//------------------------------// // Synthesis // Story: Dialectic // by Broken Phalanx //------------------------------// Somewhere something was burning. It probably wasn’t the house, but Polish knew probability went clear out the window whenever her daughter was concerned. Her heart-rate accelerates in her panic, buying that organ perhaps an extra beat or two. Not good; a twinkle of magic later, and a small barricade consisting of blocks and dolls line the interior of her front door. It’s by no means going to stop her when she slams through, but it will take her just that extra bit of time, just those few heartbeats that traitorous organ stole. She clears the blocks in just a moment; the timing has to be just right, just so. A second early and it’ll be for nought; a second late, and, well, Mrs. Polish is going to have to be buried in a bucket. And there’s the little hellion herself, playing on the roof as if it were the ground. They say things, words that have been heard enough times to lose all meaning and simply become a mess of animal noises. It’s all the same anyway; mother wants what’s best for child, child acts rebellious, mother transforms into something more at home in a biohazard bag. I… think I’ve spent a bit too much time watching and rewatching a mare explode and a filly go insane; it really hasn’t done any favors for my sense of humor. But this time, there won’t be any grievous displays of gore. Hopefully. I think I measured the poison just right… Ah. Yhup, just right. Dead as a doornail; I half expect some grand revelation, some shattering of earth and splitting of sky to follow as denouement of this murder, despite it having already been approved by the victim, but there’s nothing. The world finds no fault in this, somehow. Hrm. Still, the magic’s already working its way onwards, sinking its claws into the already toppling mare’s corpse, but you cannot slay that which is already deceased, little Antithesis... The mare rises, alive once more. The filly, panicked, falls into her mother’s hooves. Tears are shed: we three leave. *** “It’s still murder,” I mumble around a mouthful of liquid fire, only to wince in pain at the sound of my own voice; I cannot match the practiced alcohol tolerance of either sister, and attempting to do so was, in hindsight, stupid. They are silent, though I suspect it’s more for my benefit than any ability I have to actually stupify them. I glance again at the bottle held in somepony’s magic; either my eyes deceive me, or we’re imbibing 160160 proof. That’s about eight-thousand percent… Huh. This really was an error. Focusing long enough to mumble out a sobriety spell feels like driving an ice-pick into my brain, but at least the world refocuses after a minute. “He’s right, you know,” Monica/Luna replies tiredly, her reply muffled by the self-imposed yoke of the glass cup on her muzzle. “A pony did die, and we’re responsible. Her coming back to life a moment later doesn’t really change that.” “It was for the greater good,” Susan/Celestia points out, her warm and welcoming tone having finally abandoned her and leaving her sounding a great deal less certain of her own existence. “And, to be fair, she did agree to the plan.” Monica/Luna and I rise from our respective drinks to just . . . look at her like she was some sort of baffling extraterrestrial. “If asking ‘Do you want to help Equestria?’ and subsequently blasting all memory of that conversation out of her brain counts as ‘consent,’ I find myself becoming more and more mortified at our language,” Monica/Luna grumbles, hissing as she tilts her head back and sups again at the undefinable cocktail of substances in her glass. “Let’s be honest,” I add a great deal more somberly, “The only reason this plan is alright and the other wasn’t is because your’s didn’t directly involve a child.” “Essentially,” Susan/Celestia replied with a sigh, before making little work of her glass of … honestly, I can only describe both of their drinks of choice as essentially complicated poisons, with perhaps a cheery little umbrella here or there that subsequently dissolves from the sheer potency of the drink. “Perhaps some of this is purely semantics, but I feel less wretched when it’s a fully formed being, one who has already had some ability to do something with their lives.” “How many does this make?” Monica/Luna asks, and for a moment I can see every single year Susan/Celestia has lived marked clearly upon her face. It’s quite a heavy number. “Too many,” Susan/Celestia says around the lip of her glass at first before finally sighing in defeat and mumbling, “Including the fire about two centuries ago? If so, I’m personally responsible for about sixteen-thousand, four hundred and twenty nine individuals meeting their end prematurely.” “That’s a lot,” I find myself muttering. “It will only grow with time,” she replies, before letting out a hollow little laugh and adding, “And while only a tiny fraction of those are active murders, I find those are the only ones I find least issue with. And somehow I have two Alicorns who somehow look up to me as some sort of role-model-” “-three,” Monica/Luna interjects, and I see a smile crinkle away some of the lines in the older sister’s face. “-and I have absolutely no idea why.” “I suspect that’s a burden all immortals must eventually bear,” I venture. “No,” Susan/Celestia replies, and I find myself furtively leaning behind a long-emptied cheese-tray as if it can somehow shield me from her. “Not them,” she promises, and I hear some ancient instinct being invoked in her tone, almost mistakable for genuine malice; an old watch-dog shielding pups. And yet at the same time I see the weight of a world bearing down on her, and for a moment I feel an almost ghostly pressure on my shoulders in sympathy; such a thing cannot be twisted away, nor can it be averted, but perhaps it can be shared... “Four,” I find myself grunting, and I take another drink. And that is that.