Blank Slate

by Integral Archer


Chapter XVII

Littlepip opened her eyes as if she had just blinked. She looked at the speaker. A new strength invigorated her. It was no longer a struggle to watch. Her eyes were focused; she felt refreshed and alert.

She glanced at her Pip-Buck and froze. It was 12:23. She had forgotten to set her alarm; she hadn’t thought she would have needed it.

She leapt out of bed, taking no time to change, to shower, to mentally compose herself for the day. No composure was necessary. For her, there had been no break in the events of the day prior. She exited her room at a sprint. It was only when she was halfway down the hall that she knew where she was going.

She encountered nopony in the hallway. She encountered many of the Stable Colt’s posters; she did not nod to a single one.

The cafeteria’s window passed like a blur when she ran past it. She had perceived many bodies through the window, but the lack of motion in the room was so discordant with how many there were that she initially overshot the cafeteria. Before she turned the next corner of the hallway, she slammed her heels down and ran back, swearing under her breath.

“Hey, Littlepip,” came a voice from some corner when she opened the cafeteria door. It was the lunch rush, but that voice had been the only noise in the room. The ponies who were standing in line could not be heard even to breathe. The ponies who were sitting at the tables stared into their soup bowls, not talking to each other, not looking at each other.

“Did you just get up?” said another.

“Don’t judge me,” Littlepip said to the air.

She spotted Terra Firma and Clover in a corner, sipping their mugs silently, and rushed over to them.

“Hey,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Littlepip,” said Clover.

The obligatory pleasantries exchanged, Littlepip began to think. It was so normal, albeit quiet, she thought. It’s like nothing had ever happened. The radio was off, too, and that was peculiar, but it had been off ever since Copper Chromite had shut it down the other day. Had she slept through the alarm, or had there been no alarm? Had Copper Chromite changed his mind last night? Would she find him down in the studio if she ran there right now?

But the one thing that struck her the most was that nopony was speaking. She could hear the hum of the refrigerator through the walls. She could hear Silver Dollar rummaging in the pantry.

Drop it as a casual question, she thought. He probably changed his mind. He probably spoke to them earlier today. So much can happen when you wake up at noon.

After a few more items of small talk, all of which Littlepip instigated and all of which Terra Firma and Clover answered with dismissive, monosyllabic answers, Littlepip asked: “So, have you guys seen Copper? I’ve been looking for him, but I can’t find him.”

Both of her interlocutors’ ears perked up. They exchanged an almost imperceptible glance with each other. Terra Firma stared into her mug. Clover said: “Wait, you don’t . . . know?”

“Know what?” said Littlepip.

“How could she know?” said Terra Firma. “She’s been asleep all day.”

“Know what?” Littlepip repeated.

Clover pinned her ears. Her head vacillated, a motion exacerbated by a visible and violent attempt to keep it still. When she spoke, her voice was a growled whisper. Her words sounded like the rumbling that presages an earthquake:

“Littlepip, Copper’s dead.”

There was a moment’s silence in which Littlepip did nothing but blink. She was conscious only of one thing: the movement of her eyelids. “What?” she said.

“He killed himself last night,” said Terra Firma.

Littlepip had heard perfectly both times. She understood the words and the individual concepts that were being conveyed to her. They were in a language that she recognized. She knew what everything meant. But in her mind, nothing connected. The words and ideas bounced off of each other, her brain refusing to mesh them. It was not an evasion; it was a lucid observation of the facts of reality. With knowledge of her previous experiences, she evaluated the concepts, and she found no relation between them. They were ideas, but they were not grounded to anything. They occupied space in her skull but contributed nothing, parasitic thoughts that demanded brain energy and explicitly promised no return.

No, she thought; there is one connection between them. And she chuckled quietly when she realized it.

“That’s very funny, guys,” she said.

“Oh no . . .” said Terra Firma, placing her head on the table.

Clover extended a hoof and touched Littlepip’s outstretched leg on the table. “This isn’t a joke, ’Pip,” she said. “He’s gone.”

Littlepip retracted her leg swiftly, knocking over Clover’s mug. It fell to the ground with a crash. Heads turned in her direction.

“I see,” said Littlepip, her laughs increasing. “Just like when Velvet Remedy sang a song for me, right? The exact same way? I bet Copper killed himself with the song, right?”

“Littlepip,” said Clover, “if you need to talk to somepony, I—”

“Nah,” said Littlepip, waving her hoof, “I’ve had enough laughs for today. But it’s still a working day, isn’t it? I haven’t even had breakfast yet. Nice talking to you, as always.”

The circular metal stool rattled noisily against the floor as she alighted from it. Every eye on the cafeteria was turned to her. She felt none of them. She only saw Mire, who was sitting in a booth by herself.

“Hey, Mire,” she said, walking up to her.

Mire looked up, looked at the eyes all around her, and swallowed nervously. “Hello, Littlepip,” she said.

“Say, can you help me with something?” said Littlepip. “I’ve been looking for Copper Chromite all day, and I can’t seem to find him. Have you seen him?”

“Littlepip,” said Mire, whispering, “listen to me very closely: Copper killed himself last night.”

Littlepip’s laughter shook the glasses on Mire’s table. “That’s . . .” she said, “alright, you got me. You win! I actually thought you were serious for a second. Bravo, it’s hard to fool me. But I actually have some professional issues to take up with him—very important, you see—so I actually do need to find him. Where is he?”

“He’s dead,” came an anonymous voice from the corner.

Silver Dollar emerged from the pantry. A tiny rivulet of dark clotted blood was hanging out of his slightly bruised nose. “Silver,” she said, “where is—”

“Dead,” said Silver Dollar, not looking at her. He lit his horn and gathered up a collection of soiled silverware from behind the counter. “Killed himself. Last night.”

Littlepip glared at him. “Oh yeah? Do you know what time? What about his last words? Oh, maybe he—”

“Littlepip, I’m busy. Go away.”

“I must say,” she said, “that, coming from you, Silver, it’s actually quite sick. You have this way of telling the most ludicrous stories in the most convincing manner possible. But something like this? It’s actually kind of disturbing.”

He said nothing and began to load the dishwasher.

“Randall,” she said, turning to the robot floating nearby him. “Can you check the resident database?”

The robot beeped. “Resident number?”

“Ah!” she ejaculated, tapping a forehoof against her head. “What was—sorry, is—what is Copper’s resident number?”

The cafeteria looked at her, silent.

“Come on; nopony knows? Are you serious? You’ve lived with him how long?” She turned to the robot. “Resident . . . nine . . . six—no! four three—oh! I know! Resident nine-four-three-oh. What’s resident nine-four-three-oh’s balance?”

“Checking cafeteria balance for resident nine . . . four . . . three . . . oh. . . . balance void. Resident nine . . . four . . . three . . . oh . . . deceased.”

She turned to Silver Dollar. He had stopped what he was doing and was staring directly at her.

“Alright,” she said, “the extent of this . . . it’s sick. It’s sick. You sabotaged Randall just to play a joke on me? Silver Dollar, I appreciate your jokes—when they’re in good taste and harmless. This . . . this is sick!”

“Why is this so hard for you to accept?” came a voice behind her.

Littlepip turned and saw the overmare. She, Littlepip, had not heard her enter. The overmare looked exactly as she had two days ago. Nothing had changed—except those around her. Two days ago, the cafeteria had been upbeat, if a bit slow in method and operation, and the overmare had looked perfectly comfortable in it. Now, it was as silent as a sepulcher—but the overmare looked as serene as ever. Her uncanny ability to integrate her own personality into the atmosphere of the room, to make herself look completely at one with the feelings of others no matter what they were, was more apparent than ever.

“Why is it so hard?” said Littlepip. They watched with wide-eyed disbelief the manner in which Littlepip strode up to the overmare. They couldn’t name it, but the way she walked had an insolence which defied all their senses of good manners. The way she looked at the overmare, the flexing of her muscles, everything about her conveyed a manner of rudeness. But what was it? She was facing the overmare directly; her body was not half-turned, nor fidgeting in her presence. Her eyes did not shift; she held the overmare’s glance with a firmness greater than hers. Her head and neck were not slouching; they noticed that Littlepip was slightly taller than the overmare. Ostensibly, her posture was something they’d expect in an encounter such as this. But something nagged at them; they felt it to be rude. But what was it about her that could possibly be rude?

“Why is it so hard?” she repeated. “Because I spoke to him last night. And whatever the opposite of suicidal is, he was it!”

“Sometimes,” said the overmare, “those on the verge of suicide display signs of outward happiness right before they commit the deed. Before it, they’re usually downcast. Was Copper Chromite not downcast? Did you listen to him on the radio yesterday afternoon? I talked to Doctor Shrink right after he stopped the broadcast, and she said that that line of speech is completely indicative of—”

“Don’t give me that!” yelled Littlepip. The cafeteria recoiled with surprise. “That was something completely different. You know what that was? That was—”

“Perhaps we should continue this conversation outside,” said the overmare, gesturing to the door.

“Oh, gladly!” said Littlepip, walking through the door the overmare held open for her. “Perhaps you’ll be more honest with me there. Silver Dollar, I can’t believe you got the overmare in on your joke, too. Let me tell you something about Silver Dollar, Ms. Overmare—if he says something’s a good idea, that he wants your help with something, then it’s always a bad idea. But, of course, I imagine you know that by now.”