“I found more alcohol swabs,” Swiftwing says, and when she offers me the box balanced on her wing, I take it. It’s not much—a little bin full of cotton balls with a bottle of rubbing alcohol tucked into the side—but it seems clean enough. The bathroom sink is already full of bloody rags and cotton from the first aid kit resting on top of the toilet, and when I look into the mirror, I can still see flecks of red in my coat. I sweep the cotton out of the sink and chuck it into the bin, wringing out the cloths so I can use them again later. The fabric was white when I started, but now it’s a dark pink that runs red when I twist it. I leave it hanging on a towel rack to dry.
“Thanks,” I mutter, uncorking the bottle and pressing one of the cotton balls to its mouth. A quick twist soaks the cotton without wasting any of the fluid inside, and I wince as I levitate it up to my forehead. I don’t even know how I got that cut. I guess he must have had a knife or something where I headbutted him. It feels like lightning is shooting through my forehead, and for a second, the glow around the cotten flickers as I struggle to hold it. I power through it though, clamping my teeth together and dragging the swab over the cut. The pain won’t kill me, but an infection might, and soon enough, the cut is clean and clotted. I toss the swab into the bin, turning to start on the cuts along my side.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Swiftwing asks for the third time. I glance up from my work and realize she’s standing in the doorway, watching me clean my injuries as she shifts awkwardly from hoof to hoof. Her face is flat, but her eyes are a little bit wide, and her ears are up and alert. There are probably some subtleties in how she’s holding her wings too, but I think I get the gist, and go back to what I’m doing.
“That depends. Can you catch poison joke from an open wound?” The cuts in my side don’t seem that bad. They sure bled enough to give me a scare, but now that I’ve washed the blood away, I can see that they aren’t that deep, and they seem to have stopped bleeding on their own. I should still clean them up and bandage them, but I’ll be fine. They might not even scar, I guess.
“It’s not a disease,” she replies, a little sharp, maybe. She doesn’t follow up on that anger though, and her tone quickly softens. “I mean, you could catch cutie pox from marker blood, I guess, but I’ve never heard of that happening.”
“Then I’m probably fine,” I say as I levitate the razor out of the first aid kit. It’s a good kit at least, even if it is small. I’m pretty sure the shaving cream is an antiseptic and a painkiller. It stings when I rub it into my coat around the cuts, but the stinging stops soon enough, and I don’t feel any pain when I start shaving away the hair. A muffled crash comes up through the floor, and the bathroom trembles very slightly. I guess they’re still at it.
“That cut on your forehead looks like it might need stitches,” Swiftwing says, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see her pointing with a hoof. I shrug.
“Do you know how to sew wounds?” I ask, and of course, she shakes her head. “Well, I don’t either. So let's hope you’re wrong.” That keeps her quiet for a bit, and she watches as I work. Scrape, scrape, wash the razor off in the sink, antiseptic cream, scrape, scrape, repeat.
“Do you need any help with that?” She breaks the silence after what feels like five minutes at least. “I know you’re a unicorn, but that still seems awkward.” She knows I’m a unicorn? It takes me a second to piece together what she means—of course, she would have to do this with her mouth.
“No. I’m almost done,” I answer with a little shake of my head. I only need to take enough off so that the bandages will stay on. A minute more, and I shift to do the cut on my forehead. A minute after that, I toss the razor into the sink, taking the pink cloth off the stand to wash away the cream. Get some bandages, press down on the wounds, stick them in place, and done.
I should clean up. I’ve made a mess of the bathroom. Put everything I haven’t used back in the kit, clean up the swabs, wring out the cloth.
“You look... uh. You look better,” Swiftwing fumbles out, still standing in the doorway. I don’t glance back at her—I know her body language hasn’t changed.
“Oh yeah, dazzling. Mares dig scars, right?” I don’t know where that came from. I should... sigh or something, show her I didn’t mean it, but I only stare at her. I just spoke without thinking. She doesn't answer. There are more sounds from outside—distant screaming and the crackle of lightning. “I’m sorry. That was—”
“Yeah,” she says, the word clipped, and she turns away to walk back into the kitchen.
I finish cleaning up the bathroom. I guess it strikes me as odd that I’m not freaking out. I don’t think I’m in shock, or at least it doesn’t feel like it did when I was lying on the wharf or running away from Green. The first time, I couldn't think anything at all, and the second time, all I could think about was the blood. Now I feel numb. Not really numb—my legs and cuts still hurt—but like my thoughts are echoing out of a deep well, if that makes any sense. Maybe I’m tired.
She’s waiting in the kitchen when I step back out, sitting on her haunches by the stove, glancing around at nothing in particular. She doesn’t say anything. My belt is right where I left it on the countertop, and I quickly secure it around my barrel, even if it does irritate the new cuts. It’s funny—a month ago, the idea of wearing clothes or saddlebags every day would have struck me as vain and uncomfortable. Now though, I feel somehow safer with this, like it was armor instead of cloth and straps.
“Thank you, for everything,” I speak first, and after a second, I open up one of the pouches on my belt. I have no idea how much a first aid kit costs here, but I count out five of the ten-bit tokens and leave them on the countertop. “I’m sorry I can’t do more, and I’m sorry I was so nasty to you earlier.” She doesn’t answer. I fold my ears back, tilt my head down, and lower my tail a bit. It’s not my best performance, but contrition is mostly in the tone anyway. “I’ve had kind of a bad day.”
“I picked up on that,” she says, reaching up to scratch the back of her head. There doesn’t seem to be much else to say. I don’t need her to do anything other than what she’s already done, and she doesn’t seem to want to talk, so we stand there. I can hear some thumping in the distance, I think, and the pulsing of the lights. When it gets quiet enough, I start to hear my own breathing. Of course, not wanting to talk isn’t the same thing as wanting silence, so it doesn’t take her long to pipe up again. “You were pretty bad off when you came in. I thought you were about to die on my floor.”
“That makes two of us,” I answer, even if it’s not exactly true. “But I’ve had worse.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. And then it’s quiet again.
“Ah.” This time, it’s me who says something to break the quiet. I don’t feel well at all. It’s all too much at once. Something else to focus on will do me good—a little trace of normalcy. I force my voice into something like casual and lift my head, looking around the little space we’re in. “How do you cook anything here? There’s barely any counter space, no cabinets, no tools, no trash disposal.” That felt nice to ask, and I swallow a bit, trying to get back into the swing of things.
“Oh, I don’t.” Swiftwing shakes her head. “I just heat things up. All the food is prepared when it arrives, in those boxes there.” She points to the pile of little metal containers that occupies nearly the entire wall, and I lean over to examine one.
It’s small—about three hooves across maybe—with a latch, but not a lock. A plain white label reads Cinnamon Apples A3, and when I crack the top open to peek inside, I see that it’s full of apple slices dusted with cinnamon and suger. They smell good, like the apple was freshly cut, but these boxes are covered in dust. “Don’t they go bad or turn brown?”
“Produce from New Apples Acres never goes bad,” she says, plainly enough. Her tone is almost bored, going through the motions of a conversation. Unremarkable.
“Are the boxes enchanted?” I turn the box over, but I don’t see any gems or enchantable surfaces on it.
“No, the fruit just never goes bad. It’s a special breed or something.” Swiftwing gives a little shrug.
“That’s unnatural,” I answer, and it comes out a little harsher than I meant. It is, though. Not even the ponies in Celestia’s own kitchens can delay spoiling indefinitely.
“It’s better,” she snaps back, and while her voice doesn’t rise much, I can hear her bristle. It’s okay though; I can defuse this situation. All I need to do is agree with her, apologize for being rude, and explain I’m a bit of a traditionalist. I know what I need to say.
“Tell yourself that to make it feel okay, do you?” That wasn’t it.
“You’re something else, you know that?” Her voice drops, but her tone hardens, her jaw set as she stares me down. “After you were a toxic, spiteful shrew to me, I saved your life because I took pity on you. And now you have the gall to come in here and condescend to me, all high and mighty.”
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer as I try to recover the conversation. There was no need to say that, she just got to me for a second there. “I didn’t mean—”
“Ponyfeathers you didn’t mean it,” she snaps, her voice rising. “Your closet is bigger than this? My apartment is smaller than this, you harpy.” A sharp snort escapes her, and she glares. “I don’t get you. Do you hate everypony, or did I do something to you to deserve this?”
“You—” You decided to become one of them for the glamour of it, you disgusting coward. That’s what I want to say. That’s what I feel in my throat when it tightens, my chest when it goes tense. I want to go off on this pathetic nothing of a pony. Her self-esteem is like glass. I could rip out her heart and crush it in front of her with one good cold rant. I know I could, and Celestia forgive me, right now I want to.
I take a deep breath and let it out.
The Princess can forgive me later—for the time being, she raised me better than that.
“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and sometimes when I’m having a bad day I take it out on the ponies around me,” I say with a weary little sigh, slumping my shoulders appropriately. Contrite isn’t the right tone for this; I undercut that option by using it earlier and then snapping at her. Instead, I go for worn down, beaten, and it’s barely above a whisper that I continue, “It’s petty and selfish, and I am sorry, Swiftwing.”
She turns away, her ears folded back and a sharp frown on her face. “Whatever,” she mutters. “I’m not going to kick you out over it, so just...”
“Sit here and try not to make a mule of myself?” I offer her a weak smile, and she offers a weak laugh in trade.
“Yeah,” she agrees, and her ears perk up a little. “That.”
Things get quiet, but they’re not as awkward as they were before. I start to calm down, or at least, stop feeling so twitchy. I realize it’s gotten quiet outside too. Well, not quiet quiet—the alarm is still going off—but there are no sounds of fighting anymore. Perhaps the guards have retaken the train station. Then again, perhaps the soldiers have advanced so far into the tower we can’t hear the battle any longer.
“Do you know what’s got them so riled up?” Swiftwing asks, peering at the closed door to the restaurant front. “The fighting doesn’t usually last this long.”
“Usually?” My head perks up, and she turns back to me. “This happens often enough to have a ‘usually’?”
“Every few months I guess?” she answers, superficially calm, but there’s a little hint of unease in her eyes. “Some hot-shot in security thinks he’s going to be the one to finally bring Rainbow Dash the doc’s head, or some featherbrain here thinks that being a resident means he can taunt City Central. Only a scuffle though, usually—some ponies get black eyes or a broken leg and that’s it. It sounds like a real knock-down brawl this time.”
“Nah, nothing special. Some idiot again,” I say, and it’s not exactly a lie. “I was in the train station when it started. One of the guards there decided to imply that Rainbow Dash and Rarity were... you know.” I clap my hooves together. I mean, I guess she does know, fillyfooler and all that.
“Suicide, then?” she asks. I don’t get it. He didn’t kill himself—the soldiers killed him. I give her a puzzled glance—tilting my head to one side—and she makes vague circling gesture with a hoof.
“Suicide by cop,” she elaborates. “You know, like going into a public space and shouting that Rainbow Dash can kiss your flank or that Celestia wasn’t so bad.”
“Oh.” Because guards here can kill ponies for saying the wrong thing. “Suicide by cop. I get it. That’s... clever.” Laughing makes me feel a little better about how screwed up that is, I guess? Even if it is more of a nervous giggle than a real laugh.
“It’s just something ponies say.” She shrugs. Outside, the alarm klaxon fades away, and there is genuine quiet. Swiftwing lets out a sigh, shaking out her wings and ruffling her feathers. It’s a funny gesture, something between a stretch and a shiver, but then again, pegasus wing-expressions are usually complicated. “Oh, good,” she says, the relief in her tone mirroring her body language from a moment ago. “We should give it a few minutes to be safe, but that—”
“Citizens of Vision, take heed!” Though the Lieutenant's voice is no louder than the klaxon was a moment ago, it feels so much closer—it booms, it rattles the door, it drips authority and strength. I know he’s not here, he’s not. I’m a singer and an actress—I can hear the difference between somepony projecting their voice in person and doing it over a distance through magic. Somepony needs to tell my subconscious that though, because I sink down and reflexively try to look smaller. “I am Lieutenant Thunderlane of City Central Security. If you were not already aware, I regret to inform you that a misunderstanding earlier this evening resulted in an altercation between city security and your own private guards. You may be at ease in the knowledge that this matter has been resolved, and normal operations have been restored throughout Tiara Tower. While this incident was both regrettable and entirely avoidable, and steps will be taken moving forward in light of these mistakes, we may take some comfort in the knowledge that no security officers were killed. On behalf of City Central Security, I apologize for any disruption this may have caused to your day.”
He pauses to let it sink in. His tone is all authority and control and classic commanding-stallion intonations, but there’s no way that little undertone of menace was accidental. “Normal operations,” but he’s the one addressing us instead of some local officer or mayor. Reassuring us that no members of his force were killed. Steps will be taken moving forward. You don’t grow up in a palace without learning to read between the lines when politicians talk.
“I address you now to bring to your attention a matter of grave importance. A fugitive from the law has taken shelter in your tower, and it is imperative that she be captured as soon as possible,” he belts out the words, and I realize I’m in trouble. I check Swiftwing, but she’s staring off into space as she listens. She hasn’t put two and two together yet.
“This fugitive, operating under the name ‘Siren Song’—” thank Celestia I didn’t tell her my name “—is wanted on charges of murder, arson, inciting rebellion, and treason against the city and its citizens. I remind you all that while the city forgives you for offenses committed against it in ignorance, knowingly sheltering a traitor is treason and will be punished as such. The bounty for this fugitive or any information leading to her capture is set at ten thousand bits.” Okay. Okay. This is bad, but it could be worse. She doesn’t know my name. When she asks, I’ll make something up, and then be on my way.
“Fugitive is described as a pink unicorn with pronounced scarring down her right side—” Ah horseapples.
Swiftwing whirls in place to face me, springing to her hooves as I do the same. She’s tense, alert, legs spaced apart, wings flared up—instinct and adrenaline driving her eyes back and forth to take in the room around us. Blood pounds in my ears and my throat tightens, but I rip my little metal spear from its strap on my belt, holding it up to her point first. The lieutenant is still talking, but neither of us is listening.
“I can’t believe I saved you, you backstabbing trash!” she shouts, but when she takes a step towards me, a sharp jab with the spear drives her scrambling back.
“Ten thousand bits aren’t worth your life, Swiftwing!” Quickly, I reach back with a hoof to pull open the door to the front of the restaurant. Our eyes are locked together, hers and mine. There’s no talking her out of this now—not with all that anger and all those debts. The second I turn away, she’ll attack, I’m sure of it. For now though, she’s still on the ground, and that throws away her biggest advantage. One step at a time, I back away, out of the kitchen and into the darkened front room. She follows me, step for step, her eyes on mine, until I feel my tail brush something behind me. She’s fixed on me, eyes zipping back and forth over my face. She doesn’t move though. Why not? Around us, Lieutenant Thunderlane is still talking, droning his way through my physical description. Is she listening to him talk? What is she waiting for?
For me to realize I don’t know how to lift the bars.
“The bars!” I snap, waving the spear at her in what I hope is a threatening manner, putting as much anger as I can into my voice. I’m a dangerous fugitive, as far as she knows! She better do as I say or else. “How do the bars go up?”
“There’s a box under the counter with two gems on it,” she points to a space behind me, and even if her voice trembles, she doesn’t stop staring me down. “Blue one lowers the bars, the red one raises them.” Waiting for me to turn around to use them, are we, Swiftwing? I jab at her with the spear again, and she stumbles back into the kitchen in time for me to reach out with my magic and pull the door shut. Light floods into the room as my horn shines, and when I turn around, I see the the box right where Swiftwing pointed—a little metal thing attached to the counter’s underside, two small square gems inside it. I haven’t got long, so I jam the red one as hard as I can, turning to—
Outside, the alarm klaxon sounds again, joined by a loud whine. The red gem pulses in time with the alarm, the light strips in the room flashing a bright crimson.
I am the dumbest pony to ever live.
The blue crystal. I jam it down with a hoof, hitting it again and again until the box shears off the underside of the counter. I don’t hear the bars move, but when I look up, the door is open and light is coming in the windows again. My first leap takes me up onto the counter, my next takes me halfway across the room, and then I’m galloping out the open door, back into the market. Cold hits me like a brick wall, reminding me that I left my jacket inside with every freezing gust that washes over me. It finds its way inside the bandages, and by the time I’m halfway across the market, my cuts are the only part of my face that doesn’t feel numb. There’s no time for that though—the alarm is still going off. I pick a hall at random, and I run as hard as I can.
“There she is!” Swiftwing’s voice calls after me, echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling. “That’s her, right there!” That wretched, pathetic, lying freak! She deserved everything I said, she—
My breath catches in my throat. Who is she shouting to?
There are hoofbeats behind me.
I put on a burst of speed, stretching my hooves forwards so they catch the stone, and a sharp tug of my legs sends me hurtling down the hall. My muscles surge with pain, but I grit my teeth and bear it, leaping ahead as hard as I can with every step. I’m braced for the pain to get worse, but it fades instead, and everything else fades with it. There’s no throbbing in my muscles, no burning in my lungs, no shock of acceleration. I’m not even galloping, I’m flying across the stone. I slip on the ice, but there’s not even any fear, only motion, and then I land on my hooves and speed ahead, like it was all on purpose. The hallway is twisting around me, bending and blurring as I keep in the center, watch where I’m running, watch for guards or doors ahead of me. I need to keep going, need to find a way to duck them and hide until—
Dead end.
It doesn’t taper off, there’s no warning, I turn a corner and suddenly there’s wall where there should be hallway. I try to come to a stop, but I’m moving too fast, and my legs tangle under me. For one, brief, peaceful second I really am flying. I’m soaring through the air in a smooth arc, the wind rushing around me and my legs finally relaxing as they no longer have to hold my weight. Then I hit the ground. It all comes to me then: the burning in my legs, the bite of the cold, the cuts that have been torn open, the bruises all up and down my torso, the froth that comes out when I desperately suck down air, and the sweat dripping off my body. I clench my teeth and try to force myself up, but my legs won’t cooperate. I put weight on them, and before I can stop myself, I scream. Fire rips through my joints, and I crumple back to the ground. It’s all I can do to sit up, try to see some way, any way out.
There’s only two of them, but it might as well be a million for all it matters. Wiredolls. Sexless things with muscles that don’t tire and skin made of steel, standing half a head above me. Buzzing, clicking, clattering like machines, but they aren’t machines. Machines do not think, they do not see, they do not crouch and prowl like predators, seek me through those glass eyes. They aren’t even moving at a gallop. At a trot, they’re faster than me, all graceful and tireless motion, glittering every time the lights pulse. They could have caught me anytime; they just wanted to let me run myself to exhaustion.
That’s it. It’s over.
They slow to a walk, moving up side by side, evenly spaced so they have the whole corridor covered. I can see... there’s... on their forelegs. Cables all bound up with weights and winch. From the station, the metal figures hanging the shoplifter. At least it looked quick.
My chest is trembling, and... and it seems stupid, but I stand up. I take it slow and grit my teeth though the pain, and then I stand up in front of them. I can’t... I can’t move right now. I can’t get away, but it seems wrong to die curled up and whimpering on the floor. Okay, okay, I’m up. That’s good. That’s good. They’re moving towards me, on either side.
I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see it coming.
I never really thought a lot about what happens to us when we die. Princess Celestia always told me to worry about living a good life first, and I guess I thought that meant... I don’t know. Meant something. My throat is getting tight, and my eyes are burning. I want it to mean something! They’re closer now. Ice crunching under metal. This is it. Last thoughts. Well, I mean, my last thoughts are probably going to be “oh I’m falling” snap, but, last thoughts that mean anything. Should I say I’m sorry? That I wish I’d done it all differently? I could have been a better pony, I know I could have. I could have been braver and stronger and kinder, and I wish I had been. I should end it with something noble like that, but all I can think is that I want to live.
Please, Princess.
Please.
“Sir, I have lost sight of the target,” a stallion says, the wiredoll distorting his voice. What? No. What? I open my eyes, but all I can see is a blur, and it takes me a second to blink the tears away.
“No, total dead end. No cover.” A mare’s voice this time, out of the second doll. “We do know she’s not a teleporter, right?”
I have to shake my head, the last of the tears running down my face, but I can see the wiredolls now. They’re right in front of me, less than four paces away, but they’ve stopped. They’re staring right at me... no. They’re looking right past me, searching the room left and right, peering up at the ceiling like I was a pegasus, but their heads don’t even pause when their gaze moves over me. I reach out. I wave a hoof in front of the left doll, right in front of its eyes.
Nothing.
“I don’t know,” the mare says, out of the left doll. “Maybe she has Target Dummy or something? I hear the new one can spoof the dolls.” A pause. She’s listening to somepony I can’t hear. “Right, got it.”
Then they’re turning around. Walking away.
What just happened?
I... I guess I stand there for a while, trying to piece it all together. There’s some part of my mind that insists that it’s all a trick, that they’re going to jump back around the corner and grab me. There’s also a part of me that wants to think that cause follows effect—that Celestia can hear me, somehow, and that she reached out across the world to save me. That... that thought keeps me busy for awhile.
They’re foalish thoughts though. One is pointlessly fearful, the other pointlessly hopeful, and they’re both based in emotion rather than reason. It’s not a trick—their reactions were too genuine. I can tell that much even through the dolls. They couldn't see me, and they’re still searching. Something saved me, but it wasn’t Celestia. The Princess told me she can’t actually do that, and besides, if she knew about this place, she’d have come to save everypony long ago. Something here bailed me out, for whatever reason. Knowing this place, not a good reason. But I’m alive.
Right.
I draw a deep breath, and my chest trembles, but I... I’m collected, I think. Mostly, anyway. Enough to look around. The wiredolls couldn't see me, but that’s no guarantee they won’t be able to see me from now on, and there are regular guards and soldiers as well. I need to find a place to hide. It doesn’t take long for me to realize I have no idea where I am. The corridors are wide and there are apartment doors, so I’m still somewhere in the residential part of the tower, but I have no idea how to get back to the train station. Or... anywhere. I’m way too recognizable, but the corridor seems empty, and there’s only one way for me to go anyway. I start walking.
“A bloody foal and a blind doll,” I mutter. “You’ve got a funny way of saving me, whoever you are.” A few more seconds pass. “Thanks, I guess.”
My legs are aching with every step. I’m barely moving at a slow walk, but I know there’s no way I could pick up the pace. If they find me now, I can’t run—much less fight my way through whatever security checkpoint is waiting for me. I need to hide somewhere in the tower, somewhere I can lay low for a few days while my body stitches itself back together. With that bounty on my head, I doubt anyone will shelter me, but maybe I can find an abandoned apartment or—
“Excuse me!” a mare’s voice calls from my left, friendly but a bit strained. When I turn that way, I can see that there’s a shop there I didn’t notice before. Not that it would be hard to miss—it’s a little hole in the wall with a single window full of cages, and a sign above the door that reads Fluttershy’s Home for Wayward Animals. The mare is standing in the half-open door, a powder-green unicorn in a dirty smock that completely covers her neck to flank. It matches her off-white mane well. She waves to get my attention, and then points to my side. “You’re bleeding.”
I can guess what she means, but I look down anyway. Scarlet is running from the fresh cuts in my side, the bandages ripped away at some point during the chase. It’s probably not a good thing to have wounds constantly re-opened that way, and they’re bleeding a little more than they did before. Most of it falls to the ground, but some of it is running in trails down my left foreleg, and I shake it off. “Thanks,” I call back to her. Not sure what else to say.
“Um...” She glances back into the shop, and then at me, her tail twitching to one side. “Do you need like... a bandage or something? I’ve got a first aid kit in the shop.”
It’s obviously a trap. She’s going to invite me in, shut the bars behind me, and then sound the alarm. I should start running now, but... it’s not like I can gallop or even trot in this condition. She could probably sound the alarm and not bother with the bars, and I’d still be dead. There’s something about her too. She’s a very good actress. I’d almost think she’s being honest, if it weren’t for the minor detail of the huge blaring description of me she’s pretending not to have heard. A good poker face, but an obvious lie.
“That would be nice, yeah,” I say as I start to move towards her. I reach for my spear, but I realize I don’t have it. It was with me when I was fighting Swiftwing, but it’s gone now—I must have dropped it at some point during the chase. There’s time for a quick pat-down of my belt as I walk to the shop. I still have my money, my pep bars, the bottle of pepper sauce, and a few pieces of glass. They’ll have to do.
“C’mon in. My name’s White Wash,” my host introduces herself, stepping out of the doorway so I can pass through. It’s a strange little shop: a small, triangular room containing a study table, a small desk, and dozens of cages full of stuffed animals. They’re adorable things, like children's toys, all posed like they were real. She’s even given each one a little water bottle and bowl of food. I guess the name of the shop is meant to be ironic, or maybe they keep the real animals in the back or something. “Go ahead and stretch out on the table. I’ve got the first aid kit behind the counter here.”
This is it—she’s going for the alarm. I reach for the pepper bottle and the shard of glass, but they’re not even out of the belt before she turns back around, a first aid kit levitating in front of her. Her magic barely has any color to it, almost a snow-white. She stares at me, and I stare at her.
“Do you... need help?” she asks. She’s examining me, wary about something. What is she hiding? Does she plan to sedate me when I’m on the table? Bind me up against the wood? Stab me with the razor from the kit? Slash my tendons so I can’t get away? Light me on fire as soon as I’m distracted? I should be so lucky! No, no, no! This is a trap. I’m not walking into an obvious trap, not now!
“I um...” she mutters. “I’m sorry to ask, but, have you been crying?” She lifts up a cloth from the counter, wiping at my face. “You’ve just got a little stain there.” I don’t answer. “Under your eyes, I mean.”
I don’t understand. I’m so good at reading ponies. Why can’t I see what she’s planning to do to me? I don’t sense anything dishonest in those eyes, but I know it’s there—like anypony in this city would actually want to help me.
“Is... something wrong? You didn’t hit your head, did you?” she asks, turning to examine the cut on my forehead. I’m probably dead if I accept her help. “There’s not much dried blood here. Have you already cleaned this up?”
But I’m probably dead if I run back into the halls, and at least this way, I might get some medical attention before she tries to betray me. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“No, sorry. I’m tired. I think I zoned out for a second there.” I slide my belt down and away from the cuts without taking it off, and a moment later, hop up on the table and lie on my side—that way, if I have to go for the bottle or the glass, it’ll be one smooth motion to smash either right against the side of her head. She obviously knows what she’s doing, opening the first aid kit and neatly laying out all the supplies she’ll need. “Do you patch ponies together often?” I ask.
“Shhh.” She gives me a conspiratorial little glance and a smile. It’s fake—an attempt to make me feel better. She can act better than that though, I’m sure of it. Did she want me to know it was fake? Is that it? “Are you trying to get my legs broken? You know how the Pavilion feels about vets moonlighting as doctors.”
“Oh. Oh, you’re a vet.” Now I get it. She’s a spy, exactly like the last vet—probably adding cheating on the Pavilion to my list of crimes right now. Everything about this place is a lie—cages full of fuzzy stuffed animals. I guess that’s a kind of advertisement, or maybe actual animals were too much work just for pretending.
“No, not for the last few years. Don’t worry—” she adds quickly “—I’m still certified; that training didn’t go anywhere. But, my health isn’t what it used to be, so I needed a job with lighter duties. They were happy to let me take over the animal shelter, so I’ve been here ever since. It’s close to my apartment, which makes it easy.”
“Semi-retirement?” I ask as she peels away the last of my bandages, taking a closer look at the cuts. She appears to be about my age, but that’s so commonplace it’s hardly worth observing anymore. I’m getting used to everypony in a crowd being young—it’s like being back in Celestia’s school, where anypony over twenty sticks out like a cracked hoof.
“I’m not that old, ya little punk,” she shoots back, but then she smiles, and laughs. I fake a laugh as well, playing along. “A bit, I guess. And you need stitches. This is going to sting a little bit—there’s no local anesthetic left and I don’t think you want morphine for this. That okay?” After a moment, I nod—if knocking me out with drugs was her plan, she could have jabbed me with the needle. She nods back and gets to work, little pinpricks of pain working their way up my side. After everything I’ve been through... honestly, it doesn’t even seem worth wincing over.
I watch her while she sews up the first two cuts, waiting for whatever she’s going to try, but then I realize she’s almost done with the third one, and I didn’t even notice she’d started. I’m drifting off. Taking a risk for some medical care is one thing, but falling asleep now would be terminally stupid, so I force my eyes open and lift my head. Conversation, that’ll keep me alert. “So, what’s with the stuffed animals?”
“Well, there’s not actually that many stray animals in Vision,” she explains, her tone light and friendly—a classical good bedside manner. “It’s important we care for them and find them good homes, of course, but we’re rarely at capacity. I put stuffed animals in the cages when they aren't in use so the building won’t feel empty.”
“Oh. That’s friendly,” I say, and she smiles like I’m so stupid I would believe we were just chatting.
“I like to think so. Not a lot in this city that is.” I feel a sharp little tug as she yanks on the thread, but then she’s finished, and she gestures for me to sit up. “Now, lets see about that head of yours. You’re going to need to take some antibiotics. Something topical at least. I don’t have any here, but those cuts are in real danger of getting infected otherwise.”
“Thanks, White Wash,” I mutter, and she leans over to examine my forehead, needle and thread floating beside her. Is the needle for my eye? No. The angle is wrong.
“This one, actually not as bad as it seemed.” She seems to be mulling over if I need stitches or not, and I let my eyes wander. She must be cleaning today, because that smock she’s wearing is filthy, and it kind of smells like sweat and animal waste. I mean, she’s using magic, so I guess it’s sanitary enough. She seems to be unarmed. Beyond that, she’s not so bad—youthful, good color, kind of a stringy mane. The smock is pretty loose, and I glance down the front when she leans in to rub the cut with an alcohol swab.
There’s a cutie mark on her shoulder.
I only see it for a second, but I’m sure it’s there—one, maybe even two. I knew it! My chest locks up, and I have to force myself to breathe. Old, dirty clothes, there to hide extra cutie marks. A little out of it, a little strange. My eyes dart around to every cage here. Stuffed animals, clean paper, full water bottles, full food bowls. I sniff the air. Clear. No smell of musk or animal waste, except what’s coming off her smock.
She’s tending an animal shelter full of stuffed toys. Refilling their food bowls and giving them water.
“Mmm, yeah. It’s not as bad as I thought,” she observes, leaning away from me. “This will heal itself fine. Let me clean it up a bit and give you a new bandage.” She levitates the razor out of the kit.
A sharp shove of my hooves sends me scooting backwards across the table, away from her and away from that razor. I drop off the far end and hit the floor, yanking my belt back up so it clinches tight around me. “It’s been great, White Wash, really. You’ve been very generous with me, but I need to get going.” I turn to go, but when I push on the door, it doesn’t open. I try the handle, but it turns without resistance, and the latch doesn’t click in the lock.
“That was a little rude,” White Wash murmurs, fixing me with a stare as I whirl back to face her.
“I wasn’t trying to be impolite. Open the door,” I order, sliding the bottle and the piece of glass out of my belt. I’m not going to be caught off guard!
“I patched you up. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect a little courtesy in turn. Maybe a ‘thank you.’ If you really wanted to be nice, you could stay and think about adopting a pet.” The razor is still floating beside her, drifting this way and that through the air. Her cheerful expression is gone now, replaced with a cold frown.
“I’d love to, really!” I smile, and she doesn't smile back. “Except, I’m in such a hurry—”
“Everypony says they’re in a hurry. They never visit the shelter anymore.” She takes a step towards me, her stare hardening into a glare. “Maybe if more ponies in this city had pets to care for, they wouldn't be so angry and selfish all the time.”
“You know what? You’re right. I had a kitten named Mr. Scuffles when I was a foal, and I loved him to death,” I reassure her. Technically Mr. Scuffles was a dragon, and imaginary, but close enough. “I’d love to come back and get a pet once I’ve settled down, but I really need to—”
“Don’t you patronize me, you little bottom feeder!” she bellows. She’s actually trembling as she steps towards me, as though she were literally shaking with rage, but that’s not quite right—the razor is waving too. “I’m not senile!”
“That’s it! Open the door now or—”
“Shut up!” Her bellow raises to a hysterical scream so loud that it reduces her to wheezing and coughing. I think she’s torn something in her throat. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Say one more word and I swear I’ll kill you!” She holds the razor up in front of her, the clean silver blade glinting every time the lights beat. The edge is red—blood from cleaning the cuts. “You’re just like those foals who come and egg the building every night. Useless, spoiled little punks! You’re the reason this city is falling apart! All of you!”
My chest goes tight when that blade shines, and suddenly I can’t get enough air. I swallow. My heart beats faster. Gotta keep it together. I have to keep it together, can’t panic now. I have the bottle and the glass. That’s sharp as a razor, right? Two weapons to her one. I have the advantage here.
“You think I don’t hear you laughing at me, but I do!” she insists, her breath coming in shaking gasps. “You’re always giggling and whispering when you think I can’t hear. Poor old White Wash, real shame they let her stay, she’ll be a Section Eight soon. I know I get confused, but I am not crazy! I am not crazy, and I don’t like it when you say that I am!”
She’s going to come for me now, leap forward and attack. She doesn’t even seem to have noticed the bottle, so I tense it for a good swing. Across the eyes, blind her, then run and take cover. One good swing. I can see it in her face, the tension building behind her eyes, that razor shaking with the need to use it.
“Don’t you look at me that way.” She steps forward, brandishing the razor. “Don’t you look at me that way!” Here it comes! I raise the bottle in turn, aiming for her face.
The razor is shaking a lot now, the glow around it flickering and intermittent.
“Don’t you...” Her breath comes in quick gasps. Too quick—she’s hyperventilating, wheezing. Her knees are quaking as much as the razor is, and while she’s struggling to keep her glare on me, she can’t do it, her head bobbing up and down. “Don’t you—” She wheezes the words out, before the razor drops to the ground, and a moment later, she tumbles down as well. The trembling has turned to spasms—her eyes rolling back into her head as her limbs flail under her. She’s having a seizure! I don’t see the razor. She must have fallen on it. No way for her to get to it now, perfect.
I leap around the table, hurrying to behind the desk. Like I thought, there’s another one of those boxes with the two crystals in it, and I tap the blue one. The distinctive thump of a turning deadbolt echoes from the front door—time to get out of here. I sweep up the last of the medical supplies from the table and stuff them down into my belt, trotting around the table to avoid the crazed mutant. At that moment, the sound of the door handle turning is the sweetest music I’ve ever heard, and I pull it clear open, checking back to make sure White Wash isn’t about to follow me.
Her seizure seems to be winding down, but she still can’t get enough air, wheezing and panting on the floor, her legs faintly twitching beside her. A puddle of foamy drool has formed under her head, her eyes darting left and right wildly. My nose tickles, and I sniff the air. There’s something there, cloying and sweet and rotten. Marker blood. I didn’t notice that before, but it’s strong now.
She fell on the razor.
But that... I mean, she was ready to kill me. I was about to do that in self defense! Just because she happened to have a nervous attack before I could does not make this any less her fault. If anything, it makes it more her fault! This is poetic justice for one of the monsters in this city. Besides, she’s clearly unhinged. If I saved her, she’d be as likely to stab me as thank me, and even if she doesn’t, she’ll only go on to hurt somepony else. Right now, I need to focus on saving my own life. That’s what Celestia would want me to do—get back to Equestria in one piece.
She whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut.
I am so full of it.
“It’s okay. Don’t move,” I say, kneeling down by her side. Her eyes do tilt towards my face, and I think they’re focused, but when her mouth opens, only a faint gurgling emerges. The smell is really strong, but I don’t see any blood pooling under her—that’s a good sign. “C’mon, let’s get you up off that blade and lying on your belly. Tuck your legs up and I’ll roll you over. On three. One, two...” My horn shines as I grab her and twist, the magenta glow enveloping her entire body. Oh I wish I was as strong as Green, able to lift an entire pony, but it’s a struggle to get a grip on something that large, much less move it. She tries to twist herself over, but my magic falters, and she cries out in pain when she falls back onto the floor.
“Stupid, stupid... sorry. Okay, don’t move,” I say, planting my butt on the ground and reaching over to get my forehooves around her neck. “Push and pull at the same time. On three again. One, two...” My horn shines and I grunt. Pulled muscle, pulled muscle, this was a bad plan! My ears fold back, and I know my face is contorting into the most absurd expressions, but if I let go, she’ll fall onto the razor again. Her side twists up off the floor, and I hear the clatter of something metal hitting the stone. My rear hooves are slipping, but I dig them in as best I can and give one last heave. She straightens up as I tumble over, rolling to my side as she rolls to her belly.
With me on my side, belly towards her, our legs tangle pretty much immediately, but she doesn’t move to extricate herself. She’s still trembling a little, and her breaths seem ragged. Now that I touch it, the smock is disgusting. I don’t have a lot of feeling in my ankles, but I swear I can hear it squish, and I think her coat is equally greasy. I try to pull away, but she grabs me, tightening her leg around my ankle.
“Od spurrsh,” she says, and if she’s garbling any words, they’re beyond my comprehension. I twist my head down to look at her, and her mouth seems to be working, but all that comes out is nonsense. “Reep ant heave neep.”
“Let go of me!” I snap, and give my leg a good yank. My leg flashes with pain, but her grip is weak, and my ankle pops out. Soon enough I’m scrambling to my hooves and away from her, and even if I’m limping more than a bit, no way can she catch me.
“Reep ant heave neep,” she repeats, following me with her eyes. It’s about all she can do, still struggling for a good breath. Her face is slack, eyes wide and... oh, sun and stars, I wish I wasn’t so good at reading ponies.
“Please don’t leave me,” I say to her slowly, staring into those frightened eyes, her ears folded back and her jaw loose. “Is that what you’re trying to say? You don’t want me to leave you here?” She nods, her mouth lolling open under her, making her teeth knock together when she nods too hard. “It’s okay, White Wash. I’m not going to leave you here.”
“Eep. Doff tur keep wid,” she slurs, head tilted towards the floor. I don’t quite follow that one as clearly—I think something is wrong with the lower half of her face, and it’s a little hard to read somepony from eyes and ears alone. Her tail still seems to be working though, and seeing it droop helps, along with the little flutter of her ears and her downcast eyes. She’s sorry, she’s ashamed, she’s... saying something that may or may not be related to that. I don’t know.
“It’s okay, White Wash, I understand,” I say, keeping my tone slow, the words even and soft—and when she looks up, my expression is steady and attentive. A little earnestness goes a long way, even if it is fake. “Let me get at that cut.” Moving her doesn’t seem like a good idea right now, so I push the table away instead, moving around to her injured side. Like I thought, the razor is lying on the floor, fresh blood splattered around it. I do heave a little sigh of relief though—there’s a cut in her smock, but it’s as long as the straight razor, not as wide, and the blade only has blood on its edge. I don’t see any blood in the fabric, but I guess the smock isn’t very absorbent. “Okay, White Wash. I can’t see your cut. I need to take the smock off now.” I reach for the opening of the fabric.
“Wao jase,” she forces the words out with some urgency, trying to lift a hoof to stop me. She doesn’t have the strength, and all she manages to do is nearly knock herself over, but I catch her at the last second. That doesn’t make her give up though, and she doesn’t stop struggling until I move my hoof away from the flap, putting it over her trembling leg.
“Shh. White Wash, it’s okay,” I insist, but she shakes her head. Her ears are flat, tail almost scrunched up under her legs—it’s such textbook shame that if I ever did that I would have been accused of overplaying the part. “White Wash,” I repeat, quieter this time. “I know you’re embarrassed, but I need to see how bad the injury is. You might have a scratch, or you might need to go to the hospital right now.” I reach down to her leg with my other forehoof, holding her until the trembling stops. Steady as a rock, that’s my cue here. Not a hint of judgement. “It’s okay.” I say, but she doesn’t respond, staring down at the floor. “C’mon now. You’ve seen me naked.” That gets her to tilt her head up, and right on command, I smile and laugh in the face of her confusion. “Something my old acting coach said.”
It takes a little while for that to wheedle its way in, but eventually, she nods. “Now look over there.” I point across the room, and she turns. Not because I particularly need her to turn away, but because I don’t want my expression giving away anything. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but... well, we’ll see. I start to strip the smock away, and a rank smell assaults my nose at once. It’s like it wafts up out of the fabric in clouds, turning my stomach and making my eyes water. Marker blood, yes, but also sweat and waste and grime and other things I don't want to think about. I have never been so glad to be a unicorn in my entire life—I can’t imagine having to do this with my teeth. I give it a second to air out, and then I brace myself and pull.
Ponyfeathers.
Her flesh is boiling. Her torso is covered in those lumpy growths, nodules of bone and muscle that have swollen until they threaten to burst out of her skin, and each one is surrounded by blisters full of blood or yellow fluid. It’s like nothing so much as bubbles of steam rising out of a pot, floating on the surface before they finally pop. The whole thing glistens, and I have no idea if that’s some other fluid she’s leaking or if she’s just covered in sweat and never bathes. How is she still alive?
I... she shouldn't be. She should be dead.
I don’t think I understood the word “unnatural” until this very moment. It was just a thing ponies say to mark something as weird. Not like this. I’ve gone past disgusted and revolted, and every part of my mind is... sickened. Not fright that I have to be near this thing, or worry that I have to touch it. Offended that it even exists. That this place is... No creature should live like this. I...
I need to look for the cut.
It’s only when I stop and... get a hold on myself, that I even notice all her cutie marks. A dozen, at least—they’ve been warped by the damage to her body, some to the point of being almost totally obscured. A few stand out—a candle on her back, a comet on her front leg, and her original cutie mark, a brush and a bucket of paint. The cut is along her ribs, almost perfectly in the middle of her barrel.
“It’s... not bad.” The words come harder than I thought they would, and I realize how tight my chest and throat are. “It’s actually really shallow. I think the smock protected you. You burst a few of these... blisters, here.” My stomach twists. Not now, Siren! “Released a bit of blood, but I don’t see any more flowing. You’ll be... fine.”
“Tahnk...” She slurs the word, drawing a deep breath. Her jaw trembles, but no sound emerges. The struggle on her face is obvious: her muzzle scrunched up, her body tense, her eyes squeezed shut as she tries to force herself to make the sound. “Tahnk... thank. Hyu. Thank you.” She opens her eyes, and though her breaths are coming deep and eager, they do come, and she seems to be getting enough air. “Thank you. I’m sorry.” Saying it seems to take a lot of effort, and she doesn’t match my gaze, letting a long silence hang before she continues. “This happens, sometimes.”
“I understand,” I say, and I flinch at what I need to do next. Remember, Siren, you can’t catch poison joke. It’s not a disease, you can’t catch it, there’s no harm in this.
I reach out to hold her shoulder, giving her a reassuring little pat. You know what’s great? Hooves are great. Wonderful, numb, I-don’t-have-to-feel-what-I’m-touching hooves. That much I keep out of my expression, and when she peers up at me, I smile.
“Is there anypony taking care of you, White Wash?” I ask. Her eyes tilt away, down and back to her left. I move my hoof off her shoulder, taking the moment when she’s not looking to discreetly wipe it off against the table leg.
“There’s nothing...” she starts, having to pause for breath halfway through the sentence. “Nothing the doctors can do. I’m hopelessly addicted. I buy as much as I can on a vet’s salary, but—”
“No, White Wash,” I say, reaching out with my magic to gently turn her head back to me. “Is there anypony taking care of you? A daughter or a son or a friend? Somepony to make sure you’re alright and visit you?”
“Oh, no. No family,” she shakes her head. “Just a son who hates me and never visits. It’s okay though. I have the animals.” She gives a weak little smile, and nods at the cages. “They’re so nice, and they need me to get by. They keep me company.”
I...
I get one of the bandages from my belt, and I put it across her cut as best I can. Then I reach down, and I do up the smock, nice and tight so it won’t fall off, high on her neck and low on her body. Lastly, I straighten her mane, and brush it as best I can with magic alone until it’s bright and neat. “There you go, White Wash.” I smile. “All better.”
“All better,” she echoes, rising to her hooves. Her legs are a bit shaky, but the fit seems to have passed, and there’s strength in her muscles again. She can’t seem to meet my gaze though, pretending that her head is still heavy so she can stare at the floor. “I... um. I’m sorry. It ah...” She swallows, her tone quick and rigid. “I should fix up that cut on your head, shouldn't I? Wouldn't ah, want to leave you in bad shape or anything.”
“It’s okay, really,” I say, nice and gentle, giving her my best reassuring smile. She sees it, even if she can only glance at me.
“It’s really no trouble—”
“It’s fine, White Wash.” I say it as gently as I can, but her gaze slumps all the same, her ears folding tighter against her head. For a long time, neither of us says anything.
“I...” The words aren’t coming to me, for some reason. “I need a way out of the tower that security doesn’t watch. No guards, no checkpoints. Can you think of anything?”
“Well... smugglers sometimes use diving suits to get around,” she says, uncertain, but it’s the best lead I’ve got.
“Thank you. Where would I find a diving suit?” I ask.
“Airlock, ground floor of the tower.” She tilts her head up, pointing to the exit. “Go out, take a left, third passage on your right, follow it all the way to the bottom.” She turns to glance up at me, pleading in her eyes. “Do you have to go so soon? You could stay for a bit. Even if you don’t want to adopt a pet, I’m sure they’d love it if somepony would play with them.” She laughs, nervously. “We really don’t get a lot of visitors these days.”
“Goodbye, White Wash,” I say. Or whisper, really. “Thank you.” I turn, and I trot out the door without waiting for her answer.
I manage to get to the first intersection before the tears come. My throat tightens, my eyes burn, and suddenly I’m sobbing like a stupid foal in the middle of the corridor. Forget that I’m a wanted fugitive and that this is going to draw attention—never mind that stopping in an open space right now is colossally stupid even if I don’t make any noise. No, I’m going to stop and have a good cry right here for no stupid reason!
No stupid reason.
It’s freezing out here. Every part of my face is stiff with cold, until the tears feel like hot water running down my cheeks. I’m going to die of hypothermia of all things. That’s it, isn’t it? I don’t know why I’m crying. I don’t know why the guards and soldiers haven't heard me yet. I don’t know why these hallways are so empty. Why isn’t anypony here? Because they’re all still cowering away behind those locked doors, brewing up more mantles and tonics. Why hasn’t anypony heard me yet?
I draw a shaky breath, and I let it out.
“Cry later, Siren, you need to move on now,” I mutter, but my voice cracks, and it only makes me sound even more afraid. “I said move, you stupid, useless coward!” That gets my head up at least, my ears unfolding even if my chest is still shaking. “Two... two intersections to go. Now you’re going to draw a deep breath, and then you’re going to be brave.” I draw another deep breath, and I let it out slowly. “Right. Right, okay.”
My hooves start moving again.
This tower really is empty, but it’s not abandoned. I can hear ponies behind closed doors, and more importantly, I can hear hooffalls echoing around the corridors. The high ceilings and sloping turns carry sound well, and make it hard to tell where anything is coming from, but there are definitely guards out searching for me. I hear muttering, cursing, and the buzz of wiredolls, all of the sounds running together until they form a dull murmur barely audible over the beat of the lights.
I pass another intersection. A four-way split, this time. One more intersection to go, next turn on my right. The sounds around me don’t seem to be getting any closer. Maybe they’re guarding the tram station and the exits to the tower, and waiting for me to—
“Hey! There she is!” A stallion’s voice. From my left.
I catch a glimpse of them, as I start off—three of the tower guards in their puffy blue uniforms. They’re a ways down the passages to my left, so I have a bit of a head start, but something’s wrong. I feel it as soon as I stretch out my legs to gallop—a shooting pain, up through my ankles and shoulders. For a moment, I think it’s just my muscles burning and all I need is to stretch and get into the pace of things, but the pain is getting worse with every step. I’ve barely gone half a dozen strides before it hurts so much my eyes are watering and I need to slow down, first to canter, then to a brisk trot, and even that causes little flashes of lightning to shoot up my legs. The corridor in front of me slopes down the way White Wash said, but it’s long, and I don’t see any breaks or interruptions. One open, straight passage for them to run me down in. No good at a trot. No good at all.
I stop, and turn, and spread my hooves out, pulling the bottle and my little piece of glass from my belt. My chest is tight, my heart is racing, but I can do this. I take a breath, and it’s time to be brave. They’re getting closer now, three stallions—two earth ponies and a pegasus. I draw a breath and let it out—time to be brave. I’ve got reach on the earth ponies. I’ll blind one with the bottle, tackle the other so the pegasus can’t get to us, and then get him with the glass. That’s it. They’re almost on me. I heft the bottle up and get ready to throw. Just need to let them get close enough. I can do this. I can do this!
“Hey, straw-for-brains!” a mare shouts. Something flashes through the air, bright and glittering, flying over my shoulder. The guards scatter in all directions, but the pegasus isn’t quite fast enough, and the projectile bounces off his forehead. It clatters to the floor as blood runs from the gash down his forehead—it’s a long knife. Belatedly, I recognize Green’s voice, and hear her shouting behind me. “Would you kindly sit down and hold still!?”
I take a step away, whipping my head back over my shoulder. She’s down the passage behind me, racing towards me at a gallop. I twist back around, and the guards are still there. Maybe it’s because Green is so far away, or because there are three of them at once, but it doesn’t seem to be working. The pegasus is already flexing his wings up, a quick beat taking him into the air. He’s like a hummingbird, his wings beating hard and letting him turn on a dime as his body twists into the curve. Then the knives on his hooves snap out, and he’s off, over my shoulder towards Green. The earth ponies seem more sluggish—one is twisting on the ground, but the other lurches to his hooves, stumbling towards me. He’s coming for me!
“Stay down!” I hear the words before I realize it’s me who said them, and then the bottle of pepper sauce hits his face. It doesn’t break like I thought it would—it bounces off when it connects, jerking his head to one side with the force of the impact. “Stay down!” I swing again, smashing the bottle down against his eye and sending him stumbling back. He seems to be snapping out of it, his sluggish movements speeding up. “Stay down! Stay down!” The bottle hits his face again, and I hear something crunch. When I pull the bottle up to swing again, a spray of red comes with it, blood gushing down the guard’s uniform. He’s stumbling now—his motions are animated, but he can’t seem to stay on his hooves. “Stay! Down!” I lift the bottle again.
“Get away from him!” A stallion’s voice roars, and I feel somepony crash into my side. A moment later, I’m on the ice-cold floor, my fresh stitches torn open all over again, and there’s what feels like a ton of earth pony pressing down on top of me. There’s no thought, no pain, just adrenaline and instinct—swing and kick and bite and stab with my horn. He’s winning though, he’s winning. I’m losing blood from my cuts, my horn hits nothing but air. The one time I do get him with a hoof, it’s like hitting a brick wall, and when he drives his hoof into my gut, it knocks the wind clear out of me, spots appearing in my vision. Through the haze, I can feel him disentangling himself from me, standing up and getting back on his hooves. I see him flex his ankle, a long silver blade snapping out.
My magic catches it at the last second, shoving the blow away and into the ground. He growls, and his other forehoof drives down into my face. My ears ring and the world spins, warmth flooding my mouth as I taste blood. The corridor becomes a place of muted sounds and distant lights, but even through the haze, I can see the shine as he raises his hoof-knife again.
A crimson glow surrounds his mane, yanking his head up and back. There’s a flash of silver, and a wet snap.
He gurgles, once. Then he falls over and doesn’t move.
“C’mon, Sweetheart,” Green says, and I see the bottoms of her legs when she steps up to me. Oh, right. I’m lying down. “Somepony will have heard that. Time to go.” The world suddenly turns red, and I feel her lifting me up off the floor—but I right myself, and stand under my own power. She’s right there, in front of me. Exactly like she was. So pretty in that old dress, with that beautiful color. It seems forever since I’ve seen her. One of the mugger’s knives is floating next to her, covered in blood. I pick up the second one off the floor. “This way, follow me.” The pegasus’s body is there, but his blood doesn’t pool under him. It runs in a little river from his throat, following us down the slope. He won’t get up again.
We don’t go far—only a hoofful of floors down, to one of the apartment doors. It looks like any other really, the hardwood covered in golden lettering that reads Eileen Quine. Green has the key for it though, and when she pushes it open, I can see it’s abandoned—an empty apartment, with bare floors and bare walls and warmth in the air. She yanks me inside and shuts the door behind us, heaving a sigh once we’re out of sight.
Her back is turned to me, and I have the knife.
“That was too close for comfort,” she says, turning back to face me. “They’ll be searching...” Her head tilts to one side, as she seems to notice me. “Sweetheart? You can put the knife down now.”
She’s one of them. She’s one of those things. She wants to hurt me. She wants to turn me into one of them. She does! I lift the knife, twisting it around. The point is hooked on one side, and blood runs down it, clinging to the inside of the curve.
“Siren, Sweetheart, come back to me. You’ve been through one heck of a beating, but we’re safe for now,” she coos. Liar. She’s a liar and she’s trying to get me to let my guard down. Liar! “I’m going to reach out, nice and slow, and I want you to give me the knife. Okay? Nice and calm. See? I’m putting mine away.” She slides the other knife back into her saddlebags. Like that’s supposed to convince me of anything. Everything about her is deadly. She could kill me with her eyes, her hooves, her horn, and I’m supposed to feel better just because she doesn’t have a knife!? “I’m reaching out now, Sweetheart.”
Her horn glows. She’s trying to take my knife. She’s trying to take my knife! She’s going to kill me. She’s one of them and she’s going to kill me and turn me into one of them and I’ll mutate and I don’t want to die here! I have to get her first! I have to—
Suddenly, the glow around the blade is a different color. I’m trying to hold onto it, my horn flickering and shining with the effort, but she’s so much stronger than me! There’s a loud buzz as we both strain, and then a sudden pain in my horn, and I have to let go, the blade going away into her bag. “That was good, Siren. Now, shhh.” She reaches out.
“Don’t touch me!” I scream, getting as far away from her as I can, backed against the door. “Don’t you—”
“Would you kindly be quiet?” she hisses, and I feel my mouth clamp shut. I... she... I... should be quiet. That’s what she wants, and it’s important I make her happy. That’s the most important thing. She’s so beautiful.
But why does that make me hurt?
My eyes are watering again, but I don’t make the slightest sound. Not a sob, not a squeak—it’s not what she wants. No matter how much I try to focus, my vision is blurred, but I can smell her. Like the most beautiful field of flowers and a spring breeze and cut grass. She pulls me forward into a hug, and I bury my head in her mane, taking a deep breath of that wonderful scent as the tears run down my cheeks.
“Shhh,” she whispers to me, putting a leg up around my shoulders to pull me against her. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Sweetheart. Come now, you’re bleeding. We’re going to sit you down in the corner and I’m going to patch you up, and everything will be okay.”
It must be true, I know it’s true, but I don’t feel like it’s true. She’s going to patch me up and then everything is going to be okay—I should be happy that everything is fine now, but I can’t seem to stop crying. I know everything is alright because she tells me it is, but my chest hurts and I can’t seem to get enough air and my eyes won’t clear and...
“Shhh,” Green whispers. I didn’t even realize she was leading me into the corner, I was so distracted. She has some things here—a little cot and some boxes of something I can’t make out because my vision won’t clear. Gently, she pushes me down to the cot and rubs something against my side. She coos, so close that her voice is in my ear, and I feel tingly and numb. “I think you need rest now, Sweetheart. Real rest.” She pulls something out of one of the boxes, and I feel a sharp prick in my side. “Now shut your eyes, and I promise, when you awake, it’ll be all better.”
I’m starting to feel heavy, so I let my head rest against her shoulder. She’s so wonderful, and if she says it, it must be true. I just need to rest, and everything will be all better.
All better.
Darkness. Too tired to dream, I suppose. That’s not to say there aren't visions in my sleep, and things half remembered, but they all have the awkward tinge of reality. I remember Green shoving pills down my throat, forcing me to drink some water, helping me to the bathroom at one point, little things like that. There’s pain, and I ask her for morphine, but she says no for some reason I don’t understand. Perhaps it isn’t necessary though. I’m so weak that not even the pain can keep my head up.
She’s there with me when I wake up, lying next to me. I know it’s her even before I open my eyes—I can feel her old, ragged dress pressed up against me, and I can smell that cloying, rotten odor that seems to follow them around. Am I the only pony here who can smell it? Maybe they’ve all gotten used to it. It’s an oddly effective wakeup call, stopping me from getting comfortable enough to drift away, and soon I crack an eye open.
She isn’t asleep—her head is up, and she’s playing with one of those wiredoll crystals, rolling it around on the floor with a hoof, back and forth. There’s not a lot to read in her expression, save for a tiredness of the eyes and a faint, dull frown. Boredom, I’d call it, when there aren’t a lot of happy thoughts to distract you. She hasn’t noticed that I’m awake yet. I shut my eyes again.
“Why is it that you smell different when I’m hypnotized?” It takes a lot of effort to say it, and the breaths come hard, my words emerging as a sigh. There’s no answer at first, but I feel her body move as she turns her head towards me.
“I don’t know, Sweetheart. It’s just one of those things,” she says, and her hoof touches my neck, brushing down to my shoulder, straightening my mane. “You’ve been asleep for about twelve hours now.”
“Why didn’t...?” I can’t find the air to finish the sentence, but she doesn’t rush me, letting me draw a few breaths before I go on. There’s a tightness in my chest, and my breathing feels shallow. “They find us?”
“It’s a big tower, Sweetheart,” she says, speaking slowly and quietly as she brushes my mane with her hoof. Little motions, back and forth. “Even if they’ve started a house-to-house search now, it’ll be awhile before they get to us.”
“You found me,” I say. Guards found me too. Three times, I should have died.
“Trixie told me where to find you. I was off in the basement when I got the wire. Galloped straight there and still barely caught you in time.” She lets out a little hiss of breath, uncertain if she wants to continue. “I’m glad I arrived when I did.”
“M' sorry I’m slowing us down,” I say, and it’s true. I ran off, I got cornered by wiredolls, trapped by a marker, caught by guards—I’m only alive because of ridiculous amounts of sheer stupid luck, and I’m still the reason we keep getting in trouble. I’m still the one who needs other ponies to help her. “I messed up.”
“That’s not the way I saw it, Sweetheart,” Green answers. I can hear her opening her bag, the faint whisper of magic, and then it’s a brush in my mane instead of her hoof, slowly working it straight. “I saw a unicorn who looked like a stiff breeze could push her over step into the ring with two earth pony brawlers. You’d been bloodied, stabbed, burned, and tore nearly every muscle in your legs, and you turned around to meet ‘em on your terms. You got real guts, Siren. The will to live.”
I don’t answer that. She’s trying to make me feel better, but I don’t think fear and bravery are the same thing. The conversation lapses as she continues to brush, and she makes her strokes more carefully and slowly, perhaps thinking that it will lull me back to sleep. I can’t sleep though. I’m thinking.
“You’re an assassin, aren’t you? Or a hitmare, or whatever you call it.” The brush stops, and she doesn’t answer me. “It just occured to me now. You’re totally unafraid of violence. You live in a dangerous place but nopony messes with you. You don’t have a job, but you can afford your mantles.” I draw a low breath, and the air seems to spill out of me with the weight. “It’s true.”
“I do whatever Trixie needs me to do, Sweetheart,” she says, her tone gentle, and she resumes brushing. “Sometimes that involves killing ponies, yes.”
“Why?” I ask, and I really want to know. I’m curious. It doesn’t even frighten me, sitting next to a murderer. Maybe that’s the drugs.
“My dose is pretty expensive. Back when I could afford it, I went and got the best mantles money could buy. Figured it was an investment in my health, for later,” she says, her tone wandering, meandering lazily through memory. “I suppose it worked, since I’m still in good condition, but it’s not cheap to keep up. More than I could afford working a regular job.”
“Would you kill me, if Trixie asked you to?” I already know the real answer, but I’m curious if she’ll lie to me—if she’ll admit that she’d slit my throat for the right number of bits.
“Trixie won’t ask that,” she says, and I guess that’s fine. It’s probably true.
“I ran into a marker. In the tower,” I say, letting the words flow as breath becomes available—it’s getting a little easier now. “She was losing her grip on reality. Forgetting things. Becoming violent. Her skin was boiling off.” I try to draw a deep breath, and one of my ribs stings, reminding me to take my time about it. “Is that what you’re going to turn into?”
“Eventually,” she murmurs, still brushing away. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Green.” It seems wrong to tell her that, with everything she is: a monster and a freak and a killer. But it’s so sad. “You don’t deserve that.”
“We deserve just what we get, Sweetheart,” she says, shushing me gently. “All our debts come due eventually. I ain't gonna waste the time I have whining that it’s not fair. And you shouldn't waste your time worrying about the likes of us. There’s a sub waiting for you, and a ship, and a breeze to blow you back to Equestria,” she says, and she lets out the faintest hiss of breath as she does it. Smiling maybe. “You’ll be with the Princess again soon.”
“You hate the Princess,” I say, and my ears twitch back when that little breath of air hits them. “You hate me because I’m her student.”
“I don’t hate you, Siren. When Trixie told me, I saw you as a little miniature Princess Celestia, and that was... wrong of me,” she says, trailing off, and in that pause, I know she’s frowning. “You’re a kind young mare—your only crime was being deceived. You aren’t waiting for somepony to save you.”
“You did save me,” I point out.
“You had him on the ropes. I just figured we should hurry things along,” she says, chuckling like it was funny. Now that I know what she does, I suppose I understand her sick sense of humor. Everypony needs to find something in their job to giggle at.
“I guess,” I answer, for lack of anything else to say.
“Guess nothing. You must be half earth pony,” she asserts, and though her voice is still quiet, she tries to keep her tone light. “I have never seen a unicorn take that kind of beating and keep on ticking. Lacerations, contusions, torn muscles, bruised ribs, a minor concussion, and you kept getting back up.”
“Staying down would have hurt less.” This time, it’s my turn to laugh, and I immediately regret it, pain shooting through my ribs with every chuckle, making me wheeze.
“Well, you can stay down now, because you aren’t going anywhere until I decide you’re healed,” she says, giving my shoulder a little pat. “I promise.” That feels nice to hear, even if it isn’t true. It’s comforting, I guess.
“Do you know why I ran away?” I ask, and I can feel her head shake—the little tremors of her body when she moves. “Berry wanted to give me a mantle so I wouldn’t be afraid. To make me like her so you could manage me more easily.” I trail off, not sure what to say. What can I say? “If Trixie told you to—”
She presses a hoof to my lips. “Shhh,” she whispers, drawing out the sound long and slow.
Her horseshoe is cold against my muzzle, worn so smooth by years of use that I can’t even feel the nails. It’s a part of her hoof. Like the dress is a part of her. I can feel the fabric touching me, whenever she takes a breath, and her sides push the dress against me a little. It’s not like White Wash’s smock, left to decay and time. It feels clean, kept up, so carefully preserved. It’s so worn and ragged, but it won’t admit it until the day the last thread in it frays. There are lots of ponies who prefer to wear clothes, but I think she’s the first pony I’ve met who would actually be naked without them.
I guess that’s okay.
“Can I hear you sing?” I ask, if only because I can’t think of anything else to ask.
“Um...” she stammers, stumbling suddenly in the conversation. “It’s been a long time since I sang anything, Sweetheart.”
“Please? Just something simple,” I say. She doesn’t answer at first, folding and unfolding her hooves awkwardly. It’s a good few seconds before she makes any noise at all, gently shaking her head. Then she takes a breath.
“A gentle breeze from high in the mountains softly blows through the air to the bay. It fills the sails of ships that are waiting—waiting to sail your troubles to sea,” she sings. She really is a talentless hack. Her voice is sweet, but she has no idea how to use it, bumbling through the words without grace or distinction. That song is a classic, and she’s butchering it.
It still helps me sleep though.
“To walk, I suppose,” Green is saying, when I snap awake. I know I’m getting better, because I feel so much worse, the dull aches and pains coming into agonizing focus. The indistinct stabbing in my muscles has turned into a thousand hot needles, every one of which I can feel individually. My head pounds every time my heart beats, and my eyes throb every time the lights pulse. An involuntary groan escapes me, but Green takes no notice. “But just walk. Not so much as a trot past that.”
She’s standing next to me, staring at a blank wall, her eyes wide and glassy. For a second, I don’t get it, but then I notice that one of her horseshoes is glowing a dull blue—the same shade of blue as the crystals in my little hoofboot. I guess that’s what it looks like when somepony wires you, instead of the other way around. If she can see or hear me, she’s not showing it, and I really need to pee, so I skip trying to get her attention and wander off that way, flinching with every step.
“I don’t know; I’m not a doctor.” Her voice drifts through the empty apartment, and while it isn’t exactly classy, I leave the bathroom door open so I can hear what she’s saying. There’s a long silence, a few full seconds at least, and when I hear Green’s, “Yes, Trixie, I’m sorry,” I know she’s getting yelled at. It’s odd, but she doesn’t get reproachful or guilty when Trixie berates her—it’s fear in her voice. Then again, I guess the consequences of Trixie cutting her off are a bit worse than just failing to make rent. “I promise, I’ll... yes, Trixie, I... yes. Yes, I understand.”
A long silence follows, with nothing more than occasional sounds of affirmation from Green to indicate she’s listening. I finish up and wash off. There’s no mirror in the bathroom, but that’s probably for the best. I bet I look like one ugly mule right now, all cut and bruised up. Soon enough, I’m back in the main room. It’s good to be able to get my bearings with a clear head, even if there’s not much here. I can see the cot where Green and I slept, and the boxes of supplies stacked up in the corner. They’re mostly food, water, and medical supplies, though I do spot some odds and ends like rope and jackets. I grab an apple and some water out of one of the boxes, and work my way through it while I search for my belt. It’s in one of the bigger boxes. I think Green cleaned it.
“Are we sure the tunnels are traversable? Even if security hasn’t filled them in by now, I don’t think the rebels have done much maintenance lately,” Green asks, drawing her head back as she sets her jaw. To me, the uncertainty is clear as day, but Trixie can’t see any of that. Curious to see this from the other side. I slip a few bottles of water into my belt while I wait, along with some more pep bars, bandages, antiseptics, needles and thread, and painkillers. I fill up the entire belt except for two loops, and it feels heavy afterwards. Still, no sense in letting the capacity go to waste.
“We’ll see how things are when we get to Ceto Station, then,” she says, and from the strength of her nod, I gather that the conversation is wrapping up. “Yes. Yes, Trixie.” Her horseshoe stops glowing, and she blinks her eyes twice, taking a moment to let them focus on the wall in front of her. She actually starts a little when she sees that I’m not there—her body sharply coming alert as her eyes go wide—but she slumps when she spots me a moment later.
“Oof!” She holds a hoof to her undercarriage, and I think her heart is racing. “You gave me a scare there, Sweetheart! I thought you’d gone and wandered off.”
“I don’t feel ready to stand up, much less wander off on my own. I’m alert, though.” Alert enough to remember good form. Green will respect stoicism, I’m sure, and a dignified posture, but I don’t want her thinking I’m ready for something I’m not. The key then, is to do it a little bit badly, and so I straighten up until I hear a joint crack, dignified but ready to fake a—
“Aaaaaaaaaaah!” I let out a remarkably realistic-sounding squeak at that crack. In fact, I am such a good actor that it’s totally indistinguishable from if I had actually wrenched a joint. I am that good. Totally planned that. Along with Green’s laughing. I meant for her to laugh. That’s us bonding, right there. So she’ll protect me.
“You seem to be feeling better,” Green observes. “Mentally too, I hope?”
“I... guess.” The question never occurred to me. How does one determine if you’re mentally better? I don’t feel like crying, or screaming, or panicking, but this isn’t exactly normal, is it? “A little overwhelmed, maybe, but I’m not going to panic. Thank you for last night. That helped a lot.”
“That was two nights ago, Sweetheart, and this is the fourth time you’ve thanked me for it. But you’re welcome,” Green says, as she smiles and nods. “You’re a fast healer. I wouldn't have bet on you being on your hooves this soon.”
“So, did I hear you say we’re moving on?” I don’t feel ready to go out there, not to face those guards. The apprehension Green is trying to hide with a tacky smile doesn’t help matters. Still, her outward tone is upbeat at least.
“Trixie bought your life from Ms. Tiara,” she says, delivering the facts with an efficient, straightforward tone. “City Central still has the building surrounded, but the local guards are going to see us to the basement. Apparently, some of the rebels’ old smuggling tunnels are intact and accessible from here. I don’t know how far they’re intact, but it will get us out of the security cordon, at least.”
“Ms. Tiara... she’s the owner of this tower?” To be safe, I wait for Green to nod before I go on. “She’s a rebel?”
“More likely she sold mantles and weapons to the rebels,” Green’s tone is casual, but she’s forcing it to be that way. I can hear that her chest and barrel are a little bit tight—that means grief or anger, and somehow I doubt she’s broken up about the tragedy of mantle smuggling. “This tower seems to do well no matter how the rest of the city fares.”
“Does Trixie trust her to take the bribe?” A prudent question, given that security also tried to bribe her and ended up no better off for it.
Green hesitates for a moment before she answers, “Trixie made her an offer she could not refuse.”
I don’t get it, but I get that this is a figure of speech, and that Green is worried its meaning will upset me. So, something unpleasant then. “And... will that... make her trustworthy?”
“It’s the best deal we’re gonna get, Sweetheart, ’less you’re keen to fight your way out,” she answers, with a sigh and a shake of her head. “C’mon now, eat something, and I’ll take one more look at your injuries. We should be on our way within an hour or so. We’re meeting them at the intersection next floor over.”
“Sure,” I say, but I catch her attention with a little glance. There’s an art to glancing—first at her eyes, then down and away, and just when she’s getting curious what I was about to say, back up and hold her gaze for a good long second. Do it right, and the most trivial statement will sound profound and deeply personal, even if you mess up the tone—though for the record, I never mess up the tone. “Green. You offered me that set of knives before. Does the offer stand?”
She pauses, narrows her eyes and examines me for a moment. Then, she nods. Her horn comes alight with that distinctive blood-red glow, and her saddlebags slide open. She’s cleaned the knives—there’s no blood on her dress, now that I think about it—and she floats them over to me in a single smooth motion. “Here. There are no sheaths, but if they’re going in that belt, you’ll need something to cover them.” She pulls a small section of burlap from her saddlebags and levitates a needle, thread, and scissors from the first aid kit. She’s remarkably fast, and soon, two crude yet functional baggies adorn my belt loops, protecting my flanks from the blade. “Now, lets see those injuries.”
She says about what I thought she would: that I’m not about to puke up my vital organs, but I shouldn’t try running any races, possibility of permanent damage if I overexert myself, at least no sign of infection blah blah whatever. I let her do her work. It’s so strange to watch her now. My eyes keep wandering to her dress, wondering what it’s there to conceal. I remember... a horseshoe cutie mark, and an eye with a swirl in it, and the apples on her flank. But there were others I don’t remember. And are there any signs of degradation? That bruise on her forehead really does look like one of those lumps when it’s painted over that way. I bet she’s stewing about that but refusing to show it, or refusing to think about it.
Freak. That’s what I called her. Freak: noun, a thing or occurrence that is markedly unusual or irregular, often with negative connotations. I wish she was a freak, but I think she’s too normal for that. Ghoul doesn’t quite fit her, not like it does Berry—she’s not dead, she’s afraid of death. Witch doesn’t quite fit her either, not like it does Trixie. Monster, maybe? My murderous protector.
Green gives a sharp two-tone whistle, and I snap out of my reverie, shaking my head. “Wha?”
“I said, you’re all done. Your legs aren't going to fall off for a few good hours at least. Let’s go,” she says, turning to the door. She’s not herding me like she did before, but moving ahead and trusting me to follow. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I move after as quick as I can under the circumstances, pausing only to slip a jacket on before we step outside.
The hallway is empty, silent except for the crunch of our hooffalls, the puff of our breath, and the pulse of the lights. The bodies are gone, but I can still see long bloodstains running from where they died to the bottom of the incline, little patches of scarlet in the snow. Green turns to move downslope, and I keep with her.
It doesn’t take us long to reach the intersection—a five-way split this time. There’s a dozen guards there and four wiredolls spread out to cover the tunnels—more security than they had for the entire tram station just to escort the two of us. My heart starts to flutter, but I don’t stop. I just keep walking forward into the middle of the group. They’re staring—what are they staring for? Do they know who I am? Are they shocked and horrified to see the Princess's student? I try to turn away from them, but I end up looking at one of the wiredolls instead, and that doesn't help at all. I can see my reflection in its eyes and... they’re all around us. Why do they need so many guards to walk us to the exit? It’s a trap. It’s a trap! We’re gonna die!
Green’s hoof presses against my side, blocking me from drawing the knife as I take a hold of it. What’s she’s doing? What’s she doing!? We—
“Shh.” She gives a little shake of her head. I—
I let go of the knife. She pats my shoulder.
“Siren Song and company, I presume?” one of the guards asks, stepping forward. He’s a purple pegasus stallion with a strange cutie mark on his cheek that depicts a pegasus mare rearing over a starburst. From his expression, he’s a little less nervous than the others, but I think that’s only because he feels he has to put on a strong face. I’m about to speak when Green takes a step forward.
“You would be correct,” Green answers him. “You’re here to take us to the tunnels?”
“By way of Ms. Tiara, yes. She wants to have a word with Siren and... what do I call you?” He gestures at Green with a hoof.
“You don’t, loverboy. You’re our escort—now would you kindly escort us?” She makes a faint little waving motion with her hoof, and he seems to lose his train of thought—I would call it obvious, but none of the other guards catch on, so I’m not going to complain. He barks orders, and soon enough we’re moving through the tower at a steady walk, headed in through the wide corridors.
It doesn't seem to be that long before we stop, although my attention is mostly on the pain in my legs, so I’m not paying a lot of heed to exactly how far we’ve walked. The guards draw up, Green holds out a leg to stop me, and I realize we’re in front of an impressive set of oaken double doors, the image of a five-pointed tiara emblazoned on them in silver, half of the image on each door. A guard knocks, the door opens a crack, and there’s a whispered conversation. Soon enough, we’re led on through.
The doors don’t open all the way—to keep the heat in, I guess—only parting enough for a single pony to pass. The wiredolls move in first, then us, then two of the guards, and then the doors shut. We’re in the foyer of an office done up in an absolutely horrific style—dark red plush carpeting, beige paint on the walls, and Hearth’s Warming Eve decorations everywhere. From the shape of it, there are a number of offices that connect to this space, but the guards and wiredolls lead us straight through to the one in the back, knocking at the wooden door there.
“Enter!” a sharp feminine voice calls, and the door slides open to let us and our escorts in. We’re in a smaller office now, containing a cluttered desk, some cabinets, a few pictures on the walls, and a high-backed chair that currently holds a garishly pink earth pony mare. A silver tiara rests on her head—her namesake, I suppose—blending poorly with her purple-and-white mane. No cutie marks that I can see, but the desk is so high and she’s pulled up so close that I can’t see much below her shoulders anyway. Still, she’s appears to be about my age—too young for all of this. “Ah, if it isn’t the mare of the hour.” She gestures me forward. “And Green as well. A pleasure.”
“Diamond,” Green greets the mare behind the desk, her tone openly wary. There are guards all around us, ready with weapons. I try to seem indifferent, but I know I’m failing. I keep glancing around, eyeing those knives, seeing when they step towards us. “It was my understanding we were going straight to meet Berry Punch. I hope she hasn’t suffered any misfortune in the interim?”
“Now, Green, I don’t appreciate that accusation,” Diamond Tiara says in a cool tone. “Ms. Punch is a resident of my tower. I do take the safety of my tenants seriously.” Her voice is relaxed, but her posture is too stiff and artificial for that: eyes narrowed, shoulders tight, back straight. I know she’s alert, and I’d bet she’s angry, but she’s not giving away much more than that.
“Can we see her?” Green asks, direct and to the point, her gaze focused on the mare behind the desk.
Diamond Tiara doesn’t answer right away, letting Green stew in her uncertainty. It’s only after a hefty pause that she reaches behind the desk to hit something, and a side door opens to the office. Berry comes through it, shoved by a wiredoll behind her, and she soon stumbles into place beside Green. I can’t worry about her now. I have to try and be brave, not let the guards see how frightened I am.
I wonder if Berry is looking at me. Planning when to give me the mantle.
“It was also my understanding that we were going directly to the tunnels,” Green continues, her whole body stiff. She’s nervous, and I don’t like it when she’s nervous because that makes me... deep breath, Siren. “Has there been some problem there?”
“To an extent, but nothing that can’t be overcome, I’m sure,” Diamond says, leaning back in the chair and tapping the tips of her hooves together. “I need you to wire Trixie, to renegotiate the terms of your release.”
“Listen, I understand your situation,” Green says, trying to soften her tone with limited success. “But that’s a matter between you and Trixie. You can wire her yourself. Would you kindly let us go in the meanwhile?” I try not to show my relief, but it’s good to know the situation is under control.
“Ah yes,” Diamond Tiara says. She smiles, but it’s the wrong kind of smile. Smug, confident, not the stupid grin of somepony staring at the most beautiful mare in the world. “I’ve heard about your unique approach to diplomacy. I’m curious if you’re aware that they pre-released the Mark Two version about a month ago.” Green takes a step away, body tensing as she flicks her gaze between Diamond and the guards. Diamond only laughs, a dark little giggle. “Tell you what. If you didn’t know that, bark like the well trained dog you are.”
“Arf arf!” Green shouts. Her body goes slack, relaxing at once as her tongue lolls out. She sharply flicks her tail back and forth, gawking at Diamond Tiara with an expression of absolute adoration.
Oh no. Oh no no no. That’s not fair. That’s her thing! That’s what she does. It has to work!
“You really should keep your mantles up to date.” Diamond Tiara tut-tuts Green, feigning disappointment as she shakes her head. “Still, this is a good bit for you. It really makes you seem more approachable.” Diamond Tiara stands up behind her desk, reaching down into a drawer to find a pink rubber ball. When she rises, I can see her lower body more clearly: a tiara cutie mark on her flank, an eye with a golden swirl inside on her leg, a pile of bits near the base of her tail, and I think there’s something on her back. “Who wants the rubber ball?” She coos at Green, who eagerly hops up and down. “You do? You want the rubber ball? Go get the ball!” She flicks the ball off her desk, and Green eagerly pounces on it with her forehooves, catching it in her mouth and chewing.
“Green?” I call to her at a whisper, leaning down next to her and nudging her shoulders. “Green? Green, snap out of it.” She growls at me, pulling the ball away and defensivly folding her hooves over it. “Green, you need to wake up!”
“Is there a point to this?” Berry asks with a level tone, and my head snaps up to her. I’m alone. I’m alone with Berry and the guards. I can feel my heart racing, the room heating up, it’s getting hard to breathe.
Diamond Tiara doesn’t answer. After the silence gets too long, I turn back to her, and I realize that she’s staring at me. She’s looking right at me, level and evaluating. She’s not putting on airs, she’s... searching for something. But I don’t understand and I don’t know what to do. She sees me watching though, and turns away, reaching across her desk to push one of those miniature wiredolls into the center.
“A point, Berry?” Diamond Tiara asks, her teeth set on edge, her tone dropping into an icy rigidity. “Fifteen of my guards are dead because of that filly beside you, and Trixie thinks she can bully me into pretending it didn’t happen.”
“She offered you a fair deal,” Berry replies, as Green looks between them with wide, uncomprehending eyes. She’s wondering when one of them is going to throw the ball again.
“Tell me,” Diamond Tiara demands, her stare faintly narrowing. “By what standard is, ‘do it and I won’t have you killed,’ a fair deal?”
“That is an oversimplification,” Berry says, her tone calm as ever, but Diamond Tiara’s expression doesn’t change.
“I’m not so sure that it is,” she answers, and I can hear the pent-up rage she’s hiding under that icy exterior. “However, it is surely an accurate description of the terms you are being offered.” She emphasizes her words with a shove of the wiredoll towards the edge of the desk.
Berry turns her head left, then right, taking in the guards around us. She gives in without the slightest show of defeat, stepping up to the doll and then rummaging through her saddlebags for the crystal. It doesn’t take her long to find it, and she leans her head around to slot it into the doll’s flank. The little thing twitches, hums, and comes to life.
“Trixie,” Berry greets the doll. Green barks twice. I don’t say anything. What can I say?
“Berry,” Trixie answers through the doll’s mechanical intonations. Her tone is flat, almost bored, but something is wrong with the doll, and the pitch of her voice wavers up and down randomly. The doll twists around on its little stand, looking over its shoulder at the desk. “Diamond. What’s the meaning of this?”
“I want a hundred and fifty thousand bits for Siren and the other two,” Diamond Tiara answers, quick and to the point. She draws a deep breath, letting it out through her teeth. “I don’t suppose you care, but that’s ten thousand bits for every one of my guards you got killed. Compensation for their families.”
Trixie lets out a derisive snort, the little bobble of the doll’s head the only sign that she rolled her eyes. “The way Trixie hears it, you got your guards killed trying to short-change security. Trixie knows money is hard to come by these days, Diamond, but really? Doctor Stable is half the reason anypony still lives in—”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion!” Diamond Tiara roars, her hooves slamming down onto the desk hard enough to leave gouges in the wood. Her eyes go wide, and she rears up, reaching out to spin the doll around with a sharp smack to its base. “I’m sick of getting squeezed by you and by security. What’s the point of paying protection if you don’t actually protect me!?”
Trixie doesn’t answer at first, but I can see the little doll raising a foreleg as though to consider its own hoof, turning around, examining it, and only glancing up after a moment. “Oh, Trixie is sorry, were you expecting an answer to that?”
There’s an explosion there, waiting to be set off—a furious, screaming, wide-eyed rant—but Diamond Tiara takes a deep breath, stamping it down and shaking her head. “A hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Or what, you’ll kill them? How will Trixie ever deal with the grief?” The little doll asks, tone overwrought, raising a hoof to its forehead and mock fainting. After a moment of that, it rights itself, fixing Diamond with a glare and a snide: “Be serious.”
“Oh, of course.” Diamond Tiara turns to Berry, Green, and me, and then scowls down at the tiny metal figurine. “Where do you find these ponies, Trixie? My guards follow me because I would go to the ends of the ocean for any of them, but you seem to find followers who delight in your sadistic indifference to their lives. I suppose when they’ve been particularly good, you do them the honor of beating them in person?”
“This is starting to get boring,” Trixie replies, her tone flat. “Trixie doesn’t care if they live or die, but Trixie does have a reputation to maintain. Touch any of them, and Trixie will have you drawn and quartered right in the middle of that lovely bazaar of yours.”
“That’s kind of an over-the-top threat even for you, Trixie,” Diamond answers, but that confidence is flowing back into her smirk. “But you are even more full of it than usual today. I’ll believe you don’t care about Green or Berry, but you’ve been pulling out all the stops to go after this filly: parting with good money, burning favors, picking fights. She must be very valuable to you to be worth so much effort. Yet I can’t help but notice she doesn’t seem that useful: no valuable skills, no special knowledge, no connections or influence. So I can only imagine that your interest in her is... personal.”
“Oh, please,” Trixie insists, with a little dismissive wave of her hoof. “That’s the best you can come up with? Trixie has—”
“No family, no friends, nopony she cares about,” Diamond Tiara spits caustically, sneering down at the little doll. “I don’t buy the whole mare of mystery act, Trixie. What is she to you? A niece, a cousin, a friend? Somepony you had hidden away so they couldn't be used against you?”
“Oh, yes. That’s it. You got Trixie,” Trixie answers, her voice dripping disdain. “Well! With such a secret out, it seems like Trixie’s only recourse would be to say that if you touch a hair on their bodies, Trixie will have you killed.” A faint pause hangs in the wake of that declaration. “Oh, wait... hold on.”
“You think this is funny?” Diamond shouts, body tense and tone sharp.
“More sad, really.” The doll gives the faintest of sighs, tilting its head to the side. “You don’t have the guts for this city, Diamond—you never did. That’s why you ran crying to Trixie that those mean old stallions in security weren't playing nice with you. And you’ll note that ever since that point, they have left you alone when you aren’t dumb enough to antagonize them—so don’t say that Trixie didn’t hold up her end of the bargain. If you had what it takes, you would never have needed Trixie in the first place, so don’t pretend you’re willing to pick that fight.”
“I am not your pet, Trixie!” Diamond Tiara snarls, her hoof smashing into the desk, knocking one of the glass ornaments off the edge. I hear it shatter on the floor, but I don’t look away.
“No. Good pets are hard to come by, but this city is full of ponies dumb enough to think that running a successful business means they have what it takes to play war,” Trixie answers, unfazed.
“I built this tower and I took care of the ponies in it! Don’t you mock that, you stuck-up lunatic!” she screams, mane out of order as she leans in to glower down at the doll. Her head is almost bigger than its entire body, but Trixie doesn't so much as twitch. “You think I haven’t got the guts?” She sharply turns to us. “Tell you what, Green. Come over here and lay your head on the edge of the desk.”
Green shrugs me off without a second thought, pushing me aside as she trots right up to Diamond Tiara, laying her head on hard desk’s edge. Diamond Tiara turns the wiredoll around so that its pointed right at Green, forcibly tilting its head down to gaze into her eyes. “Tell you what, Green. Tell Trixie that this is Siren next if she doesn’t get the message.”
“Siren’s up here next if you don’t get the message!” Green tells the doll in front of her, sing-song, cheerful, as Diamond picks up one of the heaviest decorations on the deck: a solid brass bookend.
“Diamond, there’s no—”
“Shut up!” Diamond snarls. The bookend is heavy enough that she has to hold it between two hooves. She raises it high, and brings it down on the top of Green’s head. There’s a loud, wet crack, her head slamming down against the edge of the hardwood. At once, her eyes go unfocused, and she starts to slump to the floor, but one of the guards rushes forward to grab her, holding her up and pinning her to the wood.
Diamond Tiara raises the bookend.
“Stop!” I shout, leaping across the little room. The guard is in my way, but I manage to shove myself between him and the desk, wrapping my forelegs around Green’s head. I can barely stand up that way, teetering back and forth on two hooves as I try to find something to brace against. All my legs are burning, shaking with pain, but I can’t let go. “Stop! You’ll kill her. You win, okay!?” I can tell I’m tearing up, and I know I’m screaming but I don’t know what else to do. “You win. I’m sorry I got your tower messed up. I was frightened by security and I ran and I didn’t realize I was leading them somewhere. I’m sorry. You win! Just don’t hurt her.”
Diamond Tiara doesn’t say anything, at first—the bookend is still above her head, and she draws deep, quick breaths, her eyes wide. “Well?”
“Trixie will do as you have demanded if you release the three of them,” the little wiredoll says, its mechanical voice restrained and stiff. “There is no need for any... further unpleasantness, so long as you keep your conclusions a secret. Keep them a secret indefinitely, and Trixie will forget that this ever occurred. We can call it a new understanding between us. Berry will shake on it.”
There’s a pause before Diamond Tiara answers, and when she does, her voice is quieter, lower. “Take the green one outside. Make sure she doesn’t die.” The guards and dolls hesitate, but she makes a sharp gesture with a hoof. I don’t let go—I can’t let go. She might slip and her head could hit the desk! But then there’s a cable wrapped around my foreleg, and one of the guards has my other leg, and they’re pulling me off her, yanking me away no matter how much I struggle and shout, dragging Green off.
“Be quiet!” Diamond Tiara snaps at me, and I fall silent, trying not to sniffle too much. After a moment, she reaches out and gives Berry the most angry hoofshake I’ve ever seen, just about grinding her hoof into the other earth pony’s. After a moment, they finally pull apart, trading Berry’s flat expression for Tiara’s toxic glare.
“Fine,” Diamond Tiara snaps, sitting back in her chair and yawning as she moves a hoof to cover her mouth. “Get them out of here before I change my mind.”
The guards pull us away, back into the main room. Green is there, on her hooves at least, and there’s a bandage around her head. They don’t give us time to talk, pushing us out into the hallway. It doesn’t take them long to lead us to one of the many unmarked metal doors in these halls, and they open it with a ring of keys, forcing us down into it and slamming the door behind us. I hear a humming sound, the whine of those bars lowering. There’s a long stairwell here, twisting down, spiraling through the rock. We move away from the cold, and the sound of dripping water returns, that smell of mold and the feeling of dampness. We move away from the guards, and there’s no sound but our hooves. We move away from the lights, and it’s dark.
“Light,” Berry orders. Green and I both move to comply, but I’m a little faster, and my magenta glow fills the space around us. There’s nothing to see now but the stairwell: winding stone steps and damp walls. Soon though, the stairs end, and we emerge into a rough-hewn tunnel. Grey stone here, not white, and the floor is rough and uneven, covered in patches of moss.
“Are you alright?” I ask Green, once we’re away from the guards. I don’t know why I felt I couldn't talk in front of them, but somehow, the damp and dark tunnel seems far more welcoming than the cool, sterile tower ever did.
She doesn't answer me right away. Her face is pretty messed up. I think some of it might be that her light is actually blood red and mine is pretty close, but the entire left side of her face seems to be covered in a mass of black. Her ear on that side folded back, and her eye keeps sporadically opening and closing.
“I’ve been better, Sweetheart,” she finally says, but the words are noticeably slurred, and a lot of breath escapes with them. “I know this may seem strange, but, not of all us are as tough as you. To some ponies, a concussion is actually a fairly significant inconvenience.”
This place must be getting to me, because for a second, I don’t actually know if she wants me to joke back or not—if I’m supposed to be serious, or show bravado in turn, or just stop talking. That’s such a simple thing to read, usually, but there’s a noticeable pause before I pick up on her. She wants me to stop talking. I think the sound might be making her headache worse.
“You need a...” A doctor. Horseapples. “A place to lie down and get some real first aid. How long is it to where we’re going?”
“Ceto Station is a ways away, Sweetheart. We’ve got a few hours of walking,” she says, her head slumping faintly. “Don’t you worry though. I’ll hold together until then.”
“We are not going to Ceto Station,” Berry corrects her, without the slightest trace of concern for her health—or even something as decent as fear. “Trixie has ordered us to take the first left instead. It will lead us to a maintenance junction where we are to wait for further instructions.”
“That’s not what she told me,” Green says. She raises her voice a little when she answers, but only to bring it to a regular volume—it sounds like it takes a lot of effort.
“Trixie knew that Diamond Tiara could hypnotize you.” Berry gives Green a curt answer, but for some reason, Green laughs, the motion making her wince.
"She’s always got an angle, doesn’t she?” Green asks, but Berry says nothing. It takes Green a second to realize her mistake, or to remember who she’s talking to. “Did Trixie tell you anything else?”
“Yes,” Berry answers. Of course she does.
“Anything I might find relevant?” Green asks, nudging me a little as we pass through a particularly narrow bit of tunnel. Berry takes her time in answering that one too—mulling it over, I guess.
“That I should shake on her behalf,” Berry says. Her voice is plain, reciting the simple facts of our meeting, but Green laughs again—a dark chuckle this time.
A smile appears on Green’s face as we walk, that same smile she had when she told me I started a riot, and when she calmly stuck two knives into a pony’s ears. She doesn’t seem to have any more questions for Berry, walking with her eyes half shut. It makes her seem strangely serene, even though I know she must be in pain.
“What does that mean, Green?” I finally ask her, after what seems like forever. “Green? What does that mean?”
“’S just like I told you, Sweetheart,” she says, “One way or another, we all deserve exactly what we get.”
