Chapter 6: The gods themselves
Manehattan. Whoever came up with such a mockery deserves his place in hell. Instead of trying to teach humans some of that language of theirs, the ponies just settled for crude lampoon. They had Philadelphia, Camelot, and this – it wasn’t even an island.
However, Fiona didn’t mind too much, at least not anymore. The past year had slowly increased her tolerance against a lot of things, Chase for example.
“We’re so going there!”
“Yes, just revisit the event that scarred us for life.”
“It’s not the same, they’re promising real fireworks this time around. Also, The Wicked was waaaay better with Andy Jackson as the lead singer. I’d love to show you, but there’s no damn Internet here.”
“A better singer? You have no respect for my talents. Could you give me my bow tie? It’s the red one.” Fiona grabbed the pre-tied bow tie from the stand and trotted to Chase. She held one end of the collar in her mouth, swinging the other around Chase’s neck, and finally connected the two.
“Not too much!” Chase yelped as Fiona pulled the tightener string. His attire was now complete: black tux, white shirt, and a bright red bow tie. It was nothing too fancy, just to add some much expected style for the night.
“Fillies and gentecolts...” A pompous voice penetrated the white dressing room walls.
“Oh, that’s my cue. Wish me luck, Fiona.”
“Buena suerte.” Chase gave Fiona a curious look. She grinned back. “VIP tickets, we’re not missing it.”
“Well why didn’t you say so?” With that, the pair separated: Chase climbed a narrow set of stairs to the stage, while Fiona took the door that led to the public area of the club.
She took the seat reserved for her and focused on a pony wearing a top hat. He stood before a blue curtain with a microphone in front of him.
“Without further delay; I bring you your host: Zephyyyyyr Chase!” Music played, and the audience cheered as Chase sneaked on stage from behind the curtain.
“Hello everypony and welcome to another Saturday Night in Hurricane.” A banner above Chase lit up, revealing the clubs name as well as its logo: a hurricane splitting a mountain in two.
“I was kind of worried anypony would show up tonight. I mean, just take a look at the weather – it’s been terrible all week. I just wish the mayor would stand by her words and replace the weather pegasi with kites.”
Fiona guffawed with the rest of the crowd. Chase had an infinite supply of pegasus jokes.
Time had passed quickly in Manehattan. Descending to The Union Terminal lobby, nothing felt much different from the last time almost a year ago. There were busy-looking people, some newfoals, but also a significant number of tourist ponies probably heading for the same place Fiona and Chase were.
They’d had plans to visit Bennett, but the man had disappeared without a trace more than ten months ago. Fiona was positive that Bennett had evaded his seekers instead of getting caught. That, a positive thought, was actually all she could do for him: that man’s issues were way too complex to truly understand.
Since neither Fiona or Chase had any interest in other sights, they’d arrived in Chicago only two hours in advance. It was still enough for them to get as much as they wanted out of their VIP statuses – an opportunity Fiona didn’t want to miss.
The Pritzker Pavilion was set to be the concert venue. Fiona and Chase had the so-called best seats; not anything spectacular, but situated in the middle and within a comfortable distance from the stage. The VIP passes hanging in their necks, however, were a bit more special: they let them backstage.
After wandering around rather aimlessly for some twenty minutes the duo finally bumped into someone worth of Fiona’s interest: Scott Kleefisch, the legendary guitarist and backing vocalist of The Wicked’s better days.
“...so, I guess I’d be lying if I said I’m only doing this ‘cause this is a memorial. I’ve been hanging my has-been ass around for fifteen years. This could be my last chance to actually earn some of that fame.” The sturdy Buckeye stroked his greyish hair. The man was in his early fifties, but looked a lot older. Though he’d groomed himself well, his lifestyle of the past decade and a half had visibly worn him. By his own words, Kleefisch had led a ‘semi-ascetic’ life, something that consisted of fancy hotels and partying, alongside buskering and small bar gigs.
“Haven’t really made my mind about this whole pony thing. Not that I intentionally denied it and its scale, I just never thought it’d reach my scene. Yet, here we are.” Kleefisch raised his palms and shrugged. Fiona was about to ask another question, when Kleefisch suddenly lifted his brows and started laughing. Fiona and Chase glanced at each other and then turned back to Kleefisch. This abrupt display of joy went on for a while.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to say in between his bouts, “I just... I just pictured you wagging your tails at me. I’m so sorry.” Chase’s annoyed frown made Kleefisch stop laughing. But after a mere five seconds he started again – Fiona was wagging her tail. “Please, you’re killing me.”
Without any warning, the scene came to a full stop as Kleefisch quickly stopped laughing, and his blushed face reverted. “Hey, Fiona and-”
“Chase.”
“Fiona and Chase, this has been a fun diversion, but time flies. I think I’ve got some soundchecking to do.” He turned and hurried into the hallway.
“That was abrupt,” Fiona blurted, “he seemed smoother.”
“You never wag your tail like that for me,” Chase retorted.
“Well, you’re not a world-renowned rock star.”
“I never thought you’d be into these things.”
Indeed, Fiona’s interests in both rock music and clothes held a certain duality which always had a slightly confusing effect on the people she dealt with. As long as she remembered, she’d loved rock music, especially The Wicked. One could argue that children just listen to whatever’s popular at the time, but Fiona had stayed a faithful fan even after Scott Kleefisch and Andy Jackson had left the band. This memorial was something she was 100% sure to attend – with or without Chase.
Still, no one expects a thirteen-year-old rock fanatic. Clothes, fashion, boys... all the traditional hot topics for teenage girls had struck her much like everybody else. The interest in clothes just had never faded.
Fiona broke the silence: “I wonder what made him run off like that.”
“His face looked like he saw a ghost, or-” Fiona didn’t have time to realise that Chase had cut off his speech before he grabbed her and spun her around. The reason for both Kleefisch’s and Chase’s odd behaviour was standing in front of her: a majestic, white, winged unicorn with a golden crown on her head and two armoured guards by her sides.
Fiona took Chase’s example and bowed, not as profoundly as him, but it was probably enough.
“Your Highness,” Chase said after standing up again. Fiona had of course seen pictures of Princess Celestia but was still amazed just by the sheer size of her figure – not forgetting she was both a unicorn and a pegasus. Fiona soon noticed her gaze was jumping around awkwardly, so she tried to focus it on something that hopefully wasn’t too inappropriate – the familiar-looking VIP pass on the Princess’ neck.
“Chase the survivor,” Celestia began in a kind and soothing tone. Yet, calling Chase the same way the media did made him flinch. “And quest.” She nodded towards Fiona, who briefly met her magenta eyes with a careful look.
“There’s more to that story than the things you see in the news, Princess.” Chase said with a hint of sadness. It seemed very unlikely that the ruler of Equestria, a borderline worshipped deity, could be ignorant about the way humans handled their scoops, but Chase looked like that thought just crossed his mind.
“There must be.” Celestia picked up on Chase without a moment of hesitation. “But I believe the means you used, and the bravery you showed in dealing with this Brisk Meadow character were virtuous and beneficial to everyone.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to talk more about this – with the both of you – but this is neither the time nor the place for that.”
No matter how the Princess suddenly knew about Fiona’s involvement, she was glad to get some recognition. The huge attention Chase had got didn’t really boost her ravaged self-esteem. She knew it was for the best, and she knew Chase hated the situation even more, but still, having a widely-known face as a companion wasn’t as thrilling as in some kid’s daydreams. Funny how none of this had mattered over the past year in Manehattan.
Fiona and Chase formally excused themselves and went looking for their seats. Upon leaving backstage to the seating area they were met by a nice view of the trellis laced with optical fibres and a relatively clear night sky in the background. On the right side of the stage, a digital display was counting the remaining minutes and seconds. It was about to begin.
Princess Celestia and her two guards settled down no more than thirty feet away from them; the only difference in their seating being one empty seat as a safety interval for the Princess.
3... 2... 1...
Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
A century-old classic, Kleefisch’s bravura, and another gem the band had missed for the last fifteen years.
Sheets of metal emerged from the trellis, covering the auditorium and the lawn seats behind it. After all, it was kind of risky to hold an open air concert in the middle of winter. The display began counting towards the end of the year.
“Hi, I’m Andy Jackson. I used to be the frontman of this band. No offense to you, Nathan, or the rest of you, I couldn’t have done a better job myself.” Unlike Kleefisch, Fiona could clearly see that Jackson looked incredibly young for his age. In fact, it seemed he hadn’t changed at all since his last appearance with The Wicked, though the tinted glasses and leather jacket might have fooled her.
It all went great overall: the band had great chemistry and stage charisma, the sound and the pyrotechnics worked, as did the songs – there was no reason anyone in the audience wouldn’t have enjoyed herself. That was until the timer hit ten minutes and the final number began: a duet version of Swansong sung by both Nathan and Andy.
“This song...” Fiona trembled, as every piece of lyrics sent another shock through her guts.
“It’s kind of moody, isn’t it,” Chase said casually, “roll your thumbs around, the only thing we miss, how fitting.”
“No, Chase, you don’t... This song is old, I sang along to this when I was seven.”
“Fiona, what’s wrong?”
“The last time I heard this was exactly a year ago.”
just listening to the swansong of mankind
Andy Jackson had switched his microphone to a headset and hopped off the stage amidst the cheering crowd, who barely managed to stay on their seats. “Don’t worry just yet, we still got five minutes ‘till the big finale,” he said, taking off his glasses.
The way his hand moved, how he folded the frame, how his eyes stayed locked into something in front of him all mimed perfectly the scene Fiona’d witnessed 365 days ago.
“Chase, it’s him.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, dear audience. The Wicked performed here last year without me – and Kleef, of course – but I actually wasn’t very far away. I was right here in Chicago.” With a single graceful motion he removed both the leather jacket and his dark jeans. The audience gasped, as they saw the man’s not-so-typical underwear – even more so, when his left hand pointed a bulky handgun straight at them. “I was visiting South State Conversion Bureau.”
Most of the crowd ducked immediately for cover and started crawling away from the supposed line of fire, Celestia and her guards being the notable exceptions. Without a sound, the gun fired twice in rapid succession, and the guards were down. Fiona looked around for more security staff, but only caught a glimpse of one – and even he was struggling with the mass of ponies and people trying to get to the other direction.
“You’re mine, Princess.” The calm voice was easily heard over everything, since it came from the loudspeakers.
“There’s nothing to worry, Fiona,” Chase whispered to her ear. As dangerous as it was, neither of them wanted to escape the scene, at least not right away. “There’s no way a bullet could hurt the Princess.”
But that was the problem, the gun didn’t shoot bullets. Bennett’s second demonstration of Meadow’s equipment was one Fiona had paid careful attention to. His gun was called a proton warper, in which a very dense nanite core would warp two protons straight into a spot painted by the targeting device in the guns muzzle. The result was two protons in the exact same spot in three-dimensional space, an anomaly that reverted with a small explosion.
The targeting device was both the triumph and the downfall of the weapon. If the threshold was set properly, one could shoot safely through dust, rain, or even solid objects, but in case it malfunctioned, the weapon would certainly blow itself apart.
If the Princess knew any of this, she wouldn’t just stand still. She’d save herself, wouldn’t she?
Meadow had the gun pointed straight at Celestia’s chest, his view was unobstructed, and there was no one to stop him.
A double shot. Sparks of every color blinded Fiona for a moment and made her close her eyes.
“See, I told you!” Fiona opened her eyes: Chase was right, the Princess was still standing. She hadn’t moved an inch.
Four more shots, and nothing changed. Meadow was pointing his gun at Celestia, who stood still, not even blinking, her horn emanating a faint glow.
Meadow balled his right hand and the shots became increasingly frequent, turning the auditorium into a hectic light show. He spewed out everything he had.
Suddenly it stopped. The last explosion was much louder than the rest and came from Meadow’s end. Fiona looked around to see the scene unchanged with one exception: there was no gun in Meadow’s still extended hand.
His face was no longer recognisable. It was covered in the charred remains of the disintegrated nanite core with gaping wounds all over. But the liquid that poured out of the gashes wasn’t red, it was clear. A second later, his whole left cheek fell off, revealing a honey-coloured, glossy surface.
Meadow dropped what was left of the gun and touched his cheek. His face showed no reaction.
“Stop it, Brisk Meadow.” Celestia’s magnificently strong voice caught the attention of everyone still at the scene. “No one can win this way.”
Meadow drew out his nanoblade and charged. With feather light steps, he crossed over one row of seats after another. A few seconds more and he would make the lunge.
Celestia didn’t move, but the glow in her horn brightened quickly into such degree Fiona had to turn away eyes closed. Though, this time, she didn’t need to see; a faint, but most audible cry told her everything: Meadow got to the Princess.
The light faded with a resounding, strange crack. It was like a lightning strike but shorter and didn’t echo. Fiona opened her eyes only to see an empty spot where the Princess had stood, and the same for Meadow. There were just the two injured pegasus guards lying still in their respective places. Because Meadow had shot each of them only once, they were still alive thanks to their now destroyed armour.
Fiona watched as a team of paramedics rushed to tend the guards, not saying a word, savouring the possibility that this just might be the last of Meadow, that this was the last time the nightmare would resurface.
Chase wrapped a foreleg around Fiona’s neck. “Trust me, Her Majesty’s fine. It’s over now.” Fiona smiled but didn’t answer.
“It’s not over ‘till I say it’s over!” The voice came from the loudspeakers. It was... “Over here, Fiona!” She turned around towards the stage, where Scott Kleefisch was holding his guitar and a microphone. That guy had one amazing audition. “Happy New Year!” he yelled and played the first welcoming notes of another timeless favourite. He was pointing a finger at the display screen – zero seconds to midnight.
The sounds of another classic mixed with the flare of fireworks – in a private concert, no less – and a certain Manehattanite standing by her; this could become one of Fiona’s better years.
***
From plasma white to pitch black, certainly not the outcome he’d hoped for. Although, by the time he was about to thrust his nanoblade through the pony princess’ heart, everything had already gone wrong.
Two shots should’ve been enough. He’d set the proton warper to hit the first visible obstruction, so neither air, glass, nor some super energy shield would cause any interference. But no, he couldn’t hit it, couldn’t kill it. Those protons warped around even the Equestrian barrier, and now they had been useless – he had been useless.
“I’ve been waiting for a chance to meet you, Brisk Meadow.” Though, there was no visible source for the voice, it no doubt was the pony princess. Its tone was neutral, calm, even comforting in some alien way – the pony pulled this off even better than he did.
“Is it too much to wish for that I made it, and now we’re both in hell?” His speech felt ethereal. He definitely spoke, but the darkness carried the words.
“No, we’re not in hell, neither are we dead.”
“Well then, what’s your plan for me, the Sun Princess of Equestria?” He knew the ponies didn’t kill, ever, and if he still had his nanosuit intact it was practically impossible to hit him with magic. In the same time, he was too dangerous and unpredictable to be simply locked away. Though he had been wrong before, he was pretty sure the pony was facing one hell of a tough decision. “Just to remind you, I won’t rest until you’re gone.”
“Why do you want us to go?”
“You’re playing us. You’re literally herding mankind to oblivion. What is it that you want from us?”
“We want to help you.” He couldn’t believe it. Every single one of them, even their ruler, so ancient, so divine, and still this naive and thick.
“Bullshit! Did we ask for help? Did Andy Jackson ask for any help? We didn’t, I didn’t. There can’t be peace without war, no order without chaos, no good without evil! You’re trying to break rules that can’t be broken!”
“You’re wrong.” The tone turned slightly heavier, maybe even vindictive. “You will rest.”
If it possibly could, the void went even darker. His thoughts wandered away, he couldn’t keep them together. He knew the ponies didn’t kill, ever, so why was he so damn scared for his life?
***
Andy rested. Not because he wanted to, but the decision was not his to make. He didn’t have the will to wake up, not for a long time. When the void finally yielded, he still was unsure of what to do. If he shook away the darkness, would there be anything better waiting for him?
Once again, the decision was made for him.
Light squeezed into his eyes, he heard sounds of rain and thunder, and the mellow aroma of dirt crept up his nostrils. He was lying on his stomach.
The sensations that followed weren’t so familiar. His limbs felt odd, particularly his prosthetic left arm that – for the first time in over twenty years – actually felt like a real part of his body. He stretched both it and his right simultaneously: both had the same, genuine tension.
Andy’s eyes shot open, and he pushed himself up. He was surrounded by huge, leafy trees and other vegetation. It was like the Equator, only mistier, but there weren’t any trees this big in African jungles, so he must’ve been in a natural preserve either in Indonesia or Amazonia – assuming that even those places had any.
It probably wasn’t nighttime, but the thick shroud of storm clouds made it difficult to tell the difference. He was still wearing his suit, but the blade was nowhere in sight and was likely to remain that way for now. Someone had also taken his boots – maybe this was Africa after all.
His left arm looked pale and a bit skinny compared to the other, nanite-bolstered arm, but it was healthy and unharmed. It was healed, not just healed, but regrown. And if his arm was okay, then what about his...
Andy raised his hands to his cheeks: his fingers touched his face, but unlike before, his face also touched the fingers. Gone was the sticky silicone, gone was the enormous amount of artificial skin and make-up he’d used to keep himself above the uncanny valley. This was fantastic!
As Andy investigated his surroundings, his thoughts ran wild in his head. Why was he both healed and apparently set free? Why was he in a jungle somewhere? Was this the pony princess showing how ‘good’ they were? He stared at the nanosuit controller in his wrist. Could he remove the suit?
He only managed to remove the collar and the glove – the non-integrated pieces – before he saw something watching him from the edge of the clearing. A quick glance at the creature proved that his location indeed was in Africa, or someplace worse.
“The warrior is finally awoken, for the coma has been broken,” it said in a deep, female voice, with a strange Creole accent. A talking zebra meant talking ponies, and talking ponies couldn’t mean much good.
“Finally? How long have I been gone?”
“The cold rain will get you sore. Come inside, we’ll talk some more.” The zebra turned a full 180 and was now facing a large and somewhat distorted tree. It took a couple of steps towards the tree, pushed open some sort of door, and went inside, leaving the door open. The zebra was right about the rain, and about the need to talk too.
The tree hut was lit by a few lanterns. There were trinkets hanging from the ceiling, shelves filled with bottles and jars, pseudo-African horse masks leaning against the wall, and an ominous-looking cauldron in the middle. A specific item on one of the upper shelves caught Andy’s attention. “That’s my blade.” The hut was spacious enough to let him stand, but the metallic handle still wasn’t higher than his eye-level. “I suppose you also have my boots.”
Zebra pointed a foreleg at the door frame, where Andy saw his boots on the floor, they seemed to be in decent condition. He sat down and talked to the zebra: “How can I be in Equestria? What’s happened to the barrier?”
“After purification was done, the barrier was forever gone.”
“Purification?”
“Earth is no longer, and only Equestrians left to ponder.”
“No Earth!? How long ago was that done? How the hell can I still be here?”
“Exactly. Not long ago. And I don’t know.” If the zebra was telling the truth, then he – with the rest of humanity – had failed. Billions of people either dead or assimilated to Equestria, and he was the only one to escape that fate.
The more he thought about it, the more surreal it felt. Equestrian magic no longer tried to kill him. There was no corporation holding him back, there probably was nothing that could threaten him in his... suit.
Andy tapped the suit controller and tore out the fabric around his right arm. An agonizing grimace took over his expression. If his left arm was pale but healthy, the right was about the opposite: dark and decayed. “No, fucking bullshit, no!” He quickly proceeded to cover his arm again and sealed the piece back on. “Five years in this suit! Shitting through a straw and still that same itch on my back!”
He drew out his weapon and shoved it just inches away from the zebra’s throat. He looked straight at the creature’s turquoise eyes. “Celestia’s only given me a taste of this new land. Why shouldn’t I try and take the most of it?” He backed off from the zebra and went for his boots at the door. “I can be their Robert Neville. I don’t give a shit anymore.”
Andy had his boots on and the door pulled open, when the zebra at last got the courage to speak again: “Hold on my human friend. This is not how it must end.”
The man watched the still raging storm for a second and turned, closing the door. “I’ll listen for a moment, but only if you stop rhyming.”
“Agreed. I believe you know the ponies and their cutie-marks?”
“I might.”
“Then what would be your cutie-mark? One of terror, or violence?”
His cutie-mark? A tattoo-esque imprint that would supposedly represent his passion or special talent? It had obviously never crossed his mind, but now that it did, what would it be? The suit, the nanoblade, a nanite? No, those were just tools, and he hadn’t really known them before the age of fifty. It’s origin would be older.
How about something with The Wicked? Possible, but the band wasn’t his alone; Kleef, Nathan, and others were an equal part of it. But music was, at least had been, his passion, beginning from the Guns N’ Roses concert he attended, when he was fourteen.
“I guess it wouldn’t,” he answered and sat down on the door step.
“But that is what sets you apart. Mind of wrath and an anger-filled heart.” Andy heard it but didn’t bother to snap. His mind was far too occupied.
“It wasn’t something I wanted, it was something I thought was needed.”
“Then what do you want?” That was an excellent question. He’d wanted the corporations to go, and then the same for ponies. Those had held the top of his list but were no longer relevant. So, what was next? Was it back to performing, back to engineering, or just living a more peaceful life? Maybe on Earth, but surely not in this place.
“Show me the serum you’ve stored for me. I know you have it.” The zebra looked a little surprised, and it briefly contemplated the request before uncovering an Erlenmeyer flask from under a ceramic pot. Andy grabbed it: a clear 100 ml flask filled with a familiar purple liquid. If he removed the cap and downed it, the suit would identify the solution as hostile, and the warping nanites of both sides would either burn him to a crisp or melt him to a puddle. He couldn’t be sure, since he’d never tested it in practice.
Assuming he wanted to do it, he’d have to cut off the suit in order to survive.
Andy tossed the flask to the floor. It wasn’t a gentle toss, but the plastic didn’t give in too easily. He followed the rolling flask with his gaze and spoke, letting go of the last hints of his artificial tone: “I and Minnie, my girlfriend at the time, discovered the negative effect magic had on humans at our own expense. When we found out, it was already too late.” He paused to check that the zebra was listening.
“We made this,” he tapped his chest with his knuckles, “to halt the deterioration of the body, and I’ve worn it for five, or whatever, years now. I wanted to make one for Minnie as well, but she wanted a cure, and there was just one cure that we knew of.” The zebra glanced at the flask on the floor, and its neutral expression turned a bit gloomy.
“A part of me wanted to follow her, ditch the damn suit. It didn’t matter if her name was Minnie Afton or Petal Sundance, I would’ve still loved her. But with all the great technology against your little hooves, I felt unstoppable. I couldn’t throw it all away. It was such a good plan.” Andy took a deep sigh and holstered his blade. “The Princess stripped me of my motivation. The people I know, Minnie and so on, must all be somewhere out there. The Princess thinks that I want to see them, and not as an outcast remnant. Good thinking.”
He reached and got the flask in his hands. He twisted open the safety cap and smelled the contents: grape. As they say, it was the real deal. “You need to get over here, Ms–”
“Call me Zecora.”
“Zecora, I can take off the pieces in my arms and legs myself, but my central nervous system shuts down the moment I cut off the torso.”
“Have no doubt, on me you can count.”
“We agreed no rhymes, and please, call me Andy.”
Andy had once thought that damaged nerves wouldn’t feel anything, but no, the pain was intolerable. Evasion of pain was something mankind always strove for – that’s what made it so good as method of temporary discipline. Instead of evading them, mankind had, more or less, embraced the ponies. If humanity had decided they weren’t a threat, who was he to tell them otherwise? But that made no sense at all.
His immobile right hand rested on his chest. The nanosuit controller showed a crude outline of his body with a couple of small, red lights and a single green one. How dramatic it was: he literally had to die in order to be born anew.
It really was about individual desire for happiness, the thing that had caused most of humanity’s problems. Quite a paradox, and Andy was about to be another living proof of it. It probably didn’t work on a more common level, but that was a thing of the future.
He rolled his thumb around the last green light on the controller. “The only thing we miss.”