//------------------------------// // Chapter 6 // Story: Death Rides a Pale Mare // by totallynotabrony //------------------------------// Pale sat at the lab table and watched Shard work, collecting materials and equipment from around the room. He seemed to have a rhythm, though only he knew what it might be. She shifted uncomfortably, the bandages that ringed her torso digging in. At least she had healed enough to make the trip back to the cave. It had been a week of misery in Trottingham before Shard decided that she was going to pull through and pronounced her well enough to travel. “How’s the pain?” Shard asked over his shoulder. “Not bad.” “For real. Normal pony pain reaction, please.” “Five out of ten.” “Okay, getting better.” Shard dropped a few things into a beaker and then poured in some liquid. He dipped the tip of his wing into the mixture and gave it a stir. The concoction turned purple, also coloring the feather he was using to mix it. He gave it to Pale. “Try this.” “What is it?” “Pain suppressant.” “It’s not that bad.” “Just humor me. I take every opportunity I can to play doctor.” Pale took a sip. There was an herbal flavor, though she wouldn’t have liked it as a tea. Shard stared at her. “Anything?” Pale considered it. “My stomach feels cold. I think it might be spreading outwards.” She lightly touched her abdomen where the bandages were thickest. “I think it’s working a little.” Shard nodded. “Good. Works on me, too.” He turned and rummaged among his shelves. “While you’re here, you can help me with a few other things.” “I thought you wanted me to take it easy.” Shard chuckled. “We both know you won’t. At least give me a hoof with some paperwork while you’re resting. I’ve been trying to get my notes on the Blight together. Mostly it’s just scraps of paper that I’ve written on here and there.” He came over and dumped a pile of papers on the table, sitting down across from her. “They aren’t dated, but that’s not a proper way to organize this anyway. We’ll just have to pick through it and sort by topic.” Shard also placed a roughly-bound book on the table. It was a journal on the Blight, collected by various members of the guild over the years. Some of the entries were older than Piper. By comparing Shard’s notes to those already in the journal, the two of them were slowly able to flesh out a few of the finer points. Pale already had an intimate understanding of the Blight’s timeline, but a few of the details they uncovered were new to her. It took up to one month from infection with the Blight to death. Following infection, there was a one-to-three week latency period in which the disease spread through the twitcher’s body. At that point, symptoms began to occur. Aside from twitchiness, the infected began to crave destruction and would readily sabotage their surroundings in order to feed the impulse. Infected spent about a week as full-blown twitchers. As the end approached, creating destruction became secondary to seeking out crowds. The period of active infection eventually culminated in the bloom, a massive coughing fit that spread the Blight to as many others as possible. Following the bloom, the twitcher only possessed enough drive to leave the scene and find somewhere quiet to die. Shard pondered over a few notes in front of him and then consulted the early pages of the journal. “The Blight doesn’t seem to have changed since...well, since before somepony began keeping track.” “Why would it change?” Pale asked. “Diseases tend to mutate. Even if it’s just a little bit, over time the symptoms and markers vary. The Blight’s been exactly the same for perhaps a few hundred years, if not longer.” “That’s unusual?” “Well, think about it. If it’s always been the exact same, then where did it originally come from?” Shard frowned. “I’ve only observed the slightest variances in lab samples, and nothing out of the ordinary compared to live twitchers.” He indicated a couple of covered petri dishes with blood samples inside, labeled from the time a measure of Blight was introduced. They were difficult to simulate disease gestation, as the Blight did not tend to survive very well outside a body. Shard went on. “High stability is just one aspect of its unusual characteristics as a disease. I have yet to formally decide if it’s a virus, bacteria, or fungus. It seems to share characteristics of all three. There isn’t another malady out there quite like it, not to mention its effects.” He leaned forward, clearly building towards a point. “Towards the later stages, the Blight inspires twitchers towards violence and destruction, even before they bloom. It doesn’t make sense for a disease to cause them to stir up trouble before becoming infectious. That could hurt the disease’s chances of finding new targets to infect, if - for instance - the twitcher scared away or even killed others beforehand. It’s almost like the Blight’s overarching goal is to inflict chaos first, with a secondary goal of spreading itself.” Pale’s ears tipped forward. “Chaos? Like Discord?” While Pale had been recovering, an ancient monster that could manipulate reality had broken free from his prison but then recaptured. Shard shrugged. “Maybe. He could have created the Blight the last time he was free.” He paused, his brows furrowing. “But even if it wasn’t him...it does kind of seem like somepony or something might have purposely created the Blight.” Pale considered it. “Interesting. And troubling.” “No kidding. That still leaves a lot of questions, though.” Shard picked up the beaker of leftover purple liquid and took a sip. Being confined to the cave and light duty for weeks did not take advantage of Pale’s skill set in the slightest. Shard had her tending his medicinal garden and Piper asked her to refile the library. At least it was better than doing nothing. Pale worked slowly, focusing on healing, as she should. The small garden did not take much effort. It was located near the entrance of the cave, concealed by a patch of tall grass. Pale had never done much of her work during the daylight, and found some small enjoyment in the opportunity to spend a few hours in the sun. The library had all the material the guild had managed to collect over the years regarding the Blight. The rest of the nonfiction section, and the fiction section too, was as varied as the tastes of all the assassins over the years. Some of them had been quite prolific in looting books from dead twitchers. As nice as the forced vacation might have been, Pale still jumped at the opportunity to go back to work. Mindful that she was still recovering, Piper purposely gave her a light task. “Appleoosa just fumigated and I can’t get parasprites into town for a few days. I’d like you to go and keep an eye out. There are a couple of ponies that could have been exposed that I would like watched. Plus, Nightmare Night will make it much easier to pass undetected.” “What if any of them are close to blooming?” Pale asked. “The last time I had a look at the town, there were no ponies that I felt were confirmed twitchers. I don’t think there will be problems, but I trust you to evaluate that for yourself.” Pale made ready to leave, packing lightly. Even being Nightmare Night, she didn’t even consider going sans cloak. If nothing else, everypony would ask, “What kind of costume is that?” She arrived in Appleoosa as the sun was setting. Foals and adults alike were out in the streets, dressed up and enjoying themselves. Pale kept to the boardwalk at the edge of the dirt street. Being surrounded by costumed revelry didn’t change her dislike of crowds. She first checked in on a stallion from the list Piper had given her. He and his wife were giving candy to the children that came to their door. Unfortunately, all Pale saw of him were brief glimpses when the door was open. There was no place to hide near the house. Appleoosa’s desert landscape left little in the way of shrubbery. The moon was also bright and full. If she wanted to hang around, she was going to need an excuse. There was a small group of friends talking and laughing together in the street, all of them decked out in costumes. Pale quietly joined them, doing her best to stay in the back and inconspicuous. Her plan worked for a few minutes. She caught a few more looks at the stallion in the house. He seemed fine. “Hey, do we know you?” asked a pony in a clown costume, finally noticing Pale. The others turned to look. Another asked, “What are you supposed to be?” “Leaving,” Pale replied, quietly disengaging. She headed down the street towards the diner and the next possible twitcher on the list. The restaurant wasn’t as lively as the streets and it wasn’t any trouble for Pale to walk in and sit down. The place was nearly empty. She picked a table that gave her a view of the kitchen, and out of habit also the door. The waitress seemed annoyed, but Pale thought it might be because she had to work during Nightmare Night, rather than being any effect of the Blight. Still, Pale nursed a glass of juice for a few minutes, watching just to be sure as the waitress wiped tables and carried plates around. A stallion dressed like a basketball player came in. He was more interested in the waitress than something to eat. She came over and he pulled her close, whispering in her ear and slipping a chocolate bar into her hooves. She laughed and kissed him, but then shooed him out so she could keep working. Pale paid her bill and left. There was one more name on the list, an elderly mare who lived in a house at the end of the street. The place wasn’t quite what Pale would consider isolated, but she decided to risk a look around the back. She rose up at a lighted window. A grandmotherly pony was in her kitchen, mixing something in a pot on the stove. A bushel of apple cores and skin sat on the floor, with a masher. Apple cider? The mare opened her spice rack and took out some cinnamon, sprinkling it into the pot. Her hoof shook. Pale frowned. A palsy, particularly in an older pony, did not obviously make her a twitcher. As she continued to watch, the mare put away the spices and turned to a different cabinet. She pulled out a small box and took it over to the stove. Pale squinted. It was rat poison. The contents of the box went into the pot. Highly suspicious, but circumstantial. Maybe she was trying to be rid of picky pests that would only eat treats. Then, the doorbell rang. “Coming!” the mare sang, and lifted the pot from the stove. She paused, set it back down, and coughed delicately into her hoof. Pale set her jaw and crept towards the front of the house. Two colts dressed like pirates stood at the front door, bathed in the porch light. The door opened and the grandmotherly mare greeted them, fawning over their costumes. She gave them each a paper cup filled with steaming liquid. After thanking her, the two kids started away and Pale heard the door close. One of them blew on his cup. That made sense, it had just come off the stove. Pale turned and hurried back along the house until she came to the corner and then ran as quietly as possible down a few houses to get in front of the pair of colts. She glanced around and then emerged from between houses, heading towards the two colts at a walk. Both still carried their steaming cups. Pale deliberately walked into them, feeling two splashes on her sides. “What the-!” “Hey-!” “Watch it,” Pale muttered and continued on without looking back. She winced as the spilled cider soaked through her cloak and bandages. It must have been boiling when it came off the stove, though the cool night air would take the heat off soon enough. Ignoring it, Pale walked to the door and knocked. “Coming!” Cough. The door opened and Pale pushed forward. She was into the house and had the door shut and porch light turned off before the mare could even protest. The old mare put up only feeble resistance. As gently as she could to avoid bruising, Pale put her in a headlock and slowly squeezed her into unconsciousness. That bought Pale some time, but now she had to figure out how to stage the scene. The two kids would probably say something about a mysterious cloaked figure if there was anything suspicious about the mare’s death. Pulling the limp body into the kitchen, Pale examined the room. First, she pushed the pot of cider off the stove. It hit the floor, spilling everywhere. Then, she climbed up on the counter, dragging the mare with her. From there, it was easy to drop her on the corner of the table, ensuring there was enough force to separate her vertebrae. The crack was audible, and the old mare slid down into the puddle of cider, neck hanging at a wrong angle. Pale watched from her perch long enough to ensure the mare stopped breathing. Pale slid back down the counter, dismounting when she was sure she wouldn’t get her hooves in the cider. She turned the porch light back on, and then left the house, slipping out of town. On the way back, Pale touched her bandage and winced. This would probably set her recovery back another week or two.