//------------------------------// // As Above, So Below // Story: Severed Roots // by Bad_Seed_72 //------------------------------// As Above, So Below He laid there, remaining still for the longest he’d been in years. All the madness danced before his eyes, embers raked over hot coals. Decision. Declaration. Knighthood. Mission after mission, dispatch after dispatch. All the days he had wasted in servitude to the most powerful and heartless stallion in Manehatten. And all for what? For bits? Fame? Fortune? The empire he’d always dreamed of? A gust of desert wind tossed a hoof-full of sand into his eyes. He groaned and rubbed his eyelids, squinting through the darkness. Five years of Boone by his side, mastering the ways of concrete and cobblestone. Five years of blood and honor, blazing glory shining through the ghetto. All shattered, fallen, staining the ground crimson. Even after changing winds and shifting sands and coyotes’ tongues lapping hungrily, it would be there forever. He would know. Everything was gone. The Master had his way. Twelve of the thirteen met their end. They were pawns, Card Slinger realized. Just as he had always said. Always wanted. Pawns on the chessboard, warring fruitlessly against each other, in Manehatten and beyond. Finding resolution here, in the barren wasteland, the madhouse of sand… Sand. It was all for sand. Clinging to his best and only friend, he seized upon his last words, chewing them thoroughly. Even as the lonely moon began to rise, rise, rise, he held him. Even as the coyotes began their mournful chorus—weeping with him, in a sick, twisted sort of way—he refused to budge. While the night dipped low into its deep, constant contradiction, extinguishing the memory of the inferno with a bone-chilling cold, he thought not of revenge. Only… sorrow. And salt and fire. And, most of all, Boone. Hours passed before Card Slinger rose to his hooves and began to dig. ~ She pretended to sleep, or tried to. She curled beside her on the left side—the ear side, she would now refer to it as, not the shoulder side. Apple Bloom held Babs as close as she could without aggravating her injuries. Babs slept but did not snore anymore, twitching occasionally in what her mare hoped were dreams. First came the tears. It was too close. Far too close. Losing her was a contemplation so horrible, so dreadful, so heart-wrenchingly awful that she didn’t linger on it for long. But it was there, sitting, whispering, taunting, demon in the corner roasting popcorn on his pitchfork. The idea of Babs Seed being stolen from her after almost eight years of trial, tribulation, revelation, and, ultimately, what she could only describe as love, was simply incomprehensible. She hated herself for even thinking of it—as if the mere thought of such a possibility could breathe life into its bones. Next came the questions. Why? Why Appleloosa? Why here? Why anywhere? The violence she’d witnessed and experienced during her foalhood years was tame compared to the sheer brutality of tonight. What motivated them? Why did they hate them so? And why wasn't anypony stopping them? Manehatten all they seemed—and, Apple Bloom figured, tattooed all they would be as well. A gang. It had to be. Like the one who’d tormented the slumbering mare beside her almost eight years ago, on the night that had defined them forever. But hadn't the Royal Guard taken over the city since then? Wasn't the Police Department supposed to keep peace in the city? Or, at the very least, confine it? Most of the immigrants who came out west said they sought freedom, redemption, opportunity. They spoke of chaos in Manehatten, but never elaborated upon it much. They seemed despondent when mentioning it. But, Appleloosa, and... here. Here. A chill rushed down Apple Bloom's spine at the memory of the palomino stallion taking aim upon her mare. In his blackened eyes, she'd seen no life, no light. He'd shown no remorse, laughing his fool head off, even as she bore into him, bullet after bullet. It was if he didn't care. But, the blood-red stallion beside him... he cared... She thought she saw something akin to fear in his eyes, or regret. Apple Bloom stretched out next to Babs Seed and closed her eyes. That night. The clearing. The knife. Any mention of it in Babs’s presence was angrily dismissed. The name of her attacker had never been revealed to Applejack, Citrus, Libra, or anypony else. It was their secret. It was nowhere close to a juicy one, or even an interesting one. It was just something they never spoke of—there was no need to do so. There was no reason to think about it. It was over a long, long time ago. But, the more she thought about it, Apple Bloom realized something. While the sadistic palomino was a stranger to her, the one beside him was not. The time between the shot being fired and the resulting bullet being pried from her mare’s shoulder passed with all the hesitation of a freight train. Everything blurred and twisted into one awful, awful night. The imagery of those two stallions, however, rose clear above her haze, her lost time. She knew the red one was him. The same. He had to be. She knew. And she was sure Babs did, too. A grunt and a rustling of hooves interrupted her thoughts. “Babs?” Apple Bloom whispered, stretching a forehoof around her and looking towards her muzzle. Babs coughed and groaned, her eyes slammed shut. “… Wha…” The utterance of a single word sent her into a violent coughing fit. She creaked her heavy eyelids slowly open in a haze, jarred. What? Where am I? What is dis place? Everything was out of place. The room was far too grand to be their own. Was that a fireplace blazing in the corner? Hacking up spittle, she tried to remember. Waves of agony rushed through her muscles, draining them of life. All her neurons screamed that something was very, very wrong. Babs grunted nonsense and shook her muzzle slowly, closing her eyes. C'mon, think! Think! Babs tried to remember, but found nothing but a heap of broken images: a blazing bar; Turner, pinned to the floor; stallions rushing towards shots fired in the distance; Soapy, shooting his pistol into the air. Nothing seemed coherent or chronological. Babs strained to remember, cursing her weakness. The pain was too much, blocking her memories. When she tried to make sense of where she was, or what had ultimately transpired, she came up with only blackness. She shivered, suddenly cold. Everything was strange. Everything hurt. Apple Bloom stretched a forehoof towards the nightstand, grabbing a glass of water waiting patiently there. She held it carefully between her forehooves and raised it to her mare’s lips. “Drink, sugarcube." Parched, Babs sipped at the glass greedily, rising her right forehoof to do so. A bolt of white-hot pain shot through her, punishing her mistake. She grimaced. Horseapples, dat hurt! What the hay? Why did dat hurt? Babs started to crane her neck to look at her limb. Seeing this, Apple Bloom shook her muzzle to stop her and tilted the glass. With her assistance, Babs drained the glass completely. Opening her eyes fully now, she looked towards Apple Bloom and mouthed for more. The empty glass was replaced with a second, full glass from the nightstand. Apple Bloom was prepared. She'd had to do something in between sobbing and pacing. Apple Bloom helped her drink again, not that she minded. Once Babs was finished, she rubbed her back gently and asked, "Are ya hungry, sugarcube? Cold?" "Cold," Babs muttered, rubbing at her nose with her left forehoof. This one did not hurt like the other. Curious, she turned her head to her right foreleg at last. Finding a layer of white bandages wrapped around her shoulder, she began to wrack her mind, searching for any recollection. What?! How the hay did dat happen?! I was fine when I got outta the bar, wasn't I? What's goin' on? Why don't I rememba anythin'? Babs sniffed and looked quizzically at Apple Bloom as she rose off the bed in search of a blanket, confused and a little panicked. "Where are we?" "The innkeeper's room," Apple Bloom said quietly, locating a thick blanket hidden in a closet. Lifting it with her mouth, she trotted over and threw it over her mare's back, tucking it in but staying mindful of her injury. Climbing up beside her, Apple Bloom stroked her cheek and hesitated. Memory was obviously failing her. The doctor hadn't warned about this. Nevertheless, it was understandable. Everypony in town who was still lucky enough to be capable of memory was, without a doubt, cursing their blessing. It would be a long road to recovery for them all. The road to ruin had been so short, so unexpected. Babs closed her eyes and practically purred at Apple Bloom's touch. Dis has ta be a dream. Jus' a really weird dream. Fireplace... innkeeper's room... Hurt... No. Everypony's fine. I'm fine. Dis is jus' a dream. No way dis could be real. Sighing contentedly, Babs fell into her mare's forehooves, flopping over on her left side. In a dream-like trance, she looked up into those red-orange eyes and smiled. "Youze have... pretty eyes..." she whispered, trying her best to resist the forehooves of the Sandmare and failing thoroughly. Speaking and drinking seemed to have sapped what little strength she had away, and her mind and body pleaded for rest. Apple Bloom forced a chuckle and held Babs gently in her hooves. "Go back ta sleep, silly filly. Ah'll be right here." To her relief, Babs Seed nodded and closed her eyes, falling into two sets of awaiting hooves and being led away to somewhere brighter. Apple Bloom ran a forehoof through her mane, letting her own dreadful thoughts run rampant. There would be plenty of time to relieve their hell, their tempest. Thousands of questions dotted on their horizon. What had become of the bar—and what would become of it now? What of the settlement and all the ponies within they cared about? Had they made it through? Would they come again? Would Babs be alright? Would Turner be alright? Would they be alright? Peace finally found Babs Seed, announcing its presence through her snoring. At least that was the same now. Apple Bloom knew, through the rest of her sleepless night, that nothing else would be. ~ THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD! Where his energy came from, he would never know. Card Slinger knew that if he was in Manehatten right now, he would be lying on the cobblestones, an easy target. He would be flailing his forehooves at the empty, blackened skies, mocking their deaf, blind, and mute overseer. Why? Why did he take his best friend away from him, too? Weren't his parents enough? Wasn't his soul enough? The plains were silent, empty. The steady rhythm of all four hooves churning the ground in a constant gallop shattered the night. Above him, he heard a rush of wings. Bothering not to look, he assumed it was simply a hawk. Or, he realized with ice in his veins, a vulture. A bird of carrion would feast like a king tonight, amongst Knights and settlers both. He knew he should be angry. In fact, he wished he was angry. And he was underneath another sickening emotion—something that commanded him to run, run, run, far and away from it. "...Y ouze parents..." Gritting his teeth, Slinger sucked in a lungful of clean air and altered his course, passing rows and rows of oasis cacti. His throat burned. He'd tossed aside his pistol a few minutes or miles ago, after he'd paid his last respects. Only his trusty black blade remained holstered to his shoulder. In a strange rush of remorse, he'd contemplated leaving it there, with him... It was all he had to give, all that remained of the foal he'd once been. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done—harder than any day in the quarry, harder than struggling to his hooves after any fight, harder than even groveling at the hindhooves of Manehatten's puppetmaster. Ponies were supposed to say a few words during those kind of things, weren't they? He'd reckoned so. He'd never attended a funeral—not for his parents, not for his uncle, not for any of his most loyal followers. All those ideas dwarfed in appeal next to a stiff shot of whiskey and a joint or two. Even so, he had no words to speak. He tried, opening and closing his mouth uselessly. Eventually, he left his friend to rest, in what he hoped (but knew wasn't) was peace. "... Salt an' fire..." He'd brought no saddlebag. He'd seen no reason to. A simple mission. One more arson, one more shootout if necessary. Those ponies in the uncharted territory, said the Master's messenger, would be few, and unarmed. Ha! How wrong he'd been. And what a dear price they'd paid. Seasoned gang members they were, all but one taken down in the process. But how? They were mere Earth ponies. Even the unicorn sharpshooter had met his match, although it'd taken another unicorn to send him flying. Card Slinger's throat quivered as he realized that, if had not been for Boone's thick-headed foalishness, he would not be galloping alone. "... Fo' us all..." He shook his muzzle, aggravated, and pressed on. Appleloosa couldn't be much farther. He'd been galloping non-stop for hours. He couldn't believe his strength. On the cobblestones, his speed and endurance paled in comparison to this. It was incredible. But his momentum couldn't outrun his thoughts, his regrets... Emotions! Stupid, petty emotions! They were beneath the leader of the Manehatten Kings. They were below King Crazy. They were things mares and weak stallions had. They were not something he possessed. Anger was not an emotion; it was a motivation. And he was the most motivated stallion in Manehatten, his enemy being the most manipulative and powerful of them all. And, soon, he would— WHOOSH! A rush of wings slicing wind passed over him. Card Slinger snapped his eyes to the skies. Nothing. He slowed his tempo, downgrading from a gallop to a canter. "Jus' a buckin' hawk," he grumbled, head turned away from the plains. WHOMP! Card Slinger laid muzzle-down in the cool sand before he could face forward. He laid on his belly, all four hooves spread, dull pain shooting through his body. He groaned and raised his muzzle, spitting out a mouthful of sand. Standing before him was the Master's messenger, cackling with glee. The haughty Griffon wore a finely pressed suit with silver buttons and a matching red silk tie. He wiggled his offending paw. "Ha! Watch where you're going, little Knight! If I had hooves instead of paws, why, you'd be practically bloody right now, wouldn't you? Tripping all over yourself! Ha!" He smacked his belly with a talon, each black claw glistening in the moonlight. He laughed and laughed and laughed, positively beside himself, pointing as the sand-coated Knight struggled to gain his bearings. "What the buck are youze doin' heeya?!" Slinger snarled, his limbs trembling as he rose. He brushed sand from his fur and checked his shoulders and flanks. A rapidly blackening purple bruise graced his left shoulder where he'd crashed to the relentless Earth. Snorting, flattening his ears, Slinger readied himself to strike. The Griffon's smile doubled. Slinger again found himself wanting to wipe it away, with hooves and steel. The Griffon checked his talons casually and mused, "It was a beautiful night for a flight. What can I say? I thoroughly enjoy the rush of thermals through my feathers, especially strange winds." The stallion stomped a forehoof in annoyance. "Horseapples! Youze were followin' me! How long youze been followin' me?!" "Long enough to see you choke up over your poor wittle fwiend," the Griffon mocked, rubbing his cheeks. Feigning sadness, he brought a mighty talon up to his forehead and droned to the heavens, "Oh, poor wittle stal-win! Wost his wittle friend in the wittle wastewand! Oh, poor wittle stal-win, whatever shall you do?" Hackles rising, Card Slinger exhaled a torrent of steam from his nostrils. His blade spoke to him, whispering its bloodthirst. So easy. It would be so easy to draw and slash, cutting the Griffon's wretched throat free from its master's rotting windpipe. "Shut up! Shut the buck up!" Slinger growled, leaning forward. Laughing, the Griffon strode over and draped a wing over the stallion in mock sympathy. "Oh, come now, little Card Slinger—" "How did youze know ma name?!" "I know everything. " His beak turned upwards into a sort-of-smile, sending a sort-of-chill down Slinger's spine. "I am the Master's eyes and ears in Manehatten and beyond. I watched your company's pathetic excuse for an assault on that vagabond camp. Twelve dead on your side, twelve on theirs? Even match? Stalemate? Oh, silly Card Slinger, you know nothing of chess." His feathers tickled the stallion's mane and neck, provoking him into a primal growl. "Oh, come now, am I not pretty enough for you? Perhaps if I got down on all fours and sung your praises just like that little coltfriend of yours did, you would—" Slinger slipped out of his grasp and drew his black blade. "Enough! Youze want a piece o' me?! Huh? HUH?!" He brandished his weapon, thrusting it in the air towards the Griffon. His opponent remained stoic, snickering. This only provoked the insane King even further. "What the buck is youze problem wit' me?! What did I eva do ta youze?! Ain't we all Knights?!" Chuckling heartily, the Griffon stood firm, making no motion to draw a weapon of his own or brandish his talons. He flared his wings to full length, majestic and bold. "Ah, the five stages of grief. It seems you have progressed to anger already. Quite touching. However, while I would love to continue our little exchange, I'm afraid I am called of higher things." The messenger reached inside his suit, eliciting a flinch and battle stance from the opposing Knight. The Griffon shook his head and laughed again. "Don't worry. If I were going to draw my weapon, I would've already. You don't scare me. I know you have no intentions of fighting me." "An' how do youze know dat?!" Card Slinger challenged, unfazed. "Because you are a coward. I saw how you performed out there, cowering behind a cactus like some little lost colt. Even when your little lover went down, you didn't have the mettle to avenge him." "He's not ma—" He raised a single claw to stop him. "Silence! Before I change my mind!" Slinger's lips began to form the words, "Change youze mind 'bout what," when the Griffon located his prize and revealed it. In one strong talon, he clutched a heavy bag of bits, coins struggling against the weak container and practically crying out to escape. It was a fairly large moneybag, holding at least a hundred thousand bits, Slinger guessed. Such a sight would've made even the most humble and pious of ponies fall to their hooves in rapture, worshiping the mammon before their eyes. Everypony who was anypony would've sold their souls to the Master to possess such wealth—and many did. Card Slinger, however, merely blinked, saying nothing. He sheathed his blade and stared into the Griffon's empty eyes. The Griffon shook the bag, setting off a string of happy jingling and chimes within it. "One hundred and thirty thousand bits," he explained, holding the prize high. "Payment for this wave of annexation. While those vagrants may have managed to partially save their bar—I took flight when they'd just about put the flames out—the message has surely been delivered. Although it pains me to do so, I must bestow this payment upon you." The messenger held out a tiny percentage of his Master's wealth. Card Slinger didn't move a muscle. Smirking, the Griffon continued, "I am sure you are wondering why I am giving you such an enormous payment. Well, I suppose your kind never was one for fancy mathematics, so I shall explain. Ten thousand was your ransom—each. Thirteen of you. And now—" "There's only me." "Precisely, little colt." The Griffon patted his head with a talon, father of darkness. His would-be son—the prince—squirmed from his touch, nauseated, holding back the urge to retch his innards in disgust. How dare he. How dare he contemplate paying him after all of this... The bits may as well been bathed in Boone's blood. "It is yours," the Griffon said, shoving the bag in his muzzle. Card Slinger shook his head. "No." Tilting his head, the Griffon asked, "Say again?" "NO," Slinger repeated, speaking from the bottom of his blackened soul. "Take youze bits an' shove 'em up youze ass. I don't want any o' it." Pivoting on his hooves, he started towards his destination, only to be blocked by the Griffon again. Snorting, he warned, "Youze tryin' the lil' o' ma patience, fool." The Griffon smiled his eerie smile again, and chucked the entire bag to his hooves. The moneybag landed with a satisfying WHOMP! coins happily jingling and clicking together in the process. "It is yours," the Griffon simply said, raising his wings. Catching the breeze in his perfectly preened primary feathers, he snarled and added, "Take it, bury it, spend it, melt it, eat it, give it away, shove it where the sun doesn't shine. I don't care. I've frankly had enough of our little chat." "Dat makes two o' us." Slinger made no movement towards the overflowing wealth at his hooves. "Very well. Until we meet again, little Knight." Jumping into the air, the Griffon pushed himself up into the atmosphere with a mighty flap of his wings, soon climbing higher and higher into the cloudless night. Card Slinger stared at the coins. One hundred and thirty thousand. Enough to buy a mansion of his own, on a hilltop of his own. Enough to employ guards of his own, and not just those under threat of life and death. Enough to drown himself in rivers of fine whiskey and suffocate his sorrow in the manes of the finest mares. Enough to erase his past and change his future forever. It would not be enough to raise the dead. The Reaper drove a hard bargain. Only by raising that black blade would Card Slinger be able to follow his one and only friend into the dark, into the black. Into the salt and fire. He exhaled slowly, staring off into the night. No. He was not a coward. No. He was a monster. Card Slinger was a monster, and monsters do not fall by their own hooves. They exist simply to be, and destroy, and consume, until they are freed by somepony worthy of slaying them. They exist to exert chaos and destruction upon the mad, mad world, so that everypony can know them, and, by knowing them, know their pain. Leaving the bits to thieves, Card Slinger the monster took to his hooves, in search of Appleloosa, Manehatten, and redemption. ~ Sometime around dawn, Apple Bloom closed her eyes for the shortest spell of her young life. She'd barely succumbed to exhaustion when the slow trotting of hooves into the innkeeper's room roused her from her sleep. She fumbled blindly for her revolver, remembering one of the miner-ponies had retrieved it. She'd stashed it under her pillow, and felt the cold form of its steel waiting for her. She creaked one eye open and spun around, ready to draw it if needed. "Howdy," a gentle voice greeted. Gradually, the innkeeper emerged into her (own) room, a smile painted on her muzzle. Apple Bloom sighed and withdrew her forehoof, leaving the weapon where it slept. "Howdy," she greeted in return, no enthusiasm in her words. She, too, dug up a smile from the depths of her disposition, and plastered it in false joy. "She sleepin' good?" the innkeeper asked, trotting over to a stool in the corner of the room. She was a graying Earth pony mare with an unkempt, brown mane and a dull, yellow coat speckled with sand. A simple cutiemark of a lit candle graced her flank. Bags under her eyes attested to an expected insomnia. She was an average mare, Apple Bloom knew, but possessed a heart that exceeded all benchmarks. She opened her inn to the west, offering cheap rates and warm smiles. Curiously, however, the innkeeper never introduced herself, nor spoke to either Babs Seed or Apple Bloom beyond simple greetings. She'd never visited their bar—and probably never would, now. Such formality (or was it shyness?) was unheard of in these parts, until her. Apple Bloom nodded and glanced over to her mare, snoring contentedly. "Yeah. She got up an' talked a lil'. Ah gave her some water an' got her a blanket. She woke up a few mo' times but didn't say nothin', jus' kinda opened her eyes an' then fell right back asleep." She moved a strand of mane out of Babs's eyes and sighed. "Ah don't think she remembers anythin', Miss..." Chuckling awkwardly, Apple Bloom brought a forehoof up to her muzzle. "Ah'm sorry. Ah don't think Ah've ever properly introduced maself!" Shaking her head, Apple Bloom flushed in embarrassment, amazed at how long it had been without a proper introduction. Sure, it had been a busy six months or so, but still... What would Applejack say? "Ah'm—" "Apple Bloom, Ah know." The innkeeper smiled. "An' she's Babs Seed." Confused, Apple Bloom blinked herself awake. "How did ya—: "Ah know a lot o' things ya don't know, honey. Ah jus' prefer ta keep 'em ta maself." Hopping off the stool, she trotted over to Apple Bloom and stook a forehoof out to greet her. "Ah'm Thyme." "Nice ta meet ya, Thyme," Apple Bloom said, shaking forehooves. "Meeting" somepony she'd seen on nearly a regular basis for half a year—and under such circumstances, no less—was an incredibly odd feeling, but she chose not to comment on it. Time spent in the wild taught her that everypony had a story, and some chose to keep them to themselves. Some chose to flaunt their names proudly, and some chose to tuck them away, or conceal them under nicknames. Like "Soapy" for a perpetually dirty prospector stallion. Babs grunted in her sleep but did not wake. Thyme sat down on her haunches beside the bed, tilting her head in concern. "You haven't slept a wink, have ya, Apple Bloom?" Apple Bloom shook her head. "Ah can't. Ah jus'... Ah don't even know where ta begin," she admitted. Great heaping hoof-fulls of emotions struggled for dominance within her, piling on top of the exhaustion that pulled her eyelids tauntingly down. She'd fought her sleep all night, staying strong, remembering Libra's words. Thyme nodded and looked away, speaking to the floorboards. "Neither do Ah. Whole lot o' us up in hooves 'bout what happened. Twelve o' our friends, gone..." She bit her lip and allowed a tear to fall. "Managed ta save some o' yer bar, by the way..." Apple Bloom knew she should express gratitude. She didn't. It seemed strange to say thanks for anything that happened in the wake of last night, in the haze of bullets and flame. So, she didn't respond, and resumed to quietly stroking Babs Seed's mane. Sniffling, Thyme said, "Yeah... It was amazin' how the town pulled together, made a whole fire line an' everythin'. Ceilin's gone, but most o' the supportin' walls are still there. Y'all can rebuild, if ya want. But..." She swallowed her tears and choked, "Ah can't believe... Ah can't..." A pair of forehooves pulled her into a hug. Thyme looked up to find Apple Bloom's eyes shining with their own tears. "Ah can't either," Apple Bloom whispered. "Ah wish this was a bad dream. Ah mean..." Glancing over to the slumbering mare, she let her words hang in the air. Innkeeper understood bartender and nodded slightly, returning the embrace. "Ah guess... Ah guess we'll jus' have ta all pick up the pieces now..." Pulling away, Apple Bloom mumbled, "Ah guess..." Wiping at her eyes, Thyme composed herself and sighed, staring down at the floor again. "Ah'd better get everypony up an' rousin'. We have a lot ta do ta-day... lots o' funerals..." Apple Bloom nodded, looking away. "Ah'll miss Skagway an' Dyea the most," Thyme said. She forced a laugh. "Without 'em, who knows where these lands would be. Why, they practically started the gold rush, all them years ago—" "S-S-Skagway? D-D-Dyea?" Apple Bloom scooted backwards on the bed, forcing distance between Thyme's words and her ears. "No! No! Ya can't mean—" Wordlessly excusing herself, choking down her sobs, Thyme rose and rushed out the door, leaving Apple Bloom to the denial coursing through her soul. This simply wasn't real. First, that sadistic scumbag had rocketed a bullet into her mare's shoulder, and now, two of her best friends in the west—second only to Turner himself—were counted among those lost in the madness... Skagway and Dyea, Apple Bloom understood, had lost their lives, lost their lives saving their settlement, their bar, their hides. Miles away, they'd fired off warning shots, charging into chaos, and now... All that remained was the golden ring in her mare's ear. Apple Bloom looked worriedly towards Babs Seed. Not only would she have to deal with this awful, incomprehensible nightmare of a reality, she would have to explain it to the injured (and surely distraught) mare. Icy hooves poked and prodded at her core, beginning to pull her down, down, down— No. She had to be strong. She had to be. Thankfully, another set of hooves roused Apple Bloom from the nightmarish asylum of her thoughts. The doctor stood in the doorway, his muzzle grizzled and weathered. He, too, appeared to be one step away from collapsing to the floor. He motioned with a forehoof for Apple Bloom to come to him. Apple Bloom rose from the bed and trotted worriedly over, glancing at Babs Seed every step of the way. "Mornin', Doc," she whispered, forcing a smile. Casting aside the charade, the doctor gruffly asked, "Did she sleep through the night?" "Mostly. She woke up once an' talked a bit, an' woke up a few other times but jus' closed her eyes an' went back ta sleep. She doesn't know where she is o' what happened..." "Don't be alarmed. That's to be expected." He ran a forehoof through his mane, professional composure wearing thin in wake of the most chaotic night of his life. "The stallion she rescued is—" "Turner?!" The stallion shrugged and nodded. "I suppose so. My assistant is taking care of him, but didn't ask his name, either. "Anyway, he is recuperating fairly well. He's awake and alert right now, though he only remembers bits and pieces. Traumatic events can sometimes leave a lasting amnesia upon the survivor, depending on the severity of the event, their mental health, and other—" "Babs is not crazy," Apple Bloom snapped, stomping a forehoof. "She'll remember! Ah know she will! Jus' give it time!" Raising his forehooves in submission, the doctor explained, "I was not inferring anything of the sort. I'm merely saying, ma'am, that she may or may not remember. That remains to be seen. "In the meantime, just make sure she is eating and drinking, and keep her off her hooves for a few days. Clean the wound at least twice a day and change the bandages, and all should be well." Flattening her ears, Apple Bloom mentally scolded her outburst. "Thank ya, Doc," she mumbled from the corner of her muzzle, staring past the doorway. In the hotel lobby, an assorted group of ponies were sipping coffee and tea in silence, a few munching on some pastries one had brought. From a window near the door, she could see the bar they had built with their own hooves—half-burnt and crumbling, windows shattered and rafters fallen. Her heart sank and fired a sickening wave of angry adrenaline, sorrow and rage smouldering like the ashes beyond. The towering stallion patted her shoulder gently and pasted a grin onto his countenance. "You look very tired, Miss, ah—" "Apple Bloom." "Miss Apple Bloom. Yes. You were very brave for your mare last night. Have you slept at all?" At her negative, he urged, "Why don't you go ahead and rest a bit? I'll sit in here and watch your mare, ah—" "Babs Seed." "Babs Seed, right. Yes, I'll watch her for you if you like. I'm Doctor Triage, by the way," he said, offering a forehoof to the mare. For the second time that insane morning, Apple Bloom shook forehooves, meeting a new face with reluctance and a thin mask. "Thank ya kindly, Doctor Triage. Ah'll be right back." Nodding, he trotted inside the innkeeper's room and pulled up a stool in the corner, observing his slumbering patient. A tough ol' mare indeed, she appeared to be lost to the world, deep in dreams. The bandage on her right shoulder remained intact, dotted here and there with spots of blood. She grunted occasionally between snores, but didn't seem to be in too much pain. Good. Luckily for her, she had a strong mare who kept her awake through it all, out of shock, alive. ~ Without bits, without a train ticket, he snuck on board, stowing away in a sleeper cab near the back of the train. Dodging the patrol of a feeble old guard-pony, Card Slinger boarded the train to Manehatten, to the beast. He hoped that whomever found the bits he'd left lying on the barren ground choked on them. Blood money. Blood money that killed his blood brother. For the first time in almost four years, he questioned his rise to power. Hundreds of ponies called him their King. Substances of all varieties and strengths found a home in his grandiose hideout. Mares of all shades were proud to throw themselves at him. He was certain that he was the second most feared stallion in Manehatten—second only to the living, breathing slime that hid himself within the walls of his mansion and his skyscraper... Oh, yes. Card Slinger knew his home on the thirty-third floor, disguised under some insurance agent's name. He'd extracted the information not too long ago from one of his own, a double-agent guard who patrolled the Master's very perimeter with a wink and a smile. He knew. Card Slinger knew, and would use that knowledge to his advantage. Almost twenty-one now, he mumbled as he did when he was thirteen, "Revenge..." He laid down in the cab and curled into his hooves, visions of salt and fire dancing before his eyes. ~ Being only the sister of the Element of Honesty (rather than the Bearer herself), Apple Bloom was able to lie without sputtering all over herself and making a mess of things. At least, she hoped she didn't. Ignoring Doctor Triage's advice, she made her way through the inn, pressing her ear to several doors in search of Turner. A gruff stallion's voice barking, "Easy! Easy! Ahh! Dat stings!" declared she had located him at last. Knock, knock. A thin, lanky unicorn stallion held the door slightly ajar with his magic, peering curiously at her. "Yes? Can I help you?" "Is Turner in here?" "Apple Bloom?!" Shoving past the unicorn before he could close the door, Apple Bloom burst into the room, galloping to his bedside. "Turner! Turner! Yer alright!" she exclaimed, relieved, happy tears forming in her eyes. The stallion laid on his stomach on the bed, all four hooves curled towards himself. His muzzle and coat were marred with various bruises and cuts—some bandaged, some left to heal in the open air. He wore a slight smile on his face, overjoyed to see one of his two favorite mares standing before him. Turner pulled himself closer to her with his forehooves and outstretched them. Apple Bloom accepted them eagerly, squeezing him tight. "Ahhh, not so tight," he groaned, her forehooves snaking around his torso. Jerking away, Apple Bloom muttered, "Heh, s-sorry." The unicorn trotted over to them and shot a disapproving gaze towards the mare. "Watch your hooves! He's strained some of his back and torso muscles." He then rounded on the stallion. "Don't exert yourself. You need to be off your hooves for at least a week." Turner rolled his eyes and snorted. "'Cuse me, Doc, but I'll be fine, an' I'll hug anypony I want ta." Speaking to Apple Bloom, he mumbled, "Don't listen ta dis kook. Now," he said, facing the unicorn, "can youze give us some privacy, please? I want ta speak ta Apple Bloom, alone." Dismissing them both with a flick of his head, the doctor exited the room, making sure to slam the door on his way out. Ungrateful patients, them all. Patting a spot on the bed beside him, Turner urged Apple Bloom to come up with a wink and a smile. She obliged, stretching out carefully next to the stallion. This time, when she smiled, it didn't feel (or seem) as obviously forced. "How ya feelin'?" "Good as I can, I guess," he said, laughing a bit. "How I managed ta get through all o' dat, an' still be sittin' heeya... Most High only knows. How's Babs? Is she alright?" He stared into her, eyes wide and muzzle trembling. "She's fine," Apple Bloom said, unsure if she spoke the truth or lies. She elaborated, "Physically, Doc says as long as she rests, she'll be alright. They had ta..." She looked away. "Take the bullet out... Outta... h-her..." Laying a forehoof across her shoulders, Turner soothed, "But... dat's good. She won't get no infection dat way... An'...she'll be alright. She's tough. She's like me," he joked, failing to inject humor into the situation. Weakly nodding, the mare placed her forehoof on top of his. "She is tough. She's strong. But... she doesn't remember, Turner. She woke up last night, coughin' an' askin' fer water. Which is good, Ah think, but... she didn't remember what happened." "I didn't at first, neitha." Turner explained, "Jus' woke up a few hours 'go, an' dat bastard o' a doctor had ta explain ta me what happened. Youze jus' give it time. She'll be fine." "Ah hope so. Ah don't..." Burying her muzzle into her other forehoof, Apple Bloom muttered, ashamed, "Ah don't want ta explain it. Ah don't want ta relive it. Ah don't wanna talk 'bout it. Not yet..." "An' dat's alright," Turner assured. "It's alright ta not want ta. Horseapples, everypony's in shock. We're all dealin' wit' it different. Buck. I heard dey gonna be doin' all the funerals ta-day, even..." Lost for words, Apple Bloom forced her tears away, managing another nod. She was grateful for the universal sign language of "no" and "yes". These gestures kept her words from betraying her. Stay strong, stay strong, stay strong, Apple Bloom thought, rhythmic mantra on endless loop. Babs would soon stir and wake, and would need somepony composed and resilient—not one who could barely handle simple conversation. "'Ey. Look at me, kiddo," Turner said, lowering his gaze. "It's gonna be alright. I promise. Now, please, look at me." Apple Bloom peeked out from her forehoof and met his eyes, copper into fiery-rubies. Staring past her mask, he knew her struggle, battling her own need for catharsis. He, too, had wept once he'd been told and recalled, everything crashing down upon him harder than any bar rafter. Turner knew he could hash out what happened with his daughter's mare, relive it from every second he knew in his drunken lucidity. He knew he could guide her through those moments, navigating through the horror as skillfully as he did the mountains and plains. But he knew also, ultimately, that she would not be willing to do so—for a reason far more than sheer shock. Taking a deep breath, Turner said, "Look, I know dis ain't the right time o' place ta be talkin' 'bout dis, but..." Silence. He let his words sink hang in the air for a few moments, before he let the hammer drop. "I heard youze an' Citrus talkin' dat night." Apple Bloom lifted her muzzle and stared at him, jaw agape. "Wh-what are you talkin' 'bout?!" "When I ran off an' came back, dat night in Appleloosa... I heard youze an' Citrus talkin', while Babs was asleep." Blushing, she flattened her ears and stared at the wall. "Turner, Ah don't—" "Crazy dat I'm bringin' dis up right now, ain't it?" Disrespectful as it was, she nodded anyway. Turner stared at an opposite wall, digesting his own words. Crazy. It was crazy. So was everything else. Why not add in a bit of his own insanity? And, hay, if it pried a truth from Apple Bloom, who was trying so desperately to hold it together for everypony right now, then he would be even crazier not to pursue it further. "Look, youze don't have ta talk 'bout it iffa youze don't want ta. I won't make youze, an' I don't plan on sayin' anythin' ta Babs—" "Ya haven't, right?" She turned to face him, muzzle a mix of worry and embarrassment. "I have not. I wouldn't do dat ta eitha o' youze. But, Bloom..." Turner sighed and flicked his ears, contemplating. "See, reunitin' wit' her, an' Libra, an' then goin' through last night... seein' ma life flash befo' ma eyes, thinkin' it was the end..." Turner started straight at her, unashamed of the tear brimming in his eye. "Youze think a lot 'bout life, then. Youze think 'bout who youze are, who youze wanna be. Who youze wanna be wit'. Things youze woulda done differently. "I wish I would've tried harder ta find Libra, ta find Babs. I knew there was summat 'bout her when I met her in Manehatten, but I convinced maself she was too old ta be mine. I knew Libra musta lived somewhere in Manehatten, but I didn't try ta find her. I was scared. I think back on all dat, an'..." Lip quivering, Turner said, "Twenty years, Apple Bloom. Twenty years, I wasted." "Ah'm... Ah'm sorry, Turner." Apple Bloom leaned forward and nuzzled his cheek gently, careful not to aggravate any of his injures. He smiled and returned the gesture, although he let the tear tumble down his cheek. "That must've been real hard," she whispered dumbly, feeling powerless to comfort him. "It was, kiddo. But, youze know why I bring it up?" "Why?" Turner said, "Ma point is... life's too short ta bury how youze feel. It's too short ta not go afta the ones youze love, ta be happy. Now," he warned, holding up a forehoof, "it's not ma business, it's not ma relationship, but... I do bless youze, no matta what youze decide. Jus'... think on it, alright?" "A-alright," Apple Bloom relented, unwilling to argue. Her thoughts drifted to the letter stashed in her saddlebag. So foalish now, insignificant. Even if Derpy the mail-mare herself shot straight into their room, wings outstretched and begging for a delivery to make, she wouldn't unearth that parchment. Not even if Derpy threatened to go on a hunger strike. More muffins for everypony, and more important things for Apple Bloom and Babs Seed. She hated herself for even thinking of it... "Youze alright?" "Y-yeah," she muttered doing her best to perk up. "T-thanks, Turner. Ah... Ah hope ya feel better soon." Apple Bloom carefully climbed off the bed and to all four of her hooves. "Ah'm gonna see how Babs is doin' an' try ta get some sleep. An' then Ah'll be back ta see ya, alright?" Although he knew better, Turner let her go. "Alright." ~ When Babs Seed opened her eyes, the first thing she realized was that she was not alone. What the— "Ahh, you're awake." Rising to his hooves, Doctor Triage trotted over to his patient. "Do you remember me?" Babs Seed shook her muzzle, rubbing her forehead with a forehoof. A hammer befitting any blacksmith currently waged war upon her temples. Her throat burned, forcing her to cough again. Hissing pain surging through her right shoulder, Babs glanced over to her bandages. Oh, horseapples, I really am hurt. It wasn't a dream...But... how did dis happen? "'Ey," she spat between coughs, "who are youze? Why youze in ma room?" The innkeeper's room, but still... "I am Doctor Triage," he gingerly replied, plopping down on his haunches. "I am just making sure you are alright. Apple Bloom will be back soon." "Bloom? Is she alright?" His nod sent relief crashing over her. "Yes, Babs Seed, she is alright. Shaken up, of course, but we all are." "'Shaken up'?" He tilted his head. "What do you remember?" Groaning, she calmed her coughing and tapped her chin with a forehoof. While she racked her aching head, he fetched another glass of water. She eagerly accepted, drinking it quickly. "I... I dunno, Doc." She passed the empty glass to him. "I rememba shots goin' off, Turner was in the bar. I went in got him out, an'... then..." She fell silent, prying at her archives. C'mon! Summat happened ta youze. Look at youze. Dat's a pretty big bandage, must be a big wound... Hah... C'mon, Babs... Triage encouraged, "Do you remember anything once you left the bar?" "Yeah," Babs muttered, looking towards him. "So much smoke, an' fire... I was coughin' up good, smoke in ma spit. An' I leaned down ta catch ma breath, an'..." Her muzzle went white. Babs Seed remembered a bullet charging through her shoulder, sending her to the ground and Turner tumbling. She remembered being lifted onto Doctor Triage's back and carried into the inn. She remembered three ponies holding her down along with Apple Bloom, who rambled and held her as the doctor removed the bullet and she screamed around a disgusting axe handle. So much pain.... Above it all rose one image... Card Slinger... Standing there, pistol in his forehooves... Her pupils dilated to the size of a Yukon haul. He shot me. HE shot me. HE SHOT ME. "Babs?" Lying on a mattress in a hotel room—a hoof-made construct—she was disconnected, apart from the source of her strength. Lacking power from the Earth, the mare nevertheless found her magic here, in this hour, from the past, from the roots she’d abandoned, and she remembered... ~ “Go." “What?! Are youze fuckin’ crazy?! Youze jus' gonna let me go?!” “GO! GO! Get outta my sight. If I eva, I mean, EVA catch youze on ma property o' harmin' anypony else again… whether it’s me, o’ ma family, o' some foal down the street… I will find youze, Card Slinga. An' I will kill youze.” “... Youze are a better pony than youze father eva was, Babs Seed.” ~ The doctor was right in front of her, staring into her emerald eyes. “Babs?" She was on her stomach, lying silent. "Babs Seed?" Her shoulder was throbbing, injured, useless. The stallion clapped his forehooves in front of her. She was in a clearing. Her thousand-yard stare remained unbroken. Card Slinger was on the ground. Doctor Triage asked, "Babs, do you remember now?" The knife was in her forehooves now. She took a slight, shaky breath, agony traversing down her shoulder and through her forelimb, as if she'd been shot a second time. The world began to spin again, beckoning her to join its carousel. She squeezed her eyes and willed it all away. She had all power over him. Doctor Triage leaned up slightly, taking her forehooves in hers. "You're having a flashback. It's going to be alright. I'm here." She could kill him, if she wanted to. She pleaded wordlessly for him to shut up. His words were thundering hammers on the iron anvil of her consciousness, agonizing sparks flying to and fro’ carelessly. They hissed and burned and bore holes through her haze. They made her remember more. But she didn’t. The stallion was nodding, muttering something about trauma. She was not a bully. Babs Seed stared past the wall of the innkeeper's room, past the inn, past the west, past Appleloosa, past Ponyville, into Manehatten. She was not a bad seed. Gently, keeping his words low, Doctor Triage encouraged, "What do you see? What do you remember? Talk to me, Babs Seed." She was a lover and a fighter, a dreamer and a deceiver. She was in pain: physical, emotional, spiritual. She was terrified. She was enraged. She was in mourning. She knew, even in her insignificant, meaningless twelve years of life as a living, breathing spirit, that she would be perfectly justified in killing him right and then there. But she didn’t. Finding strength somehow, among the haze and the ashes, her pain and fear, she muttered, "He's comin' fo' me." The stallion asked, confused, "Who?" She was better than him. She was stronger than him. She had been shown mercy, and forgiveness, and love, and what it meant to be saved. A bartender. A butler. A sister. A mother. Two fillies. Two cousins. A grandmother. A chef. Four foals. One colt. And one filly shivering beside her. “Him. He came heeya ta kill me." Eights years ago, Babs Seed spared Card Slinger’s life. Eight years later, he tried to take hers again. "It's all ma fault," Babs told Triage, staring into his eyes, a total stranger. He came fo' me. He wanted his revenge. He always did. Appleloosa first, an' then, when I wasn't there, out heeya. I got all dem ponies killed. Silverstar. The otha deputy. An'— "Triage, how many ponies died last night?" "Twelve," Triage answered. He stared at the floor. "Heroes all." "Who were dey?" "Salt Sphere, Blackjack, Storm Cloud, Skagway, Dyea—" "SOAPY?!" Babs struggled out of his forehooves, eyes wild, heart aflame as it sank. Grabbing him by the muzzle, she hissed, "Youze a liar! Youze lyin'! Soapy an' Dyea are alright! Soapy an' Dyea are alright!" No! No! No, no, no, no! Not dem! Please, iffa Youze are there, please, let it be a mistake. Let dem be alright! Not dem! Wrestling from her grasp, Triage held her forehooves down, shaking his muzzle. "I'm so, so sorry. I wasn't able to save them, or anypony else. Just you and the stallion you carried—" "Turner?!" Babs struggled against his grip, hooves itching to burst. She began to rise, demanding, "He's alright, isn't he?! Youze fixed him, didn't youze?!" "Stay down!" Triage barked, shoving her back down as carefully as he could. "He's fine! Recuperating in a few rooms down, but fine! You need to—" Ignoring him, Babs gathered her strength and jumped from the bed. She took one step forward with her right forelimb before collapsing, shrieking in agony. She laid there, taking deep, heaving breaths, knowing nothing but the burning pain rocketing through her nerves. She didn't hear Doctor Triage's soothing words, or Apple Bloom's hoof-steps galloping towards her, or the weeping in nearby rooms. She didn't feel two sets of hooves lifting her up and onto the bed, or see the worry on their muzzles. She didn't feel the nervous kiss of her mare on her cheek, and her distraught forehoof running through her mane. In her mind's eye, she saw two stallions: one blood-red with a mane black as night; the other, cream-and-beige with a black mane. She felt the heat and fury of their stares, their weapons raised towards her. Those same weapons were raised towards her aunt, sister, cousin, mother, father, and mare. Those same stallions set her bar ablaze, doubtlessly transforming it into a pile of ash and smouldering wood. Those same wretched, awful, soulless, psychotic, evil stallions inflicted immeasurable pain onto those she loved and cherished, stealing them away, hurting them, killing them... Because of her. It was all because of her. Babs Seed fell inside the black. ~ "MMMPPPPRRRRGHHHH!" The panicked pegasus stallion struggled his wings against their binds, futile. The balled-up tie stuffed in his mouth and bandana around his muzzle rendered his frantic cries for help a mere annoyance. An annoyance that made the Master chuckle, complementing his fine cigar and glass of orange juice rather nicely. "So, Care Package, you understand the terms and conditions of our agreement, don't you? Or would you rather one of my guards knocks some sense into you again?" He nodded to the guards beside his double doors. Care Package, headmaster of the Ponyville mail service, nodded rapidly, wide-eyed and fearful. Without warning, he'd been knocked out of the skies a few hours earlier, a pair of rough talons seizing him by his shoulders and knocking him out cold. He'd awoken later in this magnificent office, bound and gagged, watching the blue stallion—the Master—smirk and laugh at him. The Master strode in front of the bound pegasus, leaning close to exhale citrus scent upon his muzzle. "Oh, you certainly didn't get very good marks in flight school, did you, little worm? Getting knocked out of the sky and into my Griffon's talons." At his mention, the finely dressed Griffon puffed his chest. The guard beside him rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on his rifle. Care Package let loose another "MMMMRPH!" of protest. The Master grinned, his teeth a haunting, perfect white. "Listen here, worm," he sneered, taking the pegasus's chin into his forehoof. "You do as I say, and you will be rewarded. Not only will I pay you generously, but I will spare your life as well. "You are to monitor all outgoing letters to Canterlot—particularly, those to the Princesses. You will open them and read all mail to them before sending it through. I'm sure a postmaster such as yourself knows how to do this undetected. You are not to question me, or to hesitate. I already have several of your staff members on my payroll already, and they will be advised of your new duties." Care Package stared in wide disbelief, not even bothering to squirm, struggle, or shout. The stallion's rough forehoof released his chin. "Oh, yes. You will soon come to love me very much, little worm. Just as everypony else does. I will pay you well, take care of you, give you all you want. In exchange, all I want is loyalty. Many, you see, come to me for such assistance. I, however, am merely being proactive with our relationship." Mortified, Care Package nodded quickly, praying his ordeal was soon over. Monitor letters sent to the Princesses? A strange and illegal request it was. Nopony had ever asked such a vile thing of him. At first, he mentally refused outright. However, the threat of steel at the door nullified his ethical obligations. He valued his heartbeat too much, wishing not to part from it. The guns blazing towards him terrified him; he'd never seen anything like them before. Thus, Care Package nodded again and again in agreement, accepting the terms of his release. If it be the cost of his loyalty... so be it, though it pained him to the core. The Master nodded to his zebra guard. "Come here. Let us make this one a Knight." Confined to a desk job, Care Package regretted his weak flying skills. Confined in the office of the mysterious Master, he regretted them even more.