The Trinity of Moons: Mending Shards

by Cloud Ring


Interlude 4: Evolution

(blank flank)

It could be interesting to step into an unknown door. A shiver of anticipation — you never know what might be there.

It was always interesting to go through this door. There could be anything.

Gentle Touch exhaled and pushed the scraped metal with her hoof. It opened, which was a good sign in itself.

Entering the den of unbounds, one should assess the situation first.

The looted things were piled up in the hallway. Apparently, her friends went out for a walk without her. Checking the pile, Gentle traced their creative path as if she was there in person: first, a sports-and-weapons store, with trophies already used — this, with no doubt, was Flame's initiative. Confectionery — in part melted by the heat, soiling heavy balls, chains and a BB gun underneath.  Well, it could have been anypony, even myself, if I were with them. Factory clothes and jewelry, also irreparably smeared with ice cream — unclear, but probably Broadstream. And… apparently they visited a robotic repairs store too, far away from the den. Yeah, so Dispassion is at home.

Three out of nine on the notability scale. So far so good.

Step two: take a look at the large and extremely durable — thick antimagic steel, Dispassion's masterpiece — phase clock on the wall. An ordinary piece of furniture for an adult pony with a degree of connections outside their own alignment. A matter of life and death for any unbound living with a company. That is, for any unbound barring a scarce minority.

Gentle preferred not to remember the loners she had met.

So, White on the descent, Blue on the rise, Black at Her zenith. Red is not there, with no chance to appear in the observed time frame.

It might be a good cycle. Maybe.

Listening to sobbing sounds, noticing the tremor of light from the neighboring rooms, Gentle went into the kitchen.

Something was wrong.

Somepony took Stroke's markers to paint the walls in the kitchen in small, tight letters. Right on top of Stroke's older paintings on the walls. When markers, pencils and felt-tip pens ran out, oil paints, crayons, charcoal and everything else were used. That would be a call for fierce fight if only Stroke would still be with them. They always kept enough painting material around since his accident; being in the mood, White's unbounds could open their veins and keep writing with their own blood as it was that much more powerful. They once thought this was a city legend.

Squinting, Gentle tried to read the closest paragraph. Somepony wrote down the rules of the bowling game.

A few fiery red feathers were glued to the ceiling, having melted the plastic.

I see.

Following the trace of the bowling rules from the first onwards, further on to the dining table, also painted through regardless of the leftover food, Gentle proceeded to what could once be called the living room.

Rules went into it, and stopped there.

Broadstream sat on the floor, hugging Dispassion who was sobbing. A pack of Dispassion’s ‘foals’ was scattered around the room. Flame was nowhere to be found.

"Where is Flame?" Gentle asked, carefully unloading the food from her back onto the floor.

This caused a new cascade of tears.

Broadstream looked around, shook her greenish wavy mane, and shot back an icy glare.

The answer was already in Gentle's mind. She just didn't want to believe it.

"She grew up," Broadstream said.

That’s it. Gentle felt her body turned into fragile glass, and that glass dropped onto the hard concrete floor. Not literally.

"At least she didn’t die, unlike… you know... and your cry will help nopony," Gentle Touch said, blinking down her own tears.

It was cruel to say that and she knew it. Growing up was inevitable. Those who passed through it together had to either stay apart, or… while there was another path which allowed friendship nonetheless, it demanded many other sacrifices, and only a select few followed it. Normally, a muddy mixture of fear, disgust, embarrassment and encroaching madness would push them away from each other forever. They couldn't even settle down closer than a few blocks away.

Pretending nothing had happened, Gentle opened the refrigerator and began to arrange her groceries, thanking herself that she did not forget to check the phase clock.

There will be a time to mourn Flame. Now was a time for more urgent matters.

First it was necessary to tidy up Dispassion. A robotics master during Black Moon at Her zenith, in a bad mood, when at least seven of her clicking ‘foals’ crawled around — she was extremely dangerous. At any beat Dispassion could give the order to ‘fix everything’. After that, even Moons might not know how robots will understand it. Beyond that the ‘fixing’ will likely be delayed until an ‘optimal’ time when resistance will be minimal; and that it will be performed with ingenuity inferred from the best engineer that Gentle knew — not like she knew a lot — and with impeccable thoroughness due to their mechanical nature. Without any respect for somepony else's life or property. Maybe somepony might integrate a set of rules for all mech to care for ponies, Gentle Touch thought.

With the bags done, Gentle stepped back and sat down on what was still a chair under the layers of dirt, paint, food, and tech glue. It was necessary to act with haste, while Blue was still on the rise. Broadstream, gradually aligning to Blue like Gentle herself, could only make things worse. The methods of ‘consolation’ offered by her aspect in this situation were not fitting to put it mildly.

Gentle closed her eyes and attentively peered into the bubbling wad of energies on the floor.

White hot vexation and throbbing blue lust was Broadstream. Let’s leave the annoyance out for now. It’s unpleasant but not dangerous. Now for lust — unlock the stream from orange sympathy, and lock it to irritation. It will turn to (us) me. First there will be a scene, some tears, and possibly a fight. Thanks Moons, she is not Flame, otherwise (we) I would be done for. After that... Gentle felt a tickle of desire within herself. After that will be later. The main thing is that Broadstream will not tick off Dispassion for now.

Moving to Dispassion. A powerful and swift golden stream of pure pain of loss, a red-brown mist of guilt. The guilt is growing with every beat, threatening to provoke action by itself. Not good at all. Also, reasons not clear, but we will also clarify this later.

Time went on.

What to do, what to do? Brute force cannot suppress it... Nopony to speak with in this state, either. A delicate push is needed. Let’s align her to the present, not the past.

Gentle Touch carefully combined the flow of loss with her own image as well as with Broadstream's image. The flow immediately changed, sorrow replaced by fear and love. Not ‘I lost a friend’ anymore but ‘I could have lost these friends too.’ Gentle Touch felt like a monster. Still, both living bombs were defused.

It seemed that this cycle will end in an orgy. Broadstream had this effect, usually.

It could have been worse. Now it was finally an opening to find out what was the matter.

“What happened?” Gentle Touch asked.

After a quick and angry fight unleashed in reply — the fight Gentle foresaw and was prepared to — a somewhat drained Broadstream began the story. Two surface frostbites from glancing rays were placed on Gentle during the fight, and a few more missed. Could be worse, she reminded herself once again.

It all started when they were hungry and not knowing when Gentle Touch would return with food, if at all. Flame, the recognized leader of the team, planned an attack on the confectionery store that had been reconnoitered a few cycles before.

The swift attack, of course, ended in total victory: food seized, a pastry chef seduced, too slow cash registers, leaking stoves, creaky doors, a loose chair and a broken, sparkling, sign at the door — all weary from time and neglect, waiting only for Dispassion to truly shine — were repaired. A ledger was checked for mistakes and corrected. A late visitor was fought with passion and then immediately kissed — with passion too.

Then the action moved to the sports store across the street. There was no time to misbehave much there: Flame went for a sparring with a strong elderly stallion who was choosing weights, Dispassion gloomily examined the design of a sports simulator, finding how to improve it, preferably right now, Broadstream composed a song about the conquest of the confectionery and was checking where to get a set of instruments, starting with a mandolin... Around then, Flame's gaze fell on the bowling ball.

So they went bowling.

At this point, Broadstream was crying too.

Sport and unbounds did not go well together. More precisely they were too good together. Like flame and gasoline.

They had a conflict because of the rules. Bowling was not an organized sport, it was a way to spend an evening together with mild stimulating modifiers — and who, by and large, cares about the outcome or the details of the rules?

Nopony, except Flame at White Moon’s zenith.

When they got out of the bowling alley, their hooves were leaving bloody prints; they barely avoided murder, as without Gentle Touch there was nopony to cool them down. Dispassion was slowing the team with her head down. For her to feel better, they went to an electronics store. They even honestly paid for what they took.

On the way back, Dispassion, prone to systematize, began to think out loud how to avoid further violence. All that was needed were new correct rules...

New correct rules. That’s what she said when they entered the den.

It was heard by Flame.

Growing up from an unbound is an inescapable, irreversible and painful process. It will come and go. It will cause a fit and release. Then it will turn an unbound inside out, and an adult in their place will not be the same pony.

For the next two slices, Flame Spark, an unbound, burned and wrote. She continued to write, pausing only for triumphant dances in the air. Uniform, clear, consistent rules that will henceforth be applied to bowling. Generations later, professional bowling that was given life this cycle by Flame Spark, will be held according to Flame’s code — probably with addendum or expansion from somepony else; still, the core rules were set as is from now and forever, with only Moons to say a significant word about it, should They even bother.

And then, having gone out in every sense and having photographed her notes with an anklet, Flame Spark, now an adult, quietly packed her things and went away forever. She will never become a Herald nor perform anything close to the feat ever again, as she exhausted her wellspring and damaged her channels in the act — and Gentle Touch didn’t want to think this awful destiny through.

“I see,” Gentle sighed.

At least Flame will live. How will we manage now without her? Blue-Blue-Black. Gentle remembered — not for the first time — a colt less than a block away. Not yet an unbound, no. Not even aligned to any Moon much. But how much does a foal need? A nudge. Soft, gentle touch, assisted with eyes that could see.

Taking the first steps towards Broadstream, Gentle turned her head back and for a little longer than a beat looked to where her own mark would appear once she would find her true talent.

It will come, don’t worry. Later. For now, we have an orgy.