7 - The Slim Path
“What is there to tell?”
The counter-question was pathetic, obvious even. Brian knew that as well as his interrogator.
Both parties committed a series of uncomfortable shuffles before Brian finally answered.
“What do you want to know? What her favourite food was? Or what her sock size was? What her most favourite place in the world was? Or what her wackiest stunt was? Or her greatest achievement, the single largest achievement one of her kind could reach?”
“Sonic rainboom?” The federal agent stated instinctively.
Brian nodded. He closed his eyes, and bit his lip. It was difficult for him to see the wonders and marvels of the rainboom in this situation. The bitter aftertaste was present, to say the least.
The next minute was spent in an eery silence of waiting. Brian was waiting for the agent to make his next move, and Fitzgerald tried to predict the suspect's current state of mind.
The sonic rainboom, he thought. What kind of impact did that sonic rainboom have on Brian in the first place?
He began to think something up. The cartoon world's sonic rainboom, what could it lack compared to the 'rainboom' in Pleasance?
Was that perhaps the key to Brian's own perception of the explosion?
Fitzgerald, intrigued, wanted to give that line of thought a shot. He simply wanted to see what Brian would come up with for an answer.
“Mr Fisher. Would you be offended if I would speak of ‘cartoon worlds?”
Brian opened his eyes again.
“You ought to love them.” The agent commented and shook his head.
“Cartoon worlds. Existing in their own little cartoon realities. Populated by cartoon characters. Do you know what I think is so plain wonderful about cartoon worlds, Mr Fisher?”
He looked at Brian understandingly, and smiled weakly.
“Let me get this straight; I am not a fan of My Little Pony, flatly and plainly. I am a man who loves to live reality to its full potential.”
“You don’t say.” Brian slurred. The detestability in his voice was blatant.
“However, I understand you. Why you watch it.” He scratched his mouth with a finger.
“I have given this whole… situation some thought myself. And my conclusion is, the thing that makes cartoons so immensely superior to the world that we live in… is the absence of one simple physical law: Action, Reaction. Isn't it?"
That’s the law that defines that anything and everything that happens, regardless of where and how, always will have consequences. The action is followed up by a reaction, see?”
Brian had folded his arms, mystified by the agent’s inference.
“Cartoons don’t have this. And if they do, then only if the creator wants it.
Action: Someone, say, falls down the stairs. Reaction: Bruises, twisted limbs, strained ligaments, broken bones, psychological trauma. Weeks, months worth of recuperation. Years, maybe. Maybe no recuperation at all.”
He crossed his legs.
“And now, what would happen in Ponyville, Mr Fisher? Action: Down the stairs, as before. Reaction: Dizziness, stars, googly eyes, optionally even a flat face. It's funny!”
He snorted in amusement at the thought.
“And Recuperation? Unless stated otherwise… one scene. Maybe one cut. Maybe one whole episode, if you’re lucky. No long-term repercussions on any sanity whatsoever.”
Brian was about to say something. He had a faint idea of what the agent meant, and he wanted to nip it in the bud immediately.
“You can’t compare-”
“Exactly” Fitzgerald exclaimed.
“You can’t compare it. It would be crazy to start drawing comparisons between real world and cartoon physics.”
He folded his fingers smugly, kneading them.
“Which doesn’t mean that I can’t compare the following… Action: A creature of stupendously high agility and insane flying capability sets in motion a physical domino that triggers the discharge of an extraordinary amount of energy in form of a pressure wave.
It’s like when you drop a dollar coin into a bowl of watery soup.”
Brian sat still, looking at him with a face that seemed to retrace this tidal wave, rolling over the group and colliding with everything in its way.
“Reaction, Brian? What is the reaction?”
But Brian wasn't about to go and play his game.
“It wasn't just a one scene gig, you know.” he suddenly said in slow, heavy diction, looking his counterpart in the face with a nearly uncalled-for seriousness.
“You're talking about the Sonic Rainboom, aren't you? I told you you can't compare it.”
He folded his arms tighter and exhaled.
"It wasn’t just some half-assed plot device, it kicked off the story’s timeline as we know it. And it was a good thing. It stood for something. It marked a certain point in all our lives, when everything would change for the better. It was an awesome when shown for the first time, and good God, it was a crowning moment when it was shown last, back then in season 9. It wasn’t minor, and it wasn’t treated as some out-of-left-field gag. Which makes your argument is invalid.”
The government agent’s smirk faded away once more.
“Was it as 'magnificent' when you saw it for yourself then?”
“Yes. Yes it was.” Brian said, quick like a shot and without wasting a breath. He was cut short by what sounded like a faint snivel.
“How could I have known, that… what… would happen?”
“How you could have known?” Fitzgerald asked in a ridiculed tone and tilted his head.
“How you could have known? You yourself said that it was in ‘canon’! You sit here and preach to me about the magnificence and the power of this ‘rainboom’! So how could you, of all people, just ignore the implications it might have?! What damage it could cause, should it happen? When you first noticed your little Dashie, I dearly hope you caught the detail that she was, you know, real. Three-dimensional. Breathing. That she packed hair and keratin, consisted of flesh and blood! That she ate when you fed it, that she used up food and energy, like… like any other living thing on this planet!”
He folded his hand on the table and pointed at Brian.
“Why would it ever be different with a sonic rainboom? How long did it take you to catch on, that she was in a wholly different 'medium' now, eh?”
Brian shot him a vicious dagger of a glare.
“Like I could have known! Did you ever have to care for a cartoon character? Sure as fucking hell I never had!” he hisses, and also slumped his hands on the table. He began to knead them again in frustration, began tearing at his skin with his nails, to contain his anger.
He looked away, first left, then right, and sniffed.
“I did what I did, because I had to do it… to care for her, and to protect her, and damn, I am proud. So proud.”
He looked back at him, but now his eyes had reddened quite a bit, and they looked even more wasted than they already did.
“Rainbow didn’t belong here, that one thought entered the equation from the very beginning. This world, she… how could she ever cope with it? She couldn’t, this world was too different for the likes of her, too vicious and dangerous. There were risks and dangers on every corner. People wouldn’t understand. That's not a life...”
He threw Fitzgerald a wary glance.
“God knows what the likes of you would have done to her, if you had known about her. I don’t even want to know…”
Fitzgerald rolled his eyes at the thought and raised his voice in amusement.
“What do you think we would have done to her? Vivisect her in a top-secret underground bunker with badly accented clipboard-carrying scientists and cigar-smoking Generals scurrying around the place and demanding results?”
Brian was not amused.
“Oh come on.” the agent murmured, not bothering to close his mouth again. After a short pause, he continued in the same patronising voice.
“This is the 21st century, Mr Fisher. And this is a democracy. Do you think our top priority would be to hunt some abstract, otherwise non-existent fringe creatures? Aliens are not exactly classified as quote-unquote ‘menaces to society’. Ditto, they aren’t exactly very high on our priority list. We can and do use our assets for more worthwhile, far more common-sense tasks.”
He propped himself up against the lean of his chair and carried on.
“You may be right, though. This world is cruel enough as it is. Terrorism, extremism, organised crime, substance abuse. These are the real dangers our country faces now. It is in the human nature to obstruct any and all laws and regulations. So it’s up to the state to hold them on a leash for the good of many.”
He leaned back, silently patronising him some more.
“Still…” he added slowly,
“In this case, your little ‘Dashie’ herself was quite a danger to society, obviously. To be fair, she couldn’t be any less dangerous to this world if she were a talking tapeworm. She may have brought along some physical... peculiarities that flat-out defy earthly scientific laws. And that’s really serious in any case, because this is both unprecedented and should be, in the truest sense of the word, ‘impossible’. Who knows… for all we know, it could have wiped our whole sense of reality out in an instant.”
He leaned in closer again and sniggered.
“And you… are seriously suggesting that we, the humans, are a danger to her?”
Brian slitted his eyes.
“I mean, Brian, it’s not like we’re the ones who can literally summon outrageous loads of energy by flapping our limbs.”
“The good of the many…” Brian repeated, slowly progressing the words of the federal agent.
“Is it possible… Is it possible that you just proved my point?”
“Did I?”
“Yeah.” Brian nodded. Then he shook his head himself.
“Humanity. Humanity, Mr Fitzgerald. Isn’t it like we’re programmed to cause each other problems and be menaces to each other.”
“We are.” Fitzgerald agreed flatly.
“And that is completely instinctual, natural, normal. It’s the principle of the Survival of the Fittest.”
The young man didn’t let himself get put off by this. Idealistically, he continued straight on to drive his point home.
“We humans can be cruel, and we can be bitter. We can be deceiving and untruthful. We can be ignorant and hypocritical. We can be perverse, as well as perverted. We are not a good example of a perfect society. We are just a population of brutal animals, who, just as you said, cannot even manage to keep ourselves at bay.”
Now it was his turn to lean in, with his hands decisively folded on his lap.
“And you know what? Here’s an action-reaction for you, Agent Fitzgerald.
Action: The world is an unfair, bleak and violent place. Many humans are disadvantaged, unhappy and unfulfilled. Reaction: They try to escape, they try to shape their own world. A world, which is superior to the one they’re living in. A world where poverty, crime and hate play little to no roles, where the denizens live in friendship and harmony, in happiness and content, where the rulers are wise and just, selfless and committed, and where the greatest virtues of the intelligent mind surface to great effect. A world where anybody in his right mind would give a lot to live in.”
He paused.
“And guess what, Agent. This world is real. It became real, I don’t know where, I don’t know how, but it is somewhere out there.
And this world is Equestria.
I know it may not make sense, but I know what I saw. I am not lying, and I am not insane either. It is real.”
He smiled. It was a teary, melancholic and very fragile smile, but a genuine one nevertheless.
“And you say that Rainbow Dash, as a product of your ‘ideal’ world, is very much in danger of falling to this world?” the agent asked, in a much more stale, perhaps even haughty tone.
“Was. She was.”
“Mr Fisher. Why am I getting the impression that don’t understand, what Rainbow Dash always was to this world? Every minute she spent on this soil?”
“But I understand.” He retorted.
“A second chance. A chance to make this place a better place. A light, a flame of intense colours to illuminate this inhuman, dreary place...”
He halted when he noticed just how bad his word choice was.
"Like a light tower in the midst of a reef."
“More like a doom white.” The agent snapped back.
“She was probably the one thing that could have made this world fall off it’s hinges completely.”
“There you have it.”
“No, you don’t get it, do you? It isn't a good thing!” Fitzgerald snapped and spread his hands over the table.
“Of course these are reef-infested waters, Brian, they have always been. Reefs, icebergs, wrecks, call them what you will. It’s always been like that, and it will never ever be any other way. Not in this timeline it won’t.
One of his thumbs pointed at his chest.
“You know what made us humans so special, Brian? That we managed to do something no other creature on this planet did. We bested these obstacles. We made these waters safe! We learned to navigate around them, we learned how to get the better of them, we took this wild, uncivilised mess of a world and we cultivated it to an extent that has never been achieved.
Of course it isn’t perfect, it is never perfect. Einstein already said it; 'Everything in this world is relative'. Nothing is absolute. And it would not be, even if we tried for a thousand years. You make it sound like we are climbing a mountain and collapsed halfway before reaching the very peak.
Well, guess what. There is no peak. We are just responsible for making it up as far as possible. And even though every step up is a hell lot of work… look just how far we did make it up, in only forty thousand years. And the sooner humans can look this barren, blunt fact in the eye and accept it for the sober reality that it is, the better.”
Brian looked at the table, breathing slowly after the agent’s rant.
“Agent. I knew a time where many people thought as you.”
“Good times.” Fitzgerald agreed.
But Brian snorted.
“I remember that kind of was the time in which the world around me continually began to slow down.”
The agent looked at him, nonplussed.
“When life began to bleaken and grey out, when the past became rosier and the future became shorter. Less to look forward to in life. I remember the present mattering less, too.”
He eyed the agent, tears summoning just below his eyelids.
“Do you know what Fort Pleasance was when I was small, Mr Fitzgerald?”
“A wretched urban hive.”
“Not really. It was a thriving hive. When people still lived there, when they could wake up every morning and be glad to have a family, kids, and work. The sun on the street shone richly and brightly, dying the bricks redder and the trees greener. There were still shops, with grocers in front of them, and we had traffic, traffic that could keep you in the same place for an hour. That was one busy place, the centre of the world. And then, by the time I grew up, ready to enjoy these feelings, breathe the air, go to work,… they were gone. Just like that, steadily and slowly.”
He looked out the window.
“Not just for me either. Take my dad, for example. I don’t know when it began, but at some point the only colour he was still able to enjoy was the brown of the stuff in the whisky bottles. Once his factory closed down, and most of our good friends and relatives moved south, the present became empty. So I can’t blame him for not taking it too well. Even as a kid, I remember the news. The big folks from the capital meant ‘So what? It’s a low, and life is full of highs and lows. It’s something we have to accept and move on.’ And I remember the mayor, not saying, but most probably thinking, ‘Poverty, unemployment, crime? Well, the world is kind of a shithole anyway, so why try? We wouldn’t win a ‘city of the year’ award in a thousand years, so why bother?’ In the end, even dad was saying, ‘No job, no competition, no stress. What’s next, no life? Hey honeybun, why so shocked? T’aint too much of a shame now, not with this kind of life.’”
He paused for a moment, chewing on his lips.
“And then he ran that red light. With mum on the passenger seat.”
Fitzgerald had quieted down completely, abashed.
“It’s ironic. I mean mum was there, right next to him.”
He smiled melancholically.
“Even though mum was on the opposite lane from him all her life. In a way. Even while dad found a new penchant, and discovered humbling new world views, my mum would stand in the living room, in front of that easel, a white screen propped up before her. And she would paint. And draw, and colour.
She said it was pronouncing her dreams, and it was opening doors. And she would never get tired. Never become discouraged, and always keep up the effort. She would paint on those screens, fill them with those bright colours. Impressions, visions, and hopes.
Rainbows, she painted rainbows. It was like magic, at first she painted dark red brick houses and plane grey asphalt streets and some rotting wooden fences… and with one, two, three swipes of colours above them, she would make it all seem like the most beautiful place in the world. And she said that is what we could create, and what we should aim for.”
He gulped and breathed out.
“And this is why she never gave up, until the end. And what made it so special was she was probably the last to do so. Back then, years earlier, this is how most people around here thought. Aiming for the stars… this was what helped them through many bleak times.
Call it the spirit. Call it faith.”
The federal agent looked at him for a second, then he straightened up and cleared his throat.
“Your view on the economy in all honours, Brian, but I don’t follow this. How is this relevant? Where does Dashie fit into all this?”
Brian looked back, his countenance deadpan, yet determined and collected.
“I grew up just in time to see my father’s predictions come true. No family, no work to speak of, a desolate home. The bottom of the greyscale.”
The brought forward another smile.
“And Dashie… was my rainbow. As simple as that.
Shining from above, brightening up my world. She gave my home meaning. She gave my work meaning, she gave my entire remaining existence… meaning. A herald from something better. A beacon of light and purpose.
Somehow… somehow I already knew then that bringing Dashie up was, in one way or another, to bring myself closer to her world. The world of perfect harmony. And when such a world exists, Mr Fitzgerald, and if Dashie could bring me there… Why not the rest of this world with it?”
Fitzgerald could, no matter how intrigued he was, not help but to roll his eyes at this. The levels of idealism in his counterpart were strong, very strong. So strong they could be even seen as threatening.
“You know what I think of this? Instead of humanity finally stopping to moan about 'how we can't be a utopia' and a hundred percent perfect, and making peace with this fact that we have achieved what we have achieved, and abandon these completely fantastical notions of ‘the peak of the mountain’ and absolutes,… all of a sudden… as you put it, a herald from a ‘perfect’ world, a world which in no way could be compared with this one, and makes this world simply seem inferior by comparison. Do you call that a fair fucking comparison, Brian?”
“So are you saying that Rainbow Dash, that her existence, is too good for this world?” Brian scorned.
“I’m… no, I’m saying that it is not even applicable in this world! She represents a set of morals and ethics that does not exist here – cannot exist here! She brought them with her from her world, two-dimensional and black-and-white as it is! A world where things like ‘true goodness’ and ‘true evil’ exist, and where anything can be achieved if the right amount of work is out into it! These entities are non-existent on planet earth, no matter how much some people wish for it to be, we will never have world peace, we will never keep our planet clean and prosperous. Wishful thinking is all there’s to it.
We are… we are simply much too complex for this kind of thinking. We just don't know how complex we are...”
Fisher put his arms on the table and folded them upright, concocting a ridiculing grin at the agent’s supposed ignorance.
“But… when your so-called wishful reality actually does exist? Cartoon physics or not! If it exists, how can it then not be possible? How can Equestria, not be possible on earth? When it does exist?”
Fitzgerald promptly retorted without further ado,
“Just because it exists, it doesn’t mean it’s possible…”
Brian hesitated.
“What?”
“It doesn’t exist. Not here. Not on earth. As far as earth is concerned, Equestria is not possible.” he set with a shaking voice and shout one hand nout to one side, as if to push something away from him.
But he knew not what to add to this statement beyond this.
The kitchen chair creaked over the over the tiled floor as the agent slowly drew away from the table and lifted himself. He took a few steps around the kitchen, under constant surveillance of the supposed suspect, and clamped a hand over is eyes and forehead, as if to detect fever.
“And according to you… Rainbow Dash came… here?” he affirmed one more time, picking his words slowly and clearly.
"Yes..."
Brian still looked up at him, slowly brooding over what the point of the question was supposed to be.
“What are you driving at?”
“I ask you once more. Brian. Rainbow. Was she here? Tell me the truth. Was she here?”
Brian tried to say yes, but his mouth refused to follow suit. So blatantly obvious was the answer that he was actually shocked. He felt like he had missed out on something. Of course Dash was here, of course. Of course.
“You’re lying.” The agent clearly stated.
Something went click in the government agent's mind. A rush of irritation, of confusion, of anger.
Fitzgerald felt like the loader that was his mind set into motion and emptied itself of all the proof, all the doubt he had carried with him the entire, long day.
The photos, the hair samples, the sterile room, the hoof prints in the garden, it was all gone, it was now all marginal and incidental, not to be brought up again as serious proof.
Because it did not make any sense.
It did not make sense.
No sense whatsoever.
What did make sense, however, was that Brian had invented Rainbow Dash.
Yes, to cover both the fact that he had an illegitimate daughter and that he was behind the bomb in Pleasance. And he failed at that spectacularly to boot. Because he was either insane enough to believe his own lies, or simply stupid ejnough to think anyone else would buy it.
That was the only logical possibility.
The only serious, realistic possibility.
“You son of a bitch. You made it all up. You made it all up.”
He crowed nervously. It was so deranged it even scared himself, sending shivers up and down his trembling spine.
“And I stupid fuck, I fell for it.”
He crossed the kitchen, and leaned in on the closed window, resting both his hands’ palms and his forehead on the glass.
“I, fuck, I fell right into it.”
His head began to swirl. He felt like he was losing his balance. He felt nauseous. His stomach was about to twist on him.
Meanwhile, Brian stared, perplexed, at the agent’s overly tensed form. He knew not what to say. He did not even know what to think.
On one hand, he understood. He understood perfectly.
But it hit him painfully to see just how hard it hit the agent. He had not really expected many other reactions, but none was… like this.
It seemed strange, that, how relatively collected this person seemed all the way, was suddenly was about to break down.
But Brian had also never seen anyone other than him tread on the slim path between pragmatism and idealism, a path that Fitzgerald had hoped never to have to tread on.
+++
The idealist sees a light at the end of the tunnel.
The realist sees a locomotive entering the tunnel.
The pessimist sees a train roaring towards them, bullbars blazing.
And the engine driver sees three fools sitting on the tracks.