Siren Song

by GaPJaxie

Berry Punch

The inside of the train car is cramped and quiet. Rows of hard wooden benches capped with brass sit close together, designed to pack as many ponies as possible into the available space. Most of them are empty though. There are only a few other passengers in the car, and they spread out as much as possible, not speaking to each other. Green pushes me along onto one of the benches, near the window, taking the space by the aisle. So I can’t leave, I guess. My belt itches a little when it tugs against the bench beneath me. I’m not used to wearing clothes, but I’ll get used to it.

Green picked it for me. It has a few pockets and pouches, but also loops of fabric, cords, little holders made for things—wrenches, bottles, knives. I don’t understand. I hit her; why did she offer me a weapon? Why, of all the belts there, did she pick this one?

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart; this won’t take long.” Her horn turns black with the color of her magic as she opens her saddlebags, pulling out the mugger’s knives. What? What won’t take long? What’s she doing? There’s nowhere for me to go—I’m stuck here. I could hit her, but the angle’s not good and she’ll see it coming. Why aren't the other passengers doing anything!? “We’re headed to Tiara Tower. It’s the second stop. The whole ride won’t last twenty minutes.” Her mirror, file, and makeup kit float out next, and she tucks the knives back into her bag.

Oh. They were in the way. They were just... she was only taking them out because they were in the way. I knew that. She caught me a little off-guard. That’s all. My heart’s pounding in my ears, but that’s only surprise. I’m fine. There’s a grinding sound. Metal scraping.

She’s filing her horn.

She had to pull the knives out of her bag, so she could get to her things and clean up a bit while we’re stuck on the train. File her horn, do her hooves, use some makeup to cover up that bruise. She must have have already cleaned up though. I mean, she must have. She was covered in blood, and now it’s all gone. Not even her dress is stained. She knows a lot of magic—I bet she has a spell just for making sure blood doesn't stain. She probably needs it a lot.

The train jerks into motion, and the file jerks backwards with it, scratching her horn and casting the dust down into her left eye. “Ah!” She squeezes it shut, flinching as she reaches up to rub the dust out. “Horsefeathers,” she mutters, wiping at her face as the file swings downwards, uncoordinated and jabbing blindly in my direction. It’s a regular file, but it has one of those tips for digging around the bottom of your hooves, and it looks sharp and it’s pointing at me. I grab it, and I shove it away, the glow around it shifting from crimson to magenta. She looks at me, with that one open eye. I stole her file—oh Celestia, I stole her file and I beat her up and there’s nowhere for me to go!

“If you wanted it, you could have just asked, Sweetheart,” she says, her words flat, a touch dry. She knows that’s not why I took it—or at least, she noticed how sharply I yanked it away from her. She’s letting me off the hook though. “You could use it. Take your time; I should clean up this shiner you gave me anyway.” She turns back to the mirror and opens her makeup kit, looking for the right shade of green. She’s being light, conversational, forgiving, is she trying to cover up her embarrassment that I hit her? “You know, for somepony who never fought in her life before, you move pretty fast when you want to. Hit pretty hard too.”

She’s... complimenting me on beating her up? She’s not joking either, I don’t think—that sounds like actual pride. She doesn't even look mad. She should be mad; she should be furious. She’s a murderer and a spiteful vain witch, and I hit her and messed up her face! She should be seething, but she looks kind of... bored, almost. Like the ponies in the market.

I should do something. I’m holding the file, and pretty soon, she’s going to notice that I’m not using it, but I don’t know what to do. Ponies don’t act this way, they can’t... they just don’t. I don’t know what she’ll do next, I don’t know how she’ll react. I don’t know what to do or say. Will she be mad if I don’t use her file? Why is she ignoring me?

I don’t understand.

“Green?” She turns to look at me. Oh shoot, the file! I make busy with it, like I had been sharpening my horn and then put it down. She believes that, yeah. “Um... I wanted to ask. Something I heard in the station that I didn’t understand. What is, ‘the fun part?’” She leans back, narrowing her eyes. Oh, ponyfeathers! I didn’t think about how that sounded! “Of a hanging!” Now I’m shouting and I’m screwing this all up and the other passengers are staring at us. “What... I mean. It was just something somepony said. What’s the fun part of a hanging?”

“Their face, when they realize what’s about to happen.” Their face? What? “Parasites can’t be reasoned with. Their comfort, their food and shelter, depends on them believing that they have some kind of right to it, so you’ll never persuade them otherwise. All they’ll do is lie, and cheat, and tell you whatever they have to, but I’ve yet to see the pony who can smooth-talk a length of cable. That moment, when they realize there’s no out this time, and you can see on their face that they’ll never wrong you again—that’s the fun part, and that’s what keeps the other would-be moochers in line. The noose is Vision’s great moral teacher.”

“Is that why you killed that mugger?” I blurt it out before I know what I’m saying. “To see her face?” The face that ended up all over me and in my coat and on her dress. I can feel my stomach churning. Don’t think about it.

“No.” She gives me a strange look, shaking her head. “She was willing to use violence to take things that weren't hers. If I had let her go, she’d only have kept doing it, until somepony was killed.”

“Somepony was killed.” I shouldn't say it, but what else can I say? What can I possibly say to that? I shouldn’t have said it, now she looks mad—she’s glaring at me.

“Is that Siren or Princess Celestia talking?” she demands, pressing a hoof to my chest. “Because as I recall, Siren was willing to do what it took to defend herself.”

“What you did wasn’t self-defense! That was... different. I did what I had to do to survive, but I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t want to hurt anypony! You liked slicing up that poor mare and—” Her mouth is twisting back into a snarl, her glare turning from simple narrowed eyes into something wider, more intense. What am I doing? “And that’s messed up! Ponies aren't like that, they aren't!”

“Why don’t you shout a little louder, Siren? I think there are still some ponies in the city who haven't heard you.” Oh, oh no. Not again, please not again. I try to say I’m sorry, that I’ll be quiet. Maybe she can’t hypnotize me if she can’t see my eyes. She always looked into my eyes before. I look away, I shut them. She can’t hypnotize me if she can’t see my eyes.

She’s not saying anything. Why isn’t she saying anything?

“Oh, Sweetheart.” She’s touching me, she’s touching me. My whole body goes stiff when she touches my shoulder, what’s she doing? She’s... brushing my coat, just... leaving her hoof there. “Shhh. Don’t worry. You don’t have to open your eyes if you don’t want to. I’m not gonna hurt you.” She’s lying. She only wants me to look up so she can hypnotize me again because I’m panicking except it’s not panic when you actually are going to be killed. “Here.” She’s taking something out of her bag, what is it? It’s the knives. That’s all that’s left in the bag, it’s got to be the knives!

She starts brushing my mane.

“When I’m panicking and don’t know how to deal with things, I clean the apartment, or brush my mane or something silly like that. It helps me focus.” She draws my mane out with her magic, bracing her hoof against the roots and running the brush through the long strands. “You have a wonderful color—rich and vibrant. I used to go through a bottle of conditioner a day to get my mane to shine like that, when I was modeling.” It’s a trick. I’m not falling for it.

“I don’t have to do that anymore, of course—now it comes in like yours does—but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. It’s a pleasure to brush, and it makes me feel good, particularly on days when there’s not much else to feel good about.” She gives my mane a little tug, holding it straight and flexing the hairs to examine them. “If you curled this, you’d look a lot like Pinkie Pie. I don’t think that would be a good look for you though; you’re better off with it straight, and a hint of bangs. It makes you look scholarly. Not stiff, though—you have too nice a mane to waste it on a geometric cut.” It’s a trick. I’m not falling for it.

“Your tail though, that’s different. You’ve got a lot of volume there, maybe a little too much. That big and that pink kind of screams, you know? Even if you did have it straight. Have you ever considered braiding it?” She goes back to cleaning up my mane, with the regular motion of that brush.

“I’m not pink. I’m amaranth.” It’s a trick, but I’m not falling for it. I’m correcting her.

“What was that, Sweetheart?” She’s trying to get me to look up at her by sounding all quizzical, and I’m not going too.

“I’m not pink. Pink is an awful color. I’m amaranth.” I can hear her giggling, trying to hide it. It’s not funny and I’m not pink.

“Sweetheart, you’re the pinkest pony I’ve ever seen. Amaranth is how artists and fashionistas say ‘light pink.’ Besides, pink is a good color for you!” Her eyes virtually sparkle, and no matter how much she tries to hide her feelings with a reassuring tone, I can hear the twinge of a smile at the corners of her mouth. She thinks I’m a foal—something to be made fun of!

“No, pink is an awful color—it’s stupid and bubbly and silly and sweet and foalish. Can you imagine a pink pony in Anpony and Cleopatra? In The Trojan Mares? They’d be laughed off stage if they didn’t blind the audience first by shining like a torch under the lights! Pink actors do comedies and slapstick, and once a year they get to fight for the right to be Chancellor Puddinghead because that’s the closest they’ll ever come to being a real actress and I am not pink! I’m amaranth, you got that!?” I jab her chest with a hoof, and she raises an eyebrow at me. It lets me see her eyes more clearly, like two bright emeralds on her face.

Oh ponyfeathers.

“Okay, Sweetheart. You’re amaranth.” I’m looking into her eyes. She’s looking at me. Why hasn’t she done anything yet? “Your tail isn’t quite the same color though. It’s more of a...” She makes a vague swirling gesture with a hoof. “Rose. You’re amaranth with a rose mane and tail. Does that sound good to you?”

“Um.” I can’t cover up my eyes again, can I? I mean... that would be stupid. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Okay, now turn your amaranth-colored flank around so I can braid your tail. You’ll look good that way; it’ll get that volume under control.” What? She wants to braid my tail? That’s um... I mean. I don’t really know what to say to that.

I guess that’s okay though.

My belt drags over the seat as I turn around, twisting uncomfortably around my barrel. Green fixes it before she starts, drawing out my tail and starting in with the brush. She’s a strong telekinetic, and she doesn't seem to have any trouble using her hooves and magic together—pinning down sections of my tail and brushing them straight. She works fast, pulling the strands close around each other.

“Not so tight, please,” I murmur once I can feel how stiffly she’s pulling the braid. I mean, I look good in a braid, but it’s impractical. “You can’t move your tail right if the braid is too dense.”

“Nonsense, you can flick your tail perfectly fine that way,” she insists, though she does loosen her grip a bit. She’s not even really disagreeing with me either, not like she actually thought I was wrong. She’s... casual. Like we’re old friends doing each other’s hair. I guess she won’t get angry if I correct her.

“Yeah, but flicking is... I mean. That’s really only for swatting a bug or attracting a really clueless stallion. Not that you don’t know that!” I mean, she obviously does know how to attract a clueless stallion, but it’s probably better not to say that. “Just, emoting properly with your tail is all about subtlety. Most of the time, it’s turned away from whomever you're speaking to, and they’re looking at your face, so they don’t consciously perceive it. They see it though. If you’ve ever watched an actor who appears to be doing everything right, but she seems fake and you aren't sure why, odds are good her tail work is off. Your brain notices even if you don’t.”

“Mmmhmm. I had a little of that, when I was learning how to model.” She’s... embarrassed. She hides it well, but her chest is a little too tense for that casual tone. She’s embarrassed I know more about this than she does and is trying to assert that she knows something too. “Just the basics: too stiff makes you look nervous, too loose makes you look lazy. They said that it should look like your tail was on a spring—stiff but moving with your hips.”

“Yeah. My acting coach used the same term. Up was ‘tighten the spring,’ down was ‘loosen the spring.’ I think it was because he felt uncomfortable telling a filly to ‘raise her tail’ though.” Green starts, and then giggles, and I blush a little too. “That’s really the neutral position though. It looks good, but it doesn't convey much. After that, you get into specific poses, and it gets a lot more formal.”

“You did say you were a serious actor. It sounds like you’ve put a lot of work into it.” Her tone is polite, curious, familiar. It... I mean, it doesn't belong here at all, but it is kind of relaxing. “From your cutie mark though, I’d assumed you were a singer.”

“I’m a student of the arts, acting and singing included. My cutie mark represents the lure of beauty and artistic expression.” She’s being nice to me—I can be nice to her, and a little flattery certainly won’t hurt my standing with her. “I guess I’m a bit like you. I don’t have a cutie mark for singing, or dancing or acting, but I can do them all well. A mare of many talents.”

“Sounds like you’re a lot like Twilight Sparkle, actually.” What? “I have cutie marks for a lot of different things, but they’re all specific. It sounds like you have a broad talent—a cutie mark for art. Twilight was like that too, with magic.” She was?

“I knew she was the Element of Magic, but I didn’t know that was her special talent.” I thought her special talent was friendship? It would have to be to use the Elements, wouldn’t it? “Did you... know her?”

“Not well, but we did meet a few times, and of course, I know a lot about her by reputation.” Green’s tone turns warm. A fond memory. “Everypony focuses on her cutie mark and spellcasting, like she was some well of ultimate magical power, but that’s not fair to her. She was very gifted, but she worked for everything she had. When Vision was founded, I don’t think she slept from the groundbreaking until the last tower was done. She was a self-made mare.”

“Well... she can’t have been perfect.” She helped create this awful place—she’s probably a nasty witch pony who got her powers from Discord or something.

“No, she wasn’t perfect.” Green shakes her head slowly, sighing. “She was so trusting, so genuinely warm, she didn’t see what was happening around her. She couldn't see it. And she didn’t appreciate what she had until it was gone.” Oh, so her only flaw is that she was so sweet and innocent and perfect she couldn't see all the evil ponies around her? Yeah, right, Pony Sue much? She probably just had good PR because she saved Equestria a few times. I’m talented and hardworking too. “If she’d acted differently, maybe Sine would still be alive and none of this would have happened, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. I’m not going to judge her for that.”

“What are the other Bearers like?” Green obviously has some sort of stupid hero-worship thing going on for Twilight. No point in asking more about her.

“I don’t care for them as much.” I can’t see Green frown, but I can hear it in her tone. “Pinkie Pie is the Element of Laughter; she runs maintenance. Some ponies say she’s funny, but personally, I think she’s irritating and incompetent. Fluttershy is the Element of Kindness, and she is sweet—I only wish she did something useful instead of letting ponies fawn over her. Applejack is the Element of Honesty, and there’s no pony better for helping me remember why I left the farm.” She gives a heavy sigh and shakes her head.

“I do like Rainbow Dash, though.” Her tone perks up a bit. “Element of Loyalty. Moving to a city with no sky is rough for any pegasus, and she was a pro flyer in Equestria. She didn’t let it ruin her though—buckled down, learned a new trade. She runs the trams, the flying schools, the mail, and security. The city would be in rough shape now, if it weren't for her.” I think it’s in pretty rough shape even with her, but that doesn't seem the right thing to say. “When the city was first founded, the Bearers of the Elements were the leadership council, but it expanded quickly. Trixie was actually one of the first ponies to—”

“That’s only five.” An accident? Or an intentional omission? “You skipped the Element of Generosity.” A long silence answers me, her braiding pausing. An intentional omission, then.

“Yes. Rarity.” Another pause, and she still doesn't move. “Rarity is the Element of Generosity.” Her voice has gone quiet and her tone’s gone flat. There’s something there, a current hidden under all the stiffness, but I can’t tell what.

“Anywho!” Abruptly, the stiffness is gone, her tone back to upbeat as she snaps something around the end of my tail. “All braided with a nice bob. Now, turn around, and you can help me cover up this bruise before we arrive. Sound good?” Rarity is one of her buttons. Right. That sounds good.

I’ve just about finished with her makeup by the time the train pulls into our station—nothing is going to conceal that bump, but at least she’s the right shade. With the colors matched, it actually looks a little bit like those bulging mutations the markers have, but it doesn't seem prudent to tell her. The conductor trots through the car; he’s a little tan earth pony in a vest. “Tiara Tower! All off for Tiara Tower!” Green takes her things back and drops them into her saddlebags, letting me up as we both slide into the aisle and make our way out.

My first impression of this new stop is cold. I’m shivering by the time my hooves hit the stone, and the feeling of the icy rock against my bare hooves is enough to send a jolt through me. It’s a little station—no shops, no second story, nothing but one of those statues of Sine Rider and a pithy quote, mounted under a big clock. Not all of the white here is stone though—there’s snow piled up in the corners, ice on the floor, and wreaths on the walls. Sine Rider has to fight for space with a gaudily decorated and obviously fake tree, and somepony’s run garlands around his neck. It’s bizarre, but strangest of all is the bright crimson banner that hangs over it all, wishing us a happy Hearth’s Warming Eve.

“It’s not Hearth’s Warming Eve! It’s not even close!” I look around for a jacket or a heater or something, but there’s nothing. There are some guards by the exit, and they’re all nice and bundled up in fluffy blue uniforms, but nopony thought to warn us what it was going to be like here. I can actually see my breath on the air!

“Well, you know. They move this forward every year,” Green answers, her voice tight as she eyes the guards and then the floor. “There’s nothing between it and Nightmare Night and all that. Now be careful, there’s ice on the floor.” She carefully places a hoof forward and picks her way across the station towards the exit. I start after her, stepping where she steps.

“Nightmare Night? It’s the middle of spring!” A drop of ice water lands on my back, making me shiver as it runs along my spine. An involuntary gasp escapes me, my knees locking up and my tail lashing as that icy point curls along my sides. I can’t help but sigh and go slack when it finally falls to the floor, and when I glance up, Green is looking back at me with a smirk on her face. “Oh be quiet.” I fix her with a good glower so she knows I mean it too. “This still makes no sense.”

“It’s not my tower, Sweetheart. Maybe they’re... testing the environmental controls or something, I dunno.” That’s even more ridiculous than her first explanation, unless the cooling system also shoots out tinsel, but she’s made it perfectly clear she doesn't know or care. By the time we get across the station, I’m feeling about the same way—horsefeathers, I’d put on a Hearth’s Warming Eve pageant if it would get me out of this cold. It doesn't help that the guards stare blankly at us when we reach the exit, all bundled up in that warm pastel fabric. They sure aren't shivering; one of them even has a mug of hot tea. I fix him with a glare, but he ignores me.

“Hello, and welcome to Tiara Tower,” one of the guards greets us with a dull rote, taking a sip from his mug. He’s an earth pony—or maybe a pegasus, the uniform gets in the way—and when he lifts the mug to his face, I can see he’s got something on each of his ankles. It looks a bit like armor, but I can see some clockwork inside it. It’s like some... bulky metal armory clockworky thing. All the guards seem to have them. “Guests and renters only. If you’re interested in purchasing or renting space here—”

“We’re guests of a resident,” Green says before he can go through whatever script he was reading from, her teeth chattering as she speaks. “Berry Punch. We’re expected.” I doubt her dress does much to protect her from the cold, but every little gust of air makes me wish I had it. Frigid tendrils work their way over my coat, growing more intense as they tease at my shaved side. It’s such a striking experience that I hardly notice the guard taking his sweet feathering time to find his clipboard and very slowly read down it for our names. It doesn't help that all of the other stallions are busy blatantly checking out Green, the one female guard there rolling her eyes. Not that she does anything to help either.

“Here you are,” the... officer, I guess, says as he finds our names on his clipboard. Their uniforms don’t have any marks to indicate rank, so it’s hard to tell. There’s no decoration at all actually, other than a little “TT” logo on the collar and some military-looking lines in the stitching to make it clear they’re security. “Second stairwell on your right, above the tracks. Your guest pass is valid until the end of the day. Go right ahead, have a merry Hearth’s Warming Eve.” He slots his clipboard back into his saddlebag, and Green nods as she starts past. I think about correcting him, but... what’s the point?

“Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go,” one of the stallions calls after Green, a wolf whistle and a chorus of laughs following us. She grits her teeth and ignores them, picking up the pace as we move down the hallway.

“Look but don’t touch, Copper,” the guardsmare teases, with that little twist in her tone that signals something nasty is coming. “You couldn’t afford it.” It lands exactly the way she intended, the guards sent into a new round of chuckles. I can’t see Green’s face when she’s ahead of me, but I can see how her trot becomes a little bit stiffer. Her cheeks are burning.

We don’t have far to go, at least. This hallway obviously circles the edge of the tower counterclockwise—it’s wide and clean, save for occasional piles of snow, with many branching hallways on our left and windows on our right. I’m in a bit of a hurry to get out of the chill, but I still take a second to look out and admire the city. We’re in the middle of it now, towers all around us so low that we can see their roofs or so tall they seem to go on without end. Pipes and railways and bridges loop around the tower like vines, and tiny, distant ponies move through them, oblivious to our presence. It’s when one of those railways loops close to the tower that the windows turn to stairwells and maintenance doors, and at the second stairwell, we head up.

“Now, I think you’ll really like Berry,” Green says as we ascend, working our way through the long and narrow stair, “but, two things to remember about her. First, don’t touch her. No shaking hooves, no pats on the shoulder, no hugging, and if she hands you something, don’t touch her hoof when you take it. She doesn't like it. Got it?” Whatever humiliation she’s feeling, she’s forced it out of her tone, leaving only an upbeat cheer behind.

“Respect her personal space, got it. What’s the second thing?” Is it that she’s evil? Because at this point, I’m pretty much expecting that. As long as she’s evil with a warm house and maybe a blanket, I can bend my principles in this case.

“She can be um... well, not boring, but uh, soporific?” Ooh, congratulations Green. I take it that was the word of the month on your calendar? “Try not to nod off in her presence. It’s rude, you know?”

“Got it. No touching, look alive. It’s like we’re already friends!” Sarcasm is a plebeian form of expression, unbefitting a pony of taste. It’s far more cutting to say something so enthusiastically they aren't sure if you’re kidding or not, and Green actually has to look back for a second to confirm I’m not serious. At least she has the decency to pick up her pace.

Two flights later, we reach the end of the stairs and a wooden door set in the stone, silver lettering along the front reading Berry Punch. Green’s as eager as I am to get inside, and she knocks quickly, calling out to the wood: “Berry! It’s Green; I brought Siren.” There’s a momentary pause, and then some sort of buzzer sounds, the door sliding away to the left to let us through. I can feel the warm air flowing out the door, and we can’t get inside fast enough. There’s some special vents inside the door that I think are weight-activated because when we walk inside, they let out this blast of hot air underneath us that just washes up and around us and pushes all the cold away and then there’s little jets above us and...

Ooooh. Yes.

The sound I make is somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and lacks the merits of either, manifesting as a “Uaaagh,” that nicely matches the stupid, droopy-eyed look on my face. Not that I particularly care. I shiver, and shake off, and the moment passes, returning my dignity, and my wits as it departs.

Right. Back to business.

There’s a lot more than warmth inside this apartment—luckily I’m a master of perception and observation, amongst my other talents. Before Green has finished pressing the cold air out of her dress, I’ve already taken in the vital details of this place. First, we’re in a living room—rug on the floor, decorations on the walls, a couch and a big bay window overlooking the city. Second, the air is dry—no leaks. Third, I can hear a fireplace crackling. Fourth, there’s music in the air, violins and piano—“Lullaby for a Princess.” Tasteful. Finally, the apartment smells like overly sweet flowers. So, key facts: Berry is a marker, owns a nice multi-room apartment in an exclusive tower, and can afford to keep it in tip-top shape. That means she’s more successful than Green, which means Green resents her, and Trixie probably likes Berry more. Right.

Step one, assess situation, done. Step two, assess resources—artistic genius, overflowing charisma, and in a pinch, good looks. Done. Step three, define your objectives. Get as much information out of Berry as possible while ensuring she likes me enough to protect me. Okay Siren, let’s do this!

After getting myself all psyched up, it’s a bit of a let-down that Berry Punch doesn't actually appear. The door shuts behind us, but the living room is empty, giving Green plenty of time to collect herself while I take in some of the lesser details. There’s the fireplace, there’s the phonograph. Most of the decorations on the walls are pictures, presumably friends and family. There’s a liquor cabinet that’s very well stocked, and two other doors leading out to what I think are a bedroom and kitchen, judging by the shape of things. It’s a good five full, awkward seconds before the first door opens, our host stepping into the living room to join us.

She’s purple—different shades of it in her coat, eyes, and mane, but purple all over—her mane and tail curly and tousled. I guess I’m used to thinking of earth ponies as big and tough, because it actually catches me off guard that she’s shorter than I am—if only by half a hoof or so. She’s also the first pony I’ve seen in Vision who didn’t have a belt or clothes or saddlebags, and for a second, I feel like she’s another poor pony who fell into the city and got trapped. That delusion doesn't last long, though. Six. Six cutie marks. One of them is on her face.

Disgusting.

“Hello.” I’m not sure what I was expecting out of her. More saccharine sweetness from a pony with a rotten soul? Another cruel jape at the suffering of others dressed up as normalcy? Maybe, I guess. There’s nothing there though. Much like her expression, her tone is dull. She’s not sluggish, exactly, and she’s not exactly quiet either, but she doesn't move more than she needs to or say more than she must. The edges are taken off her voice, and her face is flat.

“Hello, Berry! So good to see you again.” Green doesn't wait for Berry to go on, her enthusiastic, energetic tone a sharp counterpoint to Berry’s apathy. “This is Siren Song.” She puts a leg around my shoulder, giving me a little squeeze like we were old friends. Seeing the marks all over Berry reminds me what they are, and I swear I can feel the filth in Green’s veins. Like her body was greasy. “Siren, let me introduce you to Berry Punch. She’s another old friend of Trixie, and she’ll be escorting you down to Doctor Stable’s. I’m sure you two will get along great. Siren is just the sweetest thing, and she’s full of questions about the old days. Berry was from Ponyville originally, Sweetheart—she probably met Twilight and the other bearers dozens of times. You two will have lots to talk about.”

“Okay.” Nothing. Not a twitch on Berry’s face. No excitement at meeting me, no irritation at Green’s obvious insincerity, no curiosity about me or caution about a stranger in her home. A perfect poker face. “Trixie said to wire as soon as you arrived.”

“Well, we mustn't keep her waiting. Come along, Siren.” Green trots through the open door behind Berry, and for a second, Berry and I are left staring at each other in silence. She turns without a word, following Green, and I trot after her. Berry’s good, very good even. I’m better, but until I know what her game is, this quiet act of hers is throwing me off balance. Time to gather more information. As I predicted, the room around us is a bedroom—small, but cozy, with a wide single bed in the center and a chest of drawers across from it. One of those miniature wiredolls rests atop the cabinet, and while Green searches for her crystals, I take a second to size up my new nemesis. Watch out, Professor Mareiarty, you’ve met your Sherlock Hooves! Only without the dying.

Right, first, her cutie marks. No, first, the fact that I can see them. Image-conscious Green would rather trot around in a fading dress than let people know she’s a marker, so there’s a stigma associated with it—one that Berry doesn't care about. Second, the marks themselves. Her original mark rests right where it should, a cluster of grapes and a strawberry on her flank. A hoof’s width below that on her leg are two cups, one pouring into the other. There’s an Erlenmeyer flask on her shoulder, and the leaf of some strange plant along her belly. There’s a mark on her barrel—a pony biting their own tail—that I recognize from Green, and I can’t help but notice that for an “old friend” of the Bearers, Berry doesn't look like she’s out of her twenties. Little pony ouroboros means they’re older than they look, got it. Most egregious of all, of course, is the mark on her face—a seven-leaved blue flower, right over her eye.

Right—foe assessed. Now, to use my great powers of observation and symbol interpretation to divine what those marks mean. First, she’s older than she looks! Second, she’s not very self-conscious. Third, she... that is. Third, she is... hard to read! Very hard to read. Good poker face.

Oh look, Green found the crystal. Better come back to this later.

The little doll on the stand lets out a faint whine as whatever parts drive it start to spin—legs jerking faintly as its head rises. As before, it’s the wirer who speaks first, Green smiling and giving a polite “Trixie. We’re here at Berry’s—Siren and I made it the rest of the way, no problem.” Berry looks indifferent. I nod.

“Simply amazing, Envy.” The little doll sits up, pressing a hoof to its chest and raising its head. “The Great and Powerful Trixie would never have believed it if Trixie hadn’t seen it, but it appears you are indeed capable of walking someone from your apartment to the rail station—and with only two fatalities! You must be so proud.” Her tone starts light and airy, but soon it seethes, and though the doll has no expression, I can see her mouth twisting to a snarl and her eyes narrowing into a glare. She doesn't wait for Green to answer, turning sharply to look at Berry. “Berry, I talked with Doctor Stable. Siren is still on for today, in two hours. Go ahead and take her early; I need to speak with Green in private.” More like take the full two hours to chew her out.

“Doc doesn't like patients showing up that early.” Berry doesn't show the slightest reaction to Trixie’s tone, which makes Green’s cringing seem almost comic in comparison. The big mean unicorn is shaking in her horseshoes and the pint-size earth pony looks bored. I manage to keep a smile off my face, barely.

“So, take her for a walk or something,” Trixie insists, curt and dismissive. I can hear the frustration building up inside her—she’s champing at the bit to properly chew out Green for screwing up. It only makes Berry’s stone-faced act funnier.

“Can’t. Snow outside. She would freeze,” Berry says, with a slow, smooth gesture to the door.

“What? Snow? Why?” Trixie demands, her gaze fixed on Berry. Trixie’s not so scary, now that I’m wise to all her games. She can be tricked, and once you get past the act, she’s all hot air and talk.

“Hearth’s Warming Eve celebrations,” Berry answers, and the doll’s surprised little start is almost enough to make me giggle. I know what’s coming next.

“Hearth’s Warming—it’s the middle of spring!” The little doll stamping its hoof as Berry shrugs is too perfect, and I can’t keep the faintest ghost of a smile off my face. Trixie must have seen me, because she fixes me with a glare all my own. After a moment, she turns back to Berry, her tone a touch more subdued. “Then buy her a coat or something—Trixie doesn't care. Find a way to kill time until her appointment, and get her there without her getting hurt or picked up by security. It’s a simple job, which means Trixie will be very upset with you if you screw it up. Is Trixie understood?” Blah blah, I’m Trixie, I’m an insecure petty bully who uses overacting and threats to hide a giant pile of impotent anger. I wish I were as cute and smart as Siren instead of an evil witch pony. Whatever, Berry is nodding; time for us to go. Green doesn't even say anything—she just looks at the doll and bites her lip as Berry and I walk out. The door shuts behind us.

“Follow me,” Berry says, pulling open a cabinet by the door to retrieve her things. She pulls out a jacket first—naturally, the thought of sharing does not occur to her—and then slides her saddlebags over it before heading to the door. I guess she’s not going to bother stopping the record player. I’m not eager to go back into that cold, but I doubt Berry will see things my way, and when the door slides open, I brace myself and trot out after her. At least there are no air currents in this stairwell.

Two flights down, it’s clear Berry isn’t going to make conversation, so I let myself shiver aloud, a quiet little shaking sigh that turns into a bit of a whinny. “So, Berry. Green didn’t tell me much about you.” Nothing. She only nods. “I heard you were listening to “Lullaby for a Princess.” That’s one of my favorites.” Again, a nod. She doesn't even look back at me. “Its companion songs are great too. I’m particularly fond of “The Moon Rises”. Have you heard it?”

“Yes,” she answers, turning out of the stairwell and into the main corridor. She quickly picks a direction and starts trotting down it, leaving it to me to follow her.

This may be more difficult than I had anticipated.

“So, um, how do you and Green know Trixie?” I pick up my pace to keep alongside her, so I can look at her face in case she shows something. I might as well not have bothered; her poker face is perfect, and the motion makes the cold air cut against my bare side.

“Work for her.” Well, now it’s clear why Green didn’t wait for Berry to answer her. Okay, fine, this isn’t working, time to take a more direct approach.

“I can see you’re the strong silent type, but I’d really like to get to know you better. Is there anything you like to talk about?” She doesn't answer right away, but her eyes move. It’s the faintest little movement, not even so much as a blink, a twitch. She’s thinking. I knew it—no poker face is perfect. I give her the time she needs, and exactly like I predicted, she turns to look at me as we trot.

“Distillation,” she tilts her head to the side faintly and, dare I hope, “and alchemy, insofar as it is like distillation.” Gosh, Berry, has anypony ever told you you’re a real complex creature? Still, a complete sentence. Thank Celestia for small victories—but not where she can hear, because she doesn't like it.

“Oh, I guess that would make sense. I can see your original cutie mark is a cluster of grapes and fruit. Did you work in a distillery?” She nods, and we round a corner, heading into one of the side corridors. There’s not much here—the corridor is bare except for piles of snow and occasional Hearth’s Warming Eve decorations, and we’re the only ponies in it. Both sides of the hall seem to be apartments—wooden doors with names stenciled on them—and there’s not a sound in the air but us and the steady beat of the lights. Still, Berry obviously knows where she’s going.

“Yes. I ran Ponyville’s vineyard and distillery before the blight. I specialized in strawberry wine, but I made many things.” Two sentences, and unprompted elaboration. Maybe she isn’t a statue. In this city, maybe I’m the first pony who has ever tried to make conversation without shouting or berating her.

“Oh um... fruit wine. I don’t think I’ve ever tried that.” Of all of the topics in the world, naturally she had to bring up the one I know next to nothing about. I manage to avoid saying anything trite, or stars forbid, asking if it’s good, but I still have to keep things general. “But, I never exactly spent much time in the palace’s wine cellar.”

“You would not have encountered it even if you had,” she says, seemingly oblivious to my shivering and cloudy breath as she trots along in her nice, warm coat. “Fruit wines are not a significant part of the unicorn vinification tradition because many fruits—particularly strawberries—lack the acidity to ferment into a proper wine. Additionally, they have an overall low phosphorus and potassium content, which further causes them to degrade rather than to improve with aging. This led to them being seen as inferior to unicorn wines, a perception which grew stronger as the previously exclusively unicornian belief that older wines were better perpetuated throughout all three races.” She draws a breath.

Oh no. She’s going to keep talking.

“That’s fascinating.” Normally, it’s rude to cut someone off, but it’s below freezing out here—if I fall asleep, I’ll die. At least now I know why Green warned me about her. “When we have more time, you’ll really have to tell me more about it. I’m more curious about you, though. How did you go from running a small-time brewery to here?”

“A brewery makes beer; I ran a vineyard and distillery.” Reflexively, I start to react like she’s mad—she should be mad, I painted her profession with a broad brush. There’s nothing on her face though, her tone still flat and calm. “Furthermore, we were not ‘small time.’ I created some of the finest wine in Equestria, and the Princess herself observed as much during one of her visits to Ponyville.”

“But I thought you said strawberries couldn't make a proper wine?” I know, there’s probably some long winded shop-talk explanation about how they fix it, which I’m going to have to pretend to care about now, but I should ask. Her poker face may not be perfect, but it’s still pretty good; she could be hiding anger. Best make some preemptive amends to be safe.

“I said unicorns couldn't make a proper fruit wine,” she corrects me, and this time, I’m sure she’s messing with me. You can’t say that. You can’t snub unicorns in front of a unicorn and act like you honestly don’t know what you did. So that’s her game—keep ponies guessing to knock them off guard. Well fine, I’m wise to it. I won’t react at all either. “Doing it right requires magic.”

“Right. So why did you say unicorns can’t do it?” This is going nowhere, but if I try to change the subject, she’ll clam up again. I need her to give however much of an answer satisfies her so I can admit defeat and ask her about something substantive.

“Unicorns lack the magical abilities required.” Gosh, thanks Berry, you’ve saved me the trouble of looking up ‘can’t’ in the dictionary. Think you could try making some sense while you’re at it?

“What are you talking about? Unicorns are the most magical of all the pony races. You know, horns, spells, that whole bit?” I pause for a second to tap my horn with a hoof, but she doesn't look, and I have to dash a few steps to catch up with her.

“All pony races are equally magical; it simply expresses in different ways: unicorns through their horns, pegasi through their wings, and earth ponies through their hooves.” Earth pony magic. Right. I’ll call you if I need something gardened. “The latter is generally superior for encouraging fruit wine fermentation.”

“Ah. Right.” I let out a suitably embarrassed laugh, and force a little blush into my cheeks—not that it’ll be noticeable with how cold I am. “Sorry, that’s not what I—I mean, I wasn’t—” A little shake of my head sells it. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me. You grow up in a unicorn city, you start thinking of magic as bright lights and explosions.”

“It is a common mistake.” I’m not sure if she’s offended, but I am sure I lost the thread of conversation, and she falls silent. Not my best performance. Luckily, we seem to be getting near our destination—I can hear other ponies talking, and from the sounds of the echo, there’s a larger room ahead. Soon, the hallway ends, and we emerge into a large rhomboid marketplace.

This place has seen better days, to be sure, but it’s not a slum like the rest of the city so far. It has two levels filled with storefronts, and the open space in the center is given over to tables, musicians, and artistic displays—there are no windows, but the ceiling is painted to look like the sky. Sure, many of the storefronts are empty, the crowd here is meager, and I could manage a better rendition of “Beyond Her Garden” with a kazoo than that band is managing with three string instruments, but the stores are empty instead of looted, there is a shopping crowd here, and the band is getting tips. Which they don’t deserve. Because they’re terrible.

Berry turns as soon as we enter the space, leading me towards one of the stores: Clotheshorse Tailoring. I guess she’s taking Trixie’s instructions literally, but I’m certainly not going to object to a jacket, and I can feel the warm air rolling out of the store whenever somepony opens the door. Soon enough, we’re inside, and what a relief it is. It’s not a real tailor—just a clothing store with racks of wares and a bored-looking clerk reading behind the desk—but it’s something civilized, comprehensible, and warm. I’ll take it.

“Pick something cheap,” Berry orders, sliding her rear to the ground next to the door. She still doesn't look at me, staring straight ahead, and I’m pretty sure she intends to sit there until I’m done. To test my theory, I look back at her, giving a long, slow count of ten in my head. Nothing. Not the slightest impatience. Not even curiosity.

“Aren't you going to... hurry me along?” At this point, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that whatever toxic sludge painted those marks all over her body also melted her brain, but I might need her to protect me, so I can keep trying. She shakes her head. “Do you want to help me look?” Another shake of her head. “Are you going to sit there for as long as I keep staring at you?”

“We have the better part of two hours to expend. I am indifferent to how we do so.” If whatever Green drank made her soul rot, whatever Berry drank seems to have made her soul rust. It’s like she’s an automaton, only with less personality. I let out a frustrated sigh and rub my temples while I think. Berry doesn't react. Fine, new tactic.

“I don’t know prices in this city, so I’ll probably get taken if left to my own devices. If you help me look for a jacket, you will end up spending less than if you let me pick.” After a moment, she rises back to all fours, staring at me and waiting for me to walk into the shop. It’s a little creepy, like looking at a windup doll, but I’m calling it a victory. She has levers I can pull—not the same levers as normal ponies, but levers all the same. I just need to figure her out. I turn to lead her back into the store, pretending to pay attention to the racks of clothes we’re walking past. This calls for careful study.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, why did you come here? It sounds like you were a very successful winemaker in Equestria. It must have been hard to leave your vineyard behind.” It’s tangentially related to distillery, and if I can get her to talk by tying the subject back to her particular obsession, her quiet act might not be such a problem after all. She mulls it over for a second, and then shrugs.

“Not really. It was destroyed in the blight.” Terse, but an answer—results unclear. As my teachers would have said, the need for further experimentation is clearly indicated.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I take it you mean your vines were wiped out? You couldn't continue with just the distillery?” She shakes her head, and without the empty zombie stare first.

“The majority of the vineyard was wiped out by the blight, and I was required to sell the remaining produce as food. Vinification crops are technically edible, but are not considered high quality food crops. They did not sell well. I ended up selling most of my wine stock and distillation equipment to cover the gap. The vineyard never recovered.” And that’s terrible. More importantly, theory confirmed! I can get her to blab about whatever as long as I find a way to tie it back to her little nerd obsession.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how it must have felt to have to sell your life’s work. I’m surprised though—distillation obviously means a lot to you. Why did you leave it behind to work for Trixie?” We seem to be moving towards jackets now, but I don’t see a reason to rush. A store like this could never exist in Equestria—they couldn't move this much inventory in a year, much less need to keep it all on hand. I guess clothes are a part of Vision the same way saddlebags are. Then again, I haven't seen many ponies wearing anything this decorative, so maybe fancy clothes are something you’re supposed to own.

“I did not. I was invited to Vision by Pinkie Pie to run the city’s first distillery.” So, Green wasn’t talking out her tail about Berry knowing the Bearers of the Elements. “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—”

“So they needed your expertise to make the wine any good,” I summarize, and she has the decency to just nod. At least she doesn't mind being cut off. “So is that what you’re still doing now, then? Is Trixie a drinking buddy or something?”

“No. The distillery was destroyed by looters in the war. I had to sell the remaining inventory and parts to make rent.” She pauses for a second. “I’m sorry. I can get a little emotional talking about it.”

“It’s... fine. It must have been very traumatic to go through that twice. I can tell it’s really getting to you. We can talk about something else.” I manage to sound sympathetic, but it’s so bizarre that it’s hard to keep it up. If we were anywhere else, I’d swear she was a master actor, really devoted to her practical joke. She has no expression—her tone never wavers from that apathetic, flat inflection—but I don’t think she’s kidding. She even nods at me.

“Thank you. I do not want to make a scene.” Yeah, if we keep talking about this, you might actually show an emotion. I don’t know how you’d survive the shame.

“So, Pinkie Pie invited you here to make the wine? She’s the Element of Laughter, right? Were you two friends, or was she into distilling as well?” You know, now that I think about it, why am I looking for a jacket? What am I, a stallion? They must have scarves somewhere around here.

“Some of both. She threw the best parties, and I brought wine or punch as a way of showing thanks.” She glances at me as I start looking around for some more feminine options, but makes no comment. “I was a party mare, back then.”

“Oh, I can tell.” It’s a heroic effort, but I manage to keep the sarcasm out of my voice entirely. “You’ve got that lively air about you.”

“That’s surprising. Most ponies find me to be rather calm these days.” I... I can’t. That’s... what? She can’t be serious. I mean, she is, but—

“What, really? I can’t imagine why they would.” Luckily, my mouth can run on its own even when my brain is struggling to orient itself. Right, need to get back on topic—find why she works for Trixie, learn what motivates her. I’m certainly not getting anything new from her face. She’s staring straight ahead, unblinking and without the slightest expression. “Still, what happened after that? I assume you tried to rebuild the distillery?”

“Yes. I was unsuccessful. Demand for high-quality spirits precipitously dropped after the war in favor of cheaper, stronger liquors. After two failed attempts to rebuild the distillery, I gave up, and developed a drinking problem. I was pushing forty with no children, no friends, and my life’s work in ruins. It seemed like too much effort to keep trying.” So you washed out, gave up, and ended up working for the first mare to offer you a job. Just like Green, really. “So I tried to kill myself.”

What?

“I... uh.” What? “That... um...” How can she say that? What do I say to that? She doesn't even look sad or hurt. Most ponies put more emotion into observing the weather, but it’s gotta be getting to her, right? She did say some things make her emotional. Sympathy is good, but it has to be the right kind of sympathy, and it can’t be generic, or it’ll look insincere. I could give her a hug. No, wait, I can’t touch her. But I need to do something! “How?”

You had to do something, Siren, and while that was something, you probably should not have done it.

“By throwing myself off the top of the promenade in Serpent’s Wharf.” Her voice is totally flat, and even though I know I’m not going to find anything, my eyes reflexively travel over her face for some, any hint of expression. There’s nothing though, nothing but that empty stare, and the blue flower curling around her eye.

“I... um.” I grab something at random off the rack. “This jacket looks fine. We can go.” She nods. She just... nods.

Buying it goes fine, I guess. Unremarkably, I mean. Take jacket, give bits, and then Berry walks out of the store, and I follow. I’m not really paying attention. I keep picturing her at the top of those archways, looking down at the flooded marketplace, getting ready to throw herself off. That’s a seven-story fall. She must have been afraid, she must have known it would break every bone in her body on impact. I mean, I guess that was the point, but... she must have looked scared, or sad, or-or something. But no matter how many times I imagine it, I can’t picture her with an expression. She’s always stony-faced, throwing herself off the ledge with a mild indifference. That makes it worse, I think.

I guess I kind of zoned out, because when I come to, we’re sitting at one of the tables near the band. Berry seems like she’s content to wait here until the time runs out, looking straight ahead and not saying a word. I must have been daydreaming for awhile, not sure how long though.

“You don’t care enough to lie to me, do you?” It’s not really what I should say, but I’m not sure there is a “should say” for her. She doesn't even react when I ask; she only stares. “Am I going to get out of this alive?”

“I do not know. However, it is important to Trixie that you not come to harm, and she has asked me to guard you. I will keep you safe to the best of my abilities.” I suppose she will. I needn’t have bothered trying to get her to want to protect me. If she even wants anything.

“Thanks.” There’s no point in saying it, but it’s something to say. I go ahead and let the conversation lapse. We can sit here until it’s time to go. It can’t possibly be more depressing than talking to Berry. We sit there in silence. For a while, I guess. I’m not really thinking about anything.

“Wait here.” She gets up and walks away without bothering to explain where she’s going. Bathroom or something I guess. It would be funny if I walked away while she was gone, so two of Trixie’s henchmares would have lost me in a row. She’d blow a gasket. I think about looking up to see where she’s going, but mostly, I just look at the floor.

I don’t think my ankles are going to be okay.

I mean, I don’t know the full extent of the Princess’s powers, but I’ve seen ponies with scars, and I know Princess Celestia wouldn't let them suffer if she could heal them. And my ankles are scarred, no hair left. I guess I shouldn't be surprised; I was standing in boiling water. Probably burned the skin right off me. Heh. I don’t know why I think that’s funny all of a sudden.

It is though. Funny I mean. It’s only... what, a few days ago, that I was running for my life while degenerate mutant ponies tried to kill me? Now I’m sitting in a marketplace, and the biggest dangers to me are that I picked a really ugly color for my jacket, and that my escort is a terrible conversationalist. This is... this is like my time with Golden Palm. So close to a normal, dull afternoon—so like it in every superficial way. But when you get past that, there are things I don’t want to think about.

My hooves aren't getting better. I don’t think those scars on my side will either. That’s it. My career is over before it even started. I’m going to be an ugly pony for the rest of my life. It’s... it’ll be okay though. I’m the Princess’s student! I can do whatever I want with my life. I can. I could.

Berry is coming back, but she’s walking really awkwardly—on three legs, from the sound of it. She must have something in one of her hooves. She trots back to the table and sits down next to me. Like nothing had happened. “Here.” She’s giving me something.

It’s an ice cream cone.

I just... start laughing. It’s stupid, but right now, it’s the funniest thing in the world. I’m trapped in an underwater city, surrounded by Hearth’s Warming Eve decorations in the middle of spring, and there’s a mutant freak pony offering me ice cream. Mind the snow drifts! “Ice cream always made me feel better when I was a foal. Don't eat the cone though,” she says. Yes, Berry, I got that. That’s why I’m laughing.

“Thank you, Berry.” I float it over and let her put her hoof back on the ground. Vanilla, not bad either. “You know, ice cream is normally something for the summer. When it’s hot.”

“Yes, that always confused me. The summer is when it melts the fastest and is the most difficult to procure and store. It makes more sense to eat it during the winter when it keeps well.” That only makes me giggle more, and you know, I think I see some confusion in her eyes. Maybe a little. Maybe not though.

“You have very distant memories of what it’s like to be a pony, don’t you, Berry?” Distant and muddled. “From when you were a foal, and you were sad, and somepony gave you ice cream and you felt better. And now, you can tell I’m sad, and you do the same thing, but you don’t really understand why. You don’t get why I’m upset; you don’t get why this is going to make me feel better. It’s just something you do. And you know what else?” You know what else I figured out, Berry? “I am a genius.” I point down at her leg.

“Berries stand for fermentation, but two cups is a traditional symbol for temperance. I didn’t remember it until you started prattling on about winemaking, but that’s what it is, isn’t it? You tried to kill yourself so somepony made you chug a mantle for emotional stability or self control or whatever. But you know what, Berry? You know why two cups represents temperance? It’s symbolic for watering down wine. And that’s what you are. Watered down until nothing's left. I keep looking at you, and I keep thinking I see something in your face, but it’s not there. The water comes in a wine glass so I keep thinking I can taste the wine, but that’s only me deluding myself.” I look at the ice cream, then down at the table. But not at her. I can’t stand to look at her right now.

“I mean, I get it, you know? I can read between the lines. You said you liked talking about alchemy, and you have a flask and one of those awful flowers on your body. You mix up potions or mantles or whatever for a living now. I guess that pays for a pretty nice apartment.” I wonder if there’s even any alcohol in that liquor cabinet of hers. “Do you ever stop to think that you’re killing ponies? That you’re giving them the same thing that destroyed you? Does that ever occur to you?” She doesn't say anything. Of course she doesn't. Why would she? “Do you ever look in the mirror in the morning and remember Equestria and realize your younger self would be horrified and ashamed?”

“I do miss the emotional highs I used to experience,” she says, with no more interest than if I’d asked her what time it was. “However, there are advantages to a more restrained lifestyle. For instance, I will never go off on a spiteful, bitter rant at another pony because I am upset my perfect good looks have been besmirched.”

I—No, that’s not—

“I saw you looking at your scars. Eat your ice cream, Siren.” I—I don’t, I mean. That wasn’t what happened. I was upset, but, I didn’t. She’s the freak here. She’s the one who ruined her own life. It’s not cruel to observe on something that’s true.

I eat the ice cream.

“Don’t eat the cone.” Berry takes it away from me nearly the second I’m done, tossing it into a wastebin nearby. I don’t really know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything, letting my head hang. I don’t know how long the silence drags. It feels like forever.

“I’m sorry, Berry.” That’s not the right thing to say, but I don’t know what the right thing is, and I can’t take more of this silence. I hope she answers. If all she does is nod, it’ll make things so much worse.

“You are not the type of pony I was expecting when Trixie told me you were Princess Celestia’s student.” She doesn't even sound disappointed. She must be furious, but her voice is dead. Reciting a fact. Oh, no, it’s nothing against you personally, Siren. It’s not your fault I was expecting the Princess’s student to have some redeeming qualities. But this whole useless twit thing you’ve got going is also fine; it really meshes with the way you take out your stupid, petty problems on those around you. So, I’m assuming Princess Celestia never spent much time raising you?

“I didn’t know the Princess had a type, for students.” That’s a lie. She’s kind, she’s sweet, she’s strong. That’s the kind of student she should have had. “I guess I’m not much like Twilight, though.”

“No, you aren't,” Berry answers, and there’s nothing more for us to say.

I’m not sure how long we sit there before I hear the rumbling. Heavy hoofsteps, the table shaking under me. Brass on stone. Another one of those giants in the diving suits. Berry doesn't move, of course, but I can hear the other ponies around us perking up, becoming alert. A few of them move away. I guess they don’t want to have to look at it, and who could blame them?

“Look, Big Brother, it’s Cousin Pinkpony. Hi there, Pinkpony!” Oh Celestia, that voice. It’s not even a filly’s voice anymore. It rattles, it drones, like there was nothing inside her barrel at all, and the words could echo around inside. But more than any of that, it oozes, like she’s gargling something in the back of her throat. Was the other one this bad? Did I just not hear it? I don’t want to look up, I don’t. I don’t.

When I look up, she’s waving to me.

It’s funny, how sometimes you look at something, and you see it, but you don’t see it. Like how if you repeat a word enough, it stops being a word and becomes sounds. There’s so many things wrong with her, but I can’t link them together. That happy little wave, that bright tone, those expressive eyes—they can’t belong to the same creature as that needle horn and that awful gurgling voice. There’s not a mutated filly in front of me, not in my head. In my head, there’s a filly in a bright blue dress, and this awful monster that wheezes, and drools, and oozes blood like a sore.

“Hi there... whatever your name is,” I say as she draws near, riding in that basket her brother carries. When she waves that hard, her entire body sways back and forth with the motion. She’s leaning forward into my view to try to get me to acknowledge her—so far forward she’s almost falling out of the basket—and I give her a little wave in response. That makes her smile. There’s something glittering in her mouth. Are those braces?

“Hi there, Cousin Pinkpony!” she chirps as her brother walks up to us, stopping to let her speak. They are. Those are braces. Bright, shiny braces for that overbite she seems to have. I suddenly picture a very nervous-looking orthodontist, working on her as that behemoth of a brother she has glares at him from inside the suit. And you know what? It’s funny. It’s just really, really funny to picture him with his little tools and smock and her smiling with those blood-caked teeth. And I start laughing and laughing. “Something funny, Cousin Pinkpony?”

“You’re funny!” I answer, but it doesn't seem so funny anymore, and I don’t know why. I can feel my heart racing, and it’s getting hard to breathe, my chest tight as the laughter sputters and dies. I can smell something. The most putrid stink I’ve ever encountered, blood and rot and oil. It’s her brother’s suit. It’s no normal smell; it’s like it’s coating the inside of my lungs, and my eyes start to water until I have to squint to see her. She just blinks at me, those scarlet eyes wide.

“You’re silly, cousin,” she says, a little confused, not quite sure what to make of me. “We’re looking for angels! Have you seen any? They look a lot like her,” she points at Berry, “except they don’t move. And sometimes they’re missing parts. They glow like she does though.”

“She seems to glow to you?” I look at Berry, who’s looking at me, but it’s hard to see her. My eyes won’t stop watering for some reason. That awful smell. “I guess that’s what those pretty red eyes are for!” I smile at the little filly. It’s a good smile because I’m a great actor and that’s what’s going to get me through this okay. Everything’s going to be fine.

“Yup. Her heart’s all shiny, and she smells like candy and wildflowers. That’s how I know she’ll be an angel one day. You don’t glow at all though, Cousin Pinkpony.” She leans far out of her basket, sniffing at the air. “And you kind of stink.”

“Sorry.” I keep smiling because it’s important to smile because her brother is there and he’ll smash us into paste if we look at her wrong and that would be bad and she’s such a nice filly anyway I mean none of this is really her fault. “I guess I need a bath.” She’s looking at me all funny. Why is she doing that?

“Are... you okay?” Of course I’m okay, I’m fine. I’m fine. Why are they all looking at me? That stupid stink is making my eyes water.

“Of course! I’m fine. It’s... I’m fine.” I can’t breathe. I try to draw a breath and my chest sticks. All that rot is building up in my lungs, and I can’t breathe. But it’s okay, I can get through this, I’ll smile and be nice and her brother will go away and it’ll all be fine. I kind of... lose track, for a bit, and I think she’s quiet. Suddenly though, my head snaps up, and she’s saying something.

“When I’m sad, and I can’t stop crying, I’ll try to smile so I don’t make all my sisters sad too.” Her horn glows, blood red, and I’d swear her eyes shine at the same time. She’s levitating something over from one of the other tables. A glass. “And then Auntie Rarity pulls me aside and says I’m very brave and gives me something so I’ll feel better. She’s the Element of Generosity.” I guess she’s giving me the glass. That’s nice. It’s a nice glass. She seems to be levitating it up to herself though.

“That’s sweet, but you don’t have to...” I trail off as she opens her mouth, and this gurgle comes out, this reaching sound. Her body shudders, her stomach churning as she levitates the glass up in front of her. Red light shines from her horn as she violently pukes into the glass, her eyes wide as she gasps for breath between heaves. Slowly, one disgusting retch at a time, a stream of black and crimson pours out of her mouth, filling the glass until it starts to overflow. She looks up at me, using the back of an ankle to wipe dribble from her lip.

Oh no. Oh no, oh please no, oh sweet Celestia no. I have to get out of here! I start to rise, but I feel Berry jab in my back leg, and my leg buckles under me. I can’t get up! My rear legs have gone all numb. “It is rude to refuse a gift. If you upset her and she cries, her guardian will kill us both,” Berry murmurs.

“Refuse a gift, ha ha!” I levitate the glass over to the table when the filly offers it my way. “Don’t be silly, Berry! Why would I do that? It’s a lovely gift from the cutest little filly in the world.” I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Life or death. I just have to lift the glass up, and pretend I’m back in Equestria, and it’ll all be fine. It’ll all be fine.

Berry is pushing the glass back down to the table. “It is a lovely gift, but I’m sure you’d like to enjoy it later. Getting it has already made you feel better. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, yes! That’s true. That’s very true.” I wipe my tears away, and I’m totally fooling everypony when I smile up at the little filly. I give a saccharine little giggle, and clap my hooves together excitedly. “Thank you so much, cousin. I do feel better! And now, it’s off with me to have a good day and off with you to find some angels!”

“That’s the spirit, Cousin Pinkpony. Now, c'mon, Big Brother! Lets look somewhere else.” She slides back into her basket, and her brother turns away, lumbering off between the tables and down another side corridor. Berry turns to watch them go, not saying a word until they’re out of sight, only the giant’s lumbering footsteps audible. I have to hold it, hold it until they’re gone.

The world spins, and I lean over the edge of the table, and it’s my turn to be sick. My front legs go weak like my back ones did, and suddenly I’m on the floor—my stomach seized in a vice, my throat burning. I smell vomit before I realize I’m the one throwing up, retching until there’s nothing left in my stomach, and then dry heaving until my vision spins and my ears start to ring. Berry doesn't so much as help me up. She watches as I struggle for breath, splattered with blood and vomit. She watches until I manage to push myself up, forcing myself to take slow, even breaths.

“What are those things?” I already know, of course, but I need to hear somepony say it. I can’t accept something that horrible on my own conclusions.

“Big Brothers and Little Sisters are responsible for the collection of poison joke and heart’s desire from the corpses of deceased markers.” I know, Berry. I know. I know. “The active compounds in poison joke begin to disassociate from each other within thirty minutes of death, making speed of extraction vital. The Dash-Lulamoon Act made all—”

“I know, Berry! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know!” I rise up, slamming a hoof down against the table with each repetition of the words. I get it, okay? You don’t have to keep telling me! Why does she keep telling me things I already know? “Just—just shut up! Just shut up! Just shut up, okay? Just shut your stupid marked-up face and tell me when it’s time to go.” I don’t know why I’m so mad all of a sudden. It’s her fault, her and Green and Trixie and, and I didn’t even want to be here. I just want to get out of here!

“I’ll give you two hundred bits for her gift.” What? How can she even say that now? “Stabilized aortic marker blood can be refined back into raw components for mantles, making the contents of that glass very valuable. You should not let it go to waste.”

I don’t know what to say. What to do. What can I do? Princess, I don’t know what to do. I guess I nod dumbly, because she opens her saddlebags and rummages around inside them with her teeth. She counts out the coins one at a time: a little crystalline coin with “100” etched onto it, nine of those ten-bit hexagonal platinum pieces, and ten of what I actually recognize as bits. I bet she carries all her money with her. I... I look at her. She tucks the money into one of the pouches on my belt, and sits back. Looking at me.

“I...” I’m covered in vomit and worse. It’s starting to burn. “I’m going to go clean up and look at the other stores. I won’t go far. Don’t follow me.” I turn before she can object, and start off in a random direction, weaving between the tables. My ears pivot to listen for the sound of her steps, but all I hear is the ponies around us and my own hooffalls. I don’t even really want to go into any of these stupid stores, so I circle the market until I find a bathroom.

It’s what I expected. Tiny, cold, sterile and white. There’s a tiny sink and a tiny mirror, and opposite the facilities, a giant, shiny poster in a wooden frame, showing a stallion with a big, stupid smile on his face and a pair of crossed wrenches on his barrel. Flowing golden text above him reads, “If the mares can’t find you handsome,” and then below, “they can at least find you handy—with Pinkie Pie’s new FixIt brand mantles!” I hate that stallion. He looks so feathering excited there’s a new flavor of poison to shove down his throat so it can twist him into one of those things. You know what makes it even funnier? He can’t be a model. He can’t be, because now he has an extra cutie mark plastered onto his body that won’t look good in other shoots. This was a one-time thing. Somepony asked him if he’d mind corrupting his body and soul on film so that they could use it to sell mantles to ponies who are trying to pee, and he jumped at that chance. And why wouldn't he? All the other ponies in this city got rich and powerful by destroying everything that’s good in the world. He was probably champing at the bit to get a piece of that action!

“Buck you!” I turn, and I kick. I kick the poster right into the wall. I kick until I hear its frame shatter and the tiles crack and break. I kick until I feel plaster on my leg, and my hooves shake with the force of an impact on stone. I kick at that stupid wall until my hooves are throbbing and I know they’ll crack if I kick again, and then I just stop. I stop and curl up on the floor and cry like a stupid, useless little foal. Somepony heard that. Everypony heard that, including security. Now they’re going to come and call me a vandal and hang me, and not even those poor little fillies will care. Why should they? I don’t know why I’m crying; I don’t know why I’m so mad. I hate this place. I hate it so much.

I guess I’m there for a while, because when I finally manage to lift my head, my eyes feel all puffy and my face is burning. Nopony knocked, at least. I pick myself up and check the mirror. I look awful: my mane is a mess, my eyes are bloodshot, I’m covered in flecks of vomit, my cheek is bruised from... I don’t even know how I got that. I laugh a little, when I see that my tail braid held together. Nice job, Green. There’s nothing to do really; I clean myself up, wash off as best I can, splash cold water on my face, and brush my mane as well as I can with only my magic. If there’s a guard waiting outside the door to arrest me, rushing won’t change anything. At least this way, I can face him with dignity.

There’s nopony there when I open the door. Did nopony hear that? How did they not all hear that? Everypony is still going about their business like nothing happened; there’s not even so much as an awkward glance at the crazy mare who went berserk and smashed up the bathroom. I look around for Berry, but I don’t see her. Oh, great, my escort wandered off. I feel really protected. Whatever, just...

“Just...” I draw a slow, deep breath, and shut my eyes. “I need to get it together.” My voice sounds nice. Haggard, but nice—smooth and clear and warm. That always seemed a little messed up—that I actually do love the sound of my own voice. I mean, how do you tell somepony about that without sounding like a narcissist? But right now, I really... I need this, okay?

“Okay, Siren, you had a little bit of a stress attack there”—a little bit of a stupid, foalish tantrum—“but it’s okay. You’ll be okay.” It sounds so reassuring, the way I say it. I can imagine some poor downtrodden pony looking up at those encouraging words. I tilt my head up a little.

“I know, there’s a lot here that gets to you—you’ve got a heart of gold and you’re surrounded by ponies who need help, but you need to focus on the one pony here who really matters. You wanted to be an actor, and that’s not going to happen now, but you have options.” The way I say it, it sounds reassuring and wise. “You aren't just an actor, you’re an artist. You sing, you carve, you compose—you’ll do well no matter what, but first you have to get back home. You need to survive.” That puts things back in context—maybe now is not the time to be worrying about the little stuff. “Right.” I open my eyes.

“Right, okay. Situation, resources, objectives. The first two haven't changed much, except that I know Berry will protect me now, and I have a few hundred bits and some free time. So I should...” I take a breath, pausing for a moment to think. “See how I can utilize those resources, money and time, to best advantage. To wit, I should see if any of these stores contain items that could prove useful for escaping the city.” That sounds like a plan, particularly the way I say it. Just for practice, I give a confident smile—Confident Assurance #2, to be specific. It feels good to wear. “Okay, curtain up!” I give a firm shake of my mane. Enough of that crying, useless foal everypony—Siren’s back!

My initial survey of the stores here is less than encouraging—a lot of high-priced frilly junk. It says something concerning about the ponies who live here that in the ruined aftermath of a civil war, there’s somehow enough demand for two beauty salons, one right across from the other, no less. Aside from them, there’s Clotheshorse Tailoring, a few restaurants and food carts, some tinkerer’s store called Ironhoof’s Automata, a pharmacy with windows full of advertisements for mantles, Lotus’s Clinic and Therapy (a subsidiary of the Carousel Medical Pavilion), some place called Circus of Values that I think is a bit-store, a theatre, and a handful of knickknack shops of no particular note. Not that I was expecting Prison Break’s Handy Dystopian Escape Kit Outlet, but these are still some slim pickings.

My stomach chimes in with its own opinion, churning painfully. It isn’t exactly what I was looking for, but the thought of getting real food in a proper setting does have an appeal. Not quite the palace chef, but it’s a step up from stealing oats out of a marker’s apartment. I set my hooves into motion, taking a long, wide arc through the market. Faint sound drifts out of each of the stores when I pass—music, voices on a phonograph. It’s quiet enough that it doesn't form the same din it did in the bazaar, but it’s there. Some of it’s mood music, some of it is advertising—some of it sounds like it might be useful news, but I don’t feel like stopping to listen right now. I can always come back later.

None of the restaurants really stand out to the eye, but one catches my attention when I walk past it, exactly the way a restaurant should. It smells like a kitchen—like flour and apples and eggs and extract of vanilla. One whiff of that, and I’m flashing back to when I was a foal and tried to steal cookies out of the palace kitchen. Second whiff, and I’m on my way inside. I glance at the name on my way in: Sweet Apple Cafe.

It’s like stepping into some bizarre hybrid of Vision and Equestria. This place is trying to be Equestria—it’s trying so hard. There are little patches of straw on the floor to make it smell like grass, and the scattered tables are each a little different. Everything is made of wood and painted in friendly, unique designs, right down to a little line of hearts along the edges of the tables and bar. There are even pictures of Canterlot and some other Equestrian towns behind the countertop in the back. It can’t quite escape what it is though, and the sight of the glowing ceiling strips gives the whole thing an unreal feel. The phonograph playing background music only enhances the effect, one of the unsettling little errors that reveals the fake. There’s nopony there at the moment but a waitress reading a book behind the counter, and she looks up as I make my way through the tables towards her. She’s an orange pegasus with a close-cut sea-green mane—an unfortunate combination of colors. She doesn't look bad though; her wings are outstretched as she reads, and it shows off a lithe and athletic build. She’s not even that much older than me. I can’t see her whole body, but, no cutie marks from the withers up, at least.

“Hey there.” Her voice is upbeat and friendly. She’s faking it, of course, but it’s the sort of fake where you make yourself feel it, not the kind that’s truly insincere. “Take a seat. I’m Swiftwing. You want some ice for that bruise?” She lets a hint of sympathy seep into her voice. It’s not the best, but she’s very practiced.

“No, it’s only a little bump. Thank you though. Could I get the...?” There’s a menu nailed to the back wall, and I glance at it over her shoulder. “Do you have anything not made from ap—?”

“No,” she giggles. I must have missed something that’s common knowledge. “You’ve never been here before, have you?”

“Not exactly.” I give an embarrassed little smile in turn, glancing down while my eyes look up. She smiles and looks down as well. I don’t think I really need her for anything, but it’s a nice reassurance that I am good at this. “The apple crumble and the toast with apple butter then, please.”

“Sure thing.” She turns to head into the back, and I lean over to glance at her flank. Only one cutie mark—a comet with a sparkling silver tail. Good. I settle back onto my flank in front of the counter, drawing a slow breath and letting it out. This place smells really nice. Behind me, I hear the phonograph click, and the music stops. It sounds like the record’s run out, the needle floating back to the beginning and starting again.

“Hi there, everypony, Applejack here.” The recording starts again, and my ears perk up. The Bearer of the Element of Honesty? She doesn't sound like I expected. “I wanted to take a moment to talk with y’all about life in Vision and, well, a lotta things, really.” She sounds a bit like a hillfilly—that accent’s not doing her any favors—but there’s more to it than that. This is a prerecorded message, so I know it’s fake, but I can’t help but think she sounds really... sincere. A little sad, a little worn, a little tired, but resolute, and fixed. I can see her looking into my eyes as she says it.

“Now, it’s no secret that this little experiment of ours ain’t worked out quite the way we’d hoped. Made life awful hard for some ponies.” She sighs, and I can see the little shake of her head. “Made life awful hard for all of us. Seawater, madponies, strugglin’ just to get by. Worst of it is not knowin’ what’s gonna come next—what the next day will hold. It’s enough to make a pony want to give up and quit. But...” I hear her draw a breath.

“But that ain't our way, and that’s never gonna be our way.” She doesn't raise her voice, but she doesn't need to; she sells it with that soft-spoken conviction. “Runnin’ away when you get in over your head, lookin’ for somepony to take all that worry away and tell you it’ll all be okay—that’s what a foal does, and that’s what we were in Equestria. Foals. Celestia’s little ponies in her schoolyard kingdom.” It’s nonsense of course, but she delivers it far more effectively than Green did. I have to fight that tone to remind myself that no matter how honest she sounds, she’s marked herself as a crazy pony.

“I guess what I’m trying to tell y’all is, when that rebel comes a knockin’, tellin’ you that Vision has failed and that the council’s to blame for all your problems, try to remember—we didn’t leave Equestria ‘cause we wanted this city. We left Equestria because there was no place for us there anymore. Foalhood is a wonderful time, but we ain't foals no more. Our eyes are open, and even if the council opened every sub there is... for us, there ain't no goin’ back.” There’s a little pause on the other end, and I shiver a little for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. That was powerful—not good, or sane, but powerful. “Anyway, I’m interruptin’ y’all, so I’ll finish up by sayin’ that if it ever seems like too much, New Apple Acres and Angel’s Garden are always open to ponies in need. Fluttershy and I are here to help any way we can. Come on down, take a load off, feel good again. Y’all have a good day now, y’hear.” The music starts again, back at the beginning.

I guess it shouldn't surprise me. It fits with this city, it really does. “Pie-Flavored Cleaning Solvent” that isn’t pie-flavored and would dissolve you if you drank it. “Clotheshorse Tailoring” that doesn't really do any tailoring. Even the city name, “Vision,” when nopony here can see what’s coming next. And now, the Element of Honesty is a charismatic liar, slandering Celestia with the most ridiculous nonsense. You could use that argument to justify getting rid of anything that helped you! Unicorn magic? Well, that’s all well and good for foals, but adulthood is all about learning to use your teeth. Law and order? That’s for the schoolground; grown ponies know how to defend themselves. Some semblance of basic kindness and decency? Oh, you cute little fillies, you’ll grow out of that!

I’m scowling by the time Swiftwing comes back, a dish balanced on each wing like they were trays. She looks worried when she sees me—maybe because of how many ponies in this city express unhappiness with violence—but I force my expression into something like a smile. It helps a lot when she lays out the food in front of me and the smell hits me. Oh, that’s nice. That is wonderful.

“Here you go.” She folds her wings against her body, sitting down so she can use both forehooves to fill a glass of water. “You alright? You look like you’re having a real bad day.”

“Bad day doesn't begin to cover it.” I give a weak little chuckle. It works for the moment, and it feels nice. Besides, if I go back to a full smile, I’ll seem really insincere. “The recording of Applejack back there didn’t help. Those things get to me.”

“Ugh, I know! They’re so annoying.” She fluffs her wings out, keeping them folded but puffing out the feathers, fixing me with a narrow expression. “And now I will talk to you in a very serious tone about things that happened before you were born.” She speaks with a deep, booming, over dramatic tone, applying lots of emphasis to every word. She’s not that funny, and I really just want to eat, but I can tell she’s trying to cheer me up, so I giggle a little, and she takes that as a cue to continue. “Don’t you smile at me, little filly! I’m trying to explain something of critical, vital philosophical importance. A truth that will change your life and forever alter your view of the universe.”

“And what is this deep, vital truth of the universe?” I keep my tone light and a little playful, so I can really only blame myself for the fact that she doesn't pick up on the hint. Is that cinnamon? I think that’s cinnamon I smell. And pecans. And lemon. And those little flakey bits stuck to the apple.

“That me and my clique of friends are running the city exactly right.” Giggle, smile, nod, eyes light up, she looks down and away, take a bite before she starts talking again. Oh, yes. Civilization, thy name is lunch. She picks up on the hint, finally, and takes it as an excuse to look at the counter and busy herself with glasses that are already clean. I shouldn't be too harsh on her though. It’s probably more the food than her attempts at humor, but I do feel better, and she means well. Kind of in the same way that Golden Palm meant well, no doubt, but that’s better than nothing.

“What’s your book there?” It’s a good question, and one that doesn't require me to stop eating while she answers. She seems pleased I asked though, her face a little more animated than it was a moment ago, and she turns the book up so that the cover faces me: Managing Debt, by Neck Deep. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I put exactly the right amount of worry into my tone. It’s a little undercut by the fact that I don’t stop eating my toast, but this isn’t the Canterlot Theatre. “I guess being a waitress doesn't pay that well?”

“Manager, actually, and it pays fine.” She gives a little reassuring waggle of her hoof. “Not a lot, but much as she can be kind of a pretentious old fart, Applejack is pretty good about making sure we all have enough for food and rent and stuff. I just had some uh... luxury expenses.” She sounds a little embarrassed, so I peer more closely, and she blushes. “It’s um...” She’s mulling something over in her head—I can tell—trying to decide if she wants to do something or not. She’s glancing at the floor, at me, and at the countertop, but finally, she makes up her mind.

Her hooves go up onto the counter and she rises up behind it, flaring her wings out so high that the tips touch behind her head like a halo. It shows off a lot: her flexibility, her sleek and athletic build, the agility required to bring her wings together that perfectly. With the wings bent in that wide arc, her primary feathers splay out behind her, like the spokes of a wheel, perfectly framing her face. It looks good, and when she curls her tail around, letting it splay over her flank, even that sea-green seems to have its merits. “So,” she grins down at me. “What do you think?”

What do I think of what? She’s not wearing a new dress or anything. I mean, she looks really good, but that’s because she’s a pegasus who’s...

Oh.

It’s okay. I’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. My stomach churns, but I hide it with a quick glance down at the counter. Slow, deep breaths, Siren. Okay, good.

“Way to make the rest of us feel inadequate.” Thank Celestia she’s not too observant. Even I couldn't stop that from sounding a little wooden. In what sick world is this something you brag about? “That’s um... tonic, right?”

“Yup. It was so expensive, but totally worth it. I feel like a million bits, I have energy in the morning, I can run forever and not get winded. I know flying is a rich-snob thing, but I kind of want to take it up now to see what it’s like.” She sounds so happy, like a foal opening her Hearth’s Warming Eve gifts. “And it does make me feel a little bit pretty.”

“Just a little?” I ask, and she beams. She has a good smile—perfect teeth. Too perfect.

“I may have woken up this morning, looked in the mirror, and done a little happy dance.” She slides back to the floor and folds her wings, blushing brightly, but it’s still all she can do not to grin. “Say, listen, this is really not my thing normally, but you seem nice, and I saw you checking me out earlier.” What? I wasn’t— “I get off work in a few hours. Wanna go someplace?” With her? On a date?

“Ooh.” I giggle, light and amused, and clap my forehooves together. “We’d be quite the matching pair. Both of us all patched up.” She blinks, looking back at herself to see what I’m talking about. I give a little reassuring gesture, waving my hoof at her torso. “Oh, don’t worry. Your doctor was much better than mine. It’s not noticeable.”

“What?” She shakes her head, taking an involuntary step away as her ears fold back, and a blush rises in her cheeks. “What’s not noticeable?”

“I don’t know.” I flash her a smirk and it wipes the last traces of enthusiasm right off her stupid face. “You tell me. You’re the one who tried so hard to be rid of it.” For a second, she can’t even formulate a response, her jaw opening and closing without a sound.

“You could have just said no.” The blush in her cheeks darkens, and her gaze goes to the floor.

“Why would I say no? You’re so endearing—the sporty fillyfooler pegasus with a winning smile and tousled mullet.” I never let my tone sink into sarcasm, no matter how much I want to. Nothing but praise, saccharine and oh-so-genuine. “It’s a cliche, but you know, it’s comfortable. Unthreatening.”

“You’re not that good a catch yourself!” she snaps and she looks up faintly to glare at me, but she can’t raise her head all the way.

“Good enough to get you.” She starts at that, leaning back faintly. “Besides,” I brush back my mane, smiling at her over the counter, “if I change my mind later, it’s not like finding another one of you will be hard. That stuff’s trendy, you know?” The ring of a ten bit piece hitting the counter seals the deal. Embarrassment turns to shame, and rage, and her head sinks to the floor. It’s like I can feel the blow connect as she looks at her hooves. “Thanks.” I levitate the last of the crumble alongside me, finishing it off as I turn and trot out.

Nothing. Silence behind me. I was expecting her to at least yell something half-hearted at me on my way out. Not a word. She doesn't even raise her head to glare at me as I go. I must have hit her harder than I thought. She’s messed up. She might even be trying not to cry. That thought makes me chuckle.

Then I frown.

I don’t know why I did that.

I mean... that was... there was no reason to do that. I’m not a fillyfooler, and the idea of celebrating one of those awful potions is disgusting, but I ruined somepony’s week. And not because there was something in it for me! Just... because. Princess Celestia would be... disappointed doesn't cover it. She wouldn't have words.

I trot out of sight of the restaurant door, and then stop. Maybe I should go back inside and say I’m sorry? That seemed really important to her. Yeah. Yeah, I should do that. I turn around to head back inside.

Berry’s in front of me.

“Gah!” She’s right in front of me. Right behind me, whatever! My hooves scrabble on the stone, and I leap away from that blank face. “How long have you been standing there!?”

“Since you left the table,” she replies, without the faintest reaction to my shock and fright. Standing there with those dull eyes.

“You’ve been trailing me since I left the table?” She nods. “I told you not to follow me!” And of course, she nods again. Of course she does. “Why didn’t I see you!?”

“I didn’t want you to see me.” Oh, great. So now I have a stalker. That’s exactly what I needed. I take a second to calm down and let my heart rate slow. It’s probably for the best. Berry is supposed to be my protector. All this means is that she’s good at her job. Creepy, but good at it. Right. “We will proceed to the doctor’s now.”

“What? It hasn’t been long enough.” I glance around for a clock, but there’s nothing. Not that it matters, since I don’t know what time we left the apartment. “It can’t have been more than half an hour!”

“I have revised my earlier assessment. We will see if the doctor can admit you early.” I don’t know why I bothered raising my voice. She doesn't even fold her ears back to keep the noise out.

“Early? You were the one who said he’d be angry if we showed up early! And revised it on what basis? I thought this was just to confirm that I am who I say I am.” Somehow. I wish I’d thought to ask Trixie exactly what this test is for. I’ll have to ask the doctor.

“I am concerned about your mental stability under stress.” She what? All the ponies in this city, murdering and robbing and mutating each other, and she thinks I’m crazy?

“How dare you!?” I snap, pointing up at her, my hoof hovering right above her face. To Tartarus with her personal space—she had no right! She doesn't so much as blink though, taking a smooth step back from my hoof.

“We should go now.” She turns to one of the side corridors, trotting away. She gets about seven paces off before she realizes I’m not following her, and she stops to look back at me. “Was there something else you wanted to do here?”

“Well, there was... I mean, no. I mean, no, but, that’s not the point! You can’t just say something like that and then drag me off to the doctor’s.” I glance back at the restaurant and then to Berry again. “I’m not crazy.”

“I did not mean to imply you were crazy. Only that your experiences over the last few days have been stressful. We should go now.” Again, she gestures to the corridor, and after a second, I trot up to her side. We both fall into motion again, and slowly, the marketplace shrinks behind us. I mean, it’s fine. She’ll be fine. In a city like this, I’m not the first pony to say something a little mean to her. She’s probably heard worse already from lots of ponies. And I could have said it better, but it was the truth, right? She’s the one who corrupted her own body.

Yeah. She’ll be fine.

I look up at Berry as we move down the corridor. She doesn't look back at me. Stress. The stress is getting to me.

That sounds right.

Comments

[GaPJaxie]

And lo! As was promised. Midweek update!

[Ether Echoes]

2321731
It's not self-serving at all to comment on your own updates in your own comment thread

[flutter yay]

yay a new chapter!

[Nighzmarquls]

Very nice.

Also

That was mean.

[flutter yay]

can anyone tell me what he was inplying with the Pegasus towards the end of the chapter? Did she have a sex change? or like a wing enhancement, I don't know. If it's something super obvious I'll fell like a total dumb ass

[Showmare Trixie]

Oh, goodness, I love this Berry Punch. I hope we get to see more of her...

[GaPJaxie]

2322292

While exactly what she had done is never made explicit, Golden Palm mentioned last chapter that a lot of pegasi in the city want to look athletic, and many of them have ruined wings from a lack of exercise. She looks very athletic and has perfectly functional wings, but by her comments, doesn't know how to fly. It was meant to be implied that she had her wings enhanced and is feeling very happy with how she looks.

[GaPJaxie]

2322066

Give me your tears.

[GaPJaxie]

2322541

Can I ask what you liked about her? I was worried about how she'd be received.

[flutter yay]

2323258 Oh I see now that makes a lot of sense, silly me thanks dude

[Sesquame]

Siren is a textbook parasite. "Their comfort, their food and shelter, depends on them believing that they have some kind of right to it, so you’ll never persuade them otherwise. All they’ll do is lie, and cheat, and tell you whatever they have to, but I’ve yet to see the pony who can smooth-talk a length of cable." Describes her perfectly. You do an amazing job of making your characters. I also really like Berry here too.

[Showmare Trixie]

2323262
She's expressionless and effectively lacking in any apparent emotion.

At the same time, however, she doesn't come across as apathetic, uncaring or blank. It's somewhat nifty to see that she has a very apparent, lovable personality without needing to rely on emotional stuff or facial expressions and body language.

... Also, the entire 'no touchy' thing, has gotten me curious.

[Sesquame]

2321772

It's far less obnoxious than an author's note. Seems perfectly fine to me.

[GaPJaxie]

2323902

You'll get your wish in two chapters.

[DoomManta]

Something's been bugging me since Green Apple, and I think I finally figured out what. I absolutely hate Siren. She's sympathetic and easy to empathize with when she's in over her head, but the instant she calms down... Siren Song is a manipulative sociopath with a giant sense of entitlement and a high and mighty attitude; she is literally the worst kind of person I can imagine.

And yet she's a great character because of those traits. I'm not sure if I want to congratulate you or curse you for her existence.

[Nothing Productive]

2324948

I have a similar view of her. Not the nicest sentient creature, but an interesting character. I think someone else said this, but she has strengths and weaknesses not usually seen in a protagonist.

But I personally got the sense that she wasn't that bad in normal life. It's just after taking serious injuries for the first time in her life, almost being drowned, watching ponies hang, suffering nervous breakdowns, having career-ending scars, and so forth, she's just reached the point where she's going to get out of this alive and not care less about these awful creatures that dragged her down to this hell.

At least, to her credit, her conscience is pricking her about it.

[DoomManta]

2325415 I mostly agree with you, except I think she's always been this way, Vision just help pronounce her traits. She strongly hints at that with the flashback of Rock in Golden Palm. She feels guilty sometimes, but only ever really in the context of "Celestia wouldn't approve."

[GaPJaxie]

2324948
2325415
2325520

These comments made me squee.

[shyguy7829]

Conceited and prejudiced. Celestia sure knows how to pick 'em.

[Masterlink7]

Very clever updating right when Bioshock: Infinite comes out.

[Ether Echoes]

2324948
Siren's journey, then, will be very interesting to you, I think.

[Medikit]

2324948

Quite so. Though admittedly what I love about her is that that her very description rings a bunch of Mary Sue OC alarm bells...yet brutally deconstructs the trope as we keep following her journey :D

Also, Berry rules. Hail Berry!

[Nothing Productive]

2325520

Oh, I definitely agree that there was always something there.

[Pav Feira]

2324948 2325520
And I am already realizing that having every chapter named after an important (and often, recurring) character is going to make some of these comments very confusing to read.

[DoomManta]

2329025 Oops...

[Sushiblade99]

Does the name Siren come from the new enemy in Bioshock: Infinite?

[GaPJaxie]

2333882

Nope! I actually started writing this a long time ago. I won't say exactly why it was chosen, but I will note that all the characters in the story have Significant Names (in the finest pony tradition). Siren's name can just represent her special talent, but it was also selected for story reasons.

[GaPJaxie]

2336809

...

A cameo appearance to the first artist to draw that!

[Pav Feira]

“Your tail though, that’s different. You’ve got a lot of volume there, maybe a little too much. That big and that pink kind of screams, you know?"

fc07.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2012/092/3/b/futtershy_hair_extensions_by_bednarowski-d4usyt2.png
I'm not saying. I'm just saying.

[metallusionsismagic]

The train jerks into motion, and the file jerks backwards with it, scratching her horn and casting the dust dust down into her left eye.

“I’m sorry. I can get a little emotional talking about it.”

Berry's wit is as sharp as her tone is dull.

Siren is really, really not taking this well. She better check herself before she shipwrecks herself. (Oh, too late for that I guess. )

...By Andrew Ryan's golf club, the Element of Generosity is in charge of... that department? So, the cover image's resemblance to best CMC is more than a coincidence. Speaking of which, the art at the start of each chapter makes a great companion to the story.

[ForSpite]

You know, I think Berry Punch, no matter how dead she seems is a very accurate reader of character. Our protagonist has always been a little manipulative and judgmental and she's been dealing with some horrible things these last few chapters but this chapter she really reveled in meanness. She might be starting to crack up, I can't imagine her staying close to Celestia if this is the way she usually acts anyway.

[mm0r31r4]

I was suspecting that since I started reading this, but this chapter confirmed it. Siren is kind of a bitch. No, actually, I would say she is kind of snob. Pride of being the Princess student is all over the place, even if she don't seen to notice it. "A lesser pony...". That sentence is really bothering me. It is not that I don't like her, but she really need to be more humble and less judgmental. WAYYYY less judgmental.

[Luminous Lead]

Man, Siren is a huge jerk. Berry punch is really cool though.

I couldn't help but suddenly think that it would be really ironic if Green was Rarity, given how well Rarity reacted to having her mane changed. Then again, it IS poison joke, so irony would be a big part of it.

[Squinty Mudmane]

I really am in love with this story. The city of Vision has all the dystopian atmosphere, tragedy, nostalgia and creepiness that made Rapture an amazing setting, but it's great how life in the still-functioning holdout settlement is also explored.

I think it's the characters that really sell the story for me, though, particularly Siren. She's vain, narcissistic and quite ruthless in the pursuits of her goals and ambitions (like in that flashback to the orphanage), but I can still sympathize with her plight and her struggle to come to terms with the horrific things she sees in Vision. She's a very flawed protagonist, which I greatly appreciate.

Very much looking forward to reading the rest of this. Which I can do right away, because the story is completed. Yay!

[FashionablyHospitable]

Oh, Siren.

Berry Punch is right. You don't deal well with stress at all.

I feel kind of sorry for Berry though. Clearly, even if she's on the equivalent of emotion-suppressing drugs, she can still feel something.

[Walabio]

It is hard to believe that Fluttershy and Rarity would have anything to do with Vision. Libertarians are neither generous nor kind.

[AlouetteSK]

Reading through the comments, I'm definitely agreeing with DoomManta and Nothing Productive.
I. Do. Not. Like. Siren.
There's only so much you can attribute to shock at being in a new area. "Heart of Gold"? Pfft. Every pony she's been able to 'analyze' so far has been negatively critiqued. Doesn't seem like any of the ponies starting out here to shape vision seem to have gotten anything right. And apparently Rarity is involved with the creation of Little Sisters? Oh wow.

Then there's this spiel on how everypony here has a choice and how running away is a bad thing. Hypocracy much when you decide to block all the subs leaving, and the fact that you ran away from 'Tia rather than confront?

I'm starting to become apathetic as there's no pony so far I'm liking. Won't stop me from finishing this though. Just hard to read a story with no pony to like.

[Loeden]

Oldfic is old so it's silly to comment this late into the game (a year later!) But I think Siren's a Trixie creation, not a Twilight one. Knowing Bioshock lore keeps making me expect her to have chain tattoos on her furless hooves, now.

Also, about time I read this. I did only play the first Bioshock a month ago, so before I kinda looked at it and said 'not sure what that's all about'

The nods to brony music (maybe she is being controlled by music instead of WYK?) is lovely, and so many other references and shoutouts! I love this, if I haven't mentioned that yet.

[Enderstorm]

So Rarity is like Tenanbaum. I would have assumed Fluttershy was.

[Saacsa]

Siren is just so... Unlikeable. Spoiled, judgmental, immature, bratty little filly. Defininitly not Celestia's personal student material

[Danger Beans]

Pink.

Oh. My. God. Pink.

You mentioned in your last response that Siren isn't emotionally mature, but I didn't realize just how much. Up to this point, I had assumed that Siren doesn't like pink because it was related to some traumatic event in her past ( i.e. she was trapped in a room with pink wallpaper when she was a filly). But no, she just doesn't like it because she wants to be a model, and pink isn't a serious color.

I literally want to go back and reread the last four chapters, because I now realize that Siren's immaturity has colored the narrative. Whole lot of things are starting to make sense now.

Also, Extreme intelligence coupled with emotional instability? Why, that sounds like Twilight in season one! I liked this little analogue. I also liked the similarities of Twilight's and Siren's special talents, but I would have appreciated it more without you blatantly pointing it out: "Oh, you're cutie mark represents an predisposed expertise over all the various branches of a creative activity!? That's JUST LIKE TWILIGHT SPARKLE! FORESHADOWING!!!"

I'm seeing a lot of comments along the lines of "Siren is such an unlikable character!" And I can understand that, because she isn't the most likable character: she's petty, immature, and manipulative; however, a character doesn't need to be likable in order to be interesting, and Siren is very interesting.

But enough about Siren, onward to Green Apple: I'm really starting to like Green Apple. Of all the characters introduced thus far, she's the only one besides Siren who really seems fleshed out. You've done a remarkable job of making her sympathetic: when the guards at the tower insinuated that she was a whore, I actually felt a little sorry for her. Just a little, mind. And at this point I'm willing to bet cash money that she's an important character. Not necessarily a good character, but an important one. Also, she dislikes Rarity? I can't imagine why

The Mane Six being in charge of things isn't all that surprising; it's usually par for the course in soft crossovers. They're either the main characters or extremely important characters. Though I refuse to believe that Twilight Sparkle and/or Sine Rider is/are actually dead until I see their cold dead corpses. And I swear, if this story ends with someone saying "Siren, you are Twilight Sparkle! Dun Dun Dun!" I will freaking lose it. And not in a good way.

But I am growing increasingly interested in Trixie's role in Vision. Insofar as I've been able to confer, she's the replacement councilmare for Twilight Sparkle. But if she really held that kind of power, then she why would Siren need to be escorted by Trixie's "associates"? It doesn't add up. Neither does Tiara Tower, for that matter.

And as interesting as what you've done with Berry Punch is, I find it to be a great tragedy that Maud Pie didn't exist when this was begin written. The thought of Siren trying to tangentially linking the City of Vision to "Rocks" is just so enticing. But I guess we'll never know.

Anyways, fun chapter. I'm absolutely loving all these subtle hints that you keep dropping.

P.S. Favorite passage:

Step one, assess situation, done. Step two, assess resources—artistic genius, overflowing charisma, and in a pinch, good looks. Done.

P.S.S. Second favorite Passage:

I take a second to size up my new nemesis. Watch out, Professor Mareiarty, you’ve met your Sherlock Hooves! Only without the dying.

[PaulAsaran]

Ah, so we finally know about the Mane 6. Apparently they're still alive, but I have to question exactly how long they've been down there and, by extension, how old they are. If Twilight's really dead (which I doubt), how are the rest of them holding up? Are they even friends anymore? It sounds like Vision has broken everypony, after all.

I hope Rainbow didn't go and get herself marked up like crazy. She's the type to do it, I think.

---

I'm getting a distinct 'Maud Pie' feel from Berry, but I can't say if that's just your characterization of her or if it has something to do with her marks. I like it, in either case; it's something wholly unexpected. I can't help but wonder how far away from the common fandom image you'll take her. EDIT: Ah, it's the marks.

---

Oh-ho! Berry can give it even better than Siren can think it! Suddenly I like her a lot more. The entire time Siren was talking, I was thinking "you insensitive bitch," and then Berry just cuts the legs out from under her. I loved it.

---

"Cousin Pinkpony?" If that has anything to do with the inspirational origins of this story, then that's a big clue wrapped up in uncertainty and hesitation. Pretty sure I know what it really means, though.

Crud, gotta quit for today. I shall finish this chapter tomorrow.

[Voiceguy]

Hey, so I just finished narrating this chapter.

Is there any background you think would go well with it, or should I just leave it silent?

[Leroooy]

Watch out, Professor Mareiarty, you’ve met your Sherlock Hooves! Only without the dying.

Ooh hell no.. tears of laughter have been shed. Aside, I'm loving all the manipulation and such, love the game even more, and this story is just fantastic besides. It's rare I read anything without any complaints, voiced or no, but this is very well written so far

[GaPJaxie]

8790083

Siren is a colorful character! She's even sometimes clever. Not all the time.

I'm glad you enjoy it. Don't hesitate to leave more comments as you go! I'm always curious for thoughts.

[FOXTrot2]

I guess that’s okay though.

Suckaaaaa!!! Think she needs to say the magic words to work her magic?

Although I must say she is dangerously random, and possibly has a form of bipolar disorder.
The last scene we see from the last chapter also tells me that she has similar...mmm...expectancy of life. She would like to be innocent, but it's still a matter of fact I fact that she's evil. If not worse than the regular Visionaries (Vision ponies).

She just has this...way about her, that makes her appear affable. But we all know - by her words no less - that she'd love to see a pony like Siren crushed snd obliterated in every way for being a royal parasite.

Because by their standards, she is the Queen Bee of parasites.

[FOXTrot2]

“Respect her personal space, got it. What’s the second thing?” Is it that she’s evil? Because at this point, I’m pretty much expecting that. As long as she’s evil with a warm house and maybe a blanket, I can bend my principles in this case.

Bend your principals?
Gurl, you're already bending backwards for ol' Grogar (pony Satan) at this point.
After all,
The road to all good things is paved in evil.

[FOXTrot2]

“No. The distillery was destroyed by looters in the war. I had to sell the remaining inventory and parts to make rent.” She pauses for a second. “I’m sorry. I can get a little emotional talking about it.”

Get this girl a drink the rocks, because she and Maudr could be some real good buddies.

[FOXTrot2]

“Yup. Her heart’s all shiny, and she smells like candy and wildflowers. That’s how I know she’ll be an angel one day. You don’t glow at all though, Cousin Pinkpony.” She leans far out of her basket, sniffing at the air. “And you kind of stink.”

Oh shit. Now you've got a pony who can see your soul telling you you don't even got one.
BP: 1
SS: -3