Resting against a brick wall isn’t the most comfortable thing a pony can enjoy, but I feel strangely reliant on the additional support, even though it’s really just an inanimate object. Of course, pony companionship is something I’d much rather have at my disposal. The gaping pit in my gut that pains for somepony to talk to is almost beyond unbearable, which doesn’t make a lick of sense. It was only this morning I was forcefully kicked out of my own home and onto the streets of this grand metropolis. Why does it seem like an eternity?
What would happen if I try to return home? To be frank, I half-expect everything to return to the way it was before, like waking up from a horrible nightmare. However, I know better than that. I can tell fiction from reality, and as painstaking as it is to admit it, this is definitely real. There’s no need to sugarcoat it. There’s no need for denial. There’s no need wallow in deserted corner and cry like a foal (I already had enough weeping for a lifetime). I have to be strong. I have to be tenacious. I have to be unyielding. No matter what shenanigans fate has ready for me, I have to endure.
I munch on the last bit of my leftovers while the sun prepares to retreat before the night takes over. I used to fear the night. I hated it, because I believed the night was a symbol for darkness. Nightmares ran rampant from pony to pony, creating their greatest fears to come to life. But with Princess Luna’s return a few years ago, I’ve grown to respect its beauty for what it is. The night represents calm and tranquility, as ponies tuck themselves snuggly into their beds to gratefully rest from another long, hard-fought day. It graciously allows the ponies to recharge their indispensable energy in order to assemble both their minds and bodies for the next twelve hours of pure daylight.
Savoring the last bite of food, I toss my meager quantity of garbage into my newly acquired saddlebags I rummaged from a dumpster earlier today. The camouflaged bags look as if they’ve personally been to Tartarus and back, but hey, at least the vile odor originating from it isn’t too noticeable. I heave the bags onto my back, fastening the straps to assure that it wouldn’t fly right off me and into the streets below in mid-flight. I’d most likely ruin some poor ponies’ mane by dropping a decaying bag on top of them. Since last I checked, I stopped to take a short rest in the Bankchester borough. The magnitude of upper-class ponies roaming the area kind of irks me, but I’ve got to confess that they’ve built some pretty complacent rooftops.
I unhurriedly trot to the edge of the roof, taking a gander onto the paved roads a couple hundred feet below me. The ponies milling about imitate tiny ants, like I could take my hoof and squash them individually. I silently chuckle at the thought, crushing the city like an experimented mutant totally out of whack. Once I’m through with my silly imagination, I nimbly leap off of the roof like a pegasus participating in the Equestrian Games. My dexterous wings unfurl, and the air resistance that follows allows me to effortlessly guide myself through the remarkably clean air that’s sluggishly dropping in temperature. Yep, this is probably the one and only place in Manehattan where you can thankfully consume oxygen and not have to worry about dirty pollution entering your lungs.
The activity above-ground startles me as numerous groups of pegasi fly to and fro, trying to dash away from something. In the far distance, an airborne carriage is pursued by a group of ponies dressed completely in midnight-black apparel. While my eyesight isn’t the greatest, the last bit of sunlight shimmers on several shiny images displaying above the weirdly- garnished ponies. I count four of them in total, one abnormally larger than the others. It strikes me as odd, because only earth ponies could ever hope to reach that ginormous size. How his wings are keeping him afloat without tiring perplexes me to no extent. Allowing curiosity to get the better of me, I decided to follow the carriage that’s heading straight for downtown.
Keeping a comfortable space between myself and the runaway carriage, I continue to twirl left and right, scarcely dodging other frenzied pegasi who’re letting their panic override their sense of direction. However, my wings start to beat increasingly faster, enforcing me to dart across the sky at a breathtakingly swift speed. My brain furiously commands my wings to immediately decrease in momentum, but it’s like they have a mind of their own. Performing tricks I never knew I could perform before, I zigzag across the air, leaving a faint lemon-yellow trail in my weak.
My vision hones like an eagle, and I’m able to depict the scene that I’m quickly catching up to. Bankchester Banks: We’ll Keep Your Money Safe, No Matter the Cost! the side of the carriage reads in bolded, golden lettering. It doesn’t take an idiot to put two and two together. I’m actually trying to force myself into the middle of a robbery!
“Stop, stop, stop!” I desperately shout as if it would make my wings listen to reason. Either they didn’t hear me, or simply chose to ignore my pleas as they somehow escalate in speed! Craning my neck to inspect my rambunctious wings, my peripheral catches a glimpse of a picture adorned on my flank.
“Is… is that a Cutie Mark?” I ask in utter disbelief, an insect accidently flying into my gaping mouth. Though it’s difficult to tell, I believe it’s a pair of wings circling around what looks like a blue and green planet. Am I seriously destined to circumnavigate the globe? Whatever the image literally indicates, my pure adrenaline overwhelms my excitement as I head-butt the side of one of the robbers, causing him to slightly spiral out of control.
The robber smoothly regains his composure, his undivided attention turning in my direction. I gasp in horror when he sheathes a sharp, pointy combat knife between his yellow, crooked teeth. Given that this was any other circumstance, I would’ve been withdrawing like the entire Royal Guard was out to bust my ass. However, my emotions overtake any logical thought. I feel nothing but hatred and anger towards the bandit, and I would gladly plunge that knife into his heart given that the opportunity arises. My unwanted hostility greatly frightens me, but it’s like my entire body is now driven on autopilot. The previous Sunny has disappeared—a duplicate taking his place.
“Phoo’ tha hull ‘er ya?” the bandit sputters in incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo. He darts head-first, wildly slashing the knife at my throat. Outmaneuvering him is an easy task by tucking my wings and briefly descending in elevation. The bandit gives me no time to retaliate, however, as he copies my trick and closes the distance between the two of us in less than a second. This time, the knife thrusts for my eye but my reflexes are astonishingly quicker. I punch the bandit on the left cheek, the path of the knife now of no harm to me.
I expect the bandit to involuntarily drop the knife as well, but as fate wills, he manages to keep it intact between his rotten molars. The two of us tangle in a mid-air ballet as we swoop left and right, up and down. His attacks are unrelenting, and I find myself fatiguing to the point where each sharp turn causes my wings to scream in pure agony. My new self ignores the pain. Pain is weakness. I cannot let this two-faced loser get the best of me. I may be young, but I have the advantage of its agile body at my disposal!
As the radiant sun eventually fades into the horizon, our battle is still at its peak. Dozens of incandescent street lights illuminate the dark sky above. Vision becomes marginally impaired, but the silhouette of my aggressor keeps me going in the fight. The skyscrapers are drastically increasing in size as we continue to head in that general direction. A second bandit notices the absence of his co-conspirator, and sets his crosshair on my neck as well.
It couldn’t have even been five minutes since our tussle began, but every second lasts a day as now I have to evade the assaults of two independent raiders. Playing defense gains me no ground. Every strike and parry drains me of that much more precious energy. My reserves aren’t far from depleted. The effects of burnout create a distinct downfall on my performance; knives inching closer to my neck with every motion intended to sabotage my ability to bypass their merciless attacks.
No more freaking games. No more freaking evasive spirals. No more freaking bandits. It’s time to end this stupid fiasco right here and now.
My wings retract, and gravity’s unrelenting pull begins to tug me towards the pavement below. As I expect, the two bandits follow suit in order to create the momentum to keep up with my mind-boggling speeds. My mane flows around like crazy while I’m perilously trying to catch one simple breath. The hard concrete inches closer, and closer, and closer. Sensing that the bandits are almost within reach of me, my wings unfurl, and I narrowly miss the pavement by propelling at a ninety-degree angle. The strain torments me with pure misery, but my daring plan works. Both ponies are unable to perform whatever the hell I just did, and both inevitably crash into the pavement, creating two distinguished craters. At the very least, they’ll have a severe concussion. I don’t know if I killed them, but I if I did, I’m bewildered with the fact that I’m okay with it. They tried to steal from others, and they deserve the pain that follows even if it costs them their lives.
I speedily catch up to the bank carriage only to see that the final two bandits have broken off their pursuit and are nowhere to be seen. My nerves begin to calm when I see that we’ve entered the perimeter of the downtown area of Manehattan. Enormous buildings loom over me, and the intensity of their proportions make me feel very, very small. But small can have its advantages. Like making me less of a target for others to hit when they’re trying to bury a jagged object deep inside my flesh.
The carriage begins to sink in height as it skids to a halt in front of the tallest skyscraper in the city. Bankchester Corporations is written in incredibly bright neon lettering at the top of the towering building.
“There’s got to be something more than money in that carriage. There is no way those bandits would be trying to coordinate a robbery of that size if it was just a bunch of bits,” I hypothesize, landing onto the streets myself, knowing if I follow too closely I might be mistaken for another bandit. A multitude of bodyguards swarm the carriage, a plethora of crossbows and swords drift through the air as I detect that the majority of the tough-looking bodyguards are unicorns. The peculiar scene draws an enormous crowd from all over the area. Hundreds of ponies then encircle the carriage in hopes to catch a glimpse of what is inside.
My personal bubble immediately collapses as the close proximity of all the other ponies suddenly causes me to feel a distinct sense of claustrophobia. Even with the boisterous chatter of the mass of ponies, my ears perk up when the sound of sirens wailing reach my eardrums. Somepony must’ve gotten word to the MPD about the attempted theft, else there would hardly be any other reason for them to arrive on the scene.
Five personnel carriages slowly force their way through the growing crowd and beside the Bankchester transport. Several BELT teams flood out of the carriages adorned in heavy black armor, wielding police batons and riot shields. The colossal policeponies effortlessly drive the crowd away, barking orders for all civilians to disperse and carry about their business. Many walk away without a fight, but there’s still an embarrassingly large group that refuse to leave the premises. A few pegasi even try to fly over the wall of policeponies, only to be efficiently detained and into custody by taser bolts shot from the unicorn BELTs.
Deciding that whatever the carriage contains is not worth getting thrown in jail for, I violently shove surrounding ponies out my way and proceed to shoot off into the night sky, my wings begging to take a longer break. I disregard their request. I’m not in the mood to worry about their well-being. If they become injured, I do not care. My mission is accomplished. The bandits have been swayed from their objective. I hate them. I hate my friends. I hate my family. And most of all, I hate myself. I don’t understand why I feel these heinous sensations. They’re here, residing within me, and I just naturally have to let it drive me.
Flapping my wings over and over and over again, I ultimately reach the familiarity of the Kings borough after twenty minutes of continuous flight. Sweat beads down my face, but I don’t bother to wipe it away. My only goal is to reach the Bronx Apartment Complex that I scouted earlier in the day.
34th… 35th… 36th…
Taking a sharp left turn, my eyes are instantly drawn to the worn-down building at the end of the block like a moth to a light. I circle around the building several times to double-check for any suspicious activity. Feeling satisfied that nothing seems out of place, I land on the rooftop, the brittle concrete scraping against my hooves. My knees give in and I crumple onto the cold concrete beneath me. The concrete, it’s so, so cold.
Using my final supply of willpower, I sluggishly come to a stand and make my way to the door that leads to the staircase of the top floor. Every step is torture at its finest. So cold. So cold. Twisting the brass doorknob, I manage to swing the door wide open, allowing me entrance to the interior of the dilapidated building. Stumbling down the short staircase, I find myself in a hallway seemingly barren of any life. From what I can tell, there are only a few rooms on this floor.
504… 503… 502… 501…
Room 501 is without a doubt heaven on Equestria. Though I have precisely zero clue as to what’s on the other side of this door with paint chipped in various places, all I want to do is walk through the door uninvited and wail, “I’m home!” But this isn’t my home. I have a home. With my family. Which is where I belong. But they don’t remember me. The world doesn’t remember me. Am I just a phantom? A ghost that serves no purpose?
No.
I am a pony. I have a beating heart and a working brain. I can walk and talk and think and love just like any other pony. So why is this happening to me? Why, oh why?
I lift a hoof, gently knocking on the door three times. No answer comes in reply. I try again, albeit this time much more obnoxiously. Again, no response. This means either two things: The lot is vacant as I suspect, or this is the home of Apple and Babs Seed’s family, and they indubitably don’t want to deal with random strangers who lurk the hallways at night. It amazes me that after eight years of knowing Apple Seed, I never bothered to ask where he lived.
As I previously did before, I ever so gently twist the door knob, prying the door open inch by inch. It’s unlocked! This can’t be the home of Apple Seed. A good family would never forget to leave their door unlocked where bandits from the outside world can waltz inside. Bandit. The word tastes like acid on my tongue.
The light switch lies turned off near the entrance of the door. I flicker the switch and a lone light bulb dimly illuminates the main room. Angling my head to the right, the sight of a clean, spotless bathroom welcomes me. A hot shower sounds rather lovely, but I’m unsure that my body can support my own weight for much longer. I glance to the left, where I see a tiny bedroom with several unoccupied sleeping bags and pillows strewn about the floor. Smiling that I’m finally at my destination, I slam the door shut behind me and drag myself into the room.
I toss my saddlebags aside, grateful that this day is almost over. As I’m about to snuggly tuck myself into a sleeping bag that’s a few sizes too small, my eyes catches something horrifying. “What in the name of Celestia?” I ask myself in astonishment. My Cutie Mark! It’s gone! I can’t fathom how this is even possible! Since when did anypony lose their Cutie Mark immediately after getting it? How? How? How?!
Maybe it was just my imagination. My mind playing tricks on me.
Figuring that this is a controversy I could solve in the morning, I torpidly lay my head onto the pillow. Sleep hits like a tsunami in a matter of moments.
End Part III