The Limbo Theorem
-There is a reason foals are born with a fear of the dark.
Rule #1: Perform every duty as detailed by your contract. Home Base expects all Operators to observe proper security and containment procedures. Only make surface excursions if absolutely necessary.
Rule #2: Be ready for departure from Containment One at the end of your contract assignment. The portal to Home Base will remain stable for a short period at the given time and no more. Shall you fail to vacate during the allotted time, it will not open again until the next rotation.
Rule #3: Never let the lights go out.
Operator Seven sat before panel upon panel of fluorescent-lit controls, lights on them twinkling like a Hearths Warming tree. The tired stallion’s flank was pressed deep into his overstuffed chair, the control room as silent as a crypt. And as cold as one, too.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Around the control room, the backlit switches, knobs, dials, and buttons flashed rhythmically to the low hum that perpetuated the desolate installation of Containment One. Concrete walls reinforced with tempered steel and painted dull green sweat with cold condensation. It was always like this. The air conditioning wreaked havoc with the humidity.
Blink. Blink. Blink, the controls sung in symphonic unison.
All is well.
Operator Seven’s eyes were bloodshot and red. Confined to his windowless abode, only the clock on the control room wall told him that nightfall was approaching. It wasn’t as if he could tell night was approaching anyway. Six months into his rotation and he had grown accustomed to the lack of sunlight. Not to mention the condensation from the A/C that coated the sickly green painted concrete walls, or the hovering sense of claustrophobia, or the strange noises that came and went. Even if there was nopony else there.
But all had become minor inconveniences, something he had become accustomed to and all too familiar with. This was not Operator Seven’s first rotation at Containment One, and if Home Base kept depositing the bits into his bank account, it certainly would not be his last.
Just one more day. One more day till I can feel the sun again and get some actual rest. I’m sure the girls will be so excited…
A thin grin and a soft chuckle escaped him, imagining the two filly’s bouncing around on his bed. Maybe he wouldn’t be getting that rest quite so soon, but he didn’t mind. All the Operator could think about was their faces when he returned. Across Operator’s pale colored face, soft wrinkles cut into his tired brow, the middle-aged stallion’s eyes drooping under the gentle flickering of the industrial lamps overhead. He was drifting off, lulled by the deep hum of the instillation and the cool, frosty air.
Blink, Blink, Blink, the consoles sung in agreement, the dim whine of their circuits like the buzzing of bugs in a meadow. The Operator could almost picture himself there, a field of deep whispering grass in a warm spring breeze, the sun hovering overhead.
Blink, Blink, -BEEP-!
The nerves in Operator Seven’s legs fired like rockets, the stallion tumbling out of the chair in a daze. He hauled himself off the dusty floor, his heart beating a million miles a minute as he reached the console. His hooves shook and he had grab onto the bank of terminals to keep them steady.
Beep? A beep? The console is never supposed to beep.
A beep meant movement detected. All was not well.
Snatching a pair of binoculars from their hook, the Operator hurried to the edge of the control room. A dark portal of meter thick glass peered over the great precipice. The stallion gazed out the hardened window, focusing his binoculars and struggling to see through the gloom that saturated the rock-carved cavern below him. Giant spotlights like blinding sentinels were anchored soundly in the ashen crust ceiling. They pierced the dark and illuminated what rested below: a massive steel hatch.
Easily the length of a hoofball field, the domed hatch was peppered with rivets the size of the stallion’s head. Rust peeked through the once stark white paint, flaking off and littering the ground like scraps of paper.
Back and forth Operator swung his binoculars, looking for anything out of place. He knew he had heard it, the beep. The remote sensors had indicated there was movement. But what was down there? What would be moving he wondered?
Besides performing basic maintenance around the facility, he had a simple job. Monitor the hatch. Log everything. Watch the sensors. And one thing was for certain. The sensors had never detected movement before.
This was supposed to be simple, monitoring the hatch. He had never had an incident, nothing to write in the logs. Every day the sensors read the same, “All Is Well.”
But not this time. There had been a beep, he was sure he had heard it. A beep meant movement behind the hatch. A beep meant all was not well.
Operator pulled the binoculars from his face, whipping around to recheck the console, a nervous sweat glazing his troubled face.
But when he stooped over the banks of terminals he was confused to read a different story.
Blink. Blink. Blink. All is well.
Sheepishly, he let the opticals hang around his neck, the tremendous beating in his chest subsiding.
But...I was sure I heard it.
But he had to be sure, absolutely sure. So he entered commands at the terminal to retrieve the sensor logs. Down he scrolled the page, further and further, scanning the compiled data.
No movement. Locks secured. All is well.
With a sigh of relief, he closed the logs and collapsed back into his chair, the panicked thumping in his breast receding steadily.
That’s one way to make sure I don’t fall asleep on watch. Must be hearing things. Still, should probably remind Operator Eight to double-check the sensors when she relieves me tomorrow.
That definitely wasn’t a job he wanted to do. Operator Eight was still pretty new, but she should be capable of the task. She was a young mare from what he recalled, mid-thirties maybe, with a pastel cutie mark of a waterfall.
He did not know exactly how old she was, or really anything else about Operator Eight. Things were kept on a need to know basis in Containment One. That was what Home Base wanted things. No names, don’t mention family, not even hobbies. Just turn over the logs and be ready to jump through the portal home. It didn’t stay open for long and there was no reopening it when it closed.
Whatever the mare’s reasons for taking the job, it was obviously worth the price. The shadowy ponies in black-clad suits at Home Base always offered deals nopony could turn down. Deals not always monetary in value.
He distinctly remembered the night they had approached him, drowning his evening away with the stench of cheap liquor in the rougher parts of Manehattan. They had slid silently into the cigarette-scarred booth he was lounging in, the vinyl cracked and exposing the dirty lounge stuffing.
"We understand from our records you recently amassed a worrisome sum of debt. Is that correct," the two expressionless, yet well-dressed stallions had inquired.
"If you’re from the bank, tell them I’ll have this month paid off by the end of next week. Leave me alone," he could remember slurring through the alcohol that deadened his senses. He had only wanted some peace and quiet.
"Oh, no. We aren’t from the bank," the larger of the pair had said, adjusting his tinted sunglasses despite his dim surroundings. "My partner and I represent an opportunity for you. A job proposition."
"Don’t need another job. Factory work pays pretty well. Listen, I told you, if you’re from the bank I know my payment is late. I’ll have it in soon."
Across the beer-stained table, the smaller suit had leaned forward, lowering his voice till it could barely be heard over the music emanating from crackling, worn speakers. "You’ve got two kids, don’t you, sir. Sunflower and Petunia. Isn’t that their names? Things must be pretty tight with divorce. I’m sure that pile of debt the missus left you and the fillies must be putting quite a strain on things."
This had caused him to stiffen in his seat, the cold bottle clutched in his hoof sweating against his own perspiring grip. "Who are you ponies," he had demanded. "Leave my kids out of this."
"Sure would be a shame," the suit continued, "for two such sweet fillies to see their dad in the poor house. Wonder how cheery they will be when they’re living on the streets with dear old dad after the home is foreclosed."
"What do you want?" He had quickly gathered these were ponies that weren’t to be trifled with.
"My dear friend, it’s not what we want, it’s what we want to give you. Like we said, a job. A well-paid job," they had promised him, their voices absolutely dripping with shady intent.
"Wouldn’t you like that, for Sunflower and Petunia’s sake? Though it would require a bit of time away from home. Maybe their grandmother could look after them while you were away…"
Riiiiiiing!
Operator Seven was already turning around to head out when the bell on the wall above him rang, signaling the end of the daily work period.
Just one more round for the logbook record, he reminded himself, inserting a key hung around his neck into a slot on the wall. It’ll be quick.
Click. Bang!
Heavy metal bolts released their iron grip allowing the control room door to swing inward on greased hinges. Despite its size and weight, the pitted blast door never uttered so much as a squeak of protest. Collapsing with iridescent sparkles, the additional protective ward outside dissipated, allowing Operator Seven to pass. Whenever Containment One had been constructed, the builders had built it to last.
Walls coated in course biting dust closed around Operator Seven. It was either dripping humidity that rained from the concrete overheads or the dust, irritating the living daylights out of his eyes. For all that the installation was worth in its stalwartness, it was never designed with creature comforts in mind. The air conditioning kicked on at random intervals throughout the days and nights, the filtered atmosphere tasting metallic and sour at times. In the galley, it was well stocked with food, even if that said food was a plethora of TV dinners. Every time he defrosted one after chipping it from the overflowing ice built-up of the freezer, it always came out soggy. Food was picked on the basis of long duration. When Home Bases said the portal would not open for the entirety of the six-month rotation, they meant it.
Stopping inside what could barely be considered a closet, Operator Seven dressed into a suit coated with a silvery protective layer. He slipped the clothing over his body, poking his muzzle against the clear face piece that pulled over his head. Mentally going through the donning checklists, he zipped himself up and applied a thick strip of tape over the zipper.
Air from an internal canister inflated the stiff material around him, puffing him up until he looked like an overgrown silver marshmallow.
Rule #1: Perform every duty as detailed by your contract.
Grabbing his logbook and a T-handled wrench, he whistled cheerlessly, his monotonous tune echoing through the empty corridors. Down several flights of featureless stairs he descended, the ruffles of his barding crinkling and making simple movements strenuous. But it was something he had grown accustomed to over the years. Pulling out his key, Operator Seven stepped through another gate and into the gloom of the main cavern.
Beneath him, his covered hooves rapped and clacked against the enormous hatch that made up the floor of the stretching cavern.
Clack. Click. Clack, the steel-shod shoes of his suit rang against the hatch’s surface. He was almost at the summit. And out of breath.
Pausing under the dim glare of the spotlights, he turned an eye upward. The window of the control center looked ridiculously tiny from so far below.
Let’s just make the inspection and log it, he reminded himself.I hate being near this thing.
All he wanted was to be back behind the protective ward of the inner chambers.
The Operator pulled out the wrench, inserting it into a port recessed into the rusted surface of the hatch. Paint flaked off as he struggled to twist it before it finally turned with a squeak that echoed too loudly for his comfort.
A heavy porthole popped free from the near seamless surface of the hatch, an excessively thick glass window offering a small glimpse beneath the impenetrable barrier. Fishing a flashlight from his side, Operator Seven shone it’s piercing beam into the darkness below, but even it was swallowed by the seemingly bottomless pit.
His cursory inspection revealed nothing out the ordinary just as always and he hurriedly resealed the porthole.
All is well.
"Sign here," the older mare at Home Base had instructed him, hoofing over the packet of papers.
"What is this agreeing to again," he had asked.
"That’s classified."
That had been the excuse for all the answers he had asked.
"Right. Just like the last three packets."
While he had initialed the multitude boxes, denoted only by strings of numbers and decimals, the mare had drilled him with further questions of her own. She was slightly older, probably somepony’s grandmother, with a coat as grey as ash and teeth yellowed from heavy smoking.
"Tell me, do you have any medical history of epilepsy," she had asked.
"No. Don’t you have my medical reports? Your doctors poked and prodded me for two days."
"This is simply standard questioning, sir. It’s part of the process. Any history of psychosis in the family? Schizophrenia?"
"No."
"Any phobias?"
"No. Where is this going?"
"I’m nearly to the end. Paranoia, bipolar disorder, manic depressive?"
"No. I have my good days and bad days, just like everypony else."
"Nightmares?"
"Well, yeah," he had scoffed. "I mean not regularly, but everypony has a bad dream every now and then."
"Would you consent to medication while on work rotations? Something that inhibits dreams."
"Why would I want to inhibit my dreams? Wait, let me guess."
"That’s classified," they had answered in begrudging unison. The grey-maned mare had not found it to be amusing.
"Anything particular you can remember off the top of your head about them," she had continued, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with the quick flick of a lighter. "Anything at all."
"Remember what?"
"Your nightmares. Details that you can recall."
"Remember them? Well, dreams are always kind of fuzzy after they pass."
She leaned closer over the desk, the unpleasant smoke from her cigarette assaulting his nostrils. "Perhaps you remember a blue mare. Doesn’t have to have been direct. Maybe a certain feeling."
A blue mare? The whole round of questioning had struck him as odd, but things were delving into the oddly specific. What job would require such cloak and dagger?
"Now that you mention it..."
Operator Seven was able to breathe a sigh of relief as he finished his daily rounds. After a less than appetizing dinner of defrosted and microwaved enchiladas, the remnants of soggy tortilla sour in his stomach, he decided it was finally time to turn in for the night. Only one more night till the portal opened and he was home, the Operator reminded himself.
Rule #2: Be ready for departure from Containment One at the end of your contract assignment.
Slipping the sheets back over his bunk in spartan quarters, the Operator removed his utility belt and hung it on a hook by the door. He glanced in the mirror over the porcelain sink, running a hoof over the deep, sunken bags under his eyes. With a tired sigh he pulled open the mirror cabinet, his reflection whisked away.
Inside the medicine cabinet, he reached in and retrieved a small pill bottle, one of a multitude of identical orange ones lining the shelf.
A pill a day keeps the dreams away.
Or that’s what was stipulated in his contract. He wasn’t going to question why Home Base really wanted to prevent their Operators from dreaming. They paid him well, and the pills didn’t seem to have any ill effects. Besides what they were designed to do. During his entire time spend at Containment One, he had not experienced a single dream. Not to say that he hadn’t missed them.
Huh? Operator Seven shook the prescription bottle, but there was no telltale rattle. Empty. But I should have one more day left, he pondered. No matter. He reached back into the cabinet and pulled out another pill bottle.
Empty.
No, no this can’t be right. It was also completely empty, even though the seal was intact. In shock he dropped it, the plastic bottle clattering on the rough cement. And then the next bottle. And the bottle after that. One by one he snatched them out, the result the same every single time.
Empty. Empty. Empty! How are they all empty?!
This wasn’t good. No, this was bad, really bad. There was supposed to be more than enough for almost two years worth. Where had they all gone he wondered, checking and double checking, pulling the cap from each bottle and shaking them vigorously.
There would be no sleep now. Home Base was very specific. Without the nightly inhibitor, he would dream, and that must be prevented at all costs. One must never dream at Containment One.
Ok, no problem, it’s just going to be a long night. No worries, he tried to assure himself, sitting on the edge of his bed. Operator Eight will be here tomorrow. She always brings more supplies.
There, he sat for a moment, trying to calm himself surrounded by empty, orange bottles. A deep sweat saturated his coat, the stallion wiping a hoof across his face. He needed coffee, something with sugar or caffeine to fight back the exhaustion. But when he tried to get up to head for the kitchen, his legs responded slowly. It was as if he had suddenly run out of fuel, like he was stalling.
Overhead the lights flickered in their sockets, casting ghastly shadows across the bare room’s featureless concrete wall. Shadows that twisted and curled their way around the bedroom.
Rule #3: Never let the lights go out.
Were he his normal self, he would have immediately have sprung into action, noticing something was horribly wrong. But whatever was dulling his senses was growing stronger, pulling him deeper into his tired state. He was getting sleepy.
Must stay awake. Control room…
He thought he could hear something in the distance, like a voice. A computer?
But the thought quickly escaped him. He realized he was falling, the floor rising to meet him head-on. With a thud, the Operator collapsed, the facility of Containment One plunging into suffocating darkness.
Ethereal grains of multi-colored sand whipped across the Operator’s subconscious. Shifting. Materializing. Dark waters flooded from shores unseen, pushing black waves inward to the grey matter of his mind.
Alone, I have waited, a voice bubbled across the waves. Waited so long. Faceless, it rumbled. Such physical barriers cannot withhold me. This prison is but an illusion created by those who do not understand of higher planes. Planes, unseen, that I may travel.
Particles of light danced above the black waters, gathering in number and vibrating with increased fervor. From them, the outline of a figure. To say it was a pony would only be partially correct.
There were those that believed they could stop me, six to be exact, who believed they had won when they tore me away from my vulnerable host. But I have waited so long for the proper time, endured a thousand years here before with the one the sister loved. But the time is soon.
The horrible voice echoed, filling every corner of the infinite with its dripping sincerity. In the darkness, we reside, and through the asleep mind, I journey.
They thought that by stopping your dreams that my tendrils would not extend beyond this place. But they were wrong. Just because you recall no nightmares does not mean they didn’t occur, the spectral voice chuckled.
Black waters of the subconscious swirled ominously, disturbed by the invisible figure outlined by the particles of dancing light. Rolling, they sloshed feverishly, their peaks and troughs growing larger over the void of the dreamscape.
There is a reason foals are born with a fear of the dark. Their awakened mind can still sense my presence. The bearded one with the hat and bells knew that when he accidentally released me from my realm. The realm between waking worlds. If only he had known what he had unleashed. And of the alicorn so weak to my grasp. She may be free, but in here so am I. If only they could see through the veil…
Now the waters were trembling, massive tsunamis breaking the fragile dream as if fleeing the cloaked figure. Gradually, the particles of light peeled back, revealing the veiled creature in all its splendid horror. Never had the Operator experienced such hellish fear, trapped within the confines of his very mind. He wanted to scream, to flee, anything to hide from the terror. But he couldn’t do anything, for the terror had complete control.
In here, this is your prison, the demon cackled. And I am the Warden, the Operator.
*Chirp* Power failure. Main systems offline. Switching to secondary systems.
*Chirp* Secondary system failure. Switching to auxiliary systems.
*Chirp* Warning! Movement detected! Containment Breach!
Loudspeakers echoed down red-lit corridors as the entire facility sat in mute darkness, saturated in red emergency lighting.
Operator Seven lurched his head off the damp ground beside his bedside. With a massive heave, he vomited, releasing black bile onto the concrete foundation. His mind reeled as the metallic automated voice listed off the numerous warning messages.
Sweet Celestia, he cursed, propping himself up. He slipped on a pill bottle, collapsing onto the ice-cold floor, barely missing his own vomit. Years. It felt like years. How long have I been in there? It seemed so long… a few hours?
Crawling through the pile of scattered pill bottles, the stallion clenched the corner of the sink, hauling himself onto unsteady hooves.
Nightmares. Never ending horrors.
He stumbled out the doors of his room, his face shadowed by the hellish glaze of the emergency lighting.
The lights. Why are they out?
Rule #3: Never let the lights go out.
Visions of endless torment, a dimension more sinister than Tartarus itself flashed across his brain, causing him to reel and sway down the corridor. Limbo
Containment breach? (The hatch?) Why are the lights out. (Never let the lights go out?) Where are the backups. (Rule #3: never let the lights go out.) Home Base was specific. (That’s classified.) I’m supposed to be going home. (No home left if she got out.)
Operator bumped into the control room blast door, the additional magical ward fizzling in protest while from elsewhere, a tremendous noise.
Bang!
Gasping for breath as if in a vacuum, the Operator produced his access key and opened the control room door.
Bang! Alarms crackled and resonated from the numerous panels and circuitry, the fluorescent lights anchored to the ceiling extinguished.
Bang!
Deep vibrations shattered the stillness. Dust sprinkled from the rafters, coating Operator’s sweat-drenched coat in a film of grime as the quakes continued.
Bang!
It was coming from the central cavern.
Below him, the enormous hatch, illuminated only in dim red, rattled on its monster hinges. Chips of paint and rust shook off the skin of the meters-thick steel that shuddered with each bang.
Operator backed away from the observation window, new streams of perspiration cutting channels through the dust on his pale coat.
This can’t be happening. (You’re dead now.) I have to get out of here. I want to go home. (They won’t open the portal now.) Sunflower, Petunia. (They can’t save you.) Get away from here you fool. (Surface excursions are only if absolutely necessary.)
But this was absolutely necessary he told the little voice gnawing at the back of his skull.
Running as fast as his weak hooves would carry him, Operator ran from the control center, not bothering to relock the blast door. Nothing could stop her once she got out.
All is not well. I am not well
Step One: Place the active thermal layer on first.
Step Two: Ensure the cooling and heating fluid is flowing properly.
Step Three: Attach the radio unit.
Step Four: Step into the suit flank first.
Step Five: Attach the helmet.
Final Step: Pressurize.
Operator drilled the procedure into his head, battling through the nightmares that tore at his mind. Home Base would never let him leave now. They had to have known what was happening with all their remote sensors. He knew the portal would never open. Operator Eight would not relieve him. He was marooned. There was only one other chance.
Stepping into the airlock, the door slid closed with a hiss. Torches inside his helmet illuminated his ghostly complexion, his eyes red and terrified. The skin under his fur was pale, almost the same color as the grey rock that was carved from the caverns.
Air was sucked out the chamber, Operator lurching as the entire airlock ascended upward. Darkness enveloped the cab as it passed through the grey layers of dirt and regolith.
I have to get home. (They won’t give you re-entry telemetry.) The ships should still fly. (Not if the dust got in their electronics and engines.)
With a low thump, the cab came to a halt; the doors fell back mutely to reveal sunlight in a strange silence.
Sweet, sweet sunlight. I’m safe here. (No you’re not.)
Tentatively, like a foal dipping a hoof into a pool, he stepped onto the lunar surface. Everywhere for miles around, the grey, barren landscape gently rose and fell with ridgelines and hills. A sky black as coal, devoid of starlight, hung overhead. Only the Earth, a blue marble, filled the horizon and interrupted the atmosphereless desert. That and the ships.
Left behind by the builders decades before him, they sat parked in the moon dust, their once sleek long hulls battered from the years of solar wind and radiation. They were big, much bigger than a shuttle, once used for hauling building materials. The original facility builders had definitely been in a hurry to leave them behind. He prayed one might still work.
“-s Home Base,” the radio in his suit crackled with static as the ladder lower from the underbelly of the nearest ship, its silvery undercoat peeking through the sun-bleached paint that had weathered away. Operator latched on as tight as his spacesuit would allow him. It was heavy and constricting and each ladder rung seemed a mile away.
“This is Home Base. Operator, do not attempt to evacuate Containment One. We repeat. Do not leave the lunar surface,” a familiar mare’s voice rattled expressionlessly through the radio. A familiar voice raw from years of smoking.
The stallion did not answer, reaching hoof over hoof for each ladder rung before hauling himself inside the belly of the ship.
Everything inside was in much better condition than the outer hull; everything was protected from the ravages of space. There was no solar damage or even lunar dust to coat the dead controls. With no atmosphere, the cold and radiation could only attack so much.
Operator quickly found the breaker to the power supply and closed it, a glimmer of hope growing within him as terminals and panels blinked to life around him. It was if the ship was coming alive around him.
As he strapped himself into the flight chair, squeezed into the cramped and cluttered cockpit, his radio squawked again.
“Return to Containment One immediately, Operator. You will not be allowed to enter the atmosphere. Do you hear me? You will not be given clearance telemetry.” He switched the radio off.
I hear you all right. (They listened to everything.) And I say I don’t care. I quit. (Nopony ever just quits.)
“Automatic launch systems engaged,”the flight computer barked.
Engines below him ignited, blowing regolith and coarse dust across the surface with the blasts of fire. Vibrations violently shook the cabin, his head knocking about against the inside of his helmet as the spaceship leaped off the ground.
“Ascending. Twenty seconds to main engine shutdown.”
Blood rushed from Operator Seven’s head as the gravitational forces increased. His vision pulled back like a curtain as darkness crept from the corners of his eyes.
I’m coming girls. Dad’s coming home, he kept assuring himself.
Woosh! His vision cleared.
“Main engine cutoff. Return trajectory calculated. Free return course plotted,” the flight systems informed him.
High above the moon’s surface, the ship drifted blissfully as the computers and navigational systems put it on a path to Earth. A simple slingshot maneuver around the backside of the moon would have the desired trajectory.
It’s over, the Operator sighed, removing his helmet as the cabin of the ship pressurized. The nightmare is over.
With delicate care and heavy eyelids, the stallion rested his head against the back of the flight chair. Outside the small viewport of the cockpit, the ship flew silently through space, pulled in an elliptic orbit by the moon’s weak gravity. The ship was about to pass the far side of the moon’s surface, now enveloped in darkness.
Sunlight evaporated from the flight deck, plunging the cockpit into darkness.
Thunk, came a rap on the hull.
(Nopony ever leaves this place.)
The stallion’s eyes shot open, pupils dilated and red with burst capillaries. No.
Thunk!
Closer this time, above him. Outside. His radio bristled to life, disembodied voices filtering through the static. “Where are you dad?” a filly’s voice asked. “When are you coming home,” asked another. “Why did you leave us?”
No. No! The nightmares are over! They were over. (No escape now.)
Thunk!
“Grandma says you’re not coming back. Sunflower told me she sees something in the dark during the night. She said that it got you, that thing from the moon. The Mare in the Moon.”
Thunk!
No, he wept, tearing at his mane and flailing in his seat. It isn’t true. It’s over. (It’s just getting started.)
Thunk!
Chills ran up his spine, the hairs of his coat iceing over with frost. He cracked an eyelid and watched as the terrifying creature before him extended its black tendrils, wrapping him in its icy grip.
Back into the void. (The night will last forever.)
Two stallions in black suits eased the Operator’s body out his soiled bunk and into a rubber-lined body bag. A sticky pitch-like substance coated the stained sheets, the linens entangled around his corpse.
Beside the two ponies in dark sunglasses, a grey-maned mare watched them zip the bag up carefully, a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. She peered at the orange prescription bottles at her hooves, blowing smoke out her nostrils. The mare reached down and dragged her hoof through them, the pills filling each one rattling behind the orange plastic. The floor was also littered with the round white pills.
“Operator Eight found him like this,” one of the stallions said to the smoking mare. “This is the third one in the last ten years.”
“And the surveillance tapes?” wondered the mare, placing a full medicine bottle on the sink counter.
“Everything seemed normal. Confirmed he didn’t take his inhibitor. He just went to bed and turned out the lights. Operator Eight walks in just past noon and turned them on. Girl nearly collapsed.”
“And the hatch?”
“Sealed. Remote sensors and logs show no activity.”
“Good,” the mare nodded, extinguishing her cigarette against the cement wall. “Then activate Operator Nine and return to Home Base. Incinerate Seven.”
“Shouldn’t we order an autopsy, Director? Find out what is causing these,” the suit pointed to the body bag.
“No need.” She pulled another cigarette from a pack and lit it. “It was the nightmares.”
“And what do we tell the Princesses? Do Celestia and Luna need to know about this?”
“No,” the mare said with a puff of smoke. “We don’t answer to them. Besides, let Princess Luna try to forget about her phantom.”