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// 5 – Roll The Sound Effects... 
// Story: Follow the Worms 
// by argomiam 
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April 8th, 1023





A day had passed since his march. As far as he was concerned, it was successful. He'd stirred up fights, he'd gathered new supporters. His speech outside of the town hall had been absolutely tremendous, if he had to commend his own work. Yes, as he saw it, there was nopony out there like him.

He took another sip of cider. His stomach hurt. He didn't really remember which drink he was on. It was somewhere from number four to number seven. What's it worth, anyway? Anything to clog the dam of comprehensible thought.

As soon as he drank, his fears melted away. The doubts subsided, just for that brief, blissful handful of hours. All those whatting voices, always questioning him, faded into air. He was, for a time, truly confident. And that made him feel absolutely omnipotent.

Questions. Why did they always question him? Why couldn't they just let him do what was right? But nopony trusted him. He'd always been trodden all over. There was another sip, lazing about his sofa, staring at nothing. He had told himself he'd write this evening; he'd been meaning to write for some time. But seven o'clock came, and so did the drinks.

Alcohol induced a warm sense of confusion within him. The bottle wasn't his crutch, per se. He could quit whenever he wanted – for sure. A cigarette hung limply within his ashtray, and he couldn't help but watch it burn. He was sure there was a clever metaphor within that somewhere, something he could really show Gander, something that’d make him admire him, but at this point, he wasn't one to care.

He was the tortured artist of the time. The misunderstood. The dregs of society. And yet he had gotten so far, and there was damn well credit due for that. It wasn't that attention-crazed Gander, or that maniac Talkie. It was him. It was all about him.

But self-reflection wasn't one of his strengths. From his perspective, everything the worms had done was orchestrated as part of this grand plan he had, one that would flourish and reveal itself in time. The plan wasn’t anything written, nor anything so much as in his head. The plan simply revealed itself to him from time to time; fragments of almost prophetic wisdom awakening in his head whenever the gears slowly clicked into place.

Thus was the grand dream of the Worm themself. Any criticism of him wouldn’t be listened to, any praise would echo through his head. Nopony was like him – he reiterated. It was him and him alone that would carry Equestria out of the dark and bring it into the sun. It would be him that would carry out his divine retribution for all the wrongs inflicted unto him, for he was the only one that could save everypony.

And everything done unto him, he would repay in kind. All the cruelty he had known, all the running he had to do. There, one sunny day, he would be triumphant, and he would be content. And all of the darkness, all of the misery he knew would simply disappear. Like a phantom being avenged, and returning to the incorporeal.

He’d heard nothing from the others today. Typical. Backstabbing bucking proto-unicorns, the lot of them. Except Gander. Gander was quite tolerable, to him anyway. He wasn’t sure why, completely. As much as he loved stirring drama and keeping everypony on their hooves, he couldn’t play favourites with them all. That being said, Gander was, by a long shot, his favourite. He was a miserable pony by most regards. Slimy, wiry, willing to do whatever to slip to the top unnoticed, but in a strange way – a way he’d much rather not put much thought to – Gander reminded him of himself.

And there was a sort of subconscious pity he felt within him. A strange need to elevate the pony, to save him from the wrongs he himself had known in life.

Regardless. The half burnt cigarette was picked up, without any grace or dexterity. Miserable. Alone. Sprawled out on a sofa, drunken out his mind, staring lifelessly at the nicotine-stained ceiling. He was a mess, but Light could never notice that. Light was never one to have the capacity to look within himself even that little.

And so he just waited, like he did every other night. Waiting for something. Waiting for the day he would finally allow himself to step out the pit of misery he was so adamant in lying in. Nopony could reach him now.

But, in a sense, he was happy. Not content – not anywhere near it. But, happy. He was happy it was finally seemingly working out in his favour, that the ball was finally rolling the way that he wanted it to. He had control. He had a voice, and he had admiration, and he had the power to call shots – the power to do unto others as they had done unto him. It was one of his turns now, and like a sick game of snooker, he’d do everything in his power to make sure it stayed his turn.

And there was no remorse. Not one morsel of it in his mind. It’d long since been blocked off, long since replaced with the ever-lingering belief that everypony was out to do wrong to him. And if they wanted to do wrong to him, clearly they wanted to do wrong to everypony else. Clearly, the problem was never him.

Another sip. He could almost feel himself sobering up for a second.

The cold embrace of reality was not something he could meet yet. Not yet. He still had time.

He stumbled up, gripping onto the edge of the sofa, his vision a slow blur of shapes and colours at the rate he’d been drinking. He almost kicked over the bottle of little blue pills he’d left on the floor.

Speeches would come so easily right now.

Thoughts flittered about his head, none of which he could catch. Wincing as the electric light flickered on, he managed a swift glance at the clock hanging over his wall.

3:19. Had it really been that long? His brow furrowed, his face scrunching up as he made the long walk to the bathroom mirror. Two hooves were placed either side of the sink, hanging on to it for dear life, his one shred of stability when his head span like this.

Even with all the substances coursing through his bloodstream, the inevitable couldn’t be kept down. Oh, he’d tried to suppress it. He’d done near everything in his power to stop thinking about it, but the black cloak of sorrow lingered still.

A darkness looming over him.

He turned the tap, giving his face – and most of his collar – a splash of cold water. That familiar sense of dread had started to creep over him again. Gone was the grandiosity, now just disdain for the pony staring back at him in the mirror. His mane was stringy and oily from the way he had been lying for the last few hours, and no matter how he tried, no matter what he did with a comb, it never seemed to fix it. He had blood on his hooves now, blood he couldn't wash. This was only the beginning.

He thought he was stronger than this. They were a unicorn. It shouldn’t affect him. A marksist unicorn at that – two of the things he himself had vilified. But there was no sense of justice he felt, no part of the plan revealed. But his only prayer was that it would get easier, that the next would give him that sense of justice. His mind was so muddled, he could hardly discern thought from thought. It was like swimming in a pool of nothing but raw emotion.

The comb dropped to the floor with a clatter. That pony in the mirror started looking awfully unfamiliar – ugly, even. There was a slight sense of numbness for a moment, before evolving into a pulsing feeling in his vision. He stumbled back into the kitchen, his hooves hardly coordinating with his brain as every slight obstacle became a mountain to avoid. He felt the need to vomit, his mouth filling with saliva. But he would keep it down, like always.

His home didn’t feel his. He would’ve been angry, were it not for the overwhelming despair setting over his mind. His hooves searched for an object where his eyesight was failing, sliding over surfaces and causing numerous clatters.

Through his head, then out of it. Echoes to nothing. 

He was terrified.

Finally, the object of his desire revealed itself. A telephone. He picked up the hoofset, frantically spinning the dial, facing the almost insurmountable challenge of dialling eight numbers. His head spun faster. The tremors had started to set in. 

Two, two, five. Six, oh, seven, seven, three. He could memorise it even with his mind warring with him like this.

The phone rang. He held it to his ear, expectantly. He prayed the line would pick up. He needed it to.

“Hello, call for Proper Gander, how can I help?" The electronic voice answered, crackling strangely.

“Gander, Gander.” He spoke quick, perhaps too quick, panic evident in his voice. “You’ve got to come here. Y-You’ve got to save me. I need you, Gander. I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to come help me.” His words were broken up by shallow, shaky breaths, stumbling and tripping over his own tongue.

There was a response from the phone, but all the words melded together. He swore he could hear a clack as the hoofset was placed down, but he wasn't sure. No matter how he tried, he couldn't decipher the noises. He almost considered putting the phone down, but he couldn't now. He had to make sense of it. He had to, he just wasn't trying hard enough. There was little hope left. He needed one more go. One more.

“Light?” There was finally a response, suddenly crystal clear. There wasn’t any audible concern in the voice. It spoke as if it was a reminder. "What are you doing, Light?"

Something dawned on him. Something cruel, but fair. He took a deep breath, the terror washing over him. “I know what you’re about to say.”

“I’m not here to save you, Light.” The voice calmly explained.

“You... didn’t pick up the phone.” His voice was nothing more than a weak croak.

“No, Light. I didn’t.”

“The line went dead, didn't it?” He seemed more defeated than scared at this point.

“Yeah. I’m not here to fix things for you, Light.” The voice calmly responded. There was a soothingness to it. It spoke slowly, with purpose.

Tears started trickling down his face, his gaze fixed on the carpet and his expression firm. “Please…”

“Oh, Light.” His friend replied. “I can’t keep picking you up.”

“Just… just once more. Please. I’m trying to do the right thing. Please.” His tone was pleading, but it barely came out as any more than whisper. “You’re the only one that believes in me.”

“I don’t believe in you, Light.” It plainly responded, just a hint of sympathy. “They died by your will only.”

His throat clamped, barely able to force the words out, “I didn’t want them to die.” 

“I know.” It cooed. “But you didn’t want a lot of this. You’ve let it all happen now. Face it. There's no point running from what you've done anymore. You're too far in.”

The box was closing on him. The walls had seemed to crumble, the sky around him flickering and warping. There would’ve been the slightest sense of nostalgia, if it weren’t for the terror. He felt the bite of the wind against his skin, the slow falling of snow. He was unsure where he was, but it was familiar, some abstract scene from his childhood. A river running black in the night thrashed at the canal, and the unguarded drop seemed so very, very long. The trickling feeling of dread had opened like a floodgate. There was no posturing that could help him now. Nopony to fight his battles for him. He couldn’t even move. Not even his legs would listen now.

So he did the only thing he felt he could.

“May I… stay on call? With you?”

“If you’d like.” It replied. The soothing voice was his only life vest in this dark place.

“Thank you, Gander.” He sat down by the phone, curled up as best as a pony could, earpiece still held to his ear, his breath rattly. He sniffled, and he wiped his nose with his hoof. “Am I dying?”

“No. I don’t think you deserve such a tragic ending.”

"...okay." He whimpered.

And when his mind drifted to the dark, he did not know if the darkness brought sleep or the gentle long night. A little ray of moonshine through a crack in the blinds was all he was left with.

And his mind went silent at last.





He was woken from that long quiet by a pounding noise, some sound straight out of Tartarus. His ears rang, his eyelids stuck together as he tried to open them, as if resisting his choice. Some foreign light burnt into his retinas, even behind his eyelids. He had no recollection of anything he’d done, but the mess told the story well enough. The phone was tucked tight in his hooves, with its coiled wire wrapped around his leg. 

His body jolted again as that same sound returned. Shouting.

The last thing he’d remembered from the night was the fear that it was all over. 

Now, it felt more like that would’ve been a mercy.

“LIGHT!” More yells, not helping out with the mind-splitting headache he had. He could feel his body being shaken gently, and was powerless to stop it.

A grovel. That was the only accurate description of the alien sound that exited his mouth. He didn't even know the day. Time was the last thing his reeling mind could grasp.

Gander stood there above him, all dressed, presentable, and notably terrified looking. Light, however, was only in a stained shirt, lying sorrily in a puddle of his own sweat. He looked to Gander, who had apparently invited himself into his home already.

“Light! Light!" He yelled. "Are you okay? Is everything alright? You wouldn't answer me, I let myself in, I—" He looked upset. Or angry. It was hard to tell with Gander. "You called me. Why?"

“...I don’t think I did.” He lied, feeling his chest pound. In truth, he had no idea what he had said, but he had woken up with a telephone in his hoof and a dreadful feeling. The white-hot sensation burning through his mind wouldn't subside.

“The operators told me. I’m subscribed to an answering service, Light. You left me a message at four AM last night, according to them. And you were crying, and talking about dying, and how you’re trying to do the right thing. What the buck, Light?”

Light couldn’t meet his gaze, staring at his own hooves ashamedly as he unwrapped himself from the wires. Gander sighed exasperatedly, wandering around, before finally stopping. The whole house was a tragic mess. Things had been thrown to the floor desperately, looking like some creature straight out of the Everfree had just ran around the place. Glass was shattered, pretty flowers lay dying on the floor, ripped out of their pots untimely.

Gander had picked up a little bottle of pills. Oxycodone.

“Light.” He shook them. They made no noise. “How many did you take?”

He swallowed hard, still unable to meet his eyes. 

“I didn’t take any last night.” 

It was a poor lie, but in this state, he had no idea what else to do. His senses were all lit up, it felt like his whole mind was on fire. He wasn't even sure why, but he felt a vague sense of happiness seeing the pony before him. A trust that had been restored, but by what means he was yet to tell. Something to reveal itself in the future, just like everything else seemed to.

“How many did you take, Light?!” he repeated, his voice full of urgency.

No use in lying now. It was admittance of weakness, of the strength he lacked to even so much as make it through the day. 

There was a long pause. “Three,” he finally answered, like a foal being told off for stealing. 

Please, stop the noise. His mind ran back to Father, breaking every mental barrier he had suppressed those old memories with. How he used to cry to Mother after the war started. He hardly remembered the face, just the pained look he'd get every time he'd look at the newspaper. How he used to talk about it like the whole world was ending. He never saw it that way. He was so eager to detach himself from his parents, the traitors and cowards.

Maybe, for a second, he understood. Maybe it had.

“What? And how much did you drink?!” He gestured to the litter of bottles around the house.

“...yeah, three,” he repeated, a dull tone to his voice.

“Three bottles?” he asked, confirming the number. There was such vivid disappointment on his face.

“...six.” Light corrected, doubling his previous figure.

“Six bucking bottles. Sweet Celestia, Light.” Gander paced around the room, messing with his mane nervously. Gander had a habit of pacing when he was upset, and even with his brain lit-up like this, he could still tell just how upset he was.

“I was fine.” He tried massaging his temples in hopes it would somehow liberate him of his headache. “I just… I have pain. In my… i-in my…” He tried to find an excuse. It evaded him in the end.

The noise needed to stop. The world needed to stop for him. He was so very tired. He couldn't even muster the will to be angry. He just lay there, pathetically. The sounds of the city still continued around him, everypony still continuing as usual, even despite his suffering. How could they?

“You are NOT fine, Light.” Gander pointed accusingly, noticing that glassy look in Light's eyes. “You are far from fine. We’re about to launch the most important operation of our lives, Light. Of anypony’s lives!” He shouted, finally standing up to him. Not now. He couldn't manage it now. Any other time, he'd scream right back at him. Maybe he should've. How dare he step out of line, in fact.

“Gander... you have no idea how much pressure I am under right now," he slurred.

“No. I don't have any idea. You won’t ever bucking tell me,” he retorted, snappily.

“You wouldn’t get it. You’re too soft to understand. Too unburdened by it.”

Gander turned his head, inhaling sharply, drawing breath through his nose, then out with his mouth. He was hurt by that, he could tell. “I know you don’t mean that, so I’ll give you the chance to apologise now.”

“I’m not bucking apologising to you. I'm sorry." His mind was all foggy. The floor was still spinning.

Gander sighed. Light had called his bluff. “Fine. Fine. I’m sorry. I just…” He rubbed his face. “I’m tired, Light. Everypony needs you right now. And you keep just pissing it away. And now this? What were you thinking?"

Light had gone pale, looking like he was holding in bile. Why did he keep speaking? Why did he keep questioning him? His mind kept racing, every anxiety rearing its ugly head in one swoop. It was too much.

“You are the most brilliant pony I have ever met. In my life.” Gander continued. “I don’t know anypony that could make this work like you have. I have… undying respect for you, Light. But stop making me regret it.”

Light tried to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn't allow it. He sat down, unable to stand any longer than those few moments with his shaky legs. And then his friend’s words processed. 

He just wept. 

Guilt, half for everything he'd done, half for exposing himself. He’d shown weakness, in the most absolute way possible. Gander sat down with him, in some sort of betrayed silence.

“It won’t happen again,” Light mumbled. “It was a moment of weakness. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Gander nodded, seemingly satisfied with how genuine the answer was. And the look he gave him. It was something between pity, fear and anger. All of it spelled out his disappointment.

Out of nowhere came the tears. Gander, for all the fury that read on his face, just cried, wrapping his hooves around him, drawing him into a tight embrace.

“Alright... just, stop with it all," he begged, "the drinking, the drugs, whatever. I’ll get someone to clean this pigsty up, just… stay with me. At least until then. I just... I can’t quite trust you here right now.” There was that feigned sense of strength. Light could always detect it from him. It almost sickened him a little, but everything did right now.

For once, he dropped it. Light nodded. It was high time he broke free from it all. The disillusionment, the doubts – it all came with it, all for the chase of that temporary rush of happiness.

Not even happiness. Numbness.

“...okay.” And that was the best he could muster right now. Just a weak, broken mumble, melting into the hug. 

It helped. More than he'd ever like to admit, it really helped. His trembling body appreciated the warmth.

He heard a long, drawn out sigh. Forgiveness, maybe. Pensiveness, almost certainly.

“Go clean yourself up.” Gander broke the embrace, maybe earlier than Light would've liked. It was like a blanket being wrenched from him.

He nodded, standing up with his friend’s assistance. Never had he felt more ashamed of himself than now. Worse moments had surely come up through his life, but this was a different sort of shame. He’d betrayed his own ideals, everything he’d worked towards, all in a mindless, reckless stupor. His mind was brought back to the jeers, to the phantoms of his past, to everything he had rallied to cast down. There was still something to cling onto, though. Everything he had done, all the times he had been pushed to new lows.

And that was just it.

No, he deserved better. He deserved to be happy. If there was anypony that deserved it, it was him.

His eyes darted across the room. He could still taste something foul in his mouth, the bitter taste of alcohol oxidising within, the remnant of chemicals still surging through his blood unchecked. But it hadn’t bested him.

He was immortal. He was alive because he had purpose. Because he had a plan nopony else had.

Destiny had saved him. It had taken his hoof and walked him here, guided him to this place, and destiny would indeed be made. The shadowed path had been walked, and he had emerged unscathed. His body reeled and ached, but he was fine, and that was because something greater had allowed him to be.

Renewal. That was what it was. This was salvation; the creation of a martyr. Swirling in the cosmos, falling in and out of it all. This was proof his resolve was ironclad. And even though the doubts ate at his core, the future was all too visible now – it was his: the world was his.

The grandiosity of it all was almost intoxicating. He allowed himself a laugh.

“Gander,” He sported a genuine smile. “I’ve been saved. We were destined to save Equestria.”

Confusion, sputtering, into a beaming smile. The blossom of emotion, all dawning upon Gander. “W-what?” He laughed.

“I… I mean it. It’s so clear,” he added. “I knew it before, I just… I couldn’t say it.”

But there was still more to say. He knew it. His turn again.

"I love you." The words just poured out naturally. It just felt right. 

There was the briefest moment of horror as Light realised what he said.

But it dawned on Gander’s face, clear as day, eyes lighting up like the first crack of dawn. He seemed to finally realise the gravity of what he was saying. Light expected it back; he expected a smile, an ‘I love you’. Gander seemed taken aback, stuttering back a little less assuredly. In the end, he wasn’t one for words; his embrace returned, and there the two lay.

Lovers. For the briefest of moments, there was nothing else. Just warmth.

A world, falling into love, forever and ever. Love only he could bring. That was what he was going to bring; that was what had eluded him all this time.

His heart fluttered and hammered, like the strongest of rushes. Something still ate at him, something broken in this moment within. Fear, maybe. Of loss, perhaps. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was cruel – something he shouldn't be messing around with – the worst of mockeries.

“Stars,” giggled Gander, squeezing him. “Pulled this shit and then you tell me you love me. Really wanted to take me on a rollercoaster today, didn’t you?”

Light permitted himself just a little laugh. “Well, aren’t you gonna say it back?”

“Of course I am, dunce. I’ve loved you for bucking years.” He nuzzled against him, shuffling around in his arms into a more comfy spot. “And at least two of them I’d been meaning to say it for. You’re a damn difficult pony to find the right time for, you know that?”

He felt the head of the pony he had just confessed his love to rest against his shoulder, their hearts intertwined. Gander sighed contently, some big dumb grin on his face. 

It was all unfamiliar. A longing feeling gnawed at his brain, almost a pensiveness. A realisation: this could have saved him before, but it didn’t. It had waited until its time, the hand of destiny had, maybe, guided him.

The world of the lover. The Worms were the cruellest of enforcers, but their will was love.

Not his utopia; their utopia.

A hoof brushed his cheek, bringing an unfamiliar sensation to his body. Tenderness, care. The love of a pony, love that he could never give himself. This was what he deserved.

But he hadn’t a gesture to return. He had a plan.