//------------------------------// // A Thousand Weeks // Story: A Playback // by Comma Typer //------------------------------// Watchtowers swing spotlights frantic to the symphony of repetitive explosion. The roar of maglev artillery and missiles overhead sizzle against a placid, uncaring sunset. Whole fields and bases are set ablaze, turrets and base systems re-arm themselves while plasma and phasers pound them into scrap, only for fallen towers to be resurrected in another place. Away from the racket, he hides in a hole he dug for himself and her. A rush of boots and armor sometimes pass by. They make a camp, temporary, judging by filtered chatter, but they always leave after an hour, never staying, forever hunting. He lets himself rest in his slot of soil, held up by nothing more than sticks and stakes and a thick cover of grass and soil. With him is her. Always, water is given to her, and the little food he has, too, in this blistering hot hole. He slaps her across the face when the coast is clear, checking for signs. The sun blinds him. Words, gibberish, form into coherent orders and interrogation at gunpoint. He feels his enemy's gun, yanks him into the whole. He beats his neck with a magazine, chokes him out. His whole face is a gateway to vital organs: eyes can go dark, lungs can suffocate, a bullet to the head… Groggy, dragging himself and her overboard, he leaves his hiding spot where his foe lay, breathing but knocked out. No cadre of officers asking him to politely give himself up to a considerate firing squad or to be dissected as capital punishment. It's just him and the balaclava pony. He checks the neck: it still moves, blood still pumps. Termie the unicorn is alive, if not exactly well. The trees call for their fallen comrade. They proclaim that Gerwin is here. Cannons of deforesting hovertanks, charging up their munitions, bar the way up north. Taking her body and her duffle up, Gerwin sets his wings oceanward. "Come in, come in," Gerwin says, speaking to Cauliflower’s screen. The lights flash red. NO CONTACT ACCESSED. Midnight waters run eternal. They lap against his ears, against his fragile hull. Their slow waves can rock anyone to sleep. No rocks or islands, no stops for him to rest at. A sentry may catch up to him. He stays awake. Clouds form. They block the stars' way. The rays of the moon turn hazy. As the water sloshes, the bag slides with the turning of his vessel, rolling over when the waves rise like living mountains. He puts a stop to the bag, keeping it still in his grip. He sits and waits, keeping it away from him but never from tipping over. The horizon is endless, alone with her. The best he can tell from his stargazing is that it's two AM. Mists have come and gone. The rain beats lightly on him, a gentle breeze that he can doze off to, to carry all worries away. The sloshing ocean leaves him alone. Sleep eludes his grasp. The stars have moved on. Her raincoat protects him from more rain and a bad cold. He spots the bag. With aching forelegs, he tugs at the zipper. Covered by some of his clothes, she lies there. The discs cover her legs, one installed into her wrist screen. He takes one and installs it in her wrist screen. The records are conveniently labeled: home videos, EQNX trips, vacations, transcribed letters. An ID, some photos in her wallet of her family. Graduation photos, her first company photo at the EQNX news firm. His screen starts up. A mental playlist arranges itself as he studies each disc. "Hey! Look at this!" Pink Hearth's Warming streamers and balloons flood the workplace. EQNX labels are plastered everywhere. All members cram themselves into the makeshift cafeteria, with brownies, chocolate, cake, and apple pies available under the glow of festive lights. Carols are sung, but she sings with precision, more so than most ponies. In the makeshift choir, she is the one deemed heavenly. The others congratulate her with cheers and hugs. Date Line taps her with a kiss on the cheek. ~~~ Banjo strumming, quite cheeky, plays from a radio as Date Line leads her into EQNX. "It's seen worse days, I tell ya! We've got Scalding Seltzer here to give you the cameras and recorders and other equipment, and Cold Copy handles our contacts. She's got some friends from Canterlot, Griffonstone, even a couple Convocation officials. They can trust us for independent and reliable reporting." A tour is given, and it's a humble place. It's not even three rooms: there's the workroom, where several computers and wires knot themselves silly, and there's the break room, with a microwave and a coffee machine on the same table they eat at. "Stuff here's third-hoof, fourth-hoof," he says, laughing all the way after. "But trust us, it's the stuff of freedom here." Cauliflower laughs back at him. She turns the camera around, and there she is on the screen, waving her hoof crazy. Bright-eyed is she. A cute pink bow tie completes her appearance. ~~~ A dozen tassel caps flood the skies, and everything is rushed there, shaking and breathing. The world turns dark as there is much crying and blubbering. "You made it, sweetie!" "I'm so proud of you!" Mother and father, probably. Whimperings and tears drown out anything sensible The video catches only the tail end of a speech. There's much waving and hugging, of friends and professors. Drinks are shared, cheers are sent, and the clip ends with a zoom into the sunset. Some text flashes right before it cuts out, reading, UNIVERSITY COMPLETE! NEXT MISSION: JOB TIME! ~~~ A sprinkle of tears fall as she stands before the camera. A show for the Internet, for a vlog maybe. The metadata in the corner speaks the title, BEING_REAL. Posters hang high over the younger Cauliflower, of colt bands and infographics about the world beyond Equestria, colored in red and casualties. There is a script there, trying to repeat. Names are said. Some past puppy love is spurned. She plays the blame game, both with others and herself. She falls apart, bawls over the table. She forgets to turn the camera off. ~~~ A filly plays with the world and her toys. Her parents interview her, asking her many questions, and she smiles and cheers. She keeps asking Why. Why? Why, why? It does make her parents laugh nervously. It is because that is the way it is. She replies, Why is it the way that it is? Not in so many words, but she keeps asking. They tell her to stop asking, and she is gently led back to her bed.  And within, her mother is delighted over the crib, seeing a filly all looking at her. The parents swap cameras, playing with her, letting her fly in their hooves, but it's fast after midnight, and they can't stay awake forever. Cauliflower, finally tired from a day of love, is put to bed a second time. Mother and Father kiss her on the cheek. The last second shows her sound asleep. The metadata says that the file has been converted a dozen times just to have it play back here. Battered in the stormy twilight, another vessel rages at him. "This is DS Sentry of the Sea of Clouds Demilitarized Region! State your purpose here, and deactivate all weapon systems on your vessel!"  "Name's Gerwin! You want me, huh? Here I am! I’m leaving the—!" "Stand down! We will take you over to Weather Station Crossing Five. Any sudden movements will be met with extreme prejudice!"