//------------------------------// // Chapter 23: The Slimy Hole // Story: The Forest of the Golden Abalone // by Unwhole Hole //------------------------------// A number of slugs gravitated around a precipice, a region of dissolved fragments of rock that bordered the earthen caves that obscured ancient halls. They wandered about, finding the sudden presence of light from high above strange. Perhaps some of them remembered what the sun had once felt like through those overcast skies. Before it had all been buried. Then, suddenly, a snail came flying through the air, passing in a graceful arc before plopping against a long-dead tree. The slugs watched this, at first bemused but then terrified, and proceeded to flee at maximum speed, slowly turning away and racing away at a dead sprint of nearly stopped. The snail, though, adhered well, and the rope tied to its shell became taught. Snails pulled himself up from a lower shelf, a process that was somewhat difficult to do with hooves alone—but was made easy by his surprisingly prodigious musculature. In only minutes, he reached the top, to find the other pony waiting for him, drinking from a dented fuel can that he had managed to find somewhere. “How did you get up here so fast?” “Gravity is a conspiracy created by dirty, filthy moon-worshipers to create tides. What do we even need tides for? It just makes the ocean sneaky. If you fall asleep on the beach, it comes up and gets you.” “Don’t you not sleep?” He looked at Snails as if Snails was an idiot. “Obviously. Or else the tides will get me.” Snails brushed himself off, then recoiled at the sight of slugs. They were departing the area, but he could still see them, and he was filled with an extreme sense of revulsion. Especially as he watched one crawl up the side of his immortal comrade, moving slowly over his eye. The pony did not even bother to blink. “Are you…?” “Licensed? Of course not. That’s why I have such good rates.” He paused. “Except that nopony ever pays me. So my rates must be really good.” “I was going to say ‘undead’.” The pony stared back at him, then shrugged. “How am I supposed to know that? What do I look like, a wizard? You’re the unicorn here.” Snails was, indeed, a unicorn—but he had no idea how to check if somepony was undead. He reasoned that there was probably a chemical test, or a medical diagnostic procedure that more than likely involved whacking somepony with a yardstick. Lacking a yardstick, though, Snails instead removed his grappling snail and coiled the rope he had used. He turned his attention toward the slug-infested cave, one that already showed signs of pony-built architecture. This one, unlike the lower gates, was open—and it smelled like Fluttershy. “Do you think she’s in there?” “I very rarely think.” Snails held up Tuo’s artifact. Unlike before, it traced a line directly into the dark, slug-infested pit. “Great,” he said. “Looks like this is the right one.” He sighed, looking down at the ground and seeing muddy tracks. Tracks of many, with the characteristic hoof-shapes of crystal ponies. “We’re probably going to have to be sneaky, eh?” “I’m not painting myself purple.” “Only did that myself once,” said Snails, gingerly stepping into the darkness and shuddering as he saw slugs retreat into the black. “Dressed up as Twilight Sparkle for Nightmare Night.” “Twilights? There’s still them?” “You know Twilight?” He nodded. “Obviously. You don’t get cursed like this without a Twilight’s help.” “Don’t know if I’d consider it a curse. More like bad luck.” The gray stallion shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t really question it. I just wish the others were still here. Is it wrong to wish the war was still going?” Snails shrugged in response. Then he paused, reflecting at how long it had been since he had seen the others. Silver Spoon, Applebloom, Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo, Diamond Tiara—and Snips. He could barely remember the last time he had seen his friends. “No,” he said. “I think it’s okay if it’s for your friends.” Coming to a broadening in the path, Snails found that—unfortunately—they had been on the right track. Standing at the gate, waiting, were two looming crystal mechs as well as a small contingent of crystal ponies in their shiny crystal armor. All of them looked about as afraid as Snails felt, jumping periodically at the sight of slugs that they would then forget about and jump at again. Fortunately, few of them could see the numerous skeletal undead that stood beyond the range of their lights, their empty eye-sockets filled with black slugs that wriggled in silence, always watching. George crawled back from across the gap, and Snails listened to his description, nodding. “Right. Right. Sure.” He turned to the other pony, who was in the process of eating something that appeared to be somewhat resistant to his efforts. Probably a rock. “So. George found a way around. It’s too small for a pony, but I think I can fit. Through the power of mucous.” “I wasn’t listening at all.” “That’s okay, neither was I. The problem is, I have to go in front of those guys.” The gray pony swallowed whatever he was eating. He blinked slowly. “So what do you normally do in this situation?” Snails paused. He had actually never been this sort of adventurer; although he had wrangled aggressive snails, chased them to the highest mountains and dove to the deepest depths of the deepest waters, his adversaries had almost always been nature and himself. Dealing with ponies who were not Tuo were new to him. So he drew on a different sort of inspiration. “Well, if Snips and I were playing Ogres and Oubliettes, I would walk up to them and roll for persuasion. Almost always works.” The pony nodded. “Got it.” He then stepped out into their line of sight, laid down, and rolled toward them on the incline. “Wait, you’re supposed to...never mind...” Snails sighed. At least the distraction would be hopefully adequate. One of the crystal ponies noticed a pony rolling toward them and, understandably, cried out. “GAH! A body!” They immediately began scrambling in their confusion. “I’m not a body!” snapped the pony, standing up. “GAH! That’s no body, he’s UNDEAD!” The scrambling intensified. “Um...ooga booga?” One of the ponies stopped. “Oh,wait. That’s not an undead, that’s just a zebr—” He was promptly smacked upside the head. “Cubic, we can’t say things like that! Stop being racist, it was in the training!” “Yeah!” said another. “My wife’s a zebra, stop being mean!” The pony hung his head. “Sorry, guys. I forgot.” “I’m not a zebra,” snapped the pony. “I’m a Pegasus.” They all looked at him, even the mechs. “Um...where are your wings, then?” “If I knew that, do you think I’d tell you? Lot like you, you'd probably try to steal them!" He paused. "Probably a jar somewhere?” “They...come off?” “Not usually, no. Have you ever heard of a chain-scalpel?” The ponies shivered. “You can’t be here,” said one of the mechs—or, rather, the pony inside, her voice amplified by a system of crystal circuitry. “Please go back to wherever you came from. This is a restricted area and we are under orders to keep ponies out.” “What about zebras?” “The orders include all equids.” “What if I’m a changeling?” “Are you a changeling?” “How would I even know?” The ponies looked at each other, confused by this turn of events. “This isn’t in the SOP,” complained one. “It doesn’t matter. Do the thing.” The mechs stepped forward, the smaller ponies moving out of the way—and they lowered their magic spears as they towered over the pony below. He looked up at them, not especially concerned—either because he could not die, or because he no longer cared if he did. “It’s not working!” squeaked one of the mech pilots. “He’s not being intimidated!” “Well, somepony here has to be,” argued the gray pony. “And if if it’s not me...well…” A gasp from one of the mechs. “Then it has to be one of US!” “Quick, somepony stop him, he’s turning the tables!” “I can’t, I’m too intimidated to move!” More squeaking, yelling, and confusion ensued. Snails took this opportunity to sneak past them. It was disturbingly obvious why the Crystal Empire had chosen the forbidden path of technology rather than relying on pony soldiers. Ponies were simply not built for the wars that Cadence would eventually choose to fight. Snails, however, was not a politician. He was a snail biologist. As such, when he found the correct hole, he slid into it. It was indeed too small for a normal pony—but not too small for him. His body was preternaturally flexible, both a cause and result of his unusual academic ability, almost to the point of utter bonelessness. The mucous that covered his body acted as a powerful lubricant, allowing him to slip between the rock surfaces with ease. Motion was accomplished by undulation of his person, mimicking the motions of a snail. The channel progressed, narrowing, but Snails was able to proceed without fear—even as he heard the sound of magical explosions behind him. He felt the rocks crumble and collapse near him, squeezing him tighter—and sealing him in. Which meant there was only one way to go, and it was forward. Which was fine with him. There were slugs behind him, and now they could not get to him. Except that he suddenly realized the possibility that there were, in fact, slugs ahead of him. This realization suddenly filled him with dread—but he was forced to fight through it, continuing. Fluttershy was counting on him, as were the Abalones. There was no time to stop now. And, eventually, he emerged, plopping onto the ground in a wet heap. With a stretch, he relocated his limbs to their appropriate place and looked out, only to find darkness. Which was good, and peaceful. He refereed the darkness over the light—even though he knew he needed the light to see. Hesitantly, he lit his horn. Light filled a vast space before him, a chamber that had likely been abandoned long before history was something that ponies bothered to record. Fragments of obsidian covered the walls, carved into monstrous depictions of things Snails was not creative enough to interpret. Crooked, mutated forms, shapes that were at once ponies and something else. A form of impressionism that gave the impression of in fact being utterly realistic. Snails ignored the art. He did not know what this room was meant to be, although he saw numerous channels connecting to it. So, probably an air handling area, a nexus of vents. Which did not explain why the walls had been carved. The gaps were too small for ponies to enter, and there was no apparent pony-sized access door. He once again held out Tuo’s artifact. It pulled itself in a direction, and Snails followed it, never once having the thought that he had been lied to. Until the organic mesh of aged slime that made up the floor collapsed and he found himself hurdling downward into darkness. Falling down a shaft or chasm was not an unfamiliar circumstance, so it was not especially shocking even as he bumped hard against the sides. It was not nearly as bad as being thrown down a well, but certainly not fun, and he braced himself for the sudden and usually not very gentle kiss of dirt, rocks, or water that he anticipated at the bottom. And, of course, the invariably unpleasant “splat” he would make. There was, indeed, a splat—but one that was surprisingly devoid of pain. Usually the splat came with substantial injury, although in this case it only felt like a sudden and moist deceleration. Snails slowed, stopped, and lay there for a moment, glad that he had not been totally broken—but his eyes widened with realization when he felt what he had landed on begin to slither away. His immediate response was to scream like the littlest and shrillest of fillies. He jumped and fled, feeling them against his ankles as he fled for the safest and least-scary part of the room—a pile of bones. He scrambled to the top of the island, panting from terror, and curled into a ball. He heard them around him, but he did not dare produce light. Because he already knew what he had fallen into. The fall had brought him into a slug pit. They began to move, gliding upon their slimy feet in every direction at a distinctly slow speed. Snails heard them. He felt their presence. He could even smell them. Desperately, he tried to climb the walls—but it was even worse than being shoved down a well. He could gain no purchase. The surface was too wet and slimy. In the dark, he could not even tell how far he had fallen—but too far to throw a grappling snail. Even his magic was useless. He, like virtually all unicorns, had no idea how to teleport or perform a wing-spell. Something wet touched his hoof, and he squealed. He turned, closing his eyes as tightly as he could—and when he opened them, he saw that he could see. In the dim light of bioluminescence, he saw a slug at the base of his bone pile, staring up at him. He closed his eyes again. He did not want to see it. Then he heard something speak. An unfamiliar and distant whisper. He opened his eyes and looked out into the vast hole he found himself in. The slug before him glowed with green light, and behind it, so did another—and then others. Illuminating themselves, and countless other species. Some as large as ponies. Some black, rising from the piles of bones and standing, waiting, in the shells of ponies. Manifold forms and impossible shapes, and colors half-lit in every hue. On the walls, they began to move, their bodies tracing out thin lines in luminescent slime. Creating images that hissed as they began to burn themselves into the stone. Images unfolded in their wake. Snails tried to look away, but found himself mesmerized as they traced their paths. Slime illuminated the darkness as mucous cut clean lines into the stone, forming shapes and figures. Ponies. Distorted and hideous, their bodies changed by some unseen force that they only seemed to half-way understand. Eyes that stood distended from their bodies, tumors that extended outward with round mouths filled with too many teeth. Progressing more and more toward a terrible familiarity. Snails realized, and in his horror, he looked out at the slugs. They looked back through blind or reflective eyes. Solemn and somber—in those that could remember, eyes filled with the deepest of regret. They continued their path, centering on the largest of the walls and trailing upward in geometric patterns. Drawing out a temple or building, a structure not of their own design—and in its center, an image that Snails lacked the imagination to understand. A glowing sphere held in a system of increasingly complex diagrams—but at its base, something he knew well from the anceint texts that had guided him to this place. “Golden Abalones,” he whispered. A hum came from the slugs—and a new figure was drawn. One that was a pony, or like a pony, its body somehow reminiscent of its own sphere—and of the linkages of tendrils of unknown material to the system that surrounded it. Snails did not know what that part was meant to mean, but he gathered at least the most basic gist. Of what they were—or, rather, what they had once been. But by this time, new figures were being traced. Outside the temple, beyond the buildings the slugs had drawn. These were newer, dynamic, and in a style that conveyed both the fact that these events had never been witnessed by pony eyes and that they were the best remembered. Unicorns. Coming through the trees, clad in strange armor made from leaves and living wood—and some that descended from the sky on the backs of winged slugs, others that summoned fire not from their own magic but from their beloved familiars—armies that weilded the power of slugs against the mutants. With one, the greatest of all, summoning the power of Jorslugmander itself. To seal this accursed place beneath peat, slime, and gastropod flesh. “Slug wizards,” said Snails, amazed that such a terrible being could be allowed to exist. A slug parted from the wall. It shook its head and dropped down to a different portion, clarifying an image—and Snails stood up, the bones at his feet falling to the black slugs that grasped then and rose again into the bodies they had once inhabited long ago. The pony that raised the greatest power, the greatest of the wizards, was depicted wearing a helmet—but on closer inspection, Snails saw that it was in fact a snail. And he understood suddenly that they were not slug-wizards at all. Some of them wore armor of living shells, or bodies encased in many tiny creatures—and some rode on the ground on the backs of shelled gastropods, holding spears tipped in noxious mucous. Others shepherded hordes of battle-snails into battle, standing at the front alongside their charges or behind in snail-drawn chariots. Slug, snail, and pony fought side-by-side, depicted in this great battle against some unspeakable evil. Snails did not understand. He turned to them, wondering just how many of them remembered—or if their minds simply recalled what had long ago been written on the walls. “But...you’re slugs. You don’t have any shells.” They stared back at him, and suddenly he understood. How much of a fool he had been. “And...and neither do I.” They did not respond, but for the first time, Snails was able to overcome his fear. He wondered if Fluttershy would be proud of him. “They don’t know what they’re getting into. Whatever this place is, it did this to you all. And if they turn it back on, this is going to happen again.” The black-fleshed revenants nodded. A slug fell out of one of their empty mouths, and Snails shuddered—but understood that it was not something terrifying so much as desperately sad. “I have to stop them,” said Snails, knowing what that entailed. It was a terrible thing, but something he had to do. “Can you help me?” The slugs did not answer—but instead, they slowly parted. One large, especially slippery specimen slithered through, its white eyes staring at nothing in particular. As it approached Snails, it reared back, dripping toxic slime as it stood—and as it unfurled a pair of wet, feathery wings. Snails took a deep breath. He could not believe that he was going to do what he was about to do.