Siren Song

by GaPJaxie

Quick March

“—Years of being abused by Trixie haven’t done her any favors,” Rarity explains, her sky chariot banking into a turn as we make our way through Vision’s streets. “Green never was very emotionally resilient, and the things you hear about that mare and the way she treats her subordinates. Why, there’s even a rumor that she b—” Rarity comes up short, checking her own language. For a moment, she goes stiff, caught in that awkward moment; then she makes a smooth, dismissive gesture, like she was wiping the words away. “That she doesn’t treat her henchponies well.”

“Yes, Ms. Rarity,” I answer automatically. My mind’s not really in the conversation anyway. She’s being disingenuous, of course—hiding things that she knows—but under the circumstances, that doesn't really tell me anything. She could be hiding some horrible incident between her and Green in the past, but it’s just as likely that all she’s concealing is how much she loathes Green, since she knows that would upset me. Given the outburst in the elevator, probably the second one, but there’s no reason to make risky assumptions.

“Dear, it’s just ‘Rarity’!” she says, laughing and trying to lighten the mood with a friendly tone, even a little teasing. “Honestly! You sound like one of the security officers. ‘Mister’ this, ‘Miss’ that, yes sir, no ma’am, and a title for everypony. It’s like they’re afraid of names.” I nod to that, and I guess that makes her realize how rattled I’m feeling right now, because she softens her voice. “I’m sorry, Siren. You’ll be able to see her as soon as that sedative wears off—probably not more than an hour. I promise, she’ll be okay.”

I know it’s a gesture, and a kind one at that. Maybe Rarity does want me as a hostage, but when it’s within her power to just throw me into a cell, she’s going out of her way to treat me like a friend—to respect my worries and needs. I should be grateful, but I’m not feeling it right now. I force myself to smile anyway though. It’s a weak, worried little gesture, but I make it seem very sincere, and Rarity smiles back. That seems to be enough, and we fall into a mutually understood silence.

Her chariot really is a lot like the Princess’s. A bit less ornate, perhaps, and with a sleeker design, but it was clearly inspired by the royal conveyance. The floor is covered in soft cushions, royal purple instead of golden-yellow like Celestia’s. The front of it is enchanted to break the wind, so we never feel more than a gentle breeze even as we race through the corridors. It even has the little stand the Princess’s does, for when she wants to read during a long trip, although this mount holds a miniature wiredoll instead of a book. The biggest difference has nothing to do with the chariot though. When I rode with Princess Celestia, there was barely enough room for the two of us, forcing me to stay close to her side. She’d put her wing over me, sometimes. With two normal ponies, the chariot is spacious, and Rarity and I sit a good pace apart.

That’s for the best, I guess.

I think about a lot of things during that silence. Some of them are practical, like how we seem to be moving at right angles to the track Echo’s train was on and what that says about getting to Neptune’s Bounty the hard way. Some of it is contemplative, like how I might break the news to Rarity if I decide she’s trustworthy. Mostly though, I just think about little things, like Green and Zephyr and Golden Palm and my friends back in Canterlot. Stupid thoughts. I’m not sure how long that keeps me busy, but eventually, something moves in the corners of my vision. There are things rushing past us. I hear a distant roar, and I realize we’re slowing down.

Tram rails.

That’s the difference, I suppose, between Trixie’s train tracks and Rainbow’s tram rails. Trixie’s are ground-bound, boxy, practical, blunt things—like if earth ponies were trains, clad in their iron horseshoes. Rainbow’s trams are more elegant, suspended under their sleek brass-capped rails, all hardwood and bright metal. She’s a flyer at heart, even without the sky, and now her rails twist and bank around us, converging on the station ahead.

Carousel Medical Pavilion. That is the full name, isn’t it? I’d almost forgotten, with how much the ponies of Vision shorten it to “the Pavilion.” But now, I see where the name comes from. There’s no grand entrance, no monolithic building, but there is a ring—a circle of tram tracks and stations and bright lights and glass. It towers four stories tall, a maze of paths and stairwells and tunnels and tracks in three dimensions, surrounded on all sides by stores. Doctors’ offices, spas, clinics, tailors, all covered in their gaudy signs and bright decorations, music flowing out of them until it forms a cheerfully tuneless din. And then there’s that roar. Water.

The ceiling drips from a spiderweb of cracks, but it’s like it’s meant to be that way. Where the water droplets fall, the white stone sparkles and shines, and the ponies on it seem to shine too. With this much water, I’d expect the floor to be studded with ugly metal drains, but there are none to be seen. Instead, the floor is subtly and gently sloped, collecting the water and guiding it in towards a grand channel in the center of the room. That channel soon turns to a waterfall, spilling down over a wide pathway I think is the entrance. There’s a pair of big silver gates there, wide open, and above them, a verdigrised brass sign to welcome visitors.

“They all seem so happy,” I say as we swing over the central hub. We’re too high to make out conversation, but I can still see individual ponies: one sitting on a bench reading the paper, a couple chasing each other through the puddles and laughing, two friends talking near some shopping bags—gossiping no doubt. When I look up, I realize we’re angling for a series of doors on the far wall, only accessible to pegasi and sky-chariots. Rarity’s personal estate, I would assume.

“Well why shouldn't they?” Rarity asks, energetic and friendly, the outline of a chuckle running under the words. She has this very breathy way of speaking, quick and grand in her gestures and expression. “The city is going through a rough patch right now, it’s true, but here...” She hooks a leg around my shoulders and pulls me forward, gesturing to the vast market below. “Here, the glory days never ended. Everypony is smart and beautiful, all our works shine like jewels, and no doctor or merchant turns away a pony in need.”

She sounds so enthusiastic that I glance up to check her face. I guess after so long here, I expect to see some trace of sarcasm or derision, but there’s nothing in her eyes and face but the warm glow of pride. She’s watching the market, but I keep my eyes on her. “I’ve met a few of your doctors. They didn’t strike me as the charitable types.”

“Well, perhaps not personally, but I’m happy to pay for the ponies who can’t pay for themselves.” she says cheerfully. Below us, the market vanishes from sight completely as we pull onto a large, bare landing pad, the flying ambulance and a few other pegasi-drawn carts not far behind us. “It is a tad expensive, but really, what else would I do with the money? Buy a golden house?”

Her jest makes me laugh, even if it’s not that funny. It’s just nicer than I’ve come to expect, and she delivers it so earnestly. “I think you could afford it,” I quip back, not my wittiest, but it’ll do.

“Probably,” she admits, a whimsical little twist in her tone. She actually tilts her head upwards to the ceiling as though considering the matter, a silly little grin on her face. “Something for the future perhaps.” Her voice and manner are playful as she turns back to me, trying to make me feel at ease. “Now, let’s get you settled in. I can only imagine how positively dreadful this whole affair has been for you,” she says with that overflowing energy, adding a dash of sympathy. “The sooner we can get you back on stable footing and calm those worries, the better.” She shifts tones smoothly, from playful, to energetic, to sympathetic, to firm. It’s a good effect, and reassuring in its way. She doesn't linger in that tone long though, forgetting it in an instant as she switches to a quick, practical cadence. “We do have some guest rooms available, do we not?”

“Yes, Ms. Rarity.” The new voice comes out of nowhere, and I spend a few disoriented moments casting my gaze towards the sound to see who snuck up on us. The voice was clear, but I don’t see anypony, and it’s not until he continues, “If you would give me a moment to check your schedule,” that I realize it’s one of the pegasi who was pulling the chariot. I’m so used to thinking of the team as a part of the vehicle that I didn’t even notice Rarity’s assistants from earlier were right in front of us. It’s the blue one who spoke—the dim one—and he takes a second to extricate himself from the harness along with the others.

“My schedule? Really, March, we have a guest,” she insists, and suddenly, I find a leg put around my withers, sharply pulling me over until I just touch Rarity’s shoulder. The other pegasi pulling the chariot pay us no mind, and they give us a respectful berth as they trot off. “Are you really telling me to put this poor thing in a corner and make her wait?”

“No, Ms. Rarity,” he answers, betrayed by the stiff tremor running through his voice. He reaches back with a wing into the folds of his jumpsuit, pulling out a little pad of paper. “But I am telling you that you’re supposed to be in surgery in fifteen minutes, and then you’re meeting Ms. Fluttershy at the spa at four.”

“That’s the mare with the maimed wing, yes?” Rarity checks, and March nods. “Doctor Twirl can handle that. And tell Fluttershy I’ll have to cancel—explain why, she’ll understand.”

“You’ve already canceled on her twice this month,” March answers, glancing down at his notepad. “You specifically told me that I was not to let you do it a third time.”

“Yes, and now I’m telling you—”

“Actually, if it’s alright with you—” I cut in, to the evident surprise of both speakers. “I feel about ready to collapse. I think Trixie rushed me along before I was quite ready. If you’re busy right now, honestly, I’d prefer to lie down.” It’s not untrue—I certainly could use the rest—but I’m not going to learn anything about Rarity by going on her little pre-planned tour where everypony bows and scrapes with her passing. If I want to judge her character, I’m going to need to see how the ponies in this place act when their lady and master isn’t around.

“Oh, of course! How could I have been so thoughtless?” Rarity asks, letting go of me and taking a half-step away so she can give me a long, careful visual inspection. “Here I am about to drag you over half the Pavilion, when you must be run positively ragged,” she chides herself, as though only now noticing my disheveled state. “Why don’t you take the afternoon to recover? We can catch up this evening.”

“I would like that very much, Ms.—” I catch myself before I finish speaking, and she fixes me with a pointed stare. Which is fair—this is like the third time I’ve messed that up. Or the fourth? I don’t know, but at this point, it’s becoming rude, so I cover it up with a blush and an awkward glance at my hooves. I nail it of course, and before long, she’s practically cooing over me. “I mean: thank you, Rarity.”

“Think nothing of it, dear,” she insists, waving the matter off before turning back to March. “Get her settled in and make sure she has everything she needs. She’s free to travel in the public areas and to see Green once the on-call doctor says she’s fit for visitors.” That makes me remember the ambulance, but when I look towards it, the door is already open and Green is gone. I must not have noticed them moving her out. “And let’s see... there’s something else I’m forgetting...” she says, pursing her lips. “Oh well, it’ll come to me. You’ll be alright, Siren?”

“I’ll be fine. You should get going—you have a wing to put back together,” I say. It sounds a little rigid, but under the circumstances, that’s how it should sound. It’s fine.

“Would you like me to have that washed while you’re in surgery, Ms. Rarity?” her assistant asks before she can run off, gesturing at her once-proud outfit. “I should be able to have it ready before your meeting with Ms. Fluttershy.”

“No,” she sighs, looking down at herself and frowning as she takes in the splattered stains. “I’ll always know the stain was there; it’s tainted now. I’ll drop in the incinerator on the way to cleanup.” Wait, the incinerator? I didn’t stain it that badly.

“I’ll have your tailoring supplies sent to your room,” her assistant says, taking his pen in his mouth to make a jot on his notepad. It really is amazing how he does it all without magic—holding the pad with a wing and a hoof and the pen in his mouth. Pegasus dexterity, I guess.

“That’s what I was forgetting!” she says with some relief, striking a hoof against the ground for emphasis. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” March nods to her, and she turns back to me, giving me one last glance. “I’ll see you this evening then?”

“I wouldn't miss it. Enjoy your time at the spa,” I answer politely, and she trots away, leaving me and her assistant behind. The other ponies have largely cleared off the dock at this point, and so we’re very nearly alone as I turn to face him. “So, you’re March?”

“Quick March. Though March is fine if you prefer, Ms. Song,” he says, mouthing the words around the pen. I wonder if that’s the same way Echo can hold onto a cigarette even when he’s shouting. Probably not—Echo spoke clearly and sharply; March is just kind of mumbling. He makes another mark on his pad and then puts it and the pen away, back into his pocket. “Shall I take you to your guest room now?”

He has such a formal, dull method of speaking. Not exactly stupid but, he’s certainly not the brightest star in the sky. He waits for me, but I can see the curiosity in his eyes when he realizes I’m not speaking, the faint little tilt of his head and the tension in his ears. I still take the time to examine him though. He can keep waiting.

Stars, he’s cute. That’s kind of perverse, isn’t it? Even the thought makes me feel greasy. For all I know, he’s in his fifties, and I just checked out a pony old enough to be my dad. It’s true though. He’s got a great powder-blue coat—nice and light without being silly—and this tousled red mane that tumbles down to his left when he tilts his head. By all rights, that ugly uniform should spoil his build, but somehow, he manages to convey how athletic he is under it. It’s in the way he holds himself, those smooth little motions.

“Uh... sure,” I say, when I realize I’m staring a little. “So, you’re Rarity’s ‘assistant,’ are you?”

“I’m her general assistant, yes,” he answers, gesturing me towards one of the distant doors before starting that way himself. “Doctor Side is her aide on medical matters. You may have seen him in the diner. He was the tan pegasus.”

“With the red mane, yeah. Like yours, actually. Are you two related, by any chance?” I ask, keeping an eye on him as we move. He’s not totally oblivious—I catch him giving me a few thoughtful sidelong glances, so he’s at least figured out that I’m evaluating him. That’s about all I can say though, and his body language is straightforward enough besides that.

“No. Ms. Rarity enjoys that particular shade of red,” he answers plainly. Wow. I assumed he would... dress it up a bit more than that. But I guess that sort of thing is considered acceptable down here? Fine, I can be a little more direct.

“Well, I can certainly see why you got the job,” I say, switching tracks to flattery. It’s pretty blatant, but not so doe-eyed I can’t switch again if it turns out to be a mistake. I just need to see how he responds, and I can start getting information out of him from there. He’s probably soaking up all the attention, cute and he knows it, eye-candy for a mare of power and taste.

“Well, that’s very kind of you to say, Ms. Song,” he replies, with a slight nod in my direction. “I pride myself on my attention to detail. And, I wouldn't worry too much. You’re not the first of Ms. Rarity’s special guests to ruin one of her things. She’s very forgiving.”

Or maybe he’s a clueless, well-meaning stallion, and I totally misread the entire situation. That could be it too. It’s good to know she won’t hold it against me, I guess.

“So, what’s she like? Personally, I mean,” I ask as we near the doors on the far side of the landing platform. They’re wide, graceful wooden things, but they’re also conspicuously recessed into the hallway, and I can see the steel security door waiting in the ceiling. March doesn't make any notice of it though, picking up his pace a few steps to hold the door for me.

“Complicated. I’m not certain I can do her justice,” he says, thoughtfully. I slip past him as he speaks, and he steps through the door behind me. The Pavilion itself may leak, but these halls are dry, wide, and brightly lit. Very bright actually. Even the low point of the lights’ regular beat is too bright, and the high point is so glaring that it actually hurts my eyes. The usually quiet thrumming of the lights is an angry buzz here, threatening to become a pounding in my temples. It makes the whole world flare with white, and the floor and walls have been scrubbed clean until the stone shines, free of any scratches or obstructions.

“If forced to describe her though,” he continues, failing to notice my obvious discomfort at the brightness, “I would say she takes great pride in her work. She appreciates how others make her accomplishments possible, and is generous to them in turn, but at the same time, she sees everything she creates as a reflection on herself. She’s a very devoted craftspony.”

“Is that why Green bothers her so much?” I reply, light and conversational as we make our way down the hall. I’m seeing spots as my eyes struggle to adjust, but nopony else seems to be making a big deal out of it, so I don’t say anything. Besides, I’m sure it’ll be a nice effect once I get used to it. There are decorations on the walls—pictures of the city, old posters, staff photos in front of important buildings. They’re tasteful, and the gold frames really match the bleached rock all around us.

March hesitates for a moment before he answers, and when he speaks, his voice is a touch tighter. “I don’t think she would appreciate me talking about that.” Well, March, I also don’t think she’d appreciate you being so obviously uncomfortable that you’re actually telling me more than a “yes” would have. But we don’t get everything we want.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” I say, quickly covering for the mistake. Saying it a little too fast and following it up with a silence after makes me seem wonderfully awkward, and it’s barely a few seconds before he’s mumbling about how it’s okay and I didn’t mean any harm. “She um... sounds like a pretty good boss. I mean, you obviously have a lot of respect for her.”

“I have not had other employers to compare her to, but she is very interesting,” he observes as we start down a flight of stairs, the walls painted with two long strips of royal purple that give the whole thing a very regal feel. “It is my experience that most artists begin with work that they find meaningful and then spend their careers trying to get others to accept it. Ms. Rarity began seeking fame and fortune, but having acquired them, found they are not valuable without some deeper purpose behind them.” He pauses for a moment while he thinks, and it kind of makes me wonder if I did read the situation right in the first place. He seemed afraid of her disapproval earlier, but I’d have to be blind not to notice the spring in his step when he admires her. Maybe the hair was his choice? I don’t quite get a romantic vibe from him though. I guess they could just be friends.

“If I had to summarize, I suppose I would say she makes the pursuit of others’ approval seem terribly shallow,” he finally says. “I’m not an artist, but working for her, I get that special sense of satisfaction I don’t get anywhere else.”

“High praise,” I say in response, but he only nods. It’s a completely biased accounting, of course. Putting aside the fact that Quick March obviously worships the ground Rarity walks on, for somepony who doesn't care about money or fame, Rarity seems to have a lot of both. I know that feint: pretending you don’t care about popularity so the ponies who aren't as beloved as you will feel shallow and unlikeable. It’s stupid and mean-spirited, and-and it’s my trick! “She seems to have a bit of a temper, though?”

“At times,” he agrees, without elaborating.

We reach our destination before I have time to think of anything else.

“These will be your accommodations for the duration of your stay,” Quick March says as he pushes open a set of graceful wooden double doors ahead of us. I didn’t even realize we’d turned out of the main hall, but the bright lacquered wood swings open to reveal a bedroom more suited to visiting royalty than a common guest. It’s wide, grand, abandoning the sharp angles and harsh whites of the rest of the Pavilion in favor of wide, sweeping curves made to resemble crashing waves. The bed is in the center of it all, mounted on a dais two steps above the rest of the floor—sharing the space with a pair of end tables. It’s a wide, sapphire-blue thing that manages to feel soft from across the room, and I get so distracted that March is halfway through his next sentence before I even realize he’s speaking.

“—Button by the door,” he explains, with a patient, efficient clip. “The servants’ quarters aren’t far. If you need me for anything, there’s a wiredoll in the study.” A study? I have a study? It’s only when it occurs to me to look that I see there are another four exits to this room, two more doors on either side, each made of a light wood. I’m still gawking when I realize he’s offering me one of those blue tokens, and I belatedly take it. It doesn't help my composure when I try to tuck it down into Green’s hoofboot, only to remember that all the slots there are full, leaving me pawing at the thing for several, ungraceful seconds. I get it after a moment, and I put the token in my belt pouch. “You mentioned you wanted to rest. Do you wish anything else for the time being? I can have food sent up, if you need to recover your strength.”

“Um... no,” I manage eventually. “No. Some time to rest will be fine. If I don’t call for you, you’ll wake me before Rarity returns for the evening?”

“Of course, Ms. Song. Sleep well,” he says, nodding his head and stepping back into the hall, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Right.

“Right,” I repeat as I make my way to the bed, just for good measure. I don’t so much get into bed as fall into it, tumbling over sideways and landing on the smooth covers. “Right right right right right right right right right right.” It’s silly, and stupid, but it feels so nice, and I can’t help but laugh. I actually shiver a little as the energy flows out of me, and I almost fall asleep on the spot. It’s so tempting, to bury my head in the wonderfully soft pillows and drift off, find a little time to collect myself. I shouldn't though. I need to get my bearings and decide how I’m going to deal with Rarity.

I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit.

“It’s time to plan, Siren.” Dunwanna. “If you lie here, you’re going to fall asleep.” I’m okay with that. “Siren.” Can I at least stay in bed while I plan? “No.” Please? “No. Now, you’re going to go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on your face.”

I let out a little sigh. “Fine.” It’s like my limbs have turned to lead, but I force myself to roll back off the side. I don’t so much slide onto the floor as ooze onto it, and my first few steps off the dais are stumbling and distinctly bow-legged. There’s a pounding in my ears that I vaguely recognize as my heart, but it’s keeping time with the lights, so I can’t be that panicked. It goes away after a few seconds anyway, and I stumble my way towards what I hope is the bathroom.

“Nope, study,” I say to the room that greets me, with its desk and shelf of books and the full-size wiredoll in the corner. Next is a small, surprisingly casual dining room... or a large, surprisingly formal breakfast nook—I’m really not sure which. It has a dumbwaiter, and somepony left a fresh newspaper on the table. I hit my target on the third try, pulling open the door to reveal a wide, glittering bathroom.

It really does glitter too. There are mirrors everywhere, coating the walls, the ceiling, the floor, absent only where space was needed for lights or a porcelain fixture. I don’t know if the mirrors are enchanted only to reflect ponies, or if there’s some very clever arrangement at work, but when I step inside, my image stretches off into eternity from every angle. It’s disorienting for a moment—my every motion seems to make the room pinwheel around me, like I was being hurled through some bizarre centrifuge. The moment passes though, and when I step inside, the surface under my hooves feels more like stone than glass. I can’t scuff the mirrors no matter how hard I try, and even a little stomp of my hooves doesn’t produce so much as a crack. They must be enchanted to be unbreakable. I can’t imagine what this room must have cost, but I suppose Rarity can afford it.

There’s a shower, and I am still covered in makeup, but I don’t feel like showering. Instead, I end up in front of the sink, picking a washcloth from a neatly folded pile nearby. The mirrors in front of me spread open like flower petals, giving me six different views of myself, all from some useful angle.

“Hey there, sexy,” I purr, fixing the mirror with a half-lidded gaze and generally treating my life-or-death situation with the seriousness it deserves. Oh, whatever—it makes me smile. Hot water comes out of the tap when I twist the appropriate valve, and I set about washing off the remaining makeup, starting by scrubbing my ankles with the cloth.

“Okay, so, from the top: assess the situation, assess available resources, define your objectives.” My words are clipped, my voice quick and businesslike. It really sets the right tone for things, helps me get in a good frame of mind. The scrubbing would normally be a distraction, but having something to do helps me focus my thoughts, and the water in the sink runs green as I mull the matter over.

“Rarity has taken you hostage.” I open with a frank assessment. The sooner I come to terms with these things the better, and besides, I’m really good at emphasizing the positive. My tone doesn't draw it out at all—just rips off that band-aid in one go, and it hardly hurts at all. I’d be a great therapist. “While her motives are not entirely clear, given the political situation in Vision, it seems likely that she believes holding you will ‘encourage’ Trixie’s good behavior. Fortunately for you, her notion of hostage-taking is a little closer to a noble and her ward than... the other sort.” I’m not actually clear on how hostage-taking works, since it’s not like it ever happens in Equestria, but I understand it involves being tied to a chair. That’s always how the audience knows someone is a hostage in plays. “You’re being treated as an honored guest, she’s respectful of your feelings, and you’re allegedly free to leave, although testing that offer might be imprudent.”

My ankles are about done at this point. Without any hair, there’s not a lot for the makeup to stick to, and it comes off pretty quickly. I take a moment to examine them, but my thoughts aren’t productive, and I twist over the sink to start at my shoulder and side.

“This in and of itself represents a significant improvement of your circumstances,” I grunt, trying to keep the mess in the sink as I scrape the makeup off. Whatever Green used on my barrel doesn't seem to be as water-soluble as the dye was, and it’s coming off like paint chips—a shower of ugly, flaking pieces. “However, there is an additional factor to consider. Rarity does not appear to share the city’s overwhelmingly negative opinion of Celestia and Equestria, and might—might—be willing to entertain the notion of sending you home. If true, this would mean you’re home free. However, broaching the subject will require considerable finesse and entails significant risk. If Rarity is not as understanding as you might hope, alerting her to your origins will sink all chances of escape.”

Yeah, that sounded good. Authoritative, chilling. Very “Your mission, should you choose to accept it.” Makes me feel like I know what I’m doing. Which I do, of course, even if this stupid makeup is sticking to the cloth until I have to scrape it on the drain just to get it to come off. Shoot, I think this is one of those makeups you’re supposed to remove with alcohol. Whatever. I can just scrub harder.

“Right. Step two: assess available resources.” I shrug off the belt and fold it next to the sink when my scrubbing reaches that point. “You retain your previously mentioned material resources, to wit: knives, food, water, some basic medical supplies, some bits, and one high-end mantle. However, your greatest asset will be your freedom and the privileges that come with being a guest. While details are not available at this time, your options are now significantly less restricted than they have been in the past—be sure to take full advantage of that fact.”

“Step three: define your objectives.” I grunt, twisting my spine around so my flank is up on the counter, leaving my side over the sink. “Your goal here is simple, though challenging. You must learn enough about Rarity to determine if it is safe to approach her honestly. If so, you must...” The washcloth is stuck under my side, pinned there by the little motions of my body. I give it a sharp tug, trying to make it come free, rolling my flank a bit off the countertop as I pull on the fabric.

Suddenly, the cloth yanks itself free, and my flank comes free with it. I’m falling! I let out a startled little shriek as I twist around, my legs reflexively flailing out to grab the countertop. My hooves scramble on porcelain and glass, but I can’t get a grip! Then I’m tumbling down, landing hard on my side. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and for a second, I lie there dazed, but... I think I’m okay. There’s no real harm done.

Then the washcloth lands on my face.

I shake the washcloth off, and pull myself back up with a stiff groan. For a second, I think I must have gotten some of the makeup in my eye—my vision is full of ugly green splotches, covering everything in sight. It’s not my eye though, it’s the mirrors. I’ve left an ugly green mess all over the floor, smearing the makeup up and down my sides, over my face, my shoulder. It’s splattered on the mirrors, and with how this room is arranged, the green carries everywhere, seeming to cover every surface.

“Looking good, idiot,” I mutter to the mirrors, splattered flecks of makeup surrounding my reflection. “Going for the unexpected twist ending, were we? Siren survives all the horrors of Vision only to slip and crack her head open on a bathroom counter?” My throat is tight, painful, and the words come out ragged and rough. Five Sirens at the rim all fix the one in the center with a glare, curt and sharp. “I’m not saying it isn’t deep, but do you think instead you could go for the version where she doesn't screw up everything she touches?”

I draw a slow breath. It’s unsteady, coming in little starts and stops, and I can see it from every angle. My eyes are wide, ears folded back, muzzle all twisted up. The makeup has smeared over my face and sides, and with how tense I am, it’s bunched up into ugly, cracked lines. I’m trembling a little, in the chest and along my barrel, like a shiver.

You’re not crazy if you realize how crazy you just sounded. Right?

“Right,” I agree, setting my hooves down off the counter. “It’s fine though, it’ll all be fine. Yeah, you made a little mess in the bathroom, probably should have showered in the first place, but that’s not worth getting upset over.” I take another slow, calming breath, and then turn to step into the shower. It has a sliding door made out of glass and a smooth interior with far too many nozzles sticking out of the ceiling. At least it’ll get the makeup off quickly. “You’ve made a lot of progress today. You got yourself out of danger, charmed Rarity, and you even managed to save Green and—”

And...

“I completely forgot about Berry!” I leap out of the still-dry shower and gallop halfway across the bedchamber before I realize I have no idea where I’m going, skidding to a halt in front of my room’s main door. There’s a button by the door! I could press it and... what, call a servant? Or the wiredoll, to call Quick March. He could get Rarity! No, wait, she’ll be in surgery now. But this is important! They could be handing Berry over to security any second now! I need to talk to her and...

And say what? That I’d like to renegotiate our agreement after I’ve made it? That if she doesn't save Berry as well, I’ll walk? Walk right past her guards of course, because there’s no way a pony from Vision would ever use force to get their way.

“It’s not that bad. Rarity will understand,” I say, turning away from the door, back to the study. “I was distracted. We were in danger! It’s totally understandable that I forgot about Berry.” The door to the study swings open as I push through it and trot over to the desk.

“I mean, it’s not like she ever talked much. Right?” I reach back to grab Quick March’s token out of my belt, only to find my side bare and remember that it’s still sitting curled next to the sink. I bolt back across the room, sliding into the bathroom, my hooves shaking unsteadily on the slick floor. “She was always just kind of there and being Trixie’s agent. It’s not like she did anything memorable! Other than... that whole bit with the potion but...” I dash back across the way, belt hovering beside me. “It’s fine. It’ll all be fine.”

I rip open the belt pouch with my magic, two pep bars and a bottle of water spilling out onto the desk. I twist it around, looking down into the pouch, but, nothing. I just put it there! “How can it not be here!? I didn’t lose it in the last ten minutes!” I shake the belt out, like that might somehow make the token materialize and fall to the desk, but all that happens is I make myself look like I’m having a spastic fit. I rip open all the other pouches, pep bars and water and rolls of bandages tumbling to the desktop. Quick March’s token finally tumbles out of one of them—which isn’t the one I put it in—landing on the desk with a heavy thump. I reach out, but it catches my hoof wrong, skittering across the desk and tumbling away behind it.

“Horseapples!” I shout, my throat tight. My rear slumps to the ground, and my head to the surface of the desk, my voice sinking to a feeble whine. “Horseapples horseapples horseapples horseapples.”

My hoof bumps against the underside of the desk, making a little metallic clink.

Of course! I’ve been wearing this thing for so long I forgot it was there! I pull my hoof up to the desk, going through the tokens slotted into the boot. Mine, mine, mine, Green, and Trixie! I pull the wand-and-star token out, scrambling over to the wiredoll and reaching around to its flank. Trixie can break Berry out, and I don’t have to look like an idiot in front of Rarity. Problem solved!

The token slots into the doll’s flank with a quiet click, and whatever mechanisms drive it start to spin up, producing a sharp whine that soon settles down into a steady hum. This doll is more elegant than the others, made from polished steel and silver, its sides adorned with beautiful filigree like the cords of a dress saddle. The doll’s legs twitch once, and its head rises.

“Trixie!” I blurt out as soon as the doll is active. “Thank goodness I was able to reach you. Berry is in trouble!” The doll doesn't answer, casting its gaze left and right over the little study. Its motions are smooth, oiled. I guess she wants to make sure we’re alone? “Rarity caught her. She was injured, but she’s going to be given to security as soon as she’s healthy. There’s still time to save her!”

The doll finishes examining the room, and turns to stare at me, my coat reflected in its silver body and those glass eyes. “T-Trixie?” I ask. Maybe the doll is broken and she can’t talk?

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is aware,” she answers, haughty and superior like she always is. But there’s something else there too, hidden behind those glass eyes. Her voice is too reserved; she’s not as blustery as before.

“So you’ll be breaking her out, right?” Okay, she’s upset with me. That’s understandable. This must seem bad from her position, but she’s all sorts of crime lord. She’s totally got this one. “I mean, you’ve got a ton of spies in security. One of them can let her go.”

“No,” Trixie answers, the doll’s glittering eyes staring down at me from its high stand.

“Right, but, you’re just saying that because you think Rarity might be listening and you’re really going to—”

“Don’t wire again,” she orders, and her token pops out of the doll’s flank, clattering to the floor. For a moment, the doll holds its pose, still staring down at me, but then the life leaves its eyes, and it slumps on its stand.

“But...” I murmur to the doll. “You’re only saying that because you think Rarity might be listening, and you’re really going to save her. Right?”

The doll doesn't answer.

My hooves are shaking when I reach under the desk. It takes a little feeling around, but I find Quick March’s token. It hasn’t cracked or anything, it’s still good. For a second, I think it’s blank, but then I turn it around to the right end. A sword and hoofprints.

That would make sense.

Quick March. Then. I just need to wire him, and he’ll get Rarity, and then I can save Berry. He can get her as soon as she’s out of surgery, and we’ll meet, and I’ll explain that I made a mistake, and she’ll commute Berry’s sentence too. That should be easy enough for her. She’s a mare with a lot of power. And I can totally convince her. I just need to meet her and say...

Something.

I try to say something, but no sound comes out. I can’t find the right tone. Right now.

It really doesn't matter what words you use if you can’t find the right tone. It’s all about how you say it. There’s no point in talking to Rarity otherwise. I mean, I couldn't convince her of anything without the right tone. The words don’t make much of a difference.

I put the token on the desk.

I should finish washing up. While I think.

The shower is hot, and the water jets hit hard from every direction. The dye in my coat washes off almost instantly, but the makeup on my sides is stubborn, and even with the water blasting against it, I have to scrub until my scars burn to get it all off. Not meant to be cleaned with water. I take a little while to clean up the bathroom after. There are probably servants to do that, but it’s polite, and I really made a mess. Then I go find my belt and put all the things back into it. That’s good. It’s neater.

The cleaning up gives me some time to think. I mean, Berry is Trixie’s top agent or something, right? Of course Trixie is going to save her. And asking Rarity to protect a pony who helped me is one thing, but asking her to bail out a criminal’s top henchpony really would look bad. Besides, it’s not like it’s my fault that she got captured or got in trouble in the first place. She wasn’t wanted because of anything I did. There’s no need for me to risk my standing with Rarity over this. Berry will be fine. She’ll be fine.

Eventually, I make my way back to the main room. There’s something there I didn’t notice before, on the nightstand by the bed. It’s a little mechanical figurine of one of those ponies in the diving suits, made out of some shiny metal. His legs have little joints full of gears, and he’s on a tiny stand. He’s positioned with all four legs splayed out, looking towards the door, like he was guarding the bed against intruders. I don’t know how I missed it before.

“I don’t suppose you know how to turn the lights off?” I ask him. “It’s just, it’s a little bright in here, and I’m very tired.” He doesn't answer. That’s fine, I guess.

I slide under the covers and put my head on the pillow. For a while, I try to get used to the lights, but they seem to come from every direction no matter how I turn my head. Finally, I roll over, cracking an eye open. “You’re right next to the bed,” I tell the little brother. “You either control the lights or give me a glass of water. Which is it?” He doesn't answer.

“Good night, then,” I say, and I’m about to shut my eyes when I hear a little mechanical click. He lifts a foreleg, gracefully tucking it under himself. Then he bows to me, and the lights go out.

---

The click of a latch, the squeak of hinges, a sliver of light shining across the room, making the bowing figurine glint. “Ms. Song?” a voice calls out. A stallion’s voice. “Ms. Song?” he repeats, louder, his voice echoing off the smooth contours around me.

“Yes?” I ask. It takes me a second to remember where I am, recognize who it is that’s talking to me. Quick March. “Is Rarity ready to see me now?”

“She’s been back for several hours,” he answers, plainly. “I attempted to wake you when she arrived, but you were unresponsive, and she decided it was best to let you sleep. If it suits you, Ms. Apple is awake and fit to receive visitors, and Ms. Rarity would like to see you at your leisure.”

“Thank you,” I say, forcing myself to sit up. If I don’t get up now, I’ll fall asleep again. My head is swimming besides, and my limbs feel heavy. “Can you have some alfalfa and tea sent up?”

“If that’s what you want, Ms. Song,” he says. I open my eyes and immediately regret it, flinching in pain as I squeeze them shut. The light from the hall is blinding, so brilliant that it leaves dancing, flickering spots in my vision. I couldn't even see his outline, only a vaguely darker spot in the center of that painful radiance. If he sees my pain though, he makes no comment on it. “It’s after nine though. If you would prefer, I could have them bring you some seaweed juice instead.”

“Is that like tea?” I ask blearily.

“It will wake you up without keeping you up all night,” he answers matter-of-factly.

“I’m used to tea.” He nods and departs, shutting the door and leaving me in darkness.

I just kind of sit there for a little while. I’m awake, and I know where I am, but I don’t feel like getting up yet. With my eyes half open and half closed, I’m drifting somewhere between consciousness and dreaming.

Drifting? Floating. Calm.

Suddenly, my legs go tense, alert. I can feel my heart starting to race, adrenaline rushing through me. Something’s wrong! My breath picks up, coming faster and faster as my hooves scramble over the bed. “Good morning!” I shout at the little doll, my voice rising in pitch. “Rise and shine! Wake up! Time to get up! Lights on!” My breath is coming in shallow gasps, and some instinct compels me to go up. Up, I need to go up! To scramble for anything to hold onto! My hoof touches the head of the bed, and I’m clinging to it like a liferaft.

Then I hear the little mechanical clicking, and the lights in the room start to come up. Brighter, brighter, until I’m squinting in the glare.

My chest, my sides are trembling as I force myself to draw a slow breath. There’s something poking into my sides. Wood, jamming against my ribs. I’ve somehow wrapped myself around the head of the bed at this impossible angle, all four of my legs twisted around it. I just need a second. I need a second to catch my breath.

Slowly, gradually, my limbs relax until I can make myself let go, and I slump back to the bed, landing on top of the twisted sheets.

“Okay, Siren, had a bit of a... ah. Had a—” A nightmare. You fell asleep sitting up and had a nightmare. “Yeah. Had a bit of a nightmare there. Time to get up now.”

Getting ready makes me feel better, or helps me calm down at least. There’s a toothbrush and a few other things behind one of the mirrors. I guess I didn’t realize how gross my mouth was getting, but when I start brushing, it’s like I can taste all the brine water I’ve inhaled since I arrived here. It takes a good three brushings before I feel something like civilized again, and I’m no less obsessive with my mane. I still look awful, of course, with those burns and my shaved side and all the other stuff. But I make it work.

“Neutral position,” I order the mirror, letting my tail come to attention as I lift one foreleg in time. It’s not really a pose you’d use for anything, but it works the kinks out of my joints, helping me practice the right arrangements. The hoofboot changes it a little, leaving me a tad asymmetric and putting an edge on things. It’s stylish though—I like it. A little swish of my tail affirms it’s free of knots, making the end flick back and forth. “Relaxed position,” I order, letting my tail tuck between my legs. Guilty Child Meets Parent #3 fits that nicely, and I shoot the mirror an absolutely adorable glance, biting my lip and flicking my gaze up and down. “Good. Alert position,” I command. Tail up, legs stiff, body forward, gaze tight, “Outdoor voice!” Yeah, that sounds good. Very authoritative. “Right.”

By the time I’m done getting ready, the dumbwaiter has already arrived in the little kitchen space, carrying a plate of alfalfa, a teacup, milk, sugar, half a lemon, and a hot silver teapot. It’s all sitting on a tray, and I levitate it over to the table as a set. The alfalfa smells fresh, and I can tell from how it lies on the plate that it was made the traditional way—haystacks, not bales. When I nibble on a piece, it doesn’t taste quite right though. It’s good, but it’s a hair too salty.

While the agricultural systems that support the city theoretically replicate surface conditions exactly, in practice, salt levels in the resultant produce can vary by up to fifteen percent between batches. This causes... something to do with the wine. And the alfalfa as well, I suppose. I should have let her finish explaining.

I’ll get used to it, I guess.

I unfold the paper on the table and pour a cup of tea, taking a moment to enjoy the smell before I take a sip. It’s not bad—needs some lemon. The headline isn’t very useful: “HD Prices Rise Amid Spec DL-Act Repeal.” I try reading the article, but the whole paper is written in that abbreviated shorthand. Not that it matters much—without the proper context, I doubt I could understand it anyway. I try the other articles, but they aren’t much better.

I find the comics around page six. They’re a little funny. Some of them are even comics I know from Equestria. They draw the characters a little differently, and there’s a fish outside the window instead of the sun, but it’s the same old lack of humor.

There’s one comic that catches my eye at the bottom of the page—a single panel with a caption at the bottom. It shows two ponies facing each other, one of whom is instantly recognizable as Diamond Tiara. The other is a mare in a gaudy star-studded wizard hat, wrapped up in a cape held in place by a single-cut jewel. The mare in the hat seems to be offering Diamond Tiara a bottle with the label “Doc Stable’s Insomnia Cure.” The caption reads, “‘Well, we haven't had any complaints yet.’”

After a minute or two of mulling it over, I decide that political cartoons are stupid in any city, and put the paper aside. It’s a waste of time.

I’m about done when I hear a knock on the door and Quick March’s voice, muffled through the wood. “Ms. Song? Are you presentable?”

“Yes, just a moment,” I answer, gulping down the last of my tea. Sliding the tray back into the dumbwaiter seems to set off some mechanism; there’s a series of clicks, a copper grate slides over it, and the dumbwaiter sinks out of view. After that, there doesn't seem to be much left to do. My belt is still on the nightstand by the bed. I won’t need anything in it, but I don’t think I want to leave it behind. The idea of going without it makes me feel vulnerable, weak. One of my teachers explained that to me once: the difference between being naked and having no clothes. It doesn't really matter much though, and I do the belt up around myself quickly enough.

“Enter,” I call out, and the door slides open to let Quick March step inside. I catch myself glancing at his flank, now that I know what his actual cutie mark is, but the last few hours have failed to make that jumpsuit transparent, so all I see is white fabric. If he catches me staring, he doesn't comment on it, politely waiting for me to acknowledge him. “Can I see Green now?”

“Of course, Ms. Song. This way,” he says, holding the door open for me with a wing and gesturing me out in the hall. “I hope you’re feeling better?”

“A bit,” I reply, noncommittal, falling into step with him as we make our way through the bright, clean halls. He seems to know where he’s going, and the layout of the building is simple enough that I’m not particularly worried about getting lost. “I was meaning to ask: were you in security before you worked for Rarity?” He shoots me a curious glance, and I clarify, “It’s just that your cutie mark has a sword in it, and earlier, Rarity made a joke about how security ponies always use ‘mister’ and ‘miss’ like you do. But you said you’d never had another boss to compare Rarity to, so I was curious.”

“You’re very observant, Ms. Song,” he says with a polite little smile. It’s a little too stiff though; he’s hiding something. “But, no, I never worked for security.” I’m not sure if it’s a lie, but it’s not the truth either. I could pry but... all ponies have their secrets, right? So he’s a bodyguard or something. That’s fine.

We don’t talk much for the rest of the journey there, making our way through long, gently curving corridors. Eventually, the hallways start to feel less “palace” and more “hospital,” although they never lose that brilliant, sterile shine. We pass ponies on stretchers, doctors and nurses, doors with windows so we can see the ponies within, bandaged and laid back in bed. The air starts to smell sharp, like soap and antiseptics, and the dazzling silence of the upper levels is replaced by a buzz of activity. Ponies talking, shouting, fiddling with equipment, crying out in pain, trying to maneuver around each other in the halls.

Then we push through a large set of double doors, and the sounds of the hospital are suddenly muted. We’re in a short hallway, only four doors along it, isolated from the rest of the building. There’s a desk here, with a guard behind it—his uniform is white, but those hoof-knives are pretty distinctive. He jerks his head up sharply when we enter, but then relaxes, putting away the book he was reading. “Quick. Ma’am,” he greets my guide and me in turn. “Need any help?”

“Yes, thank you. Ms. Song would like to see Ms. Apple, if you could—”

“I can manage on my own, thank you,” I say, pointing to the door at the end of the hall. It’s the only one that has a clipboard and notes tucked into the little slot under the window. “Through there, right?”

“Yes,” the guard says. I nod, and trot past him before he can go on, and lift the clipboard out of the holder on the door. I pretend to read it for a moment, long enough that Quick and the guard’s staring will be plausibly conspicuous. Then I glance back, like I’d just remembered they were standing there. “You don’t have to wait for me, March. I might be a little while.”

He does hesitate for a moment, glancing at me and the guard. He couldn't outright refuse me, but perhaps he might lurk in the hallway or nearby, letting the guard know to alert him. He comes to a decision quickly enough though, and he nods his head. “As you wish. Ms. Rarity is seeing to one of her new projects at the moment; she’s in the reflecting room. You can give Ms. Song directions?” he asks the guard, who nods. “Good luck then,” Quick March says before excusing himself and stepping away.

Allowed to wander around without an escort. A point in Rarity’s favor.

The clipboard is still beside me when I step through the door. There’s not much to the room; it’s small and cramped and sterile and safe. Wretchedly safe. There’s a bed, a chair, a counter, a sink, one of those glass covers to keep water away, but I don’t see a single edge in the entire room. Everything has rounded corners, the glass is well out of reach, the bed is covered in layering so soft it’s like foam, and everything is so clean it gleams. The only color in the whole space is a hideous poster on the wall, showing some grinning pink earth pony with a puffy mane reminding us that “A smile makes everything better!”

Well, it’s not really the only color in the room. There’s me. And Green.

She’s kind of... bleached. I guess I’ve never seen her without her makeup on. She’s obviously been scrubbed clean, her face free of her usual highlights, her coat and mane still a mess. She’s strapped to the bed, all wrapped up in those puffy restraints, like manacles made from cotton. They look so fragile that it seems like she should be able to tear out of them with a stiff breath, but I don’t think so. Even her horn is wrapped up in some kind of padding, a steel cap on the end to stop her from using her magic. Completing her bindings is a blindfold over her eyes, a sign above the bed reading: “WARNING: Hypnosis. Do not remove blindfold. If patient complains of eye pain or if blindfold appears ajar, contact on-call physician immediately.”

I just kind of stare for a while. I put the clipboard down by the door, and I stare. Watching her twist in the restraints, hearing the little brushing sound as her tail flicks back and forth under her.

“Wh-who’s there?” she calls out, her voice shaky.

I almost don’t answer. My stomach feels like a pit, my throat tight and burning. She sounds so meek, so frightened. But I have to say something, don’t I?

“It’s me, Green,” I say, stepping up to the bedside. She lets out a startled squeak and starts to struggle violently. The foam bonds around her seem to flow like water, stretching and sliding around her so that no matter how she twists she can’t lift herself out of them. “Green! Green, it’s okay! It’s okay!” I urge, rising up onto my hind legs and putting a hoof on the bed’s edge, reaching out to steady her with the other. “Green, it’s okay. I’m right here.” My leg meets hers, and I take her by the ankle. I can’t exactly restrain her with a hoof, but feeling me there gets her attention. She’s still panicked, but now she reaches out to me with all four legs, wrapping herself around my hoof and ankle as much as her bonds will allow. It’s mostly her forelegs really; the rest can’t quite reach.

“Siren?” she asks, her hoof traveling up and down my leg for a moment. What’s she doing? “Is it really you?”

“Of course it’s me, Green. Everything is—”

“What happened when I found you in my apartment?” she demands, sharp, suspicious. I can hear the tremor in her voice, but even when she’s completely helpless, she still has that edge to her. It’s beautiful in a dark sort of way, something wild and honest instead of her usual, cultured appearance. “Describe everything we did and said.”

“I woke up, you’d been tending to me. I thought you were a doctor. I made myself at home in your apartment and rifled through your things, and then you came home and I hid in your bathroom stall,” I explain, keeping my voice calm, soothing. “Then you hypnotized me, and pretended not to enjoy having another pony fawning over your humble self.” It’s not really funny, and under the circumstances, I can’t even manage a joking tone. My throat hurts too much. She seems to calm down a little though, holding my leg against her.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she says, her voice cracking, her face all scrunched up behind that blindfold. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You weren't supposed to end up here.”

“Green, it’s okay. Everything is going to be alright,” I repeat, keeping the words soft and reassuring. It’s a bit awkward, but I reach out with my other hoof to pat her side through the covers all around her.

“No, Sweetheart. No, it’s not going to be okay. Now I need you to listen to me, and do exactly as I tell you.” Her voice is urgent, quick. “Do you remember that thing you did at Doctor Stable’s? The thing that made Berry look so silly?” What? What is she talking about? “I need you to do that now, you understand? Just the way you did before.”

“You mean, run away on my ow—”

“Don’t say it!” she snaps, trying to yank me towards her. She can’t get a good grip through; the bonds won’t let her and her hooves slip down my leg. “Don’t ever say anything in the Pavilion that goes against her! Not when you’re alone, not so much as a whisper. She always knows! She knows and she doesn't like it!” She’s so tense, she’s shaking. There’s not even anything I can say to that. All I can do is reach out to her side and make soothing noises until the tremors subside.

“Okay, Green. I hear you,” I say to her. “I won’t say anything I’m not prepared for Rarity to hear. I promise.”

“You have to wait until she’s out in the city,” Green whispers, her rear legs tucked in against her. “She’s different there; she can’t keep it all straight in her head at once. Sometimes she misses things. You could escape then. She’ll have heard me say that, made sure that there are guards around you whenever she’s away. But they’re only ponies and you’re very brave, Siren. You can do what you need to do, right?”

I don’t know what to say to that. What can I say to that? My legs feel stiff, my motions are mechanical and rote. My brain goes ahead without me, and I mutter, “Of course, Green,” in the most bland tones of reassurance. It’s wholly unconvincing, and Green knows it. I can see her curl up a little tighter. My breath isn’t coming easy, all wound up inside me.

“Why are ah...” I start. You in restraints? Because you’re obviously ready to strangle the doctors with their own stethoscopes to get out of here. Because they’re afraid you’re going to hurt yourself. Because no matter how scared you are, you’re still a murderer. That was a stupid question, Siren. “The-the restraints.” I push against them with a hoof. “They aren’t causing you any pain, are they?”

“I mean it, Siren!” she snaps, her voice surging with anger even as it retains that wounded tremor. “Don’t you patronize me!”

“Well what am I suppose to say to that, huh!?” I demand, and now I’m shouting as well. “She’s a clever pony with some goons, not Sombra’s ghost!”

“Oh because y’all—” her voice chokes up for a second, and she seems to spit the words “—because you know so much.” She snaps the line out, snide and bitter. “You don’t know this city! You don’t know her!”

“So tell me! She’s a sorceress or something? Listening in on us with her dark powers? Is that what you’re saying, Green?” She doesn't answer, curling up tighter. “Well?”

“I don’t know,” she squeaks, quiet. All that anger has faded as quickly as it came, but it’ll be back, coming and going in waves. Like a frightened animal lashing out.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

“Ah mean Ah don’t know!” And there’s that accent again, thick this time, the anger not the only thing coming and going in waves. It sounds so fake, too sudden in its onset to be real—like she’s a bad actor forgetting her character. “She just—she just knows these things.”

“So, she knew a few times when you were plotting against her, and from this, you concluded that she was an evil supernatural force in the shape of a pony, instead of that, oh, she has some spies and you’re kind of easy to read.” The words come out sharper than I had intended, and they keep coming, like water out of a broken dam. “Why are you so determined to argue with a decision that’s already been made? We’re here! You’re here. And even if I did believe you, even if I could run away, I’m the only reason you’re still alive.”

“She’s gonna kill me anyway, she’s only humorin’ you,” Green whimpers, trying to reach up my leg to my body, but the restraints won’t let her move that far. “Sweetheart, you gotta—”

“Don’t you ‘Sweetheart’ me!” I wrench my leg out of her grasp and slide my hooves back to the floor. “What’s done is done! We’re here. We’re here and we’re both getting through this. Going back home, you hear me? I know what I’m doing.”

“You—”

“I said I know what I’m doing!” I snap, turning away from her. “I’ll be back, okay? I need to go meet with Rarity.”

“Siren, wait!” she calls out, reaching after me but she can’t reach. “My makeup kit.”

“Your what?” I ask, incredulous, turning back to stare at her. “I don’t think this is really the time or place to be touching up your eyeliner, Green.”

“I know, I know, I’ve just... I’ve never been without it. I know it’s somewhere around here.” Her voice is pleading, really worried. No, frightened. As frightened as she was when I came in.

It only takes me a moment to put it all together. “Your makeup kit, huh?” I ask flatly, my tone dry. “I guess I should have wondered why you pulled that thing out at every opportunity.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not like that,” she pleads, insists.

“So what is it like, exactly?” I demand. She doesn't answer. “What stops working if you can’t file your horn every day?” She doesn't answer. “I know ‘would you kindly’ is your hypnosis. So what’s the makeup for? Your longevity? I know that you’re not actually eighteen, Green, if that’s it. I mean, I have no idea what your other cutie marks might do, so I’m guessing here.”

“Siren, I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “Please.”

It takes a little poking around, but I eventually find her things in a plastic bin in one of the cabinets. It’s a motley assortment: smashed and crumpled energy bars, water, ticket stubs, loose change, a glass bottle of assorted pills, her horseshoes, lockpicks, a greying photo of some stallion on a farm, a lighter, and a host of other odds and ends I don’t care to examine. I find her makeup kit and file at the bottom, levitating them up and shutting the cabinet door.

“Fine, here,” I say curtly, tossing the little vanity case down onto her side, the horn file still floating beside me. I’m starting to feel sick again, all dizzy, my gut twisted into knots. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“Take... take the spots off my horn, please,” she says. “And brush up around my eyes.”

“Green, there are no spots or scratches on your...” I let out a stiff sigh, crossing to the bed’s edge in two quick steps. “Fine!” I say, snapping open the kit. I have no idea what I’m doing, but she can’t see the end result anyway. I just run the file over her horn a few times and brush some shade of green into the space around her eyes, or as close as I can get with that blindfold. It seems to calm her down, and after a few moments of that I give a brusque “Good enough?”

“Y-yes,” she says. “Thank you. Can you leave the—?”

“I’m leaving the kit and the file here, okay? Right on top of you so you’ll have them if you need them.” I put the vanity case and file back on her side, resting them over the padding there. “I’ll check on you later, okay?”

Green doesn't say anything, and I don’t wait for her to answer before I turn to go. On the way out, I notice the clipboard I left by the door, and I sweep it up. Most of it is medical gobbledygook, but there are summaries at the end I can understand. “Patient displays acute paranoia,” is one; “Prone to sharp mood swings and violent outbursts,” is another; assaulted an orderly; occasionally unsure where she is; expresses a belief in invisible ponies watching her; overwhelming phobia related to Rarity and the Pavilion.

“Excuse me,” the guard interrupts my train of thought, rising from behind his desk. “I heard things got a little heated in there. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I answer, looking up from the clipboard. I feel a little sick, but it’ll be fine. I slot the clipboard back into its little mount on the outside of the door. “Could you direct me to the reflecting room now, please?”

---

“So, um, are you a model too?” the mare in the reflecting room asks, after a few minutes of silence have passed between us.

It’s a very strange place, though I can see where the name comes from. At thirty paces across, it has room to spare, and the high domed ceiling makes it feel cavernous. That ceiling serves as an anchoring point for cranes, winches, steel and brass arms of all kinds, all carrying a vast array of mirrors, lamps and lenses. A menagerie of glass ponies circles the room, each one wearing a different dress or outfit. In the center of it all is a space where a pony is clearly meant to stand, surrounded by glass plates suspended from thin cables.

It’s a grand construction, but the purpose of the room is simple enough. When one of the glass ponies passes into the sight of the mirrors and lenses, the dress it wears remains visible, but the glass vanishes. A pony standing in the center of the room would seem to be wearing the outfit. Presumably, manipulation of the various devices here allows other feats, but at its heart, this is an enormously elaborate dressing room, allowing the operator to put the subject in any situation or outfit they like. I can see how it would appeal to a pony like Rarity, but she’s not here right now. She stepped out to deal with a minor emergency, or so the guard said. She’ll be right back. For now, there’s nothing to do but sit on one of the little couches by the door.

Well, that, and try not to make eye contact with the other mare waiting nearby.

“No,” I answer. “I’m an actor.” I’m not sure if this space is for waiting guests, or for observers to whatever process goes on here, but there are some books and magazines and stuff scattered around. Paging through one of the books passes the time, even if I’m not paying much attention. It’s about a fillyfooler unicorn fighting an evil stallion with a red eye. I think they’re an item or something though.

“Oh,” she says, interrupting me after barely a page. I grit my teeth and focus in on the book. There’s a fight scene now, and it’s kind of interesting. “I guess you must be a pretty good actor, to have Rarity do your work personally.” I shrug. There’s a zebra, and this pit— “So, are you fixing the scars, or are you having some other work done?”

“I’m meeting with her. I’m not here for surgery,” I answer. I’ve lost my place on the page now, and I try to find it again. Somewhere near the start, I think.

“Oh. That’s neat. You’re somepony important, I guess,” she says. I’m not even trying to find my place again at this point; I just know she’s going to— “I’m Epiphany, by the way.”

“Siren Song.” I introduce myself in kind, snapping the book shut and turning my head to face her. She’s sitting on the couch across from mine.

And she’s young and beautiful, of course. What else would she look like?

It’s like Rarity rolled her up in silver, baled her coat like metallic hay. Her barrel, her chest, most of her torso is radiant chrome, a pure metallic coat as lustrous and smooth as Green’s. Unlike Green’s though, it has so many subtleties, layers. The silver doesn't cover her whole body—her lower legs, flank, tail, mane, most of her face are a rich earth-brown, and when the silver draws near them, it disperses like smoke, coiling in these beautiful patterns that leave you uncertain where the silver ends and where the brown begins. Why brown? Because she’s an earth pony, maybe? Her mane is tousled, a mess, but I don’t think it’s meant to be fixed. It makes the brown seem earnest and real, and the silver seem all the more perfect by comparison.

She has four cutie marks that I can see. The one on her flank is a a yin-yang wheel. There’s a pony biting its own tail immediately below her shoulder, a pile of books on her back, and a dove with outstretched wings on the side of her neck. They really should ruin the effect, but they actually kind of work, and I can’t help but notice that her original cutie mark is surrounded by brown, while all the new ones are surrounded by silver. I wonder if that was intentional.

“Um...” she mumbles, tapping her hooves together. Of course, she notices that I’m sizing her up, but she doesn't say anything. She just stares down at the floor, her tail awkwardly flicking back and forth. I get the impression she’s been sitting there for a while, but she hasn’t touched any of the books near her. She doesn't have her modeling clothes yet—which makes sense in this room really—but there is a set of saddlebags on the couch next to her. They’re well worn, and a bit filthy. “Sorry, I’m new here.”

“It’s okay, so am I,” I answer, keeping my tone soft so it won’t show my irritation at the interruption. I’m really not in the mood to talk to anypony right now, much less one of them, but she’s so nervous, and it’s not like yelling at her will make this less awkward. “So, this is your first big modeling job?”

“Oh, um... you could say that.” She laughs nervously, still not able to meet my gaze. “It’s my first job in a while. I didn’t really apply so much as Rarity, you know... Picked me.”

“She must have thought you were very deserving,” I answer, thinking back to the coffee shop. If she can make anypony this attractive, I guess it does kinda make sense to give modeling jobs as gifts. Epiphany somehow manages to seem even more awkward by the time I’m done, but she nods.

“Yeah, I guess she did,” she agrees, but she’s clearly uncomfortable with the praise, her tail flicking back and forth as she finds ways to look at everything in the room but me. “We were just doing some color tests, now. I don’t really start until tomorrow morning, but Rarity wanted to do some last-minute checks.” I’m not really sure what a color test is, and I’m pretty sure she isn’t either, but it’s something to say. “So. Um. You want to see my before pictures?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask, peering at her a little more closely. That makes her glance up for a moment, catching my gaze with the cutest little blush.

“The before pictures. You know, what I used to look like?” I give a nod, and she reaches down into her bag with her muzzle, pulling out a bundle of photographs. I float them over and sort through them, little glossy pictures of a filthy, off-brown earth pony with a docked ear and a noticeable overbite. There are some closeups of her face, her jaw, her flank, and a few zoomed-out shots of her wearing those saddlebags. She’s really dirty, her mane a tangled mess, her sides smeared with something.

“Your eyes are the same,” I say, flipping through the photos and glancing up at her. That surprises her, and for a moment, she forgets that she’s afraid to look at me, glancing up and across the way. She was probably expecting me to say that she looks like a totally different pony, but I think I can do better than that. “She changed everything else, but your eyes are the same. It’s actually kind of conspicuous when you notice it.”

“You’re um... yeah,” she agrees, with an overeager little nod. “Yeah. Rarity knows best, I’m sure, but I said that I wanted to recognize myself in the mirror. Which I do, you know? I look totally different, but...”

“But it feels like you look totally different, not like there’s a stranger on the other side of the glass,” I summarize as I pass the pictures back, and she nods. Just like Green and the mirror, and her stupid makeup. “Still, that must have been very unsettling.”

“No? I mean, I guess it should be,” she says, looking at her hooves as she scuffs them against the couch. “But the whole thing feels so unreal that it’s like I’m dreaming. Two weeks ago, I was living in a crate under Spitfire Station and stealing food out of the trash. Now it’s like... I keep worrying that I’ve taken some bad pills and I’m curled up in my box hallucinating all of this.”

“What happened?” I ask, thinking back to the pictures and the ponies Green and I passed in the halls on the way to the tram station. Was she one of them? Did I walk right past her and not realize it? All their faces are running together, but I’m sure there were a few earth ponies there.

“A doctor got lost on his way to work, ended up somewhere he shouldn't have been. Two markers jumped him,” she tells the story stiffly and quickly, without much inflection, like she was embarrassed to even be associated with the events. “It happens, you know, but normally they just take the stuff and scram before security shows up. These two though, they had something against doctors. He dropped his bags, but they were going to cut him up anyway. So I shouted and threw a bottle at one of them.”

“And they ran off?” I ask. Giving her a modeling job for saving a doctor's life does seem pretty fair, more generous than most ponies in this city would be.

“Um... no. They got distracted, and when they turned their backs on the doctor, he ran off, so they um...” She falls silent for a long while, rubbing her forehooves together. “Rarity was there when I woke up in the hospital.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s only, the last thing I remember before is being on the ground and coughing up blood, and I was so sure I was about to die. And-and this place has a really bad reputation, but everypony here has been so nice, and Rarity said she thought she owed me, and that I could have whatever I wanted.” Her words come quick, nervous. She’s still rubbing her hooves together, back and forth, her gaze going this way and that over the floor. “I just said I didn’t want to have to live in a box anymore, but now she’s given me a job and she expects me to look good on camera and I really don’t know what I’m doing—”

“Epiphany!” I almost shout, and her head jerks up like it was on a spring, meeting my gaze head-on. Her eyes are wide, startled, but I give her a soft smile in return. One at a time, I unfold my legs, sliding back to the floor and crossing the distance to the other couch. “Relax. This is not all suddenly going to go away if you mess up once on camera.”

“I know, I know,” she says, though her voice is anything but convinced. “But, I don’t feel like I’ve earned any of this. I threw a bottle! The way Rarity talks about me, you’d think I was some hero who fought off an army.”

For a moment, I don’t answer—it’s a pause for emphasis, letting her build up some curiosity and lending weight to what comes next. It drags out the silence, one second, two seconds, three, and then just as she turns her head up to see my face, I give a slight roll of my eyes, setting my jaw. Reluctance, irritation, but decisiveness. A master putting up with her student’s foibles. “Here,” I say, levitating a pep bar, a bottle of water, and some gauze out of my belt, floating them over to her.

“Huh?” she asks, squinting at the items and then glancing back to me.

“Tomorrow is your first day, right?” I ask quickly and firmly. “That means they’ll be putting you through your paces—different lighting, different poses. They’re going to make you do exactly the same thing a million times under incredibly bright, hot lights, and you’ll have to do it while wearing a ton of makeup. It’s not going to be modeling, it’s going to be a workout. Only when you’re exercising, you get to take breaks.” I nudge the levitating items towards her, clearly indicating for her to take them. “Tuck these in under your dress so you can get them between shots. The gauze is for when you start to sweat. Dab it—don’t wipe. And gently. If you wipe your makeup off, the photographer will throw a hissy fit.”

“Oh,” she says, reaching out to take the pep bar with her teeth, tucking it into her bag. “Ah, tha—”

“And the water is for drinking,” I press on, and she gives me a funny little stare. “They’ll be working you hard and won’t let you take a lot of breaks. You’ll be tempted to stop drinking water so you don’t have to pee. You know what you get that way?”

“Um... sweaty?” she guesses, tucking the bottle away into her bag in turn.

“Heat stroke. Nopony ever said being a model was easy,” I answer, watching her nod, soaking all the information up like a sponge.

“And the pep bar?” she asks as she tucks the cloth away last of all.

“It’s for if you get hungry! What else would it be for?” I ask, chastising, but she takes it the way I meant her to, giving a timid little smile and looking down at the floor. “Eech. I can see Rarity didn’t pick you for your brains.”

“You’re kind of a pretentious jerk, you know that?” she asks, but she’s smiling when she says it.

“Uh, I’m an actor. I have to do all that too, except I’m expected to perform at the same time, Ms. Stand-There-And-Be-Pretty. Your job sounds so difficult, really,” I chide, and she giggles.

“Some actor you are. I’ve never heard of any of your films,” she insists, teasing back, her gaze hesitantly lifting, but this time, it stays up. “Or were you playing the all-important role of Background Pony #2?”

“Film? Excuse me? Film is where actors who can’t handle the stage go.” I make a wide, sweeping gesture around the room, like all its lenses and mirrors were the sandbags and cables above the Canterlot Opera House. “I don’t need editing and special effects to move a pony’s soul. I get it right the first time.”

“Oh, I get it.” She nods as though in sage understanding, an act ruined by the silly little grin on her face. “I’m sorry; you look so young I didn’t realize you were super old.”

“And precisely what is wrong with an older pony choosing to appear young?” Rarity cuts through our conversation, her voice close and sharp. Epiphany actually lets out a strangled, startled shriek, leaping to her hooves and scrambling to see where the voice came from. All I have to do is tilt my head to see where she snuck up on us, moving behind the mirrors. She looks like she did this morning, except that her outfit is clean. Or maybe it’s a new one? It’s made the same way, all shining and sharp.

“Rari—ah!” Epiphany shouts, scrambling for words. “I mean, I uh! We were just talking about films and theater and I was teasing and—and I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that. You can do what you like! I mean, not that I think you should try to look younger. I mean, you don’t look that old. I mean, not old at all! Very experienced! In a good way! Unless you think it would be better otherwise, I mean—”

At some point during her lengthy, panicked ramblings, Epiphany becomes aware that Rarity is laughing. It’s a polite sound, but she has to reach a hoof up to her face to hide her smile. Slowly, Epiphany starts to put it all together, her half-formed excuses and insistences fading away in the air, lacking the strength to make it all the way to our ears. Rarity only watches and smiles until Epiphany at last falls silent. Then she reaches out to ruffle her mane, like Epiphany was a little foal.

“For the record, dear, I prefer films as well, but the theater has its merits,” she says, light and playful. “For instance, say your escort for the evening is an absolutely charming stallion and you don’t want anything too exciting or interesting distracting you from the conversation.”

I blush almost immediately, but Epiphany needs a second to figure it out, and I can see the epip—the sudden understanding dawn on her face when she gets it. She giggles, a mischievous little smile appearing there as she looks between me and Rarity. “I suppose that is true,” she agrees. “You two are friends?”

“Oh, well, Siren is new here—but I’d like to think I make friends quickly,” Rarity replies, upbeat. “Could you give us the room for a bit, Epiphany? Siren and I have some private matters to discuss before you and I finish up for the evening. We won’t be long.”

“Oh, of course. It was um... nice to meet you,” she says, giving me a little wave before she trots out. Rarity waits a moment, letting the door shut behind Epiphany and giving her time to move away and down the hall.

Then Rarity sighs and smiles. “She’ll be so beautiful when she’s done.”

“Done?” I ask, glancing at the door. “She’s not finished with her surgery? She seemed to think she was.”

“Oh, no,” Rarity says, shaking her head, staring at the door as though gazing into a great distance. Her voice is quiet, her body language uncommonly still, for a pony who gestures so much. “Physically, she’s finished, but her spirit needs time to grow into what she has become. She’s strong now, brilliant and pure. Soon she’ll realize that there is nothing common ponies can keep from her. She can make them rise when she calls them, make them love her, die for her, bask in her presence.” She puts a lot of breath into the words. She’s smiling, but it’s not playful like before—soft and contented.

“And having come to this understanding, she will discover that it’s not enough—that no amount of glory or power for herself will wash away the suffering of others. The compassion that drew her here will compel her to use that power, to right the wrongs she sees all around her. Then she’ll be done.” Rarity says the words with air of finality, that last round of emphasis. “Beautiful inside and out.”

“She’ll be a hero?” I ask, not sure what to think.

“She’ll be a masterpiece,” Rarity answers, whispers really, with a wistful little chuckle. “Flesh and spirit turn to clay in my hooves—what excuse do I have not to work and work until the job is done?” She tilts her head to one side, watching me and letting the silence hang. She doesn’t expect me to answer that, does she? I just stare at her, and after a moment, she laughs. “This city may have gone wrong but... her, and the others. They won’t fade the way it has. They’ll be my legacy.” She seems to snap out of whatever thoughts have occupied her, shaking her head and looking back to me with clearer eyes. “And here I am getting all sappy,” she says, her tone snapping back to that practical cadence. “How are you feeling, Siren?”

“Fine. Or... well, not really, but better,” I say, giving a grateful little nod. I guess she really is a devoted craftspony. I suppose that’s nice. “Thank you for letting me sleep in.”

“Well, after all you’ve been through, I think a little bedrest is the least of what you need,” she says with a wave of her hoof. “I’ve scheduled you for a physical tomorrow morning, by the way—to make sure you don’t have any lurking injuries.”

“I suppose that’s a good idea,” I say, trying not to think too much about the possibility. What was it that Green said about permanent damage? Something about not exerting myself, right? She didn’t say anything about there already being internal damage. “I saw Green on my way here.”

“How nice of you to check up on her,” Rarity says a touch cheerfully—focusing on the positive. “I am sorry for her accommodations, but you do understand why they’re necessary?”

“She’s trussed up like a mental patient,” I observe, careful to keep too much accusation from flowing into my body language. There’s enough of it in the words as they are, no need to push my luck.

“Well, she injured several orderlies, didn’t she? The attending physician had concerns,” Rarity answers casually—dismissive of the entire matter. “She’s a very dangerous pony and obviously irrational. It seemed for the best.”

“I understand that you were just trying to make sure she couldn't get out, but she’s blind and helpless, living in fear that somepony is going to come into the room and do her in. She’s suffering,” I say, pressing the point as gently as I can, getting a feel for her reaction.

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Rarity says, with a polite sort of curiosity. “You don’t think I’m being a poor host, do you?”

Like putting a hoof on a frozen pond, and hearing the faintest crack.

“No. No, I didn’t—”

“You see, I pride myself on proper Equestrian hospitality,” she says, holding her hoof to her chest and giving a little nod of her head. Her tone never wavers from that causal cadence, but her eyes stay locked on mine, never breaking contact. “This city can be so terribly rude, you know. Anypony can just throw money at the poor”—she emphasizes the words with a quick flick of a hoof, as though to actually toss a pile of bits—“and call themselves charitable, but I’m always careful to keep my guests’ needs in mind. A little thoughtfulness goes a long way, and really, it is the least I can do.”

“I think—”

“Oh, that’s lovely, Siren!” she says, with a friendly sort of interest—like she was encouraging me as I talked about my hobbies. “Young ponies these days don’t spend nearly enough time just stopping to think. So tell me, while you’re pondering, do you think that letting Green wander free might be more hospitable?” She puts her hoof back to the ground, ears up as she looks at me head on. “Do you think that it might improve her state of mind? Mmm, do you?” Rarity asks, advancing towards me a half step, that stare wide and unblinking.

“I... no!” I say, trying to think of something! “I mean—”

“It’s only...” she says, with a little tsk, a sigh, and a back-and-forth wave of her hoof. “My initial thought was that it might be easier on the staff if she didn’t drag her putrid carcass around the building, polluting the hallways with her filth.” She presses on without pause, taking another half step forward as she stares down into my eyes, her tone never wavering from that gentle curiosity about my opinion.

I don’t...

“There’s innocent blood on her hooves, you know, and I put one of those little mats by the door, but somehow it never comes off, and she ends up trailing it everywhere,” Rarity says with a little laugh, a broad and inclusive sweep of a leg taking in the floor all around us. “It’s such a production to sterilize those hallways. Everypony has to pull an extra shift. But, if that’s what it takes to be properly accommodating...” The smile and laughter fade from her face, leaving a blank mask behind, her tone sinking into a dull, flat whisper. “I suppose I’ll have to adjust.”

The fabric presses into my hind legs, and I realize I’ve been backing away, pinned against the couch. She’s looking right at me, waiting for me to say something. “W-well,” I manage, pretty much nailing contrition. I-I mean, the stammer helps, I think. “I guess when I stop to think about it, you only promised she’d be imprisoned, nothing about her conditions. I guess I pictured a normal room but, ah, but that was pretty silly of me. Really, given that she definitely deserves to be put in a cell and that would be much easier for you, you’ve gone pretty far out of your way to make me comfortable. And-and to make her comfortable! I... I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, Rarity.” I swallow, buying a second to think. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, nopony says anything. She just stares at me, her face blank, eyes wide.

Then, she smiles and laughs—a cheerful little giggle.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Siren. All is forgiven,” she says, reaching out with her magic to straighten my mane where it’s become a tad ruffled. “Now, come with me,” she says, grinning ear to ear and leaning in to whisper the words to me like we were conspirators. “There’s something I wanted to show you while we’re both here.” She straightens up, turning to lead me across the reflecting room.

I think that went pretty well. Determined that Green is a sore subject, sounded Rarity out, no harm done and she likes me. Yeah.

Yeah, I nailed that.

“All anypony wants to talk to me about these days is politics: Trixie did this, security did that, hours and hours of ponies prattling on about their petty concerns. I put up with it, of course—I have my duties—but an artist knows there is richer earth to till.” Her horn shines, and above us, I can hear gears turning. Lenses and reflecting plates slide away into the ceiling, and mirrors are revealed in turn, falling from above like descending knives to cut off our view of the glass mannequins and their fabulous dresses. Soon, the entire elaborate collection of tools has vanished overhead and left us in an empty dome, surrounded on all sides by mirrors. After a moment, a small pedestal rises in the center, in the spot where Epiphany was meant to stand. “What do you think?” Rarity asks, breathless and eager.

It’s a muffin.

For a second, I think she’s putting me on—like when she upended the pot of warm water over my head. She’s having a little fun with me, putting me in front of a muffin and daring me not to praise it as a brilliant work of art. I’m about to laugh and play along with the joke when I glance up at her eyes, just to check. She’s watching me.

And she is in no way kidding.

“Uh...” I swallow that laugh down and away, luckily before it makes itself known, turning back to the muffin. “I didn’t know you baked.”

“Ah ah ah,” she chides me, with a little wave of her hoof. “No stalling for time. Your opinion, please.”

“Well, from an artistic perspective...” Yeah, it’s a muffin. I got nothing. Analytical Siren, you want to field this one? “The medium is the first thing that stands out to me, more than the message itself. You’ve chosen a perishable good, which means that the ravages of time are an inherent subtext to the message. Specifically though, you’ve chosen a perishable good wherein we can only derive value from it by destroying it. From that alone, I’d say you’re in danger of the medium overpowering the message. Whatever you meant to say, the takeaway is going to be that all beautiful things must perish, but there is value in their transitory existence.” I shoot her a quick glance, making sure I’m on the right page. Poker face. So, no missteps yet, but she’s not giving me the answer. “But, lets assume it’s more likely I’ve missed something than that the artistic mind that created that masterpiece you're wearing would make a mistake.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, dear, but it won’t get you the answer,” Rarity says, giggling politely. “Still, continue.”

“Visually, nothing stands out to me. Banana nut. The muffin cup is unremarkable, paper, disposable.” Something tickles my nose, and I lean in, sniffing at the air. It’s fresh out of the oven. Smells tasty too. That’s unexpected. I fall silent for a moment, biting my lip as I think. Vaguely, I’m aware that Rarity has started to watch me with more open interest, but only in the back of my mind. Now I’m curious.

“I see two possibilities. One is that you have some stagehooves under the floor waiting to put a fresh muffin on the pedestal right before it rises. Valid, an interesting point to be made there about the lengths ponies go to to maintain appearances, but it doesn't fit what I know of your character. You’re seeking depth for yourself, not mocking shallower artists.” Well, perhaps I’m a little more than vaguely aware that she’s watching me. My survival does depend on her liking me after all, and I look so enraptured that it sounds genuine. Multitasking is really something you’re born good at.

“Two is that you’ve somehow chemically treated the muffin so that it will always be warm and smell fresh, but what would be the point? It will still be destroyed when I eat it. Maybe there’s a point there about mocking markers who try to appear young since they’re all going to die eventually anyway, but earlier you defended that and...” It will still be destroyed when I eat it. “And...”

I bite my tongue a little, just to shift postures. That’s what you do with a muffin, right? You eat it, and then it’s gone. That’s the point. My hoof taps the floor to keep time, all the little cogs in my head turning.

“You could have enchanted it to be invulnerable. That way it will always smell nice and be pretty, turning it from a transitory object into... nnngh. No. Wait. No. That would significantly lessen its value in the process, and there is no way a pony who is still producing masterworks at your age is going for a twice-as-bright-and-half-as-long candle piece. Something when I eat it. Something to...” I’ve got Rarity on pins and needles now. She’s just about standing on the tips of her hooves, leaning in to see my face. “Something to...”

No way. “You’ve created a muffin that can be eaten an unlimited number of times.”

“Yes!” Rarity shouts, actually hopping up and down for sheer joy. “Try it, try it, try it, try it!”

I levitate the muffin off the stand, hesitating for a moment as I bring it towards my mouth. I mean, this has got to be a clever trick or something. I’ve never heard of magic like that. Entropy is one of the fundamental truths of the universe. Magic can fiddle with it for a while, but in the end, there’s no cheating the reaper.

Unless you’re Princess Celestia, of course.

I take the bite, trying not to look too unnerved as Rarity titters with glee next to me. It’s delicious, rich and crumbly. It’s still hot, steaming when my teeth tear through the cap, and inside, it’s full of chewy banana bits. When I swallow, there the muffin is in front of me, whole and unbroken.

It still smells good.

“I...” I don’t know what to say. Art is about observing the universe! Giving meaning to it all. Art is a reflection of the world. You can’t come up with your thesis and decide you’re going to make the world fit the piece. “This...” But you can, can’t you? If your thesis is that intellect and will triumph over all barriers, don’t you need to show that for it to be meaningful? How many artists have screamed that their works will live forever, but hers really will. More than that! It’s first. The first really eternal piece of art.

Without even thinking, I drop the muffin to the floor and smash it flat under my hoof. When I lift my leg, it’s whole once again, sitting there and waiting to be eaten. I pull the wrapper off, rip it in half, spit on it just to see what happens! No matter what, the muffin always returns, waiting for me. What can I do but laugh?

“Sun and stars, Rarity. You’re a genius!” I say, and it’s true! It’s like the first time I set foot in the palace—that tense excitement, the need to see everything there is to see, to know what it’s all for! “You’re the greatest artistic mind of your generation! What is this doing here? Forget your outfit; this should be in a gallery! This should be a museum's star attraction!”

“What, so those overmarked simpletons can whine at me about eliminating hunger?” she asks, shaking her head and smiling at my own bedazzled expression. “Art was meant to be appreciated, Siren, but these days, it doesn't seem like there’s anypony who really understands my work. You don’t know how happy it makes me to find a young pony with the true gift.”

What can I do? I need to throw myself at her hooves. I need to shout “teach me!” at the top of my lungs. But I can’t. Equestria comes first, getting home comes first, but... I can get on her good side a little. That’s the point of all this, wasn’t it? To get her to like me. Yeah, she thinks I have the true gift! I can play that.

“Well, I’m happy to observe a real master,” I say, hesitating for a moment. It might be overreaching but, double or nothing. “And... maybe while I’m here, you could teach me a few things?”

“Oh, it’s been years since I had a protege!” Rarity says, gleefully pulling me over into a hug. “We’re going to be the best of friends!”

Yeah.

Yeah, I nailed that.

Comments

[AngryDesu]

So the pony who supposedly embodied Generosity has created a way of eliminating hunger and... oh dear, that really does start to say a lot about her as she is now, doesn't it? Moreso perhaps when taken in context with earlier information (which Is admittedly of doubtful reliability) that food shortages were one of the root causes of everyone leaving Equestria in the first place.

On a side note: She baked a reality-bending muffin and is bouncing in glee? So very Pinkie of her.
And she still has regular(ish) meetings with Fluttershy too... interesting.

[Showmare Trixie]

Given the outburst in the elevator, probably the second one, but there’s no reason to make risky assumptions.

Siren really seems the sort to use 'former and latter', but that could just be me.

Stars, he’s cute. That’s kind of perverse, isn’t it? Even the thought makes me feel greasy. For all I know, he’s in his fifties, and I just checked out a pony old enough to be my dad. It’s true though. He’s got a great powder-blue coat—nice and light without being silly—and this tousled red mane that tumbles down to his left when he tilts his head. By all rights, that ugly uniform should spoil his build, but somehow, he manages to convey how athletic he is under it. It’s in the way he holds himself, those smooth little motions.

Legasp, I think Siren might be... Bi!

And...

“I completely forgot about Berry!”

Better late then never.

[GaPJaxie]

2557687
2557812

Ditto. Tell me what you thought of it!

[Bronetheus]

Did Siren just show attraction to a male character? The stress of being apart from Green's gorgeous, mesmerizing eyes must be really messing with her head.

Also, holy crap, you write the best Rarity. Even with the terrible things she's implied to have done, she still shines here, like this is all just a somewhat darker section of her song from Sweet and Elite. She's the type of pony everypony should know. Bravo.

The scene of Siren cleaning herself in the bathroom was absolutely perfect. A quiet moment of down-time that you wouldn't think of as action-packed... but it drips with meaning and intriguing questions.

“I should have let her finish explaining.” Yes you should have Siren. Oh Berry...

“It’s about a fillyfooler unicorn fighting an evil stallion with a red eye. I think they’re an item or something though.” Har har!

Ah, there we go. A paragraph of intimate detail on why another mare is attractive, and how she reminds you of Green. I was worried about you for a while there, Siren.

[Showmare Trixie]

2557812
I'd hope I'd be one of her bigger fans! She's my favorite character! This is also by far my favorite Berry Punch ever. That's saying something considering the last Berry to hold that position was a criminal mastermind who blew up a building then flew off on a sort of antique hang-glider while drinking vodka.

Aaaanyway, my thoughts for that was basically. "Woo Berry punch may not be gone! Go Siren, save Berry! So she can apathetically stare at you more! Maybe give her a cookie, because that would be cute!" Followed by... "... Since when does Siren give a rats ass about Berry? So far she's really, reeeaally not liken Berry much. I can kinda see her worrying about Green, sure she is a bitch, but at least she did nice things for Siren, Berry just traumatized her and blended into the background for the most part."

Though of course, since the narrative isn't still being filled with, "I love you!"... while Siren thinks about how she'll convince Celestia to obliterate the city and throw everyone into the dungeons. She was even able to talk to a Marker without being constantly trying to not gag in utter revulsion. So, my third thought, is essentially, that maybe Siren is adapting, she's starting to get used to the city, learning to be less vain, and is just starting to legitimately care about other ponies.

Obviously this positive change in behavior is Berry's influence, obviously. That said, I'm quite liking Rarity and this latest arc.

My fourth thought, much like it is in this comment, was added as an afterthought. "Well that's dissapointing". But, that was more directed at last chapter, it just didn't come to mind until now...

I remember when Green was first showing Siren to Berry, and she stated it was of the utmost importance that Berry shouldn't be touched directly. It led to a lot of possibilities in my head... what would happen? It wouldn't be mentioned if nothing would come of it, then we see berry get hit... At which point she gets knocked out, and gets shoved into the background while other stuff happens. Was kind of a let down...

Though, that said!

The bit with Rarity and the incinerator, then talking about being able to 'see' Green's filth everywhere... is that a bit of foreshadowing Trixie sees?

[Medikit]

Nothing as delicious as an infinite muffin :D

[GaPJaxie]

2558055

Did Siren just show attraction to a male character? The stress of being apart from Green's gorgeous, mesmerizing eyes must be really messing with her head.

Also, holy crap, you write the best Rarity. Even with the terrible things she's implied to have done, she still shines here, like this is all just a somewhat darker section of her song from Sweet and Elite. She's the type of pony everypony should know. Bravo.

The scene of Siren cleaning herself in the bathroom was absolutely perfect. A quiet moment of down-time that you wouldn't think of as action-packed... but it drips with meaning and intriguing questions.

“I should have let her finish explaining.” Yes you should have Siren. Oh Berry...

Thank you! I was actually really worried that you'd think this chapter was too slow. All exposition and personal scenes and a distinct lack of explosions.

“It’s about a fillyfooler unicorn fighting an evil stallion with a red eye. I think they’re an item or something though.” Har har!

Oh, come on. Little Pip totally had a foe-yay thing going on with Red Eye.

2558241

I'd hope I'd be one of her bigger fans! She's my favorite character! This is also by far my favorite Berry Punch ever. That's saying something considering the last Berry to hold that position was a criminal mastermind who blew up a building then flew off on a sort of antique hang-glider while drinking vodka.

Ha ha ha! Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed her. Like I said before, when I wrote her, I was really worried nobody would "get" her, and was actually prepared to go back and edit her lines to make her a bit more blunt. I'm thrilled to see it worked out.

Aaaanyway, my thoughts for that was basically. "Woo Berry punch may not be gone! Go Siren, save Berry! So she can apathetically stare at you more! Maybe give her a cookie, because that would be cute!" Followed by... "... Since when does Siren give a rats ass about Berry? So far she's really, reeeaally not liken Berry much. I can kinda see her worrying about Green, sure she is a bitch, but at least she did nice things for Siren, Berry just traumatized her and blended into the background for the most part."

Though of course, since the narrative isn't still being filled with, "I love you!"... while Siren thinks about how she'll convince Celestia to obliterate the city and throw everyone into the dungeons. She was even able to talk to a Marker without being constantly trying to not gag in utter revulsion. So, my third thought, is essentially, that maybe Siren is adapting, she's starting to get used to the city, learning to be less vain, and is just starting to legitimately care about other ponies.

You will love the next chapter.

I remember when Green was first showing Siren to Berry, and she stated it was of the utmost importance that Berry shouldn't be touched directly. It led to a lot of possibilities in my head... what would happen? It wouldn't be mentioned if nothing would come of it, then we see berry get hit... At which point she gets knocked out, and gets shoved into the background while other stuff happens. Was kind of a let down...

Yeah, there's no way that will possibly become important later in some sort of ironic twist.

[Ether Echoes]

2558241
To see what Berry's touch does, go back to the Diamond TIara chapter.

[Showmare Trixie]

2558562

...? I don't remember anything happening back then, but that could be the meds I was on.

[Showmare Trixie]

2558463

You will love the next chapter.

Trixie loved every chapter.

Berries introduction chapter was my favorite though. You made her so intriguing, she's like an enigma in the shape of an adorable, lovably apathetic pony.

And when she bought Siren ice cream? D'awwww. Doubly so when she called Siren out right after.

[Bronetheus]

2558463

Oh, come on. Little Pip totally had a foe-yay thing going on with Red Eye.

Oh, I agree. My comment was only intended to show that I enjoyed the reference! It's also nice as a further reinforcement of possible ongoing character development, in that we see Siren tossing around that pejorative "fillyfooler" again. I can't say for sure whether you're going anywhere with that, but it does seem like another item in the long list of things that Siren isn't going to like about herself very much when she's forced to confront them.

And hey, I love I Forgot I Was There too, and there are a distinct lack of explosions in that story. Plus, there have been like 25,000 words of winding down now, so my mind is completely engaged with the introspection and discussion, which is actually the kind of action I enjoy the most, especially when you present it in such tense, dramatic ways.

2557620
Maybe the muffin isn't replicable on a large enough scale to solve the hunger problem? Or maybe it has other issues? I think it's a little early to decry Rarity as a disgrace to her Element just yet.

[GaPJaxie]

2559329

Oh, I agree. My comment was only intended to show that I enjoyed the reference! It's also nice as a further reinforcement of possible ongoing character development, in that we see Siren tossing around that pejorative "fillyfooler" again. I can't say for sure whether you're going anywhere with that, but it does seem like another item in the long list of things that Siren isn't going to like about herself very much when she's forced to confront them.

Look, Siren loves everything about herself, because she is awesome, unlike fillyfoolers, who are disgusting deviants who keep hitting on her because they're offended by her ravishing good looks and raging straightness.

And hey, I love I Forgot I Was There too, and there are a distinct lack of explosions in that story. Plus, there have been like 25,000 words of winding down now, so my mind is completely engaged with the introspection and discussion, which is actually the kind of action I enjoy the most, especially when you present it in such tense, dramatic ways.

Aww, thank you! That's very kind of you to say, and.... well.

That is to say, I...

I've started writing the next IFIWT chapter.

[Bronetheus]

2559377

[name_goes_where]

Looking in the mirror and seeing "a stranger on the other side of the glass" is one thing
A stranger looking in the mirror and seeing you on the other side of the glass is totally another, maybe an all-around-better-person-than-you stranger but still...
but if we struggle to be a better person then a help should be appreciated?
and if we do not, then maybe we should be replaced with a all-around-better-person stranger?
and it's ok but only if the person who has "flesh and spirit" turned to clay in her hooves qualifies to judge what is better

[particle_pony]

Unicorn who fights a red-eyed stallion? I see what you did there.

[GaPJaxie]

2559707

You're very observant.

2559552

I am so happy someone understood that scene exactly the way I meant it.

Morally grey indeed.

[FaelaArts]

I don't know weather to go IT's a trap! or Is awesome.

[GaPJaxie]

2560409

is best pony.

[pwny]

<speculation>
Siren later discovers that the muffin was injected with ouroboros mantles, and freaks out when she realizes she ingested large quantities of it and is probably a marker now.
</speculation>

[Nothing Productive]

2557620

I'm happy that I'm not the only one who found that troubling, although I was more disturbed by the sudden spurt of crazy when Siren mentioned Green. Rarity seems to have this vibe of poisoned generosity to her. That is, it's like she's indifferent to the well-being of the pony she's being generous to: she'll make Epiphany into a diamond, even at the risk that she'll end up as charcoal dust (like Green).

Oooh, just I was typing that, I, like, totally thunk a thought. If we take Pinkie's not-quite-fun parties as poisoned laughter, and Dash's noose-happy police officers as poisoned loyalty, then that means there might be some thematic shit going down.

Either way, I can't wait for the next chapter. From what I gather, it's going to be the finale, and will end with Siren not leaving Vision. Although a lighter ending isn't out of the question, I'd still gamble on it being oh-so-wonderfully soul-crushing.

Last thought- Did anyone else hear Pinkie's bouncing noise when Rarity was jumping up and down?

[GaPJaxie]

2567578

Me, reading your comment:

[Ether Echoes]

2567578
Hahahaha.
Hahahahaha!
BUWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!

[Nothing Productive]

2567641

There's probably a dozen different ways that laugh can apply to my comment, but my real question is this:

How does he respond so fast?

[darch]

This thing you've done here, it is not so bad. Kind of a terrifying, grimdark thing. Not my usual, but nice.

Seriously, this is good stuff which kept me up way past my bedtime last night. Let me join the crowd applauding your just-wrong-enough Rarity and your fantastic unreliable protagonist. I look forward to seeing what horrors you unleash next.

D'A
... Mania, Fanaticism, and Indulgence

[The Mop Is AFK]

So shes not a fillyfooler i dislike that word we need a new one also BOOYA Foe reference but yeah i jinda like the idea of her not being a lesbian great chapter thanks for the read

[GaPJaxie]

2572128

Astute readers will note that the only two times Siren has ever been stated to be attracted to another pony were both stallions.

I mean, really—can't a straight mare stop to admire another mare's savage yet compassionate beauty?

[August Book]

I don't know whether it's the fact that I'm extremely tired and thus have fairly poor judgement pertaining to my actions at the moment, or just the fact that I have been reading this almost religiously the past few days, but I could kiss you right now.
I'm going to take the risk of sounding like (your wonderfully-written) Rarity, but this work is a masterpiece. Its characters(and their development, dear god), its setting, the subtle(and not-so-subtle) foreshadowing, and just the way everything is being pulled slowly together...... You, good author, are a genius, and I just can't express enough how much I love this story, and my gratitude that you wrote it in the first place.

[Luminous Lead]

Heh, Fallout Equestria. Good reading indeed.

I-nailed-that- I-nailed-that- I-nailed-that- I-nailed-that- ... Nails in your own coffin there, Siren.

[AlouetteSK]

Really like the interaction with Epiphany, but Rarity's comments underlines her failed methodology that lead to Green over there being all broken. Then she cracks a bit when Green is brought up. Not a good sign. At least Siren is getting some more downtime.

Blowing off a meeting with Shy seems a bit out of character with her, unless Siren is something even more important than her friendship. Disturbing here.

Then out of the blue a commentary on muffins. Hope that Derpy is nowhere to be found in Vision. Needs to explain how it defies entropy. T'would break my heart. And working for the Art instead of helpining ponies? She does seem to have a blend of Cohen in her. Now just waiting for the ponies in plaster we find in her basement.

Thing about developing compulsions or keyphrases in this sort of setting is that they eventually become unsettling to the reader. "I nailed that" is really starting to be worrying.

[Randomizer77]

"It’s about a fillyfooler unicorn fighting an evil stallion with a red eye."
Do I spy a Fallout: Equestria reference?

[Danger Beans]

Imagine, if you will, a child. A little girl, clad in a white dress, playing with dolls, seated at a miniature table in the midst of a tea party with her stuffed animals outside.

What do you feel? Happiness? Adoration? An instinctive urge to coo "Awww, how cute"?

This is how I felt that this chapter was supposed to make me feel. I felt like I was supposed to be happy for Siren Song, enjoying some much needed rest and finally being safe and sequestered away from all the horrors that Vision has thrown at her. But I couldn't. But I couldn't, because I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling, that if the camera panned upward, I'd see that the little girl in white, is all alone, surrounded by dark and roiling storm clouds.

It felt like this was supposed a therapeutic chapter, intended to give the reader time to breath and catch their breath. But to me, it felt like the eye of a hurricane, the calm before the storm; when the water recedes from the shoreline before a tsunami. The single solitary second before the hammer comes down.

In short, I found this chapter felt really freaking tense.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the characters whose portraits aren’t colored aren’t all that important to the story, and so far I seem to be right on the money. Silver Hoof appeared for all of what felt like five paragraphs, Rarity had a full-color spread, and now enters Quick March. Though, to your credit, he does seem to be a bit more fleshed out. One thing I did pick up on though was that they both display a strong loyalty to an Element of Harmony. Silver Hoof to Rainbow Dash, and Quick March to Rarity. Albeit, Quick March’s comes off as almost fanatical. Especially later on (no spoilers for future readers). If I had to guess, I’d say that he’s the type of goon who would gladly go on a suicide mission to slow down the hero.

Siren Song found him “cute” which I found interesting if for no other reason than it hints at her sexual orientation. Which, on that note, I appreciate. I find it altogether trite how many stories have the protagonists basically screaming “HEY I’M A LESBIAN!” at the reader. I have nothing against lesbian characters, but a character—any character—that is defined by a single aspect of their life, is a bad character. Sexual orientation does not equate personality any more than gender does. It really annoys me how many authors don’t seem to understand this, and I really appreciate how your approach to Siren’s sexuality is basically “Not important right now. Ask again when there aren’t any ponies trying to kill me, please.”

I was happy to see Siren talking to herself again. I didn’t realize how much I’d come to like that aspect of her personality. It felt like a very pleasant return to form when she’s looking at herself in the mirror, trying to scrub herself clean; doing her poses, trying to return herself to normal. Though I can tell that Siren was definitely at her breaking point, mentally. I found myself literally yelling at her with my thoughts Go to bed, Siren! You need to rest! Don’t you dare try to snoop around the pavilion!

I found her sudden concern for Berry Punch unexpected, though I’m not worried about her, myself. Upon reflection, I guess that Berry is the closest thing to a friend besides Green that Siren Song has in this city. And Vision’s not a place where you make (or keep) friends easily.

I’m calling bullshit on Trixie abandoning Siren. If there’s one thing that could be said about Trixie, it’s that she doesn’t give up easily. Going through all of the trouble to get Siren Song to Neptune’s Bounty, and she just gives up at the final stretch!? Nope. Not buying it. I suspect (and so too would Siren probably, if she had been thinking straight) that Rarity listens in on all communications that go through her pavilion. Trixie probably meant “Don’t wire again, you’ll spill everything, you idiot!”

Seeing Green in such a state was . . . difficult. But I don’t have much to say about that now.

“Oh. That’s neat. You’re somepony important, I guess,” she says. I’m not even trying to find my place again at this point; I just know she’s going to— “I’m Epiphany, by the way.”

Oh, shit. I just realized, when this was in its initial run, the readers wouldn’t have known the upcoming chapter names, and up until this point, none of the characters have really had big appearances before their titular chapters. This must have been a big “Holy Shit!” moment for a lot of readers when the next chapter came out. Props.

Two weeks ago, I was living in a crate under Spitfire Station and stealing food out of the trash. Now it’s like... I keep worrying that I’ve taken some bad pills and I’m curled up in my box hallucinating all of this.”

Rarity gives a second chance to a homeless mare living in a crate? Where have I heard that before . . . Oh yes, I remember now. Random Acts of Generosity.

But I digress, Siren Song wastes no time in twisting Pippy around her little (metaphorical) finger. But their banter feels a little forced. Insults don’t usually come until (in my experience) when you feel more comfortable knowing what you can get away with. And seeing how nervous Pippy seems outwardly at first, it just doesn’t feel right.

It feels much more appropriate coming from Rarity.

“For the record, dear, I prefer films as well, but the theater has its merits,” she says, light and playful. “For instance, say your escort for the evening is an absolutely charming stallion and you don’t want anything too exciting or interesting distracting you from the conversation.”

This is gold. This is a mare who know she’s the cat’s meow, and doesn’t care whether you laugh or groan at her jokes. Because she’s Rarity. And you’re not.

“You see, I pride myself on proper Equestrian hospitality,” she says, holding her hoof to her chest and giving a little nod of her head. Her tone never wavers from that causal cadence, but her eyes stay locked on mine, never breaking contact. “This city can be so terribly rude, you know. Anypony can just throw money at the poor”—she emphasizes the words with a quick flick of a hoof, as though to actually toss a pile of bits—“and call themselves charitable, but I’m always careful to keep my guests’ needs in mind. A little thoughtfulness goes a lot way, and really, it is the least I can do.”

“I think—”

“Oh, that’s lovely, Siren!” she says, with a friendly sort of interest—like she was encouraging me as I talked about my hobbies. “Young ponies these days don’t spend nearly enough time just stopping to think. So tell me, while you’re pondering, do you think that letting Green wander free might be more hospitable?” She puts her hoof back to the ground, ears up as she looks at me head on. “Do you think that it might improve her state of mind? Mmm, do you?” Rarity asks, advancing towards me a half step, that stare wide and unblinking.

“I... no!” I say, trying to think of something! “I mean—”

“It’s only...” she says, with a little tsk, a sigh, and a back-and-forth wave of her hoof. “My initial thought was that it might be easier on the staff if she didn’t drag her putrid carcass around the building, polluting the hallways with her filth.” She presses on without pause, taking another half step forward as she stares down into my eyes, her tone never wavering from that gentle curiosity about my opinion.

I love it when characters do this. Making a frenzied rant with the tone and expression of a bored housewife asking you how your day was is a trope which I adore.

“What do you think?” Rarity asks, breathless and eager.

It’s a muffin.

For a second, I think she’s putting me on—like when she upended the pot of warm water over my head. She’s having a little fun with me, putting me in front of a muffin and daring me not to praise it as a brilliant work of art. I’m about to laugh and play along with the joke when I glance up at her eyes, just to check. She’s watching me.

And she is in no way kidding.

This made me laugh. The absolute absurdity of it. Rarity is obviously nuttier than an oak tree. But It’s also obvious that she is extremely intelligent. The following passages, where Siren blatantly bullshits her way through the “critique” of the muffin by way of judging Rarity’s reactions to her words was a blast to read.

“Well, from an artistic perspective...” Yeah, it’s a muffin. I got nothing. Analytical Siren, you want to field this one?

And finally,

“Oh, it’s been years since I had a protege!” Rarity says, gleefully pulling me over into a hug. “We’re going to be the best of friends!”

Yeah.

Yeah, I nailed that.

Yeah. No. Siren is good, but Rarity’s the genuine article. I knew it the moment I read that passage. I’d be willing to bet that Rarity designed most of those poses of which Siren Song is so fond of.

[DarkChiyo]

The moment a element of harmony worries me. Thought it would never come. I have a bad feeling about this.

Awesome done as always

[Voiceguy]

I like you GaP. Don't go to Vision tomorrow.

[Voiceguy]

Kept you waitin' huh?

[Voiceguy]

This could be considered spam at this point

[FOXTrot2]

Unless you’re Princess Celestia, of course.

Because that sunny ass ain't never gonna perish.

And she is in no way kidding.

That's one blaring red flag right here. Blood red.

[DJMEGAMOUTH]

I’ve just been unsettled this entire chapter and I don’t even know why.

[epiccuttlefish]

Do Rarity's plans for Epiphany remind anyone else of Sophia Lamb's plans for Eleanor from Bioshock 2?

[GMBlackjack]

right, I've been reading this on the Kindle most of the day, so there haven't been comments. However, before I finish this thing, I'm going to leave some thoughts:

Rarity is somehow responsible for Siren, isn't she? Siren was all part of her diabolical plan. Or morally misguided, at least.

Still not entirely sold on Siren, but at least I feel like I'm able to root for her now. Not entirely sure what changed. Maybe just spending so long in her headspace, and her not having as many opportunities to act petty.

I'll hopefully be done tonight. See you then for the full writeup...

-GM, master of skrilla.

[Skulljack17]

Little does Rarity realize that she's in effect created an object of infinite mass now. To think, in a billion billion years from now, all will be Banana Bread Muffin.

[GaPJaxie]

10092187

That might not be exactly what happens, but you know, basically yes.