//------------------------------// // 25th of Second Ember // Story: Dysphoria // by Owlor //------------------------------// 25th of Second Ember “Code pink, code pink!” Drydock yells out as he burst through the door. The words had barely finished echoing through the halls before the previously tranquil building started bustling with activity. At least a dozen ponies appear from various rooms, all dressed in dignified black-and-white outfits. I watch in amazement as they line up in the central hall with the same discipline as a military unit. Drydock completed the military image by wandering down the rows of servant with the same stern expression as a drill sergeant. He trots up to one of the butlers and gives him a fierce look which is met with nothing but a dignified silence. “It’s code pink, Skeeves. So tell me, where are the masters and Silver Spoon right now?” “The Silvers are out having dinner with Fleur de Lis and Fancypants, sir,” Skeeves replied, his face unyielding like it was carved in marble. “As for Silver Spoon, I do not know.” Drydock nods at this and turns his attention to the rest of the servants. “Alright, we have possible indication that the Cupcakes Killer is near or around the master’s property. This entire place needs to be secured.” The five butlers tense up a little at this. There is no change in their expressions, although their aloof detachment now looks a little more alert. A young mare in a frilly black and white dress shivers a little in the back of the line. As Drydock approaches, she nearly breaks into cold sweat. “Nursery Rhyme, you are responsible for Silver Spoon. Tell me where she is!” The mare shifts her head, apparently unable to look at Drydocks battle-scarred face. “S—she is sleeping in her room right now. So I ask, can we please keep it low?” She replies, while studying her own front hooves. Drydock gives her a displeased snort. “We got more important things than the little miss’ sleep schedule to worry about right now,” he mutters. “You go straight to her room, and I’ll go with you to protect—” He pauses and looks at me. I can see the doubt in his eyes. Obviously, he isn’t gonna leave a stranger like me unaccompanied in a mansion when they already have one shady perpetrator to worry about. He struggles with his priorities for a few second, then nods towards the butler. “Skeeves, you used to be in the military. Go with miss Rhyme and make sure that she isn’t getting jumped by some pink motherfucker.” The butler clears his throat meaningfully, causing Drydock to scrunch his muzzle. “Alright, alright, I owe one more bit to the swear jar,” he admits reluctantly. “That would be one hundred and eight bits this month, if I’m correct, sir,” Skeeves remark with a hint of schadenfreude. “And counting.” “Oh for fudge’s sake!” Drydock exclaims after a groan. “Can we please get a move on? The rest of you, search the mansion. And if you see anything the least bit suspicious, yell for either me or Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome over here.” He gestures at me, and I can't help but crack a smile at the nickname. ‘Mister Tall, Dark and Handsome’, I should put that on my business card... The servants disperse, leaving me and Drydock to wander alone down the hallway. The combined treasures of countless generations lines the corridors and I can't help but be stunned by the excess of it all Even the dim light couldn’t diminish my awe at seeing the old paintings, candelabras, ancient shields and antique furniture, all of which would be more at home in a palace than in a modern, Second Diarchy-home. One modern luxury stands out against the ancient anachronisms; a copper tube, nearly invisible to the naked eye, goes along the floor and up to several exquisitely moulded gas lamps. Concealed behind frosted glass were thin but intense flames that just about managed to light the steps right in front of them, bathing everything else in shadow. This display reminds me once more—if the décor wasn’t enough—of just how rich the Spoon family is. With today’s gas prices, even having a stove puts a sizeable dent in your coin purse. “Wake up, sunshine!” Drydock exclaims and hits my chest with a forehoof, taking the attention away from my musings. “We’ve got to find that bitch.” “One hundred and nine,” I respond with a smirk. “Are you gonna have any pay left after this?” Drydock responds with a loud groan. “If as much as a hair is harmed on Silver Spoons head, I’ll be lucky if I have a fucking job afterwards. Anywhere. So fuck my paycheck!” His words wipe the smirk off of my face, for a second I had almost managed to forget that a little filly’s life was in danger. Further away from the main hall, the gas lamps became more sparse and their light grew thinner. Drydock navigates through this labyrinth with trained ease, but I keep stumbling into furniture. Ponderous Selenean tables and lavish Discordian chairs are rudely scraped across the floor due to my inability to see. I don’t want to voice my discomfort and seem like a liability, but Drydock can’t help but notice how much my half-blind staggers is slowing us down. Without a word, he grabs a candelabra from the ornate wooden table and walks on silently, the flames swaying with his every step. It takes me a few seconds to acknowledge this gesture, and once I do, I have to trot a few steps to catch up with him. My hoofsteps echoes against the polished marble floors and walls, making Drydock tense up as I approach. There is an awkward moment where I’m not sure if I should apologize for startling him or pretend that I didn’t notice. “Drydock,” I whisper to break the silence. “If Pinkamena was wearing a suit very much like yours before I jumped you, don’t you think she could be disguising herself as one of the servants?” He pauses his gait and takes the candlestick in his forehoof before turning to me. “All the servants in this house are well acquainted to each other. I think they can damn well recognize an impostor.” His words are sharp, but hushed, and I can't help but feel their edge. “Yeah, but I can’t!” I protest. “How many of the servants here are pink or light-red?” His eyes look up as he searches around his memory for specifics. “Only four. Dustfeather, a pegasi mare with an unmistakable short black mane. Clean Dishes, a portly stallion with a blue mane parted in the middle. Wheel Spin, but he’s away with the family and Pickled Onions, a unicorn mare with more wrinkles than a rotten apple.” I acknowledge the intentional lower volume the last sentence came accompanied with, but decide not to comment on it. “But if you’re right about her being able to disguise herself, this information is useless. Stop asking stupid questions and let’s just go.” He motions to bite the candlestick once more, but I motion him to stop. “You don’t understand. Pinkamena’s mane is... resistant to change, somehow. Either it’s long and completely straight or poofy and wild. I doubt she’d be able to style her own mane even if she wanted to.” His eyes meet mine and before I realize that I’ve said too much, he gives one step towards me. “Y’know, if I had any sense, I’d pin you against the wall and hold your throat until you tell me just how the fuck you know so much about her.” His eyes, cruel. His steps, undeterred. “In fact, I think I’ll—” “Drydock!” a voice calls out from the far end of the corridor behind us. We both turn our heads towards the direction of the sound. I tense as I see a pink coat turning the corner to face us. Drydock must have noticed the same thing, yet he remains stoic. “Dustfeather? What’s wrong?” Drydock asks and that’s when I notice the short page-cut and breathe a sigh of relief. She stops right before us, gasping for breath. “I—I think I found something!” she stammers out. Drydock bites the candlestick and nods, prompting Dustfeather take off, leading the both of us across the mansion. We arrived in a run-down hallway, far from the essential rooms of the house. A door was left open, revealing a completely darkened room. “I was s—searching the rooms when I heard a noise coming from this room. I opened the door but it was all dark. I was scared and came to find you.” Drydock opens the door slowly and we peer through into the darkness. The moonlight just barely etched a contour of the window frame, leaving everything else as dim silhouettes. Something was moving at the far end of the room, a slow heaving that made our fur stand on edge. Drydock looks at me as if for confirmation and I nod in reply. With that he turns back to the maid. “Say here, Dusty,” he commands her. “Scream if you see or hear anything, okay? We’re going inside.” The flames from Drydocks candelabra create a halo of flickering, yellow-tinted light around us. I squint, trying to track any movement in the darkness. There’s a twitch next to the window, and a cold jolt runs through my nerves. I force away my startle and approach the source. Something glistens in the dark and I can’t help but brace for the worst. A pair of yellow eyes meet with mine, followed by a row of sharp carnivore teeth. I yelp as the critter hisses, prompting Drydock to immediately come to my end, wielding the candelabra like a weapon. What appeared in the cone of light radiating from him was a docile, but startled house-cat. “Princess Whiskers,” he informs me with a note of disgust. “It’s Silver Spoons little beast. Nasty critter, but harmless.” We both breathe a collective sigh of relief. I can’t believe we got this worked up over nothing. Even Drydock has to let a tiny smile break through his hard-nosed façade. “Alright, this was a good fire drill, but let’s get back to business,” I say to him and motion at the door. He once again takes the lead and places the hoof on the doorknob. In the back of my mind, I wonder why the door is closed. I don’t recall either of us ever closing it. He gives the door a light push, then a heavy push, but it refuses to budge. “Motherfucker” I hear him mutter, while repeatedly pressing his hoof down on the doorknob. “And here I thought you were strong,” I remark. “But you can’t even handle a door that’s blown shut? Let me help you.” I take half a step back and ram the door, letting it hit my shoulder just right for maximum effect. But this produces nothing but a loud bang. “Alright, you’re clearly either a cop, a crook or both,” Drydock notes. “But I can do that too. Let’s ram this fucker on the count of three. One, two...” “THREE!” We throw our collective weight at the door, but with little results. I hear something scraping against the marble on the other side, a sound that evidently went unnoticed by Drydock. “For fucks sake, Dustfeather, open the fucking door!” he yells, banging repeatedly on the door until I stop him. “There’s something blocking it from the other side,” I inform him. “A few more good pushes should do it.” “Either that or we take the fucking hinges off the door,” Drydock adds, inspecting the obstacle with the help of his candelabra. “Alright, one more time. One, two...” There’s a crack at the other side of the door as an undoubtedly priceless chair caves in on itself. We fall over each other as we stumble out into the corridor. My vision, having adjusted to the dim room we came from is stabbed by the lights of the gas lamps. While lying prone on the floor, I notice a small puddle of something both dark and vivid pooling in a crack. I instantly recognize this; it’s blood, freshly spilt. My eyes widen as my gaze drifts upwards. “Where the fuck is Dustfeather? I told her to wait here!” Drydock yells while looking around. “L—look at this!” I point upwards to the wall in front of us. There’s a sentence written in blood with letters that resemble the writings of a foal. DEADMAЯE, COME ALIVE. COME ALIVE AT THE COUNT OF FIVE! Not long after I’ve seen this, the gas lights flicker off. The place is immediately plunged into a darkness that appears like a thick black cloud. I blink several times, trying to help my eyes to adjust to the dark. Only the candles are still burning, casting a sphere of light that barely reaches out a hoof-length. “She shut off the gas. She shut the fucking gas off!” Drydock yells, the sound seemingly amplified by the darkness. He runs as if to chase some unseen enemy down the corridor but bumps right into me. “Hey, watch it! Where are you going?” “The basement! That’s where the main is!” he says, keeping his trot. I quickly follow after him, wanting nothing more than to catch Pinkie and end this madness. My eyes are take their time in adjusting to the dark. At least now I can make out where the corridors go and the general shape of obstacles as dark voids in a slightly less dark void. To make sure we don’t miss any turns, we keep ourselves peeled to one side of the corridor, as much as the paintings and statues will allow. My flank brushes up against the wall, and I feel something slightly wet against it. I signal for Drydock to illuminate the area. What appears is a slightly smeared arrow made with half-dried blood. It points in exactly the opposite direction we are going in. “The basement, it’s the only place one can shut off the gas, right?” I ask Drydock, who seems much more sombre than before. He leans close enough to study it, then scrunches his muzzle. “You think she’s trying to tell us something?” I ask. “No! This must be some sort of fucking mind game. Probably trying to lead us in the wrong direction,” came his analysis. “Let’s just go.” If it was a mind game, it is working. My thoughts keeps coming back to that infernal arrow. Could it be possible for Pinkie to rig the gas remotely somehow? I doubt it; she’s smart, but she’s not an engineer. Would it really be possible for her to run to the basement and back, still dragging Dustfeather—injured or dead—along? Unlikely. She’s a pony of flesh and blood, not a supernatural entity. At least that’s what I tell myself... We’re going down the stairs to the basement. It’s getting even darker now, without even Luna’s moonlight to guide us. All we have is the slowly wavering candles that could go out any minute. The Spoon Mansion must be as old as Ponyville, by the looks of it. The whole basement seems more like a wooden-and-stone dungeon than an actual basement. There’ a noise in the distance, the rhythmic clanging of metal. The shadows seem to be moving, and there’s a stifled breath alongside the clanging. We approach the source, all the while anticipating an attack. “Alright motherfucker. If you’re there, show yourself!” Drydock demands to whoever’s he thinks is hiding in the dark, heavy shadows. The lights are nearing the gestalt, illuminating a figure that has its outlines drawn in pink. I nearly freeze up, but I force myself closer. It’s only when I see that the pony is a pegasus with short dark hair that I can relax a little. “It’s only Dustfeather”, I announce. She’s bound to a copper pipe, struggling against the ropes around her fore and hind hooves. Her wings flap frantically and, when they hit the pipe, they create the faint clanging we heard. She stops moving when we approach, letting out a relieved sigh at our presence. I reach behind her to untie her forehooves from the pipe, noticing more than a few wounds and many healed scars. Some of them was fresh but some of the scars must be months or even years old. She looks at me as if she’s begging me not to say anything, and I focus my attention on untying the knot. Suddenly and without apparent reason, her eyes widen and she starts to mumble something. “What’s the matter?” I ask in an almost fatherly voice. “She’s got a fucking gag, you idiot!” Drydock, who’s closer to the lights, tell me. And sure enough, she seems to have some kind of cloth tied around her mouth. I put my mouth uncomfortably close to her trembling face. “Don’t worry,” I reassure her as she inches away from me. “I’m just going to loosen the gag.” I find the edges of the cloth and struggle with them for a couple of seconds before finally pulling it loose. “Behind you!” are the first words from her mouth. Drydock stands dumbfounded, I turn my head just in time to see something pink loom from behind him. The contours of a face stretched in a wide, sinister grin appear, a maw from the darkest pits of the abyss. As I open my mouth to speak, the grin suddenly disappears and the candles go dead. “What the fuck?!” He starts flailing his hooves around and his limbs woosh by my ears, too close for comfort. “She’s behind you!” “Take that you pink fuck!” he yells and promptly kicks straight into a concrete wall. His howl is louder and shriller than any wolf’ and, as he dances around in pain, he nearly bumps into both me and Dustfeather. I run past him to attack the spot where I last saw her, but my muzzle suddenly burns and my vision flashes red as yet another horseshoe solidly connects with my snout. “Watch where you aim, Dock!” I say, clutching my muzzle. “She’s heading straight for Silver Spoon’s chamber!” he yells, undeterred by the fact that he kicked me hard enough that my snout could very well be bleeding. He pulls me close and I can feel the heat of his breath stinging against my fresh injuries. I try to recoil from the damp, pungent odour, but his grip is too strong. His grasping hooves dig into my fur, pulling, almost separating it from my skin. “I need to know this.“ I hear a feral snarl coming from the back of his throat. “And I need to know it now: can I trust you?” “Yes, you can,” I reply in earnest. “And if you were to find that you couldn’t trust me anymore, I am certain that you would hunt me down to the ends of the earth, just to extract your revenge.” He pauses for a brief moment to consider my words. “I suppose you’re right,” he concludes, and his voice takes on a passive-aggressive quality. “It is on the second floor, third door to the left from the eastern staircase.” He sighs, pausing for a moment. “But if you tell a living soul about the location of Silver Spoon’s chamber, I will take your balls and nail them to my mantelpiece. If you’re lucky you won’t be attached to them at the time.” I struggle in the dark for a few moments before successfully untying Dustfeather. Once loose, she release her wings and I can feel a cold gust of wind breeze past me. There’s a sound coming from behind me that instantly grabs my attention. A nondescript ‘ker-clunk’ that could mean anything from a rat falling off a pipe to Pinkamena stepping on something as she lounges at us. i tense up, expecting the worst, but I’m calmed down by Drydocks voice: “I turned on the gas. At least now we can light the lamps as we go.” With that accomplished, we try our best to retrace our steps through the darkness, back to where we last saw lit candles. Nopony says a word; we’re all too worked up for conversation. I count our hoofsteps as we walk, mindful that any out-of place step could mean that she is following us. Tense seconds pass, weighing down on me like years. When we reach the stairs and slowly climb to the ground floor, we are rewarded with a faint light that comes from somewhere around the corner. Galloping towards the source, finally free of the darkness, I allow myself a moment to breathe in relief. After a sharp turn, the three of us are greeted by the hallway’s table, hosting a lit candelabrum. Drydock wastes no time in acquiring the new light-source, and we’re once again surrounded by a sphere of warm yellow light. Dustfeather and I are only about seven hooves away from him when he turns to us and points to the set of stairs that lead to the first floor. Having at least some lights again should be comforting, but instead, it just makes me more on edge. The comforting shroud of darkness have been pulled back to reveal a thousand potential hiding-spaces in the swaying shadows. We pass the open room where moments ago me and Drydock went into and found Princess Whiskers. I notice Dustfeather taking a deep breath and moving a step away from the wall and I recall something I remember seeing before. “Hey, Drydock. Could you shed some light here,” I ask him, pointing at a dark spot on the wall. He grunts, but steps closer, illuminating the wall. Just as I thought, the bloody arrow is still there, completely dried this time. Dustfeather tries her best to keep her composure, but ultimately turns away from the blood. “Where—where did you say Silver’s chambers were again?” I ask him. Something hits him; his eyes instantly widen and his mouth hangs open, dropping the candelabrum on the floor. The flames protest against the currents of air, but manages to remain lit anyhow. “Drydock?” “No, no, no!” he exclaims, beating himself over the head. “The arrow! It’s pointing to Silver Spoon’s chamber!” “Why didn’t you say that before!?” I almost shout, making his ears fold to the sides of his head. “I—I didn’t know if I could trust you completely. I—” I grit my teeth, Drydock has just about earned himself a good ol’ beatdown. Pinkie’s clue was right there and he actively chose to ignore it, pursuing her to the basement instead! “Save it. There’s no time to lose now!” My anger threatens to swell, but I manage to contain it. I pick up the candelabra from the floor and take the lead this time around. Dustfeather follows close behind me, only willing to stay near a source of light rather than in the middle of our herd. Traversing the corridors proved easier the second time around. The pathway to Silver Spoons room. The few things that could’ve been in our way had already been knocked aside. My heart skips a beat when I see the door to Silver Spoon’s chamber half-open, rocking back and forth slightly. The room itself is a mess of dolls and lace, but my eyes are turned directly to the two ponies on the floor: Skeeves and Nursery Rhyme. The stallion lies unconscious, but the steady movement of his chest says enough about his condition. Nursery Rhyme is curled in the corner, sobbing on her forehooves. Dustfeather quickly approaches the mare and hugs her tight, joining her in her terrified chorus of sobs. Drydock kneels by Skeeves and rips his suit open to expose a nasty flesh-wound. “Ouch, this looks bad, old friend,” Drydock says to the unconscious butler, lowering his voice to a whisper, apparently under the impression that I wouldn’t hear it. “At least it’s not bleeding too much, just hang tight until we can call for the doctors, alright?” With both victims tended do, I am free to look about the room. And the more I see, the further my heart sinks. This mess goes beyond normal fillyhood disobedience. There’s a clear sign of a struggle in the careless way some of the precious porcelain dolls are strewn about, some of them cracked and broken. But there’s one thing that really catches my attention: A small pair of blue glasses lie broken on top of the torn mattress, right next to the open window. Looking out, I find a rope made out of bed sheets twisting in the cold wind. There’s a trail in the snow underneath the mansion, leading far away from it. “FUCK!” I shout as I lean out, nearly dropping the candelabra. I manage to catch the piece itself, but the candles dislodge themselves and fall down on the ground below. I can see them burn as little embers for a few seconds before the snow snuffs them out for good. The chamber is plunged in darkness, but not for long. Drydock soon finds a pair of matches and lights a small kerosene lamp lying nearly intact on Silvers first diarchy-era dresser. I give him a nod of appreciation before I turn around to walk towards the door. I was hoping to make a silent exist and make it back home before dawn, but Drydock got other ideas. He extends a hoof to stop me, then grabs a hold of my fur and pulls me close. “Fuck no!” he yells as he releases every ounce of rage and suspicion he must’ve kept suppressed for the sake of Silver Spoon, as well as several ounces of spit. “You're staying right here until the cops arrive. I bet they’d really like to talk to you!” Several images, depicting me being hauled away to jail or being beaten by my colleagues, or worse yet, being sent straight to Mully’s office. If anyone were to recognize me, they would either link me directly to the crime or they would certainly ask why I was in here in the first place. Truth is, I’m trapped in a web of my own lies. I ditched a day of work in order to escort Crescent Moon, so if I bump into anypony from the P.P.D. I’d not only have to explain what I’ve been doing all day, but also why I’m in the Silver mansion. I’d be forced to admit that I’m keeping contact, if you could call it that, with Pinkie. “Well?” Drydock asks, walking closer to me. My reply comes in the form of a right hook directed to his temple. A little police trick, he should be seeing circling birdies over his eyes for the next hour or so. Drydock grunts as he leans his weight over me, his back hooves giving up underneath him. I wipe his hooves off me and lets him sink to the floor. Dustfeather screams and, in the microsecond our eyes meet, I can see her staring at me as if I was Nightmare moon herself. I slip away into the dark hallway, leaving her paralysed and shrieking. paintings and plates slam to the floor as I knock them over, darting across the hall without care. My only goal right now is to get as far away from the mansion as possible before... I see a large and unruly shadow sweep across the wall, followed by a cone of light that could only come from a police lantern. A number of voices are heard from just behind the corner, mumbling observations and commands. I scramble behind a suit of armour just before the searchlight reach it. There’s a tense moment as they advance; I can only stand frozen and hope the shadows will conceal my form. A dozen or so police ponies—with voices I recognize belonging to my squad—gallops past while announcing their presence. “Is there anypony there? Ponyville Police department!” My heart skips a beat as one of the officers shout. I hold my breath, fearful that any loud exhale might give away my position. “PLEASE HELP!” I hear Dustfeather’s voice echoing through the hallway and soon after all my colleagues are rushing towards Silver Spoon’s bedroom. I stay immobile like that for a while after they’ve all passed by, hiding in the darkness like a common crook. What is becoming of me? As I wait, I think about how I hit Drydock without even hesitating. Would I ever have done that a few weeks ago? Or for that matter, would I be skulking in the corridors of the Silver Mansion, hiding from my own squad? No matter how I look at it, I can’t deny that this job is changing me. Pinkie is changing me. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dryer than bootlegged whisky that's been sitting in the sun for an hour. I take in one large breath and, once more, make my way towards the front door. The remaining servants look on in bafflement as I emerge from the shadows and trail me with curious eyes as I step out of the gate. “You should go upstairs and help Drydock,” is the last thing I tell them before I leave.