Equestrylvania

by Brony_Fife


Demon Seed, Part IV

Demon Seed, Part IV


She hoped she’d buried it. Buried her pain. Buried her loss. She thought she’d buried it deep, simply leaving that cemetery where her parents were laid to rest, head held high, proud to be an Apple. Proud of her heritage, proud of her farm, proud of her remaining family—just like Ma and Pa had told her to. She should feel proud that she is a part of their family.

But there’s no pride when your livelihood is nearly destroyed. No pride when your family is left without a home to retire to after a hard day’s work. No pride when you learn your father’s body had been used as a plaything. No pride when the children of your hometown are dying.

When Applejack was told her father was a killer, or his body at least used as a killing machine, she felt no pride. There was shock. Sadness. But all that has now melted away. Her cheerless shell has disintegrated, leaving behind a furious core. Her hooves almost stomp the linoleum floor as she makes her way to the hospital’s western entrance. It doesn’t take her any fancy mathematics to figure out they’d be headed for the closest exit.

Big Macintosh walks diffidently beside his sister, unsure of what will happen next. If Applejack sees Marble again, he gets the feeling she won’t stop at just staring her down.

But what to say? When Applejack gets into a passion—when she gets caught up in all her anger—she becomes a terrifying force. Much like their grandmother, actually. It’s the reason he became more and more silent as he grew older: fewer words meant fewer arguments meant fewer headaches.

Through another door. Past more ponies. Many simply get out of the way as Applejack draws near, as if they can feel the seething rage that rolls off her like steam off hot metal. After they enter an empty hallway, Big Macintosh decides to speak. “Hope ya don’t, uh… plan on doin’ nothin’ dang’rous.”

“Ah hope she don’t plan on leavin’ alive,” Applejack growls. Her words are quiet but focused, like a wolf out on the prowl.

Big Macintosh clicks his tongue, gathering his frantic thoughts back into coherence. “AJ, Ah know you loved Pa. Ah loved him too.”

“Stop talkin’.”

“No. Y’need to listen’a me.”

“Ah’ve heard enough.”

Applejack finds her path blocked by Big Macintosh, his green eyes descending angrily to her. “Applejack, you shut up an’ listen’a me fer once in yer life,” he says in tranquil anger. Suddenly, the lupine fury backing Applejack dissipates, the siblings’ current roles of hunter and conscience made more explicit.

“Ah unnerstan’ yer angry,” he says, again in subdued power. “Ah unnerstan’ how much you wanna hurt Marble fer what she’n hers have done to us’n ours. She hurt me too. You only met her recently, but up until close to an hour or so ago, she was nothin’ but a friend to me.”

“…So what’re you sayin’? Not to kill her?”

Listen to yerself! ‘Kill’? We talkin’ about killin’ another pony?!”

“Killin’ another pony who poisoned a buncha kids!” Without thinking about it, Applejack punches Big Macintosh’s foreleg, not breaking eye contact. “Buck yes, Ah’m talkin’ bout killin’ another pony!”

The moment “pony” comes out of Applejack’s mouth, Big Macintosh lifts her up with his mighty forelegs. She gasps as he lifts her effortlessly into the air while his face more strongly displays his previously subtle anger. Her insides shake as he puts her up against a wall. “Didja ferget th’ part where we cain’t do that?! Or are you juss so incensed because Marble hurt us that you cain’t think straight?! LISSEN TO YERSELF!

The hallway rings with his last exclamation. Applejack has never heard this much volume out of her older brother before, never heard him this angry. Their green eyes meet, hers in terror, his in growing worry. “Our father. Is not. A killer,” he rumbles.

A pause. Applejack is then drawn into a tight hug. “And… an’ neither are you,” he whispers. Hot tears roll down her face as she returns her brother’s hug.

Applejack’s mind, the anger that clouded it finally waved away, conducts a self-analysis. What was she really about to do? What would that accomplish?

Worse yet, what would killing another pony make her?

A split-second image crosses her mind. That Man. That Man she found in her orchard. She smashed his dog, pounded it underhoof into mush, then set him on fire. It happened so fast… She didn’t stick around long enough afterward to see if he’d survived, but there was slim chance he did. He was sentient, like her, not like the mindless animals that attacked Ponyville.

And she killed him. She hadn’t given it too much thought before. She’d pushed it out of her mind when it dared to surface. But now, in this quiet moment of introspection…

…she realizes, to her horror, that her brother might be wrong.

Should she apologize? Should she explain? Before Applejack can do anything of the sort, a loud “pop” is heard, causing the two siblings to jump. Looking aside, they see Aeon, rubbing his neck with a hoof. “I dislike decapitations,” he mumbles. “Always a pain in the neck, if you may pardon the pun.”

Applejack raises an eyebrow. Aeon looks to the two siblings, still drawn tightly together. “…Where is Twilight?”

“Ah imagine she’s gittin’ closer to the exit, at least,” says Applejack as she pulls away from her brother.

Aeon pulls out the red jewel from his coat and looks it over with an unsatisfied scowl. He groans and puts it away, mumbling about how his devices don’t seem to work correctly anymore. He looks back up to the two siblings and is greeted with their perplexed faces.

“Never mind,” Aeon sighs quietly. “I’ll explain that later. Fill me in on the situation, please.”

As Applejack does so, they all move as a group, quickly making their way to the nearest exit.


Twilight Sparkle’s plan is about to see its fruit bear. Coming up is a door. Perhaps as a way to feign annoyance, she could use her telekinesis to open it. That might give her enough time…

But before she can figure out anything more, Marble starts talking again. Her words disgust Twilight, her sentences all cruelly mocking Twilight’s friends. In her blood she feels bubbles burst, sparks flying in her mind. She clenches her teeth as Marble makes inappropriate statements regarding Shatterstorm.

“Why, the poor dear!” she giggles. “The way he struggled was adorable, but in the end, his mother truly taught him well.” Perhaps it’s the delivery Twilight hates so much. Instead of saying anything menacingly or sinisterly, Marble’s words come out casually—like she’s just inviting everypony to a picnic.

Marble giggles. “He understands the concept of dominance, didn’t you know? He knows where his place is, and he hates it.”

“His place is above you with his hoof on your head,” Twilight snarks.

Marble ignores her disinclined companion’s criticism. “Motherhood places dominance right there in your hooves. You’ll understand once you become a mother yourself, little sorceress.” Her eyes become wistful. “The feeling of control you get over the life of someone else… Every decision you make affecting the life of someone so much smaller and weaker than you are…” An eerie smile dances across her lips.

Twilight raises an eyebrow. She might question what kind of stallion would ever want to father the foals of such a twisted mare… but if Marble's recent activity is anything to go by, she might not have had the poor soul’s permission. She bites her lower lip as they near the next door.

“You know, even now I sometimes genuinely miss my little girl,” Marble chirps. There’s a sense of lost nostalgia to her voice. “But then I look into the mirror each morning… and I realize my youth was worth trading her for.”

The last statement draws a menacing scowl out of Twilight. She could feel the final strings of her patience begin to snap. Just as she’s about to waylay into this contemptible monster, Twilight hears Shatterstorm pipe up.

“I’m sure your little girl appreciates how highly you think of her.”

His voice is sharp and cold, each word coming out more like a bite. Looking back, Twilight can see the hostility growing in his eyes. Behind him come Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie, not appearing any friendlier than he does. There is little to restrain them should tempers fly or patience snap. Marble sneers at them, daring them to attack.

Once again with the teasing. Twilight opens her mouth to say someth

suddenly Pinkie Pie dashes past Shatterstorm, nearly knocking him over, and lunges at Marble. Twilight realizes only now that out of all her friends, Pinkie is the only one still unaware of the Painshare spell cast on the cure. Her eyes widen as this pink blur tackles Marble, pinning her to the floor.

A pink hoof is raised. “Not funny,” growls Pinkie as her mane deflates and tears streak down her face. Just as the hoof is about to smash into Marble’s already-scarred face, a magenta glow surrounds Pinkie, lifting her into the air.

“Pin—Pinkie Pie, STOP!” cries Twilight. She holds her friend in the air, silence descending like a curtain after a particularly shocking end to a play’s second act. It’s a few seconds before Twilight realizes she isn’t breathing, and inhales deeply, releasing a worried sigh.

Marble gets back up and dusts herself off. She looks to Rainbow Dash and Shatterstorm, then to Pinkie Pie, still suspended in midair. She giggles confidently as she walks down the hallway unperturbed, as if nothing had happened at all. After a few tense moments, Twilight clenches her teeth, screws her eyes shut, and sets Pinkie Pie back down gently. The moment the magenta glow fades, Pinkie looks to Twilight, betrayed.

“What are you doing?!” Pinkie Pie hisses. Her voice sounds flat, her tone a coiled viper poised and ready to strike.

“Preventing you from making a huge mistake,” Twilight whispers.

“She poisoned those kids,” Pinkie replied, closing in dangerously on her friend. “She—poisoned—them. When I dropped off Scootaloo with the Cakes, you know where they were? They were outside an emergency room.” She stops in front of Twilight, the tears of rage from before continuing to run down her face.

“The twins. She poisoned the twins. She poisoned the most innocent ponies I’ve ever known.” Her lips curve into a grimacing scowl, her next words coming out at a menacingly slow pace and chilling volume. “And you are protecting her. I want. To know. Why.

Twilight purses her lips as she feels her stomach drop. “Pinkie… she holds the cure,” she explains. “She cast a Painshare spell on it. Anything done to her will destroy the cure. If you want to protect the twins, and all the other foals she’s poisoned, we need to not harm Marble, as much as all of us want to.”

Pinkie looks past Twilight, at the white mare now at the end of this hall. Marble looks back with a charming smile that Pinkie can imagine seeing on a billboard advertising toothpaste. She catches a glimpse of what she despises so much about this mare: nopony that evil deserves to look so happy.

Twilight walks away as her horn stops glowing. “Come on,” she sighs, deflated.


The Chronomage comes to the decision that the world is so much more beautiful when it’s stopped. Or rather, when it’s on fire. Or rather rather, when the stopped world is set on fire. Or rather rather rather, when the world is set on fire, and then stopped. He likes his preferences with as many rathers as possible.

As he prances through Ponyville, he wishes he had more time to just explore the place. Maybe that's the one thing he dislikes most about this campaign of conquest he and his fellows were on: that they never stay long enough to bask in the glow of the damage they’d done. It's like the artists are giving away their masterpieces without really drinking in the beauty of their own work.

Perhaps he needs a tour guide. In his own imagination, she’d look to be in her twenties, with a ridiculous overbite, and wearing a giant teacup on her head. Ooh, and frizzy hair—like the Pink Paroo. Can’t forget that. And she speaks in a whiny lisp, often beginning her sentences like a train straining to come to life.

An—An—And over there, to your right, is a house that was once filled by a family of four. The father was a splendiferous businessman (pony?) who often cheated on the missus with his secretary. Th-The-Then their house was torn apart by the fleamen, who gleefully chobbled their babies. Ov—Over there, to your left, is a carriage, overturned, and smootered in blood. Whoever was riding in it evidently did not get the chance to escape.

And here, on the street just underneath him, the Chronomage notices a long black streak. It feels oily under his cloven feet, sticking to them as he lifts a leg. It’s almost like tar on charred earth. Odoramous! Grotusquerating! Blech!

He raises an eyebrow. The way the streak is shaped seems vaguely equine—well, an equine body stretched and crushed, but an equine body nonetheless. The Chronomage cleans his monocle and observes a little more closely. Isn’t this the spot where…?

He smiles as it dawns on him. Ah, yes, this is where that new recruit met his untimely end. Granted, Actrise had even told him that this fellow (Dirt Nap, was it?) wasn’t all that bright, and she didn’t keep her hopes up in terms of his chances of success. He did however cause enough chaos for Dracula’s minions to take advantage of, inviting them further into this positively perky pony principality.

The Chronomage takes off his top hat and bows low towards the streak, while singing a merry song.

Brother Dirt Nap, Brother Dirt Nap
Brother Dirt Nap, goodnight!
You were a real gritch, who once loved a witch,
And look at you now! Ain’t YOU a sight?

He stands back and places his top hat back on his head, then assumes “The Position.” A golden arch descends upon Dirt Nap’s remains. “Goodbye, Brother Dirt Nap, Goodbye!” he cackles.

Just as he finishes, the Chronomage feels something—something so strong, it almost makes him yelp. In all his wordplay and portmanteaus, he is unable to think of a way to describe it. It feels like he was yanked out from his mother’s womb prematurely. It feels like he was cut away from someplace warm and left in the cold.

He falls to his knees, suppressing a scream. Before now, the Chronomage never knew he could feel something so awful. At this moment, he understands exactly how it feels to be lonely. He feels stranded. Forlorn. Cold. With his red eyes bulging from their sockets, the Chronomage looks toward his lord’s castle…

…and feels… nothing.

He begins to breathe hard, a cold sweat soaking his fur. Struggling to his feet, the Chronomage forsakes his previous plot to attack Aeon’s new friends and darts off to where Actrise said to meet him. He’d be prematuearly, of course, but this is an urgent and distressing matter.


There they wait, by the door, for the others. Even Fluttershy has found her way here before Marble and her reluctant entourage. The lobby here has been deserted, Aeon ushering out anypony remaining, giving them a short (and false) explanation as to why.

Applejack shifts her weight from one side to the other. Blinks. Sniffs. Takes a deep breath to keep a calm mind.

It’s strange that they would be taking this long. Applejack theorizes that Marble, schemer she is, has simply opted for the scenic route. Take her time in tormenting her friends. The thought makes Applejack frown. Her teeth clench. Again, she feels that righteous indignation, that fury from before, snaking across her back, coiling around every muscle and sinking its fangs into every artery.

A gentle touch from her brother sends all of it out, almost at once. Another deep breath. Keep a calm mind, Applejack thinks to herself. She leans against her brother and shudders. He leans his face in and gives her a supportive nuzzle. For all his taciturnity, Big Macintosh always knows the right thing to say—his comforting sentences written by his gentle actions.

She glances aside. Fluttershy holds her crucifix close with one hoof, the other three shivering as if submerged in ice water. Aeon cleans his monocle, evidently just as anxious as the rest of the group. “Do we have a plan?” he asks.

“We wait,” Applejack replies, her eyes turning back to the lobby in front of them.

“So… w-we’re just… going to do nothing?” asks Fluttershy.

“Well, what can we do?” Applejack asks in a more clipped tone than she intends. She calms herself again, bringing her voice down to a more-controlled level. “Sugarcube, she’s got us up ag’inst a wall. We cain’t do nothin’ but wait.”

She blinks, her attention suddenly given to Aeon. She realizes something she hadn't before—something she should have realized all along in this bizarre and terrifying situation. “Aeon,” she says, “wait, Aeon, you're a time traveler, right? Why not juss go back in time an’ try ta rearrange all this? Make sure it don’t happen?”

Aeon looks at her for with that kind of face a parent makes when they must explain the concept of death to their children. “I’m afraid there’s… only so much I can do,” he says before his eyes dart away, defeated.

You're a time traveler!” Applejack says, adding a stomp. “You. Travel. Through. Time. So go back in time an’ stop this Marble bitch from—”

It's not that simple!” Aeon yells over Applejack. His sudden force of emotion blows back his three friends. He groans, pulling out his stopwatch. “Do you see this?”

“…Yeah?”

He pulls out the red crystal. “And this?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this is all I have.” He puts the objects away. “As I recall, you were the ones who gave me the title of ‘time traveler.’ I am afraid that, despite the flattering moniker you have admonished me with, such a title is a misnomer.”

“A misn…?” Applejack scrutinizes Aeon. “Whaddaya mean? You cain’t juss travel through time?”

Aeon sighs through his nose. “…No. No, I cannot.” A frustrated frown stretches his face as he crushes his eyes shut. He shakes his head. “Not anymore. I can teleport, I can freeze time. With some effort I can even undo wounds. But that is the extent of my current abil—”

Suddenly, Aeon feels a hard hoof across his face. It’s there for only half a second, sending his monocle to the ground, where it lands with a crack. He loses feeling in his legs and falls aside, landing on Fluttershy. She squeaks as she holds him back up.

“You liar!” Applejack roars as Big Macintosh holds her at bay. “You—You li’l snake! Ah thought you could help us but here you are, tellin' us you cain't?!” Aeon looks up at her in shock, his vision swimming from Applejack’s punch. He hears her spit, and feels something thick and wet strike his forehead.

“Applejack, what do you think you’re doing?!” Fluttershy yells as she wipes Aeon’s face. “Please don’t be mad," she quickly whispers to him, "she didn’t mean it." She turns her attention back to Applejack. “Why did you do that? What is wrong with you?!”

“Whuss wrong with ME?!” Applejack snarls. “How ’bout all this time, he’s been totally useless! Havin’ Twilight do the work he oughta be doin’ or at least helpin’ out with! Not bein’ on guard ag’inst enemies he knows are dang’rous! Instead he’s juss draggin’ his hooves—lollygaggin’ while wedo all the work against an enemy we barely know anything about!”

The lobby falls dead silent. All ponies present stare at one another for a few tense seconds. Applejack pulls herself out of her brother’s grip, Big Macintosh letting go without argument. Fluttershy looks down at a dispirited Aeon, who uses his telekinesis to retrieve his cracked monocle. After it is put in its rightful place, he drags himself back up to his feet.

That Look is back in him, Fluttershy notices. That Look in which pieces of him are missing, where tender wounds are left open to the harsh elements. That he hadn’t even bothered to argue with Applejack’s assessment of his lackluster involvement clinched it. She can’t believe she hadn’t figured it out before, when she observed him while he stared out at the shattered remains of Ponyville.

He blames himself for all this. Any good he ever tried to do, was done for nothing. Even trying to stay out of these unfolding events seemed to make things go wrong for everypony involved. Fluttershy reaches for something to say, to ease their situation. But just as she opens her mouth, somepony from down the corridor calls out to them.

“Ah! The little thief! The beastmistress! So good to see you!” says a familiar, patronizing queenly voice.

All heads snap to attention. Marble trots casually into the lobby, flanked by their friends. The way this group moves reminds Applejack of how the villain in a gangster movie would enter a scene—his goons surrounding him, backing him up as he makes an offer the protagonists can’t refuse.

The looks on the faces of Marble’s escorts speak volumes for what she has put them through. Applejack takes note of the awkward glances Rainbow Dash gives Shatterstorm—and particularly of the uncharacteristically grim scowl, flat mane, and washed-out coloring that makes Pinkie Pie look like a serial killer.

Marble’s magenta eyes go from Applejack, to Big Macintosh, to Fluttershy (who cowers, clutching her crucifix), and finally to Aeon. “I see the Chronomage was unable to keep you busy for long, time traveler. I do hope the two of you played nice.”

Aeon clicks his tongue and nods in her direction. “Actrise,” he greets maliciously.

Actrise returns his nod. “If you’re expecting me to call you by name, I’m afraid you have done naught to earn such privilege,” she says evenly. “Just as you’ve done naught to stop my Lord’s designs.” Her eyes brighten. “Oh! That reminds me, how is Janine? I don’t suppose you reached her in time?” As Aeon clenches his teeth, Actrise gasps and puts a hoof over her mouth as she giggles girlishly at her pun. “See what I did there?”

Aeon groans. “Yes, I see what you did there,” he growls through clenched teeth.

Shatterstorm snorts. “Hey, we’re here, lady,” he says, attempting to keep the situation from veering off-course. “We kept up our end of the bargain.” He looks to her cross-shaped burn. “Mostly,” he adds with a contented smirk. It disappears the moment her horn begins to glow. Actrise chuckles, satisfied with how cowed Shatterstorm is.

The doors open, spilling the entrance with the burning orange of the setting sun. “Well,” says Actrise as she walks toward the entrance. “As much fun as I’ve had with the lot of you, the little soldier is right. It is time I pay my end of the bargain.”

She turns and lifts out of her saddlebag, the cure. Its bottle still possesses the same intimidating crack, but it is otherwise unchanged. “The cure is yours,” Actrise says.

It floats over, slowly, to the group. Just as Twilight makes a grab for it, it vanishes with a jarring crack. All present hold a collective gasp of shock and look to Actrise as she herself vanishes. “If you can find it!” she cackles, disappearing into nothing.

The group panics: directions shouted to each other, blame being thrown about, hooves being pointed, screams of frustration.

All but Twilight.

Instead, a subtly vexed frown forms on her lips. The exact same tactic Twilight performed on Dirt Nap, thrown right back at her. This one—Marble, or Actrise, or whatever her name is right now—this one is good. Real good.

But not good enough.

Twilight speaks. “Applejack, check under your hat.”

Everypony quiets. Applejack does as Twilight commands, her Stetson pulled from her blonde head. Like a pile of gold in a dark cave, the cure twinkles back at any who look inside. A clenched scowl and bulging eyes are carved into Applejack’s face with the kind of precision only pure anger has the artistic talent for.


The “burning” orange fades into a “burnt” purple as the evening is scorched into night. On a hilltop, the Chronomage walks around a tree in circles. (The same way a madman paces his cell, he supposes, but then again, aren’t we all madmen?) The ground around the tree has been reduced to dirt by the time she finally appears.

“Actrise!” he calls. As per her orders, he reaches into the hole in the tree trunk and retrieves her personal effects. The staff, the dress, the… other things the Chronomage would rather not touch. After all, a woman’s things are meant to be handled with utmost care—especially Actrise’s, unless you wish to meet a creatively unpleasant death.

The pure white mare approaches the Chronomage with a bizarre, almost painful gait. She spasms a bit before falling to all four knees. A raspy cough escapes her lips, along with a shower of spittle. The Chronomage, carrying Actrise’s possessions, walks toward her. “Actrise, there’s a bit of a problemma I think we need to discuss.”

“We don’t have much time before they put their forcefield back up,” she interrupts, the queenly voice coming out as a croak. “We’ll need to do this quickly. Whatever you have to say can wait.”

The Chronomage shrugs. She’s right, but she’ll regret it in a moment.

The white mare opens her mouth, slowly at first. Small, bonewhite fingers stretch out of her mouth as she convulses, her magenta eyes beginning to produce tears. A slow, agonized gluck… gluck… gluck escapes the mare as the bonewhite fingers force her mouth open wider and the fingers become hands… then arms… then finally, Actrise.

The witch crawls out of her host like a snake shedding old skin. Despite not initially attempting to draw out her host’s unpleasant fate, she finds Marble’s discomfort appealing. Actrise has had this exact hosting ritual performed upon her as well, long ago when she first became a witch. She remembers that feeling of bugs crawling in your stomach, elephants stomping on your spine, lions roaring in your ears. How badly she burned and how cold she felt. As she exits her host, Actrise decides to go a little more slowly, draw out Marble’s pain. Despite being short on time, she decides that there’s always enough for casual torment.

Finally, she’s out. Marble falls on her side, doing her best to contain her sobs, feeling cold and violated. Actrise takes her clothing from the Chronomage and begins to dress. She clothes herself surprisingly fast (the Chronomage suspects she even uses her black magic for more mundane uses like getting dressed), all the while watching the little whore shiver. Finally, Marble vomits with an awful noise, and begins to cry.

“This is all your fault, you know,” Actrise whispers as she crowns herself with her wide-brimmed hat. “You were the one who decided to try backing out.” Marble looks up to Actrise, her magenta eyes wide with horror and shame. The tears continue to trickle down her face.

Actrise leans in close to Marble, so close she can smell the vomit on the stupid mare’s mouth. “You. Do not. Tell. Me. No.” A few seconds of hanging there, and Actrise stands back up again. She digs around in one of her coat’s pockets. “You could have avoided all that unpleasantness by simply following orders instead of forcing my hand.”

Actrise pulls a small red seed from her pocket. She looks to Marble with a subtly menacing smile. Marble begins breathing harder. Her regal voice has been reduced to a childish whimper. “B-Buh-But you, y-you as-as-s-wuh-wanted me t-to…”

“And you did not comply then. So I made you do it. Or rather, I used you to do it.” Actrise fiddles with the seed, flipping it between her fingers absent-mindedly. The Chronomage merely leans against the tree now, letting his boss lay the groundworks for her next plan. His jittery movements betray his worry—not that Actrise notices.

Marble looks away and begins to cry again. Actrise stops fiddling with the seed, using her free hand to slap the crying mare, hard, on her recent burn-scar. She emits a cry that’s between a yelp and a sob.“Don’t even start that with me!” Actrise growls, “You asked us to protect him, and we will.” She traces a finger down Marble’ face, stopping at her trembling lips. “But if your disobedience persists, I will personally seek that little cripple and I will finish what fate began.

Leaning in close again, Actrise runs her free hand on Marble’s face. Her slim, cold fingers feel soothing against the sting of her cross-shaped scar. Marble gulps, holding her tears at bay. “Will you refuse me again?” Actrise asks, quietly.

“N-No.”

“Then take this seed. Take it, and swallow.”

She presses the red seed against Marble’s trembling lips. The helpless mare, too terrified to disobey, parts her lips and allows Actrise to push the seed into her mouth. Without chewing, Marble swallows. She feels the seed enter her stomach—it’s a feeling like being invaded. No different from how Actrise “possessed” her before.

Actrise strokes Marble behind the ear condescendingly. “Good girl.” Finally, Actrise stands back up, putting her hand out to the cane she left leaning against a nearby stone. It obeys her wordless command, floating across the ground and into her open hand. As Actrise picks up the saddlebag containing Dracula’s rib, the Chronomage stops leaning on the tree and comes forth. Before the two leave, Actrise turns to Marble.

“And remember. If you tell anyone—the little sorceress, the time traveler, the large stallion, your pretty little boyfriend…” She smiles. “He dies. I’ll see to it that his fate is as slow and painful as possible.”

A pause. Marble looks away. When she looks back, the two have gone. Disappeared, like always. She sighs, feeling the seed in her gut continue to invade her. Devour her. At a loss for anything else to do, Marble curls into a ball on the ground and begins to sob.


Night peeks through the window, the waxing moonlight catching a glimpse of the Arcane Aura Analyzer and its broken dome. The foal Actrise brought in before now sleeps peacefully in another room, Spike the only current occupant. He hears the quiet sound of the door opening and closing behind him. Spike turns around and is greeted by Twilight Sparkle, who quickly closes the distance between them.

Without so much as a word, Twilight wraps her tired forelegs around Spike. His little claws pat her back understandingly, hesitating when he hears her sniff and feels her shudder.

It’s all behind them now. At least, this wretched little venture. Aeon had called her “Actrise” while Big Macintosh had called her “Marble”, but at Aeon’s insistence, it seems Actrise is her real name. He’d told her that Actrise is a former theatre actress who had sold her daughter’s soul to Dracula in order to become an immortal witch. Now that she has a better idea of who she’s up against, Twilight does not feel relieved—merely unnerved.

Dracula has gathered many of the most evil and cruel creatures to his cause. To think he has others like her—willing to trade their own children for such selfish goals. How could anyone do such a thing? Twilight feels the weight and warmth of Spike pressed against her, and her hug tightens.

A tear rolls down Twilight’s face as she recalls Actrise’s exact words regarding her daughter. She sniffs it away as she hears a knock at the door.

“Come in,” says Twilight as she pulls away from Spike, steeling herself. The door opens, and in walks Applejack. She closes the door behind her, and meets Twilight’s eyes.

Silence.

“…Hey,” says Applejack finally, her tone sullen.

Twilight nods back weakly, not offering a verbal response. After a pause, Twilight is swept into a hug. “’Sarright, sugarcube,” whispers Applejack. “We all took a walk through Tartarus today. We were all hurt by this.”

“Did the cure work? Are the kids OK?”

Applejack pulls away from her friend. “They’re gonna be arright. I talked to the directors, they said the cure’s positive. The foals are all still unconscious, but they’re in the clear.” She smiles reassuringly. "Mission accomplished."

Twilight purses her lips in thought. Strangely, that it had been teleported hadn’t ruined the cure in the slightest. The fact Actrise was able to perform such an act of magic so perfectly on something so delicate and unstable spoke loudly of the extent of her magical skill. As if Twilight didn’t have enough reason to consider Actrise a terrifying foe…

Applejack looks into Twilight’s eyes. Then her own dart about before coming back to her. “Twi, Ah think we need to talk about Aeon. Ah don’t trust ‘im. He’s been keepin’ secrets.”

Her words catch Twilight off-guard. “Secrets?” she says, an eyebrow raised.

“He ain’t a time traveler, fer starters.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sugarcube,” Applejack says, putting a foreleg around Twilight. “Ah unnerstan’ Aeon’s the only one out of all of us who has a grasp on what’s really goin’ on. But Ah don’t think he’s been all that straight with us.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “What else does he know that he ain’t tellin’ us?”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Twilight says. “We’re almost complete strangers to him; it’s going to be difficult for him to open up to us. I know how that is.”

Applejack facehoofs. “This is differ’nt from when we met you! We’re his allies and this is a war we’re fightin’, Twi! He’s got no reason t’keep secrets! The things we don't know could get us all killed!

A pause. “I can’t argue with you there,” says Twilight. “But Pinkie Pie trusts him. He knew the zombie attack would happen, so he gave her the Magic Cross that saved Fluttershy, and by that extent, the rest of us.” She puts a reassuring hoof on Applejack’s withers. “So we’ll have to trust him, at least for now. We have to believe that he’s on our side. I’ll talk to him regarding what exactly he’s capable of, but that’s all I can promise.”

Applejack looks away and scoffs in disbelief. Twilight almost never brushes off her advice so readily. She takes the word of an “almost complete stranger” over hers? What gives?

Suddenly, the door slams open. All eyes flock to the door and are met by a livid Rarity. Teeth clenched and nostrils flared, she wastes no time in stomping into the room. “WHERE IS SHE?!” she roars. “I’LL DESTROY HER!

“Where’s who?” asks Spike.

Rarity snorts. “This Marble character! Or Actrise, or whatever her name is! The creature responsible for poisoning Sweetie Belle! When I find her, there won’t be enough of her left to FILL A THIMBLE!” She compounds her threat with the shake of a hoof.

Silence. Then, finally, Twilight smiles. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I already have her right where I want her.”

All friends present raise their eyebrows. “What?” asks Spike.

Twilight almost laughs. “OK, first, let me apologize for not telling anypony. If any of you knew about my plan at the time it happened, I don’t know if you could have behaved in a way that would be believable.” Her smile broadens. “Would you kindly gather everypony? I think all of you deserve an explanation.”


Night falls by the time Actrise and the Chronomage exit Ponyville. The forcefield comes up almost on cue, cascading across Ponyville like a white sentinel wave, coming to a definite domelike shape all around the town’s limits. Actrise marvels at its beauty—it’s like looking at a giant snowglobe.

“Now then,” Actrise says to the Chronomage. “Tell me, what was this important thing you needed to discuss?”

“I take it you now prossess Dracula’s rib?” asks the Chronomage.

From the saddlebag she had taken off Marble, Actrise produces the very body part he asks. “You and your odd language,” she chides. “Of course I have it—that was my whole plan.”

“May I see it over a moment?”

Actrise raises an eyebrow. “What are you playing at, rabbit?”

“You mean you didn’t feel it?”

“Feel what?”

Suddenly, the rib pops out of existence, right out of Actrise’s hand. She gasps, then glowers at the Chronomage. He holds up his gnarled hands defensively. “Don’t worry, I just transfooted it to one of my many time-fittered pocket dimensions,” he says. “But now I must ask you, what do you feel?”

“I don’t feel…” Then it hits her. It’s like a wave of ice cold water splashing at her back. An intense loneliness opens up inside her, leaving a gaping emptiness. She gasps and covers her mouth in shock. “I don’t feel anything!

Actrise looks in the direction of her master’s castle, sitting upon the mountain. Still, she feels cold. She feels…

…cut off.

She feels cut off from her master’s influence. They always possessed a bond with Dracula and his black magic, to the point in which collecting their master’s pieces was a simple enough challenge. His loyal minions all have vague psychic implications of where he is—where his influence is strongest. While they can’t pinpoint the pieces’ locations exactly, they always have a general indication of where to find them.

Now, there was zero influence in every direction. Actrise feels adrift at a vast ocean of void.

But if she can’t feel his influence, and neither can the Chronomage

Suddenly, she lifts the Chronomage up by his shirt collar. “Tell me! Does Death know about this?” Her voice is rife with more panic than she intends.

The white rabbit’s red eyes flick behind her. “He... doesn’t look like he does.”

Actrise’s eyes widen and her jaw goes slack. Slowly, she releases her grip on the Chronomage, gently setting him back down on the ground. She takes a deep breath, steels herself, and turns around.

Sure enough, behind her is Death, his dark cloak trailing behind him, his long and skinny arms dangling at his sides as if broken. She sees his red eyes glow like hot coals in dark caves. His warped skeleton face begins to suddenly distort and squirm, changing its geography and construction in spasms. He only ever did that when he was truly, honestly angry.

“Give me the rib,” Actrise whispers to the Chronomage as she continues to meet Death’s gaze. He nods and does as commanded, the rib popping back into her hand. Death draws near, his eldritch form silently gliding across the ground. A bed of white roses wither and die as he drifts by them.

Finally, he comes to a stop in front of Actrise and her cohort, his red eyes boring angrily into hers. Actrise had never felt scared of Death, not even the first time they’d met when she was just a little child. She always figured herself a courageous woman because of this accomplishment.

But right at this moment, she begins to understand what it means to be on the business end of Death’s ire. Many a man, woman, child, and beast had seen this side of Death’s personality—usually but for a second, and then nothing else afterward. Actrise is not ready to become one of Death’s many voices.

In a bid to quell Death’s anger, Actrise holds out the rib to him, hoping she doesn’t look nearly as terrified as she feels. “Our mission turned out to be a success,” she says cheerfully. “The little sorceress and her entourage were no match for my skillful planning.”

A few rather awkward seconds pass. Actrise holds her confident smirk, attempting to play dumb. She feels her master’s power within the rib, throbbing and powerful. She holds onto the hope that Death would buy the idea that because she’s so close to the rib, she doesn’t have a clue that their master’s influence was suddenly muted. Death’s eyes go from hers to the Chronomage’s.

The Chronomage checks his pocketwatch. “Dear me! Is that the time?” He claps it shut and turns around to leave. “Well, if that’s everything you need, Actrise, I’ll be—” He is cut off by Actrise suddenly grabbing his shirt collar, keeping him in place.

Death’s eyes again meet Actrise’s. Still nothing is said. Finally, Actrise feigns more ignorance. “Is… something wrong, my lord?”

“You know,” he says, the words slithering out of his mouth in a cold fog. With only two words, Death strikes an insurmountable, palpable fear through Actrise’s spine. She begins to shiver.

“I-I’m not sure I know what you mean, my lo—urk!

All the feeling leaves her body as a hand, cold and dead, wraps around her throat and lifts her off her feet. Those red-hot eyes intensify as Death’s face begins to distort again. “Do you perceive me a fool, Actrise?” his many voices simultaneously ask calmly. “All of Dracula’s minions are suddenly disconnected from his influence at exactly the same time. Imagine our collected shock when we learned that this disconnect occurred almost precisely when you carried out your little scheme.”

Actrise’s hands scramble about, trying to loosen Death’s titan grip. She feels it slacken, likely intentionally giving her time to respond. “Th-This isn’t my fault!” she gasps quickly.

“Then whose is it?” Death asks, giving Actrise a quick shake, her body spasming about like a ragdoll. “How did this happen?

It’s a good question. How on earth could this have happened? Is it even related to her scheme?

An image pops into Actrise’s head, suddenly. A lavender unicorn horn that glowed as it held an angered pink pony in place.

The horn only glows when its unicorn uses magic.

“The… the little sorceress,” she gasps as she fights for air. Meanwhile, the Chronomage picks at a nearby rock, hoping that all this will be over very soon.

Death shakes her again. “You mean the little sorceress you assured me would not be an issue for you?”

“You’re the one… that told me she was nothing… to worry about,” pleads Actrise. “If… If anyone was assured she wasn’t a problem, it was me.”

Death thinks this over, remembering their conversation in the little thief’s orchard. His red eyes dart about in thought. They meet Actrise again. They look straight into her eyes, and see the craven animal she is. “Are you blaming me?” he says slowly, his sentence coming out as a threat.

“N-Not at all,” Actrise lies. “It was lack of preparation and an underestimation of our enemies.” She feels his grip slacken a little more. She gulps in air greedily. “We couldn’t have known she’d be able to cast such a spell.”

Silence. “Either way, you successfully acquired for us our Master's rib,” Death says, his rank, cold breath washing over Actrise’s face, filling her nostrils. He holds it up and looks it over. “So you avoid my judgment… for now.

At last, Death releases his grip on Actrise, who lands on the ground with an uncharacteristic yelp. The rib is put into the blackness of his robe. Actrise takes in deep breaths. Sweet, sweet air filling her lungs. The world around them coming back into focus. She looks around her, finds her hat. Takes it and puts it back on her head. She looks back up to see Death’s angry red gaze. A long, white finger is pointed at her.

“If you recall our conversation in that orchard, I believe I told you that if our little sorceress became more than a nuisance to us, that I wanted you to eviscerate her.” Actrise holds her breath, for the first time in her life afraid of Death. He leans down closer to her. Actrise is afraid, finally afraid of him after all these years. Finally reminded of her place beneath him. “This will be your new mission,” he says slowly. “Find the little sorceress. And kill her. Bring her mark to me.”

They hold each others’ gaze for what feels like years. Finally, Death turns and walks away. “We are not to meet again until you have succeeded…” He stops and turns his hooded head, giving Actrise one last ice-cold glare. “…or failed.

With that, Death disappears into the night, as if he never existed at all.

It’s a few seconds before either Actrise or the Chronomage recompose themselves. With a click of his tongue, the Chronomage releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and walks over to Actrise. Against his better judgment, he holds out a hand and helps her to her feet. He stands by her side, wondering if he should say anything regarding Death’s ultimatum.

“Well, ah… ” He swallows. “I suppose then, erm, you will no-doubt be adoubering the little sorceress and her frie—”

“Twilight Sparkle.”

“…Come again?”

He feels the punch before he sees it. It surprises him enough to knock him down on his back. “Twilight Sparkle!” Actrise barks. She raises her staff, a look of wild rage in her eyes. Before the Chronomage is able to defend himself, she brings the staff down. Again and again, Actrise pounds him as she repeatedly shouts her enemy’s name.

After a short while, Chronomage notices the sudden lack of painful thuds against his body. He uncovers his demonic eyes and looks up to Actrise, who gazes in the direction of the Ponyville hospital. Her chest rises and falls slowly, a small line of lunatic drool crawling down the side of her mouth. It is only now the Chronomage realizes the staff has blood all over its head. He draws a hand across his face, and pulls it away. It's covered in his blood.

“…We must recuperate first,” Actrise says at last, wiping her mouth. Her demeanor once again becomes somewhat affable—even helping the Chronomage back up to his cloven feet—as if she didn’t just throw a tantrum. She begins to walk away. She stops, looks behind her back at the Chronomage.

“Come,” she commanded. “There is still much work to be done.”

Reluctantly, the Chronomage follows. One does not argue with Actrise when her mind is made up.


Rainbow Dash holds a smirk. “You clever little snot,” she says playfully. “Twi, has anypony ever told you how awesome you are?”

Twilight laughs and turns away, blushing. “Oh, stop it. It’s Pinkie you should be thanking.” She puts a hoof on Pinkie’s shoulder. “If it weren’t for you, Pinkie, I wouldn’t have ever gotten the chance to cast the spell.”

Spike raises an eyebrow. “I don’t get it. What did the spell do?

Twilight turns to her assistant, wondering how she can explain the spell's effects. After some thinking, she returns him with an answer. She points to Rarity. “You know how Rarity instinctively knows where to find jewels?”

Spike nods.

“It’s the same thing with Dracula’s minions. They can feel their master’s influence no matter where he is, or even where his parts are. So all I had to do was use the rib as a jumping point and mute the influence of Dracula.”

Pinkie cocks her head. “So you basically… shut it off?”

Twilight shrugs. “Not exactly. If I had shut if off completely, it would have tipped off Actrise right away. By muting it, however, it reduced Dracula’s influence to the point where his minions would have to be within six feet of Dracula or his body parts in order to feel his influence.”

Aeon raises an eyebrow, a hoof scratching his chin. “… That's brilliant,” he marvels.

Twilight blushes again. “Guys, come on, I was just…”

She feels a hoof on her back and looks aside to find Rarity giving her a warm smile. “Don’t be bashful, darling. You pulled one over on the beast responsible for all this. The foals are alright, and that is thanks to all of you.” She waves a hoof to their other gathered friends. It’s only now that Rarity notices Shatterstorm is not present.

“Where’s that guardspony?” she asks.

“Shatterstorm? He went out to patrol Ponyville,” Rainbow Dash says. “He took Big Mac with him for ground support. Make sure this Actrise wad isn’t still around Ponyville.”

The moment Rainbow Dash says “Ponyville”, the door opens. In walk the directors three—Ear, Nose, and Throat. Their faces are grim and pale.

“There’s been—”

“—a terrible—”

“—accident,” they say.

Rarity’s eyes widen in fear. “Why? What’s wrong?”

The triplets look at each other. Solemnly, Nose and Throat back away, allowing the eldest (by five minutes), Ear, to explain. His face is long, and his voice is quiet. His friendly red eyes betray an intense emptiness within him, along with his brothers. He sighs before he begins.

“There was plenty of the cure left over for us to study, in case we may need it again. When we emptied its container, we found a message written at the bottom.” He floats the container over to Twilight, who peers inside. A small, laminated piece of paper rests glued to the bottom, its proclamation written in a feminine script.

Little Sorceress~

Left a gift for you in the boiler room.
XOXO, Marble

“So we had some of our security staff investigate the boiler room,” Ear continued. “You know, couldn’t be TOO careful. Well, uh…” He trails off, his face blanching. Nose pipes up.

“Throughout the past week, several sick foals were found missing from their beds. Their nurse, Miss Goodhealth, hanged herself earlier today because of it.”

Throat takes a deep breath, nervously running a hoof through his blue mane. “It turns out she fudged their paperwork. She lied about their status, and took the foals… to the boiler room…”

Twilight can hear the hearts of everypony present slam against their chests as their eyes all widen in horror. Suddenly, she runs. She darts past the directors. She runs down the hall, past ponies and fixtures

(“You know something? I think that castle wants to destroy you.”)

running and running until everything becomes a long smear of blurred colors

(“Not kill you. No, killing you would be easy.”)

she keeps running, she hears somepony might be Spike cry out for her to stop but she does not she just keeps running

(“It kills all the time so it—it got bored with killing somewhere down the line.”)

down the stairs down the stairs past more ponies how could she be so stupid of course it made sense that to have a working cure to something so deadly

(“No, it wants to destroy you, Twilight. Completely.”)

she’d have to have experimented another flight of stairs and Twilight’s in the basement level where there are ponies telling her to stop

(“…Wh-Why would it want to do that?”)

And it stops her cold. Small corpses being carried out, their bulging eyes gripped with a terror only they could see. Their tiny mouths are half-open, frothing vomit running down their cold bodies. All of them children. All of their eyes looking at her, as if begging her to wake them from a nightmare they can’t escape. Were the last sounds to escape them cries for their mothers?

Twilight’s heart is caught in her chest so suddenly, it chokes her. She clenches her eyes shut and is led away from this scene in tears and broken sobs.

(“…To prove that it can.”)