//------------------------------// // Siren Song, Part 2 // Story: Siren Song // by GaPJaxie //------------------------------// It’s raining outside, a real thunderstorm. The lightning frightens me, and my stupid pegasi friends just point and laugh. My little hooves clip and clop against the stone of the palace floors, as I hurry through the empty halls. Nopony is here but the guards—they’ve all gone home for the day—and the palace halls seem wide and empty. The statues glare down at me as I pass them, and every crash of lightning makes me move faster. Not too fast though; I’m not a little foal anymore.   The princess’s door looms up in front of me. It’s impossibly big, hard wood and steel, and it feels old. I’ve seen it in old palace pictures and drawings, and I know it’s the same door because there’s a scratch right down the middle. I never asked Celestia how the scratch got there, but it’s been there for centuries. I’m afraid to knock, like my hoof would break if I struck something that ancient. The lightning crashes, and my hooves are suddenly fused to the floor, unable to move or lift.   “Come in, Siren,” Celestia calls to me. I rear up onto my hind legs so I can reach the door handle, straining up onto the tips of my hooves and fumbling with it for a moment. I finally get the handle turned, awkwardly backing away on my rear legs until the door is open a crack. I drop back to all fours and nose the door open. I wish I was old enough to open it like the other unicorns.   Celestia is working, curled up on her bed in front of the fireplace. Her room is huge, but that’s just because it’s built for her size. There’s really not much in it—just a bed and a fireplace and a reading stand and some hangings on the walls with funny star designs. The hearth is the only light in the room, and it casts strange shadows, making the hangings seem distant, like they were real stars instead of just cloth. Glancing down, I see the pile of scrolls and correspondence by the bedside, and that she’s pulled up the reading stand. The fire is blazing and I can feel the heat even from the door, but she’s left the window open as well, so she can hear the rain and lightning. Sometimes, I forget that she’s part pegasus.   I think she sees me looking at the window, because she asks, “Do you like the sound of the storm, Siren?” when she knows that I don’t. I nod anyway, bravely, and I don’t even jump that much when she shuts the door behind me.   “Uh-huh,” I insist, and she totally believes me. She even smiles! “But, um. It makes my room really noisy, and I can’t sleep. Can I stay here with you?”   “Well, a growing foal needs her sleep. I suppose you’ll have to.” Lightning crashes as she raises a wing, and I dart forward towards her. Celestia is like the door if it were warm and nice—old and super giant. Even when I’m standing and she’s lying down, I barely come up to her shoulders. I know she hates it when the other foals and I run under her, and she double hates it when we use her as the last limbo pole in our super awesome obstacle course, but it’s still really cool. She puts her wing around me after I curl up against her, and it’s like being in a little, dark cave. She’s working, so she won’t talk much, but it’s okay. I press my hooves down into the blankets and nuzzle up against her, squeezing my eyes shut.   She’s not that much like the door after all. They’re both big, and old, but the door doesn't move. Celestia is always moving, little things like breathing or adjusting to get more comfortable. Her barrel rises and falls with every breath, and her wings shift and squeeze. My ears perk up, and I listen. Paper rustles, and I wonder what she’s working on. I press an ear to her side, and I can hear her breathing, the rush of air in and out. I can even hear her heartbeat—that regular thump, pulsing through her sides and the wings around me.   It’s still raining, though, and I can feel the drops landing on me. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, and put my hooves over my head. “Princess, the rain is blowing in the window. Can you shut it?” There’s no answer, and her wings press harder against me. Her heart seems louder, shaking her and me with every thump as her breath rasps. Icy water droplets sting when they hit my coat, and her wings do nothing to keep them out. “Princess, please?” She’s never ignored me when I sound that cute before, but she does now, not saying a word as her grip tightens.   “Princess, you’re hurting me!” The pressure against my sides is making it hard to breathe, and the water is chilling me to the bone. Her heart is pounding in my ears, making me shake with every beat. The bed shudders with every thump like the sound of her heart was coming up through the floor and rattling the castle around us. I struggle, but she’s so much stronger than me. “Princess, stop. Stop! Princess, please! Princess!”   I wake up.   I’m lying in a puddle of water, and my entire right side feels numb. My mouth tastes like salt and filth, and every muscle in my legs burns. I’m curled up so tight I know it would hurt just to uncurl, and so I don’t. I just breathe, my eyes pointlessly darting around the pitch-black room.   Am I okay? Did I imagine all of it?   Did he touch me?   My forehooves travel over my body slowly, feeling for every cut, every bruise, anything that wasn’t there before. There’s a cut on my side—is that new? Does my horn feel nicked? Scratched by a blade? Is that a hoofprint I feel on my back? What about my tail? I reach down to my tail.   It’s still tucked tight between my legs, curled up under me.   I shudder, my spine letting out a loud pop as I unfold. Water sloshes around me, and I lift my head out of it. My chest shakes, and I cough violently as I sit up, drops of water and filth ejected out of my lungs. It takes time for the coughing fit to end, and a shiver runs through me at the idea that all this water might be giving me pneumonia or worse. There’s nothing I can do about it now though, and once I’ve sat up, I let my horn come alight.   The first thing I see is the door, still locked. It doesn't take me long after that to realize I’m lying in a puddle of filthy brine-water, and I quickly rise, shaking myself off. My joints crack with the motion, and I afford myself a long, leisurely stretch. The sound that results makes me wince, but it feels so good I don’t care, and for the moment that cathartic shock runs through me, my face is stupidly blissful. It only lasts a moment though, and I shake my head, turning back to face the room.   I’m in some kind of lounge, though its function eludes me. I see a half-dozen booths of some kind, about twice the size of a pony, each one made of gleaming lacquered wood. There’s a thick carpet on the floor, the original sea-blue barely visible under the mold-green grime that covers it. Idyllic images of flowering fields and trees adorn the peeling wallpaper, and faint after-images are visible on the white stone behind them. I wince at a magenta flash, and I realize the light from my horn has bounced off a line of mirrors in the back. Directly to my right, there’s an attendant’s station—a little chair next to a countertop with a tray full of mints and a tip bowl. I can still hear the forcefields and light strips, but there are none of either here, and I spot the muted gleam of tarnished brass oil lamps in wall brackets.   A lesser pony would have leapt to the conclusion that this place was an upscale bathroom, but I notice the discrepancies. First, the smell, or rather, the lack of it. No broken sewage pipes, no antiseptics. Second, the mirrors are over tables, not sinks, and there are no towels on the attendant’s station. Third, most importantly, the aesthetics are all wrong. This isn’t a place designed to project sterility and efficient comfort; it’s downright social. The designer wanted you to sit here and have a chat with your marefriends about how your day is going. There’s even a little sign by the door: “Don’t Forget Your Saddlebags!” It’s written in bright, friendly pink. I hate pink.   I let a breath in... and out. Right. First things first. The light from my horn overtakes the attendant’s station, and I pull open the cabinets under it, rooting around through the supplies there. It doesn't take me long to find a refill for the oil lamps, a half-filled grimy bottle of kerosene. The first lamp I try has no wick left, and the second has a hole in the bottom of the pan, but the third—by the booths—is intact, and a spark from my horn lights it. Warm white candlelight replaces my soft magenta glow, and I let my magic relax.   “Right,” I say to the lamp. “Next, I ah...” I light all the other lamps that are still in working order, turning them up all the way until the room is bright. It uses up all the oil, but it makes me feel better.   “Right,” I repeat, turning to the room as a whole. “Next, I assess the situation.” That sounds good, very decisive, but I can’t help but feel it needs a little follow up. “The situation. Which is,” I continue, “which is that I have locked myself in a lounge of some kind, and outside, there’s a deranged earth pony sorcerer waiting to chop me up. I’m in some kind of... seapony city.” It sounds half-witted as soon as I say it, and I momentarily grind to a halt. I pick it up again though—need to keep that momentum going. “There are no obvious means of escape, but, I’m Celestia’s prized pupil! She’ll come for me when it’s clear that I’m missing.” I bite my lip, a hoof dragging over the carpet. “In a few months. I just need to hold out until then!”   “So, step two, uh... assess... what resources are available. Starting with this room.” I glance across the room, noticing what facilities are there, and specifically, which aren't, as I earlier noted. I let out a breath, considering if things can just wait, but under the circumstances, it doesn't seem like I’ll get a break soon. I’m not proud of what happens next, but, it’s not like that puddle by the door could get any filthier.   “Right!” I exclaim, with more force than I strictly need to. “Step two, assess resources.” I turn to one of the stations and push the door open.   For the most part, it’s empty—just a space for a pony to stand in with plenty of knee room. The only thing in it is at the far end: a life-size copper statue of a pony on a stand. No, not a statue, an automaton—I can see the gears and cogs beneath the smooth segments of its legs. It’s sexless, its face featureless except for two glass eyes, its tail and mane made from actual hair that has long since faded. It hangs limply on its stand, limbs swaying faintly under it. I can’t see a crank or other controls, but there’s a hexagonal slot on its flank, like something is meant to be inserted there. Once again, I wish I’d paid more attention when Celestia taught me about magical theory.   “I wish I’d paid more attention when Celestia taught me about magical theory.” It makes me feel better to say it aloud.   “Right, well, you obviously come to life.” I glance at the heavy stand it’s braced on, checking to see if it releases. From the looks of it, it doesn't, connecting straight to the floor. “You don’t go anywhere though. The designer wanted me to feel social around you, but being in the booth with you is private. You’re pretty—” I briefly admire the smooth, minimalist construction, “—but sexless, so you aren't a model for clothes or anything. All of which means...” I apply my razor wit and the whole of my training to the problem, looking over every detail.   “Um...” I mutter, furrowing my brow. I take a moment to reflect on the applicability of the dozens of intellectual fields I have mastered to this particular dilemma.   “I’ll come back to this later,” I decide firmly, resolving to be more efficient by gathering all available information before I waste time overthinking it. I step out of the booth, heading back to the attendant’s station. My stomach growls loudly, and after a moment to brush the dust off, I grimace and eat the pile of mints. It leaves my mouth feeling so dry and cold I worry my jaw might crack and fall off, but at least I can’t taste the brine water anymore.   A more thorough search of the supply cabinet proves fruitless. There’s no potable water or helpful tools, just cleaning solutions, rags, lubricating oil, and some interesting but not immediately useful beauty products. I do take a moment to examine the bottles, noting the garish, faded labels: Crank Shaft’s Universal Machine Oil, Sparkle Enchantment’s Automaton Restorative (Now with Pine Scent!), Pinkie’s Pie-Flavored Cleaning Solvent (Danger: Not Actually Pie Flavored. Highly Toxic. Do Not Drink). All of the bottles have some overdone logo that matches their equally colorful contents. I wrinkle my nose at the last one; pink is such an awful color.   More importantly though, none of these are brands or manufacturers I’ve ever heard of. Not that I’ve ever cleaned anything before, but... obviously, none of this came from Equestria. Any doubts I may have had are dispelled when I pick up the bottle of Brilliance tail-shine, and a hot blush rises to my face when I see the label. Even though the label is faded and cracked, I can still see the mare on it quite clearly. She’s shockingly pretty, her tail and mane such a rich green that the color seems to radiate out through the paper, and her pose is... the sort of thing they wouldn't let you publish in Equestria. Although, I can see her tail quite clearly and it is indeed very shiny. I put the bottle back.   Finally, I make it to the mirrors on the room’s far side. Each one is a makeup station with an oil lamp over the mirror and a small countertop in front of it. I already know how filthy I must be, so there’s no point in looking into the mirror, and I focus on searching the stations for useful items. The entire place is a mess, and the supplies have been knocked onto the ground and trampled, but between all six stations, I manage to find an unbroken comb, brush, horn file, scissors, half of a set of horseshoes, and hoof clipper. I’m not completely sure how these are going to help me survive a crisis, but I’ve collected my tools. That’s important.   Finally, with nothing else left in the room, I look into the mirror. I squint.   “Ewwww.” I feel the mints threatening to escape, and I hurriedly grab the brush and comb with my magic, trying to scrape off those bits of... decaying...   I shudder, and brush harder, violently shaking myself off again, peering into the mirror to make sure I got it all. My light-purple coat looks brown, my mane is tangled and twisted, my tail is dripping something black. My eyes dart over my reflection, looking for any trace of that sickly green, and when I see another piece of it in my mane, I pounce on it with the brush and comb. Strands tangle and fray as I brutalize the poor hairs, knocking the last bits of filth off me. The comb suddenly snarls on something, and I squeal in pain as I rip a few hairs off my back.   After a few experimental tugs, I determine that the comb is quite stuck, but it doesn't feel like a knot. I reach back with a hoof, blindly pressing around until I feel the comb, and something taut around it. String? There’s something hard in my mane, like a rock, with a cord attached to it. A necklace! At this point, my mane is hopelessly tangled anyway, and so I bite down and levitate the scissors up behind me. A single, loud slice frees the comb and its strange prize. I levitate the filthy ball of hair and detritus in front of me, and it sparkles.   It takes me a few moments with the scissors to free the items. I have to cut the stone at the end of the necklace from its cord entirely, and after some thought, I throw the rest away. It’s a bright blue crystal, hexagonal and flat on both ends. I remember the strange foal and the pony in a diving suit, and cleverly conclude that she must have tied the stone into my mane so I couldn't lose it. Holding it up for a closer look, I can see that its about as long from end to end as my hoof, and perhaps a fourth as wide. One end is unadorned, but the other has etchings that show a magic wand with a star on the end. The size and shape of the crystal is familiar, and I look back to the booth.   “So, the pony who saved me gave me this. They obviously wanted to help me, and so they must have thought this could be useful. Picking a random door in a random plaza just happened to leave me with a device that this fits.” I step back into the booth, and holding the crystal up to the slot confirms it’s the right size. “Obviously, these automata are very common, and this crystal will let me turn them on so I can escape.” I slot the crystal into place, and it fits perfectly. “Automaton!” I give a decisive command, “Help me escape!”   “Automaton! Activate!” I try again. “Um. Turn on. Come to life! Obey! Uh... fire up?” I pull the crystal in and out, tap it with a hoof, and try to energize the machine with my horn. I try the crystal in the other booths, inspect it for cracks or other damage, and dry it off just in case it’s water sensitive. I rifle through the attendant’s station again for tools or other parts, and read all the labels on the bottles just in case one of them lists “crystal recharger” as a feature. Finally, I come to the inescapable, obvious conclusion: the machines are broken.   “Fine,” I declare to the machine, resolute. “I’m a unicorn. You’re magic. How hard can this be? I’ve got a horn file I can use as a screwdriver, I can use the flat of the scissors as a hammer, and—” I struggle to think of a third tool “—and I’ve got this one. No problem.” I levitate my screwdriver and hammer so they float next to me. “Now, how do you come apart?”   Some time after I break my hammer and screwdriver trying to get into the stupid machine that was designed by ponies who couldn't get a date, it occurs to me that the crystal probably goes in with the mark facing outwards, so it looks like the automaton’s cutie mark. It’s completely non-obvious and an example of really bad design, but I manage to figure it out anyway. Quickly.   This time, when I put the crystal in, it starts to shine, and the automaton twitches sharply. I step back into the open part of the booth as its limp legs stiffen into a resting posture, its head gradually tilting upwards. Its glass eyes shine in the lamplight as it turns to look at me directly. Inside it, I can hear something spinning up, a quiet mechanical whirring that grows steadily faster. “Now!” I begin, with an entirely understandable frustration, “I order you to—”   “Who is so ignorant—” the machine bursts out, its voice artificial and mechanical, yet also distinctly aggressive and feminine “—as to speak thus to the Great and Powerful Trixie!?” I jump back as the automaton rears up, momentarily forgetting that it can’t actually leave the stand to get at me. “Do you not realize that you are standing in the presence of the most magical unicorn in all of Vision!?”   “N-no, sorry!” I stammer, though privately, I wonder how anything without a horn can think of itself as a unicorn. “I thought you were just a golem, I swear!”   There’s a pause while “Trixie” absorbs my thoughtful apology, lowering herself back to all fours.   “You’re kidding, right?” she asks, with a wholly unnecessary and mean-spirited level of sarcasm, tilting her head as she leans in to peer at me more closely. “When you listen to records, do you wonder about the tiny musicians living in the machine?”   “H-hey!” My cheeks feel hot for some reason. “How should I know anything about automata or talking machines? I just got here and—”   “Trixie isn’t the wiredoll, you ignoramus.” She points at me with a hoof, just in case there was any doubt as to who she was unfairly criticizing. “Trixie is controlling it remotely because it is marginally more convenient than shouting clear across the city. Now, who are you, and how did you get Trixie’s token?”   I take a moment to collect myself, putting a determined hoof forward, looking her in the eye, and stiffening my posture. She’ll respect a good, authoritative posture. “I’m Siren Song, personal student of Princess Celestia, and I demand—” I emphasize it with a good, regal point that uses the full foreleg “—you tell me where I am!”   A derisive snort was not the response I was hoping for, but things rapidly improve as she follows it up with a dubious, “You’re Siren Song?” Doubt I can deal with, and she knows who I am! Trixie leans forward to look me over more closely, the “wiredoll’s” head sliding back and forth. “Finally come home, have you?” Her tone sinks into a scathing sarcasm. She has very good technique, obviously formally trained, and her words manage to sting even when I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Trixie thought you would be taller.”   “Yes, I am Siren Song, Trixie,” I throw the name back at her with just the right amount of practiced disdain. I need to knock her off balance. “And I’ll thank you for watching your tone with me! Since arriving... wherever we are, my ship has been attacked, and I personally have been frozen, drowned, and assaulted twice by the most degenerate vandals ever to dwell under the sun. Now I’m stuck in some disgusting slum and...” I lose the momentum for a moment. “And I demand you send someone to get me to safety!”   Trixie pauses and leans back from me, and I can tell she’s lost in thought. At first, that seems like a good thing, but when she answers me, there’s pity in her tone. “How did you end up in Serpent’s Wharf?” The combination of faintly lowering her voice and tilting her head is very effective, and I feel a shiver run up my spine. The thought that it might be genuine pity sends a much stronger shiver through me, and I answer quickly.   “I-I infer that you mean the slum in which I find myself trapped.” I cover my bases, my voice cracking in a completely unprofessional way as I add, “I don’t know!” I clear my throat, and press on. “My ship was attacked, and I was knocked overboard. I woke up in a shanty-town of a dock, and when I was recovering from hypothermia, a strange filly gave me this crystal to activate the machine. Then this... hideous thug chased me in here, and—” I swallow quietly, lowering my voice as it occurs to me he might hear me “—I locked myself in.”   Trixie doesn't answer right away, and I use the pause to rear up onto my hind legs, peeking over the top of the booth at the door to the lounge. Just for a moment to make sure it’s still secure in its frame and that nopony has tried to pick the lock or try the handle. When I lower myself back down, the wiredoll is giving me a close look, but its body language is flat. I wish it had an expression I could read. Finally, she leans back. “Why did you come here?”   “I didn’t mean to. My ship was attacked and—” She silences me with a slashing gesture across her throat.   “We are in the middle of the ocean, and far from any trade routes. Lie to Trixie again, and Trixie will end the wire and leave you to the mercy of whatever’s outside that door.” Her tone is like ice, and I’ve gone pale before it even occurs to me she might be faking.   “It’s true! I was looking for Twilight Sparkle.” Trixie’s pose stiffens, and she raises her head faintly, ears perking up. “You might have heard of her—she was the Bearer of the Element of Magic. I found out that she was also Princess Celestia’s student once, but that they had a fight, and she left Equestria.” The wiredoll doesn't move when I trail off, those glass eyes boring into me, demanding more. “I was just looking for her to try and get her to mend the fence with the princess. The official records about her have been redacted, but I did some digging, and I found a ship whose captain said she once paid him to take her to a lighthouse out in the middle of the ocean.”   “So you decided to follow her.” Trixie lowers her head, and shakes it faintly. I can tell her real eyes are closed, even if the wiredoll can’t blink. “You’re in the right place, but you’re too late. Twilight Sparkle is dead.” After everything I’ve seen today, that shouldn't even register, but it does. This was all for nothing. I really shouldn't have ever left the palace.   She raises her head, and her tone goes hard. “Trixie will only explain this once, ‘Siren,’ so listen carefully.” She sits up, back arched, head lowered so she looks down at me. I recognize the posture from Advanced Stagecraft and Expression. It’s ‘Authority Figure Commands Novice #3,’ and it’s supposed to make me pay attention. Which I do. “You are in Serpent’s Wharf. It is a completely burned out section of the city. Nopony lives there except markers, predators, and ponies who are hiding from security. Even if Trixie cared enough to help you, Trixie doesn't know anypony foalish enough to go there. You’ll have to fight your way out on your own.”   “I’m an artist! A student! I can’t fight a bunch of... markers!” I assume it’s a reference to the colorful and obviously magic tattoos that thug was covered in.   “Then they’ll kill and rape you, and if you’re lucky, they’ll do it in that order.” My mouth falls open, and I look back to the door. I think I heard something outside it. “Do you want to live?” Trixie demands, leaning forward until her nose touches mine. I forgot she was copper; the chill of the metal sends a shiver through me.   “You—” I can’t look away from those glass eyes. My own are starting to tear up.   “Do you want to live!?” she shouts, her voice echoing around me, carrying out the door and into the promenade. There’s no way he didn’t hear that. He’ll be here any second. I want to look away, to check the door, but I can’t. It’s like my gaze is glued to those glass orbs. I feel tears running down my face, but I’m not sure why.   “Yes!” I finally manage to respond to her stupid, pointless overacting that only got to me because I’m so unsettled. I think my voice quivers a bit, but that doesn't matter, and she leans back.   “Then do everything Trixie tells you. First, you’ll need weapons. Can you find a wrench or a crowbar or something?” She looks around, but the wiredoll can’t see outside of the booth, and I shake my head.   “No, I’m just in a... wiredoll lounge,” I guess at the name, and she doesn't laugh, so I suppose I got it right. “There’s nothing here you could use as a weapon. Just some makeup and booths and cleaning stuff.” I’m obviously going to have to fight my way out of here barehoofed.   “Mph. Bring Trixie all of the bottles you can find. Cleaning solution, makeup, everything,” she insists, even though I just explained none of it is useful as a weapon. I step out anyway though, sweeping up all the stuff at the attendant’s station and holding it in front of me as I trot back.   Trixie looks down at the bottles, then looks at me, a silence hanging between us. “Well?” she demands, like I was a stupid foal again. “What are you waiting for? Stuff the rags into the bottles of machine oil and tail shine.” Like that was supposed to somehow be obvious. I do as she says, waiting for her to berate me for not knowing to perform the secret dance of thug repelling.   “There, done, now what?” I demand, but Trixie only faintly sways her head. It’s a strange gesture, one I can’t quite figure out, and she quickly follows it up with a sigh, her face sinking into a hoof.   Wait, was she trying to roll her eyes at me?   “Trixie has been away so long, Trixie forgot how pathologically peaceful ponies from Celestia’s domain are.” She says that like it’s a bad thing, and I’m about to lecture her on the importance of kindness as a virtue, but what she says next takes my breath away. “Use your magic to light the rag on fire, and throw it. When it hits something, the glass will break and throw flaming oil everywhere. If somepony gets too close for that, throw the acid in their face!”   I know that my mouth has fallen open again, but it hardly seems important. I’m at a loss for words. This sadistic, sick... monster of a pony just suggested I maim somepony with acid and burn them with oil! Scar them for life, just because...   Just because they want to rape and kill me.   “Celestia wouldn't approve,” I whisper, looking down and hoping she won’t hear. She does hear though, of course, she does. That awful witch of a pony.   “The sun doesn't shine here, ‘Siren.’ Are you willing to die for Celestia’s principles?” She’s awful, cruel. She’s enjoying seeing me this scared, seeing me flinch every time she yells, I can tell. Just like that pony out there liked seeing me afraid.   “No,” I squeak.   This place is horrible.   “Then do as Trixie tells you.” She leans back, reaching her hooves out to gesture as she talks. “The elevators around you are broken. You will have to use the maintenance stairs. There are three stairwells, marked with red stripes, but they are all at the far end of the promenade. It doesn't matter which stairwell you take, but you must take it all the way to the top. Do not stop at any of the interim levels for anything or anypony. If anypony gets in your way, kill them, or run. Do not stop before you reach the top.” She pauses in her gestures, looking down at me. “Do you understand?”   “What...” I croak, forcing the words out. “What happens when I reach the top?”   “You’ll be near the basement of Artemis Suites. There will be signs pointing the way. Trixie knows a few holdouts who have refused to leave. Trixie will wire ahead to let them know you’re coming. Get into the Suites building and look for suite 017. Got that?” She can’t help but add that slight little put-down at the end, like I honestly was too dim to understand what she just said. I hate her.   “Suite Zero-One-Seven. Got it.” I parrot back, and she nods.   “Take the token with you. You’ll need it. Oh, and remember, if you get in trouble—” I crane forward for some single word of encouragement “—you can use the broken bottle as a weapon.”   “Thanks.” I nod, not sure what else to say. “I guess that’s it then.” I don’t want her to go, not yet, and I reach out for the wiredoll. “Is-is there anything you can do to—” The crystal pops out of the machine with a mechanical whine, and the doll goes limp, slumping back onto its support pole.   “I guess not,” I murmur, pulling the crystal out, levitating it and the bottles back to the countertop. I should feel... I don’t know, sick? I should feel disgusted by that awful pony, but all I can think about is the wrench I left on the ground because I didn’t have any saddlebags. Stupid.   “I’m not making that mistake again.” I reach out with my magic to grab the broken scissor’s blade, and stab it down into the first dry patch of carpet I see, grabbing the edge and yanking hard. A long strip of the blue-green fuzz rips itself out of the floor, and I yank and stomp on the end of it until it snaps off. I kick all the stupid junk off one of the countertops, and press the carpet strip down onto it, so I can cut it with the blade. Two long cuts later, the machine-oil bottle fits snugly into my new belt. I make spaces for the rest of the bottles and Trixie’s “token,” and then tie the band around my barrel, right where a saddle would go. The carpet fuzz feels greasy against my coat. Evidently it wasn’t as dry as I thought.   “Right!” I look down, taking an inventory. “I’ve got three bottles of things that burn, two bottles of acid...” I look back up at the mirror, grab one of the horseshoes, and smash the stupid, ugly thing to pieces. “And a knife,” I finish, using my magic to pick up the largest shard of broken glass I can see.   I turn back to the door.   “Right,” I assert bravely, adding, “Nobody’s going to buck with me.” I look like a mare on the edge. That inbred ruffian will probably wet himself when he sees me coming.   Just for good measure, I add another, “Right.”   The door is still there.   I have to straddle the filthy puddle to reach out for the bolt. My hoof touches it, and I pause for a second to carefully and prudently think the situation over, but, if all this yelling hasn’t attracted him, the sound of the door bolt certainly won’t. The grimey thing is stuck, and it takes a few hard whacks before it pops open. The lock opens just fine on the first try, and I let the door swing in. I take a second to look around, just in case he’s waiting for me. Then I step outside.   The room is a jungle. The first thing I see when I step outside is the tail-end of the statue whose legs I ran under, but that’s not the room, that’s just what’s in the room. The room is elevator shafts made from skeletal brass beams and glass, so you can see and admire every cog that makes the lift move. Around those scattered trunks are circular platforms where emerald banners hang like leaves, letting ponies off onto the floors and floors of stores and businesses that must stretch ten stories above me. The cables and walkways that connect it all are a labyrinthine mess, but that just brings to mind vines, the ponies like little forest animals scrambling along them. It’s raining, and the drops make a steady pitter-patter on the leaves on their way down. I can see this place, and it’s beautiful—a jungle like none other.   I can only see it in my mind though. The real jungle is dead and rotting. Most of the stores are abandoned and boarded up; the rest have been looted and vandalized. The elevator mechanisms are visibly damaged, and a few of the cars are ajar in their shafts. The rain that makes that perfect sound is seawater, running out of open doors and broken windows before it falls to the ground. There was a real garden at the bottom level around me, but the seawater has choked it out, and all the plants and trees are lifeless husks. It’s not the time to be stopping to admire the sights, but...   It’s not the time to be stopping to admire the sights. There doesn't seem to be anypony else here, and the air around me is quiet other than the dripping water, so I move forward.   The statue is impressive, and when I pass under it and glance up, I note that the designer wasn’t too shy. There’s a few other details too—I don’t think this was the same sculptor as the other statue. It would hardly have mattered if he had censored it though. While the statue’s pose isn’t suggestive per se—one hoof forward, glancing down at the crowd—it’s domineering and masculine enough that you can imagine a mare swooning in front of it. The kind of mare I try not to associate with. On the way past, I turn briefly to see the quote I didn’t have time to read coming in.   “Every pony builds the world in their own image. They have the power to choose, but no power to escape the necessity of choice.” I frown, as I read the words aloud. Somepony has scrawled “NO RIGHT CHOICES” across the statue’s chest in bright red paint. It feels applicable to my situation.   Soon, I come back to the stairs. The banners I saw before are there, but there’s nothing interesting on them, just Sine Rider’s cutie mark and one-word slogans. “ABSOLUTION” holds my gaze for a moment longer than the others, but I don’t have the context to learn more. My hooves hit the ice water, and I leap back, waving my knife in front of me! There’s nopony there though; the whole of the promenade is abandoned and silent.   I’m less than eager to jump back into the corpse water... my stomach churns, and I hurriedly decide to think of it as ice water. I take a moment to look over the promenade instead. It’s not that long, and while the far end does curve out of sight, I get the impression that it’s not too far out of sight. To my right, a wall of white stone rises ten stories high, each level an identical collection of archways. Once it would have been a sharp juxtaposition to the market below—sterile geometric perfection rising above the colorful bustle—but now that perfection is marred by damage, scorch marks, and worse. There are... sounds, drifting out of those archways, and I quickly conclude that the other levels of this place are inhabited. They must just avoid the lowest level because of the water.   After a moment of listening to the sounds from the arches, I look away, over to the left. The ocean-side of the promenade is a little more pleasant to look at, even with the leaks. The light doesn't extend very far into the water, but sometimes a fish swims close enough for its scales to glint, only for it to swim away a moment later. There’s something I’m supposed to see outside this window. I can tell from how it’s positioned. I’m supposed to look out that window and be left breathless, but there’s nothing there. For a moment, I almost wade up to it, just to peer into the gloom and look more closely.   Not the time.   My whole body shivers when I wade into the icy water. Without the shock of fear to insulate me, I feel colder, although that might just be because I’m getting weaker from hunger and thirst. My mouth has gone from tasting like ice to tasting like dust, and dragging my tongue over the inside of my cheek produces a scraping sound. It’s a stupid thing to be worrying about right now, but it means I don’t have to look down. I don’t think the bodies have anything useful on them, and the water has... bloated them.   I glance down, and look back up before I can see anything. I just need to keep moving. I glance down again. Something might have been moving there, but no, moving on.   I look down, and stop.   He’s dead.   The thug who chased me. He’s face down in the water, but I can see the faint impression of a hoof above his eye, just below his metal hat with the knife. I can see the outline, but his skull doesn't look cracked. He must have been stunned and slipped down into the water. I’m not actually sure what a cracked skull looks like, but there’s no blood. I think that’s important.   He’s right where he was when he threatened me, before I ran from him. Why did he come back here? Was there some other mare he was chasing? Did he get into a fight with another vandal?   I’ve never seen a corpse before. I mean, I guess I have now, but they were months-old things long since given to decay. This isn’t a thing; he’s a stallion. He looks like he might lift his head and get up at any moment.   He won’t, though.   He’s not so scary this way. I can make out details I didn’t notice before. He has a tan coat, and a ratty dark-brown mane and tail. It looks like he’s gone months without a shower, and I can see insect bites along his neck. At the time, being a filthy ruffian was part of what made him so scary, I guess, but now it just looks like that must have itched. I can see his cutie mark: three clovers. It’s only after I look at his flank that the significance of “marker” hits me—his tattoos are fake cutie marks. The one on his shoulder is obviously some kind of ward against magic. It’s not clear if the others do anything.   He’s not ill-bred, like I thought. Even inbreeding won’t deform a pony that badly. It’s like his skin is pushing out in lumps all over his body, except I can feel misshapen bone underneath. I’m touching a corpse, but I don’t feel that bile rising. His rear legs are twisted and warped. He probably couldn't move faster than a trot. How did he ever keep up with me?   He did chase me. I heard him.   I feel so strange. It’s like none of this is really happening. I remember what I said earlier, about being too good for him, and sick as it is, I feel a little pang of guilt. It’s like the whole rape and murder thing doesn't matter—he’s the ugly foal in the orphanage nopony would play with, and I’m the bully who made him cry.   That’s it though. Just that little pang. Is that wrong?   “We mustn't touch unclean things,” a voice hisses in both my ears at once, an echo. I look around for the source, my heart suddenly racing, but I can’t see it. Above me, somewhere, but there are too many arches, too many places it could carry from. “If we do, we become unclean ourselves. You’re a dirty pony.”   This one is a mare, but there’s something in her voice that reminds me of him. She’s cruel, not just like writers in Equestria use the word because they’ve already used “mean” twice in one paragraph, but shamelessly and proudly. “Dirty, dirty, dirty. I know what you were planning to do with that corpse, you sick, sick, sick deviant. Deviant, deviant, deviant.” She’s dragging the words out, maybe because she’s trying to unnerve me, but I think it’s because she enjoys my fear. I can hear a scraping sound, like dragging metal over stone, the sound carrying clearly over her hoofsteps. I back away from the arches, but my leg bumps a fallen cart, and I shriek.   “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you!?” she shouts, even though I haven't laughed or... or anything. “Dirty pony in her dirty water. Giggling at me! Me!” Her shouting is making it easier to locate her, and though I can’t see her, I look up to one archway in particular. That saves my life a moment later.   “I’ll give you something to giggle about!” This time, I’m thinking on my hooves. She leaps out, and I see what I need to see: unicorn, glowing horn, far away, nothing floating around her. She’s casting a spell at me. I leap before she finishes, and the cart I bumped into explodes into a shower of fiery debris. She’s screaming something at the top of her lungs, but the hiss of steam covers it, and I break into a gallop, steering close to the right side so her shot will be harder.   It doesn't occur to me until afterward that that will also make my shots harder. I grab the first bottle with my magic, lighting the rag and hurling it up over my shoulder. Even without looking, I can hear that it’s a dismal miss, shattering against the wall almost directly behind me. She’s more accurate, and I cry out in pain as a fireball detonates in the water a few yards behind me, spraying me with boiling droplets. They’re in my mane, in my tail, running down my coat, burning me everywhere they touch. I leap into one of the white stone passages back to the docks, out of her sight entirely. I need to shake off, but if I do, I’ll lose my weapons! It hurts, it hurts so much. There’s a splash in the water behind me, something heavy landing in it.   There’s no thought. I don’t make a conscious decision. Something in me takes over—I forget the pain, turn, grab next bottle, and throw. It hits her just before the spell finishes, and she bursts into flames. The tail shine burns green, and I can see flaming rivers of it running down her face, her sides. Her coat is tan, her mane orange, and I can see that they’ve both caught on fire as well. She should be dead, or disabled by pain, but all she does is scream at me like a wild animal and leap away. It’s an impossible jump she makes—nopony can jump that high—but she does it, and I can hear her climbing back up into the archways. I bolt out of the tunnel and back down the promenade before she can recover.   The sounds in the archways are worse now: groans, screams, growls, moans. The fight is waking something up, and it doesn't sound like a pony. I hope no pony made those sounds. I can hear her hoofsteps echoing above me, and her growls of pain, but no more fireballs yet, and the end of the promenade is just ahead of me. Once, trees hid it, but now the trees are dead and I can see the service doors. Wide wooden things, now jammed open, each one marked with a peeling red strip.   “Unclean, unclean!” There’s a rush of fire above me, and I duck, but I don’t feel any heat. Ahead of me, the first doorway explodes, fire racing out from it to envelop the dead wood just past it. I can feel my breath catch, and I put on a burst of speed. The second doorway bursts into flames when I’m halfway there, her screams of, “Filthy pony!” flying around me. I’m not going to make it. I can hear her spell charging, and there’s too much distance left to go. I’m going to hit the third door just as the fireball does.   I hold my breath, shut my eyes, and run for the first door.   I try to take it in two big leaps to get through the fire more quickly: one through the door, one up the stairs. I take the first leap perfectly. The heat doesn't even seem that bad, then all four of my hooves go in boiling water. It’s like knives are plunged into me, up through my hooves and into my ankles. I stumble into the second leap, and land on the stairs on my side. Glass crunches under me. I don’t know if it’s the oil or the acid, but it burns. I just want it to stop. I can’t think of the markers, the fire, anything else, just the pain. Make it stop, Celestia, make it stop!   At some point, I realize I’m screaming. I don’t know how long it’s been, but there are other ponies screaming around me. Yelling, fighting. I try to rise to my hooves, and fall, squeeze my eyes shut and try again. My ankles must be broken—burns can’t hurt this much. I’ve lost the knife, I don’t know what bottles are left. One step, up the step, right forehoof first, left forehoof next, rear to follow. Next step, right forehoof first—oh Celestia it hurts. I’m on the next flight, but there’s no door out. Why is there no door? Doesn't matter, going to the top.   Next step, right forehoof first. There’s somepony in front of me. Grab one of the bottles, smash it against their face. They start screaming and I run past. How many flights are there? How many have I gone? There are two ponies in the stairwell, grappling on the ground. I try to jump over them, but the force of the landing makes me beg for Celestia to cut off my hooves so this can end. One of them grabs my rear ankle, and I kick them in the face with my other hoof. The shock of impact travels through me, pain roaring in my ears every time my ankles touch anything, but I kick and I kick until I feel something give. He lets go.   Smoke, heat, sweat, screaming, fumes around me. Did I light the stairwell on fire? I need to keep going. There’s so much shouting now—when I see doors, there are ponies fighting behind almost of all of them. One throws himself out prone onto the ground in front of me, trying to block my path. Last bottle. I smash it into him and kick him on the way over him. Up, up the stairs. The smoke is getting worse. No bottles left. I lost my knife. Up, keep going up, just to the next flight of stairs.   I come to a dead end, no more stairs. I took a wrong turn, I’m in the wrong stairwell. The exit on this level opens to a wide, dark hall, full of lurking ponies. They can see me and I lost my knife! I can’t turn around, there’s too much smoke. I need to find a way to the right stairwell. I jump out, and look around, but I can’t see any other stairs around me, just those other ponies closing in. Those awful, horrible things.   “Get away!” Something tears in my throat with how hard I’m yelling. I grab a piece of debris off the floor with my magic. It feels heavy, a length of pipe or something. “Get away! Get away!” I swing at the first one of them that gets too close, and run. He’s right behind me. I whirl to swing at him, but I turn too fast at a full gallop, and I go down to the ground. The floor is rough and dirty, and falling onto it at speed rips open the cuts from the glass. My side feels warm suddenly. Oh Celestia, that’s blood. How much am I bleeding? I need to get up. I need to... there’s something green in front of me.   Somepony green. They smell... nice.   “Would you kindly stop struggling, before you open those cuts any further?” she asks, and I do. She smiles at me, and that’s good. She’s happy. It’s important I do whatever I can to make her happy.   “That’s good, Sweetheart. Now, fall asleep.”