//------------------------------// // Going Down // Story: The Olden World // by Czar_Yoshi //------------------------------// After an eternity of marching, Selma's guard convoy came to a halt. Maple shook herself back to alertness; he was carrying her at an unfortunate angle that caused her blood to rush to her head, making focusing hard. Nobody was speaking. Instead, they stood at a doorway, the blue stone of the corridor's natural walls abruptly parting before a slab of metal. A security console stood to the side, and Selma approached it, pulling out a card and sliding it into the machine. There was a click, a hazy green light lit up, and the door slid open. The guards with the crates moved through first, Selma watching them lazily. Maple stole a glance at him, ensuring he wasn't looking her way, and then stared hungrily at the card key in its slot. A thing like that would be invaluable in an escape attempt, and half of it was sticking out of the machine... Selma turned, subconsciously moving Maple along with his head's motion. She licked her lips as she passed the console, and stretched as hard as she could... and felt the tip of her tail brush along the surface where the card was. Success. So long as he didn't blame her when he inevitably noticed... His aura tingled along the slot where the card had been, and out of the corner of her eye saw him stare suspiciously at it... and then at her. Pretending to be just as defeated as she had been for the duration of the trip, she slumped, acting as if she didn't even register the change in terrain. Two seconds passed, and then three... and he shrugged and looked away. Maple kept herself from breathing a sigh of relief as he moved through the door with her and let it shut behind him; apparently he was too proud to even ask the guards if they had seen it. Served him right. The fortress was all metal from there, a grated floor covering a trench for pipes that no longer had to run along the ceiling. It really looked more industrial than military, almost like a control room or what she imagined to be the inside of a giant ship. Cool air rushed through the corridor with enough force that Selma tightened his aura to prevent her from blowing out; either the tunnels were excellently ventilated or were ventilation ducts themselves. On the walls, occasional support beams ran vertical, a mixture of pipes and reinforced crinkles in the metal plating designed to keep them from buckling. Maple's tale swished against several, and she entertained the idea of grabbing hold and yanking herself out of the captain's grasp. It remained a fantasy, however, as the reality was there would be nothing she could do even if she succeeded. Several turns and a few more open rooms later, they came to another door, this time not requiring a card reader. Selma flicked a lever, and it slid open. Beyond, a dim, tall natural cavern formed, a forest of pipes running floor to ceiling. "Leave the crates here," he commanded. "And then do whatever you will. I have some words for the prisoner I want to share in private. Make it quick!" The guards hastily deposited the crates at the back of the room, where they blended in with a host of other random materials likely left in storage. Then they scuttled out... and with a pulse of magic from Selma's horn, the door slid closed, and he and Maple were alone. "I see the way you're looking at me," Selma said lowly, the light of his horn the only source of illumination in the room. Turning Maple so that she faced him, he continued, "Unfair, you think. Cheater. Lawbreaker. Scoundrel, even. Amusingly enough, what I don't see is liar." Sturdy ropes snaked out of the shadows, led by his aura, and Maple quickly found herself vertical, back pressed to a pipe, hind hooves barely able to touch the ground. "Because," Selma whispered, "I lied. I knew Gerardo was coming, sooner or later. I knew about his job, his delivery. And I have a very good idea of what's in those precious crates... and their contents are dangerous." He shook his head. "Think I was unfair, aggressive, or picking a fight all you want. But what I am is the protector of all of Ironridge... and this was a threat that had to be dealt with." He leaned in closer, the illumination of his own horn casting unnatural shadows on his face. "You're obviously not from around here, so I'll let you in on another secret. Ironridge isn't like the rest of the world. In Ironridge, it's kill or be killed... and I am not afraid to play dirty to win. Nobody cares how nice you were after you're dead." Maple gasped as the ropes constricted around her chest. "If you knew it was just him, then... ugh! Then why did you arrest me?" "Because you dropped a brick on my head," Selma growled. "I didn't say I wasn't petty and vengeful. Now you're going to stay down here until those crates are no longer a danger to me and my city... and then I just might let you go." He smiled in the dim light. "I do have a soft spot for pretty faces, after all. Such a shame you had to get caught up in the wrong crowd. In fact... how did you come to be associated with that griffon?" Maple glared back at him. "Leave me alone! I don't care what your reason is, and I'm not telling you! You're a jerk!" She wanted to add and my filly is out there, but strongly felt his attention didn't need to be drawn to that. Selma shrugged. "I can do that, too. In fact, until this random headache clears, I might just forget about you altogether. But that won't be a problem." He prodded twice at her exposed belly with a curious hoof. "You look well-nourished. I'm sure missing a meal or two won't hurt." "Don't touch me!" Maple hissed, trying and failing to lean away. "Once again, your loss," Selma said, turning away. Freed from his aura, Maple sagged in her restraints. "Warning you about your griffon's goals... giving you a free excuse to part ways with him... you could always see this as an act of favor, or generosity. If you benefit nothing from this, you have only yourself to blame. Good night, pony." The door closed behind him, sending the room into total darkness. Maple's fuzzy ears twitched, listening to the echoing vibrations of his retreating hoofsteps... and then her cutie mark activated, pocketing the ropes that bound her to the pipe. She dropped back onto all fours, plus one rope and a card key, briefly massaging the spot Selma had jabbed as if his touch left a stain that could be wiped away. It was time to find her filly and make sure she was safe.