Innavedr

by Imploding Colon


Ebony and Irony

“Smells like the boomerist of spit down here it does.” Floydien's grunting voice echoed across the narrow sewer corridor, punctuated by the splashing of cloven hooves through fetlock-deep sludge. His pointy skull turned around to look back at the two trailing stallions in mid-trot. “Striped boomer's stripes should turn green soon, yes yes yes?”

“You're one to complain about this!” Ebon Mane grunted as he guided himself and Pilate along. “If you hadn't gone ballistic on every uniformed pony in sight—enforcer or Nightshade flank-kisser notwithstanding—then we would have been in better sorts!”

“It is not a complaint that Floydien launches, sailboat boomer, but felicitous spit to drive off the stench. Simon's vomit begs to up the chuck.” Almost as if on cue, a high-pitched wretching sound could be heard. “Now there's a good nut nut.”

“Mr. Pilate,” Ebon Mane muttered into the zebra's ears. “I don't enjoy being a complaining worrywort anymore than the next handsome stallion.”

“Who does, friend?”

“But we've been trudging through these sewers for hours, and I dare to say it's all because we're following this antler-case when instead we should be using our proper instincts.”

“Floydien has...” Pilate shifted in mid canter. “How should I put it?”

“Humor me.”

“He possesses an inexplicable, innate sense of... sense.”

“Easy for you to say. You've depended blindly on him for days. But, like, didn't he nearly toss you off an airship and into the heart of Blue Nova?”

“Ah, but that was the direct result of Nightshade's guards confronting us. Besides, he did give me Simon, and if it wasn't for the rodent's assistance, I wouldn't have found you and the rest of the think tank anyways.”

“We still haven't found them! Propsy and Jasper are goddess-knows where about now!”

“But we're getting closer...” Pilate stetched his neck as O.A.S.I.S. flickered. “Aren't we, Simon?”

A nauseous bark was all that returned. It was accompanied by a pulse of telekinesis that magnified Pilate's “vision,” revealing a thin corridor running due east just three wall lengths away.

“I do believe we're approaching a junction!” Pilate's voice sounded off against the walls of the sewer. “Ebon, if you will...”

“Huh?”

“I can't very well guide us to where we're headed and utilize a sound stone simultaneously.”

“Oh, right. S-sorry.” Ebon's hoof reached under Pilate's choker and grabbed the enchanted shard. “And here I thought you were a genius zebra capable of doing everything intelligent thing imaginable.”

“I'm rather sorry to disappoint,” Pilate said with a firm grin. “Besides, you're the best at speaking with your good friend Props.”

“What, does she scare you?”

“I can only handle so much giddiness, to be honest.”

“That's funny, coming from somepony who's had nothing but this pointy dude's mania to deal with for a spell.”

“Is there a particular reason why you're so hard on Floydien?”

“Well, yes. I mean no. I mean...” Ebon sighed, then spoke in a more hushed tone. “It's got nothing to do with how big he is or how freakish he looks or how scary those antlers are...”

“I understand completely,” Pilate droned, blinking blindly. “Then what, pray tell, is it?”

“I dunno. When he talks, it's as if it's coming out of a hollow shell. He talks all the time about his 'beloved' Nancy Jane, but I'm beginning to wonder if he's even capable of love. I don't mean that in a cruel way. It's just that... I-I have a sort of gift for sensing things. You could ask Propsy or Jasper. And, like, with Floydien... I don't even sense anything at all.”

Pilate cocked his head curiously to the side. “Just what kind of a 'sense' is this anyways?”

Ebon sighed, more heavily this time. “Never mind. All of this running around in muck is getting to me. Plus, there're the enforcers and their constant drilling and this frightful hangar that we're all headed to.”

“It's just a hangar.”

“Yes, but one that's hidden beneath the earth for a reason! For all we know, Mr. Pilate, it's likely crawling all over with Nightshade's guards and—”

“All of the spit enters Floydien's ears, blessed boomers,” spoke the gruff voice from up ahead. “Is a most rancid pool. Yes yes yes.”

“Look, we're just freaked out, okay?!” Ebon called forth.

“I think I'm doing rather fine,” Pilate said.

“Okay. I'm freaked out! I'm sorry. Things are just... a little freaky.”

“Perhaps sailboat boomer would do better sharing freakiness with glimmer spitters who would want to skin his freakiness and make a pelt with it, no?”


“What in the friggin' heck is that supposed to—?”

Pilate cleared his throat. “Mr. Mane, the sound stone, if you would.”

“Oh, right. My bad.”

“No problem.” Pilate smiled. “Perhaps a word or two with Ms. Props would cheer me up.”

“Yeah. It usually does.” Ebon raised the shard to his muzzle. “Uhm... Hello? Propsy? Jasper? You got an update for us or—?”

A loud belch echoed magically across the corridor. Pilate made a face while Simon wretched again.

“Uhm... Propsy?” Ebon squeaked.

“Heehee! That was the loudest one yet! I'm totally owning you in this contest, Jasper! Would you at least participate?”

”For the last bloody time, I am not an expert on belching, nor would it ever dawn on me that I would desire such.”

”But there you have it! Dawn is the best time for burping! Just pretend you're guzzling some milk and channel forth your inner acid reflux!”

“Props?! Yo, Propsy!”

”Then again, all acid reflux is 'inner,' I guess. Unless you have a hole in your chest. Hey! Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Prowse and the time he fell into a bathtub full of rusty screws?”

”Oh, for the love of fine wine...”

”You see, he was drunk at the Gray Smoke floating junkyard and his buddies were all telling him to do backflip. Well, as you can guess, he belly-flopped, and that's why he has to eat oatmeal through a tube... or maybe he squirts it out of the tube. I forget. Hey, what's that 'C' word that rhymes with 'gastrostomy?'”

”Props!

”But soft! What voice through younder sound stone breaks wind?!

“It's Ebon Mane, you fuzzhead!”

”Ebonnnny! Did you hear that last belch?! What would you rate it out of a ten? And don't say 'five' cuz that would be a cop-out!”

”Ebon, good fellow, please tell us that you have an update.”

“Actually, Pilate asked me to call you both up so we can get one ourselves.”

”Well, aside from being regailed with all of Ms. Props' bodily functions, I'd venture to guess that we're halfway down the corridor that leads to our destination.”

”Jasper is right on the rooter, Ebony! Nightshade must have gotten really bored digging this tunnel out, so she totally labeled it with a bunch of numbers, all getting smaller from the industrial district to where the hangar's located. It said so on the blueprints when we were in the central power station of the building! Isn't that neato keano?”

“What number are you at?”

”Sixy-two! That's the age my Uncle Prowse got his liver removed! Did I ever tell you about his drinking problem—”

“Yes, yes. Thank you, Props.” He turned towards Pilate. “Do you sense their bodies at all in the corridor?”

Pilate shook his head. “Negative. It's all empty, from what O.A.S.I.S. can tell me.”

”Mr. Pilate, if I may be so bold,” spoke Clark's voice through the sound stone. ”But as it is that you and your companions fought your way ever so brutishly through the streets while Ms. Props and I had nothing to block our underground traversal, I would venture to guess that that part of the corridor you're sensing is a spot where we've previously been. We are likely way ahead of you at this point.”

“That would make a great deal of sense,” Pilate said.

“Then all we gotta do is burst our way through and catch up!” Ebon chirped, his mouth forming a grin. “That way we can beat the enforcers trying to drill their way down and reach the hangar in no time!”

“Sound plan is sound,” Floydien said, his antlers suddenly brimming with energy. “Lend your paws, Simon. Time to make even more sound.”

“No, Mr. Floydien! Wait!” Ebon extended a hoof.

A wave of muck and mud flew into the two stallion's faces from the resulting explosion. When the splashing water settled, the ponies wheezed and sputtered. O.A.S.I.S. flickered, and when it came back to clarity, a huge gaping hole led from one corridor into the next.

“Is there a reason why boomer stand there with spit in their faces?” Floydien grumbled and ducked down low so that he and Simon could spelunk into the even narrower corridor adjacent to the sewer. “Speed requires us; Nancy Jane awaits!”

“Mr. Floydien...” Pilate grumbled. “We had talked about this...”

“And Floydien had heard. Now hear Floydien: those glimmer drills of the stabby-stabs seek to expose Floydien and boomers. Floydien must not allow that.”

“Why, because you're tasting fear for the first time?!” Ebon balked.

“No...” The voice hesitated, then hoarsely produced, “Because boomers are closest thing Floydien has to friends.”

He proceeded into the tunnel on his own. Ebon Mane and Pilate stood in warm silence.

”Wow!” Props' voice sang through the stone. ”That was some belch! Can we meet this Floydien guy soon?! Huh?! Huh?!”

“Uhm... that depends...” Pilate murmured as he and Ebon Mane ducked through the dusty hole. “Mr. Mane, can you see a number on the wall?”

“Shine your manasphere over in this direction.”

“Like this?”

“Yup! Perfect!”

“What do you see?”

“I see... a spray painted number eighty! Ha!”

“Then we can't be that far behind the others!”

“You hear that, Propsy?!” Ebon shouted, his voice echoing over charing hoofsteps as he and Pilate galloped ahead to join Floydien and Simon. “We're not that far behind! Wait for us, will ya?”

”Woohoo! Bring the burps and the antlers and let's make some magic!”