//------------------------------// // Chapter 8: Consolations and Repercussions // Story: Wreck of the Bridleway Limited // by Locomotion //------------------------------// Perspective: Locomotion I did of course manage to get back to sleep, but my dreams were still plagued with the guilt and sorrow and helplessness I felt for those dead passengers, and coupled with my unusually late shift, I didn't wake up again until the following afternoon. When at last I did, I found myself feeling all weary and depressed, almost like I had aged several years in the space of one night. Perhaps it was lucky for me then that, as I later found out, Dad had already explained to Miss Cheerilee about the accident and asked if I could have the day off; but then again, I'm almost prepared to admit that maybe being in school might have done me a bit of good – basically just given me something to take my mind off all these guilt issues I was going through. As it was, I had so little to do that I quickly forgot Luna's wise words and slipped into a depression as the memories of the previous night continued to haunt me – heck, I couldn't even bring myself to write anything on Rodney the Railway Engine I was so troubled! Even if I had, it'd probably have been a disaster fanfic, and that wouldn't have done my self-esteem any good either. Only when school was out for the day did I bring myself to leave the house and head down to Sugarcube Corner, where some of my friends were enjoying an afternoon snack. Lickety-Split was the first to notice me as I came in. “Hey there, Loco, you alright?” he asked, a look of concern on his face. “We all missed you at school today...” “Yeah, and you missed the craziest thing since Discord's reign!” interjected Alula brightly. “Snips and Snails were trying a bit of magic at recess, a sort of firework spell like the ones Trixie used when she came down here, and guess what? They only succeeded in blowing up a small rock near the sandpit!” Overcome with hysteria, she toppled off of her chair and rolled about on the floor with raucous laughter. Normally something as comical as a blunder by those two bumbling unicorn colts would have had me in stitches too – no offence – but after what I'd been through, it sounded a lot more gruesome than humorous. All the same, I tried to force a small smile as I went to get myself a snack of my own. “Yeah – hilarious,” I murmured. Lickety-Split noticed the dryness in my tone, and I think this must have worried him even further. “Something wrong, Loco? You seem a little bit off,” he remarked. “Nah, I'm good, Lickety. Just had to put in a bit of overtime at the sheds last night,” I replied, not having the heart to tell him what had happened to the Limited. High Score raised an eyebrow and gave me what I can only assume was a cheeky smirk. “And you wonder why we all do so much better at school than you!” he ribbed. “You know, you really ought to lay off the trains sometimes, Loco, and tune into reality.” This struck a raw nerve with me, and my immediate response was to bang my hoof on the table. “I am tuned into flipping reality!” I snapped, glaring harshly at him. “Anyway, how can I help it if my shifts at Ponyville MPD drag on longer than they should do?! Tell me that!” But that only fuelled the fire, because next thing I knew, High Score was smugly going, “Tut-tut – all work and no play makes Locomotion a dull colt.” “Alright, Score, that's enough,” chided Lickety-Split, promptly stalling any further unwanted remarks. High Score's expression didn't change in the slightest, but he immediately turned and began talking about something random with Alula as if he hadn't said anything to me at all. “You sure you're okay, Loco old pal? The way you're behaving, it's like you'd just lost a family member or something.” “Yeah, and I bet there are probably plenty of others who already have,” I thought aloud. “Oh yeah! Yeah, I think I know what you mean,” exclaimed Alula with an enthusiasm that made me cringe. “Yeah, Dad had been reading all about it only this morning. There wasn't a lot in it, but from what he'd been saying, there was this really big crash up in the Buckskin Mountains...” and before we knew it, she was babbling on about train collisions and passenger fatalities and all the sort of stuff that I really didn't want to be thinking about at this very moment. And what sickens me about it all is that she didn't seem anywhere near as perturbed as she did eager about the whole thing! I mean, really – what the hay is that filly's problem?! Does she even flipping realise what she's flipping talking about?! This a serious train crash we're talking about here, not some slapstick visual gag with a house falling down! Eventually, it got to the stage where I just couldn't take any more. Unable to control myself, I stood up with a frustrated growl and stormed out of the bakery. No doubt that lot must have been really startled, like, but I didn't really care at this point – I just wanted to get away from all that crash talk and clear my head of all those horrible mental images from that fateful night. As soon as I was outside, I just ran and ran and ran until I was at the top of a hill some way out of town. Even in my state of anguish, I couldn't help noticing that the hill gave a brilliant panorama of the Equestrian countryside. It certainly offered a good view of the railway line stretching outwards from Ponyville in both directions, towards the inland port town of Portpaddock in the west and the Buckskin Mountains in the east. For a while, I was just sat there gazing out across the land, enjoying the peace and quiet (or at least enjoying it as much as I could, given how upset I was) and not having to bother with anything or anypony in particular – just sort of being alone with my thoughts. And then, just like that, I collapsed into a crying, trembling heap of despair, sorrow and flesh. It's rather a cruel irony, isn't it? How you do your level best to get so many ponies out of danger, and yet when you reflect on the whole thing, you don't look upon it as an act of heroism – you just torture yourself simply because the accident happened in the first place, even if it wasn't your fault, and all this because of the unlucky few who were beyond help. You feel like you don't belong in this world, and you wonder what might have been if you had never existed in the first place, or if somepony else had been in your place at the time. I don't know how long I was out there, but after what seemed like ages, I could feel another presence close by. I looked up and noticed that the sun was slowly edging towards the horizon, at which point I realised it must be getting on a bit – not only that, but Max and Uncle Steamer were making their way up the hill towards me. For the life of me, I can't understand why Max Pressure of all ponies would be coming out to the middle of nowhere just for some nopony like me, especially with all those train movements and maintenance jobs that need dealing with. In any event, I was so ashamed of myself that I buried my face in my forelegs again and pretended not to notice. “You alright, Loco?” The gentle tone of concern with which my uncle spoke did little to soothe my sorrow, and it was only when I felt Max resting a comforting hoof on my withers that I broke out of my pathetic stupor and slowly brought myself to look at them. “You're having a really hard time dealing with this, aren't you?” he said softly. The only reply I could manage was a tearful nod. I don't think I'd ever felt so worthless in all my life, so to say I was “having a really hard time” was probably an understatement in my book. Both Max and Uncle Steamer must have guessed as much just by the look in my eyes, because they then spent the next few minutes or so sitting quietly by my side, kind of like they were trying to comfort me with their presence alone. That worked, to a degree, but I still felt upset with myself about the whole affair. It was Max who broke the silence first; “I can understand how you might feel, kiddo,” he told me. “I've already had to deal with some pretty nasty accidents myself – none as bad as what happened last night, mind, but it still messed up the timetable a fair bit, and I still had a few casualties to take care of.” Deep down, I was glad to know I wasn't alone in my sorrow, but Max's solemn revelation still didn't make me feel any better. I just didn't have the strength to carry on with the railways, even though I'd already proven far more competent and dedicated than most foals of my age. Closing my eyes, I simply let the question slip through my lips; “Max...do you ever think Ponyville MPD would be...better off without me?” I stammered. Max's immediate response was to give me this rather startled look of dismay. “How in the world can you say that?” he exclaimed. “You who's done outstandingly for your age, making out like you wanna quit? Where's the railway enthusiast we all know and love?” “So what if I'm a railway enthusiast?” I objected pathetically. “I don't belong with you guys, even if I have been doing well for myself. I mean, when was the last time you heard of some incapable little runt like me working on Equestrian National Railways?” That must have thrown both Max and Uncle Steamer for a loop, because even though I wasn't thinking straight at the time, they could both see my point; most ponies don't join the railways until after they've made it out of high school at least, and the only reason Max had taken me on in the first place was because Uncle Steamer had gently talked him into it – or at least that's what I thought back then. “Well...can't remember when I last heard of such a thing,” admitted Max, “but what does it matter? The whole reason Steamer and I took you under our wings was because you're so full of potential – always have been since you were less than half what you are now. I ask you, how many engine-ponies have taken to railway work as well as you have?” “And yet I failed to warn John Bull about a pair of light engines,” I countered, silently cursing John for having ignored my warnings. “Hey,” soothed Max, patting my back reassuringly, “don't beat yourself up about it so. You did at least try – if anything, it's John's fault for not realising the intent behind your actions.” He paused for a few seconds before continuing; “I'd heard all about the accident from the Horse Junction stationmaster, and from what he told me, you weren't at fault by any means. In fact, I'm really proud of you for how you helped all those passengers out of the front coaches – and for keeping your cool throughout the rescue operation.” I gave Max a look of disbelief. “What, even though I lost a further nine?” “Yes.” This came from Uncle Steamer. “Even if you had managed to rescue them, you'd only have been in time to run a post-mortem. And what about that grey mare in Compartment J, Coach 1? Why wouldn't she be grateful for your being there?” “Perhaps,” I replied, unconvinced, “but it's not as if I deserve any credit for all that. Let's face it, there's no way I'll ever make a decent railway worker.” Another tear escaped my eye as I gazed up at the darkening sky, sombrely lamenting over my supposed failure; “Out along the rails I rode, Guided by the moon. Many a trusty locomotive I rode, A dream that ended too soon. Now I know the path I tread Is one I'm unprepared for... And I'll be railroading no more.” But there was no way Uncle Steamer would let me believe that. As I finished that last line, he shuffled a little closer to me and wrapped his arm around me, adding in a couple of his own lyrics in an attempt to raise my spirits; “Think of all the lives you've saved, All the brave things you'd done...” Somehow, I found that way too far-fetched; I'd never done anything brave in my life as far as I could tell, and last night's rescue operation hardly qualified in my book. I looked away bitterly, feeling tears well up in my eyes again. “Bravery nothing! I was merely a burden With each and every run. Never will I rule those rails On a City Class 4-6-4... And I'll be railroading no more.” That was when I felt Uncle Steamer's free hoof trying to gently lift my head from beneath my chin. Reluctantly, I turned to meet his gaze, and was met by an expression of deep compassion and determination as he released me from his hold and pointed down the hill. “No! That's just not true! Loco, we all believe in you! You're a master of steam; Someday, your foalhood dream Will come true!” And as I looked to where he was pointing, it gradually became clear that he meant every word of it. As it turned out, me, him and Max weren't alone – several of the other drivers and fireponies, those hard-working and dedicated ponies I'd always looked up to since I was just a yearling, had gathered around us and were smiling appreciatively upon yours truly. I was rather confused at first, but as I looked each of them in the eye, I could see that they really did have faith in me. They didn't just think I would reach the top of the ladder one day – they actually wanted me to. It's a rare thing for an eight-year-old colt to experience, and it really humbled me to know I had so many faithful supporters at Ponyville Motive Power Depot. Within just a few moments, my sorrow had all but melted away, and I directed a warm, grateful smile to my uncle, uttering one final lyric before wrapping my arms around him and letting my tears flow freely again... “Who says I'll be railroading no more?” Perspective: Vinyl Entry 3711 March 26th, 11am Ugh! I can't believe I just did that! Just opened up this damn diary, and I find that I've been spewing all sorts of drunken trash all over the page after my last entry! I'm never gonna get over that, I really am not! How could I have let myself get so flipping plastered like that?! Why is it that every time I think of those [long stream of profanities redacted from this edit] that I call my parents I have to get myself [censor] wasted! It's just stupid! Okay, I'm calm again. So anyways, just so you know what happened after I spouted all that garbage – I dunno how long I was out, but I got woken up at around stupid o'clock by this incessant whistling sound that just wouldn't stop. I got up, went out into the street and stomped over to where this noise was coming from so I could yell at them to shut up and let me sleep. Turns out it was coming from the engine sheds, and as soon as I got there, there were ponies running about the place and getting a whopping great big crane thingamajig ready to go out. That was when I stopped being cheesed off with them and realised that something like really awful must have happened somewhere. I just stood and watched them for something like ten, fifteen minutes or whatever until they left, and that was when the whistling stopped as well. But this is where things really fell to pieces. As soon as it left, I just lost it and started yelling out about this “terrible accident” or whatever – and then a police officer comes up to me, says I'm disturbing the neighbourhood and then drags me back to the police station because I'm drunk. End result – DJ PON-3 is now in rehab! This well and truly sucks out loud! As if me being reminded of my parents wasn't enough, now I find I'm in some loony bin just for trying to get them outta my head! How am I gonna live this down?! And what in the hay is Loco gonna think when he finds out there won't be any music at his party? I'll probably be lucky if his own parents even think of letting me play for him after they found out I've let myself get plastered. Why has my life gone so wrong? Entry 3711 and a bit 1pm This is well embarrassing. I've just had my first therapy session, and I tell you what, I did NOT enjoy it one bit – I mean, yeah, the therapist was like real nice and all, and she didn't judge me for what I had to say about why I let myself get so hammered and all, but how can you not reveal everything about your private life and not feel all cagey about it?! If it'd been my parents, they'd never have let me live it down – heck, I'd hardly be surprised if they made a flipping example of me! Those two idiots would never understand confidentiality if it came and slapped them round the ears! Still, it's their fault I'm here in the first place, ruining any chances me and Tavi had of properly hitting it off! On the plus side, at least I've managed to get it all off of my chest and tell somepony why those mules stink so much, and the odd thing is that I feel kinda glad I managed to let it all out. Probably wouldn't have if that mare hadn't been so persuasive. Not like it's gonna make a lot of difference, though, because I'm gonna be stuck here for another two/three weeks or something or nothing just so I can get off of the booze. Even when they let me take a walk round the place, I felt kinda hemmed in by loonies. Like, there was one who kept winding me up by mimicking me, and another was barking in a way that made me think there was a dog in the room...it was well freaky, and not in a good way. I'm used to Pinkie being random and all, but all those other ponies properly scare me – and I ain't joking either! If it weren't for all the doctors and other staff, it would have been like I was the only properly sane pony left in the whole world. Aw, sweet Celestia, I did not mean to write that! Now somepony's gonna tell me I've lost my mind as well! Entry 3712 March 27th Same old therapy session trash as yesterday. Can't be bothered to go into detail. Actually, no, I tell a lie – I just remembered that Pinkie dropped by earlier and was going on about how sorry she was that I had landed myself in rehab and so on. She even offered to throw me a party when I got out (big surprise) and promised to put in a good word for me with Loco's parents. Dunno if they're gonna buy it, though. I mean, heck, who wants a drunkard to DJ for a foal's birthday party?! Not that it's likely to happen anytime soon, anyways. Pinkie said that Loco had been out rescuing passengers from that train wreck three nights ago, and she had had to hang fire on his party until he was feeling better. Apparently one of her cousins was in that crash as well, but what really confuses me is that she was talking about her as if I wouldn't take her getting hurt all that well. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm real sorry about the crash and her injured cousin and all, but how can Pinkie expect me to be all shocked and terrified and “OMG please let that pony be okay” about somepony I don't even know? Or was it somepony I already met some time ago and have forgotten about? I dunno. But yeah, for Pinkie's sake, I sure hope her cousin's okay. Still, whoever this pony is is probably luckier than I am right now, stuck in a loony bin for stupid amount of time with ponies telling me “Cut down the booze” and “You gotta move on with your life” and “Stop thinking about this other mare, you're just gonna make yourself miserable because you'll never see her again, and even if you do, you'll never hit it off with her because you're both different” and all that trash. It's gonna be a long few weeks. Perspective: Octavia My recollections of the journey to the hospital were regrettably sparse, but I do remember that the colt never once left my side between the scene of the accident and our final destination. He and I slept through most of it, and when at last we awoke and saw the glow of the station lights illuminating the train's surroundings, we found an army of paramedics awaiting our arrival, their ambulances filling the entire forecourt and the adjoining street. Only when I was safely offloaded from the coach and transferred to one of the ambulance carts did the weary colt part company with me, wishing me a complete recovery before trudging home. Minutes later, my ambulance arrived outside the hospital entrance, where the doctors transferred my stretcher onto a waiting gurney before wheeling me away to the operating room. I could vaguely remember the mild sting of the scalpel against my flesh as the surgeon carefully pieced my broken bones together, but mercifully I blacked out again before it could evolve any further. When I finally returned to the land of the living, my head still aching dully from the effects of the painkillers, I found myself in a private recovery ward with my arm in a cast. The bedside table was bedecked with greetings cards, and in their midst sat a small bouquet of my favourite roses; while on the other side of my bed sat Frederick Horseshoepin in person, the anxiety in his expression giving way to relief as I gathered my awareness and greeted him with a weak smile. “Hello, Octavia,” he said. “How are you feeling?” I closed my eyes, running a mental diagnostics check before replying simply, “Rather drowsy at the moment, Frederick.” Even now, through bleary eyes that had remained unexposed to the light of day for quite some time, I could see that he too had sustained injury from that dreadful crash that had befallen us only... “How long have I been out for?” “Only two days or thereabouts,” answered Frederick. “But by Celestia, were you lucky to make it out alive. According to the doctors, you'd lost so much blood that they needed to transfuse you before they could even begin to operate.” It was clear from the tone of his voice that he had been brooding over my welfare the whole time, mentally pleading for the powers that be to spare me from the Harbinger of Death, to renew my life-force for a further few decades of life among the mortals; much like how I had been pleading for them to bring me and her back together somehow, to spare us both from a life of virtual solitude and enable our relationship to flourish. That alone touched my heart, despite the pang of sorrow I felt for my Romeo being banished from the town in which my world resided. “What about the others?” I asked tentatively. “They're all okay, and so am I – well, aside from having sprained my right knee and bruised my shoulder. They had to treat Harpo for a broken nose and a fractured hind leg, and Beauty Brass is still suffering from frayed nerves; but apart from that, it's mostly just small cuts and bruises.” Looking into his eyes, I could detect the slightest hint of unease in his expression, the look of the puppy that had been caught ravishing one's favourite slippers. It was as if he wanted to tell me something else, but couldn't find the words. “I won't lie, Octavia, I had never been so scared in all my life. Even stage nerves couldn't compare with the fear I felt for you all that night.” I managed a weak, wry smile in response. “Then thank Celestia for that little colt coming to my rescue,” I murmured. Frederick blinked. “Come again?” “I couldn't be too sure, considering how much pain I was in, but I could have sworn by the princesses that a little unicorn colt had come to my aid in the aftermath of the crash,” I elaborated. “He was red in colour, he wore an engine driver's neckerchief, and his Cutie Mark was a wheel and chimney. He bandaged my arm, chest and head with pieces of bed linen, and kept watch over me all the way back here.” “My word!” exclaimed Frederick, visibly amazed. “That must be the same colt who helped me out of my compartment. What was his name? He deserves recognition for this.” But unfortunately I was in such a weary state that the colt's name had completely escaped me – indeed, I couldn't even remember for love or money whether I had heard it at all, which was a pity. Thankfully, Frederick quickly realised this and opted against pressing the matter any further. “Oh well,” he mused thoughtfully, “I'm sure he'll get his dues by the end of the inquiry. I only wish I could thank him in person for what he's done.” I couldn't agree more with his sentiment; but at the same time, I felt a little disappointed that our journey had come to such an abrupt halt and left us marooned on a proverbial island far away from our port of call, unable to complete our voyage for Manehattan. “I guess Bridleway won't be having an easy time finding a new group,” I observed solemnly. “They aren't,” replied Frederick. “From what I've heard, half of the audience for the opening of 'The Legend of the Night' were travelling with us at the time of the accident, so they've had to postpone until next month at the earliest.” He looked down at his hooves, the look of regret slowly returning to his face. “Maybe a little longer, unless they can provide the required instruments.” “But Frederick,” I protested, taken aback, “I thought we'd already discussed the piano issue...” “No, Octavia, this isn't just about the piano,” interrupted Frederick, “it's to do with the entire group. He paused again, almost afraid of what he had to say next. “The thing is...how can I say this......you know how proud and protective you are of that cello of yours?” I nodded wordlessly, wondering where he was going with his explanation; but secretly, I too was beginning to experience a pang of dread. The fate of my cello had been the last thing on my mind that night, mostly the result of my own injuries, and even when I was being taken away for medical attention, I never once thought to ask. Now I was almost afraid to find out. “Well...I'm afraid you no longer have one to call your own. They pulled the remains out of the luggage van only a day after we were hospitalised, and...to cut a long story short, not one of our instruments has survived – not even Beauty Brass' sousaphone.” The fear in my heart turned into a mild sting of grief at this crushing revelation. Apart from her, my erstwhile 2003 Harmonic Strings cello had been the one thing I held most dear to my heart – and now that too was gone, crushed to a heap of matchwood and broken strings amid countless items of ruined luggage, its deep and soothing music silenced for good, the motherly touch of its melodic hoof no longer reaching out to soothe away my sorrow. It was like losing a close family member, one who had stood by one's side throughout one's foalhood, through good times and bad, for better or worse, in sickness and health. “I'm so sorry,” said Frederick, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes trained downwards with remorse. My only response was a sombre nod as I attempted to restrain my tears; though clearly with little success, as Frederick promptly drew me into a gentle embrace, rubbing one hoof between my shoulders in a bid to soothe away the pain of my lost cello. But precious and delicate as they may be, musical instruments are only material objects by the end of the day, and if one breaks or becomes worn out, it can eventually be replaced, whereas life itself cannot. Granted, I would feel my loss very deeply over the coming weeks, but with so much money saved up from all our previous concerts, I could soon purchase myself a brand new cello – the important thing, I tried to console myself, was that we were all alive. About an hour later, Frederick went to see how the rest of the group were managing, promising to visit me again and wishing me a swift recovery before he left the ward. For the rest of the day, and throughout the night, I found myself drifting in and out of sleep, the embers of the crash still glowing dully in the back of my mind. Far from the intense pain I had felt on impact and for several hours thereafter, my broken arm now felt numb and lifeless, so much so that I had to gaze upon it several times to reassure myself that it was still there. I couldn't imagine how terrible my life would have become if I was unable to play my own music, cello or no cello; and if my arm was so far gone that it had to be amputated, my days as a cellist would have been exhausted forever. As matters stood, the nurse told me the following morning, I would require at least a fortnight of bed rest before I could even get up and walk around, let alone play a musical instrument of any description. Any disappointment I might have felt at the time, however, became little more than a small grain of sand on a vast beach of reverie as my thoughts turned back to my friends, none of whom I had yet seen aside from Frederick. Granted, the latter had informed me that they had come out no worse for wear than I had, but I still couldn't be too sure until I had had a chance to talk with them. But that chance had to wait a little longer as all five were preceded by none other than Pinkie Pie, who had already heard all about the accident long before I had awoken. I was pleasantly surprised to see her, and even more so when I learned that we had been hospitalised in her home-town of all places. Pinkie, for her part, had been fraught with anxiety upon hearing the horrific news of my misfortune, and was most relieved to see me alive and well. She even added a few balloons to my bedside table and apologised for making a fool out of us with her Pony Pokey request, which was very thoughtful of her. We spent a good half an hour catching up on the goings-on in each other's lives – I won't go into detail, however, as Pinkie does tend to ramble a fair bit, and with all due respect, none of our exchange was of much consequence. Beauty Brass was the next to visit. I was a little perturbed at first; our interaction immediately prior to the crash was still fresh in my memory, and I almost expected her to have a lot more to say about my leanings. It came as yet another surprise, therefore, when I noticed a look of shame in her expression. A lengthy silence reigned over us as we both tried to find our voices. “Uh...hi, Octavia,” stammered Beauty Brass after a while. “How are you feeling?” “I've felt better,” I answered, lacking the courage to look her in the eye, but trying to sound sincere nonetheless. Another pause ensued before Beauty Brass spoke up again; “Listen, Octavia...I've had more than enough time to think about my behaviour after hearing you were...uh...that your...ah......” I promptly raised a hoof to silence her. “It's alright, Beauty Brass,” I interrupted, trying to diffuse the situation before either of us could say anything to hurt the other's feelings. “I won't hold it against you if you wish to resign from the group.” “Resign?” Beauty Brass suddenly looked dismayed. “Heavens, no, Octavia! It's me who happens to be in the wrong, not you!” She paused yet again, calming herself down before pursuing her point still further. “The events of the last few days have made me realise how insensitive I have been, and I'm truly sorry I hurt you the way I did. You must understand, I do want to be able to accept fill...uh, I mean...homosexual ponies,” she explained ruefully, averting her gaze and brushing a hoof against the floor, “but I just don't understand them as well as you do. That's why I reacted the way I did.” Her admission of the error of her ways caught me unawares, and I almost didn't believe she was trying to make amends for her own misdeed; but at the same time, the sorrow in her voice was so genuine that I couldn't bring myself to hold a grudge against her. “So...you still wish to remain as part of the group?” I asked tentatively. Beauty Brass shook her head. “You're a wonderful composer, and an even better friend; I could never bring myself to resign over some petty difference of opinion. All I ask is if you can forgive me for speaking ill of your...'orientation', so to speak.” Touched by her reappraisal of our friendship, I smiled warmly in response. “Of course I can,” I replied simply. “You're a very good friend too, Beauty Brass, and it means a lot to me that you wish to continue our professional relationship.” Beauty Brass returned the smile in kind, wrapping an arm around my withers in a friendly embrace. Only then, as I returned the gesture, did I fully realise how badly she was suffering from her own ordeal, for I could feel her entire frame trembling ever so subtly, like an old wooden bridge in an earthquake. Such a cataclysmic shock-wave had clearly damaged her supports, and only Frederick and I could provide the scaffolding that would keep her intact until she had recovered. That said, it was a wonder she managed to avoid weeping into my fur. We remained that way for a few minutes longer until she had pulled herself back together, after which we both related to each other our own stories of the accident. It turned out that Beauty Brass had also been having trouble sleeping, and had resorted to a spot of light reading; only to be interrupted halfway through the book by the same deathly banshee scream of brakes as I had heard shortly before impact. Leaning out of the window, she glimpsed the engines plodding along mere yards away from our own, and after a brief terror-induced seizure, threw herself onto the floor and braced herself for impact. In this way, she had saved herself from serious physical injury, unlike me; but mentally, she was so dreadfully scarred that the nurse had had to sedate her in order to calm her nerves that first night. One could only sympathise with her plight, especially after being subjected to a similar misfortune. Eventually, our conversation came to an end, and Beauty Brass opted to let the others talk to me before I was left to rest myself. But my surprises for the day weren't quite over, for my next visitor was neither Frederick, Concerto or even Harpo, but a red unicorn colt whom I instantly recognised...