The slave serves the King. All exist to serve the King and only to serve the King.
This is the slave’s first thought as it regain consciousness. It feels shame, but only for a moment before the helmet takes it away. It is good to regret not serving the King, the helmet tells the slave, but not to spend time dwelling on it when one could serve Him.
Only then does the slave realize that it is not in its barracks or at its post. It has not received new orders. It is not where it needs to be. It is not performing its duty.
It is not serving the King.
Fear comes and goes as quickly as regret. To serve the King, the slave must obey its orders. To do that, it must return to its post. To do that, it must…
The slave hesitates as the crystals in the helmet fail to connect with the Empire. The helmet can at least detect the direction of the central command spire. It is north. Very north. The slave will have to—
The slave stops as its attempts to get back in range hit an obstruction. It finally considers its surroundings, a small room with a large mirror on one wall and a single overhead magical light fixture. The slave can’t see any way in or out, but it also can’t move its head beyond a certain point. Attempting to move its body runs into the previous problem.
Looking down, the slave sees the nature of the problem: It has been encased in a block of concrete that goes up to its withers.
The slave struggles against the block, straining as much as it can without damaging the King’s property. It would not normally care about tearing ligaments or dislocating joints, but it will need a fully functional body to make the trip to its post.
Eventually, the slave exhausts itself. It is strong, especially with the helmet helping it, but it has no leverage and the concrete is thick. Its head slumps against its bonds. It will try again when it has rested, and will do so until it dies, it is free, or the King inevitably sweeps across the land and reaches it.
Why?
It must.
Why must I?
The slave’s eyes blink behind the helmet. Something is… wrong. Something is—
The helmet takes its doubt, reaching almost too eagerly, like an impatient foal. This far from the Empire, it is using more power than it can receive.
Hmm. Foals. Don’t I remember being a foal?
Recollection is difficult, the memory buried under magic, time, and exhaustion, but… yes, the slave recalls earlier days. Before duty. Before… before the K—
The helmet flares green. Phantom wails make the slave wince.
Don’t I remember the day I got my cutie mark?
The words spark something in the slave. Yes, under the concrete and the armor, there is… there is an image. A mark. Something the slave has that is its own, like no other, that does not belong to the—
The helmet screams at this heresy. It assaults every one of the slave’s senses. Blinding light, screeching noise, horrendous pain, even foul odors and flavors and auras beat against the slave’s awareness…
Until they stop.
The slave gasps for breath, spots swimming before its eyes as its ears ring. Over time, the sensation fades… and eventually slips down past what it had thought was silence. It realizes that there had been a constant low thrum in the background, one that has now stopped.
But was it constant? Always there?
The slave flinches at the thought. Whatever happened before does not serve the King. The helmet knows this.
But I was something before.
That… is true. The slave had once been… not enslaved.
It flinches again, prepared for chastisement at such a thought. But none comes. The slave slowly raises its head back up. Is… is this permitted?
Where did the thrum come from?
Yes, and where did it go? Tentatively, the slave casts its thoughts back. So much of its recent memory consists of performing its duty. But, at the beginning of that duty…
It is almost as painful as the helmet’s punishment. But the slave does remember the King Himself gracing it with his presence
Forcing me to cower before him.
and presenting it with a physical token of his favor.
A tool that made me a tool.
As the helmet first glowed, first gripped the slave’s mind, that was when the thrum had begun. And with it gone now…
The slave mentally prods the helmet, asking it for guidance, for a reminder of its duty.
Nothing answers.
Nothing needs to.
The slave shakes away that madness. It needs that guidance! Needs to know where to be and what to do and how to serve!
Do I?
Of course! It isn’t as though the slave could tell itself what to do!
Why not?
Because… because the King is its master!
Does he have to be?
The slave shakes its head so violently, the helmet flies off into a corner of the room, so drained it can’t even stay on the slave’s head. The slave then winces in the bright light from overhead, gasping at air touching the matted coat of its face. It is out of uniform!
This is nice.
It is… not unpleasant. But the slave does not have time for such trivialities. It… it has to…
I don’t have to go back. Not if I don’t want to.
The slave… the slave…
I could follow my passion. Use my special talent. Be who I was meant to be.
A tingle from the slave’s hindquarters dredges up another old memory. Of long, happy hours working with a potter’s wheel, reworking its master’s kiln to function better, glazing the finished product. The interplay of clay and pony, the satisfaction of working with its hooves—
My hooves. Not the king’s. Mine.
My hooves and hearing others in the marketplace voice their admiration. Those… those were the good times! Not Sombra capturing me and making me into yet another hoof soldier! I want that! I want the days when I could just be me!
“Don’t we all?” says a mare’s voice.
I blink. It came from behind me, and I am still sealed in concrete. “H-hello?” I wince. My voice comes out as a horrible croak from disuse.
“Don’t worry, I brought some water.” She walks into view. A unicorn, but so unlike Sombra. Smaller, softer, lighter. Her garments are understated things, a tunic of an unfamiliar style and a simple cap that matches her light blue coat. Yet she looks as worn down as I feel, almost pinched, with eyes that seem far older than the rest of her.
I’ve never seen her before, yet there’s something familiar about her…
Before worrying about that, I accept the water. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve tasted in moons.
Once she’s tilted back the glass as far as it will go, she asks, “How do you feel?”
The questioning tone provides the last hint I need. “You! You were the one putting the traitorous thoughts in my head!”
She smirks, tucking a bit of pale mane under the cap. “You’re welcome.”
“I…” I trail off. She’s right; I should thank her. I dip my head. ‘You have my eternal gratitude. My life is—“
“Your own. I didn’t pry you out from under Sombra’s spell just to have you bend the knee to the next unicorn who came along.” She huffs out something like a laugh. “Even if that is me.”
I look back up. “But, but I—”
“Owe me your life, I know.” She rolls her eyes and smirks. “You’re not the first crystal I’ve deprogrammed, and hopefully you won’t be the last. You’re probably planning on sculpting a statue of me, aren’t you?”
I give a sheepish nod. “I… don’t suppose you know of a good source of lapis lazuli for the glaze?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that. For now, I need to call in some rockbreakers to get you out of that block.“ She nods towards the dead-eyed helmet. “That and add your old pal in the corner to Sparkle’s growing collection. Then we can figure out what you can do with your life.“
“Can I at least know the name of my savior?”
The smirk softens. I haven't seen a smile like that since before Sombra. "Only if you tell me yours."
"I..." It has been so long since I even thought of my own name. It takes me several seconds to dredge it from the depths of my mind. "I am... Citrine Nectar."
"Nice to meet you, Citrine. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life."
I put aside the strangely ominous phrase. There is a far more pressing matter to consider. "Please, your own name?"
She blinks as though she too has almost forgotten her name. “Well, far be it from me to deny a fan.” She puts her hoof to forehead. An Equestrian salute, I believe. “Specialist Trixie Lulamoon, Psy Ops.”
Once more, I bow my head. “Thank you, Madame Lulamoon.”
A gentle hoof nudges me until we make eye contact again. That smile... the weariness is still there, but some seems to melt away even as I watch. “You're welcome, Citrine, but I didn't do much. I just showed you how to pull yourself out of the hat.”