//------------------------------// // Divinity - Part 1 // Story: Shattered Worlds // by Midnightshadow //------------------------------// The CONVERSION ►Bureau ═════════════════════════════════════ Shattered Worlds Divinity Part 1 ═════════════════════════════════════ An MLP:FiM Fanfiction by Midnight Shadow Sal came from the slums of Greater London. His mother was a whore and his father a client, their brief union forgotten before it had even started. Somewhere between an impromptu photo-shoot session and some home movies, Sal had been conceived. Unlike most pregnancies, the embryo had survived long enough to become a fetus.It had almost ended there and then with the morning sickness, but Sal's mother's clients had... vices. Keeping the bastard had meant more cash in hand, and by the time her drug-addled brain had processed what the result would actually mean, it was far, far too late to get rid of him via even the most unethical of backstreet coat-hanger vendors. She'd made of it what she could; a movie, a fistful of cash, a handful of stitches and some stretch-marks. Then, of course, breast-feeding had perks all its own too. Allowing grown men to suckle at her ample teats was a lot less painful than letting them pound on her arse. The right drug cocktails that their favours purchased kept the little shit silent long enough to ply her trade and snatch some rest between sessions, or at least made it that she didn't care if not. Against all odds, he survived. A year, two, three. Then he made five, but there was no formal education, not for little Sal. The school was of Hard Knocks. There was no homework, lessons were never out. Sal learned how to survive, how to dodge the slap and roll with the punch. At eight, he inherited his mother's profession - partly because he had no other skills, partly because he needed the cash. By sixteen he had learned to switch off the burning despair whilst servicing his clients, with only empty, wracking sobs and an ache that left him bloody and unable to lay still at night to show for it. Still, it kept him fed, clothed, and alive. What more could he want? For a time, it was enough, but with the flush of youth already leaving him, pickings grew slim once he was legal meat. That was why he took the chance at an unbelievable offer - a whole weekend at a private retreat and a large fee, with facilities like hot water, perks like clothes... even if they were crotchless chaps, they would be clothes. It was a dream come true. It was a way out of the slums. It was, above all, a trap. He'd fallen for it, of course. They'd put drugs in the drink, or maybe they'd drugged the food. Perhaps both. After passing out in a private cuddle-session early in the first night, he'd woken up with the others in a spartan, dark-green room that stunk of shit, blood and despair. He found himself stretched over a rack, with a sharp knife slicing across his ribcage. He'd screamed, his cries merging with the unhealthy buzz of the shoddy strip-lighting, and they'd stuffed his mouth full with another kind of meat entirely. Then his rear end. Again and again, and again. They'd done it alone, they'd done it in groups, they'd admired themselves in the mirror... Being a male whore had never been easy, but these men were an entirely new type of rough. He'd begged, he'd pleaded, and it had just excited them more, vicious slaps and icy cold water rousing him when he fainted. They broke every one of his fingers, arms and legs, just to hear him cry out, they forced another boy on him, they even throttled a girl as he orally serviced her, until she went limp, her excrement covering him as she expired. Satisfied, or at least sated, his torturers brought out a collection of vials. His pain-addled brain hadn't been able to work out what they wanted - most of the other victims in the den of debauchery were either dead or soon would be, Sal with them, and more drugs weren't going to make much of a difference... but then it all became clear. Human bodies were hard to get rid of, even shallow graves in the middle of nowhere, or buried ash and bones, were found eventually. Humans were important when they were dead, just not so much when they were alive. Ponies, however... nobody looked twice at a pony. He'd cried, as they'd forced the potion into him. He'd died in that room, he knew that now. Whatever there had been of the human Sal left, it had died long before they'd given his body the potion. A beating heart, a thinking brain, but a dead soul. He'd fallen into a black pit, and hadn't got up, even as a strange, decrepit world had moved around him, embraced him, and taken away the pain. *** The pony opened his eyes, and was met with bedlam. The door - huge and gun-metal green - had been blasted off it's hinges and riot-suited blackmesh types had stormed in, their roars rousing him from potion-slumber. They'd started shouting, loud voices echoing and blending in a torrent of orders the bewildered newfoal could barely understand, let alone obey. "Hands up! This is the police! Get down on the floor! Move it! Move! Now!" There had been screaming, and tranq shots fired at point blank. There had been the meaty, unmistakable sound of truncheon meeting face and the sickening crunch of snapped bone as boot was applied to head. As the pony cowered in the corner, the two-way mirror exploded into the room, a shower of shards raining down in a deadly tempest. It had been shattered by the violent application of a human body - whoever had been filming the torture sessions slammed into the floor, along with a good deal of glass and most of his teeth. The pony, for his part, still disorientated and in shock, cowered as far back as the taut rope around his neck would allow. He cried out, whimpering in fear, neighing and kicking as he tried to get away. He couldn't, of course. His captors had tied him far too securely. Crying, sobbing, pleading in wordless screams, the pony tried to make sense of a world gone mad as well as protect himself from what was surely a painful end. But then, the bedlam calmed. A soft voice spoke encouragingly, and the pony realised it was to him. "Hey there, hey, shh... calm down, boy, it's okay now," a woman said. Sandy hair and freckles were what caught his attention, followed by dark green eyes. His whimpering sobs had faded to silent fear as a lithe hand stretched out. His ears flattened against his skull, his eyes must have been showing their whites, and his teeth snapped. The hand stopped, then retreated. Then it neared again, closed in a fist. He shied away, before the first turned, rotated until it could open, palm upwards. In the middle was a cube of some brown, slightly gelatinous substance. His eyes fixated on it as the lady wove it to and fro. "You can have one of these, okay? I'll put it down, you can have it. Look, I'll even bite it first. I know what they did to you, I want you to know it's safe." The cube vanished, to reappear a moment later, a bite taken out of it. The treat filled his world. It was placed on the ground, and gingerly prodded forwards. Pawing at it with a hoof, the pony brought it close enough to bite. It was heaven. He chewed it slowly, and an explosion of sweetness that almost made him forget everything for a few seconds coursed across his tongue. "You can have another one boy, okay? If you come with me, that is. I'm going to untie the rope on the wall," and the lady leaned forwards, moving very, very slowly, "and then I'm going to tie another one to the collar they've put on you." The pony quivered, ears flattening, eyes rolling, teeth showing, but he let her untie him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he was coaxed to his hooves. As promised, he was given another treat. He looked, fearfully, into those green eyes... and met compassion. "I'm Susan," the woman said, "Susan Belafore. Who're you, Sunshine?" A jack-booted terror stomped closer, and the pony shied away. A quick tug on the rope around his neck brought him up short, but still he shook. "What is it, sergeant?" asked Sarah, with a huff. "Can't you see I'm busy?" "I think we've accounted for all newfoals, ma'am." The sandy-haired woman sighed and stood up. "Okay, how many?" "Eleven from the outer complex, the four in here... and that one." The blackmesh pointed towards one corner of the room where a collection of somethings lay unmoving. Susan nodded, glancing towards the whitish lump of limbs and skin. "Potion baiting. How many humans?" "Five, we're processing them now. Permission to remove the newfoals?" "The humans are yours, sergeant, the ponies are mine. The D.N.A. take care of the newfoals, you know that." The man spat. "Ma'am, the eleven outside are feral. The mare in here's gone too, and the other three..." He tailed off as the woman looked up at him. "No offence miss, but you've lost twelve, if not fourteen of them, I don't see why it matters to you." The woman stood up and dusted herself off. "Twelve of them have simple needs, sergeant," she said sadly, "water, hay, a roof over their heads and each other. Two more may come back to us, with a little time. And this one, this boy here," the woman said, shaking the rope around the pony's neck, a fierce expression on her face, "is strong. Despite everything, he's strong, healthy and biddable. From where I stand, I've only lost one." The sergeant straightened, spat on the floor again, and then nodded once. "Ma'am." "Load the eleven up in the group transport. Take those two boys to Ruislip Sanctuary, and the group truck to Barnet. Take the remains of that poor sod to pathology, see if you can get anything out of it." "And pretty boy here? And the mare?" "Ruislip for the mare. This one goes to Whitson." Susan turned to the pony on the leash and spoke softly, "You stay here a moment, okay Sunshine?" The pony flicked his ears, unsure, but he nodded. "Good." She turned back to the blackmesh sergeant. "Let me see the mare." Susan walked to a burgundy mare who was standing relatively passively, chewing the rope around her neck and rocking back and forth. "Hey gorgeous, you wanna say hello?" the woman asked, moving closer. The mare shied away from the outstretched hand, but did little else. Her ears perked up when the woman took out another of the brownish pseudo-sugar-lumps, and she walked forwards hungrily. "What's two and two?" the woman asked, holding the cube just out of reach. The pony stretched her neck out, extending her lips in effort to get to the treat. "If you tell me, I'll give you two, not just this one." The mare didn't even look up, so engrossed she was with getting the sugar lump. The woman shook her head and gave the sugar lump to the pony, patting her on the head, awkwardly. "She's gone, too. Poor quality potion, most probably." The sergeant shook his head. "The fact they killed her first didn't help." "That'll do it." The woman grimaced, her mouth a thin, hard line. "Let me see the prisoners." "Ma'am?" The blackmesh stiffened, his gaze hard. "What's little old me going to do, eh? I just want to talk, to check 'em over. You don't want to hear you're accused of mistreating them, do you?" "You wouldn't!" "No, but they would." "Point taken." "Good," the woman replied, wandering back to Sal and grabbing onto his rope. She clicked her teeth. "Come on boy, with me." *** The battered doors of the police van were thrown open, and bright sunlight flooded in. The five figures within were seated on painted, uncushioned metal benches. They shielded their eyes as best they could. With the chains around their feet and wrists, they couldn't get far. "Tell me, boys, who was it potion-baiting in there? I'm Susan, by the way, Susan Belafore, with the Department for Newfoal Affairs." A sandy-haired woman with piercing green eyes stood before them, leading a pony on a rope. "I know my rights," one man said, eyeing the pony carefully, "I'm not talking." "Oh, I know you know your rights. You'll get your lawyers right on things, if you haven't already. I'm counting on it." Susan glared, eyes brilliant and bright. "We don't honour D.N.P's of convicted criminals, but of course, you're innnocent until proven guilty." "What do you want, Miss Susan Belafore?" the same man asked, sneering. His bald head and wire-rimmed glasses spoke of true power - the merely rich went in for reconstructive nano-surgery, whilst the powerful went for the look. For an answer, Susan tapped onto a small datab and gave a flick of her wrist. The van lit up with pictures, hung in mid-air, slowly spinning and changing. The pictures showed a variety of dead bodies, mostly human, though twisted and deformed. "You've been potion baiting. Couldn't keep your hands off, could you? Didn't anyone warn you? You don't fuck with potion." "I fail to see what a bunch of shock-photographs--" "Potion baiting. You slice bits off, whilst the helpless newfoal is still cooking. Fun, right? Watching that doughy white lump fight to repair the damage?" "I don't know what you're--" "I saw what you did to that poor soul in there," hissed Susan. "I just want to know who it was, because right this second, I'm betting that at least one of you isn't feeling so hot." Her eyes swept around the truck. All of the men were sweating, some of them trembling, but only one of them had that particularly pale sheen and ugly pallor. Susan took a step back and turned to the blackmesh behind her, but everything happened at once. "Oh, shit... sergeant! That one! Get him out of here before he--" "Miss Belafore, you'll be pleased to know that my lawyers are going to sue--" "Good god in heaven, he's going to--" The man Susan had been pointing to - an otherwise nondescript, middle-aged, balding and relatively well-dressed soul - started convulsing. His eyes rolled back in his sockets and he jerked at his restraints, body taut. From his mouth issued forth a stream of orange bile, which sprayed over the occupants of the van. The loud, angry cries of the other four almost drowned out her next words "Fuck, code nineteen! Shit!" The blackmesh sergeant visibly paled, where his face was visible under his mask. "Decon! Stat!" The complex yard, which had been relatively calm but a moment ago, exploded into commotion. In short order, two blackmesh guards trotted up brandishing a large, pump-action spray canister, which they used to hose down the occupants of the van whilst four more set up a hasty perimeter. Susan stepped back, letting yet another blackmesh sweep a hand-held device across her body. "Clean," the man said. Susan watch dispassionately as they pulled the sick man from the van. He was jerking spasmodically still. "He's got a D.N.P.," she said softly, "we've scanned his records. You all do. I know the type, I've seen it so often." "Help him!" shouted one of the prisoners, a younger man with brown hair and hazel eyes. Susan shook her head, "I can't, he's got a Do Not Ponify... and nothing else will save him. Nothing else will save any of you. If you're lucky, we got it in time, and the residual activation has just ruined those expensive suits of yours... show me your fingernails." "What?" asked the prisoner who had so recently begged her to save the man on the ground. Susan looked up from where she was examining the now-cooling body on the floor. "This is what happens when you go potion-baiting," Susan said, indicating the dead man. "Nanobots are clever, but indiscriminate. Three ounces is the recommended minimum for a healthy transformation, even with the shitty rejected stuff you guys allegedly have. If you're exposed to less than that, eventually it will take its toll." "Don't listen to her," sneered the first man, "she just wants to--" "They call it 'gelder's rash', where I come from, after the most common operation and second most common task performed on newfoals. Down in the slums, they call it cutter's rash. Tell me, do you have unexplained itching anywhere on your skin? Thick patches of fur? Show me your fingernails!" Susan ordered. The second man to speak held out his hands. Susan nodded. "Thought so." "I... thought it would go away, it did last time!" Susan shook her head, carefully taking hold of the man's hands as she looked at his brown fingertips. "This discolouration? Stage one, at least. Show me your teeth." Susan took out a small hand-held torch and looked into the man's mouth. She sighed. "Stage two, I'm afraid. There's nothing I can do." "Don't try to pull that shit on me, Miss Belafore. Your scare tactics--" "A man just died in front of you, sir! You've been playing about with highly dangerous, restricted substances. Did you really think it wouldn't affect you? I don't know how long you've been at this, but if you've been here before, you've probably noticed a few changes, even if you don't have hooves for fingernails yet." The first man sneered, and looked away. "How's that Indigestion? How's that ulcer coming along? I'll give you a hint; it's not an ulcer. I bet red meat makes you queasy, that salads seem tastier, colours seem brighter, milk gives you gas and fish and eggs are currently favourites, am I close?" Susan looked around, not meeting the gaze of any of them, save the second man to speak. "W-what can you do?" he asked, fearfully. "Give you time, a cell, protection, anonymity. I can keep your name out of the papers, seal your records, and allow you a comfortable handing-over of whatever businesses you have to whichever heir or heirs you care to name." "Fuck you, Susan Belafore! I'll have your--" Susan carried on, regardless. "You've got a month, six tops, before the physical changes are pronounced enough to be unmistakable. After that, you've got a year, maybe two, before your body shuts down for good." "What's going to happen to me?" the man said, tears springing to his eyes. "The nanobots... in a three-ounce dose, they work as one to transform the whole body. Less than that, it will fail mid-conversion. But in micro-doses, they try something different. They create stem-cells for new organs, and wire them into your body. Sometimes those cells take, and when they do, your own body turns against itself. It's like a cancer, only untreatable. A new heart, new lungs, new liver... all the analogs that newfoals have, all vying for your body's nutrients. Those nanobots float about in your bloodstream and rewire the brain, neuron by neuron, fibre by fibre... too slow to kill you outright, but it's a ticking time-bomb. You've lost your canines, sir. That's stage two. It means it's terminal, but it hasn't killed you yet." "Wh-what can you do?" "Flush the nanites, perhaps. That'll give you a year extra, maybe, but it's more... invasive than that. They've kick-started your own body's natural repair process, it thinks you're the wrong shape and it's trying to fix it. It can't be stopped, the sort of research needed is illegal. The only working example we have... is potion. I can give you time, you can ponify if you wish or you can be made comfortable until--" "Don't listen to her!" "Shut the fuck up, Frank!" the man swore. Then he turned back to Susan. "What do I need to do?" "Turn King's Evidence. I'll give you all the protection I can muster. Agree to ponify, and it'll be that much more, you'll be in my program then. You'll get the good stuff, too. A cell, a hospital bed, time to sort out your affairs, and a way out. Once you're a pony, nobody will care or know who you were, not if you don't want them to. I can even... offer preferential placement, if you want. If your family will have you." "I'll do it." Susan nodded, ignoring the protests from 'Frank'. The man was unshackled and lead out of the wagon. "Take the rest of 'em downtown, sergeant, I got what I wanted. And send in a decon team for this one too. With luck," Susan spat, "you'll all hire good enough lawyers to drag it out well into stage two yourselves. You'll be dead before I can invalidate your D.N.P's. Of course, if you haven't been fucking around here, you've just been very unlucky..." Susan turned. "Take 'em. Before I do something I regret." "Yes ma'am," the blackmesh policeman replied, and in short order the armoured van disappeared down the road. "What a fucking mess," Susan swore. "I don't suppose you can name names, Sunshine?" Sal shook his head, snorting. "Didn't think so, Sunshine. Not that you're allowed to testify. You're as honest as the day is long, but you'll do anything you're told, won't you?" Sal shook his head again. "How about for a sugarcube?" Susan took one out, and grinned when the pony nodded vigorously. "You want it? Come on then, boy, this way." Sal followed the tantalizing treat, until he found himself clip-clopping up a short ramp and standing in an enclosed trailer. A bar was placed across his backside, and the collar was tied to a ring in front of him. The trailer was just big enough for him to stand up in, but not big enough to turn around, with a large metal bar in the middle, separating him from the burgundy mare he'd seen earlier. The dead girl. Sal looked at her. Her eyes were bright, but utterly without intelligence. Whatever humanity she had possessed had vanished when they'd killed her. The potion had resurrected her body, but her intellect had fled. Sal watched as she munched contentedly on hay. He started to cry. Susan stroked him softly on the muzzle. "It'll be okay, Sunshine, you'll see. Trust me, okay? Here, I promised you another sugarcube." Sal looked at the treat in her open palm, and turned away. "Okay, I understand. Be strong for me, okay? You won't see me again, but I'll keep an eye out for you." Susan retreated out a small door in the front of the pony-trailer, closing and bolting it behind her. Shortly after that, it started moving. Finally, silently, Sal cried. ***