//------------------------------// // Broken Elevators // Story: The Last Mark // by Idyll //------------------------------// The elevators were broken. No halo enveloped the button I pressed. Both screens, one above each door, displayed only a red ’88,’ next to a vertical double arrow. But even if our apartment had an eighty-eighth floor, the time it would’ve taken for it to crawl to our fifth, then to ground level, adding up all the pitstops along the way, would’ve lapped a trip to the stairs. Still annoying, and worst of all in character for the building owner. He had a passion for pulling surprise, legally-required checks. Or maybe I missed the memo? Stress has blurred my attention these past few days. Though I’m not sure why; I’m not the filly starting second grade. But I remembered from my days that foals can be cruel; teachers, strict; and that was in a relatively well-off neighborhood, not the enclave of Tartarus that was—Manhattan. Okay. Maybe I rubbed off a few of my rational expectations onto my daughter, through preparations my dad told me were: ‘a bit excessive,’ but better to be safe than sorry, right? It only entailed a note of my number in her bag… and stitched on the back of her bow… and committed to her memory… and, yeah, hers could’ve been photographic; she knew everyone’s lines at the school play, and took the job of my (and dad’s back then) shopping lists. Still, I bothered to craft a mnemonics and a flashcard; two actually: she had to know her granddad’s number too! In between those sessions, we performed reconnaissance over various routes to and from school. Now, I made an unprompted promise to pick her up every day and I really do try, but a few moments of weakness might’ve occurred once or twelve times last year when I showed up a bit late—never more than five hours—but it’s not entirely my fault! Cheap grownup drink tempted me, and I bore the weight of Equestria’s due emancipation single-hoofedly. A summary of my every hour was probably included in Celestia’s daily brief today. For my last preparation related to safety, I encased a less precise but more stable version of a teleportation spell inside a couple of hard candies. Looking back, a counter against the side effect of fluorescence would’ve made sense. But in my defense, when I told her to keep those emergency spells a secret between us, how could I have predicted she’d interpret that as: offer them to your nosy classmates without any explanation?! I should’ve made her mop up the fresh foal sick off our floor. But I didn’t. Because I’m so nice! But maybe all those measures were in fact ‘a bit excessive,’ because today, Wednesday, I picked her up, and she reported nothing but positivity! A few—many—all—boring classes, but no quarrels with classmates! And she’d never lie to me; I’d be able to tell. They don’t brand Starlight Glimmer as a radical because she was a maniac. I spread dangerous truths! I’m the only pony that seems to be aware of the constant barrage of falsehoods Canterlot perpetuates about those exceptionalist, meritocratic, divisive ‘talent’ tattoos that… No. I told myself I’d take a break from enlightening minds for the sake of my dear Cozy’s safety. She needed a mother, and the liberation of the classes could always wait. I had a daughter to walk outside; open spaces and sunlight are crucial for healthy pegasus development. “Guess we’ll have to take the stairs,” I said. Cozy looked at me, concerned. She hovered over to my saddle bag, next to a quarter sheet that covered my necessarily mark-riddled flanks—you can’t expect to reason with the powers of the world without a bit of power yourself—and she asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to—” “I’m fine, dear. Really!” “But we’re on the fifth floor… and you don’t have any wings… That’s a long walk.” Her tragic tone made me giggle. “How old do you think I am? I have four legs plus a horn, and besides, it’s a good excuse for me to practice my self-levitation! Or is Mommy too uncool to be let into your cloud house?” My eyes hid behind my foreleg’s knee, and I started to fake cry. I’m terrible; I know. My daughter cozied up to my neck via hug and aligned our heads horizontally. In a private message to my ear, she whispered, “Oh, no, no, no! I didn’t mean it like that! I was only trying to look out for you because… what if you tripped over because you were so tired or it’s dark and you broke something important and… I’d miss you a lot, y’know, and I don’t know how I’d—” “Woah! Okay. I was only acting, playing, kidding—Mommy’s a jerk. I’m Sorry. Now come on, let’s go.” I laid a telekinetic imprint behind my daughter’s mane, and we headed towards the stairs’ door. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful for Cozy’s infinite mercy, but I do wonder if I’ve raised her to be a bit too polite. She broke out of my magic’s embrace and flew to open the door for her evil mother, without a symptom of malice staining her smile. I wouldn’t want her to be this forgiving to supervillains like those fat-cat tyrants up in Canterlot. Once past the door, I started into a jagged spiraling abyss: the center of the stairwell. I said I was going to practice my self-levitation, didn’t I? As a pegasus pony, Cozy had a powerful vestibular system, short reaction times, and various reflexes related to flight: automatic parachuting and unconscious non-permeability to clouds if there’s ever a lack of oxygen—so they don’t fall asleep too high—to name a two. I had none. If anything, my reflexes worked against me: I’d teleport, form a protective bubble, or toss myself to the ground, to safety, whenever I tried to self-levitate in the past. The temptation to cast an impulse spell reminded me of last month when, on my birthday, Cozy surprised me with an omelet dinner. She had baked muffins—sorry, cupcakes—with me and our neighbor before but never cooked a proper meal, so I admittedly expected love to carry the taste. I underestimated her by a lot. She had cooked the egg mix to the perfect viscosity and for the vegetables to melt in the critic’s mouth, releasing flavored juices when chewed. A mélange of every taste I loved, complimenting each other otherworldly well. Perfection—until a layer of sweat formed under my leg pits, brow; and my saliva turned thick. Apparently, Cozy had explored our pantry and found a jar of hot flakes Mommy had forgotten she had. She ignored the bright triangular label and liberally laced my meal because the chef on TV told her to. I staggered over to our fridge. “Honey, have you seen the…” Turns out, she frothed the last of our milk into a very warm cocoa. The temptation to self-cast a knockout spell nearly conquered my senses, but will prevailed. If I had fallen, I’m not exactly sure I could convince my daughter otherwise that Mommy’s deep nap wasn’t either food poisoning or a suicide attempt. An aura-encompassed object moved in relation to its caster; to walk whilst an object stayed in place required conscious effort. A simple feat when the movements are simple, but when a mage tries to lift themselves off the ground, gravity becomes an issue. If I wanted to hover in place, I couldn’t ‘hold’ my body still; I had to push my body upwards, countering gravity based on my weight, using a specific style of levitation that wouldn’t create a closed system where I’d fall. It felt as if my hooves were balancing on a sliver of ice each as I attempted to hover over the steps. I pitched my horn up slightly, and I nearly smashed my skull against the ceiling; I would’ve, had Cozy not clung onto my back and pushed my body back down. She refused to let go; I wouldn’t force her, not with such worry on her face. Donning a pink personal parachute, coach, and body heater three-in-one, whose cheek rested sideways against my crest, I climbed over the railings, peeked down the void, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leaped. I turned the knob of my levitation’s strength and descended as gently as a feather. Well, until the very last second, where a rush of adrenaline made my legs sprawl, forcing me to land on my stomach, but I didn’t get stuck up a tree this time, and I didn’t die! My daughter helped me back up and guided me to the door as if I were ninety-five, then rode on my back after I told her I was fine—cheeky thing! We walked to the door, and as I colored the exit’s handle blue, a small hoof pushed my right cheek leftwards. “Look, Mom!” Cozy pointed to a note on the community board. “Says they’ll be drilling until Saturday. It’ll probably be real loud.” I stretched my neck to look back and smirked. “Well, at least you’ll be at school for most of it.” As I opened the door, our manes caught an early autumn breeze; Cozy’s more than mine because I’m my own barber and kept my fringe on an equal plane. The zephyr diluted to a negligible strength as the door opened by itself fully. Manehattan presented me with a morbid excuse to self-levitate. I took it and managed to hover over, with only a bit of turbulence, a homeless mare: sky-blue with droopy eyes, whiskers, and a disheveled gray mane. She had rolled up our building’s brown (once red) rug to use as a pillow. I would’ve preferred if Cozy hadn’t celebrated my victory quite so rambunctiously, because I empathize with how those midair twirls and shakes must’ve made that loveless, broke, useless mare feel. I too am homeless— philosophically. My principles have yet to congregate in the egregore of the populace. If my ideology fails, I have nopony to fall back on—besides Dad—but I’d rather wander a desert pondering what doth life than subject myself to his rambles on local politics, and the words he uses to describe me: ‘hon-bun,’ ‘chipmunk cheeks,’ or the dreaded, ‘pumpky-wumpkins.’ On the way to the park, I slipped in a bit of practice again. I’d hover for a few seconds as if I were wearing Heelys and Cozy would count how many seconds I held and would cheer. My problem was that I used too much power, so yeah, Cozy’s weight could be considered cheating, but she’s a pegasus filly! I’ve used her as a kickboard at the beach; she’s so light, she floats on water! “What you have to remember, Mom, is that if you fall, your body will automatically catch itself, so you should only worry enough to trigger your reflexes!” Cozy explained. “Or maybe that only applies to pegasi…” “Thanks dear,” I said, “but I’m not exactly sure if your type of flight can be compared to my self-levitation. Yours is slightly more… naturally intended.” My daughter’s first flight happened back when we both lived at my parent’s, after her she took her first steps but before she had a full row of teeth—and strangely, also before her first words. Dad would go on and on, “Are you sure she’s your daughter, wumpkins?” He’d laugh. “You never used to sit still during nom-noms, and she has more respect for her elders than the whole Development Committee. I haven’t even heard her cry yet!” But then he’d ask, “So how many more months before she’ll be buzzing around the place?” “Phff, only about…” I strummed my skull-shaped earring with my stomper boot and scratched the side of my dark dress of synthetic leather—yes, I had a phase, only for a few short years before I ascertained that a dictatorship of the unmarked stood as the only path towards freedom. “It varies so wildly—I can’t give you a number…” The doorbell rang and I rushed out to meet the mailmare before she dropped our package and left. She had a dark-blue coat, a naturally white mane, and a stain of the night sky orbited by two curled feathers. “Night Glider! Say, odd question, but…” I whispered, “What age is pegasus filly supposed to start flying at?” She looked at me blankly, dropped our parcel, and shouted, “You have a filly?!” We both peek inside at Dad teaching her how to vandalize a poster of Stellar Flare. “Perhaps,” I said. Night Glider sat on our package and recalled, “Well, I didn’t have my first flight until I was nine months.” She looked away satisfied as if to say, no biggie, so I hoped that number was a humble brag. “Nine months?” I asked. “Mind telling me what methods your parents used?” “Oh, they tossed me off a cloud. No big deal but I landed without a scratch.” She crossed both sets of legs and drew a satisfied smile, a bit too casual about the mentioned method. “Of course only griffons do that nowadays because apparently it’s too ‘dangerous,’ but listen—you’ve probably never lived on a cloud. Without proper role models, or the risk of a gale coming out of nowhere, pushing you off the city, turning you into a gruesome porridge on the ground for the scavengers below, or bullying, your filly has no motivation to fly. You gotta engage those instincts, or else it’s use it or lose it!” I nodded and thanked her—sufficiently scared—and tried to close the door but she held out her leg. She offered that we all go watch an obscure group of fast fliers perform, one that I’d never heard of. From her reaction to my blank expression, you’d’ve thought they were more well-known than Celestia. I tuned out the meaning of her words and focused on the echoes of shattered dreams brought out by her tearful defense—the result of her cutie curse no doubt. Clearly, she had a few insecurities… I nodded and jotted down a note in the other room remotely through magic, before I faked that Cozy cried and closed the door. “My daugher needs me!” The natural method didn’t work; perhaps because I didn’t want to risk sloshing my foal’s brain against her skull by dropping her more than a hoof above a pillow, even if her anatomy was designed for it. But nature didn’t care if you broke a hollow bone! Wait, does she have hollow bones? That rounded smile, those foalish giggles, and the way she clanked her hooves against the floor told me she was too skewed to be tricked. I would never hurt her; I would never let harm come to her. I was also a bad flight instructor; she needed a demonstration. A seven-hour demo with kites proved useless, but Dad took many photos of Cozy wearing her sunhat and his oversized sunglasses—and my lipstick and my eyeliner. He was lucky those photos were cute. The moment came a week later. Dad had taken a few of my old toys out of storage to wedge Cozy away from my old electric guitar—even though I never asked him to! After a bath, whilst rubbing a towel against my now makeup-less face, I tripped on a toy car. And Cozy rescued me! Well, she flew into my wet mane seconds after I fell, but she flew! Her tugs on my hair were a kind gesture, even if she was standing on my back and proceeded to try and smack me awake. Dad got to hear her cry that day, and I observed her flutter into the other room, hooves scraping the ground, with the grace of a bumblebee. I faked the injury, by the way, tongue sticking out and everything. Dad had to pretend to be a healer; after that, Cozy went to him whenever she got a booboo. Now I had to worry that she wasn’t walking enough. Her crib walls became a vanity as she’d fly out during the height of night, nesting herself in a den of blankets near my head. Or she’d wander into Dad’s room. Sometimes, she’d try to mold our lips and would sulk when they failed to stay in place. Other times, particularly if she had a bad case of the hungries, she’d smack our shoulders with the ferocity of a year-old fledgling. Dad would relent and levitate her to the cold kitchen counter to heat up a bottle of milk. I was a heavier sleeper. My unconscious body would subdue her in a hug; she could only resign herself to her creator. I’d wake up hours later to a glare, and a flying foal pulling my hoof to the kitchen, casting her first word: “Now!” That story was long enough that we arrived at the park. Only a minute away from our playground destination, Cozy detached herself from my back and headed towards a stranger, who seemed familiar with my daughter, and vice versa. Satisfied families waved from afar at the light-blue stallion, unicorn, of darker curly mane, and a flank disfigurement of confetti showering a pink balloon poodle. A pack of balloons that attached around his waist cast me into a spectrum of translucent shadows. He equipped a colt warrior with an air-filled sword, before standing at full attention to— “Cozy! What a surprise running into you here!” Cozy waved then brought both our hooves together. “Party Favor, this is Starlight Glimmer. Mom, this is Party Favor.” The blue stallion double-grabbed my hoof with his pink aura, and I, a pinkish (kinda) mare, added my blue hue. We shook hooves; he, a bit too enthusiastically. As he was disjointing my shoulders, he explained, “I was the party planner for Cozy’s classmate’s, Poppy’s, birthday last year. Your daughter helped me keep the whole thing a surprise. She guided the special pony down and everything!” Oh yeah. I vaguely remembered she told me that. “Well, I’m glad to hear she was helpful!” “Yep!” He smiled. “There was only one problem… The birthday filly had her balloon obliterated by a spray spell, and to keep the day special, Cozy ended up sacrificing hers…” He replaced his hoofshake with the string of a balloon, tied a knot around my pastern, and gleamed almost as brightly as Cozy. “But anyways, unless you want to tag along, I’ve got a celebration to catch!” “Where to?” Cozy asked. “A funeral,” he said. “Apparently some ponies have a tradition of throwing massive parties after a loved one dies. Some poor wealthy stallion hadn’t spoken to his family in years, but they still wanted to celebrate his life, which ended mysteriously after they called about my rates.” He shrugged. “Done.” With my bracelet tied in a butterfly pattern, he bounced off—kinda like a moonmare with the way his balloons eased his descent. I waved my hoof—wasn’t the balloon supposed to be Cozy’s?—and said, “Nice self levitation by the way!” “Thanks,” he shouted back. “The trick is to tie your balloons around your center of gravity!” I meant it as a light-hearted joke because a belt of balloons couldn’t possibly match the complexities of my self-levitation, but his advice actually sounded pretty sensible. Cozy shouted, “Bye,” and waved too until she noticed a few dark clouds. She pushed my head towards the playground—“Mom, come on!”—and pulled me by my helium fetter. The playground stood over a sandpit. Very busy today. I watched an earth filly buck her friend a bit too hard on the swings, and the latter’s head form a trench as it slid across the ground. There were other spectators too: a flock of young pegasus foals perched on the swings’ bar. Maybe one or two griffons here and there? It was difficult to tell; they were so closely packed, some of them stacked on top of each other resembling loafed-up pigeons. Bolted on the swings’ metal column was a red triangular sign with that act in white covered by an ‘X’, over the words: ‘fire hazard’. One colt’s vanilla ice cream dripped onto the soon-to-be-ground aforementioned filly. He blew a raspberry in response to her glare. She bucked the swings’ column. Its reverberation caused a chain reaction as the dozed-off majority jolted awake and fled, collapsing totem poles of foals until the top of the bar stood lifeless. The colt dropped his whole ice cream between the frenzy—on the mane of the filly’s mother. Yeah. We weren’t here for the playground itself. Instead, we wandered to a nearby patch of trees, which had benches underneath for parents to watch over their zoo critters—poorly. I drank from a bottle of water from my bag, offered my daughter a sip, and watched as she selected her candidate for climbing. Fifty percent of Cozy’s daily leg activity comes from these visits; the other fifty-one percent comes from kicking me in her sleep. We slept in the same room because our apartment wasn’t exactly a penthouse, but since last month we started shared the same bed. She kept having these night terrors—I knew she was awake when the room was quiet, lacking snores—and I’d invite her to sleep under my covers. At first, I chalked it up to stress over an impending school year, but second grade has already started, and yet she still has issues. She doesn’t even use her bed anymore; after brushing her teeth, she heads straight to mine. “Can you leave?!” Cozy yelled from high up, shaking a branch holding three pegasus foals, separate from the flock before. Those night terrors coincided with brief moments of assertion throughout the day. Hey! At least she wasn’t a pushover. Once they left, Cozy flew back down and began her perilous climb. She arched her back like a cat—with the looks of a kitten—and jumped from branch to branch. Soaring the skies at a young age taught pegasi to be fearless, and it taught me the value of trust because it freaks me out whenever Cozy goes over a story’s height, but I’ve learned to control my fears. Mostly. “Seems like a mountain goat replaced my daughter,” I joked. “Have you seen Cozy? I can’t seem to find her anywhere.” Now was my chance to join my daughter and test out Party’s advice, so I started to hover and— “Mom,” Cozy said. “You’re supposed to climb up here… flying sort of defeats the purpose…” “But… Oh, no—you’re right. Sorry, dear.” I sat back down on the picnic bench and observed my daughter's performance from the ground. Maybe I should’ve taken her to a pegasus playground in the clouds, though even if I could fly up there, I’d probably be the only unicorn. Cozy arrived at the top and tap danced in place with giddy. A mighty yawn left her mouth before she declared, “I’ve made it to the top!” “Incredible job, sweetie!” I said and clapped. “But maybe you come back down now? It’s getting cloudy, and Mommy’s a bit lonely on the ground all by herself.” She thought about it, hoof to her chin, eyes to the sky. I continued, “That old show you love’ll be on soon!” Her drooping ears and eyelids shot up. Aimed towards me, she somersaulted off the branch, parachuting her wings a second before impact—above my conjured cushion. Yep, mostly fearless. I couldn’t help but be a mom. Cozy pulled my balloon leash towards home. Her wings were too short to glide, yet she could still outpace my gallop. I met my obstacle: a pedestrian light on red. My daughter tried to lift me over the road, and she actually succeeded for a few seconds albeit steam was blowing out of her ears. My horn glowed, and I hovered—flung—myself to the other side. I decided not to weigh her down. Once we got to the front of our apartment building, I pulled out our house key. “Why don’t you go on ahead and unlock the door? Since it’s an emergency.” She wore our ring of keys over her shoulder, turned back to give Mommy a quick peck on the forehead and hug, and rushed, not to the door where I expected, but to our window. After she plucked one of her own feathers, eliciting a wince from both of us, she slid it upwards through the millimeter gap between the frame and wall, and used the friction between her tummy and the glass to slide it upwards and—presto! The window opened. Was it always that easy for a pegasus pony to break in?! Why did she take our keys? Maybe I could practice my—never mind; she closed it. Now I had to confront the homeless mare on the building’s doorstep. She looked at me with a half-opened eye, wondering why I’d yet to liberate her class from struggle—or why I had a mirror spell against her flank. Her burden depicted a cardboard box covered in bend marks with a square of fabric stitched over a spot. Cruel. The air’s temperature started to drop, to where my breath became visible. I used a spell to open the main door and kept it open for the homeless mare to come inside, but she refused. With a drowsy smile, she flicked her tail against the door, then closed it with her hind leg. Cutie marks are a mental illness. Now that I had spare time, I discovered that Party’s advice did work! I could jump over a whole flight of stairs, and hold my hover for half a minute before my mind needed a break. The next step was to skip levels, so I fly up the center of the well, and—“Woah!” I hit my head against the side of the steps. The yelp came from my neighbor, startled. “Uhm… Hi, Sugar Belle,” I said, rubbing the back of my head. “Starlight? You gave me a heart attack!” she said. “I didn’t know unicorns could float.” “Yeah,” I replied. “I’m trying something new. Cozy rushed ahead to watch her TV show.” She chuckled. “Is that why you’re trying to fly? Aren’t you already a master of teleportation? And isn’t there a spell that’ll conjure you a pair of wings?” “Teleportation is a drain, and self-levitation is a lot more powerful than a pair of butterfly wings,” I replied. “Just need to get the hang of it.” “You two are sweet,” Sugar Belle said. “Well, I’m off. I’ve been chosen to judge a muffin contest! Feel free to come by my apartment.” “You too!” Our door was locked when I arrived. Cozy must’ve been too engrossed in mindless media to remember that Mommy had to be let in. My knocks went unheard, and since one vulnerability had already been found—I sparked a flash through the keyhole—click! My lockpicking spell worked. Television turned my daughter into a moth whenever they’d air, monthly, an old black-and-white sitcom starring a neotenous blonde brat. She had some sort of hormonal condition that made her look three at twenty; and no, she’s not secretly my daughter. Cozy is a Glimmer. My daughter’s natural hairstyle resembled the brat’s though, a fact sadly discovered when she found her old baby pictures. I’m not a fan of changing it back from her pigtails, or when she copies the brat’s mannerisms with words such as— “Golly, Mom! I didn’t hear you come in.” Of course, you didn’t. You couldn’t be bothered to look at me when you said that. At least they only aired that sitcom's reruns once a month. “Please don’t sit too close to the screen, dear.” She didn’t listen. I levitated her onto the sofa, but she didn’t drop when I let go; she hovered above the cushions, so I had to push her down. Her moth instincts reactivated as she started to fly back over to the TV. I had no choice but to snuggle her onto the couch. A cozy glow in my embrace, soft and warm and cuddly. When I discovered a foal was developing in my tummy, it shocked me, worried me; I wasn’t sure what to do. A spew of regretful habits, spawning from a trough in my mental state, came back to haunt me, I thought. How was I supposed to do this alone? The thought of giving her up or ‘cutting the cord’ only loudened after the ultrasound revealed a pair of wing buds. I hardly knew any pegasi growing up! What was I supposed to tell Dad? He’d be unbearably supportive! I reached a point where I learned a memory-wiping spell, in case the recollections of my decision became too heavy to bear, before I talked myself out of it. Not to simplify the complexity of the situation back then, but every night when we sit here, and her mane of vivid turquoise brushes against my chest, and I can feel her heartbeat ease, and she looks up from her sitcom occasionally to look at me, with her reddish-brown mirrors of the soul, I feel my happiness secured. One day, I’ll get to see my daughter all grown up, and I promise that she’ll inhabit a world equal and fair, where everycreature has access to the same opportunities, to ambition towards any future they want. No unfair advantages. No shackles to destinies they can’t control. No Princesses. A perfect world. Equal. Utopia. “Aww,” Cozy said. “It’s over.” “That sucks.” Oh, thank goodness! Thursday. After I walked her to school and we exchanged proper smiles—wide enough to be unsettling according to some ponies—I grabbed a newspaper on the way home and discovered my article, on Celestia’s imperialist crusade (spreading ‘friendship’), had been censored; and I tossed the papers to the bin. I went home, to the kitchen, to pitch a fire, to cook lunch; we ran out of gas. I sighed. That’s just perfect… Owned to a bit of foresight, I had a bottle of bits for rainy days, also known as the Spawn of Temptations. How could any mother keep their ‘creepy’ smile upright when explaining to their daughter why their family couldn’t afford all the cool stuff her classmates have? Our apartment was a kitchen attached to the living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and costs an exorbitant amount—I swear: when the uprising comes, I will have my landmare’s manacles of malice framed on my wall! Cozy’s smile was worth all the bits in the Equestria, but I must stay rational and focus on the long-term benefits, the greater good. I rang up the number on the canister from a wall-mounted phone attached near our apartment’s door and hustled for a discount, won, and set a delivery for tomorrow afternoon. The phone rang a few seconds after I had set it down. I must’ve forgotten a detail, or it’s a telemarketer, or a scammer, or Dad, or— “Hello? Is Ms. Glimmer here?” asked the mare on the other side, not my landlord, but—“This is Spectacle Showcase, Principle of—” “Yes, I’m here!” I said. “Umm… what’s up? “Well, the reason I’m calling you today is because there’s been a bit of an… incident—that involves your daughter, Cozy, and a few of her classmates.” “Golly…” I said; that sitcom got to my head. “What did they do to her?” “She’s not harmed. Actually, she’s the one that started it.” Those words took a moment to process. “W-what? But she’s usually an angel!” “That’s how she usually is,” Spectacle replied. “But strangely, something else also happened to her. It’ll probably make you a bit less mad, but I’d still encourage you to have a proper chat with your daughter over this.” Her tone became slightly cheerful. “What do you mean?” I asked. “I think it’s best you see for yourself.” “Okay… I’ll be there soon.” I hung up. My tongue dried as I inhaled, though my panting remained humid. Part of me knew what had happened at that moment; most of me tried to suppress it. Not until I see it for myself, repeated over and over in my head. I faced the street that brought us to school and forced myself into a state of brief serenity. My mind’s eyes drew a picture of Spectacle’s office; and ribbons of light flowed from my horn, wrapping around my legs, around my radiance too I weaved the fabric of space and reality, and shifted my destination towards me. Alongside a flash, I teleported. On the other side, I stood between startled parents, behind three foals, and my daughter—bearing my worst nightmare. My mind wandered to that homeless mare, how her psych distorted to existential existence driven by her damned mark. Where conformity towards a parasitic purpose triumphed all other comforts; to us, a victim of those wretched reprobates that run this city, but in the palace of her mind, conformity to her mark must’ve been nirvana. Two of those foals had injuries. The other could’ve been a witness. My daughter had no scratches or even a bruise. Were those night terrors the presage of her slavery? Those sprouts of assertion? Had internal conformity provided fruit more euphoric than the path of virtue could dissuade? My daughter’s once-clean coat, stained by a sinful whisper. Her branding must’ve been a spectacle for Mr. Showcase to smile in front of two of her victims, at me—a deception. The subject of her talent? Even the parents, who should’ve been cross, were joyful or jealous. “Lucky you!” one of them said. “Your daughter’s a chess prodigy.” Cozy doesn’t know how to play chess.