Pronoia/Paranoia

by TooShyShy


Chapter 15: Courage

As part of the evaluation process, Twilight had been asked about what motivated her to become a detective.

Rather than stick with the generic answer, she'd been entirely up front with the grim-faced stallion conducting the interview. She'd picked up on his opinions right off the bat. He didn't think she had what it took to hold down this position. He thought she was too much of an egghead, too fragile and inexperienced. Despite what he knew about her past, he believed she wasn't cut out for this particular line of work. But he didn't know the full story.

That had been the first time Twilight told somepony the entire truth. There were parts of the story that even Spike didn't know, particular segments that had been butchered or distorted on their way up the chain. But it didn't matter. Twilight didn't need everypony to know or understand her history. She just needed to finish the work Shining Armor had started.

Twilight awakened in a cold sweat. Another nightmare.

She lay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the bizarre dream she'd just had. She could hear the ticking of the clock on her bedside table, a steady rhythm to break the otherwise gripping silence. She could feel her heartbeat, a rapid thump against her ribcage. But Twilight wasn't worried about that. Her heart was as alive and independent as any other part of her body. The delicate balance of her inner ecosystem was intact.

She shook her head. No, she needed to focus on reality. Dreams were nothing more than her overworked subconscious throwing tantrums. The faces she saw, the sounds she heard. It didn't mean anything.

Nevertheless, the dream had shaken her. Even without remembering exact details, she was certain it hadn't been pleasant. Twilight needed to calm down. Perhaps sharing a nice mug of hot cocoa with Spike would do the trick. She always found his company soothing, even rather therapeutic.

Twilight started to get out of bed, but then everything came flooding back.

This wasn't her house. There was no Spike waiting for her or a mug of hot chocolate. There was a chance she'd never have those things again, or at least never in the same way. Her life had shifted so abruptly that she was still reeling from the change in perspective. But as soon as she attempted to leave the comfort of her bed, Twilight's thoughts re-aligned themselves with reality.

She was in a sparsely-furnished hotel room, the windows bolted and the door locked. She had a crossbow—the only long-range weapon she really knew how to use—within reach, along with a simple security enchantment to avoid being caught off guard. There was a lot of essential evidence—mainly the letters—stuffed under the bed in a special box sealed with a seven-digit pass code.

Twilight wasn't naive. She knew the masked pony would find her eventually, regardless of where she chose to hide. But she preferred to go down fighting. She'd cornered plenty of despicable felons in Canterlot. She knew what it truly meant to die as a coward, to fall face-down in a puddle of muck and sputter out one's final breath. Twilight didn't want that. Maybe in a filthy alleyway in Canterlot, one hoof pressed against the gaping wound in her throat. But not in Ponyville, not cowering in a corner with her eyes shut. The masked pony didn't deserve such an honor.

She slowly returned to bed, but she didn't fall asleep. She still remembered some key aspects of her dream. The images were distorted, but she recalled the masks. Dozens of them, just hanging in midair and accusing her with their eyeless faces.

Masks. Bronze Hoof was a theater pony. A rather respectable profession back in the day, but modern theater had never appealed to Twilight. It was far too over-dramatic, too artsy and complicated. She preferred the older plays. What had happened to the muted tragedies and the sensual romances? But perhaps Bronze Hoof had appreciated the classics. Perhaps in some alternate universe, him and Twilight could have become friends.

What type of mares hang around aspiring actors? Twilight asked herself. Aspiring actresses of course, but Twilight couldn't imagine Bronze Hoof being interested in his fellow artists. He seemed more like the type to spend his free time in sleazy bars. One was liable to meet all kinds of sketchy ponies in sleazy bars, including the type who would have turned Bronze Hoof into a grisly art piece.

But this entire case was riddled with unnecessary drama. It was very much a performance, a macabre revenge scheme that reminded Twilight of a classic tragedy. Yet there was also an air of psychology. The masked pony was testing Twilight, evaluating her reactions and adjusting the game in real time. Where did these these somewhat contradictory elements fit together? How did they connect to Bronze Hoof and his probable group of friends?

Twilight pressed a hoof to her forehead. Everything was getting jumbled up in her head. This often happened when she was puzzling her way through a big case, but it had become worse lately. She couldn't help feeling as if she was missing something immense, some obvious explanation that her brain just wasn't open to. But what could that be? Was Twilight simply overworked? Was there some massive clue she'd overlooked in her haste to finish the investigation?

She got out of bed. While a cup of hot chocolate and a pleasant talk with Spike was out of the question, a glass of water from the sink seemed like a decent substitute. She reached for the light switch.

Twilight froze, her hoof in midair.

The love letters. How did they fit into all this? Were they false clues? A sloppy attempt at misdirection? Were they the center of this entire thing, the sunken crater from which this foul odor of death was seeping? Twilight had been thinking about Bronze Hoof. That in itself was its own subtle kind of misdirection. While the attention she gave that aspect of the case wasn't silly, Twilight could never focus on the letters long enough to make something of them. But that made sense, didn't it? The letters seemed so out there, so removed from everything else she knew. They seemingly had no place in this investigation.

It wasn't the identity of the writer that Twilight should have focused on. That was important, but it wasn't the beginning of the story. Who was being written to? The letters seemed to be describing—as best they could, being letters—the ups and downs of a relationship, but with more extremes on either side. Extremes. Dramatics. It all came back to the theater, to acting and putting on a performance. Those frequent bits of flowery prose, so over-the-top and passionate. Happiness with a mix of bitterness. Guilt. The pony who wrote the letters was feeling guilty, even resentful. They were unsure and scared of themselves.

Twilight realized she'd felt this way many times before. She'd never written love letters or anything like that, but she connected with the feelings that were subtly being expressed. She understood what it was like to struggle with the grasp of a sinful city, to remain righteous even as the path in front of her distorted into something nightmarish. The isolation and helplessness of it was the worst part. She knew some of her fellow officers simply entrenched themselves, burying themselves so deep into the city's immoral roots that they never saw the light of day again. When one let themselves sink into the dark pit, there was no telling who or what would emerge from the other side.

Twilight lit up her horn. She suddenly didn't want to turn on the lights. She was afraid of catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

She levitated a notebook and a pen from her bedside table. She opened the notebook and placed it on the bed. Twilight was about to do something that fell silly, even juvenile. It reminded her of the word games she used to play as a filly. She started writing, her pen flying over the paper.

Poison. Foxes. Mask. Crows. Secret. Love. Passion. Theater. Dramatic.

The masked pony seemed to have an affinity for poison. They'd already used it twice—as far as Twilight knew—to great effect. In Twilight's experience, poison was a weapon wielded by those who were spiteful but cautious. Those who knew how to keep their head down and wait.

Before Twilight could dwell on this any longer, she heard a knock on the door. She froze in place, the glow emanating from her horn sputtering out.

She stood there in the darkness for a moment, waiting for the knock to be repeated. Instead she heard what sounded like a cough, followed by what sounded like something being slipped underneath the door. Twilight didn't move throughout this, even though she wanted to fling open the door and confront whoever had come to see her. But she had a feeling the hallway would be deserted. She might catch a tail disappearing around the corner if she was lucky, but Twilight doubted she'd be that fortunate.

After a few seconds, Twilight lit up her horn again. The gentle pulsing light was enough for her. Even though the curtains were closed, she didn't want to turn on any lights. Only the truly wicked—and Twilight—stayed up past nine o'clock.

She trotted over to the door and looked down. She half-expected to find a playing card or something equally cryptic. Despite the letters, she'd come to expect everything other than a straight answer. If her and the masked pony had been face to face, Twilight would have exhausted her supply of questions in less than two minutes. The conversation would have devolved into a series of non-committal responses and crafty dodges.

She instead found a small envelope. It was addressed to her, her name written in neat hoofwriting she didn't recognize. Twilight Sparkle, Ponyville Police Station. Close enough. A lot of her personal mail ended up being delivered to the station. The local mail service was surprisingly undependable, at least when it came to Twilight's letters and packages from Canterlot. She'd visited the post office once and realized they were severely understaffed. The only pony who actually seemed enthusiastic about her job—a pegasus by the name of Derpy Hooves—performed her duties rather well, but everypony else appeared fairly apathetic.

But of course this wasn't the station, nopony was supposed to know Twilight was there, and it was late at night by Ponyville standards. These facts alone made Twilight reluctant to even open the envelope. But just leaving it wasn't an option. It was maddening in its own way. She no longer wanted to play this game, but she didn't have a choice. Twilight could be cautious, but ultimately she was going to accept every little clue the masked pony gave her. If this was going to be her undoing, so be it.

She ripped open the envelope. Twilight expected it to start gushing foul-smelling gas, but nothing happened. But that would have been too impersonal. The masked pony wanted to be there, to watch the light leave Twilight's eyes. As effective as poison gas inside an envelope would have been, it lacked that intimate charm. Twilight was grateful. That would have been an embarrassing way for her to go out.

She unfolded the letter. Twilight partially expected it to be a party invitation from Pinkie Pie, most likely hoof-delivered by the pony herself. Pinkie had a knack for finding Twilight. She always seemed aware of where everypony was at any time of the day. If Ponyville was ever swamped with missing ponies' cases, Twilight knew which officer to put on the case. Pinkie's uncanny ability to find ponies who didn't want to be found would have been a gift in any other circumstances.

The note—hoof-written—read as follows: My name is Twilight Sparkle and this is my confession.

The remainder of the paper was blank, save for a shoddy recreation of the official royal seal at the bottom.

Twilight read through that sentence three more times, as if she expected it to reveal something. She cast a few spells on the paper, attempting to reveal a hidden message of some kind. But there was nothing. It was simply that one sentence, written in neat little letters across the top of the page.

She considered all the things she could have confessed. Pointless little wrongdoings throughout her fillyhood, such as stealing cookies from the jar in the kitchen or staying up past her bedtime. There were a few scattered through her adult life, such as bending certain rules simply to get the evidence she needed for a case. But what did Twilight really need to confess? Which sin stood out above all others, the ultimate testament to her imperfection as a pony?

Twilight brushed her hoof across the paper. The words smudged slightly as she did so. Apparently the ink was still fresh. This detail held nothing significant, except maybe a probable time frame Twilight couldn't do anything with. When or how the letter had been written wasn't important. Neither would tell her anything about the masked pony's identity, at least without an impossibly specific frame of reference. Even Twilight couldn't know what everypony in Ponyville was doing at any time of the day or night.

She held her hoof up to her muzzle and sniffed. Cheap? No, this was high quality ink. The type that cost at least forty or fifty bits a bottle. Likely from one of those specialty places in Canterlot or Manehattan. If Twilight wasn't mistaken, she recognized the brand based on smell alone. Her fur had reeked of the stuff during her school years. She'd never used it herself—she preferred the cheaper kind—but this particular brand had been very popular with professors and many others within the academic field. It was also a brand Spike was very fond of.

Twilight tacked on that last fact for the sake of completion, but she chose to ignore it.

It occurred to Twilight that half the town—if not ninety-percent—had completely forgotten about the grisly murder. Despite the brutality of the crime, it had become another exaggerated story likely only referenced by fillies and colts in the schoolyard. The adults—or at least most of them—had moved on, content to leave the recent past behind. Perhaps a string of murders would have rattled the town, but a single killing—however shocking—wasn't enough to shake the very foundation of Ponyville. Unlike Canterlot, a city that reeled at every crime despite the frequency. But Ponyville was sturdy. Unshakable. The ponies who lived there could witness atrocities one day and be chatting about carrots the next. It helped that nothing really happened in Ponyville, therefore the few exciting incidents were easy to dismiss. As much as Twilight disliked Ponyville, she was beginning to accept that some ponies simply needed a place like Ponyville. They took refuge in the quiet. It was unfortunate that she wasn't one of them.

The quiet. It was dead silent in Twilight's hotel room. The clock had stopped ticking. She was just standing there in almost complete darkness, the glow of her horn too dim to illuminate the area around her. Just her and that letter, the smell of ink seemingly all around her. Why was the aroma so strong? Was it simply how she'd become more alert, all of her senses working overtime? Why had she become alert? What was she expecting to happen?

Twilight tensed. She wondered why the clock had stopped. A malfunction was the most likely cause. Ponyville prided itself on craftsmanship, creating things that were built to last. But the clock hadn't been made in Ponyville. It was far too modern-looking, like something Twilight would have found in the city. The sleek design was so out of place that she'd wondered if it was a deliberate statement. But if it was, it was far too subtle and reductive to have been intended.

She made her way to her bedside table. It was slow going in the dark, but the light of Twilight's horn had dimmed significantly. She could barely see in front of her own face as she walked, carefully putting one hoof in front of the other. She'd already memorized the layout of the room, all the way from the door to the bed. Even in complete darkness, Twilight knew exactly where she was going.

A foot or so from the bedside table, Twilight froze. A shudder of fear skittered up her spine.

There was somepony right beside her. She could feel the warmth of their body, the largeness of their figure. If she concentrated, she could even hear the steady thump of this pony's heartbeat and the rush of blood in their veins. She knew that was impossible, but Twilight could feel them. She could feel every organ in their body, every patch of fur, every drop of seat. A living pony, a body made of bones and flesh and fur just inches away from her own. Standing in the darkness, silent and still. Waiting.

But I locked the door. The thought jumped into Twilight's head. But instead of giving her comfort and allowing her to focus, this single thought was more like a mockery. She had locked the door. She'd taken every security precaution imaginable. But that was why, wasn't it? That was why she was no longer alone. She'd presented a challenge and of course somepony had taken it.

They were going to kill her. There was no doubt in Twilight's mind. They couldn't have been unaware of her standing right beside them. But they were waiting, likely wondering if Twilight was brave enough to make the first move. But of course she wasn't. She was frozen in terror, sending frantic signals to her body that were not being read. This was how Twilight was going to die. Just standing there, waiting to feel the knife against her fur. Why wouldn't they get it over with? Why were they just standing there?

Then something clicked in Twilight's head. She couldn't die like this. The city had almost killed her on more than one occasion, had been trying its hardest ever since she took this job. She'd escaped before Canterlot could do her in, but could feel it looming over her shoulder. Ponyville had never even tried to kill her, at least not until the masked pony started their little game. Twilight wasn't going to give this town the satisfaction of being her end. If any place was going to kill her, it was going to be Canterlot. She'd decided that a long time ago, when she first accepted her badge.

Twilight lit up her horn, then swung around to face the pony standing so close to her in the darkness.

It was a chair. A chair Twilight had dragged out of its original spot and placed nearer to her bed. She hadn't sat in it, but she'd dumped a pile of books and papers into it. The room lacked a table, so she'd been forced to improvise.

Twilight's heart pounded. She remembered the distinct feeling of not being alone, of feeling somepony so close to her. But she realized that she'd likely been hearing her own heartbeat and feeling her own blood rushing through her own veins. It had been a fear-induced illusion, a manifestation of the terror lurking at the back of her head.

Of course nopony was in her hotel room. How could anypony have gotten in, especially without her seeing or sensing them beforehand? She should have realized that instantly, but a part of her really did feel as if she was being haunted. Phantoms could go anywhere they wanted. But the masked pony wasn't a phantom. They were fur and flesh just like her, easily trapped by walls or prevented by a locked door.

The clock started ticking again. Twilight almost breathed a sigh of relief as the silence was broken by the steady rhythm. She felt as if her sanity was slipping from her grasp. She was having trouble differentiating between reality and her nightmares. It was a new and terrifying feeling, almost too much for Twilight to bear at this stage. She'd met a few great detectives in her life and most of them did remarkably well under pressure. Twilight herself had always been excellent under pressure, but that had changed recently. She didn't feel in control anymore. She was chasing a ghost, enslaved by her own history. There was a building in the distance, a hulking skeleton of a factory just out of sight. But the faster Twilight trotted, the further away the building moved. If only she could catch up with it, if only she could just get one glimpse through the window and see what was inside this dead factory.

Twilight frowned. The ticking of the clock sounded strange to her. It was irregular and faint. The more she listened to it, the more it sounded like metal scraping against metal. The sound was unfamiliar to her at first, but Twilight eventually realized she'd heard it before.

She took a few steps towards the door. There was no doubt about it. She recognized that sound from many of her past investigations. Somepony was attempting to pick the lock on her door.

Twilight grabbed her crossbow. She considered shooting a bolt right through the door, a warning shot. But although the lock itself was weak, the door was sturdy. It was unlikely a well-placed shot would go right through it. Twilight also considered calling out, but she decided to remain quiet. Whoever was on the other side of that door most likely thought she was asleep.

She approached the door, crossbow at the ready. She could hear whoever was on the other side fumbling with the tools and cursing. They must have been out of practice, but Twilight detected some level of skill. Someone who had picked their fair share of locks back in the day, but inactivity had weakened their skills.

Twilight looked through the peephole. She expected to see a fox mask staring back at her or perhaps a crow mask. She knew this was drawing to a close, but she hadn't expected it to be ending so soon. Well, she wasn't going to complain. This might have been her chance to get some real answers.

Her heart sank. There was indeed someone standing right outside her door, bent over as they tried to pick the lock.

Twilight knew what courage meant. True courage wasn't facing a group of armed crooks in an abandoned factory. True courage was getting up every morning and going into the Canterlot police station. Going back to that job every single day took guts. It took a certain level of disassociation. Some detectives weren't up for it. One morning they simply wouldn't get out of bed. They'd pour themselves a drink and contemplate their life choices, unwilling to face the grime of the city yet again. Perhaps there'd been another murder, perhaps a foal had been kidnapped, perhaps a suspect had slipped from their grasp. It became routine, but it was the type of routine that could break a pony. But Twilight was never afraid of being broken. She was already cracked around the edges.

But staring through that peephole, Twilight thought she understood a different type of courage. The courage to let one's guard down, the courage to care and trust. It was all relative of course, but for Twilight it had been an uphill battle.

Twilight didn't need to see their face. What little she could see gave everything away. What got to her wasn't the surprise she felt. It was the surprise she didn't feel. A part of her was indifferent, as if she'd expected this all along.

It was Spike. He was bent over, swearing as he attempted to pick the unusually resilient lock. His technique was clumsy, his claws fumbling with the precision tools he was holding. He'd never been an expert at picking locks. But Twilight had taught him, determined to make sure he received all the necessary training. The academy had done its best, but some things could only be picked up from field work or fellow cops. As nopony else was willing to associate with Spike, Twilight chose to take him under her proverbial wing. She'd taught him so much. Spike really was a fast learner.

“Spike?” said Twilight.

She thought she'd said it quietly, but it had come out rushed and loud. Without meaning to, she'd pressed the tip of the loaded crossbow against the door.

Spike froze in place, still bent over the door. Watching through the door, Twilight could see him falter in surprise. She heard something clatter to the floor, presumably the lockpicking tools he'd been using. Twilight had bought him a lockpick kit for his birthday a few years ago. She'd been tired of sharing with him.

Twilight took a deep breath, then flung open the door. She did it quickly, knowing full well she wouldn't have the courage if she actually let herself think about it.

Spike was already sprinting down the hallway. Despite his physical disadvantage—only two legs instead of four—he'd become a surprisingly good runner. If given the chance, he probably could have beaten almost anypony in a race. It helped that nopony in their right mind would challenge a dragon to any kind of competitive sport.

Twilight didn't even try to chase after him. She just watched as he rapidly approached the end of the hall. He didn't look back, even to make sure she wasn't following him. It wasn't that Twilight didn't think she could catch up to him. He was fast, but she did have the advantage of four legs and magic. However, something kept her rooted in place. She let the image of him running away burn itself into her brain.

Then Twilight raised her crossbow. She did it without thinking, without letting herself consider consequences. She let that image of Spike running away distort and twist, until it was merely a shape. A blur of color and movement inside of her head, spilling out into the real world. Without a thought, Twilight fired the bolt at Spike's retreating back.

Spike had almost reached the end of the hallway, but he stopped in his tracks when the bolt flew past him. It didn't hit him, but Spike saw it out of the corner of his eye. He saw it sail past, hitting the floor inches from his feet. He stopped and turned around, turned to face Twilight for the first time.

He didn't say anything, but his face was filled with pain. For a moment, Twilight thought the bolt had hit him. But of course that was impossible. Even if it had, there was no way it could have pierced his scales. Yet he was standing there, staring at her with such agony in his eyes.

Twilight lowered the crossbow, her hooves shaking. She'd actually done it. Perhaps it was what she'd been planning all along, from the moment she realized who was outside. Twilight had just shot at Spike, shot at him as if he was a common criminal. But that was what he'd been to her in that moment. He'd simply been a shape, another felon fleeing the scene of their crime. It was only when Twilight saw the look on his face that she realized he wasn't. Spike wasn't a criminal. He was her friend. A confidant. Someone she trusted above all others. Yet she was standing there, crossbow held in her magic as she pictured a bolt going right through Spike's scales.

Spike turned and left the hallway, swiftly vanishing from sight. Twilight watched his shadow disappear as he quickly descended the stairs.

Twilight didn't call or chase after him. She was afraid her voice would crack and break, her true feelings spilling out of her.

Twilight was no longer certain of how she felt or what she believed in. It was all just shapes, just equations, just ideas. Things she didn't want. Things she could have done without.