Visits from the cloaked stallion are becoming increasingly regular. He seems... kinder than the others. Or, at least, understands my plight more than the others.
He talks to me. He would talk, and I would listen. Not responding, just listening. He told me of my discovery, of how ponies had been scavenging an old Ministry building when they found what they had thought to be my corpse. After several hours of trying to pry open my armour, they gave up and left me there.
When Red-Eye announced that he was paying handsomely for pre-War technology, the ponies had 'sold' information of my whereabouts to Red-Eye. Apparently, they had been given the greatest reward possible. Service.
What evades me is why this stallion refers to those ponies as 'Raiders'.
He has also yet to explain this 'War' to me. I have no knowledge of any large-scale conflict recently. He implies that I have been unconscious, or deactivated. How long was I out? All of these questions, and no method of inquiring about a direct answer.
The most puzzling thing of all is this 'Red-Eye' he speaks of. I recall the Stallion referring to him as 'Master', almost affectionately.
To me, it seems as if this stallion has forgotten that I am not from his time. He speaks as if writing a journal, or a diary. I am an entity to him, not a being.
"Your purpose will become clear, with time."
He repeats this, every day, at the end of our conversations.
They've also stopped injecting me. I am uncertain of whether they achieved their goal or just gave up. In fact, I'm not sure I even want to know.
I haven't needed to eat, sleep, or drink since I've been in this cell. I don't think I could if I tried. They don't bring me food or water. That must be a luxury that is beyond my grasp.
Occasionally, I hear a scream, shout, or high pitched whine that jolts me back to an alert state of mind. Many of these noises sound muffled, as if their source is on the other side of a thick wall.
A rustling sound startles me, and I glance upwards to see the cloaked Stallion standing before me. A puzzled expression flashes across my face. How did he approach me without me noticing him?
He stares at me for an eternity, before smiling and walking forwards at a steady pace.
As he nears, I notice a large wrench like tool in his hand, and my mind races, running through all of the possible outcomes.
Finally he reaches me, and raises his utensil menacingly. I cringe, pulling away from him with all my might, before he locks the wrench onto a small winch to the side of me.
I freeze, staring at the winch, before he utilizes the tool.
I immediately feel the chain loosen, lowering me closer to the ground and making my position a whole world more comfortable.
He could have said something, before making me panic. I am wracked with doubt.
Nopony has been this kind to me, even before this so-called war.
He lowers the tool and places it beside me, just outside of my reach. Tempting.
I stare at the stallion as he makes his exit. He turns and glances at me before walking outside and slamming the door shut.
oooooOOOOOooooo
"Hey, Floral! Wanna' fix up my garden?" Snickers a voice behind me.
I groan. I'd dealt with enough of this today.
"What kind of name is Floral, anyway? Surely something more like Xylophone would be better? Suits you!"
Gutter cackles, and his cronies follow suit.
"You ain't paid your rent. Cough up, fifty percent interest."
I turn to face Gutter, and peer into his eyes. "It doesn't matter how your psychiatrist explains it to you, Gutter, prison isn't the same as living in an apartment." The gang fall into a shocked silence.
He snarls at me, bearing his teeth in an extravagant threat.
"It ain't for livin' in prison. It's for allowing you to live in Equestria! Now, I think I'd better take somethin' extra for all the trouble you're causin'. Your teeth should do nicely!"
He swings a hoof, glancing my face. Lucky hit. I hadn't been expecting a conflict so soon.
I stagger backwards, slightly stunned by the blow.
"Stand back! This guy's mine!" yells Gutter, presumably to his crew. How very cliché.
He moves forward to strike me again as I charge to headbutt him.
My head collides with his stomach, dizzying me and toppling him.
He roars a kind of guttural, primal scream and jumps to his feet, fueled by adrenaline and rage. Unfortunately, rage clearly doesn't give me the same benefit. I am still recovering when he tackles me to the ground. It is all I can do to shield my face as he repeatedly pummels me with his boulder-like hooves.
I scream in agony and fear, a river of blood flowing from my face and chest, before a loud crack pierces the thuds of Gutter's fists.
"Enough!" The crack sounds again, but Gutter still shows no sign of stopping. A third crack, and Gutter yelps in pain and slumps to the ground.
I am able to vaguely recognize the shape of a pony approaching me, wearing a large, orange rifle on a battlesaddle.
"Someone get the Para-medics! Gutter's been at it again!"
I lie whimpering on the ground, clutching my face. As the figure nears me, I recognize him as the warden of my prison block.
"Easy now. Just stay still..." His words fade into silence. I watch his lips move, but no sound comes from them. The world gradually does the same, until I wake once again.
oooooOOOOOooooo
These memories... don't feel right. They feel like my memories, but they feel wrong. It might have just been my imagination; maybe I'm just going stir crazy. Actually, I know I'm going stir crazy, but I'm not hallucinating yet. Hopefully.
I feel as if I can no longer trust anything. Not even my own memories.
I hear the clopping of hoofsteps from outside my cell. I look at the door, hoping to stare down anypony that enters.
The hoofsteps pause. I can barely make out the sound of hushed speech. Either there's one crazy pony here, talking to themselves, or, there's more than one pony.
Personally, I'd rather it be a group. Crazy ponies are unpredictable.
However, it is not a group that enters, nor is it a pony. I'm not even sure what it is.
Towering a few hands taller than me, this hulking slab of muscle appears to be some kind of eagle-lion cross.
It views me with what can only be described as a look of amusement.
It casually strides towards me, swinging a pistol around one of its claws, pausing a few steps from me.
"You've got quite a reputation, without even doing anything!" He pauses, presumably for emphasis, before smiling at me and continuing.
"That's the wonderful thing about ponies. You don't even have to do anything; their imagination does it all for you."
"Some of the stories are quite ridiculous. They're saying that you're an Ursa Major, compressed down into a suit."
He laughs. A gruff, grating laugh that might make lesser ponies cringe.
"Others say that you're a gift from Celestia. Sent to protect them, to purge the world of evil" He shakes his head, false pity in his eyes. "Now, we both know that isn't true."
"If the documentation we've found is correct, all of your siblings went crazy. Or, at least, half of them did. The rest never woke up. We're searching for them at this very moment, you know, to give you some company."
His features twist into a deformed expression of glee.
"What am I saying? Monsters don't need company.
Monsters are things to be tamed, to be used. You will be tamed, and we will use you."
Just as I feel anger forming inside me, the room is filled with an abrupt silence. The griffin cocks his head, much like a hound.
He frowns, before trotting back to the door, his claws clinking against the rough stone floor.
"I'll be watching you, monster. We'll turn you into the perfect little attack-dog we need, just you wait."
oooooOOOOOooooo
Thump!
My hoof slams into the pony shaped punching bag.
Thump!
The punching bag shudders violently.
Thump!
I can see the seams tearing apart. I raise my hoof to strike again, but pause.
Was there any use in this? If I get caught, there'll be too many for me to fight hoof-to-hoof.
"I see doubt in your eyes, unusual for one who soars and flies." I don't turn around to meet my elder eye-to-eye.
"I am to be sent to Canterlot, where the fires of hatred burn red hot." I reply, still not taking my eyes from the punching bag.
"We are aware that your task is no easy feat. Ponies of great stature, you must defeat. Alas, we must all do our duty, to preserve our great nation's beauty."
It's all nonsense. Trivial, petty nonsense.
I stay silent, ignoring my elder's presence. There is nothing more to be said, no more inspirational quotes to encourage me. I hear him sigh, then the gentle 'clop' of his hooves as he leaves me to my own devices.
Oh so wise, yet oh so foolish.
oooooOOOOOooooo
The room is filled with light. For the first time, I am able to see my cell in its full glory. If you could call it glory; it was a mixture of broken plaster and exposed brickwork, with heavy iron blocks supporting my chains.
I identify a glowing bulb as the source of the light, hanging from a tatty, stained cord.
My gaze drifts towards the door, where what I had previously dismissed as idle scribblings catches my eye.
Although it is difficult, after a second or two of concentrating, I am able to discern some text.
'Puppet'