Keeping her profile low and her steps quiet, Vinyl slipped into the meeting room. The muffled sounds of the party filtered from somewhere downstairs, and faded when she shut the door.
There was a dappled, multi-coloured light coming from the far end of the dark room, though the source of the light was hidden behind the back of a large chair. The walls of the room were panelled in dark red wood, peppered with unlit brass wall lamps whose curves cast enlarged shadows. Here and there were oil paintings of which only a glint could be seen in the half light. The room was dominated by a broad table in a similar dark wood, polished to a shine. Surrounding the table were a number of comfortable looking chairs.
Vinyl took a few steps around the table. Can I find somewhere good to hide and listen before the Mayor gets here? Perhaps a cupboard? Maybe under the table? It’s big enough. As long as nobody tries to play footsie under it… Gack! No! That would be—
“Hello, Vinyl. Please take a seat.”
She ducked behind a chair. Somebody’s there! Somebody knows I’m here. They…
She knows my name. How creepy is that?
The voice was a woman’s. It sounded familiar, but Vinyl couldn’t quite place it. Without moving from her shelter, she listened to the creak of a turning chair. At the same time the light in the room seemed to brighten and shift. Vinyl couldn’t see the person speaking from behind her chair, but she could see the pattern of warm and cool colours spilling across the walls like a miniature dawn. Was the person in the chair carrying a weird multicoloured lamp?
I can’t see from here, not without revealing myself. Unless I can see their reflection?
Looking up at a framed picture on the wall, Vinyl saw a reflection in the glass. The multi-coloured light source appeared to be moving.
I can’t quite make it out. Is that a lamp of some sort, or…?
It resolved into the outline of a woman, framed by a mass of glowing hair that moved on its own, lifted by an unseen breeze. It was the only light source in the room, standing out against the dark wall, and left the face it surrounded in darkness, an unsettling void.
Monster! Chryssi warned us there would be monsters at the Gala. This is one of them! No real person’s hair glows like that.
Her breath was frantic and short. She quickly took stock of her situation, her eyes darting around the room. Long room. Longer than it is wide. Big table in the middle. She’d have to go around it to get to me – unless she went over it? She’s sitting down, up onto the table would be awkward. She looks tall, she’s probably fast. There are chairs in the way both sides, danger of tripping. Her chair rotates, so she’d be able to quickly jump to either side. She’s holding a cup in her right – that’s a reflection, remember – right hand. If she moved to the right she’d spill it over herself, so she’ll probably go left. One exit, ahead and to my left. Any other exits? No other doors. Up, down? Ceiling tiles? No, that’s wood panelling. Can I get under the table? I’d be trapped. No. Get out quick, get somewhere with more exits, more options.
Without waiting any longer, Vinyl dove for the door, yanking at the handle and finding it locked. Seriously? Who locked it? I’ve only been in here a few seconds!
The lights turned on, warm golden lamps set around the walls. Vinyl turned sharply to look at the light switch next to the door. I didn’t touch that. Is there more than one switch? There must be. She turned around to look behind her.
The woman hadn’t moved from her chair. She sat patiently holding a cup of tea.
Now that Vinyl could see her clearly, she looked a little like Principal Celestia. In fact she looked a lot like Principal Celestia, and sounded like her too. She was taller, though, with a thinner face and a longer nose. And there was no mistaking the thick mass of hair that billowed gently in an unseen breeze and contained a cosmos of intricate detail. She was not Principal Celestia.
The sun really shines out of her… hair. Heh.
She wore a classical styled dress that looked like it belonged on a statue of an angel, or maybe an ancient goddess. The clean white fabric hung in simple, graceful folds, and was edged with fine gold thread. A thick golden necklace hung around her neck, with a large purple gem set in the middle.
The Celestia lookalike gestured to one of the chairs. “Do please take a seat,” she repeated.
Vinyl didn’t step away from the door. Her breath was fast and heavy. Door’s locked. Did she lock it, or did somebody else? She apparently turned the lights on without getting up. Or she’s just got a friend who likes playing tricks. Or the lights and door are all hooked up to a remote control of some sort. I’m not sure which is more scary, magic powers or the sort of person who’d spend hours setting things up for a trap.
No windows. No other exits. And she can maybe move stuff with her mind. Somebody who looks like Tia, only… not. And I don’t mean like one of Chrysalis’ changelings. This isn’t a pretend Tia. It’s like… a different Tia.
“You’re not Celestia, are you?” she said cautiously.
“Am I not? I would disagree,” she said with a comforting smile. Vinyl was not comforted.
She’s Celestia, but she isn’t Principal Celestia. Does that mean she’s… “You’re the other one – the one from outside, right?”
The woman paused. If Vinyl didn’t know any better she would say she looked a bit impressed. “Cerberus was right. You have been doing your homework.”
So she knows Cerberus, at least well enough for him to pass news onto her. Presumably after he saw Trixie the other day. Or they did. I’m still not sure how pronouns work, with three of him. Trixie was supposed to go and check on Cerberus, one of Chryssi’s little assignments for us. It was a mistake. We should never have agreed to work with her.
“What did Cerberus say about us? About me?” she asked.
“That you ask a lot of questions and sneak into places you don’t belong,” said the woman with a knowing smile. It faded as she added, “That the smell of someone else lingers on you. Someone much more dangerous.”
Did she say ‘smell’? I smell of somebody? Ew.
“Smell? That’s… a bit creepy.”
She must mean Chrysalis, though. So apparently Cerberus can smell that we’ve been hanging around her? That might affect the plan tonight. But then, we were never planning to just slip away quietly without being noticed, were we?
The woman sighed. “Yes, Cerberus has always been a bit like that. You have to forgive his way of working. He is uniquely well suited to his job.”
So if she’s getting reports, does that mean this woman’s in charge of this place? Of Cerberus? Or that she at least knows who is?
If so, that’s exactly what we’re here for, isn’t it? To find powerful people who can give us answers about who we are and why this town is the way it is.
Well, don’t screw it up now, Vinyl. This is what you wanted, so take it. Get the answers you need out of her! Do it gently. Let her think she’s in charge, which, yeah, she probably kind of is, and let her talk. If only I could act the way Trixie can…
“So… you’re not a prisoner like the ones downstairs. You’re something different, right?”
“I certainly hope so,” said the woman.
“But you’re not human, are you?”
A flicker of annoyance passed across her face. “No, I’m not.” The woman glanced down at her own fingers, curled around the handle of a teacup, as if she found them unsettling.
“So are you a… pony?” I still can’t quite believe I’m saying that. “Or some other kind of creature? Are you some sort of monster?” Damn it, that was too blunt. Please don’t eat me!
The woman looked disappointed. “I’m no monster,” she chastised, adding more gently, “simply a pony like any other.”
Like any other, really? She doesn’t seem much like the Derpy I met in the basement. Or that version of Derpy. I mean, she was kind of strange, with the wings and the really big eyes, but she was nice and cheerful, just like the real Derpy. I mean, like the Derpy I know. But this Celestia isn’t at all like our Principal Celestia.
It makes sense. This woman is in charge of… something. I don’t know what, but she’s totally got an ‘in charge’ air. Our Celestia has more of a ‘just barely holding on’ air.
Come on, do this, Vinyl. You came here for answers, and here’s the freaking queen of… somewhere, with all the answers you need.
She stepped forward and put her trembling hands on the back of a chair.
“Is it you?”
Though the woman didn’t appear to understand the question Vinyl had asked, she kept confusion out of her manner, merely tilting her head to invite further clarification. That unflappable serenity is really starting to piss me off.
Vinyl tried again. “Are you the… I mean…”
She struggled to put everything into a single question. They had so many doubts, so many questions, that she didn’t know where to start. I really wish I’d prepared for this, now, but… well, we didn’t know what we’d be facing.
“The horizon,” she started slowly. “I mean the wall thing around town, that people appear and disappear as they go through it. The dolls that are also people. The memories we have in common. It’s all so contrived. Something in this place, this Tartarus, it… changes us. Makes us, even. It puts memories in our heads, arranges things, decides who we’re going to be. But… who actually does that? Who decided that I was going to be Vinyl Scratch. Is it you? Are you in charge of all this?”
Vinyl found she’d settled her eyes on the table during that. She looked up. The woman’s smile had faded, replaced with a sad frown.
“Oh dear,” she muttered, finally putting down her teacup. “That silly old fool never did think through the consequences of his actions.”
“Consequences?” asked Vinyl.
“The unique properties of this realm were discovered long ago by a powerful wizard who travelled here quite by accident. He found himself transformed in body and separated from his magic. The humans he met were reflections of the ponies he knew, similar enough that he at first thought them visitors like himself.”
“He was a pony?”
“He was. On his return, he wrote about the way this realm would drain away the magic from any creature that enters it, rendering them harmless and making escape difficult, while calling upon their memories of others as a template for the creation of phantasms like yourself. This wizard believed that this realm would serve as a useful… holding pen for those aggressors who could not simply be defeated. He even surmised that may have been the purpose behind its creation.”
“Surmised? You mean you don’t know what makes anything here happen like it does?”
“Well… we had theories, about where it came from and how it works, but they were little more than guesswork based on the fragments of legends and the observations we made. Nowhere could we find an explanation of this realm.”
“So… you don’t know? You’re the one in charge of this place, and you don’t know how it works or why?”
The woman shook her head. “I suppose I don’t. I’m sorry, Vinyl. I have no answers to give you.”
“You don’t know.” Vinyl gripped the back of the seat, her fingers pressing into the fabric. “You don’t know how any of this works. You can’t even tell me how real I am.”
“I realise it’s little comfort, but none of us ever imagined that a phantasm could discover her own nature as you have done. It’s something that hasn’t happened before.” She paused, and lifted her left hand. A small click behind Vinyl signalled the door unlocking. She added more quietly, “I am sorry.”
Vinyl looked behind her at the door. “Which means none of those monsters out there know, either.”
“I expect not. Though some of them probably think they do, so I’d be careful whose advice you listen to.”
“Right.” Her shoulders slumped, she turned to the door.
“You remind me of her,” said the woman, as Vinyl’s hand touched the door handle.
She froze. “Of who?” she asked quietly.
“Vinyl Scratch.”
She means the other Vinyl Scratch. The other me, the one that lives out there somewhere. The pony named Vinyl Scratch.
Except she didn’t say ‘the other Vinyl Scratch’ or ‘the pony Vinyl Scratch’. She just said ‘Vinyl Scratch’. Because to her, the other Vinyl Scratch is the only real one.
“What’s she like?”
The woman smiled. “She’s fun. Always shakes things up. She was actually the DJ at my niece’s wedding.”
“She’s a DJ?” said Vinyl before she could stop herself.
She’s a DJ as well. We have more than a name and a face in common; our profession as well. What else? Does she think like me? Live like me? Love…
If she is like me, did these things happen at the same time, or did they leak in one direction or other? Am I making the same choices she did?
“Yes. Apparently she goes by the moniker ‘DJ PON-3’ professionally. Isn’t that silly?”
“Heh. Yeah, silly. So how long has she been using that name, do you know?”
The woman paused to think. “I think I first heard of it a couple of years ago.”
The same stage name. I’ve been using it for less than two weeks, she’s been using it for two years. Actually, Blueblood suggested it. How does that work? Did he suggest it purely because the other Vinyl uses that name? I’m sure he doesn’t know about her, he can’t have done it deliberately. Were his actions, were both our actions, arranged by some higher power to make that happen just right?
Did that conversation even happen at all, or do we both just have a convenient memory of it? The pony Vinyl has this nickname, so I had to have it as well.
I really do remember it. I remember the smell of Blueblood’s office, the mess everywhere, the condescending way he was talking to me. I remember seeing a pony through a… gap in his wall, where there shouldn’t be one. I remember going back later than night to check, and finding nothing. Can a fake memory be so real?
And if one memory can be faked, what’s to say another isn’t?
“You look troubled,” said the woman.
“Er, yeah. Just… thinking about me and her. Like, does she wear shades?”
“She does, actually. Purple ones, just like those. And she has enormous speakers that she takes all over the place.”
“Sounds a lot like my car.”
“I suppose in any world, some things don’t change.”
Vinyl grinned. “I guess so.” She pushed the door open and slipped out.
Except that she gets to choose. And I get to follow.
Ms Harshwhinny emerged from the gentlemen’s toilet with the fed up face of somebody who’s had to put up with this nonsense before and will no doubt have to again. She carried a bag with a stained white suit shoved inside it.
She passed by Octavia, who was standing by a door marked ‘Private’ and failing to look innocent. They nodded acknowledgement to each other.
I wonder what Vinyl’s doing up there? I hope it’s worth the risk. There’s no telling when somebody’s going to try and use these stairs.
“Oh, Miss Octavia.”
She turned and saw Blueblood emerge from the toilet. He’d changed into a dark blue suit with a matching cravat, a shade carefully chosen to offset his golden hair. He continued straightening his sleeves, pulling his bow tie and smoothing his jacket as he spoke. “I didn’t realise you’d be at the Gala,” he said, barely looking at her.
I’d have thought twice about it if I’d known you’d be here.
“I am,” she said simply. “I didn’t think you’d recognise me though.”
“Of course I recognise you,” he said curtly, fiddling with his sleeves. “You’re the up and coming talent who’s going to win the audition next week.”
That’s nice to hear, if a little presumptuous. He must have heard my recording.
“I’m flattered by your confidence. There are more than two dozen musicians in the running though, many of them extremely talented, so my place is far from guaranteed.”
“Nonsense. I already told the selection committee who to pick.”
He… told them who to pick? Just told them, in advance, not even waiting to see all the performances? And they’d listen to him?
Of course they’d listen to him. They have to. He’s Blueblood. He pays most of their bills. They’d go under without his blessing. I don’t really want to believe the selection committee would be so easy to sway, but if the orchestra’s survival was at stake, it’s likely they would be.
Would Blueblood really abuse his power like that? Apparently he would. He really is that shallow. I wish I was even surprised, but it’s entirely in keeping with what I’ve seen of him.
Certainly, I’d like to think I have a good chance of winning on my ability alone, but if the winner’s already been set then… what’s the point of even having the auditions? What have I been practicing for? What have I been so stressed for? What have the last few months even been about?
And I can’t do anything about it. My whole career depends on this pillock. If I’m rude to him here he could as easily change his mind.
Except… it doesn’t. Not any more. I’m leaving it all behind. My career. My stress. My dependence on men like him.
Blueblood fiddled with a golden compass rose cufflink, trying to get the ‘north’ end of it perfectly straight.
I don’t know what we’ll find out there. I’d be a fool to assume it’ll be free of trouble. But… I don’t need to care what somebody like Blueblood thinks of me any more. I could tell him exactly what everyone thinks of him. I could step on his foot, spit in his face, rip those bloody cufflinks off and stamp on them. I really could.
She realised she’d been holding a fist tight by her side. She willed the fingers to open.
Is that really what I want? Revenge for a hundred petty little things?
No.
I could… And I don’t need to. None of it would matter to me any more. I’m not defined by my reaction to him. I’ll admit it’s tempting to take my frustration out on this fop – he really does ask for it – but doing so would only reinforce the anger, not relieve it. It’s not who I am.
“That’ll have to do,” he muttered to himself. He seemed to notice Octavia still standing by the security door. “Are you waiting for something?”
She inclined her head to the ladies’ toilet. “Just a friend,” she said. Not strictly inaccurate.
He nodded absently and pushed past her on his way back to the dance floor.
Oh so tempting…
After a minute’s thought, Octavia pulled out her phone and scrolled through the address book until she found Fluttershy.
Trixie was Pinkie spotting.
Is that another one over there by the window? Her hair looks different, kind of a sixties bob thing, but it’s the right colour. She stood on the central balcony, arms resting on the railing overlooking the dance floor. How about the one with the straight hair?
She looked over to where Chrysalis was dancing with her little pink girlfriend. I don’t think Fluffle Puff is one of them, despite the colours. She hasn’t got the right figure.
At the far end of the room she could see Octavia, standing guard over the staff entrance that Vinyl had disappeared through a few minutes ago.
Trixie is sure that right now Vinyl is trying to decide if she should go along with the escape or not. Like she has a choice. It's obvious that she’s going to do it. And Octavia will too.
“So how many’ve you got?”
Trixie blinked. “Er, four…”
“Not bad,” said Pinkie Pie. “I see six!”
Trixie looked up at the girl resting on the railing next to her. “Make that five for me.”
Pinkie giggled and said, “Yeah, but I don’t think I count.”
Trixie frowned. “You don’t count as a Pinkie Pie?”
“No. Well, yes, lots, probably more than any of the others, but also no. See, all the other ones came from the same place, which means they’re all like sisters. One big family.”
“And you’re not one of them?”
“Nope. You’re talking to the original. The premier party planner pony, Pinkie Pie!”
Again with the ‘pony’ thing. Does she mean that literally, or is it just something people say?
“I… Trixie sees. So how many of them are there? In total?”
Pinkie thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I can’t remember? Thirty? They’re not all here though. “
“Yeah, the Pinkie I spoke to said you were going to another party today. A bunch of things in fact.”
Pinkie drooped a little. “Yeah, I was supposed to be giving a little filly her cute-ceañera today. I even promised, but now I’m stuck here,” she sighed. “I really hope the other me can do something about it.”
And that is Trixie’s way in. Gotcha!
“Hey, if you’re a premier party planner,” she asked, quietly adding ‘pony’ in her head, “do you mind giving Trixie a hand with something party-related?”
Pinkie blinked for a second, looked down at one of her hands and said absently, “Oh yeah, I have those now.” She looked up with a grin. “Sure thing, Trix! What do you need?”
Trixie let a smile creep across her face. She leaned in to whisper, “Thing is, the Great and Powerful Trixie has a surprise planned. Something to really make this party jump.”
“Ooh, I like surprises!” She turned serious. “As long as it’s a good surprise, not a bad surprise. You don’t want to ruin a party with a bad surprise,” she threatened.
“It’s a good one, Trixie promises!”
“Do you Pinkie Pie promise? Cross your heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in your eye?” She produced a cupcake from somewhere.
Since when are they even serving cupcakes here? I only saw those dainty canapés. Unless I threw some cupcakes at Blueblood earlier? “Er, sure. Trixie promises.”
“Okay then!” said Pinkie, suddenly cheerful again. “How can I help?” She stuffed the whole cupcake in her mouth.
Damn, she bounces back quickly. “Well, the mood of this party right now doesn’t really suit my surprise. It’s a bit too staid and formal.” She glanced over at the next balcony over, where the musicians were playing something slow and thoughtful, and Pinkie followed her look. “Trixie was thinking it’d be nice to change it up a bit, get people hopping. Just for a minute before my surprise. Does that sound like something you could do?”
Pinkie swallowed. She thought for a moment, or at least put on a thoughtful face, before replying, “Yes, I suppose I could manage something like that…”
Trixie produced a sealed envelope and slowly waved it in front of Pinkie’s face. “And in return, Trixie could let you have this.”
“Ooh!” Pinkie leaned down to examine the envelope from all angles as if she could discern something about the contents. “What is it?”
“Well, Trixie might just know a way for you to keep that promise after all.”
Pinkie wiped the table down. She’d spilled milkshake over it in her enthusiasm, as well as a little over Bon Bon. Her very good friend Lyra hadn’t minded, oddly enough.
“Best take care of this before it attracts any bugs,” she remarked to herself.
Sugarcube Corner was quiet. Quiet enough to make Pinkie restless. She’d wiped down the other tables, cleaned the floor, refilled the sugar pots, put out the bins, and was in real danger of descaling the coffee machine.
“I’ll say,” the other Pinkie sitting at the far table agreed. “You don’t want all the boys turning up in your yard. Again.”
“Hey, thanks for keeping me company.”
“No problem,” replied the seated girl. “I was supposed to be at a Wonderbolts show today. It’s probably over already.”
The door swung open and the Rainbooms poured in.
“You gotta admit,” said Rainbow, “that was an awesome game. Right?”
“I will admit that some of those feats of acrobatics were quite impressive,” said Rarity. “Though why they had to perform in all that mud is beyond me.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a bit of mud,” said Applejack. “Am I right, sugarcube?”
“Oh. Um, there are lots of creatures that like the mud. Like earthworms and moles.” She looked to Sunset Shimmer for confirmation.
“Don’t ask me,” said Sunset, holding the door open for another Pinkie Pie. “I grew up on a mountain. There wasn’t a lot of mud around. Hey, didn’t you grow up on a farm?”
“Yup,” said Pinkie cheerfully, bouncing in through the door, “but it wasn’t the—”
Pinkie’s phone buzzed – all three of them at the same time, with slightly different versions of the same upbeat tune – and the three Pinkies dove to read their messages.
“Gotta go!” said the Pinkie by the door, turning right around.
“See ya!” said the next, following her.
“Bye!” called the last as she ran out after her companions.
Sunset shut the door behind the last of them. “What was that all about?”
“Eh, you never know with Pinkie,” said Rainbow, throwing herself into a chair and putting her feet up on the table. “She’s weird like that.”
The door swung open as Pinkie pushed her head through. “Feet off the furniture, RD. And make sure you pay for your drinks!”
The musicians put their bows down as they ended the tune. They turned pages, stretched their arms and shook out their hands in preparation for the next song.
“Cupcake?” asked Pinkie Pie, leaning into their balcony room through the narrow doorway. She proffered a plate of cupcakes in various flavours.
“Ooh, don’t mind if I do,” said Gabriella, plucking a lemon cupcake from the plate.
“Careful,” chided Gilda. “Don’t get any of that icing on your instrument.”
“I mwown,” said Gabby through a mouthful of cupcake. She’d rested her viola on her knees.
“Thanks,” said Greta, taking a caramel cupcake. “Not many people remember the musicians.”
Pinkie leaned forward to let the other musicians take a cupcake. “Yeah, I saw you guys up here, hard at work and everything, and I thought, ‘Pinkie Pie, you know what those guys need? They need cupcakes!’” She twirled the plate. “So I brought you cupcakes.”
Giselle smiled as she daintily pecked at her cupcake. “It’s appreciated. I just wish we could take a few minutes break.”
“Why don’t you?” asked Pinkie Pie. “Oh, here, have a napkin.”
“Thanks,” said Gilda, taking a little napkin and cleaning her fingers. “But somebody’s gotta keep this party going. People won’t dance to silence.”
“I can cover for you,” said Pinkie. “Just for a song or two.”
“Really?” asked Gabriella eagerly.
“We can’t let you use our instruments,” warned Giselle.
“That’s okay, I brought my own.” She reached behind a sash curtain and pulled out a trombone.
Gilda was surprised. “How long has that been there?”
“I stashed it there earlier in case of trombone-related emergencies. At least, I assume I did. One of me must have.”
“What’s a trombone-related emergency?” asked Gabriella.
“This is, silly!” replied Pinkie.
Guests across the dance floor were exchanging partners and pleasantries in preparation for the next dance. The gap since the end of the last song had stretched to a minute or two, long enough for people to glance up at the musicians’ balcony, but they were sure it would start up again any minute. Idle chatter filled the hall as people waited.
They all stopped what they were doing as a double strum of what sounded like guitars punctuated the room, followed by a pair of drumbeats.
They looked up to see a troupe of pink-haired girls in the musician’s box, wielding a variety of instruments. One of them appeared to be playing a half-dozen instruments at once, including a theremin.
There was another double strum, another pair of drumbeats, and the Pinkie Pie at the front of the group started to sing.
“The warden threw a party in the county jail…”