//------------------------------// // Chicago // Story: Destination Unknown // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Destination Unknown Chicago Admiral Biscuit Sweetsong had long since gotten used to the noise of road traffic going by overhead and the banging of railcars in a switching yard. The catwalk on the bridge was wide and flat, and the steel latticework didn’t suck out her body heat like concrete did, which was also a blessing. She spread out her army blanket and took off her saddlebags, then settled in to sleep. She woke with the dawn, yawning and arching her back before stretching her wings out. In the full light, under cover of the bridge, she could see the track she’d come in on, along with the rails that ran parallel to the interstate and appeared to lead to Chicago proper. Across the river there was a big concrete lot full of boats on stands, and behind that was another railyard, this one with orange and black locomotives. That was a railroad she didn’t know, nor where it went. Just to the north was yet another rail line that looked to head due north, terminating a few surface streets before her bridge. That one had overhead wires and a big passenger shed alongside the tracks. To the west, the railyard she wasn’t in—she glanced over it and didn’t see her gondola. Either it had gone out in a block of cars, or else it was hidden among all the other cars. Sweetsong didn’t know all the rail routes, but she had the advantage of wings which would give her a better view of where she was and the best way to get to Chicago or elsewhere—she still hadn’t decided for sure. It wouldn’t really matter if a train spotted her flying off the bridge, but she looked anyway before putting her hooves up on the railing and jumping over the edge. A short descent away from the highway but not too close to the trees flanking the railroad. Too early for thermals, although once she gained some altitude the busy road might give her a boost. ••• Lake Michigan was off to her right, as she’d suspected, and Chicago still to her north, an unmistakable cluster of skyscrapers towering over the cityscape. The rail line she’d been on before went northwest, and while it probably turned, it looked like it was going to avoid Chicago. Likely as not, the line to the west kept going west; it wouldn’t make much sense for it to curve back. Commuters on the road and trains alike were already in motion; she could see a freight approaching from the way she’d come. Maybe it would stop in the yard and maybe it wouldn’t. How many bits do I have? She could mostly live off the land but liked little luxuries now and then. Chicago was a big town full of people who might be generous, people who might like to hear her sing. ••• Riding on freight trains was fun and free. Riding on a commuter train cost her, although admittedly it was more comfortable and she didn’t have to worry about being seen. She could press her muzzle against the glass and watch the scenery go by with no fear of being evicted.  The train was electric, which was an additional bonus. Normal locomotives thundered in the ground, through her shoes and in her chest; the electric coursed across her wings, giving her the feel of a budding thunderstorm even on a clear, cloudless day. It was almost close enough to shape to her will, a different harmony. She felt the traction motors work, she was practically one with the current.  Of necessity, commuter trains made more stops, then they were off like a racehorse to the next station, pressing her back with acceleration. Latecomers who couldn’t find seats held on to the overhead bars and sometimes gave her sideways glares, which she ignored. She’d bought a seat, she had every right to use it. As the train bent sharply left, she thought she might have made a mistake; she hadn’t studied the route map all that well and human place names were weird, then it turned again and bumped across a switch and continued en route to Chicago proper. Sweetsong didn’t know exactly where she was going, or how far the train ultimately went. Her ticket let her ride if for however long she wanted, either to the end of the line, or else she could just ride back and forth, she wasn’t sure. Amtrak made her pay to a destination, but the last commuter train she’d ridden had only charged her to board. She finally decided to get off at the 11th Street station, since a cluster of people also were detraining there. She could see skyscrapers inland and what looked like a park on the other side, which gave her options. Her first order of business was breakfast. Surely there were some restaurants around, but she opted instead for edible landscaping. There was plenty of variety, even if humans liked to keep the grasses cut short. Then a dessert of tender leaves from the cornucopia of trees. There were even flowers as an aperitif, although people sometimes got offended when she ate those. Best not to risk it; she didn’t want to get run out of town. If she’d come into the park the normal way instead of flying out of the train shed and landing in the grass, she might have seen signs saying she wasn’t supposed to eat the flowers. Hunger sated, she flew up and surveyed the nearby area. Ideally, finding a spot where humans naturally congregated or passed by in crowds was the best place to perform. Somewhere she could be inspired by the scenery and where she could quickly fly away if anyone wanted to tell her busking was illegal was also good. The paths had informational signs on them, and she finally settled on a sidewalk alongside Lake Michigan, between Shedd Aquarium and Adler Planetarium. ••• Her folding guitar was clever and compact, but didn’t have the decency to stay in tune when it was folded and then unfolded again. Experience got her close, but the first pluck of each string was discordant, offensive to her ears. Several minutes were spent tuning it, getting the strings to sing in harmony. Every time she had a brief moment of doubt thinking that they wouldn’t and then she hit the sweet spot, strummed the perfect chord, and all was right with the world. The riff from Crazy Train was as good a way to make sure her guitar was ready, and it was. ••• Sweetsong had learned lots of human ballads, and she mixed them in with popular Equestrian songs and a few of her own. The latter were often improvised, musical poems capturing the essence of the city, of her trip. The slumbering song of the fields she’d passed, the busy tempo of the mills, then the calm of this oasis of green in a bustling city. Some people didn’t get it; some people paused and then moved on, while others stayed and listened. She sang in Equestrian and English and sometimes the Spanish she’d picked up in the south. She let the song guide her; her hooves worked the strings inspired by the calm of Lake Michigan or the busy banging of the switching yard, the rush of a freight through the farmland or the constant stopping of the commuter train. The weird tempo of wheels banging across a diamond and the constant throb of the overhead wire; the hum of traffic on the bridge and the rustle of wind through leaves. Sometimes she’d set herself up and start to sing knowing she needed bits, feeling the grime in her fur and the growling in her belly. Sometimes her songs had a tinge of desperation in them, other times she could easily move beyond the physical and into the spiritual. She never knew what it was going to be and that was both a blessing and a curse. And in the end it didn’t matter; she sang because she could. She sang because she needed to, and she would have even if her audience was no more than a lone disinterested tree. Sweetsong sat on the concrete and sang. In front of her, the city bustled with its anonymity; to her back, the lake offered its own oblivion. ••• Some buskers had a guitar case for people to put bits in, but a guitar case defeated the benefit of having a folding guitar. Instead, she used a soft hat which was marketed as a fishing hat. It could indeed catch a fish if she was patient, but it was better used to catch money. One of the lessons she’d learned was to not stay in one place too long; not only did it go against her nature, but it invited unwanted attention. By lunchtime, she’d made some money, she hadn’t yet been run off by cops, and she decided she wanted to explore. Lake Michigan was a good enough bathing spot; she stashed her saddlebags in the top of a tree so nobody would steal them, and waded into the lake with a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s soap in her mouth. It was all natural, biodegradable, and loaded with invigorating mint. The bottle also had all sorts of writing on it printed in every direction, telling her the lessons Rabbi Hillel wanted to teach all the occupants of Spaceship Earth. Humans liked writing fortunes and lessons and inspirations on anything they could, they spray-painted the railcars with art or just their names and sometimes she thought about doing the same, but it didn’t feel right. Pegasi were born from the sea and flew on the winds, never leaving anything behind but memories. Painting her name on a railcar would be vanity, and would mean nothing to anypony who saw it, but her song might live on in the minds of everybody who heard it. Nothing was meant to be frozen in time, it was an ever-changing symphony. A few people watched her bathing, but none of them shouted at her or waded out in the water to try and stop her, and once she was done, she shook off her wings as best as she could and flew to the tree, retrieved her saddlebags, and then looked around for a good landing spot. The peninsula just south of her had an inviting-looking beach at the southern end, so she flew down there, slaloming around a few kites before landing. A few people were sunbathing and she joined them, stretching out on the grass overlooking Lake Michigan and dozing off as her coat and mane dried.