“Wow…” I look around in surprise as we enter the hall. “They… they took the entire theatre?”
“It’s close to the scene.” Maneworthy explains. “And there’s a lot of space for evidence.”
I don’t respond, looking around the vaulted space. It’s brightly lit by the house and stage lights, showing that the edges of the hall have been filled with security cases and cabinets containing photos and documents. The stage is also occupied by such storage units, along with a number of desks and tables. It is to my surprise that the investigators have not moved the grand piano from the centre of the stage.
There are ponies everywhere. Quite a few are using the hundreds of seats as improvised work-spaces, while more are working around the edges of the hall and up on stage. All of them seem extremely hurried.
Maneworthy looks around disinterestedly, which gives me the impression that he's already seen all this. “I hear the trial is coming soon. I suppose they’re making sure they have everything.”
I nod, still not talking as Maneworthy begins to walk down the isle.
We come to a stop almost as soon as we start moving as the doctor talks to one of the multiple ponies going over papers in their work-spaces. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Detective Lockhooves.”
“On the stage.” The stallion responds quickly, pausing before turning back to his papers to look at me.
I nod at the officer, before continuing to walk after Maneworthy.
Of course, I should have realized that this might be a tense meeting. These ponies have been going over the scene for eight days. They’ll have had a myriad of evidence to look over. Quite a few will know a large amount of what happened to me.
So what does that mean? Will they give me respect for coming through it, or will they just pity me?
Maneworthy mounts the stairs to the stage, once again asking the nearest pony for the location of Detective Lockhooves.
We are directed closer to the middle of the stage, and continue our walk. I myself keep my pace rather slow, taking a moment to view all of the evidence.
The glass-fronted cases hold more items than I care to count. Most of what I see are papers arranged out one-by-one, many of them detailing different analyses of different pieces of evidence. The evidence items themselves are normally somewhere in the case with their many reports.
I spot fragments of Trixies’ destroyed wagon, and individual items from both my prison and from my captor’s own possessions. Some things look familiar, while most are just random lengths of wood and metal.
I don’t see anything to trigger a memory of my enslavement or a reaction. Out of the broken fragments, multiple books and various assorted items the only notable object is a bag containing some green leaves, which must be the herb that Trixie had been taking to mellow herself.
What I do see is a case with pictures of Twilight. There are quite a few close-ups and X-rays of the cast that she had worn for five days after the Gala. Magic can heal sprains rather quickly, apparently.
“Detective Lockhooves?” Maneworthy asks, dragging my attention back to the matter at hand.
“Yeah?” A tan unicorn mare looks up from her desk, which is laden with papers. “You must be Maneworthy.” She holds out a hoof, which Maneworthy promptly shakes.
“And you…” Lockhooves turns to look at me, quickly summing up my figure. “...look terrible. ‘Keys’, right?”
“Or the Piano Man. Whichever you prefer.” I reply bitterly, accepting her offered hoof. “Good morning, Detective.”
Lockhooves nods briskly. “You should be happy to know that we’ve got everything pretty much wrapped up. We’re still waiting on a few analyses to come back, which just leaves… you.”
I nod. “You need the story.”
“The statement.” Lockhooves corrects me – as if it actually makes any difference.
“Right. The ‘statement’.” I purse my lips. “So how are we doing this?”
“Simple.” Lockhooves stands up from her hooves, closing the folder she was looking over. “We sit you down in a room with a scribe and a couple of witnesses, and you tell us what happened. Are you up for it?”
I nod. “I just want to get it out of the way.”
“I’m sure.” Lockhooves nods, before sitting back down. “The scribe isn’t here yet, so I’ll need to wait for him. Maneworthy can take you up to the royal box.”
“I can?” Maneworthy raises an eyebrow, before shrugging. “Sure. Why not?”
Lockhooves nods at the doctor – something she must enjoy, considering how many times she's done it – before flipping open the file with her magic again. “We should be ready to start soon. I would take some time to get comfortable if I were you.” She glances at me. “All things considered.”
I crinkle my nose slightly. I am seriously not in that delicate a state of mind. Really.
I feel like protesting, but at the same time I know that doing so wouldn’t change anything. I’m in no position to convince these ponies that I’m fine, because I’m not. I’m just not as bad as they think I am. The problem is, I can't just say 'Okay, I'm bad – just not that bad', because that would eventually just be interpreted as me saying that I am indeed in a bad way.
“Thank you, Detective.” Maneworthy takes a step away from Lockhooves and turns to me. “I suppose we should go and get settled.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I respond quietly, following the doctor as he turns away.
***
The princesses have really prioritized this investigation – so much so that the Royal Box has had its seats removed, although I don’t think they were permanent fixtures anyway.
Now the box is dominated by a reasonably sized rounded table, which – in keeping with most of the surfaces down on the theatre floor – carries quite a few papers. A glance reveals them to be a massive list of different pieces of evidence, listing what is useful and what has been discarded as irrelevant.
One of the many investigators is halfway through the process of sorting the papers and arranging them into large stacks. He nods briefly at us, using his magic to push the remaining unsorted pages to the far edge of the table.
I drop heavily onto one of the cushions, groaning as Maneworthy takes the place next to me.
“You feeling okay?” He asks softly as we both disinterestedly watch the investigator complete his task.
“I’m fine.” I reply irritably. “Can we just get through this?”
“Right, Right.” The doctor replies hastily, which only serves to further irritate me. They just never stop.
I sigh wearily and turn away from Maneworthy. “Yeah.” I look out over the theatre, noting that Lockhooves has left her desk. “Seriously. I’m fine.”
Maneworthy has no reply, which leaves me a little time to think.
They’re having a scribe write down my statement, so will it be a unicorn, or will it be Spike?
Speaking of the purple little dragon; I’ve only seen Spike once since I woke up – although that was for a good few hours. He came by with Twilight on the third day, and spent most of his visit sorting my clothes into drawers. Very nice of him.
I roll my shoulders absentmindedly, looking back at Maneworthy.
“This is going to be fun.” I comment sarcastically, at which Maneworthy nods. “So when’s the trial, anyway?”
“They haven’t set a date yet.” He replies quietly. “But it’ll probably start sometime in the near future, considering how fast they got through the investigation.”
I nod. The trial is going to be… difficult, I suppose. I have no clue how I’ll react when I see Trixie, but I can’t imagine it’ll be good. I’ve attached so many negative emotions to that monster.
Biting my lip thoughtfully, I glance at Maneworthy, who is now reading from a newspaper dated for yesterday. I briefly wonder what interesting news topics there might be that don’t pertain to me, but have no time to ponder it further as the door to the box opens.
Lockhooves trots in through the door, now carrying a far more official air.
“Okay, we just need to get all set up.” She speaks quickly as Spike appears in the doorway, a slightly daunted look on his face.
“Right. Morning Spike.” I nod at the purple dragon, who responds with a nervous head-nodding of his own.
“Uh, hey.” Spike grins nervously. “Boy, I haven’t done something like this before.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” I reassure him. I'm not sure if I'd rather having him or some random unicorn for this. Spike's nice enough... but this is something rather heavy for him to be writing down, if you ask me.
I turn back to Lockhooves. “So how-”
“Just a second.” She cuts me off. “We’re still waiting on our other witnesses.”
I nod, turning back to the door even as two more ponies appear. One is Twilight, who is laden down with two bulky saddlebags, and the other is a cream-colored Pegasus stallion with a dark green mane.
After a few seconds, their conversation ends and the two trot over to the table. I’m pretty sure that I know what's what’s coming next.
“Keys, I’m sorry.” The lavender mare begins hurriedly. “Nopony told me that I had to be here. Apparently Spike needs his guardian present for this, so-”
“Twilight, it’s fine.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I think I’d prefer you being here anyway.”
‘At least then she’ll know.’
She nods, before gesturing at the stallion. “Oh, and this is… uh...”
“Thunder Glider.” The pony in question offers helpfully, saving us from an awkward silence. “I’m a sergeant in the royal guard’s aerial division.”
“Good to meet you.” I offer my hand, which Thunder accepts. “Are you serving as a witness?”
“I am.” He nods. “Captain Armor had more pressing matters to attend to…”
Maneworthy and I share a quick glance.
“...so I was told to come along. Sorry about what happened, by the way.” Thunder finishes awkwardly.
“Everypony keeps apologizing for it, even though nopony but Trixie did anything wrong.” I smile slightly. Complaining about trivialities helps to lighten the somber mood that I've managed to develop despite my resolution to mope around less. “So just don’t mention it.”
“Done.” Thunder returns my half smile with a full-hearted grin. “I’m sure this will be difficult enough as it is.”
I nod grimly. “I’d prefer that this be the only time I tell the story – for now, at least.”
“Understandable.” The guardspony nods. “I suppose we should get started.”
“Yeah.” I settle back on my cushion as Twilight takes the spot next to me. Spike positions himself next to her, while Thunder and Lockhooves both sit on the other side of the table.
The room is silent for a few seconds as the Detective organizes a few papers, and the investigator that was stacking the evidence logs quickly hurries out.
Twilight produces a short stack of paper from one of her saddlebags, placing them in front of Spike along with a quill and inkwell.
Finally, everypony in the room turns to look at me, waiting patiently for me to start.
I take a deep breath, propping my head up by resting my elbows on the table. I suppose the best thing to do is to not linger on anything. I’ll need to tell the story properly, but that doesn’t mean I need to dwell on it.
It’ll probably feel good to get this all out there. I have yet to actually tell anypony what exactly happened to my hair. I wonder if Maneworthy noticed that his magic had healed the burnt tissue during surgery - and if he did notice, did he guess what happened?
Then again, what exactly defines that moment as the most traumatic part of my slavery? My hair was set on fire, yes... but now that I think about it, I’m sure my attempt at suicide was far more damaging.
This is all starting to pull me down into a rut. It certainly isn’t helping me to mope less – which is probably why it’s best to get all of this crap out of the way now. Maybe then the ponies around me will be able to offer better-suited condolences that won’t drive me up the wall.
I blink in surprise as I realize that I’ve just been sitting here, saying nothing. To the others, it must look like I’m hesitating. Is it worth taking a few seconds to explain that I was just reflecting on the more traumatic experiences? Probably not. It’d just be awkward and unexpected, really.
I take another breath, and watch as Spike puts the quill to the paper in anticipation.
“The beginning.” I start unsteadily. “Is either the easiest, or the hardest part to hear. It depends on how you look at it.”
Spike glances at Twilight, who nods, prompting him to write down my topic-evasive opening.
I wait until I hear the quill stop scratching against the paper out of courtesy. I already know that Spike can keep up with a dictation, and I shouldn’t need to explain how I know that.
“And I suppose…” I take yet another deep breath. My heart is racing for no apparent reason. I feel stressed, even though nothing about this is overly stressful. “That the second half of the story is the opposite. I myself prefer the ending to the beginning, but I'm sure you know why.”
I pause. What am I doing? I’m just spouting a whole mess of bull-shit, for the most part. I need to stop procrastinating, and just get on with it.
Taking my own mental cue, I suddenly launch into the story, attempting to keep my voice measured and calm. It’s coming out a little shaky though, which I think is just my nerves, as I’m definitely anxious to get this all off my chest.
“I’m a pianist, which is to say; Someone who plays the piano. I don’t know how Trixie selected me for her… her plan. Maybe it’s because I happened to be playing piano at the exact moment she chose to perform her summoning spell, or maybe it was just dumb luck.
“Whatever the selection system was, I’m the one she summoned. I was at home. I’d just finished the morning rituals… showering… breakfast… and I sat down to play the piano…”
I don’t look up from the table as I tell the story. Spike’s quill constantly provides background noise to my dictation. I need to pause every so-often as Spike dips the tip in the inkwell again, which is good. It allows me to quickly arrange how I’m going to word the next sentence.
“And when I went to play the first chord of a song…”
The ponies continue to listen quietly as I tell my story.
***
“And… Trixie…”
I take a deep breath. I feel shaky. Telling my story has taken quite a while. I haven’t been privy to a clock, but I think it’s been at least an hour – If not two – of talking.
The ponies have been very supportive. Even right now, Maneworthy and Twilight each have a hoof on both of my shoulders. The collected group of five listeners have spent most of the time contributing different noises conveying different emotions at different points in the story. The worst came from Twilight when she learnt that I’d tried to hang myself once I'd lost hope after the Ponyville show, and the biggest reaction as a group came when they heard about what Trixie did to my hair.
Sympathy is in no short supply at the moment, and for once I’m happy to receive it. Their little noises help reassure me that I’ve been through something truly horrible, and that my mindset is perfectly acceptable for someone who’s gone through all that.
I managed to successfully edit out anything pertaining to My Little Pony’s existence as a show, which is good. If I had been unsuccessful at that, then Twilight would have even more awkward questions for me to answer tonight.
“Trixie turned away.” I cough slightly. “I don’t know why, but she seemed to think that she’d given me a killing wound. It was as if she thought I’d drop dead immediately.”
I ponder my next words carefully. The self-defence-attempted-equicide section is a little daunting for me.
“So… I attacked.” I offer the words meekly. “I got Trixie's attention, and when she turned around I hit her in the head with the bar. It… threw her a few meters away… and it shattered her horn.”
I wait a couple of seconds for some sort of reaction, but none is forthcoming. I suppose they already know this part.
“And then…” I bite my lip. “I tried to kill her. I wanted her dead so much.”
Maneworthy takes his hoof off my shoulder for a second, only to bring it back down in a reassuring pat as I continue my story.
“But I didn’t have the strength to.” I wince mentally at my failure. “I’d lost too much blood. And… then Twilight…”
“That’s fine, Keys.” Lockhooves interrupts. “That’s all we need.”
I nod sullenly, still not looking up from the table. My hands are bone white, clasped tightly around my walking stick. It only hits me now that I haven’t moved from this position since I started talking.
Finally, I tear my eyes away from the fine-grain wood in front of me and look up at the ponies around me.
Their reactions are extremely varied. Maneworthy looks concerned, Spike seems a little shocked, and Twilight looks nothing less than horrified.
Glancing across the table, I see that Lockhooves’ face is still a professional mask, while Thunder’s expression conveys mostly pity, and a small amount of respect.
“Right.” I cast my eyes downwards again. “Is that it?”
“Yes.” Lockhooves nods. “Good work, Keys. You’ve been very brave, and with your statement we can make sure that Trixie gets the punishment she deserves.”
I almost scoff at her words. ‘You’ve been very brave’ is the worst stock line she could have used.
“So… does anyone mind if…” I slowly push both hands down onto the table, attempting to push myself up onto my feet. “…I take a walk?”
“Of course not.” Maneworthy replies as both him and Twilight slip their hooves under my arms and help me to my feet.
“We’ll just go over your statement.” Twilight speaks softly. “You can take as long as you want.”
“Thanks.” I nod at both ponies, thanking them both for helping to my feet and letting my go for a walk.
They both return the nod, and I feel all five of them watching me as I slowly make my way to the door. I can only imagine what they’re going to discuss while I’m gone, because I’m sure it won’t be limited to the legal side of all this.
***
I run my hand along the side of the piano, letting out a low hum of frustration. Retelling my story has jarred loose quite a few unpleasant memories – all of which would be better off how still buried in the darker corners of my mind.
Right now, I can remember every single time she struck me. Every little wrong done to me by that bitch is floating around my head, dragging me down into a melancholy pit.
This was all necessary, of course. If I hadn’t done this, then the court wouldn’t be able to do anything against Trixie. That said, it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it – scratch that. I could never enjoy it. Ever.
Maybe this is progress towards getting over what happened. Sharing my story is probably one of the many steps towards the far-off goal of recovery. If only reaching it didn't involve dealing with this whole mess.
I still can’t fathom why they haven’t moved this piano. Surely they could spare a little time to shift it. Maybe the space wasn’t badly needed, or maybe the investigators have actually been that busy.
I run my hand along the key-lid. This white giant is the last piano I played, and that was a grand total of eight days ago. That’s the longest I’ve gone in years without so much as touching the ivories.
It isn’t like I have something against the piano. Pianos didn't cause what happened. It wasn’t their fault for existing, and it wasn’t my fault for playing them. Trixie’s the only one to blame. Her and her lust for money caused all of this.
After a pause, I pull out the stool and sit down, deftly flicking up the lid to reveal the keys. I might as well play now, as I don’t intend on going back to the booth. The others can sort everything out without me – I mean; they’ve been doing it just fine so far.
“Why not?” I mutter to myself, before immediately attacking keys with Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C-sharp minor.
It’s an angry piece – especially around and after the middle – which is why I chose it. The piano is a very good emotional vent. Being able to disperse my rage with the piano was probably the only thing stopping me from flying off the handle back when I was under Trixie’s hoof.
A few of the investigators have stopped what they’re doing to watch me, which isn’t surprising. It’s nice that for once I’m just playing for them, and that’s it. No money, no slavery, and no Trixie.
I continue to play, dispersing as much of my frustration and resurfaced anger into the music as I can. Maybe then I can finally drag myself out of this rut, and stop being such a dead weight. It’s not like my mindset has been doing anypony any favors.
I suppose I can worry about that later. For now, I’m content to just play.