be making this fic as complete and calling it Book 1. Then I'll finish IFIWT (should take a few weeks), and launch into Book 2.
2454251
2454795
"Why does everypony think I'm such a screwup!?"
"Because you are."
"Oh, right."
Hmm. This chapter felt like a massive, unsatisfying speed bump. The writing was top-notch, as always, and the scenes in which Siren "confronts" the bottle of Daring Do and in which she is reunited with Green, were wonderful. But the twin focuses of the "real" action, Siren's internal metamorphosis and her external journey to Neptune's Bounty, slowed to a crawl when they should be gradually gaining speed. I'm sure you have an amazing scene planned for when Siren finally makes the decision to become a marker... and pushing that scene forward to this chapter would have helped the pacing immensely. Alternatively, and less drastically, we could have just finally gotten her to Neptune's Bounty.
Echo, both the character and the chapter, are important thematically, but it was a let-down how little they actually did. Also kind of a let-down that we now have yet another ugly male character for Siren to hate completely (from an earlier chapter- "I'm not the kind of pony to stare at a mare's flanks"- are we sure about that, Siren?; you sure haven't shown a lot of interest in stallions), although at least this time she has very good reason to, unlike with Golden Palm.*
2453986
Er, maybe this would be more appropriate: 
Don't worry, I found it sad!
2453959
How many books are we talking here? I love this story to death, but I hope it's not going to become a million word monster.
*Edit: Not that I want you to tack on romance or sex just to prove she's straight, not at all, it's just struck me that all the males have been described with very unappealing language, while the females are detailed more lovingly.
2456140
First off.
Well, it wouldn't be a Bioshock crossover if a simple task like "Walk across a room" didn't turn into a labyrinthine, unending quest that takes half the game!
Eh heh...
More seriously, I get your point. This chapter was actually supposed to be a wind down from the action. Siren's been in mortal peril pretty much nonstop so far, I thought the readers would need a breather, as it were. Now you've got me worried that the next few chapters, building back up to that climatic conclusion, are going to seem slow as well.
Well, we'll see!
I swear, there are sympathetic male characters in this story!
As to your other point though, I don't know what you're talking about. Just because Siren occasionally takes the time to admire how a mare's lustrous mane frames her expressive face and sparkling eyes while her short yet feminine tail brushes up against her athletic flanks, does not mean she's a fillyfooler.
It's really unreasonable of you to jump to all these conclusions.
Depending on exactly how I set it up, two and a half to three.
Disagree with some of the other topics, Siren needed a respite too many chapters with her almost getting killed or spazzing out, was getting old
2457271
2456140
I take back all of my previous receptiveness to constructive criticism. Clearly I was right all along! Bask in my artistic genius!
2457342
I know I'm cheating with future knowledge, being from the future and all, but trust me, this respite is needed
GAH! God I just...
That scene, I have never hated a pony more than I do Echo right now. Just. Man, there is such few instances where I actually feel disgusted about seeing porn, and that right there was one of those times.
Please write more you magnificent bastard
2453959 Now then, Would you Kindly post more?
You got a typo there.
Yaaay, Berry!
She's so adorable~
... Though, she's an addict, yes? I wonder if she'd beg. If so, it would probably be hilarious to see.
2457953
Can a chapter in which Siren sees one of the nicest ponies in Vision get a bit and reins forced into her mouth until a security guard is done with her really be considered a respite though? If it had come from another author, or even from this author earlier in the story, the cheapness of that low-blow to the reader would have drawn much ire from me. It was the right card played at the right time though, and now I just feel horrible, as intended.
2457271
I agree that more of that kind of action in this update would have gotten tiresome. There are plenty of other ways to advance a story further though. But yes, see we shall. It's possible that the serial nature of the story has colored my impression of the chapter more than it would have if I could simply move on to the next one right away.
2464855
Bitterness seems to taint everything Siren does, really.
Meeting Green in her hospital room and getting dressed up like her daughter followed by watching one of her - well, not friends, but certainly somepony who was nice to her - get treated in that fashion...
A fine reminder that nothing is safe or sacred in Vision.
2464864
That's pretty much what I meant when I said that I understand the thematic significance of Echo. That and what pwny mentioned, about how the one character Siren's met who isn't a marker is the most viscerally despicable. That's going to help bring both her and the reader around to the idea that maybe her marking herself won't be such a bad thing. Which, of course, it then will be.
I'm still left with the nagging feeling that a little more needed to happen in this update, but I won't belabor the point.
So I was hesitant at first since I don't like jumping to incorrect conclusions, but I'm pretty sure it's safe to call it at this point: Siren is Trixie's daughter, their special talents are even pretty much the same. Also this got brought up in the comments, and I feel I should comment on it: If Siren becomes a marker, I will straight up cry and it will ruin the story. Seriously. There's a difference between bad things happening/tragedy that makes you sad but makes the book better and the sort of travesty that happened in Mockingjay. I'm sure most of us would agree that ruined te book for us. Please don't turn this into that story. Please don't turn Siren into a marker.
2465697
Why else would he put the Chekhov's gun of the Daring Do bottle in Siren's possession, if not to have her use it?
2466088
mylittlefacewhen.com/media/f/img/mlfw6270-furseiseki_milk_fuck_the_police.png
2465697
I'm curious what makes you say that Siren and Trixie have the same talents. Trixie's talent is stage magic and showmareship. I didn't think Siren was much of a magician or a showmare.
2464855
Well, when you describe it that way, I feel dirty for writing it.
2466294
Once you post the next chapter that'll go away, don't worry.
I personally found Echo's characterization to be very subtle. I had to reread the chapter several times to catch it all, but I think - I'm ninety percent sure - that I understand now what you were trying to accomplish.
Your intent was to portray Echo as a gentlestallion of class and decency, one of the few shining lights of honest law enforcement in the dark world of Vision.
But seriously, good chapter. I have to go with those who thought that Siren's eight-chapter-long spaz attack was starting to wear a little thin, in-character though it may be. It's good to have a nice little breather episode where Siren can reflect on herself, have a little moment with Green, and go off by herself in order to fin-GOOD GOD, MAN! THEHELLAREYOUDOING?
For a second there, I thought he was forcibly raping her. Interestingly, I personally got the sense that Green sort of liked him, at least enough for her to not want him 'completely trusted', which I assume means killed. I wonder if, like Diamond Tiara and White Wash, we'll get to see a noble trait or two in him next chapter, whenever it happens.
2466780
Indeed. Not every character can smoke, drink, and hit on an underage mare within 500 words of their introduction.
images.wikia.com/icarly/images/9/9b/121499_-_animated_Discord_just_as_planned_macro_meme.gif
I update weekly! Weekly! Every Friday evening!
2466820
As you have thus far, but I was under the impression that you were going to take a break from Vision to work on I Forgot I Was There.
2466865
Yup, after Book 1 is finished. That's Chapter 14, so we've got a few weeks left to go.
After taking a few minutes to catch up on the comments, I'm somewhere between "yay, more Vision stories!" and "yeah, Siren's not getting out any time soon, is she?"
2466950
"Well, the story is named after the city, so I think we'll be getting back to Equestria any day now."
More seriously, while Siren won't be getting out of Vision just yet, we will be having a few setting shifts over the course of the story. It's a bit city, after all. Plenty to see.
2466294
Implying you didn't feel dirty already.
2465133
Unless you mean "more" from the standpoint of "shouldn't have ended when they boarded the traincar", but... that's wasn't particularly an option in this case. Was already pushing 13k as-is.
See the interesting thing here is, I'm pretty sure this was one of the chapters that got streamlined down.
This has become one of my all time favorite stories. Bravo, sir or madam. Bravo.
2466286
What, to dump it out? Yeah, that'll show 'em, Siren! I can just imagine Berry Punch's EXTREME EMOTIONAL REACTION right now:
"Oh, you spilled it. Here, I bought you another."
2466294
...You didn't feel dirty already? If you don't feel disgusted with yourself at some point while writing such a grim story, you're not doing it right, or you're a sociopath.
2466780
Yes, class, decency, and honesty, aside from regularly abusing his authority as an officer of the law to coerce sex out of others in a way that is calculated to thoroughly subjugate and humiliate them, and often so that he'll look the other way while they do something illegal. A true paragon.
2466294
Not exactly the same but pretty similar. They both are about showmareship. Trixie's focus is on stage magic, while Siren has a broadway/theater focus, they're both showmares at heart. Their talents are similar. Anyway, about the whole daughter thing, here are my pieces of evidence.
1) Siren is adopted and doesn't know her true parents.
2) The Cutie Mark thing.
3) Trixie seems to know about Siren as soon as she tells her her name.
4) Trixie is helping Siren for no obvious reason. It's mentioned multiple times that Siren "must be someone special to Trixie."
and here's the haymaker...
5) Siren blatantly goes into the Doctor's to test who she is. They say that if she is who she says she is, that Trixie will be very happy and protect her or something. They do not already have Siren's DNA, so the only way they could test her identity is if she was related to someone in Vision and they were testing her to see if they were related. So that's pretty blatant and glaring.
2469349
Of course, I cannot confirm or deny anything*, but I love seeing someone put this much thought into it. One thing I'm very proud of is Vision's density. There's ton of discreet foreshadowing, clues, and world-building in the little details. Of course, there's also a few red herrings and false leads** so it's not a total giveaway, but it makes me really happy to see people putting thought into analyzing all that.
In short, thanks for reading... and who knows? We might see if you're right before the story is done.
*Except that I love yanking your chain.
**And references to Firefly.
2466286
Okay, granted. But you did make me feel extra dirty! That counts!
2469244
Oh, wow! Thanks dude! That means a lot—I love Asylum.
2469405
Oh, you are too kind!
But yes - I consider it my duty now to try and do my part to get this story more recognition. Somehow. But it deserves it! The quality of writing and the depth of the story are superb, and I've very much fallen in love with the characters. I have my own theories about where you are going with the story - this is a Bioshock game, after all - but I am interested to see where you take us.
2483885
Siren's remarks are totally meta.
It will only get worse in the next three chapters to come.
2485159
Getting to my favorite chapter, soon, eeeehehehe
The start of this chapter really makes one wonder-- How deep does the Poison Joke reach? The obvious effects, pure madness, deformity, addiction, they may be the tip of the iceberg. How much of it is warping your memories and personality, subtly? Of course, there are other, less malevolent explanations. People warp their own memories all the time-- they are just tales we tell ourselves and tales change in the telling. Maybe Green cried once or twice after a fight with her family but was happy the rest of the time and now needs to remember only those unhappy times to cope with living as she does now.
Liked what you did with the Cutie Mark descriptions, and how you left the questions for Siren unsaid.
Respite for the Siren is good. She's been running around too much as a non-action-hero and any more would've probably made her fall apart. The coloring was a nice scene. Wistful wishing perhaps.
And then you kick one of the nicest characters in the story so far in the teeth with that scene, just to show how evil this one CM character is. I'm done commenting for this chapter. A tad too upset at what happened. Hopefully vengeance is in order.
DaughterScrewball brings up an interesting conjecture. Unless Trixie has DNA from ponies up on the surface, it would have to be compared to somepony already in Vision. Most likely either Trixie herself or Sparkle.
Also something to bring up. Poision joke cure is probably easy enough to manufacture, but the Cutie Pox would then just kill you. The only Pox cure so far requires you to admit your faults, which is a really big step for most ponies so far. The only ones that could be cured are either too out of it already (White Wash), or really need the marks for what they do (Zephyr). The others can't seem to admit that they were wrong about all of this, and continue to dig themselves deeper. Wonder when we'll actually meet a Mane 6 or Spike, who I'm kinda already casting as Watcher.
I sighed out loud when Berry and Siren left Zephyr in the hallway. I was really hoping that Siren and Zephyr would become friends. And I mean friends that don't have to worry about the other attacking them or poisoning them. I really like Zephyr, and was sad about what happened to her, both at the beginning and end of the chapter.
That being said, you are doing an excellent job with this story. Siren is finally realizing her faults, is finding some friends (even if they are of questionable character), and you do a great job of capturing the emotions of your readers. I do wonder if we will ever actually meet the mane 6 and get the real story about why they left. I also wonder if anything else will be done with the Big Brothers/Little Sisters. I look forward to reading the rest of this story and it's sequels, as they are released.
Did siren walk in on zephyr and echo having sex?
Somebody better answer that phone because I FUCKING CALLED IT!
Oh my God. . .
Oh. My. God.
OH! MY! GOD!
OH! MY! GOD!
This is how it's done. This is how its fucking done! I've heard "show don't tell" repeated ad nauseaum, but this is show and then tell! It's taking everything we think we know about the characters, and stapling it together. Damn good stroke.
I'm going to stop posting quotes so the comment box doesn't explode, but this chapter really focuses on the characters.
The little backstory about Celestia becoming mortal in Siren's eyes really illustrated that even at a young age, Siren was very attuned to the emotional states of those around her. She's becoming my favorite kind of villain: the one who beats their opponents with guile and cunning rather than strength. Too bad she's not a villain . . . yet.
Siren's "confrontation" with the Daring Do was a nice touch to illustrate her current mental state. But I noticed how at the end there the bottle just became bottle. Prism is losing her animosity towards the idea of the mantle.
Okay screw it! Here come the quote boxes!
This is freaking great! I don't know how you're doing it, but you're showing me the character, by telling me about him! This is something that I've encountered before, but never executed so well. I could tell right off the bat this guy is not to be screwed with, and that I'm probably going to hate him.
Echo is just as observant as Siren Song, but tempered by experience and military training. Their little battle of wills, like two wolves circling each other, was a joy to read. Echo knows how to play the game, and he plays Siren like lute. When he ogles Siren Song, the move just feels so calculated, so intentional, that I felt almost as if Siren had met herself. It also illustrates that Siren has a very big fatal flaw: arrogance. Thought now that I think about it, so to might Echo . . .
And as for Echo, I'm calling it right now, that he either betrays Siren or is himself betrayed. I noticed how Berry Punch said that an "urgent matter" had just come up after Siren Song told her that Echo knows that she's Celestia's student.
Green is seriously becoming my favorite character in this story. Which sucks. Because I'm pretty sure that she's going to die now.
After that hospital scene, which did provide some much needed catharsis, by the way. I'm almost certain that a.) Green will end up sacrificing herself for Siren Song, "heroically redeeming herself in the end," or they'll make it all the way to Neptunes Bounty, something will go horribly wrong, and then she'll die. Other than that, the hospital scene was unbelievably sweet. That touch mare bit about the ozone stinging her eyes was almost sickly sweet.
There's two reasons that I've come to this conclusion: the first is That scene is just way too happy. That kinda happy don't happen before the climax unless the author's getting ready to punch yo' heart in the dick. Well jokes on you Jaxie! My heart's wearing a jockstrap! And the second was Green "doing up" Siren Song's mane and coat like herself. That just smacks of final memento!
Also, I did not see Zephyr as a whore. That stunned me.
And now that I've finished the chapter, I have to say, I rather like Echo. The old soldier badass is just a great archetype. It's the fact that he has no other cutie marks that did it. The fact that he's confident enough in his abilities that he doesn't feel he needs mantles just speaks so much about his character.
When his death comes; it won't come easy.
So early markers were temporary? I wonder if taking the Daring Do would have any lasting effects at all, or if it's something that has to be used several times before the addiction becomes noticeable. It's the Devil's promise, really; just take it once, that won't hurt anything, and it's not like you'll be tempted to take it again after things go swell the first time.
It's inevitable that Siren will be taking some of this stuff before the end.
Come on now, Siren. If you had all been like that and your were in some kind of trouble, A) you wouldn't have been able to leave the room, and B) they would have confiscated your belt, including that expensive tonic you've got.
Yeah, that one made me smirk.
I have a strong suspicion that she was one of those bullies.
Sounds like her... *ahem* programming is wearing down.
I actually really like Echo. I don't know why.