Green Apple
Being sick feels great. Not the sickness itself of course—that feels awful. I hate the sniffles and the flu, and stomach bugs are worst of all, but being sick is awesome. When I’m sick, I don’t have to study or practice magic, and Princess Celestia lets me listen to as much music as I want. She always gets super protective and tucks me into bed with way too many blankets, until I feel like I’m in a cocoon. Sometimes they’re so thick I can’t even get up, but it’s okay because the record player is on the table next to the bed and I can wind it up with my magic. I don’t even have to turn my head, and I always let it play when I’m sleeping in.
I’m sick now, and all bundled up. With so many blankets on top of me, it’s like I’m buried and just my head is sticking out. They feel warm and soft, and I don’t have to worry about when I’m getting up. I know I’m weak, but I can rest now, and resting feels good. Drifting in that careless haze, not sure if I’m dreaming or awake or somewhere between the two, and it doesn't matter. Just for a second though, I crack an eye open to spot the phonograph. My horn comes alight, and I set the needle in place, winding the handle until it starts to turn back the other way on its own. I shut my eyes as the first notes of Sarabande drift through the air. That’s good bedside music, not too adventurous. The record player must be broken though—I keep hearing a weird beat that’s out of time with the music.
I can tell I’m drifting in and out of sleep, because I keep missing sections of the piece. It’s okay though—I know what’s supposed to be there by heart, and I just imagine the missing sections. Eventually, I realize the music finished a while ago, and I’ve just been imagining it so well I didn’t notice. I open my eyes to start it again, but there’s a pony there beside the bed. She’s a really pretty shade of green with sparkly emerald eyes and a mane that’s all shiny like it was wet, and she’s a unicorn like me, which is also nice. Most likely she’s a doctor, since she’s tending to me and doesn't look like a servant. I can’t see her cutie mark though.
“Could you start the music again?” I ask, and she looks curious, drawing the blankets down a bit with her magic. Her horn is a really pretty green too, but her magic is a dark red. The color mismatch makes her horn look black when she uses it, which is cool I guess. She must have fun pretending to be a changeling for Nightmare Night.
“In a minute, Sweetheart,” she tells me, patiently, and she reaches down to pull one of my hooves up. They’re all wrapped up in cloth, which is silly. I mean, I’m already covered in blankets—what’s the point of adding a bunch more little blankets to my hooves? She pulls the cloth away, and the inside of it is all red and gross. I guess some of it must have gotten on my hooves and ankles too, because they’re all sticky and blistery and look like they’re covered in jam. She levitates a sponge up in front of me, and starts to clean my ankles, but it suddenly hurts when she does, like my skin is on fire, and I whimper.
“It’s okay, Sweetheart. I have more morphine right here.” She levitates a needle up to me, and I don’t see how that’s supposed to make me feel better. Needles always hurt, and this one hurts when she jabs it right into my shoulder. I’m not a little foal though, so I try not to show any pain or complain.
“Thank you,” I murmur, shutting my eyes again. I can feel her washing my hooves with that sponge, but I can’t feel it anymore. I can sense the pressure, but there’s no sensation and no pain, which I guess was the point. It feels kind of nice, actually, but then, everything feels kind of nice. It’s getting hard to stay awake, so I’m probably making her do extra work holding my hoof up while she changes the bandages. “You’re the prettiest pony I’ve ever seen. You should have been a model instead of a doctor.” She doesn't say anything, but she stops cleaning my hooves for a second, so I know she heard me. After a little while, the music starts again.
I wake up a lot like that. Sometimes the doctor is there, sometimes I’m alone, sometimes I wake up feeling so good I have to giggle for no reason at all. When I’m awake enough to open my eyes, I set the needle and listen to Sarabande. When I’m not, I just listen for that funny beat in the air, and make up words to sing along to the meter. I wake up in pain, once, covered in sweat, with this awful stabbing in my sides and burning in my hooves. The pain is enough to make me yell and cry like a little filly, but the doctor comes running and gives me a shot, and doesn't once make fun of me for being a wimp. Every time though, I’m in that bed, safe under the blankets, just like I always am when I’m sick and Celestia takes care of me.
Then I wake up one more time, and I remember that Celestia isn’t here.
When I come to, it’s like every mortal frailty has taken residence in my body at once: my muscles are weak, my joints ache, my spine is twisted into a knot. Under the blankets, I’m overheating and drenched by sticky sweat, and outside them, the air is freezing. I’m clear-headed though, and I know where I am. A grunt escapes me as I shove hard with my rear legs, kicking the blankets off the bed. A rush of freezing air settles around me, the heat radiating off me in waves, escaping in every breath as I shudder involuntarily. I don’t have the strength to stand, not yet. I don’t even feel awake enough to open my eyes.
This isn’t my bed. The pillow is ratty and worn. The sheets are twisted into a ball under me, and I can feel that they’re as soaked with sweat as I am. I doubt they’ve been changed in all the time I’ve been lying here, left to marinate in filth instead. That thought gives me a little more incentive to find the will to wake up, and I force myself to suck down a deep breath of that cold air, trying to get my limbs to move. A shudder runs through me, my heart starting to race, pounding in my ears just with the effort of moving my limbs. It’s like all my blood has turned to molasses, and the motion of my legs is driving it through my veins like a pump. My eyes clamp shut with the effort, and then fly open.
I can see wood—a flat plane of it at the edge of my vision. The space directly ahead of me is dominated by a phonograph made from wood and brass, dirty and long corroded. Around the edges of its horn, I can see a fading and splintered wall. Once it was beautiful hardwood, but the individual planks have been warped so badly they no longer fit together, and many of them have cracked. Mirrors and the oddest collection of woodcuts adorn the walls in a seemingly random pattern, hanging from hooks that have been haphazardly nailed into the intact pieces. One of them has slipped to the side, and behind it is a crack in the wall. Through that crack, I can see white stone glistening with water in the light.
It’s a bedroom. I’m in a bedroom, and no matter how filthy it is, it’s the kind of bedroom where somepony still cares enough to listen to music in bed and hang things to hide the cracks in the walls. I’m out of that horrible nightmare. Relief floods through me, but instead of sapping my strength or lulling me back to sleep, it gives me energy. I need to find out where I am.
With another grunt of effort, I manage to push myself out of bed. My landing on the floor is less than graceful—my knees buckle with my weight, and I tumble forward. The pile of blankets breaks my fall though, and I shakily rise to my hooves a few seconds later.
It’s not a bedroom after all, or at least, it didn’t start as one. There are tiles under my hooves, and when I raise my head, there’s an oven and sink directly in front of me. For a moment, the strangeness disorients me, and I feel the fleeting edges of panic, but I shut my eyes and draw a deep breath. I will examine all the evidence before I leap to any conclusions. That makes me feel better, and I open my eyes again, slowly looking left and right.
The room I’m in is long and narrow, lit by those same pulsing strips along the ceiling. Once, it was a kitchen. The floors are tile, and the left wall is covered in more sinks, ovens, stoves and wooden cabinets. I see three sets of each, but no professional equipment, so it was probably a communal kitchen at some point. The left wall is the side I could see from the bed, and the cracks continue all along its length, to the point that many of the cabinets have had to be braced to the wall with nails and haphazard carpentry just to keep them from falling off. The right wall is more intact, but also bare, save for a door at the far end. Unlike the rest of the room, the door is made of metal, and a great profusion of locks and bolts seals it shut. A little cot has been set up in front of the door, empty, but clearly well-used. After a moment’s thought, I decide to leave the door alone. Opening all those locks without knowing why the door is locked might be a bad idea.
Turning around, I see there’s a little more to this room, an extension that gives it a stubby ‘L’ shape. The extension is a bathroom, containing a row of toilets, showers, and sinks. Having that so close to the kitchen can’t be sanitary. These rooms clearly weren't meant to connect, and somepony has taken a sledgehammer to the intervening wall, boarding up the old bathroom door so the kitchen is the only way out. The bed is at the heel of the ‘L’, where a kitchen table might once have sat.
Right. Room surveyed, time to take stock of yours truly.
I’m encrusted with filth. Not a great start to the whole self-inspection thing.
It’s mostly dirt and sweat—they’ve just been there so long they’ve congealed into a brown sludge, like an oil slick gleaming on my coat. Somepony has shaved my right side, along my barrel, and there’s a collection of stitches there, the skin around them red and angry. I take a moment to count them, and wince at the total—twenty-three distinct cuts. My hooves and ankles are bound up in bandages, but they have already started to peel off, and I can see that the skin beneath is mostly healed. I do mean skin too—there’s no hair left on my legs all the way up to my fetlocks, and from how waxy and melted the skin looks, I’m not certain there ever will be again. The bandages themselves are soaked with fluids best not described, and I carefully peel them off.
“Okay, Siren.” I draw a deep breath as I feel my heartbeat stabilize, falling closer into rhythm with the beat of the lights. “You’re in a bad situation.” It seems obvious, but hearing somepony say it makes it feel like things are under control, particularly when they say it with that much class and authority.
“You’re trapped in an undersea city overrun by—” I get tongue-tied for a moment, a shiver passing through me “—vandals and madponies. You’ve been badly injured, and you’re probably scarred for life. A lesser pony would be a wreck right now, but Celestia didn’t raise you to panic during a crisis!” I stomp my hoof a little for emphasis. That helps. “You’re going to get out of here, and everything will be fine.”
“First, assess the situation.” I take a second to look around again, reviewing where everything is. “You’ve been rescued from certain death by an unknown pony. You appear to still be in the slum, but your evident rescuer not only took care of you and bandaged your injuries, but gave you the bed while she took the cot by the door. It therefore seems unlikely he or she is one of the madponies from before.” Indulging my analytical side always makes me feel better, and I take a second to examine my hooves again. Celestia can heal that, I’m sure. I was just being negative before.
“Concurrently, it seems likely that you aren't in any immediate danger, and that your rescuer will return soon. Your goal for the immediate future is therefore to wait and prepare yourself for whatever may happen to the greatest possible extent.” I frown a little at that. It’s more vague an objective than that side of me usually cares for, but it will have to do.
“Step two, assess resources.” That step goes quickly, after another brief glance around me. “A bathroom, a record player, some blankets, and whatever’s in the kitchen drawers. Further...” I look back at the bathroom, my train of thought derailed as certain other needs my body has been suppressing suddenly come to mind. Hesitantly, I lean my head down to below my shoulder and sniff, my nose wrinkling at the result. “Right, step three: shower.”
There’s a certain eagerness in my steps as I trot up to the tub, but I’m not so focused that I don’t still notice the little things. The copper piping is new—or at least in good condition. Unused showers and toilets have been disconnected, and the pipes capped. The inside of the shower is clean and organized, towels and bottles of soap tucked into slots in the wall. When I see how kept-up everything is, I even dare to hope that the water might be hot.
It is! When the hot spray hits my back, I actually shudder with sheer delight, a shaky cry escaping me. It’s stupid, but it feels too good for me to be embarrassed, and I lean my head against the shower pipe, just relaxing and letting the water wash over me. The spray feels almost hot enough to burn me, which right now, is just right. It trickles down through my coat, flowing through the hairs, letting the heat seep into me. When it hits the burns on my ankles, it burns like nothing else until I can actually hear the pain in my voice, but I really don’t care. I want to scrub and scrub until every trace of this awful nightmare is gone and I can wake up again. I can hear my own breathing, my heartbeat, the hiss of the shower and the pulse of the lights. It all sounds good.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep on my hooves until my little nap is over. My eyes fly open, and I almost slip and fall, doing a panicked dance on the porcelain until my hooves find their place. The water has cooled, now barely above room temperature, and the air is full of steam. I take a few shuddering breaths as I wait for my heart to slow down, and then set about actually washing up—mane, coat, tail, hooves, everything gets cleaned twice. When I start, I’m so dirty the water runs black down the drain, and I don’t stop until I shine. I feel a little bad about using up all of my rescuer’s soap, but not that bad.
A shower is a profoundly civilizing experience, and when I step out, I almost feel like myself again. There are only two towels, so I wrap one around my mane and the other around my tail, letting the steam clear out as I step back into the kitchen-turned-bedroom. I pick a random cabinet to search through, and my curiosity is rewarded with a collection of mismatched bowls and a large mason jar full of oats. I levitate the jar down, along with a bowl and spoon, taking note that they’re not in easy reach of hooves or teeth. My rescuer is a unicorn. Or owns a stepladder. But I don’t see a stepladder, so that seems like enough evidence to conclude I was most likely rescued by the green physician I vaguely recall from my fever-haze. Still though, that’s no reason not to be thorough.
Levitating the bowl alongside me and munching as I go, I pull open the other drawers and cabinets, lifting their contents up onto the countertop to sort through them for anything of use. The first under-counter cabinet contains a miniature wiredoll, no more than four hooves tall. It’s rather more ornate than the ones I saw before, and made of engraved silver, but without any crystals for “wiring” another pony, it’s a distraction at best. The next cabinet contains nothing but more oats—that can’t be a healthy diet—and the space below the sink contains a first aid kit, along with a number of bottles of medication, and syringes that look less than sterile. I recognize morphine, aspirin, iodine, and other common drugs, but most of the items here are beyond my knowledge of medicine. Still more confirmation that my caretaker is also my rescuer.
The last set of cabinets proves considerably more interesting. I open the top one first, and I’m greeted with a menagerie of strange bottles, each one adorned with a brilliantly colored label. One contains a watery red fluid, the label a picture of a doctor’s bag and a stylized “Doc Stable’s Patented Red Cross.” Another contains a sparkling golden liquid and a label with a wide eye and angry red text that reads “Feeling shy? Look ’em in the eye with Stare brand Mantles!” Each bottle is small, no larger than a flask, and many of them are half full. I’m not quite sure what to think of them. They’re obviously valued and probably expensive, but that still doesn't let me know what they do. For the time being, I leave them alone and check the other cabinet.
Jackpot. Last cabinet here, and it’s a treasure trove of information—a memento drawer. At my magic’s direction, four small boxes float out of it: one full of jewelry, one full of newspaper clippings and old flyers, one full of vinyl records, and one with a movie player and tape reels.
Music is obviously the best way to learn about my rescuer, but there’s no pattern to the records here. The box holds some classical works and older pieces, but nothing in Equestrian contemporary. Then again, after seeing how isolated this city is, that’s no surprise. I’m also able to pick up on some details that a lesser pony would have missed: for instance, the newest Equestrian piece here is from a hair over eighteen years ago. Combined with Trixie’s comments about being “away from home,” it makes me think that this city once had more contact with Equestria than it does now. I knew that music trivia would come in handy one day! I even take a few minutes to deduce my rescuer’s taste in music, but ultimately conclude that the collection is just whatever records she could scrounge out of the slum.
Next, I sort through the jewlery—nothing I’d be caught dead wearing. Most of it is hopelessly cheap, but even the well-made pieces are unlike anything that might be found on the surface. It’s all rather predatory in how it looks—anklets like armored joints, earrings made from interlocking sections, lots of sharp edges and points. Trying too hard, in my opinion. It’s all also polished to a mirror shine, despite the dilapidated conditions of the room.
The movie reels seem potentially useful, but I’m hardly going to set up the projector. All I can do is look at the titles: Vision: A History, The Life of Sine Rider, The Founding. They’re all historical pieces, which would be informative, but my rescuer will probably return shortly, and I can just ask her directly. One reel does stand out from the rest, a lonely case at the bottom labeled, “10,000 Ponies Under the Sea, Seapony Queen Throne Room, Scene 44, Take 1.” On a hunch, I crack open the roll and unspool a length of the tape, moving it up to the light. Holding my eye up to one of the frames, I can see the mare who tended to me, dressed up in a sparkly costume, a trident hovering before her. I am good.
The box of clippings comes last, and I take my time with this one, putting the other boxes away. First out of it is a poster, one that gives me my first long, detailed look at my rescuer. The intended content of the poster is unremarkable—an advertisement for Clotheshorse Tailoring—but my rescuer is front and center, effortlessly stealing the eye away from even the gaudiest text at the edges.
She’s dazzling. Her coat is brilliant like a perfect emerald, to the point it almost sparkles, while her mane is the darker, rich green of a forest’s canopy. It hangs down around her in the most graceful lines, as though it were wet and had come to rest just so. She’s modeling an elegant silver dress made from cloth that flows around her torso, falling down around her legs and leaving her tail exposed. It’s scandalously suggestive, and when she rears up with that athletic build and the fabric ripples like she was in the wind, she looks...
The details aren't important. All that matters is that I’ve learned my rescuer used to be a model. I also take a second to go brush out my mane, for unrelated reasons. Mine isn’t as good as hers, but, I’m pretty close, I’d say.
Now that I’ve learned what she looks like, the next thing out of the box tells me her name. It’s a newspaper clipping with a photograph, and the photograph shows her clearly, standing on stage under a spotlight. The headline reads, “Envy Breaks Box Office Records with Explosive Musical Debut.” A quick scan of the text is enough to get the gist—a former model entering the singing scene. The article is nothing but positive, but I know how to read between the lines. No matter how kind it is, there’s an absence of phrases like “to critical acclaim,” or “attended by Fancypants Famouspony,” or any hint of praise from other artists. Generously, she’s a genius who isn’t yet appreciated by jealous and undeserving rivals. Realistically, she’s a hack who only fills theater seats because the audience is drooling over her. It’s kind of disappointing.
I put my hooves up on the counter and methodically sort through what’s left. The rest of the box is all articles in much the same vein. Naturally, she only bothered to save the flattering ones, but a clear pattern in the headlines emerges. Seats sold out, record deals, appearances in this or that. No approving critics, no positive reviews, no endorsements or discussion of her work. She modeled, she danced, she sang, and while I don’t see any articles about it, I know from the tape that she must have tried her hoof at acting. The tape was a test reel though, not a finished piece, and on a whim, I check the dates on the articles. Most of them are over twelve years old, and even the newest is nine years past, the paper yellowing and faded.
“So, ‘Envy.’ The crowd got tired of you.” I look around the dilapidated apartment, and my eyes go back to the mirrors and bits of wood covering the cracks in the wall. “You weren't careful with your money either, evidently, and now you’re living in a slum, trying to keep things dignified and pretending you’re still somepony.”
I’m not wrong—stars like that come and go—but as soon as I say it, it feels mean-spirited. She saved my life, tended to me when I was sick, and gave me her bed when she slept on a filthy cot on the floor. “I mean, it’s not that bad.” I correct myself, turning to look down at the poster between my hooves. “You are outrageously pretty. I’m sure your career could recover!” I’m trying to be nice here, but I really am an analytical pony by nature. Sometimes being sharp and insightful can be a burden. “Of course... you’re obviously not working as a model now. So either you’re so hopeless on stage that your looks aren't enough, or there was some kind of big scandal and nopony wants to see you anymore.”
I tap my hooves on the counter. It feels like I should add something to that. “But, it’s not all bad! Nopony in Canterlot has heard of you. After you rescue me, you can start your career all over, if scandal was the problem.” I give the poster a reassuring little wave. “And um... if you are a talentless hack, I’m sure Celestia will put in a good word for you as thanks for saving me. Then, nopony will care if you’re any good or not!”
I put my hooves back on the floor and thank Celestia that I’m talking to a poster and Envy didn’t actually hear that. “Right.”
The cosmic irony I just invited misses me by a comfortable margin of perhaps thirty seconds. I have enough time to go through the rest of the newspaper clippings, put them away, and finish the oats before the sound of a key turning in the lock behind me makes me jump. I whirl in place, facing the door just in time to see another one of the bolts turn, the long line of locks opening one after the other. My heart starts to race, and all my limbs go stiff. I don’t know what to do. What if it’s not her? Do I grab a weapon? I can’t threaten her after she saved me, but I can’t just stand here. I need to do something!
When I choke under pressure in front of Princess Celestia, she gives me a level look, taps the floor, and says: “Siren, while you did have to do something, and that was something, you should probably not have done that.” I guess it’s supposed to be a nice way of telling me I did something stupid so that I won’t do it again, but all that’s changed is that now I hear her say it in my head when I mess up, and I feel even dumber.
So, by the time Envy finds me hiding in one of the bathroom stalls, I’m pretty much hearing it non-stop.
“You can come on out, Sweetheart. I’m not going to hurt you.” She’s standing a few paces outside the stall door—I can hear it from her voice. There’s nowhere for me to go, but I can’t open the door. She might still be dangerous, or think I’m dangerous and jump to conclusions, or she might think I’m the sort of useless idiot who hides in bathroom stalls and throw me back into the slums! I know I’m panicking, so I try to calm down. I take a deep breath, and let it out. I just need a second.
My second still isn’t up when the crimson red glow of her magic envelops the door, and she pulls it open. It startles me, and I scramble back away from the opening door, my breath seizing in my throat. She looks just like she does in the clippings, and when she fixes me with a soft, gentle smile, I feel like an idiot for hiding from her. I know she’s not going to hurt me, but I can’t make my hooves move, and my teeth feel stuck together. She’s looking at me, wondering why I’m shivering in the corner like a foal, and the more she wonders, the more ashamed I feel. There’s nothing I can do; I can’t even move, like my hooves were glued to the floor. I’m just stuck here, looking like an idiot because I’m the kind of useless, pathetic, twit of a pony who cowers in bathroom stalls.
She’s just staring at me. Staring at me with those bright, emerald eyes.
She smells nice.
“Oh, you poor thing. You’re shellshocked, aren't you?” she asks with the sweetest, kindest, most melodious voice any pony has ever possessed. She’s like Celestia and Luna and all my friends rolled up together, and I would do anything to make her happy. All the tension flows out of me in one wonderful breath, and I step up to her when she gestures. She’s wearing the strangest perfume. It’s like the smell inside an apothecary—crushed flowers and a hundred different herbs. I just want to bury my head in her mane and take a big whiff, but when I try, she laughs and holds me back with a hoof.
“Would you kindly go sit on the bed, and take slow, quiet breaths?” Her voice is light and playful, her mouth quirked in the gentlest of smiles, and the mirth in her eyes sparkles like stars. It’s a wonder just to see, and more than enough to put a giddy smile on my face. I trot over to the bed with my best high and eager step, trying not to look back to see if she’s watching me, and just like I’m told, I go and sit on the bed and keep my breathing even. I look over the room for a second—there are some saddlebags full of supplies on the counter now, so she must have been shopping—but then she walks back into the room, and my eyes stay on her.
She’s wearing a set of silver horseshoes and the same dress she was in the poster, but while she looks as wondrous and radiant as the day she first posed for it, her accessories have obviously seen better days. The metal is tarnished, and the dress’s silver splendor has faded to a dirty grey, stained by a dozen ugly spots and patched with coarse thread. I wonder why she doesn't just go without it, and I almost ask. My jaw clamps shut before I make a sound though. She told me to be quiet. Instead, I just watch her unpack her groceries.
It’s when I start thinking things like, “I wish I could unpack groceries as majestically as she does,” that some part of my mind stops to consider if everything is quite right here. My head feels a little fuzzy—good, but fuzzy. I take another long, slow breath, and try to figure out just what it is that’s nagging me.
The most obvious thing that’s wrong with this situation is her. She looks just like she did in the poster. Just like she did in the ten-or-more-years-old poster. The dress couldn't provide a more striking contrast if that had been her intention. Even if she aged very well, things should have happened to her over that time; the stress of her career should be showing. I’m glad she looks good, of course, because that makes her happy and her being happy is the most important thing in the world, but that doesn't seem right.
The more I think about the situation, the more other things seem off as well. Her coloration, for instance: green mane, green tail, green coat, green eyes, green horn, blood-red magic. One of these things is not like the others. Red is a good color for her because everything about her is enchanting, but it just doesn’t seem to fit.
I look at the cracks in the walls, and then back to the dress. That inconsistency is more subtle, but to a pony with insight, far more important. She’s a pony who cares about appearances, and yet she trots around in a ragged old dress. If the wall-hanging is that ugly, what crack is it hiding? Is that what ruined her career? Did she get a disfiguring scar on her flanks or legs?
I try to ask her that question, but the words won’t come. She told me to be quiet. It’s like in the bathroom stall, when I was paralyzed with fear and embarrassment, but I know those feelings, and I don’t know why I’m hesitating now. She turns to look at me when she hears my jaw click, and gives an encouraging nod. “That’s it, Sweetheart. Long, deep breaths, let it all work its way through you. Your head will clear in a second.”
“W-why?” I manage to force out, struggling to act contrary to Envy’s command. It’s all I can do to overcome it, and even then, I divert the words to a whisper at the last second—some traitorous part of my mind insisting that that somehow makes it better. The effort is exhausting, almost like a physical exertion, and the strain of it seems to wash some of the cloying cloud from my mind.
“You mesmerized me.” I manage to speak more clearly on the second try. I still can’t look at her without feeling the faintest urge to smile, but the urge feels foreign now. I can smell her perfume again, but even though it’s the same scent, it seems different now. A sickly sweet odor, like so many flowers rolled up and left to rot. I stop before I wrinkle my nose though, taking a second to compose myself. A pony like her would take offense at that. Instead, I just look away, forcing my breaths out through my nose until the scent clears.
“I did, Sweetheart. I didn’t want you hurting yourself or doing anything silly while you were panicked. I’ll understand if you’re upset with me, but I meant you no harm.” Her accent is mixed, educated with a bit of Canterlot, but mostly rural. I take another long, slow breath and let it out, opening my eyes to consider her with a clear head. She’s looking at me now with sympathetic eyes, and even when I’m not mesmerized, they seem soft and understanding.
“No offense taken.” I shake my head, stepping away and off the bed. The saddlebags are empty by now. She turns to face me, reaching out towards me with one of her forehooves. For a few long seconds, I stare at her hoof, and a blush appears on my face as a smile appears on hers. This is obviously a greeting, and I’m supposed to do something, but I have no idea what. Hesitantly, I raise my own hoof in a mirror of her gesture, hoping I’m getting it right as I gently tap my hoof to hers. After a second, I give a slight bow in the proper Canterlot fashion, just to be safe.
“You’re adorable!” She giggles, and while I don’t like being embarrassed, it certainly beats offending her. My gaze starts to tilt down, but she reaches out to tilt it back up so that I look her in the face. “Don’t be embarrassed, Sweetheart. I’m Green Apple, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. You must be Siren Song, is that right?”
“That it is.” My reply is a bit timid—the hoof thing threw me off. I recover my composure quickly though, adding a more controlled, “I assume I have you to thank for my rescue?”
“That you do. Trixie let me know you’d be headed this way, and I thought you might need some help with the last leg of the journey. It’s lucky you showed up when you did—things were getting wild enough I was about to head back inside.” She smiles and nudges my shoulder with a hoof, a mischievous smile on her face. “You set off a riot, you know—a big one. The streets were on fire all night. Security even graced us with their presence.”
The smile on her face is a familiar expression in some ways, but the context makes it seem subtly disquieting. It’s like when I’m practicing form, and for the sake of the exercise, I try to project the wrong emotion for a set of dialogue. Celestia has had that smile, so have some of my pegasus friends, but this pony has it... for a riot. She expects me to smile and bashfully giggle at the thought that I started a riot. I don’t know what to say to that, so I think it best to change the subject.
“Forgive me for prying, but, you said your name was Green Apple? Does that mean that Envy is your stage name?” I know it’s a mistake as soon as I say it. The smile vanishes from her face, replaced by a stiffer, neutral look, and she pulls her hoof back. “I-I hope you don’t mind. I was just trying to figure out where I was, and there were some newspaper clippings in your drawer. I thought it was your work.”
“Yes, that was my stage name,” she answers, curt, that good cheer she had a moment ago washed away. It’s perfectly obvious I just stuck my hoof in an old wound, and I struggle for a way to recover. “The critics gave it to me after an early performance. It was a play on words, you see.”
“Oh. Green with Envy.” My breath comes stiffly, and I almost swallow, but I catch the gesture before it can betray me. There’s a way out of this yet. Instead, I titter, looking down and scraping a bashful hoof on the floor, careful to glance at my burned ankles and then quickly look away. “Well, I can see why they called you that. You have a wonderful color.”
I know I scored a direct hit when she steps up and puts a foreleg around me, pulling me into a gentle hug. “Don’t you worry, Sweetheart. I’ve seen burns worse than that. You’ll be back to your old self in no time.” That was closer than I like, but I am good, and she interprets my sigh of relief just the way I want her to.
“Thank you. I’m sorry to say it about your city, but this place has been just horrible ever since I arrived. I’ve been attacked by monsters, vandals, madponies, and...” I struggle for another word, something to encapsulate the nightmare I ran through. I was covered in a pony’s blood, drowned, stabbed, chased, and scalded by boiling water. By all rights, I should be crying that into her shoulder, but while I feel a growing lump in my throat, my face keeps that bashful smile. Her grin and that nudge have unsettled me, and the more I think about her unaging appearance and ragged dress, the stronger that worry grows. My instincts are trying to warn me that there is something subtly but vitally wrong with this creature, and I instinctively hide my feelings. “And, I want to go home. How can I get back to the surface?”
I read the answer in her eyes even before her face falls. I can’t. By the time she shakes her head, she’s made her answer obvious three different ways, and the half a second it takes her to start speaking feels like an eternity. How can I not get out? I can’t be trapped here. You can’t just kidnap ponies like this!
“Oh, Sweetheart. I’m so sorry, but it might be awhile. Travel to the surface is hard to come by these days. I can’t really say when the next chance will come.” There are a thousand questions running through my head, but I clamp down on them. I want to scream, to yell, to demand to know what makes her think she can do this. I’m Princess Celestia’s own student; she can’t keep me here!
No. No—I refuse to give into panic. Looking at the situation rationally, she obviously wants to help me, and can’t. Yelling at her won’t make anything better. I must be letting the strain show a bit, because she reaches out to me, sitting beside me with a foreleg over my shoulder. “I know this must be hard to deal with, but you’re in good hooves now. You’re going to be okay.”
That feeling of wrongness only grows stronger as she puts a leg around me, and I have to fight the urge to go stiff and pull away. I’m not usually so instinctual in my reaction to ponies, but the kinder she is to me, the more my fight-or-flight reaction puts me on edge. It’s a dark je ne sais quoi—like a sour note in a song. Part of it is that she smells sweet, but I remember the stink in my nose, and the soft odor brings me no comfort. Part of it is that she mesmerized me, and the more I want to lean against her for support, the more I wonder if she’s doing it again now. Part of it is that grin, that look in her eyes. Part of it is... is that something I can’t define. I draw a breath to clear my head. This isn’t helping. Celestia would want me to be strong.
“‘Hard to deal with’ doesn't begin to describe it. That was not my most dignified moment, there in the bathroom, but... thank you. I do understand what a kindness you’ve done me.” That sounds good, and when I hear myself speak, I can imagine the brave, capable pony that uttered such words. “I have questions. I know the city’s name is Vision, but that’s all I know, and I have seen many strange things since I came here. The wiredolls, forcefields, magical lights, aside from the very concept of a city beneath the waves.” I draw a breath, emphasizing my final sentence with pause and a faint shake of my head. “What is this place?”
Green turns away from me and lowers her gaze to the floor. Her mane partially hides her face from me, but that doesn't matter. I can see it all in how her spine relaxes, in the way her head tilts down like she didn’t have the strength or will to lift it. Shame, loss, regret. There’s something else there though, something darker and angrier. Not all of her body is limp, one of her hooves scraping at the floor hard enough to scratch the wood. “It started as a beautiful dream.” She seems at a loss for how to proceed, and after a moment, she removes her leg from about my shoulders. “We all believed there could be something better than Equestria. We believed that if you gave ponies the chance to prosper, they would rise to greatness. We...” I can’t see her shut her eyes, but I know she did, a quiet sigh escaping her.
“Of course, it’s just a leaking ruin now. Some ponies will tell you that Heart’s Desire and Poison Joke destroyed this city, but it’s not true. Vision was ruined by its own inhabitants. Idiots. Cowards. Parasites. They wanted freedom, but they didn’t have the strength for it. They didn’t have the spine for it.” Her anger falters, and for all that she is strange and unnatural, I can’t help but be struck by what a pitiable creature she is: once adored but now alone, once prosperous but now squatting in a slum. Even with that unnatural air she has, I can’t help but admire her beauty. What must she have been like before? “I’m sorry, sweetie.” She shakes her head, rising to her hooves. “Here you are, afraid for your life, and I go off on some rant. There’s tea today. Let me brew some. You’ll feel better.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her, grateful that her looking away means I don’t have to come up with suitable body language on the spot. “This is your home. I can’t imagine how troubling it must be to have to see it in such a state, but there are things I still need to know.” Things like how I get out of this madhouse, but that will be a long and complicated discussion, I’m sure. There’s so much going on here; I should start with the basics. “Tell me...” I consider the things I’ve seen here: the city itself, the strange devices, the thug with the magical tattoos, the madponies. I’ll have to ask about all of them, but I should start with a more immediate mystery. “Who are Heart’s Desire and Poison Joke?”
She laughs at that, a trace of warmth returning to her body language. “Not who, Sweetheart. They’re magical plants, native to the Everfree Forest.” That helps explain a lot of what I’ve been feeling. If the city is overrun by plants from some mystic jungle, it’s no wonder things have gone so horribly wrong. Crimson light surrounds her horn as she levitates a pot out of the cabinet. She pauses for a moment, focusing on the pot as she fills it with water and then sets it on the stove. “On their own, they can cause some fairly unpleasant ailments if you touch or eat them, but mixed together...” She looks down at her kettle and shakes her head. “Well, it’s time for my medication anyway. I suppose it’s easier just to show you.”
Her horn glows again, but this time, the magic takes hold of her dress, carefully releasing it and sliding it away. As she works, the thought occurs to me that the sickly lumps under that vandal’s flesh might have been the result of some supernatural plant toxin, and I mentally brace myself for whatever disfigurement her dress is hiding. Physically though, I show only a mild curiosity. It’s a blend of a few poses, but I’m not at the top of my game right now, and she’s not paying full attention to me anyway.
I’m ready for anything, but when she pulls the dress away, her flesh is whole and unbroken. I’m not the sort to evaluate other mares’ flanks, but she’s certainly not hiding a disfigurement. The only thing about her that stands out as strange is that she’s tattooed like that thug was.
Her real cutie mark, three green apple slices, rests right where it should be, but five other symbols have been painted on. Just below her cutie mark and across her leg is a tattoo showing the black outline of a pony, surrounded by scarlet coils. From the center of her barrel, just over her ribs, a stylized eye stares out at me, black and white swirls inside it. A red cross and a set of silver horseshoes adorn her shoulder, and I can barely see something else on her underside, just where the strap of the dress wraps around her. She spares me the awkwardness and impropriety of leaning down to look, raising a foreleg so I can see. A silhouette of a pony biting its own tail.
I bite my lip, taking a moment to think. So obviously, Heart’s Desire and Poison Joke have something to do with those tattoos, and from my previous encounter, it seems likely the tattoos are magic. A tattoo would be a major faux pas for a model, but it seems a little unlikely that a supernatural plant toxin causes spontaneous decoration.
“The plants make magical tattoo ink?” I hazard a guess, looking up at her for confirmation. The ordering of events makes sense—the plants make magical ink, which can be used to create useful effects, but there’s some kind of awful side effect or stigma. She shakes her head though, opening the cabinet above her and levitating out the vials I saw before.
“Those aren't tattoos, sweetie. They’re cutie marks.” When she answers, I’m quick to assume Uncomprehending Befuddlement #7. It closely mirrors my real feelings, and it’s always good for earning a little sympathy. On cue, she laughs, shaking her head and levitating a glass from the other cabinet to the counter in front of her. “Once upon a time, there was a disease called Cutie Pox you could catch from Heart’s Desire. It made cutie marks appear all over your body, forcing you to spastically perform all of the associated acts.” She carefully measures out precise doses from each of the vials into the glass, restoring each vial to the cabinet once she’s done with it. “But then, somepony wondered what would happen if you added Poison Joke, and discovered that it sends Cutie Pox into remission without removing the extra marks. You could even make a specific mark appear, with some refinement.”
The glass in front of her pulses faintly with each new compound she adds, and she gives a dark chuckle, that unsettling grin returning to her face. “Now, I am a mare of many talents: I sing, I dance, I model, I can heal the sick or entrance with a stare, I age very gracefully, and I suppose I can still buck apples if the urge ever strikes me.” She downs the glass in front of her sharply, grimacing with the taste, and every cutie mark on her but the real one pulses with a dull crimson light.
For a moment, I’m at a loss, and when she pauses to clean out the glass, I happily use the time to think. I’m no alchemist, and my magical talents are focused in areas more worthwhile than enchantment, but I can already see the problems here. A cutie mark isn’t just a stamp that gives you a talent—it’s a part of what you are and what sort of pony you turn out to be! You couldn't have a Siren Song with a spear or a castle on her flank—take away my music, my art, and I wouldn't be me anymore. All you would have is some other pony, walking around in my body, playing at my life, running through the motions of my existence in some sick parody.
I don’t know know what instinct warned me, but I know why I find Green so unsettling now. No, not unsettling. Revolting. Luckily, I suppress a shudder, assuming a picture-perfect Thoughtful Curiosity #1, complete with hoof tap to the chin.
“I can’t imagine what that must be like. My talents have always been so focused,” I reply, showing just a touch of my nervousness so the act will seem believable, but keeping the words on point. “But, forgive me for asking: there are side effects, aren't there?”
“Sure are, Sweetheart,” she murmurs, staring off at the wall, lost in recollection. “Poison Joke loves a good laugh, and well, the joke was on us.” She shakes her head as though to clear it, and her eyes refocus. She pulls the dress back up and carefully ties it around herself as she finishes. “Poison Joke suppresses Cutie Pox, but it doesn't cure it, so you need to keep taking it in steadily larger doses. It starts as a vial a month, then a drink once in a while, and pretty soon you’re chugging down bottles of it every morning. You start thinking that maybe you should quit—that this has gone a bit too far. That’s when you discover that you can’t. If you’d quit after the first hit, you’d have been fine, but once your blood is choked with it, Poison Joke won’t let you get off that merry-go-round. And if you try? Mutations. Deformities. Transformations. Insanity. That’s how you end up like those poor souls in Serpent’s Wharf.”
That feeling of revulsion only grows stronger now—like she was diseased and I was afraid just to be near her. She’s not even a pony anymore; she’s a living morality play about the importance of not trying to cheat the natural order. I never let my feelings get in the way of a good performance though, and so my eyes get that wide, sympathetic look as I reach out to take her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Green.” Does the flesh feel wrong somehow? I don’t remember if it did before.
“Oh, don’t feel bad for me, sweetie,” she tries to reassure me with a smile and a light tone. “I keep the dose manageable, and if this does kill me in a few years, it’ll be my own fault. Meanwhile though, I’ve got no regrets.” I can tell she’s eager for somepony to talk to, and she’s quick to pull me up against her side again, facing the counter. That cloyingly sweet scent hits my nose again, and now that I know what she is, it actually causes a wave of nausea. I force it down though, and keep that worried sympathy on my face.
“I don’t suppose you’d understand.” She opens the drawer, levitating out the poster I found earlier. “Trixie told me you’re a proper Canterlot unicorn—grace, beauty, class, magic, all that. I’m sure you’re used to crowds fawning over you.” Which is true—I’m an amazing performer. I could draw crowds of thousands if I wanted to. I just don’t want to. “Growing up on a farm though, when I would show an interest, they’d look at me like there was something wrong with me. They wished I was an earth pony. Coming here, getting to be myself for the first time in my life. It was magical. We wanted to think it could never end.”
She’s lost in reminiscence, looking at the poster. I realized she was lonely, but it takes a certain degree of desperation to spill your life story to somepony you didn’t know an hour ago. I test my theory by putting a comforting hoof on her shoulder, and she sighs. “I did make that look good, didn’t I?” I’m going to need another shower, after this.
“Is that why you came down here? To be a model?” I keep a gentle tone when I inquire, just in case it’s another sore spot, but she shakes her head.
“No. That was what made me buy my ticket, but it wasn’t the real reason. I’d been ready to leave Equestria for years before I even knew Vision existed. Sine was what made me come. He made us all realize there could be something better.” She shakes her head. “I’m sure you know the history—the riots and Celestia. Well, now you know where all those missing ponies went.” In fact, I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it doesn't seem a good moment to say it. “The bare facts don’t do him justice though. You met him and you knew he saw you as an individual, not a collection of descriptions and roles. He wanted you to be happy for you.”
From the tone of her ramblings, she obviously expects me to know the full history of what she’s talking about. I’ve certainly never heard of Sine Rider before I came here though, and nothing about any riots. It occurs to me that I should say as much, but that is an unknown path. Without knowing the facts, I can’t say if they’ll be a sore spot for her or not. For the time being, best to play it safe. “It sounds like you cared for him a great deal. You two must have been close.”
“No.” She shakes her head faintly. “No, we only met once, and it was years before it all happened, but he changed my life. We were passing on the road, and he looked at me—he looked right at me—and he said, ‘You’d be beautiful if you didn’t look so unhappy.’ Then he moved on. Didn’t even wait for me to answer.” She reaches a hoof up to her face, rubbing it as though to clear her thoughts and putting the poster away. “I’m sorry, I’m getting nostalgic now.”
“It’s really okay—” She waves for silence before I can continue, rising back to her hooves.
“No, sweetie, the past isn’t going anywhere. I was supposed to wire Trixie as soon as you were awake. I just didn’t want to rush you. Why don’t we wire her up now and see about getting you home?” Tempting a thought as that is, I don’t want to talk to Trixie again. I almost interrupt her, but by the time I’ve started, she already has the miniature wiredoll out and on the countertop, and my hoof freezes halfway through the motion. She reaches into her bag and fishes out that crystal with a wand and star on the end, along with a small makeup kit. “All ready?” she asks, taking a moment to touch herself up, fixing her mane with a brush of magic from her horn.
“Oh, um... ready.” I quickly fix mine as well, turning faintly so my shaved and cut side won’t be visible to the little statue. She slots the crystal in, and just like before, it starts to glow, the loud whirr of spinning gears emerging from inside the machine. On the little stand, the figurine jerks once, its head raising up to look at us.
“Trixie,” Green greets her, with a polite nod of her head. I remember that last time Trixie let me speak first, and I mirror the gesture.
“Envy. Siren,” the little doll addresses us in turn, and Green frowns at the use of her stage name. The implicit put-down goes well with what I think is a modified Magician Awes Crowd #3, and I have to admire the technique. It insults Green while projecting that she’s lucky Trixie acknowledged her at all, reinforcing her status as Trixie’s subordinate. “The Great and Powerful Trixie is pleased to see that you managed not to get yourself killed. Well done, Envy.”
“This one’s tougher than she looks.” Green demurs, tapping my shoulder with a hoof. I’m not sure how to feel about that. “She’s ready to travel. She won’t be doing the Running of the Leaves anytime soon, but I can get her down to Neptune’s Bounty whenever you’re ready for her. She’s champing at the bit to be on the next sub out of here, not that I could blame her.”
“Trixie is impressed by your generosity, Envy. Submarine seats are worth a pony’s weight in bits these days. Trixie assumes you’ll be paying her way?” Her words come with a cutting sarcasm, mocking Green for assuming she would help a pony in need. For a moment, it’s enough to make me forget what Green is, and I remember why I hate this pony. Green says nothing, the little doll letting out a hiss like escaping breath. “That’s what Trixie thought. You aren't going to Neptune’s Bounty. Has Siren told you who she claims to be?”
“I introduced myself,” I snap at the little doll, but Trixie only gives a short, curt laugh.
“Trixie is sure you did, but unless Trixie has misread Envy, there is a detail you left out. You were all too eager to let Trixie know that you were Celestia’s personal student.” Green’s eyes widen, and she turns sharply to look at me. “Some reason you didn’t feel the need to tell her?”
“It didn’t come up!” I insist, Green’s increasingly unfriendly gaze putting me on the defensive. Her eyes are narrow, her body tense, her face pulled tight like a snarling animals. “I was scared. I had to ask about the city! It just didn’t seem important.”
“Normally, Trixie would have you thrown to the markers for trying to con her this way,” Trixie says. This time she using a more magnanimous tone, making a wide gesture with her hoof up. I don’t recognize the specific form, but I’m sure that awful witch of a pony is getting this from somewhere. “But there is a certain degree of corroborating physical evidence. Trixie has confirmed that a ship was recently sunk outside the city, and Envy has already determined that you’ve been eating ship rations for the last few weeks. Trixie is not willing to believe you, yet, but on the off chance that you really are the princess's student, Trixie is sure she’ll part with much to have you back.”
My cheeks burn, and I shout before I think. “That’s why you helped me? So you could ransom me back to Celestia!?” I look at Green for some sign of outrage, but she just looks hard, and there’s no support there. “Well you can forget it, both of you! I won’t be your hostage.” A flash of pain rushes through my ankle when stamp my hoof to the floor for emphasis, but I bite it down. Imagine, me, returning to Celestia’s court because I was saved by a witch and a freak. I have my dignity!
“Very well.” Trixie raises a hoof to gesture to the door behind me. “Go ahead.”
What?
I look over to the door and its many locks. “You can’t keep me here!” I insist, glaring down at the little statue. This is an obvious game, and I’m not going to fall for it. Theatrics like hers might move common ponies or get to me when I’m unsettled, but she can’t push me around now.
“Trixie is across the city, and Envy certainly isn’t going to fight you to make you stay. If you don’t find Trixie’s terms acceptable, you’re free to go.” It’s a thick door, and it’s braced with more hinges than it needs, probably to make it harder to break down. There are chains, deadbolts, and a wedge I didn’t see before, that Green used to spike the door shut after she came in.
“Well?” Trixie demands. The doll’s face doesn't move, but I know she’s sneering at me, judging me. Green should be coming to my aid, but she’s just giving me a silent glare. When I look at her for help, her gaze only narrows, lips curling back faintly.
“I didn’t—” I look to Green, stepping up to her. “Please, I didn’t mean to hide anything from you. I didn’t think it was important. I still don’t know why it’s important! Yes, I’m Celestia’s student. I’m sorry, but please, you can’t let her do this to me. I need your hel—”
She slaps me.
It takes me a second to figure out what just happened, like the different parts of the slap arrive out of order: my view abruptly jumps to the side, my neck hurts, I hear the clap of impact, and then I feel the shock of pain. Her horseshoes are icy cold, but as I reel backwards, I can already feel heat spreading through my face. I freeze on the spot, reaching up to my cheek. She-she’s wearing horseshoes, so she must have pulled that blow. If she really hit me with those, I’d be out cold. Right? I don’t know what to do, but Green looks so angry, her breath coming out in a sharp snort.
“You may be used to getting everything off the backs of hardworking ponies, Siren, but that ain’t how things work down here.” Green spits the words at me, her earlier friendliness gone. “I don’t coddle parasites! You need something, you earn it. You don’t want to play ransom? Fine! You can earn your ticket some other way. You do anything useful?” I don’t know what to say. What am I supposed to say to that? She leans in close, and I pull away. “Have you done an honest day’s work in your life?” I don’t know what she wants me to say. “I’m talkin’ to you, you stuck-up foal!” I don’t know what she wants me to say.
I don’t know what she wants me to say.
I don’t know when I started crying. I only notice it when my vision starts to blur. I’m looking up at Green, just muttering the same thing over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I can’t even get that right. I’m slurring all the words, making a mess of it. Probably just making her angrier.
“Trixie can see what you meant about this one being stronger than she looks, Envy.” Trixie snorts. “Pathetic. She has an appointment at Doctor Stable’s to get her blood tested. That will tell us for certain if she is who she claims to be. Clean her up and get her down there.”
“I don’t do doctors, Trixie. They all report to the Medical Pavilion. You know that,” Green mutters, watching me quietly. I can’t see her clearly—my vision is too blurred by tears. I don’t know how she’s looking at me.
“Then have Berry Punch take her in. Trixie doesn't care,” the automaton insists, its tone leaking frustration.
“Wire ahead to let her know we’re coming. Call it two or three hours,” Green murmurs, as I try to rub at my eyes. She moves, and I squeak, shielding my head before she can hit me.
“Fine. Oh, and one more thing. Remember not to use her full name in front of security. Trixie isn’t the only pony who still has connections on the surface.” I can hear a faint mechanical whirr and the sound of the crystal popping out of the socket. Then, the room is quiet. There’s not a sound.
Just me, sobbing like a stupid little foal.
Green touches my shoulder, and I reflexively curl up tighter. “I’m sorry!” I shout. I realize that I’m inconsolable and irrational, and a terrifying thought enters my head. I grab onto her hooves, begging, “Please don’t hypnotize me.”
“I’m not going to do that, Siren. I... um...” Behind her, the kettle starts to hiss, the sound of boiling water spilling out into the room. “I...” She doesn't seem sure of what to say, the kettle’s whine carrying over the sound of my pathetic whimpering for what seems like an eternity. “Come on now, wipe those tears. Crying never helped anypony with anything.”
I force myself to keep quiet, squeezing my eyes shut and letting the last tears roll down my face. She’s right, of course. This was my fault. No need to make it worse. I reach up to rub the tears away, and when I open my eyes again, I can see her giving me an uncertain look, her mouth a tight frown.
“You need a bit to pull yourself together, before we can go.” She looks at the stove and levitates the kettle away. Nopony says anything as she pours two cups. I’m looking at my hooves, so I’m not sure if she’s looking at me.
“You like music, right?” I nod, and she dumps one teabag into each cup. “Good. Give this a bit to cool off. It’ll make you feel better. I’ve got more classics here—you can listen for a spell.” She levitates the teacup to sit on the counter near me.
“Th-thank you,” I murmur as she pulls the box of records out from under the counter. It’s obvious she intends to plunk me down in front of the phonograph until she’s ready to deal with me, or until I’m coherent enough to deal with her. Which is fair. I wouldn't want to deal with somepony in my condition.
“Yeah,” she agrees, mouth still a tight frown, shooting me a glance. “Just try to calm down.”
A few moments later, she turns the crank, and the music starts.
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This is sad....
2236801
The rejected original title of the fic was "Regret." Discarded because of the number of other fics that use that title or some variant therein.
2236829 I didn't ask that, but I am greatly thankful for the info regardless.
I'm in for the mystery surrounding Twilight Sparkle.
Will Siren Song ever bring her back?
Will Celestia's depression ever lift?
Find out next time on dragonball Z-dangit! not again!
This is going to be one wild ride!
I just recently finished playing the first Bioshock so this story oozes with goodness!
Instant distrust of Envy, get.
Ah. Three chapters, three mental breakdowns.
Siren is not having a good day.
And whatever this "Bioshock" is, it sounds badass.
2238560
same here
Huh Envy said "would you kindly" and Siren did exactly what she said. this isn't good. if this keeps up im guessing Siren won't have a choice with the bounty. suspence. i wonder if she'll wonder into a room filled with posters and blood spelling out would you kindly. oh and one more thing writer if you read this one tell your drawer he/she is amazing and give yourself and the rest of your crew a pat on the back you deserve it. anyway to finish up with my rambling great job with the story and cant wait to see whats next.
2238560
I thought the same thing too until it was subverted two paragraphs later:
On the other hand, Green uses the word Sweetheart an awful lot...
So Joke and Desire combination are the parallel for the Adam and Eve. Never thought about it that way, but Joke seems to be more closer to Killing Joke than the original. I'm guessing the Truth Bloom cure is rare or nonexistent in Vision? Trixie has now landed in the villainous category, though Green is up for grabs, siding closer due to instant mistrust for the WYK statement. And oh boy, is Siren a wreck. She needs some reliable help. Wonder if anyone is going to show up fitting that mold.
Well, after a somewhat tumultuous prologue, it seems that we've entered the story proper. And I admit, this one did indeed "get it right."
Firstly, and at the risk of sounding like a flatterer, I have to say that you've proven yourself to be remarkably good at showing without telling. First with Siren's brilliant deductions as to the nature of Vision's architecture, and again with Siren's metaphor-heavy dream sequence, and now again in this chapter: with Siren's feverish recovery in the aftermath of her escape from the shantytown-docks! It would have been easy to muff those up, but you managed to convey that Siren Song is wounded, feverish, and delirious out of her mind, without actually saying anything! That's impressive.
Anyways, Green Apple: I wasn't sure what to think of her at first; I don't know how closely your mirroring Bio-Shock, but I looked upon her use of the notorious phrase "would you kindly" with skepticism rather than suspicion. Because of the readerships' predisposition to think of anyone who utters that phrase would be a villain, it would make for a good opportunity to misdirect the readers. And even after reading this chapter, I'm still not quite sure what to think.
Her backstory seems rather shallow, but her dialogue is peppered with little nuances that hint at something deeper; she bespells Siren Song, and tends to her wounds, she slaps Siren Song, but deliberately avoids using her bracelets, and afterward seems to feel sorry for what she did. Her use of the word "parasites" and her residual anger over what's happened to the city of vision; and most intriguing of all, her reaction to Trixie telling her that Siren is Celestia's personal student. Maybe I'm reading to much into this, but I'm thinking that there's a connection to Twilight Sparkle in that reaction. In summation: I have no freaking clue what her deal is, and I'm loving it!
Also intriguing, the little hints about Vision in this chapter: the mention of this "Security," hinting that Vision still has a government, or at least something like it, and isn't as dallapadated as it seems. Then there's Green Apple's mention if these "riots" against Celestia. Riot that Siren has no knowledge off . . .
So mysterious!
And this is also the first chapter in which I legitimately enjoyed Siren talking to herself! I think that the problem was your admitted inexperience in the early chapters, because in those it felt as if you weren't quite sure how to write her thought processes, and so resorted to talking. In this chapter though, it really came across that she's more of an odd duck. Especially when she was talking to that poster.
The previous chapters had their little speed bumps, some larger than others, but this was a smooth ride the whole way. I honestly can't think of anything I didn't like in this chapter. The last chapter hooked me, but this chapter has reeled me in.
Parting Shot:
This is the. Best. Line. Ever.
So... Equestria is a land of social justice and parasites, where so many don't have to work for a living because the people who do work are paying for everything? Sounds like America.
I love Siren's character – feigning confidence and capability, but really just a feeble filly. I'm pretty sure Twilight wouldn't have taken that slap in such a shameful manner.
Sadly, I was unable to read all of this in one go because of my schedule, so I can't provide any more in-depth feedback for this one. that said, I'm really looking forward to finding out why Twilight abandoned Equestria.
"So much class!"
Yesss, all important details I'm sure, ya vain little pony you~
I'm back! Maybe I'll get through more than one chapter this section!
I'm always impressed when things from the show are used in way that makes sense to create something new. Heart's Desire and Poison Joke? Impressive. I like it.
And so the 'would you kindly' spell is well-known, or at least known enough that Siren can just call it what it is. Interesting.
I am starting to get slightly annoyed by Siren's 'woobie'-ness. It's understandable, yes, and realistic, but it's also a bit oppressive.
I am not sure what to make of Green yet.
-GM, master of emeralds.
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To be fair, they're long chapters.
Where else would extra cutie marks come from?
Its the power of suggestion!
She got a good slap for it!
She's got a mean left hook that's for sure.
Reading through this story at my own pace, long after it's done. So far, really compelling! The setting and atmosphere does a great job emulating the feel of Rapture while carrying a more pony, less video-game feel. Despite knowing that everything will probably be "like Bioshock but renamed", you're still doing a good job with the air of mystery and made learning about the setting feel exciting. And the characters "helping" our heroine seem ominously untrustworthy.
The clearly not-fit-for-adventure protagonist is a bit of a departure from the norm. Not sure I like her, but at least it's not generic. Funny how she managed to start 3 chapters in a row waking up from life-threatening unconsciousness.
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I'm really glad you liked it! Seeing people go through these old stories makes my day.
And you know, if you want to comment on future chapters, I would hardly object.
I hope you'll be pleasantly surprised by some of the changes that I made. Obviously, most of it is Rapture, but some of the tweaks are significant.
My name is
AtlasTrixie, and I'm here to keep you alive.Siren gets beat up so many times this story that characters remark she must be made of iron. A fun little nod to her being a video game protagonist who can just keep going.