“Hello, number Twenty! “
Balancing himself on the hoofstool, Tinker held the dangling light crystal up to his face.
Quite a few things had changed since the Blot arrived, not the least of which was Tinker and Gearheads’ chore list. With their limited water supply, doing the dishes was out of the question. Cutting the grass was pointless when grass had crumbled into dust, and when all of their magic was dedicated towards lighting, vacuuming was impossible.
Still, there was one chore that hadn’t changed since the darkness fell on Ponyville. If anything, it had become exponentially more important.
“How am I?” Tinker held an ear up to the fixture. “Eh, I’m okay. How about you?”
The gem was silent. If it had something to say, it was keeping it to itself.
“That’s good to hear,” Tinker said, trying to hide his despair as he inspected the crystal. Number twenty was not in good shape. Not only was its brightness noticeably dimmer, but tiny, hair-thin cracks were spreading over its faceted surface, flecked with bits of soot. It wouldn’t be long before this little gem went to that big recycling bin in the sky.
“What’s that? How does it look?”
It’s bad, twenty. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go.” With a low sigh, the stallion gripped a pair of pliers with his fetlocks “Please don’t take this personally.”
Carefully, carefully, Tinker coaxed the photomagical crystal from its socket, like a parent coaxing a frightened colt out from under their bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead, glistening in the light of the twenty or so other crystals strung about the house, looking for all Equestria like fruits dangling from copper vines.
The light at the crystal’s center went dead. There was a soft “click”, and the stone popped out of its socket and into Tinker’s hoof. Tossing it aside, he gingerly reached back into the haversack around his neck and pulled out a fresh lightcrystal.
Now that Tinker thought about it, these things were actually quite lovely. Maybe it was just a side effect of being stuck in the Blot for a while, but there was something aesthetically pleasing about these seemingly mundane little stones. Maybe it was the way their facets caught the light, bending it into a little rainbow. Or that soft, welcoming glow they gave off when you screwed them in...
Tinker realized that he was ogling a rock. Shaking his head, he gripped the stone with the pliers and ever so carefully inserted it into the empty socket, making sure not to touch the sides of the jury-rigged socket. One wrong move and...
Tinker’s nose twitched. Oh no. Not here. Not now.
Desperately, Tinker tried in vain to stifle the tickling in his nostrils. The pressure grew, and grew, then…
“Ah...ah... Achoo!” the sneeze exploded from his mouth. The foreleg holding the pliers thrust into the socket. There was a feeling like being punched in the face, a loud pop and a flash of light, and the next thing Tinker knew, he was on the floor, the world spinning around him..
“Ugh..Bucking Horseapples.” Tinker shook his head, trying to regain his bearings. Frantic, Tinker scrabbled over to the fallen gem and cradled it in his forelegs, scanning the little stone for the ittiest, bittiest scratch, then breathing a sigh of relief; it was still intact; not the slightest nick or scratch marred its beautiful faceted surface.
“Oh thank the Queen…” Tinker said, giving the gem a light kiss
“Uh, Dad?”
Tinker froze in place, then slowly turned to see Gearhead standing at the top of the staircase, clad in his Daring Do pajamas.
“Yes, Gear?” Tinker said. The awkwardness in the room was so thick he could taste it.
“What are you...doing?” he said, tilting his head
“Oh, just replacing a lightcrystal” Tinker said, picking up the pliers and climbing back on the stool.
“Do you need some help?”
“No, I’ve got this,” With a few careful twists, the crystal slotted into place with a satisfying click. A gentle light grew in its center, before blossoming into a soft, white light. Satisfied, Tinker gave the gem a gentle pat, then climbed off the hoofstool.
“Good.” Tinker smiled. “So, cadet, ready to get some sleep?”
“Space cadet Gearhead reporting for bed, sir!” he said, giving a sloppy mock salute.
“Alright cadet, forward, march!”
With that, cadet and officer marched down the hallway and into the assigned bedroom. Carefully, Tinker picked his way through the obstacle course of loose nuts, bolts, and screws that littered the floorboards like caltrops.
Once, a very long time ago, Gearhead’s room had been clean. Scrupulously clean. Every day, the little guy would make sure that everything was in its rightful place; every book, every toy, every bit of dust had to be properly sorted and put in its proper place. That was, until Gearhead received his cutiemark.
“Alright, Cadet.” Tinker barked in the most authoritative voice he could muster. “Man your sleep station.”
With a giggle, Gearhead clambered onto his bed, sliding himself under the star- and-planet themed comforter.
“Begin pre-sleep checklist.” Tinker said in his best imitation of a Royal Guard “Teeth brushed?”
“Go!”
“Pajamas?”
“Go!”
“Stuffed animal”
Gearhead clutched a stuffed Ursa Minor to his barrel. “Stuffed animal is go!”
“Alright, Cadet. Commencing goodnight in three, two, one…”
Tinker kissed his son’s forehead. “Good night.”
“‘Night, Dad.” Gearhead slipped on a pair of blindfolds and rested his head against the pillow. Once cadet Gearheadhead was sleeping, Tinker quietly slipped out of the room, wincing as a rogue nut stabbed into the frog of his hoof, then closed the door.
Queen, look after him Tinker whispered, his stomach churning and bubbling with dread. Ideally, he would have had his son sleep in the same room as him, while keeping the Gearhead's unlit, but, now that the entire universe had been confined to a few rooms, and with so many bulky supplies cluttering up the house, he'd been forced to convert the bedroom into a partial storage room. Besides, in all this craziness, that bedroom was probably one of the few normal things Gearhead had left.
“It’s all right, Tinker.” He muttered to himself. The light crystals in that room were practically brand new; as long as he stayed awake and kept an ear out for the Beast, they’d be fine.
With that, Tinker trotted into the main living room and plopped down on his favorite couch. That was the last of his chores for the “day”. Now, maybe he could have some time to relax.
The Blot must have heard him; the second his head hit the sofa, the house began to creak and groan, as if it were buckling under the pressure of the Blot.
It’s alright, Tinker,” the stallion told himself. It’s just the house settling on its foundation, nothing more. You’re safe in here.
He might as well have tried to plug a leaking dam with chewing gum. In his mind, the sturdy, dependable house became a wooden bubble, lit by a few guttering candles. One which the Blot could crush any time it wanted.
Shivering, Tinker looked around the room for something, anything, that would serve as a decent distraction. His eyes fell on a homemade bookcase, overflowing with Princess Twilight Sparkle’s opiate of choice.
That’d do.
Quickly, he tilted his head, scanning the shelf for something interesting.
The Fog?
Read it twice
The Tale of the Scratching Hagr?
Nah
A Roadside Picnic?
Nuh, uh.
Tapping his hoof, Tinker continued to scan the bookshelf, then shrugged and picked out a dog-eared copy of Wrench: A History. Sitting back on the couch, he racked the little tome open, relishing the musty, papery smell that came with an aged book.
“Chapter one: From Humble Beginnings...”
“DAAD!”
The book fell to the floor. Tinker threw himself off of the couch and towards the staircase, his heart beating and his blood frozen solid. As he shot up the steps, the stallion’s imagination turned sadistic, killing Gearhead a thousand times over, each way more horrifying than the last. He could already see the Blot-spawned horror, swore he could already hear Gearhead’s screams.
After a few eternities, Tinker finally reached the top of the stairwell and hurled himself at Gearhead’s bedroom door nearly ripping it off its hinges to see...nothing.
“Gear?” Tinker said, looking around the room. The room was pretty much unchanged; same walls covered with sketches of rocket ships and machines. Same work desk with its partly-disassembled radio. Same stacks of supplies and spare parts. The only difference he could see was the Gearhead-sized lump under the covers, quivering like a blob of jelly.
“Gear?” Tinker walked up and gently pulled back the covers, revealing a sweaty, wide-eyed colt.
“Gear, what’s going on?” He said.
“I-I-I-I wuh-wuh-wuh-” Gearhead blubbered, gasping like a fish
“Easy, champ. Take a few deep breaths. Breathe in...breathe out. Breathe in...breathe out.”
Gearhead took a deep breath, then released it. Deep breath, then released it. His trembling calmed down a bit.
“There we go.” Tinker said, rubbing his son’s neck. “Now, what’s wrong?”
“A shadow...it came in through the window!”
“What shadow?”
With a trembling hoof, Gearhead pointed to a small elliptical shadow, no bigger than a hoofball, hanging just beneath the windowsill. Tinker smiled, trying his best not to burst into laughter. It was just a shadow. Just a little bitty shadow. Perfectly harmless.
“It’s alright, Gear,” Tinker gave the tiny shadow a poke. “It's probably just a bit of dirt, or some bug on one of the lightcrystals. It’s nothing to be afraid of.” He turned towards the light crystals. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll get rid of it for--”
Tinker’s eyes shot open. He looked to the lights, then to the shadow. Looked at the lights, then back to the shadow. There was nothing casting that shadow. The lights were as clean as the day they’d come out of the factory; no bugs crawling on the crystal, no stains or flecks of grit.
There was a soft, scratching sound behind him. Tinker turned to see the the shadow began to ooze towards the floor, the syrupy darkness stretching itself into a long, skinny pencil, dripping down the wall and pooling on the floor like an ambulatory ink stain. Fine, flat “hairs” popped out of the mass, growing into thin, wiry tentacles.
“Dad…” Gearhead said, barely louder than a whisper. “What is that?”
Tinker didn’t bother answering. Instead, he shuffled over to Gearhead and pressed the colt against his barrel, heart pounding, his mind frozen by fear. Shadows didn’t do this. Shadows were obedient; always tagging along behind you. They did not just form out of nothing. They didn’t move by themselves.
Like a two-dimensional fish, the shadow swam across the floor, expanding and contracting as it slid over nuts, bolts, soda bottles and other trash, leaving a strange, black residue wherever it went. Its Tendrils thrashed, stretching all over the supply crates stacked all over. Probing the room. Tasting the room.
One such tendril slid onto the bed right towards Gearhead. Reflexively, Tinker pulled his son out of the way and let the tentacle writhe over his coat instead. For a moment, there was a feeling like cold, scratchy ice crawling across the stallion’s pelt before tendril left, apparently satisfied.
As Tinker watched, one of the tendrils stretched onto the ceiling and brushed against a dangling light crystal. In an instant, the shadow retracted its tendrils and glided up the walls to the ceiling, painting a black line over crates and boxes, then gliding up the rocket-ship wallpaper and wrapping itself around the light crystal, quivering like black jelly. Inside, the crystal’s internal light flickered and dimmed, then popped in a spray of glassy shrapnel
With its food source gone, a much larger and darker shadow once again glided across the wall, tendrils waving like ropes. Frantic, Tinker grabbed a nearby baseball bat and swung wildly at the wall, bashing ragged holes in the plaster. No use; the shadow just kept gliding along until it reached the next lightcrystal, snacking on precious light. He might as well have tried to beat a sunbeam to death.
A small bulge appeared on one of the tendrils, then ruptured with a wet “spurt”. A bit of the black liquid splashed onto Tinker’s foreleg, sizzling like frying haybacon. There was a slight tugging sensation, then there was nothing but pain.
Pain knocked Tinker’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the floor. This was pain like nopony had ever felt before; an itching, burning agony coursing through him, as if he was being incinerated from the inside out.
As he writhed in pain, Tinker was vaguely aware of the Pop of a second lightcrystal exploding. As glass rained on the floor, the light in the room began to take on a strange, rust-red hue, like it was being viewed through a red filter. Something pressed against Tinker’s barrel, slowly squeezing the air from his lungs. Breathing became a conscious act.
Dad…” Gearhead gasped, holding a hoof against his chest as his cheek turned blue. A fresh burst of adrenalin surged through Tinker, pushing the horrible pain back. Gritting his teeth, Tinker forced himself up and galloped towards the bed, hoisting Gearhead up on his back then galloped out of the nightmare Slammed the door behind him.
“Gearhead. Blanket.” Tinker hissed. The world turned fuzzy.
With a nod, Gearhead ran off into Tinker’s room and grabbed a thick woolen blanket, stuffing it against the crack beneath the door. For a moment, there was a horrific screech, followed by a sound like claws scratching at the door, then nothing. One by one, Tinker and Gearhead heard the last of the lightcrystals pop, followed by a blast of intense cold, then an eerie silence.
“You okay?”
Gearhead nodded, his eyes as wide as dinner plates.
“Good.” And with that, Tinker finally allowed himself the luxury of blacking out.
-
Well, this is disappointing
Tinker groaned, prying open his crusty eyes, clearing the fog from his head. From what he’d read in the Book of the Queen, the afterlife was supposed to be a lush meadow, where believers from all species laughed and frolicked in the presence of the Queen. Instead, all he saw was a plain wooden ceiling and part of a ragged couch. You lied to me.
Wait a minute, Gearhead! A pang of fear shot through him. His son was still back there, in the house, In the Blot. Already the little colt was probably hunched over Tinker’s lifeless body, crying.
A slow, dull pain began to spread through Tinker’s body. Something occurred to him: pain, he was feeling pain. The dead didn’t feel pain, ergo, he wasn’t dead! Overjoyed, Tinker started to push himself up, until he remembered that pain was a bad thing.
Everything hurt. His entire body was enveloped in pain. Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt. Existing hurt. It was if somepony had hollowed out his body and filled it with barbed wire and fishhooks, while a bunch of little gnomes danced on his body whilst wearing hoofball cleats.
Tinker shuddered. That was a disturbing image.
There was a soft snoring from Tinker’s side. Slowly, he tilted his head towards the side, clenching his teeth so hard they almost snapped, and saw Gearhead sitting on a hoofstool beside the couch, his head buried in his forelegs.
“Gear…” Tinker croaked, his tongue tacky from thirst.
Two ears perked right up, a small orange head lifted up, revealing two bloodshot eyes, underscored by the dark lines of tears. Like a light crystal being activated, Gearhead's face lit up in a huge smile.
“Dad!” He whinnied in delight, wrapping his forelegs around the Tinker’s chest, sending a fresh spike of pain lancing through the stallion's body.
“Gear, please…” Tinker hissed through the pain.
“Oh,” He clambered off the couch, blushing. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Tinker said. “Aspirin. Water. Can you...?”
“On it!” With a mock salute, Gearhead dashed off into the house and brought back a bottle of water and a bottle of Ache-Aways aspirin tablets. “Requested items retrieved, sir!”
Despite his pain, Tinker managed a smile. “Good work…” He said, popping the cork out off of the bottle and shaking out three of the little white tablets.
“Uh, Dad, I think you’re only supposed to take two of…”
Three little tablets dropped into Tinker’s mouth, followed by a hearty flood of water that sent them tumbling into his stomach.
“Those…”
For a minute, Tinker just lay on the couch, allowing the pills to do their work. As he rested, he could feel the tablets dissolve, dulling the razor-sharp pain, calming his tortured nerves. Slowly, the universe became a bit more bearable. Now the little gnomes were wearing ballet slippers.
“Are you feeling better, Dad?”
“Yes...” Tinker said,wincing as he rolled onto his stomach . “How about you? Are you all right?.”
Gearhead nodded. “Yep. I’m a hundred percent okay, sir.” He sniffed, ears drooping. “I thought you were…”
“It’s all right,” Tinker spread out his forelegs, wincing as his son buried his tiny muzzle in the stallion’s chest. “I’m still here, I’m okay.” A jolt of pain shot up his back. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.” he chuckled, coaxing a soft giggle out of Gearhead .“Anything happen while I was out? Any more of those shadows?”
“No,” Gearhead said, detaching himself from Tinker. “The house is safe. Those things...they aren’t going anywhere.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Tinker started to push himself up. “Yeah, but that thing might have friends out there. We’d better board up the windows, to make sure they don’t join him.”
Another spike of pain drove itself into Tinker’s spine. Instantly, he fell back to the couch. “But I think that can...wait a bit,” He looked at his son. “You, probably don’t want to go back to bed, do you?”
Gearhead shook his head, his face noticeably paler. Tinker wasn’t too surprised. With everything the Blot had thrown at them, they’d both be having nightmares for weeks. Well, more nightmares than usual, at least.
“Well, in that case,” Tinker motioned towards the bookshelf. “What do you say we take a little road trip down memory lane? Can you fetch the photo album?”
“Okay.” Gearhead said, trotting off towards the bookshelf with a hoofstool. Propping it against the shelf, he reared up on his hind legs and grabbed an embossed photo album in his mouth “Here you go!” He said, spitting the book onto the couch.
“Alright.” Slowly, Tinker set the well-worn album on his belly and cracked it open. “Y’know, they say that life is just one big story,” Tinker said, opening up to a page of photographs, all arranged in neat little rows.
“And where best to start a story than at the beginning?” With a smile, Tinker pointed to the first photo on the page; a picture of a young earth pony mare lying on a hospital bed, cradling a tiny orange colt in her hooves.
“There’s mom, just a few minutes after you were born.” Said Tinker.
“Whoa.” Gearhead stared at the photo. “Is that really me?”
“You bet.” Said Tinker. “ You know, The doctors said that your mom and I would never be able to have foals. By the Queen did you prove them wrong."
“Moving on,” Tinker turned the page and pointed to a photo of a much younger Gearhead wearing a bright pink hat and pink socks, sucking on a wrench like a metal pacifier.
“Even back then, you liked playing with my tools.” Tinker said with a chuckle.
Gearhead tilted his head. “Uh, Dad, why am I wearing filly clothes?”
“Oh, that,” Tinker blushed. “Funny story. At first, your mom and I thought we’d be having an adorable little filly. We didn’t have enough money for little colt clothes, so, well…”
The flustered colt flushed bright red. “Please, please don’t show this to anyone at school!”
“Don’t worry, champ.” Tinker said, “I’ll save it for when I meet your first fillyfriend.” He nickered
With that, Gearhead and Tinker continued their trip down the nostalgia-paved road. With each photograph, he grew a little less anxious; his posture became less rigid, more relaxed. Not so with Tinker. Instead of healing his anxiety, their little excursion was pouring salt and vinegar on it. As he looked at the photographs, something tore within him, like a wound that he never knew he had.
“Now.” Tinker turned to the last page of the album, pointing at a photograph of Gearhead at Sugarcube Corner, flanked on both sides by his friends while he bared his flank to the camera.
“You remember your cutecenerea?”
“Course!” Gearhead said excitedly. “That was the coolest day ever!”
“I know. Everywhere you went, you’d keep shoving your flank in ponies faces, shouting ‘I got my cutie mark I got my cutie mark!’”
“Yeah.” Gearhead blushed.
“It’s okay.” Tinker put a hoof on the flustered colt’s withers. “I was pretty much the same when I got my cutie mark. Showing my butt off to everypony I met, bragging about how cool it was.”
Another chuckle. “ Hey,” Tinker said, turning the page to a photo of the entire family standing in front of a fairytale castle, accompanied by a pony in a rat costume.
“I sure do! That was fun!”
“Yep, Whinnyland.” Tinker said. “If I recall, that was your reward for getting straight A’s in school.”
“Yep! Straight A’s, all the way.”
Tinker smiled. “Remember how you chased down Ricky Rat, how you begged for him to give him your autograph!”
“Yeah and remember when we went on Haunted Palace ride, and you screamed like a filly when we saw that one ghost in the mirror!”
“Hey, you know me and ghosts!” Tinker said in false indignation
“It was still funny.” Said Gearhead.
“Yeah, funny…” Tinker stared at the photograph for a while.The wound inside him tore wide open. A heaviness settled over Tinker, like a heavy blanket was being draped over his heart. “Gear?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Could you go get some two by fours out of the workshop. I...need to lie down a little bit longer.”
“On it!” With a mock salute, the colt trotted out of the living room while Tinker lay down on his back, staring once again at the ceiling.
A toaster. That’s what’d saved them. A malfunctioning toaster brought in by a last-minute customer that refused to stay fixed. If they hadn’t both been inside, trying to fix the balky appliance, they would have been on the way to the Ponyville cinema to catch the latest Daring Do movie. Out in the open. Easy prey for the Blot.
That couldn’t have been a coincidence. When he was a colt, he'd been taught that there was no such thing as coincidence. The Queen had sent that customer to make sure they stayed inside, but why him? Last he checked, he wasn’t part of some ancient prophecy, nor had he been chosen by some mystical artifact to be its bearer. Aside from raising a wonderful son, his greatest accomplishments were fixing Princess Twilight's radio and inventing an automatic can opener.
If this was the Queen’s plan, then she’d chosen the wrong pony.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got the stuff ready? Are you feeling better?”
“Yes.” Tinker lied, slowly pushing himself up, ignoring the pins and razors flowing through his body. None of that mattered anymore. Worthy or unworthy, he was alive. His son was alive. If he wanted things to stay that way, he couldn’t afford to feel sorry for himself. He had to stay positive.
For Gearhead.