//------------------------------// // 7 The Shackles Unbreaking // Story: When the Stars are Right // by Broken Phalanx //------------------------------// “That letter you sent sure got everypony agitated,” Spike says, blowing at the vapor that hangs about his cup of chilled chocolate and briefly imagining a world where one couldn’t cook eggs on the pavement in winter. “I gave the response letter to Twilight like you suggested, and, heh, I suppose she was in such a hurry she forgot to take me.” “Verily?” “Man, we need to get you outside and socialized or something; you give me Twilight or Starlight vibes, but you’re about a thousand times worse.” “Verily?” “Like that! Nobody says that anymore, and I’ve heard ancient dragons and stuff talk more modernly! You’re speaking like somepony stuffy who’s still riding the high of getting their Doctorate about a decade after the fact.” “Oh. That may very well explain my dictation, to an extent.” “Really? You got all this logic from somepony smart but none of the social stuff?” “Would you care about learning the social conventions of ants if you found yourself held in a mockery of a prison by them?” “See, that’s what I mean. You can have all the reason and knowledge in the world, but if you start comparing folks to bugs you’re not gonna go far. Jeez, that’s, like, Etiquette 101 or something. I mean, you weirded me out originally with all your doom and gloom originally, and I hang out with a buncha folks I’m pretty sure have undiagnosed mental issues.” “Verily, little Dragon?” “To quote Big Mac on this one, ‘Eeyup’.” “Oh. I have never truly been in ideal correspondence with another sapient entity prior; I was under the assumption my intercourse with Sparkle was the standard.” “Yeah, don’t call it intercourse, just another one of those social things. But as for everything else, hey, it is what it is. Now, uh, I hate to be ‘that guy,’ but, you know…” “Verily, I am aware; ye’ are to give me cues, whereupon I will ensure certain noises occur, correct?” “Yeah; just gotta get you tucked under this blanket real quick, the guys should be here in, like, five minutes…” *** “You all meet within a Tavern. Unfortunately, it’s thirty thousand feet in the air-” a low whistling fills the room, only to steadily rise in pitch as Spike continues, “-and falling fast! What do you do?!” *** “-that’s not a vicious Gamma-Gnoll, that’s my wife!” A solid second passes in dead silence before, evidently, the most thematically aware cricket in Equestria makes itself heard. “...I, uh, I don’t think it was too terrible of a joke-” “Can it, Cheese!” The ensuing slide whistle went almost unheard amongst the laughter. *** The wind roars as Spike speaks. “Lemme see if I get this right, you’re trying to use your Blasting Rune spell to give the flying boulder one final bit of ‘oomph’?” “Eeyup.” “You’re… all aware you’re still on the boulder, right?” “Eeyup.” “Right-o.” “Yup!” “YEAH!” “And you still think this is a good idea?” “Of course not, but imagine how utterly incredible it’ll look when we land!” “...you know what, yeah! Roll for damage, Big Mac, and as for the rest of you…” *** “...Big Mac?” “Eeyup?” "How is it that, as a Wizard, you have the largest health pool?” "Ah’m a Muscle-Wizard.” “I suppose you are, then. Maximilian the Crimson pulls his comrades out from under the still smoking stone chunks, and from there-” a thud on the door echoes loud and clear through the dimly lit central room and startles the assembled working stallions of Ponyville “-we will have to pick up next time. Hope you guys enjoyed the game!” Papers are shuffled together and dice are tossed into knapsacks with a quiet urgency found only in those who have a reputation to maintain. A few bits exchange hooves, the ‘winner’ of the night having been long determined, and bowler-hats adjusted even as the small dragon breathed a small gout of harmless smoke upon each of the players with practiced ease. A scaly hand directs the stallions towards the back exit, even as the drake sweeps the miniatures from off the table into an awaiting sack. The stallions exit in single file, indistinguishable from amateur gamblers save for the smallest glint of enjoyment awake in their eyes. These were ponies whose greatest practice with poker face was on arriving home from rolling the bones. Another thud rocks the front entrance, even as Spike scuttles forward towards the entrance, sack slung over one shoulder and having, somehow, conjured a brush in one hand and a bottle of window cleaner in the other. “Yes,” Spike says while flinging open the door, clearly not feeling truly hospitable but too deep in the charade to so casual abandon all pretenses, “how may I he-errk!” There is the tingling ‘twinkle’ of magic followed by silence, then careful hoofsteps, and finally the crackle of communication magic; whatever this is, it has the mark of a stoic and consummate professional. The above description is also a filthy lie; the hoofsteps might as well have belonged to a particularly imperious neutron star given how they echoed with a volume visitors would have difficulty replicating with stomps, the ‘silence’ discarded in lieu of humming some sort of high intensity song, and the ‘crackle of communication magic’ actually being a gargled noise hacked up from the depths of the intruder’s throat. When she speaks, it is in a tone that seems to demand respect, the sort of intonation from which wonders were crafted and armies were led. “This is Firesquad Moonlit Glory, we’ve secured Spike the Dragon; teleportation to Princess Sparkle initiated flawlessly barring momentary confusion from the target. Proceeding to secondary objective once local side quests have been complet-ooh, is this a cold-brew coconut latte with a side of biscuit? Well, t’would be a shame to not partake!” To the only other inhabitant, only two things were clear; first, that this burglar echoed with the 'scent' of food, and second, that this miscreant was in the process of stealing Spike’s snacks. Underneath the blanket Apostrophe waits, the predatory stillness of the construct body more reminiscent of a coiled snake than any herbivore. Apostrophe would only get one chance at making an excellent first impression, after all. And minutes pass, the only noises (besides progressively more panicked whinnies when “the secondary objective is not where it ought!”) being the breathing of the land, the multitudinous organic squelches living beings somehow contain within them like some biological orchestra, and a quiet screeching as the music of orbits is disrupted. The sun dances further away, buying perhaps another day. It very nearly takes an hour for the dark blue Alicorn to find Apostrophe- “Hello. I am called Apostrophe. You ate my associate’s snacks. Prepare to-” and Apostrophe, lacking any sort of social compunction that demands a duel be fully declared prior to engagement, says the first syllable of it’s true name. *** There is a portion of the brain, lizard-like in its capacity for rational thought, that is entirely devoted towards self-preservation. It can act whilst the rest of the mind has blacked-out, swim when the body wishes to sink, and endure what the soul believes untenable. For Luna, it can also apparently teleport while entirely unconscious. *** The problem with becoming accustomed to company is that time seems to pass far more slowly while alone. Society, it seems, is infectious. A minute passes as Apostrophe breathes, once, twice, trice- One can count their breath only so many times. And there were subjects demanding deliberation. “Starswirl,” Apostrophe says, as quoting the names by rote; the titles of supposed genii hanging in the air as fresh as rain water. “Clover, Trotticus…” The naming goes on for a solid minute even as the colors of the room coalesce and part like a sea of shadows, nearing as the names beckon and retreating as the seconds pass. Existence turns a muted grey where the substance splashes, as if it were constructed from thieving waves, before the objects robbed of color fade and crumble like ash. “...Maximilian the Crimson.” Apostrophe says after a moment of silence, and at this the various colors of the world fall into a rolling tumble, manifesting as a progressively more equine shape as the seconds pass. A low murmur of thankfulness fills the room; Twilight and her prejudiced views against simulated existences are, for the moment, not present. And then an enormous red Unicorn stands in the center of the room, the floor crunching under the newcomer’s hooves like cinereous ash. And, of course, he had a wizard hat, as all self-acknowledged mages must. “Where am Ah?” “Ye’ are present in a crystalline castle in a world inundated with heroes old and young. The lives of those located on this planetoid are endangered; you will assist me, as is the typical action of those designated ‘Chaotic Good’.” “Mmm…” Maximilian the Crimson grunts neutrally, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He glances about, clearly searching for the speaker, before replying, “Ah don’t help strangers. Leads to a lotta messy business.” “I would find issue with that position, were any number of additional bodies capable of changing the outcome. I ask not for your brawn, but rather your brain; I query on the acceptability of euthanasia in such circumstances.” There are looks, and then there are Looks. Maximilian affixes a random corner of the room with the latter, having completely given up on finding the mysterious speaker. “Ah’m gettin’ tha’ feelin’ yer not tha’ one Ah wanna be helpin’.” “Verily? Why is that?” “Nopony meanin’ tah do good hides from a fella’. And yer talkin’ usin’ big words. So, given that, yer probably one of them ‘Morality is Relative’ folks since yer talkin’ about murderin’ fer tha’ greater good and what-not.” “A clever supposition, yet flawed on two accounts, Maximilian the Crimson-” “An’ now yer flappin’ yer lips and posturin’ like some sorta malevolent monologuin’ minotaur. Do me tha’ favor of puttin’ me out of my misery before yer soliloquy.” “I suspect we have reached a mutually detrimental conversational impasse. Surely we are capable-” And then, true to form for all such adventurers, Maximilian interrupted Apostrophe’s speech by setting a corner of the study ablaze with a fireball. *** There was much to mull over, once the seemingly psychotic red Unicorn had been banished. Namely, that simply because an entity is described as a ‘Murder-hobo’ does not mean said individual is willing to discuss mortality. Three more attempts test the veracity of Apostrophe’s hypothesis and find the anecdotal evidence conclusive enough;there is simply not enough ‘color’ in the room for a truly sufficient sample size, but one must make due with what is provided. Yet progress is made, albeit unconventionally, and the observations gleaned are threefold. First, residing under what is essentially a pile of coats is a form of invisibility to these equines; the sharper ones might glance at the vaguely equine shape in askance for a moment or two, but would eventually claim  such a spot as ‘Too obvious’. Second, there was always an attempt of violence, albeit ill-directed given the first observation; clearly, such a species possesses a significant phobia on all things related to mortality to lash out as such. Finally, the second observation did not hold true in instances where the individually ‘hummed’ the ‘color’ ‘purple’. Apostrophe stills and listens to the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of the future being spun into a predictable pattern; doomed planet, desperate ponies, last hope… failure. Writ into stone; such was the course, unavertable by any means of magic or might. The sequence begins again. At the finale Apostrophe twists, and the melody goes askew; there is work to be done. *** Everything is wrong and it’s somehow Apostrophe’s fault. The last thing Twilight could remember was being with her friends on a mission to the icy edge of the world and then- Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, except the quarter-second view she got of her unusually grey study; then the floor caved-in beneath her and she had tumbled into what felt like a closet filled with a remarkable number of pillows. “Arise from ye’ doldrum, Ms. Sparkle. I have found necessity in conversing with ye’.” Of course something like this has to happen. ‘Oh no, the Elements aren’t working, or Rainbow Power isn’t glowing, or everything is on fire, better get TWILIGHT to fix every- For a moment she struggles against the pillows; her face glows red when she realizes the cushions pack her so tightly in place that she doesn’t even budge. “Ms. Sparkle? Verily, this is quite pertinent; arise, so that we may communicate.” An attempt at teleportation is made; magic tingles from her horn as her internal reserves are tested, only to be found wanting for the moment. Twilight sighs even as she wiggles in futility; this comfy prison is going to be her home for the duration. “Yeah, well, you’re going to need to get me or something.” “Ye’ know such a task is beyond me whilst within this vessel.” “Then this is going to have to be good enough, then!” A second passes in silence before Apostrophe asks, “Ye’ have fallen and remain unable to arise?” “... yes, Apostrophe.” “Are ye’ not somewhat youthful to be having such-” “Another word and I’ll bury you.” “Hm. That would be unfortunate. This troublesome method of distant communication will suffice, then.” “Good. Then maybe you can start by telling me why my study is suddenly grey and follow it up with why I’m here and not saving the world!” “Verily, the former is an issue that shall be mended once I find the resolve to do so; it shall taste of dust and loss, but it shall not remain so. The latter, however, is far more easily answered; ye’ are still where ye’ think ye’ ought. Ye’ are simply here as well.” “That doesn’t answer my questions, Apostrophe.” “Nor was it intended to; after all, ye’ still imagine ye’ have a chance to restore that plasma sphere of yours.” Twilight’s tone is low, dangerous, an absurdity when contrasted with her unseen yet clearly plush surroundings. “Is that a bet, Apostrophe?” “Gambling implies probability; ye’ Sun is a clock that has run out of tocks.” “Celestia herself told us where to find the Lighthouse of-” “The Solar Doodad,” Apostrophe interrupts. “...excuse me?” Twilight replied in a tone that, if it’s chilliness could somehow be bottled, could’ve delayed solar obliteration by at least four or five days. “From the fragmentary glance I have had upon the mind of one such ruler, ye’ are more in tune with their thinking by simply stating the term ‘Doodad’. ‘Thingy’, evidently, is likewise common parlance amongst the-” Apostrophe pauses, as if mulling over something, before saying, “Sparkle?” “What is it, Apostrophe?” Twilight replies, her tone more resigned than anything else. “If ye’ obtain many more compatriots amongst the ruling caste, it will soon come to rival or even outnumber the other twenty-seven thousand subsets of your kind.” “Okay, first, no, ponies come in fou-er, fiv- okay, six sub-categories, and second, there is no caste-” “Proving ye’ incorrect on ye’ own species is less pertinent than the myriad other issues we grapple with, Sparkle. Namely, ye’ sun perishes and inevitability approaches.” “No, it doesn’t, because we’re going to ensure nothing like that happens.” “Then entertain my erroneous predictions. If ye’ should fail, or find the Solar ‘Doodad’-” that phrasing earned an undirected glare from Twilight “-lacking, what shall be done then?” “Then we find another solution.” “And what is done should all the prospective paths falter?” “We find one that doesn’t,” Twilight replies shortly. A minute passes without reply, during which efforts to extract herself from her cushy prison are redoubled; progress, in all honesty, seems to be negative. “Sparkle, I wish to propose a philosophical experiment.” “I’m absolutely fine with that,” Twilight manages from after a grunt of irritation, “as long as you don’t pretend the result has any bearing on reality.” “Then, what is ye’ solution to the Trolley problem?” “Really? That old thing? Five ponies on a track and fewer on the other, train approaching, you have a lever… that one?” “Quite correct. What is your solution to the query it posits?” “Try and save everypony, obviously.” “That is rarely a valid option in such a scenario.” “Somehow being in the position described in that thought-experiment is probably less likely than being in a position where you can force everything to turn out alright.” “Verily, I concur.” “That being said, younger me, by maybe two years, would’ve probably been more utilitarian about the entire ordeal.” “Verily?” “Yeah. But then I learned that, really, everything can be triumphed if you have friends-” “I wish to propose another thought experiment.” “...are you even listening to me?” “Every word uttered is as vital to me as oxygen is to ye’. Nevertheless, time is short and the universe shrinks.” "Okay, no, I KNOW you're wrong there; the universe is literally expanding!" "Do you look in emptiness to find existance? The universe shrinks, the gaps between stars grow mightier by the moment, and nothingness out-measures somethingness by several orders of magnitude." “Uhuh. You know what, forget it; what’s the question?” “Trolley question, once more, but-” “Are you about to ask if I throw myself on the tracks to somehow stop the train?” “This is correct.” “Then the answer is the same as last time, if I were actually confronted with that… circumstance. But…” “Verily?” “I mean, look. In the context of the question itself, in whatever pocket dimension that has contrived philosophical conundrums and false dichotomies are reality, I want to think I’m the kind of pony who could do that.” “Even for entities that ye’ have not yet established bonds with.” “A stranger is a friend you haven’t made, Apostrophe. That’s it.” “A phrase that reeks of poignance and gold. Very well, a final question, Ms. Sparkle; do you feel real?”