//------------------------------// // Midnight at Dusk // Story: Sweetie: The Ponetic Opera // by Nonagon //------------------------------// Every city, even Canterlot, has its bad streets. Not bad neighborhoods; every neighborhood is a bad neighborhood to someone else. These are the streets that every foal knows instinctively not to walk down, the ones the Guard march by without a second glance, the kind that even the most foolhardy adventurer dare not enter. In the heart of even the fairest community there is a place where darkness lurks and all the evils of the world are permitted to rot in silence, if one only knows where to look for it. All this was lost on Written Script as he dashed down the nearest alleyway, gasping and panting. It was dusk, though one would be forgiven for not knowing it; the black smog that the nearby factories constantly belched out had long ago completely coated the inner surface of the magical bubble that surrounded the city, cutting off all but the most direct sunlight. The unceasing hum of air purifiers and faulty streetlights were the only noises around the unicorn as he ran, the closest the city had come to silence since his arrival. While earlier he had been desperate to get away from the dirty and coughing throngs in the main streets, now he searched for a single sign of life as he raced between the towering and ominous spires. He caught sight of a small door with light shining through the cracks in its frame and skidded to a halt, frantically knocking. “Help me!” he yelled. From within, there was the scrape of a heavy latch being shut, and then the light beneath the door went out. Just as Written Script turned away, he heard the sound of his pursuer once again, the same sound that had been following him for the past ten minutes. He froze in place and shuddered, trying very hard not to breathe, as a hoofstep echoed down the alleyway behind him. Just one single, solitary hoofstep. Just enough to make him stop running, if only for a moment. Just enough to make him wonder if he had even heard it at all. Panic broke the spell and Script took off running yet again. He took corners at random, praying under his breath for a sign of life and once again cursing whatever city planner had decided to model Canterlot’s slums after a minotaur’s labyrinth. “Help!” he cried again, though he was starting to suspect that he was wasting his breath. One turn later and he slid to a halt, almost bashing his nose on a fence that reared up in front of him. A chain-link wall stretched across the narrow street, forming a dead end on both sides. “Oh, come on!” Written Script yelled, stomping in frustration. “These really exist? What is even the point of this?” The single hoofstep echoed behind him again, but he ignored it, pointing forward. “Look, I can see the street goes on beyond here! There are ponies living here! What possible use could there be for a barely-threatening obstacle in the middle of the street?” There was a long pause before the ominous hoof hit the cobbles again, a little more insistently. One by one, the streetlights behind him flickered and went out. With a noise that was half gasp and half groan, Written Script surveyed his options. Adrenaline making a comeback, he quickly climbed on top of a discarded trash bin and made a leap for the top of the fence, barely catching it with his forehooves. A hoof crashed into the stones behind him as he kicked his hind legs frantically, straining to pull himself up. He caught the edge of a metal loop beneath one hoof and bucked out, giving him just enough of a boost to hurl himself over the edge as the darkness closed in behind him. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes and groaned, then hastily sprung back up and turned around triumphantly. “Hah!” The street behind him was empty, the lights on and unwavering. Before he could react, he felt a tall shape behind him and breath against his ear. “Boo.” Sometimes the body acts before the brain has a chance to stop it. Even as he screamed at himself not to, he slowly looked around and bumped horns with a visage of fangs and bright blue light. To Written Script’s credit, he only wet himself a little as he passed out and the beast fell upon him. He was the third pony to have done so that night. He would not be the last. --- “Wakey wakey! Rise and shine, customer of mine!” What Written Script felt next would have been difficult to describe to a non-unicorn. In fact, he would have struggled to describe it to a fellow unicorn, as it was like nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. He felt cold, but not cold; hungry, but not hungry; utterly drained, as though a vast ocean inside of him had been reduced to a scorching desert. His inner organs creaked and rustled against one another, and a dull pain was slowly spreading from his horn, a pull for energy that simply wouldn’t come. But just as the walls of his parched seabed began to crack, new life sprang up within him. A wellspring of energy flooded down his throat and through his system, jolting him awake and sending a spray of sparks from his horn as his eyes snapped open. What he felt next was more genuine cold, curled up on his back in the corner of the alley and the chain fence where he’d been captured. A little glass vial was being pressed against his lips, the last drops of a thick liquid being poured into his mouth. He leaped up, coughing and spluttering as he gasped for breath. “Yippee, you’re awake!” A peculiar pony stepped back from him and tossed the vial expertly into her satchel, doing a little jig on the spot. Written Script stared. The mare in front of him was an earth pony, the first he’d seen since entering Canterlot, and the most vibrant shade of pink he’d ever clapped eyes on. Her face had been painted white, plastering her hair to her skin, while her mane rose high and bouncy above her head. She wore a tattered old coat with an impractically large faux fur collar, as well as a stained and muddied medical satchel that bounced against her side as she danced. Script spoke the first word that came to mind, which also happened to be the second, third, fourth and sixth words he thought of. “What?” The fifth word was uh. “I saved you, silly!” The strange pony ceased dancing and began an improbable four-legged hop in a semicircle around Script. “That mean old Midnight just sucked every last drop of magic out of you. Lucky for you, I check this fence every Thursday. If I’d waited just one more minute, your insides would have gone kablooey!” She demonstrated with her hooves, which did nothing to calm Script’s frazzled nerves. Something sizzled on the ground. Script looked down. The last drops of a glowing blue liquid was dripping from his lips. Even though the fluid was cold, it hissed and sparked as it splashed on the cobbles below. He licked his lips; the drink was flavorless, but the tiny amount he’d ingested seemed to have swelled in his stomach to the size of a three-course meal, plus biscuits and coffee. He found his voice again. “What?” The pink pony stopped bouncing. “Oh, I get it,” she said, her voice and eyes suddenly full of wonder. “You must be new here!” She bolted forward, putting her face uncomfortably close to Script’s. “Are you new? Are ya? Huh, huh, huh? How long have you been in Canterlot?” “T-two weeks,” Written Script stammered back, backing up against the wall as much as he could. “All the ads said it was a haven for unicorns. A... a good place to start a family.” “Then I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” The mare backed up and raised herself onto her hind legs, doing an elaborate bow. “The name’s Graverobber. But folks ‘round here call me Pinkie Pie. Or...” She looked puzzled. “Or is it the other way around?” Several uncomfortable seconds passed while she contemplated this, then shrugged and dropped back to all fours. “I’m your guide, your ghost, and your guarantee of a good night’s sleep. Anytime you’ve got a question, just give old Pinkie a call.” “Uh, thanks,” Script said, edging away, “but I think I’ve had my fill of crazy for tonight. I’ve really gotta be getting home, so if you could just point me out of here...” “Yeah, sure.” Pinkie Pie turned away without so much as a disappointed look, pointing down the alley. “Second street on the right, then straight on ‘til morning.” “Um... thanks.” Script trotted sideways and began to back away, afraid to take his eyes off of the strange mare in front of him. It was only when he’d stumbled awkwardly all the way to the corner that she’d indicated that he finally turned away, preparing to gallop as far and as hard as his hooves would carry him. “But are you sure you want to go?” Against his better judgement, he stopped. Legs still tensed, he looked back. Pinkie Pie had risen up and was slowly advancing towards him, a peculiar smile on her face as she spoke in a melodic, sing-song tone. “Out in the night, through the mist, steps a figure... no one really knows her name for sure. She lives in the blank spot behind both your shoulders, in every dark nook and behind every door. Maybe you think it’s a safe time to party, now that you’ve wriggled out once from her trap, but as long as your magical payments are tardy, the horn on your head will keep calling her back...” Written Script shuddered. He didn’t resist as Pinkie Pie strolled up to him and nuzzled his cheek, drawing up to his side comfortingly. “All my life,” he said shakily, “I was told that Canterlot was a city of light. That it was a good, safe place, where friendship and reason ruled, and ponies could live together in peace and harmony.” He looked up. The sky was black as soot, the once-gleaming spires of the city not much better. Every window and door was locked and barred, and floating, flickering streetlights glared down harshly on empty and dust-covered streets. Holding back a shudder, he looked to Pinkie Pie, tears in his eyes. “What happened here?” The pink pony nodded sympathetically, throwing a sooty foreleg around his shoulders. “Follow me to my home downtown,” she said, raising a hoof wide, “and I’ll tell you the story of how it all went down...”