A Train to Canterlot
We will all be departing shortly...
The light was just ahead, Moss could see it. It beckoned her forward, drawing her from the darkness that surrounded the land. The light steered the mare toward the one who guarded the way.
She approached the pony seated beside the gate, her hooves rapping on the rough cobblestone slick with the remnants of a storm that has passed through. The air was still, not a hint of a breeze to disturb the silence.
Moss stopped, leaning in close to the gatekeeper, and delivered her request.
"One ticket for Canterlot on the seven pm train," Moss wearily told the teller in the ticket booth, forking over three bits. "Business-class, please."
The teller's eyes remained glued to the magazine on his desk. "I have one last seat in coach," he informed the business mare, flipping through the magazine slowly. The cloud of moths swarming the bare lightbulb over the ticket booth cast wavering shadows that rippled across the pages.
"Fine," sighed Moss, setting down her briefcase to rub the overpowering sleep from her eyes. She would have much preferred business-class: medium-length seating with some aspects of personal comfort. But she had to make it to Canterlot tonight. Coach would have to suffice.
Ticket in hoof, Moss cleared passed through the gate and onto the platform. The mare strode down the length of the platform, past the engine, smoke billowing from her stack like a rumbling, sleeping dragon. She trotted along the first passenger car, then the second. Her tall stature and long slender neck allowed her a glimpse inside the railcars: first-class with its spacious amenities, and business — every seat full.
All the way to the fifth car she tiredly trode, the very last one bringing up the rear; it was a long walk to accompany a very long day.
Clack!
The door to the car slid back, revealing rows of seating filled with many other ponies. Moss winced, gingerly stepping over a stallion's dirty hooves sprawled in the aisle, their owner passed out in his seat. The company had better comp me for this, she thought to her herself, nose twitching from the smell of over a dozen ponies piled into the small box. It was not pleasant.
"All aboard!" yelled the conductor as Moss found her seat, shoving her briefcase in the luggage rack above her. At least nopony is squished next to me, she noted, a small positive to this less than stellar situation. The last thing she needed was somepony crammed next to her.
With an exhausted thump, she collapsed into the thinly-cushioned seat, her hooves aching from the long day of meetings, presentations, and mind-numbing quarterly reports. She massaged her neck, the seat offering little respite as she loosened her collar and pulled down her mane.
Bang!
The car lurched forward, the train inching its way out the dreary station with a shrill belt from its whistle.
Goodbye, you backwater excuse for a town, she yawned, tuning out the mingling of the other passengers, her eyes heavy and head drooping against the hard chairback. Just a few more hours of travel were between her and Canterlot: and a comfy bed.
Down the tracks the train chugged, picking up speed. The cars gently swayed side to side rhythmically, lulling Moss into a deep slumber. By the time the platform disappeared over the hill, she was out cold, the rest of the world and its worries and deadlines evaporating from her conscious mind. It was a small sliver of peace, the last she would ever have as she slipped away.
Wake up.
Moss bolted upright out of her chair, her coat and dress shirt drenched in a cold sweat, her breathing heavy and labored. Her eyes blinked away the sleep rapidly. Who was that?
She scanned the train car, eyes shifting, searching for the voice that had woken her. A ghostly voice that dragged her from the profound depth of her slumber like a cannon going off. But she could not find the pony, or anypony for that matter. The train car was empty.
"Hello?" Moss called out, looking behind her and all around. But nopony answered, for nopony was there.
Did everypony get off, she wondered. Are we in Canterlot already? She squinted to look out the window.
But what she saw only confused her more.
The train was speeding, no, rocketing, down the tracks, much too fast. The string of railcars sailed across a barren, dusty landscape glowing a fiery orange. Somewhere distant, a tremendous bolt of lightning roared across the sky, illuminating the nothingness that stretched into the darkness for miles for a split before the light evaporated. The deep rumble of thunder that followed a second later resonated in her bones, shaking up her spine and vibrating across her teeth. Moss clenched down hard.
This was not anywhere. She could not imagine it was a place that anypony could possibly be.
"I must be dreaming," Moss nodded faintly, attempting to reassure herself. But little did that reassurance do to calm her, for such a nightmare was unlike any she had before — and she had hosted her fair share. She could almost taste the fear and dread lingering in the air, like a toxic atmosphere. It hung over her, a misplaced terror that clawed at her brain.
Her mind was a panic at the nightmarish intrusion, the mare instinctively curling her hind legs close and closing her eyes. "It's just another nightmare," she reminded herself, no stranger to bad dreams, even if this particular one was unlike any other she had experienced. "Just wake up," she instructed her subconscious. "We're going to wakeup in Canterlot."
Another sudden barrage of thunderous lightning rippled across the hellscape, Moss jumping in her seat like a spring-loaded foal's toy. Her head collided with the luggage rack overhead, her vision instantly clouded and fuzzy, her ears ringing until she was sure she would be sick.
Lying back in her rickety seat, struggling to remain conscious, Moss tenderly probed the rapidly forming bump on her head with an audible wince. When she recoiled from the pain, her hoof was sticky with blood that slowly trickled rivulets through her mane. The pain she felt was all too real. This was no dream, nor nightmare. This was much worse.
"Hello?" she called weakly again, hauling herself onto shaky hooves as she pulled an embroidered hoofkerchief from a pocket to staunch her bleeding head. She searched the passenger car, looking for somepony, anything for that matter.
But the train car was absolutely empty: no ponies, no luggage, nothing to indicate anypony had ever been there. Gingerly, Moss stumbled to the door at the front of the train car. She could quickly tell through the window, there was nopony in the next car as well.
Reaching out, she grabbed the handle and gave it a tug. The door did not open.
"No, no, no," she whispered, pulling harder, to no avail. "This isn't happening. Wake up, Moss." With a bloody hoof, she smacked the door glass, resulting in only pain. A red smear from her bloody hoofkerchief was left across the glass.
She looked around, spotting the only other door at the rear of the car. Another way out?
This time the handle turned, the door suddenly flung inward on its heavy hinges as a wall of dust and wind came barreling in. Her eyes stung, and she squinted against the torrent, pulling her way outside.
This was a mistake, she quickly realized; her car was the tail end of the train after all.
On either side of the small platform extending past the hatch, the ground whizzed by at breakneck speed, making her nauseous just looking down. There was no way out here, only the hellish rumbles thunder and fiery lightning that crackled across the sinister landscape, endless in all directions. Moss was left no choice but to seek refuge inside the train car once more.
Slam!
Moss shut the door hatch with what little strength she had, pushing against the force of the storm and wind. "What is this place?" she asked, her head resting against the door, eyes wild, trying to piece together what she knew, which was very little at the moment.
"You're late," a voice spoke behind her, causing Moss to leap out her skin a second time. She spun around to see a pony, an older mare in business attire with a mane streaked with gray, sitting calmly on a bench.
"Who-wha-," Moss stammered, shocked by the mare's unannounced appearance. "Who are you? Where is everypony?"
"I've come with a proposition, Miss Moss," the older mare spoke, ignoring the questions. The mare produced a cigarette from her trim suit, lighting up and blowing a cloud of smoke. "If you're interested, I have left the details in your briefcase. If you accept, the Agency and I will be in touch," she revealed, her thin lips stretched across her cigarette-stained teeth. "I wouldn't take too long to decide."
"B-Briefcase?" Moss stuttered, confused, but turned to spot her briefcase still tucked in the overhead luggage rack where she had initially left it. "How do you know my nam—" she began, turning back to the older mare, only to discover she had vanished. The smoking mare was gone, the whisps of tobacco smoke having disappeared as well.
Am I hallucinating Moss asked herself, looking around the cab once more to come to the same conclusion: she was alone. The only thing of any connection was her briefcase, Moss reaching for the black attache while cautiously watching her back for any more unexpected apparitions.
"What do you mean proposition?" Moss whispered, frantically entering her code in the lock, the words of the smoking mare rebounding in her head. "Come on, come on," she hissed, fiddling with the last tumbler, her hooves shaking. With a pop the latch released.
Empty. Her briefcase previously bursting with proposals and financial reports and a change of clothes was empty. Empty except for a small stuffed dragon, a foal's toy.
Gingerly, Moss picked up, the plush dragon's red felt worn in several places and missing a glass eye. "I-I thought I left you buried in the dresser long ago. I haven't seen you in years," she breathed, hooves trembling as she examined the animal. She remembered every stitch.
But as if it on fire, she hurridly tossed the stuffed dragon back in her case. She slammed the locks closed — she didn't want to remember. "But you shouldn't be here," she gulped, shivering despite the tepid heat of the railcar. "And I shouldn't be here."
Click!
The door to the next car effortlessly slid open, Moss pulled away from the briefcase. "But—how?" she asked, taking cautious steps toward the exit, leaving her briefcase behind. She did not want to be reminded of the stuffed dragon. Too many bad memories, so many sleepless nights.
So many nightmares.
Taking the first few tentative steps out the fifth car, Moss dared not to look down at the ground flying below her. Instead, she focused on the fourth car, just a step away. And through the door, she recognized the familiar mare leaning against windows, cigarette in her mouth, empty eyes staring across the equally meaningless outside.
If the grey-maned mare could hear the door to the car close, and Moss step in, she did not react. She just watched the hellscape pass by outside and smoked.
Eyes fixated upon the mare, boring into her, Moss reached a steady hoof out. She eased toward the smoking mare, not knowing if she was a phantom or specter. Was the pony dead, was she dead?
"Who, are, you?" Moss asked forcefully, moving slowly toward the older mare as if approaching a wild beast.
"I trust you have accepted our preposition, Miss Moss," the smoking mare exhaled in a cloud of smoke. "You wouldn't be here if you were not at least interested in what we were offering."
Moss's face radiated red, veins bulging and teeth gritting as the mysterious mare continued to ignore her questions. "Tell me who you are. What proposition? I never agreed to any of this!" she yelled, nearly within reach of the smoking mare. Moss was through wondering; she wanted answers.
The smoking mare continued. "I won't lie. What we are doing here is—" she paused, cigarette drooping from her lips as the mare searched for the proper word "— delicate. But I can assure you, what you are doing here, right now, is more important than you can begin to imagine, Miss Moss. We are so glad you decided to agree," the mare wheezed through her crooked smile, eyes hungry with unbenounced anticipation.
"I never agreed to this! What is this?" Moss's vision was boiling with rage, receiving cryptic after meaningless responses from the smoking mare. "Let me off," she demanded, her forehooves stamping violently on the deck. "I want off this train!"
She couldn't take it anymore. Moss was airborne, lunging at the mare with an explosive kick from her hind legs. She couldn't control herself; anxiety and confusion boiled over into profound rage. She wanted the smoking mares neck wringing in her hooves until she told her what was happening.
Crash!
Moss's head exploded with pain for a second time, and her vision evaporated with a flash like lightning. The thunder in her head was unbearable, a cacophony of drumming that was her own heartbeat in her heaving chest. Blindly, she groped through the pain.
"Show yourself!" she cried, shaking her head and standing back up, fighting through the pain. "I don't know what kind of deal you want, but I won't have it. I want off!"
But the smoking mare was gone, disappearing as with before.
Yet, something remained: a stench of cigarette.
Moss followed it, turning her head toward the front of the train. The next car.
"You're not getting away that easy," Moss growled, stumbling forward. The smoking mare couldn't have gotten far.
Moss was a charging bull, tearing through the car, the exit just ahead. Flinging the hatch open she lept the gap, mane whipping in the wind, eyes raging firestorms to match the burning land. Blinded by her anger, she burst into the third train car.
"I swear to Celestia when I catch you I'll—"
Moss was stopped in her tracks, the words caught in her throat, choking her breath.
Among the benches, a bathtub by its lonesome overflowed, water spilling out of the deep basin and coating the floor plates with a thin puddle.
Moss quickly retreated at the sight of the tub till her flank pressed against the door. She knew now; she finally understood. This was torture, her own personal hell.
"No," she breathed, all semblance of anger replaced with horror. "Please, stars above, no," she pleaded, attempting to return from how she came.
No luck — the door was jammed, locking her in. She would have to continue forward.
But that would mean passing the tub.
Step by step, she drew closer, the cold water like ice under her hooves. "Please," she quivered, mouth trembling as she begged to whatever demons or phantoms might be lurking. The smoking mare?
"I can't," she called out, shielding her eyes. "I can't see it again. Don't make me look." Whatever forces were keeping her here, she could only assume it was to punish her.
"There was nothing I could do," Moss begged, her voice broken and on the verge of tears. "I tried to help."
Heart pounding, lungs burning with a quick, shallow breath, she peered over the rim of the tub. A small stuffed dragon floated circles around the overflowing bathtub.
Why did the mysterious mare want to show her this? Was it a game to her, to see her relive these past pains?
Step by small foal-sized step, she skirted around the tub, hooves lapping at the water beneath them. The stuffed dragon slowly followed her around, lazily continuing its path around the water. It wouldn't stop.
Moss finally came unglued from the scene. She stood at the door to the second car, unable to turn and face the tub again, the stuffed dragon circling endlessly.
"Please," she begged, clutching her hooves together on the latch. She knew exactly what would come next. "Don't make me face him."
With a gentle click, the door opened on the first try. Moss was through, but it wasn't over. She had two more cars.
Business-class. The second car from the engine was outfitted with spacious seats lined with opulent fabric that shined like glass and was as soft as down, much classier that coach.
But Moss found no comfort here. She curled tighter into her chair, hindlegs clutched tight against her stomach — her eyes never leaving the next door.
If this door was locked as the others, she did not know. She had not tried it yet. Moss had merely stared at it since she came in and sat.
Her head rested in her hooves, leaning over the armchair, the tears rolling off her face and collecting in a small puddle on the vibrant carpet, soaking the threads in brine. The silvery drops gently vibrated down her cheeks as the phantom train continued streaking across the barren world, never slowing.
With a sniffle, Moss reclined back, reddened eyes looking up at the overhead as she tried to muster up the courage to open that next door, a door she had never wanted to open.
"Think about what I am offering you," the grey-maned mare spoke in the seat beside her, puffing on her tobacco. Moss wasn't sure when she had appeared, but the mare had been sitting beside her for some time.
"Imagine. No more dreams, no more pain. Simple, right?" she asked, blowing a ring of smoke upward. "And I will disclose, you would be doing Equestria a profound service. We need all the data we can get. We need to perfect this."
Moss shook her head, her eyes raw and stained from the tears. "I don't know," she sobbed, unable to take her eyes off the ceiling and address the mysterious mare. "To never see his face again? After seeing it every night, plaguing every nightmare. I'm not sure if I can give him up," she admitted. "It was my fault. Who's to say I can just erase it all away?"
"I understand it may be a difficult decision, Miss Moss," the smoking mare assured her, standing up from her seat. "But you have no idea what is coming — for all of us."
Bending down, the grey mare placed a pill, white, round and as small as a pea on the hoofrest beside Moss. "This is it. It will suppress the dreams, all of them: good and bad alike. Take it or leave it. But this is your only chance." The smoking mare puffed one last time and walked away, her voice trailing off. "Besides, it won't matter when it escapes and we are all living in its nightmare."
When Moss finally lifted herself in her chair and turned, the phantom mare was gone, leaving her alone once more.
Resting the pill in her hoof, she turned it over, fondling it and passing it back and forth.
"Can I do this?" she asked, searching inside herself for the answer to her own question. "Can I leave him behind?"
She could feel it in her, the uncertainty.
But also the anger, the depression, all the times she put on a fake smile and was able to pull herself out of bed in the morning. And every time she closed her eyes at night, she could see him, beneath the water in the bath.
It was so long ago, yet it still haunted her every time. No matter how much she fought, how much she pleaded or cursed or cried, she could never block it out. She was supposed to have looked after him. And now she wasn't sure how to let go.
But Moss knew there was only one way out. It was always there, all this time. She had to go through the next car — the final car.
Moss let the pill drop to the floor, the white capsule rolling beneath the chair as she stood up. No more hiding; it was time to face him.
Gripping the handle, she gave it a twist and opened the door.
He was sitting in a first-class seat, his back turned to her, eyes watching the passing hellscape fly by the full windows. Moss slowly approached the stallion. He was older, much bigger than the colt that she remembered.
"Ocean Gaze?" she timidly asked the aqua-colored pony.
He turned, gazing up at the tear-stained mare, his turquoise eyes lighting up at the sight of the Moss's distraught face.
"Mossy," he beamed, patting the seat beside him. "I was wondering when you would come to see me. Please," he made room, "sit down."
She surrendered, never tearing her sight from those strong green-blue eyes.
"Look how much you have grown," he smiled, looking past her soiled attire and blood-smeared head. "Mom and Dad would be so proud of you, to see how far you've come."
Moss took no notice of his praise, however, wrapping her hooves around the stallion as a fresh stream of tears burst forth. "It's really you."
"Woah," the stallion exclaimed. "There, there. Don't get yourself all worked up now. Of course it's me."
"I sorry," she wept, clutching him even tighter. "Please forgive me, Ocean, I'm so sorry."
The stallion only grinned, stroking the crying mare's tangled mane. "Don't say that, Sis. What do you have to be sorry for? It wasn't your fault."
"Yes, it was. I was the one in charge while Mom and Dad were gone. I was supposed to look after you, to watch out for you, and I didn't."
"Look at me," he told her, lifting up her tear-streaked muzzle. "You need to accept that there are things in life out of your control. What happened, happened. There is no changing that," he told her, his voice soft, and smooth, and assuring. "It's time to move on."
Moss sniffed, nuzzling his chest. To listen to his breaths again and feel the rise of his chest calmed her, drying her wet eyes. She could hear his heart beating, slow and firm, lulling her with its steady rhythm. "They said you slipped and hit your head getting out the tub."
"Shh," he shushed her, hugging her close. "It's all over now. You don't have to worry anymore. Come with me," he told her, standing from his chair and taking her by the hoof. "I want to show you something."
She followed beside, Ocean Gaze supporting her by letting her lean against his shoulder. "Just take me home, Ocean. I want off this train. I want to go home," she begged tiredly.
"We will. Just a little longer."
Together, they stopped at the forward door of the car, the last before the train engine. Ocean Gaze opened it, standing aside and holding it open for Moss.
She could see it now, the light beyond. It beaconed toward Moss, the doorway filled with the sweet light, pulling her forward. It was calling her home.
Hesitantly she stopped before it, turning to her brother. "You won't leave me, will you?"
"Don't worry. I'll be right behind you," Ocean Gaze winked. "But it's up to you to take the first step."
For the first time since she boarded the train bound for Canterlot, Moss smiled, released from the fear and doubt she had carried since the night they were separated, vanquished from the sleepless nights and terrorizing dreams: gone from the guilt.
With newfound hope, Moss took a big breath and stepped through the door — into the light, and off the train. They had arrived at their final stop.
"She's seizing!" the nurse yelled, throwing on the lights to the darkened room. "Get the stimulants! Wake her up!"
More medical professionals in lab coats and scrubs barged into the sleep chamber, attempting to hold Moss down.
She flailed in the bed, ripping the electrodes delicately glued all over her head. Medical ponies held Moss against the tangled sheets, a nurse galloping in with a syringe.
"What happened?" one of the doctors shouted, pressing Moss against the sweat-soaked bedsheets. Foam frothed at her mouth, head twitching, eyes glazed, staring, gazing blankly through the glare of the fluorescents overhead. Her muscles clenched involuntarily, the tremors tearing through her body, almost shaking the needle out of the nurse's hoof.
"I don't know!" the nurse shouted, needle clenched in her hooves. She was asleep and dreaming one minute, seizing the next!"
"Her EKG is all over the place," another doctor told them over the commotion. "Get the neutralizing agent in her before her brain turns to mush!"
"I can't find a vein," the nurse seethed through gritted teeth. "Hold her still! I said hold her!"
Lifting the cell phone to her ear, the mare took a long drag of her cigarette as she waited for a connection. A moment later, the line click, a voice speaking on the other end.
"Yes?"
"There has been a setback," the grey mare said, pursing her thin lips over her nicotine-stained teeth. "We uncovered another setback with the drug prototype."
"Is it related to the incident at Containment One?" the voice on the other end asked coldly. "We can't lose another Operator. We must maintain containment at the facility."
"No, it wasn't related. This looks to be a side effect of post-traumatic experience. The dream inhibitor didn't suppress the underlying neurological functions, but amplified them," the smoking mare explained. "Most likely, a result of how the brain handles grief. It's hardwired into the subconscious as a coping mechanism. Or so the experts tell me?" she said nonchalantly, flicking the ash from her cigarette.
"So, what does this mean for us?"
Taking another drag, the mare shifted through the personal objects on the table in front of her: a briefcase, several changes of business attire, a mobile phone, a purse with several dozen bits and a ragged stuffed dragon.
"A minor inconvenience. The dream inhibitor prototype the Operators at Containment One consume would have already exacerbated any underlying traumatic memories."
"And when will the inhibitor be ready for widescale production?" the voice asked.
"The eggheads think it will still be a few more months before they have the formula perfected," the smoking mare remarked. "But we would only need to distribute them in a worst-case scenario. Containment One will stay sealed. We've always made sure of that."
"Let's hope for the sake of everypony you are correct," the voice hissed. "And that the incident with Operator Seven was merely a fluke."
"We've maintained contaiment for over a decade. We will see to it for the next decade and the one after that," the mare spoke firmly. "We have to."
"And the latest subject?" the voice wondered, referring to the body in the freezer. "Ponies might wonder how a prominent business pony goes missing."
"Don't worry," the mare assured the voice over the phone." She signed an agreement consenting to the experimental drug test. If anypony were to every catch wind —which they won't — we're in the clear legally speaking." She rubbed her head. "Morally speaking is another matter."
"Not good enough. We need absolute deniability."
"So what should I do?" She pulled a final drag from her cigarette, grabbing the stuffed dragon from the table and examining in closer. 'Ocean Breeze' was hoof stitched with yellow thread on the sole of the red dragon's foot.
"Burn the evidence. All of it."