//------------------------------// // Ether Wash // Story: Daring Do // by GaPJaxie //------------------------------// “Was this his cutie mark?” the attendant asks, mumbling a bit around the wiredoll token in his mouth. He’s an earth pony, so he has the crystal wedged firmly between his teeth, leaning his head forward to present the marked end to Berry. She stares at it for several long seconds, her face blank and flat as ever. One. Two. Three. “No,” she says. “The medal on his cutie mark did not have a ‘2’ on the face. It was an unadorned silver disk.” “Okay,” the attendant replies, putting the wiredoll token back into the rack, along with hundreds of others like it. His eyes slowly scan over the glittering honeycomb, from crystal to crystal, until he leans his head over, takes another in his teeth, and turns to present it to Berry. “Was this his cutie mark?” he asks, just the way he did before. One. Two. Three. “No,” Berry says. “The medal on his cutie mark did not have a band in the middle of the strap. It was plain, with a simpler design.” “Okay,” the attendant replies, putting the wiredoll token back into the rack. I let out a quiet breath and turn away, going back to watching the rest of the shop. They’ve been at it for nearly half an hour now. At first, I assumed that things would go pretty quickly—the attendant had a giant box of honeycombed tokens, but I was sure that describing Echo’s cutie mark would narrow it down. Then I discovered that Berry had wired ahead, and that the box only holds the finalists. A hundred something wiredoll tokens that all depict some variant on “silver medal.” It’s enough to make a pony feel they aren’t that special. That thought makes my ears fold back a bit, my tail tucking itself in under my haunches. Unproductive thoughts. I’m sitting on a bench near the door to the shop, presumably put there for just this situation. It gives a good view of things, and I have to admit it’s a well-laid-out shop. A bit damp, a bit dark, but well laid out. The shop has an unassuming name, Wiredoll Repair and Customization, but the inside is a little museum in its own right. Two dozen dolls, each with a unique design, all posed around each other like ponies frolicking in a field. Unicorns with glittering golden horns, pegasi with upraised steel wings, earth ponies so expressive the dolls can grin, as though laughing at the others’ antics. Stands of different heights make them seem frozen in mid-leap, like they were real ponies turned to stone in an instant. Yeah. Just like that. “Was this his cutie mark?” the attendant asks. One. Two. Three. “No,” Berry says. “The medal on his cutie mark rested at a slight angle, like it would hang while being worn.” Always three seconds with her. Very consistent. I wonder if there’s a reason for that. It probably doesn’t matter. “I’m going for a walk,” I say, shoving myself off the bench. My hoofboot hits the floor first with a quiet clank, my other forehoof tapping on the stone a moment later. Berry turns her head my way as the attendant looks for another token. Is she going to stop me from leaving? Tell me not to wander off? After a moment, she looks back to the counter. “Was this his cutie mark?” the attendant asks. I guess not. I push out through the shop’s double doors, a little shiver running over me as I do. It’s colder out in the hall than inside—not much, but noticeably. Probably from all the running seawater. The cold might not be so bad if there was more to distract me, but this whole tower is dull as toast. The doors swing shut behind me, but I linger in the archway for a second, looking over my options. I’m pretty sure the tower is one of Twilight Sparkle’s original creations. It’s short and ugly from the outside, with a low ceiling, tiny windows, blocky angles, and blockier rooms. Living here would be like living in a cave, an impression not helped by the pools of stagnant water and occasional patches of filth on the floor. The ponies here are trying to make a go of it, putting up brightly colored posters and adding lamps to supplement the wholly insufficient ceiling lights, but I can see why this isn’t exactly high-demand real estate. The decorations are part of the problem though. Garish posters cling to every exposed section of wall, advertising cheap mantles, cheap food, and cheap weapons. Banners announcing upcoming plays, performances, or events hang three deep, layered over each other as old announcements are covered up and forgotten. There’s even one of those of statues of Sine across the way, the words “I do not want to be a symbol of anything. I just want to be myself” carved on the base of a statue twice the size of a real pony. That’s kind of funny. I look around again. There are a few stores nearby, and a cafe, but none of them seem really appealing. I suppose I can get some tea or something. It takes a moment to spur my legs into motion, my body willing me to just stand there under the archway. My steps feel heavy, joints stiff, but I don’t think I’m injured again. It’s just the cold, and the damp, and probably some exhaustion. Water splashes around my hooves as I make my way across the white stone hall, icy droplets running over my bare skin where the hair is gone. The cafe isn’t far. It’s across the street and a little ways to the left. Not a lot of ponies out and about right now—just a couple pulling a wagon and a few passers-by. It’s a pretty depressing cafe, really. It’s no more than fifteen good paces deep, and barely a third as wide, but the owners have managed to cram enough tables and booths for fifty ponies into the space. I suspect it used to be an alley before they added a ceiling and door and called it a room. It’s too narrow to be anything else, crowding all the tables together into an ugly, cramped maze. If this place were ever full, it would reek of sweat. As is, it reeks of salt water. That smell means something, in Vision. It’s the smell of poverty. There are puddles on the floor, pictures hung on the walls to hide cracks. The furniture is old and dented, made from metal instead of wood. The bases of the tables are already starting to rust, and I keep my eyes on them as I carefully pick my way towards the counter in the back. If I’m not careful, I’ll give myself tetanus shoving my way through here. So many tables, and besides me, this place has all of three clients—a mare reading a book at one of the tables, and two pegasus stallions chatting quietly in one of the stalls. They’re all older. Mid-thirties maybe. A few cutie marks each. Between the tables and the clients, about the only thing here that doesn't look like it’s older than I am is the colt behind the counter. He’s maybe sixteen. Seventeen if he’s a late bloomer, but definitely not older. A lanky, off-yellow earth pony. He’s a good half-head taller than me, but he still hasn’t grown out of that teenage awkwardness—uneven stance, acne and all. He hit puberty and it hit back. Just one cutie mark. That’s good. Three bees. Perhaps he likes bugs. He was reading a book when I walked in, but it didn’t take him long to look up, and by the time I reach the counter, the book is shut and away. “Hey there,” he says, with a forced sort of cheer. He’s awkward, and stiff, but I think he’s trying, and he finds a smile for me anyway. “Take a seat. I’m Ether Wash. You want some ice for that bruise?” he asks, gesturing at my cheek as he winces on my behalf. “You aren’t related to a mare named Swiftwing by any chance, are you?” I ask, but he only gives me a dumb look. That’s fine. It wasn't that funny. “Never mind. No, thank you. Can I just get some tea, please?” “Oh, uh... sure. What kind?” He glances back at the rows of little tins behind the counter. I try to follow his gaze, but all the labels run together, and I can’t make my mind focus on them. I don’t really care, anyway. “Strong, please. The sort of tea doesn't matter,” I answer, and he nods. His work is jerky and slow, but I don’t mind. It’s not like I’m in a hurry. I just stare at the wall while I wait, tail flicking this way and that behind me. “So um... bad day?” he asks, twisting his neck to look at me over his shoulder. It takes me a moment to register what he said, my eyes sliding back to him as my mind returns to the world around me. Is he trying to make conversation? Or just angling for a better tip? Then I notice how tightly he’s holding his tail, how alert his ears are, that tension in his eyes as they dart from place to place, drifting towards me only to jump away. Right. Teenage colt, pretty mare. History repeats itself. “Yeah,” I say after a moment. “Bad day.” “Oh. Um. Sorry,” he answers with a supreme eloquence, going back to fumbling with the tea strainer. That keeps him quiet for a bit at least, as he uses his teeth to carefully load it from the tins, sliding it into some sort of machine pressed against the wall. It has a little spigot with an empty cup under it. Figures. “Do you uh... want to talk about it?” he asks, nosing one of the machine’s buttons once the tea is inside. Not really, no. I turn away to look at the rest of the cafe. The older mare at the table with her book. The two stallions talking in excited whispers. Planning something. They have paper and lots of empty coffee cups. “I really went off on somepony earlier,” I say, not looking back at him. “A waitress. She didn’t do anything—she was actually really nice to me. But I was having a bad day and I took it out on her.” I somehow doubt that awkward-waiters-who-dig-me are enough of a coherent social group that apologizing to him counts, but it still feels nice to say. “So I’m feeling like a bit of a waste of space right now.” “Well, uh... I mean. I’d rather you didn’t do that to me,” he says, a bit uncertain. I’m not looking at him, but I know he’s looking at me. Trying to work out what to say. “But jerk customers are a part of the job. If it helps, I’m sure she’s forgotten about you by now.” “Nice of you to say,” I reply, just a little tired. I do turn back to look at him though—he’ll like that. Just as I thought, he’s watching me, and when I smile at him, he blushes a little and looks at the floor. He did enjoy that. Just like I thought. I guess that counts for something. Behind him, the machine hums and spits tea out into the worn and faded china. “So what’s your story then? Are you a beekeeper? An entomologist?” “I’m a waiter,” he answers, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Like I said something funny. “You’re a little older than you let on, aren’t you?” “What makes you say that?” I ask, but after a moment, I get it. “Oh. Because I assumed you’re... Right.” Because I assumed that the things that make you unique and special mattered in the slightest. “Very Equestrian, I suppose.” “Uh... kind of,” he says, sheepishly. “But it’s okay. It’s nice. Are you a singer?” “Yeah,” I say. By now, the machine is making little sputtering sounds, and there doesn't seem to be any more tea coming. He leans his head down under the counter to fetch a tray—a napkin, spoon, and little silver holder full of honey and cream following it. “But I wanted to be a wizard.” “Until you discovered your special talent?” he asks, moving the cup over to the tray and then pushing it across the counter towards me. Earth pony waiters must need a lot of manual dexterity. I never noticed before. All the waiters in Canterlot were unicorns. “Is that how you think Equestria works?” I ask, as he leans down under the counter to get something. “You just discover your special talent and the rest of your life is roses and sunshine?” He lifts his head back up, and I see there’s a heavy, sapphire-blue bottle in his teeth. A flowing label on the side reads, “Old Times’ Traditional Spirits,” the letters gentle and curving. He bites down hard on the cork, and it comes out with a loud pop. “Isn’t it?” he mumbles around the cork, lowering the mouth of the bottle to my teacup. “Just say when.” Oh. Strong tea. Because I’ve had a bad day. I get it. “Uh...” I mutter, as the liquid inside starts to flow. Clear. So that’s... what? Vodka? Gin? I don’t know alcohol. “When,” I say quickly, before much has changed. He lifts the bottle again, moving to cork it. “And not really. Your special talent is what you’re good at, but you still have to decide what to do with your life.” Somehow, that doesn't feel right to say, and as he puts the bottle back, I add, “It’s better than here though.” “If you say so,” he answers with an indifferent little shrug. “Why’d you want to be a wizard then?” I let out a breath, and shake my head gently, one ear tilting back. “Listen, I appreciate what you’re trying to do...” “No, it’s okay.” He shakes his head, taking a bashful half-step back. “Sorry. Enjoy your tea.” “Sure, thanks,” I say, looking down at the tray. I’ve never had hard liquor before, though I have had a glass of wine a few times. The Princess doesn't have anything against drinking—it was just never a part of life in the palace, aside from the occasional formal event where you drink to be polite. Those are hardly the same thing anyway. Nopony wants to get drunk in front of the Princess and the nobility, so it’s always a milder wine in small glasses. It did have a pretty interesting taste. This isn’t like that. Levitating the teacup to my muzzle and taking a sniff is just about enough to make my eyes water. It smells like Echo’s breath—nasty and caustic and metallic. Tin, I think. I wonder if it’s the same stuff as in his flask. I take a small sip. Swish it around a bit. It does burn going down, like they say in books, but I don’t gag or anything. It’s alright. I bet I could have been a halfway decent wizard if I’d ever actually put in the effort. I’m smart—magic is just boring. I get hyper-focused during acting lessons, but it’s hard to concentrate on all the numbers for magic. Even when I’m really trying, it’s like my brain doesn't want to cooperate. My sound spells came easy, but that’s different. Every unicorn has at least a few spells. I wonder what spells Daring Do gives you? How would I find out? My sound magic just came naturally to me when I was growing up. Will the new spells just appear that way as well? Or do I have to actively look for them? Berry did say that mantles never bestow knowledge, and spells are kind of knowledge. I wonder if I could get Twilight Sparkle’s cutie mark somewhere. “So what is your special talent then?” I ask, not looking up from the tray. I could order a second cup, but I don’t really mind the burn. It’s a bit like Rarity’s tea. I guess I shouldn't enjoy that, but I do. I miss the taste of her tea. I miss the way it burns your throat. It feels comfortable. It feels right. That’s a bit concerning. “Beekeeping,” he answers, and I hear a slight swish of motion—him looking up from his book. “My family owns an apiary, and I like hanging out there after work. It’s relaxing.” “You know, in the tribal era, they believed that bees were the most noble of all animals?” I say, swishing the teacup. “They naturally form a harmonious society ruled over by a female who is larger than all the others. Very equine.” “Woah, really?” he asks, and when I look up, he’s smiling. I smile back and let my eyes light up a little, act like I’m amused he’s amused. That’ll make his day. “That’s some creepy cultural dissonance right there. Like, it’s weird if you think Celestia made that up to flatter herself? But it’s even weirder if you think that some beekeeper saw that and went, ‘Hey look, that big bee is like our lovable dictator.’” She’s not a dictator, you degenerate half-wit. She’s your princess. I almost snap at him, bite back against that drivel. Then I remember where I am. “Yeah. I suppose that is pretty weird, when you stop to think about it.” He probably won’t put two and two together, but I should still cover my bases. “I grew up with it though.” “You said earlier,” he replies, but he doesn't seem to have anything to add to that, pausing uncertainly and glancing at the floor. He mumbles a few things, nothing coherent, and I take the chance to lift the teacup again. I take another sip, but just a small one. “But doesn't it bother you?” I ask into that pause. “I mean, that you’re a good waiter, when you could be a great beekeeper?” “I uh... wouldn't say I’m a good waiter,” he says, delivering the joke awkwardly and with an obviously artificial laugh. I chuckle like I didn’t notice and wait for the follow up. It never comes though, just an awkward blush and a glance at the counter. He’s not embarrassed though, at least not about the question. Just pretty-mare nerves. “You seem pretty good to me,” I reply encouragingly. “But, sure. Does it ever bother you that you’re an okay waiter instead of a great beekeeper?” “Kinda?” he answers, shrugging uncertainly. “I mean, yeah, I’d love it if I got to be a beekeeper. But I’d also love it if I had a million bits and a changeling marefriend.” Wait, what? Is that a thing down here? “You don’t get everything you want.” “So wanting to do what you’re good at is selfish?” I ask. It’s a bit harsh, but I moderate my tone, and I don’t think he’s offended. He doesn't look it in any case. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting it,” he says with a shrug. “Just having it. You know. The world is what it is. You do your best, and you don’t get everything you want.” I think I stare at him for a while, because he pulls back a little, his left ear tilting to one side. “I mean, that’s how it was in Equestria, right?” “No, actually,” I say after a second. “In Equestria, your special talent isn’t just a thing you happen to be good at. A cutie mark isn’t a... isn’t a magic tattoo.” It’s all so obvious, so unspoken, that it takes me a second to find the words for it. Some artist I am. “The world isn’t just what it is and you have to deal with it. Your special talent is... your destiny. It’s the you-shaped hole in the universe that you were born to fill. Where they’ll miss you when you’re gone.” Celestia will miss me. I think the others will too. “It’s why mantles are... are just... wrong,” I say, forcing the words out. “Even without the side effects. Even without everything dangerous about them. It’s cheapening what is supposed to be your most private moment. It’s stamping the words ‘I’m Special’ all over your body until there’s only red ink left.” What was that even supposed to mean? Nice analogy there, Siren. “It’s messed up!” Just like I’m messed up. Right there on my cheek. “I’m special” stamped right there for everypony to see. I’m brave. I’m a hero. “Here...” I need a second to collect myself, and to calm down, so I trail off for a while and search for the words. How do you even say this? “Here, the ocean is what it is. If you all died today, it would just reclaim the city. In a few years, there wouldn't even be anything left. But up there...” Up there, what? Everything is perfect all the time? Hardly. But no. There’s a way to say this. “Up there, all the light and warmth in the world is put there by somepony who cares about you. About you personally. Who wants you to be happy. And, yeah, it doesn't always work out. But...” I realize he’s staring. Glancing back at the rest of the room. I look back. The other three patrons are staring too. Oh, ponyfeathers. “I, uh,” I stammer. I should go. But I can’t go too fast! If I run out, they’ll definitely know something is wrong. That was stupid, Siren! “I—” “Hey!” the mare at the table says, raising her voice to be heard clear across the room. A rough, scratchy sort of voice. Too masculine. Too fitting for her boxy earth-pony frame and brown coat. “There’s nothing wrong with saying you miss Equestria sometimes. And that is all she said. Right?” “That’s all I heard, yeah,” one of the stallions at the booth agrees. The black one with a screwdriver cutie mark on his shoulder. The other—grey, with a starburst on his leg—turns to look at me, and catches my eye for a second. He nods, firmly. What? “Might want to lay off the gin though,” the black stallion adds after a second. I glance back at the cup. It’s empty. Did I finish it? No. I mean, yes, I did, but that was at most a fifth of a cup of gin. I start to object. But when I turn back to the room, they’ve all gone back to what they were doing. “I...” I manage, looking dumbly between them and the counter. I’m not keeping up a good expression, I know. I shouldn't show my actual feelings, here of all places. I’ve just been so off balance lately. “Can I get another cup of tea?” Ether Wash hesitates, one ear folding back, tail unsteady. “I’m not allowed to serve more than one hard drink per client. We’re not a bar or—” “Just tea is fine,” I say. He nods and goes back to his little tins, and his little machine, and the strainer he handles with his teeth. He glances back at me at every chance, slowing his already shoddy work considerably. I look at him, and at the others, but he’s the only one who's curious. Whatever inspired the others has faded, and they’ve gone back to their own worlds—the mare to her book, the stallions to their paper and muttering. “So, um. What were you saying?” he asks, pulling my attention back to him. He’s just put the strainer in the machine, his head jerking forward stiffly to jam the button with his nose. “About, uh, that thing you were discussing earlier. I mean.” “I shouldn't—” “It’s fine,” he insists as the machine starts to splutter. “I mean. If you’re okay with it. I actually kind of want to hear it now.” A look at him is enough to know his motives aren’t entirely pure. A few of those glances are still going to my flanks instead of my face. But, I don’t think they’re entirely impure either. He is listening. I glance at the room. The other ponies there. They’re all marked up, yeah. But they seem okay. Besides, if they were going to snitch on me, they’d have done it earlier, right? “The thing about Equestria is that it’s never... over,” I say finally, to break the silence. “Everypony messes up, but if you learn your lesson, go back and make it right again, you can be forgiven. If you work hard and do the right thing, it will all work out in the end.” That sounds kind of lame, and the tilt of his ears shows his confusion, so I add, “Vision isn’t like that.” “Uh... not really, no,” he agrees. He’s not quite sure what to say, and I can’t really blame him. There’s not much to say. “But hey! It’s not all bad. You can fix the little things. I made up with a friend last week I hadn’t seen for like a year. That was nice. You could go apologize to whoever it is you’re so upset over.” “I’m not sure she’d want to see me at this point,” I say with a little shake of my head, letting my tail swish a bit. “But I guess you’re right.” “Yeah. And hey—if there was ever a city to reinvent yourself?” he asks, trying to cheer me up. It’s not really funny, particularly given my circumstances. But I smile and pretend to laugh. “Yeah. You know, I never thought of it that way. Thanks.” The conversation lulls for a bit as the machine coughs and hisses with the last of the tea. Ether Wash busies himself getting the cup ready, and I turn back to my tray. Over the dripping water and the rhythmic pulsing of the ceiling lights, I can hear the clatter of his spastic movements. Now he thinks he’s cheered me up. That’ll make him feel good. I mean, he thinks I’m forty, and he’s still checking me out, so that’s kind of weird. But he seems nice enough. And he’s kind of right, isn’t he? Equestria may have second chances, but Vision is the place for really starting fresh. Yesterday, just the sound of Rarity’s voice had me shrieking in fear and shaking. And now what? I take a second to picture her in my mind, to imagine her voice: my dear this, and darling that, and all her stupid over the top intonations. Rarity, Rarity, Rarity, Rarity. I feel a little stiff, I guess? Kind of tense. No real feeling of fear. I wait, but nothing else happens. I suppose that’s good. That was the idea anyway. I can’t fight her if just seeing her makes me break down like a stupid foal. It’s still weird to think of myself as pink instead of amaranth or rose, but I suppose it’s better that way. I reach a hoof up to my left cheek, but my new cutie mark doesn't feel any different from the rest of my face. “Here you go,” he says, interrupting my thoughts as he slides the next cup onto my tray. He has to mouth the words around the plate he’s holding the cup on, but he’s still comprehensible, and there’s a little jar balanced on the plate’s edge. “And some extra honey. Are you sure your friend doesn’t want anything?” “My friend?” I ask, following his eyes and—horseapples! Berry is right there. All my legs go tense, readying to leap back, my ears and tail shooting up. Her muzzle is less than a hoof from mine, and she’s staring right at me. But after a moment, she leans back. I don’t jump or shout or... or anything. My heart is racing a bit, but it’s starting to slow, and I force my tail back down. Force my limbs to relax. Okay. “Uh. Watch it there,” Ether Wash says, with a stiff, squeaky laugh. I look back at him and he’s smiling—amused that I started, without so much as a trace of surprise. “How long were you standing there?” I demand, turning back to Berry. She doesn't answer, just looking at me with that blank mask she has instead of a face, her ears straight ahead and still. “Oh, uh...” Ether chimes in, a little hesitant now, put off by her non-answer. “She walked in with you.” “No, she—” What? Didn’t? Obviously she didn’t. Ether is a waiter, she’s a customer. He would have acknowledged her, asked her if she wanted anything. He would have looked at my “friend” when he was worried about me. But there’s no reason for him to lie, and I don’t see anything in his face. “Ah. Right. Funny, Berry. You’re hilarious.” “We should go,” Berry says, without so much as breaking eye contact to glance at the door. Fine, have it your way then. I down the new cup of tea quickly—less because I want it and more to make a point to Berry—returning it to the tray politely. “Thanks for the advice, Ether,” I say, reaching back into my belt pouches. “And for the tea, I suppose. How much is...” I manage, before I realize that my money pouch is empty. I gave it all to that mare in the station. I’m not panicked—Berry can pay for me—but it’s still embarrassing after he was so nice. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t—” “Nah, it’s fine. You uh, you look like you’ve had a bad day,” he says, gesturing me away from the counter with a hoof. I must look confused, because it’s a moment later he adds, “Really. It’s on the house. Try to, you know, cheer up. Yeah?” “Yeah,” I manage after a second. “Yeah, thanks.” I mean, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve gotten something for free. I’m cute and endearing and attractive, so it happens now and again. “Thank you,” I add for good measure. And I turn to go. I step outside first, holding the door for Berry as she steps out. She doesn't wait for me, turning to walk back to the wiredoll shop at a steady clip. She isn’t quick, but she has a head start, forcing me to hurry and catch up. “How did you do that?” I demand as we walk side by side. Her pace is slow, deliberate. It’s perfect for her pint-size frame, but it makes it awkward for me to keep pace and drives me along in a half-step. Of course, she doesn't answer. “Berry, how did you do that? Why didn’t anypony see you?” Still, she ignores me. Fine, Berry. You don’t want us to talk—have it your way. I wait until we’re just ahead of the door to the wiredoll shop, take one quick step, and put my hoof over the doors where they meet in the middle, blocking Berry’s path and holding them firmly shut. A quick glare at her makes my point, even if she doesn't show a reaction. I know she understood. “This is your mission,” she says, after a moment. “You are free to delay us as much as you like.” Sun and stars, I’m sick of having this terrible a bargaining position. “You know why I can’t let you lead me around by the nose, Berry,” I shoot back, careful to keep it indignant. Maybe if she thinks I’m willing to take a stand on this, she’ll fold. She doesn't answer right away of course, but I can tell she’s thinking it over because her head tilts to one side a little. I don’t know quite what that means, but it’s an expression. My expression stays a glare the whole time, putting on a perfect show of angry defiance—like I really would scuttle the whole thing over this. “Yes,” she finally says. “But I am not certain I see the relevance of this question to your ethical quandary.” “Because...” Because I hate you, Berry. She’s got me though, and we both know it. I give it enough of a show I won’t completely lose my dignity, holding her in place with a gradually softening stare. “Because I want to know why you thought you needed to tail me. Can you answer that, at least?” “I am here to protect you,” she answers plainly. Fairly quickly, at least. “So, you didn’t want me to wander off on my own?” I ask, but she gives no answer. “Couldn't you have just told me to stay where I was?” She shrugs. “Letting me go and then tailing me seems like a lot of effort just to keep me safe.” My tone isn’t accusative anymore, just firm. I think it’s the right way to get a response. She takes a second. “This way was more informative,” she finally says. “You were watching me to see how I act when I think you’re not around?” I ask. What? Why? I should be livid, but after everything else, I’m just more curious. Is that why she leaned in so close when I turned around? To see if I’d jump? “What did you learn?” “You have a remarkable ability to inspire generosity in others,” she says, flat as ever. I take my hoof off the door and put it back on the ground. Fold back my ears. Draw a breath. I try to swallow, but all the spit in my mouth has turned to tar. My barrel feels tight, and my throat does too. I make myself do it though. I make my myself breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm down. Focus. Berry doesn't show any reaction of course, just staring at me blankly. “I suppose that I do,” I finally say. My voice is a bit unsteady, but not too much. I’ve got a good tone for it, even if I mangled the delivery a bit. Not my best, but okay. “And that upsets you, does it?” I ask, though of course, she doesn't answer. “No, wait, let me guess. You’re not capable of getting upset?” I demand an answer, but she doesn't even bother to try. “The way you manage a perfect verbal slap every time I do something you don’t like, that’s not getting upset, that’s you being perfectly logical. Is that it?” Again, nothing. Not even a breath or a twitch of her ears. “Fine, whatever,” I say, with a sharp shake of my head. She can keep her secrets. “Let’s go already.” I pull open the door and step inside without waiting for her. She follows. The attendant is waiting for us inside, his legs crossed over the counter as he leans forward. Heavy eyes make him look bored, even a little sleepy, and he gives us only the barest grunt of acknowledgement when we enter. He’s an earth pony: cyan coat, grey mane, stubby snout, close-cropped mane and tail, a pile of coins on his flank, a doll and a spool of cable on his barrel. There’s already a line of tokens on the counter in front of him. More potentials, I suppose. “Is this everything?” I ask him, careful to keep any trace of the fight with Berry out of my tone. I’m too off my game to manage “friendly,” but I harden the anger from a childish thing into something quick and authoritative, pairing it with a quick step and direct look. He sits up at once and nods, without a thought to offense as I move to the counter to review his work. Ten tokens. The first I rule out at a glance—two silver medals side by side. “No. No. No. No,” I say aloud for the first four, knocking them off one by one. The fifth gives me pause. It’s a medal, right shape, right strap, right configuration. There’s something about it though. “No,” Berry interjects. “The medal depicted in Echo’s cutie mark is thinner than that. That is his,” she says. I hear motion, and when I glance to her, she’s pointing to the ninth in the line. I quickly follow her gaze. Is she right? I don’t see any visual difference between the fifth and the ninth. The crystal only shows outline, not color, and a lot of detail is lost. Either of them could be it. Well, if we get the wrong one, all we do is wire some random pony, right? Better not to look indecisive in front of Berry. “Very well,” I say, sweeping up the ninth in line and tucking it into my belt at once. Taking it without asking shows authority. It’s a little thing. “Are we using the wiredolls here?” “Not these in the storeroom,” the shopkeep says slowly, his voice a patient drone. “If you want to make a discreet wire, you’ll want a booth. That way, the pony on the other end can’t tell where you’re wiring from. I have one set up downstairs.” “Show me,” I order. It’s not as effective as I might have liked—he does hesitate a moment—but he rises and moves from the counter to the front door. He still has to lock up and turn the little sign to “Closed.” The click of the door lock signals that he’s done, and he gestures us towards the doorway in the back of the shop. I take the lead, and when I push though, there’s a narrow staircase leading downwards, twisting around to the right after only a few paces. I follow it, and soon find myself in a dim, dank basement full of tools, broken wiredolls, and a large wooden booth set up in one corner. The ceiling is low, and bare stone, without any beams to give it the illusion of Equestrian designs. Cables hang from the winches bolted to the stone at regular intervals, large hooks dangling on the end. One is in use, suspending a wiredoll off the ground. I can see legitimate uses for everything here, but it still feels like the killer’s lair in a horror movie more than anything else: the rusty tools, the soundproofing, and the mysterious booth. Then it occurs to me I’m in a city where that sort of thing actually happens, and I double check my knives. Yup, knives still there if I need them. I turn to face the stairs just to be doubly safe, and see that Berry and the shopkeep aren’t far behind me. “It should be all set up,” the attendant says, in his gradual way. “Just let me check to make sure I didn’t leave anything in the booth.” He steps over to the booth and pushes the door open, revealing a sliver of the interior as he slips through. Blank walls, a little stand for the doll. Good. I can hear him rummaging around inside and picking things up, but I’m actually glad for the delay—it gives me a second to think about what I’m going to say. “Alright, Siren. Take a breath and, uh...” I notice that Berry has turned her head to look at me, and I fall silent. Okay, uh... take a breath then. I take a breath. Good. I could go back upstairs. Say I need a second. In front of me, the booth door swings open again, and the attendant comes out with a few tools in his teeth—spitting the tools back up onto a workbench. “Is that everything?” I ask him, and he nods. “Good. You can both go now.” Berry is flat as ever, but in this case, I take her glance and the attendant’s odd look to mean the same thing. “Unless you hovering over my shoulder somehow enables the wiring process, this is a private chat. You two can both wait upstairs.” I can tell he’s hesitating—that was overreaching a bit, too much authority for my station thus far. I’m committed now though, so I follow it up with a pointed look, catching his gaze and holding it with a steady stare of my own. He starts to the stairs, pauses, looks at Berry. “Well, uh...” he finally says. “Let me know if you need anything.” His hooves clip on the hard stone as he works his way up the steps, back around the bend and out of sight. Berry watches him go, but doesn’t move herself. “So, what, did Trixie order you to listen in?” I ask, turning to face her, legs spread a bit apart. It’s one of those gestures ponies don’t consciously notice, but that makes a big difference—holding your ground. It’s instinctual. Berry doesn’t answer. She just tilts her head and stares at me for a few seconds. Then she turns, walks up the stairs, and leaves. Wow. Okay. “Wow, okay,” I say, and that helps a bit. Running a hoof back through my mane helps too, and I push it behind my ears. My heart’s racing just a little—didn’t realize that was happening. But it feels good! It feels okay. Okay. Okay. “Alright, Siren,” I say, and it’s very affirming. “You took a breath, and we’re feeling good, right?” Right! “Right! You’ve been through some stuff, and it messed you up a little, but that’s all in the past now. It’s time to uh... save the day!” Wow, that was not my best delivery. “Well, we’re pretty tired. They can’t all be gems.” I guess that’s fair. “Okay, so. Assess available resources, assess the situation, define your objectives. First, resources.” I turn to pace, moving back and forth in front of the booth. “Starting off, we have yours truly, with all the charisma, wit, and quick thinking that entails.” To say nothing of your acute propensity for homicide-based artwork. “Uh... to say nothing of a... keen understanding of the motivations of Rarity and her goons, which may prove useful in defeating them!” Sure. That’s a better way to put it. “And bravery now too. Or Daring Do.” For a little while, I can’t think of anything to add to that, and my steps briefly pause. But no. Gotta keep moving forward. I shake my head and resume pacing, now at a quicker walk. “Right. So. Beyond that, a belt full of tools: food, water, medical supplies, knives. Perhaps most relevantly, I have wiredoll tokens for myself, Trixie, Echo, Quick March, and Green.” And Green. I pause for a moment and glance down at my hoofboot, and the tokens it holds. On the far left, musical notes and a star. Then, a magic wand. A silver medal. Hoofprints and a sword. And finally, three green apple slices. I pull Green’s token out and push open the booth door. The doll is waiting inside, just like always, sexless and gleaming on its stand. It’s as beautiful as when I first saw it, but now that I’ve seen combat dolls move, it also has a certain air of menace to it. I take a second to look it over—to make sure it’s in good shape. Seems to be. Which is good. Then I slot Green’s crystal in the flank. The crystal shines, and inside the doll, mechanisms engage, a steady whirring building within its barrel. Its legs stiffen to the resting position, and its head slowly lifts to level. “Green?” I ask, after a moment, so quiet I’m almost whispering. I try again, raising my voice to be clearly heard. “Green, it’s me. It’s Siren.” The doll doesn't move. “Well, uh...” I say, taking a breath and letting it out. My sides feel all stiff for some reason. It’s hard to get air, and my gaze has sunk to the floor, hovering around the base of the doll’s stand. “Well. You um. You probably can’t hear me. But there’s a chance that you can and you just can’t signal to let me know you can. So uh. Hi.” That sounded lame. “It’s me. The Daring Do mark is new, but I’m not crazy yet or anything. I’m um... I’m coming to rescue you, Green. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I glance up at the doll for a moment. The doll doesn’t move. “So, uh. If you are aware of your environment, but are just paralyzed, that’s... that’s probably pretty psychologically damaging.” I laugh as the implications of my little speech sink in. I laugh even though it’s not funny. I don’t know why. “Hopefully you’re asleep and can’t hear a word I’m saying. But if you can, don’t worry. It won’t be long now.” That sounds good, even if I am kind of repeating myself. “I was just psyching myself up to wire Echo. Remember him? I didn’t have a super-good read on how you felt about him. He was a sadistic drunkard and you obviously knew it, but there were times when you two... I don’t know.” It was mostly the kiss, but I bet Green faked that. “Anyway, I’m going to try to convince him to help.” The doll doesn’t move. “I was just doing this thing,” I say, with a circling gesture of a hoof. “Assess situation, assess available resources, define your objectives. It’s supposed to help you clear your thoughts. I got it out of a book.” A self-help book, but Green doesn’t need to know that. “It’s probably overkill now though. I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to wire Echo, and ask for his help, and he’ll do it because he hates Rarity.” And everything else. “More than that, he hates himself for not standing up to her. He’s not that complicated, really.” Stallions generally aren’t. “And, yeah,” I finish lamely. “I’m going to go do that now. Sorry to leave you like this, but... well, you know. Just hang on.” There’s nopony around, but I still look over my shoulder to check. When I’m sure I’m alone, I straighten my back and lift my head, leaning forward until my nose touches the dolls. The metal is cold, but there’s give in the springs—the head moves when you press, like a real pony’s would. That’s enough, when I shut my eyes and pretend, and I nuzzle the doll, just a little. Then it’s over. I lean back. I pull the crystal out. The doll goes limp. “Right,” I say. Then I take a moment to breathe and... and stuff. Right. “Nothing wrong with a little... personal indulgence, Siren. But that’s enough of that. Time to... time to get your game face on.” I stiffen my spine and tail, crack out my neck, and take a pose. Resolute Stance #6, with a hint of anger thrown in, and just a dash of impatience. It’s a good starter for the wire with Echo. It reveals nothing, and can easily shift to nearly anything depending on his reaction. He’s not the type to get offended. I levitate Green’s crystal back into the boot, draw Echo’s out, take one last breath, and slot it in. Just as before, the doll winds up and lifts its head, but something is different now. It’s like how I can tell two silences apart—the doll has no expression, but something new is gleaming behind those glass eyes. It considers me for a time, unmoving. Then it speaks, a masculine voice rumbling behind that mechanical timbre. “Hello, Ms. Song,” Echo says, rolling the words out, each one carefully enunciated and precise. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” Good. No put-downs, no degradation. I’ve caught him off guard. The doll moves very little, except to turn its head slightly, but I’m sure that’s intentional. He doesn't want to give anything away. Just like when we first met, he’s playing it cool and waiting for me to slip up. I’m wise to his game now. “Unexpected for us both,” I say, with a hard set to my jaw, shifting carefully from Resolute Stance #6 to something a little higher in the shoulders and a little stiffer. It conveys tension without suggesting weakness, which suits me well here. Echo will respect Trixie pulling a fast one more than me doing the same. “If I had my way, I’d never see you again—but the situation has changed.” “So I see,” he says, still in that even cadence. The lenses inside the doll’s eyes whirr as they briefly refocus on my cheek, before returning to my face. “I suppose congratulations are in order then—your first bath in our city’s healing waters.” He draws the last two words out, with a chuckle. “Feeling bold, are we?” “Bold enough,” I answer, not giving him any ground. As long as I show no reaction to his probing, he’ll stay on the defensive, and that lets me guide the conversation. “I’ve got a job for you.” “Mmm,” he seems to consider the matter, a hoof lifted to his chin as the doll rolls faintly back on its stand. “I’m not sure that would be wise. No disrespect intended. I’ve simply had some difficulty lately with secondary employment. It’s proven to be more trouble than it’s worth.” “And unless you want all of security finding out about that secondary employment, you’ll hear what I have to say,” I say. The threat comes down quick and fast. No shouting, no bellowing, just a slight rise in my voice and a lean forward to match the doll rolling back. “You’re starting to sound a bit aggressive, Ms. Song,” he answers, the doll tilting its head down to look at me, with the effect that it seems almost contemplative. “You know, for a marker, it’s never too early to get into the habit of watching your temper. I know you feel normal now, but the symptoms have a way of sneaking up on—” “You’re stalling,” I bark, shoving the impetus back to him. Horseapples. That reaction was too calm. He’s not taking the threat seriously. Of course, I have no idea if that’s because it’s an empty threat, or because he’s so drunk he thinks he’s invincible. Either way, best not come back to that point. “I’m merely making an observation,” he replies, with that measured, careful speech. Not a word slurred or hurried, the space between words and sentences smooth and even. “But do go on.” “I’m rescuing Green from the Pavilion, and I need your help,” I say, fixing him with a gaze. Back straight, words set and even. “You want me to get you inside, I take it?” he asks, just as steady. I take a breath. This is it. “No,” I reply. “If you happen to have the keys to the back door, I’ll take them, but Trixie has other ways into the Pavilion. She’s sneaky like that. I need you for something else.” That faintest motion back shows that wasn’t the reaction he expected, which is just where I want him. I pause for a second, and then, the follow through. “I need you to kill Rarity.” Echo doesn't say a word, just watching me as gears click inside the doll—and inside his head, no doubt. Nailed it. Flawless delivery. He won’t agree that easily, but he’s going for the bait. All I have to do now is keep him going and— I hear a hiss of breath, distorted by the machine’s mechanical drone. The faintest motion of the head. A quiet chuckle. That’s not how he was supposed to react. “And here I thought you and Ms. Rarity got along so well,” he says with an airy sort of tone, almost amused. He pauses a moment, and the wiredoll’s head leans down for the pocket where he keeps his cigarettes, before he remembers. “Hmph.” “Rarity and I understand each other,” I say, not giving any ground. I don’t know why he’s reacting this way, but I can’t show any uncertainty, or I’m sunk. “And I understand how she’ll react when she finds out I stole part of her art collection. She’ll hunt Green and me to the ends of the world for slighting her. She’ll never get over it. She’s forgotten me, but...” I trail off just so, the pause letting me add a resolute little upkick to what comes next. “Green won’t be safe until Rarity is dead.” “And you think I’m the pony to do the deed?” he asks casually, examining me carefully. Horseapples. I could read him like a book if he was here in person, but that doll is as blank-faced as Berry. “Certain recent events have led me to believe that you have a real talent for jamming sharp pieces of metal into ponies.” I harden my tone and stance a little, but not enough to show real anger. I’m impatient with his stalling, that’s all. “You took on six of Trixie’s goons at once, when they were all ready and waiting for you. I doubt one aging dressmaker will prove very difficult.” “Oh, I wasn’t questioning your assessment of my ability,” he replies. His tone is level and steady, even courteous. “Though I think you’re rather drastically underestimating Rarity, I’ll be the first to admit I have a considerable gift for soldiering. It’s just that the same could be said of many ponies in this city, so I’m wondering why me particularly.” “I know that you don’t mind working under Rarity’s nose,” I reply. I don’t like letting him take the lead like this, but for now, at least, he’s keeping it on a reasonable tack. “I know you have secrets you’d rather be kept, and that helping me will ensure they stay secret. And I know that you have a grudge against artists.” “Serial killers,” he corrects. “Whatever,” I snap. “Do you want to banter or get this done? I can go back and forth with you all day, but Green’s waiting. Remember her? The mare you could be classy for?” Another pause on his end, and this time, I’m sure he felt the blow connect. The doll rolls its neck, like he was working the kinks out, and he takes a breath. “I do indeed remember her, Ms. Song. But I was not the one she was close with. And I was not the one who had to watch her demise. So why am I the one settling her accounts?” “Because you’re the only one who can,” I say, steadily. Something’s wrong though—he shouldn't be this reluctant. “You’re able and willing. You know her and her tricks well.” “You have a knife. Two, in fact,” Echo answers steadily. “And she is, as you said, an aging dressmaker. I assure you, Ms. Song, your favored style of homicide may be an art form, but mine is very practical. Sharp end goes through pony.” “You said you had a plan to take her out from when you were some hotshot in security,” I reply, impatient and hard, but not letting any stress show. I’m good like that. “Was that a lie? Big scary soldier all talk?” “Not at all. It was a very simple plan, even,” he says. “Walk up to her, say hello, introduce myself, and then stab her though the barrel with my snap blade.” A little gesture from the wiredoll illustrates the motion. “Puffer-fish toxin isn’t hard to come by down here. A single hoof blade can easily hold fifty times the lethal dose, and there’s no known antidote.” “And when her guards noticed you just attacked their leader?” I demand. “What was your plan then?” “Die,” he says, flatly. After a moment of silence, he adds, “After taking a few of them with me, hopefully.” I don’t know what to say to that. My first impulse is to shout what a pile of horseapples that is and demand he get back on track, but... I think he might be serious. Drunk, yes, obviously. But I don’t think he’s kidding. “Feel free to use that plan if you like, Ms. Song. I won’t object,” he says, with a magnanimous wave. “And I do wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors. It simply seems that I have nothing to offer you except the comfort of saying you never killed anypony, and that is not a commodity I sell.” “Security won’t like it when they learn who you’ve been moonlighting for,” I try, but it’s a last-ditch effort, and we both know it. “I suppose not, Ms. Song,” he agrees. “But I’m afraid that from where I’m sitting, it looks like all you’ve gained since we last spoke is a shiny new attitude, and the birthmark to go with it. You’ve no allies. No resources. No skills. No support. You’ve got nothing, except the expectation that others will do your dirty work for you. I understand that you think that new cutie mark makes you hot stuff, but there are a lot of ponies like you in this city: self-righteous teenagers hopped up on the latest thing to pop out of a vending machine. I do thank you for the offer, but having heard your proposition, well...” “Echo, no! Trixie will—” “I remain,” he talks over me, “unimpressed.” The token slots out, and the doll goes limp. I look at it. Take a breath. “Okay,” I say. It’s fine. We didn’t really need his help. I’ll just think of another way to rescue Green. “Okay.” It’ll be fine. I’ll save her, save the day. And it’ll be good. I can do this. I can think of something. I take a breath. “Okay.” Then I scream at the top of my lungs, and buck hard behind me. I feel my hooves catch the door, hear the ring of metal and the crunch of wood, and suddenly, there’s no resistance. My hooves have barely hit the ground when I hear the flying door smash its way through the work room. A loud bang and the clatter of a thousand tools signal that it hit the workbench, knocking all the little wrenches and screwdrivers from their place. I can hear them going everywhere, tumbling off the bench and down to the stone like rain. I shut my eyes, and take another breath, my chest shaking gently as the air escapes. “What’s going on down there!?” the attendant shouts, his voice muffled by the distance between us. By the time I turn around and open my eyes, Berry is already standing at the base of the steps, the attendant rushing down behind her, eyes casting back and forth over the wreckage of his workshop. The flying door hit the workbench, just like I thought, knocking one of the damaged dolls to the ground. Scattered tools and doll parts cover the floor, a few gears still slowly rolling in circles. “A private wire,” I answer him, sharply. “I didn’t say you could come down,” “You destroyed my—” “I am here because you owe Trixie a favor!” I bark, raising my voice to a shout at once. “This is her business. You understand that!? Now do yourself a favor and tend to your own affairs until I tell you we’re done!” I don’t wait for his response, turning to glare at Berry instead. “Berry, you can stay. We need to talk.” Berry shows no reaction, but that’s all I need from her in this case. Silence implies consent, and her failure to rebuke me for shouting is as good an endorsement of my authority as I can get right now. I give the attendant a moment to glance at her before I shout, “Now!” He hurries back up the steps, pausing only once to glance at us before he vanishes around the bend. Of course, Berry just stares at me, tilting her head to one side. “Oh, spit it out already!” I snarl. She shrugs. “Don’t just shrug at me!” I yell, stalking up to her to glare at her muzzle to muzzle. It’s at least a little satisfying to watch her stumble away from being touched, a little crack in that robot facade. “You’re supposed to be here to help me, so help me! Echo won’t help us save Green. What are our other options?” “Limited,” Berry replies. “While it is possible that Trixie has another way into the Pavilion, she has not shared it with me, and I am not optimistic about the possibility of persuading her to lend you its use.” “So it’s Echo or bust, is that it?” I demand. That’s ridiculous. We don’t need him! “The lives of me and two of her henchponies on the line, and Trixie won’t so much as budge a hoof to help us?” “She was only narrowly persuaded to permit the attempt at all,” Berry replies, hooves steady on the ground, eyes straight ahead. “Asking her for any form of assistance is likely to result in a reversal of that decision.” “And of course, if she tells you to, you’ll knock me out and scrub the whole thing, right?” I practically spit the words out, but she doesn't even blink. “Fine!” I yell, my hooves knocking tools this way and that as I storm across the room, raising up a clatter of metal. “Fine, fine. Whatever! I’ll think of something.” “You previously seemed quite confident in your ability to persuade him,” Berry says, demonstrating her incredible mastery of the obvious! It’s like she’s psychic, except she can only divine events that have already occurred and that everypony saw. “That’s because I was quite confident, Berry! That’s because...” My heart is starting to race, and I force myself to pause, staring into the corner of this ugly stone room. “That’s because it’s not hard to push his buttons. He hates Rarity, he was torn up about Green. It should have worked!” I slam my hoof into one of the wiredolls for emphasis, sending it tilting this way and that on its stand. “But he didn’t even notice. Last time, his grudge against her had him screaming himself hoarse. This time, when I mentioned it, he blew it off.” “Perhaps you misjudged him,” Berry says dully. Like she can’t be bothered to care. “No, no!” I whirl in place, turning back to glare at her from across the room. “No, this is what I do, okay!? You have your sneaking around, and your booze, and your potions, and Trixie has her tricks and wiredolls and Green has her stupid ‘Would you kindly’ and Siren has this! Getting ponies to feel what I want them to feel is my special talent, and I’m good at it!” Silence. Just the sound of my breath—too fast, too shallow. Hyperventilating. All my limbs are stiff, tense and wound, tail too high, ears too high. My eyes are wide too, I just know it. I notice Berry is closer. I must have moved across the room when I was screaming. I didn’t even notice. I try to slow my breathing down, but I can’t. My chest and sides keep shaking, no matter how much I try to calm down. “I’m good at this!” I yell, my voice ragged now. I can’t... I can’t focus. My head feels so heavy, and my gaze sinks to the floor. Berry says nothing. She doesn’t need to. Why would she, when she can just sit there and watch me humiliate myself? “Green is depending on me, Berry. I can’t mess this up. I can’t. I just... I...” “You are very good at it,” Berry says, and I see her hooves move, stepping up to me. “But in your stressed and disoriented state, you have made a novice mistake. You have assumed that another pony with a very different mindset thought the same way you think.” “What?” I ask, looking up at her. Down at her. I keep forgetting she’s shorter than me. “You mean Echo?” “I mean Siren Song, drugged and disoriented, sobbing on a train while a drunken soldier threatens her life,” Berry says. I... what? “N-no,” I say, shaking my head. “I know I was pretty out of it, but I’m sure about what I saw.” “You are sure because you are sure of yourself, and you imagine yourself in her place,” Berry says. “For all the strength of your emotional outburst after the wire, you kept your composure perfectly for its duration. You are afraid of losing Green, but you did not let that fear cloud your mind. The Siren Song on that train with Echo could not have said the same. You should not trust her judgments like they were your own.” “Aren’t they my own?” I ask. She doesn't answer. “Right,” I say after a moment. I pick myself up, straighten my back. My breathing has slowed down during Berry’s little speech. That’s good now. We’re good. “Okay, sure. So, I did a good job persuading Echo now, but my assessments of what makes him tick from the train are probably off. I can work with that. I just need to rethink what happened on the train.” I’m about to start that process when a thought occurs to me. “Wait, how the heck do you know I kept my composure during the wire?” Berry doesn't say anything. Well, fine. Note to self, conversations are not private if there is any conceivable way Berry could be in the room. No matter. “Whatever,” I turn back to the room and pace around the broken booth. “So, let me think. We got on. He asked me what I was so sorry about. He ranted about serial killers for a while. Asked me about Green. Got all torn about that. Called me a coward and told me to kill myself. Then the fight with you.” Berry doesn’t say anything, but for once, I’m happy with that. I’m really just talking to myself with a pony-shaped concentration aid. “Alright. I’m sure I remember him saying a bunch of stuff about Rarity he shouldn't have known.” I strain to remember the details, thinking back to yesterday. It’s all so muddled. “He knew she has a knife collection. He knew that her statues are petrified models. He knew I was her student. So he’s got inside information on the Pavilion. That whole kamikaze-run plan was the booze talking.” Booze and emotional damage from how serious he seemed, but whatever. Of all the ponies to have suicidal urges, I think we’d miss him the least. “So, he actually does have a way in. And I’m sure he was emotionally torn up too.” I turn around and pace back towards Berry, reviewing the wire and train in my head. “I wasn’t completely wrong during the wire. When I mentioned Green, that did upset him just the way I thought. It was mentioning Rarity that had no effect.” So he was really torn up about something. Just not Rarity. “Okay... to be fair, it is possible that like, his very special somepony dumped him right before he went to get me and I was just too drugged to notice,” I say, taking a breath. It’s okay, Siren, you can deal with this. “But I don’t think so. He seemed to get more upset the more we talked. So, what did we discuss other than Rarity. Suicide?” I glance at Berry. “I’m sorry to ask this, given your um... history. But did Echo try to kill himself at any point?” Berry pauses for a moment, an ear tilting back. “Not as far as I know.” “Mmph.” I fold an ear back myself, shaking my head. “Suicide came up at the end, anyway. It wouldn't make sense. Serial killers were the main topic before Green. And it wasn’t just murderers in general, it was a specific rant against artists who turn out to be killers. But Rarity’s the only pony I know who meets that description.” My mouth tugs down into a frown, and I glance back at the booth. Did I forget something? Is there some part of the conversation I’ve lost? “It could be me,” I say, after a moment. “Depending on what his sources in the Pavilion told him, if he thought I was... like Rarity, it could be that I was what was upsetting him. He was angry that Trixie wanted me alive.” If that’s true, there might be no way to persuade him. It’s difficult to spin hate into a favor. “Nngh. No. That’s not it either. He pushed me out of harm’s way before the fight. Whatever his sources told him was obviously at least a little favorable to me. It really depends who...” I stop pacing. “No. Not sources,” I glance down at my boot. Hoofprints and a sword. “Source.” I am a genius. “Aaaah, yes!” I hoof-pump the air, whirling to face Berry and hopping across the gap between us. “I got it! Echo doesn’t give a care about Rarity—he’s mad about Quick March!” Berry just gives me a dumb look on her dumb face, but that’s okay! I am all over this one. “Think about it,” I say, making sure to look extra quick and energetic. Because I am! “Echo is a disgraced security officer, so it’s not like he’s drawing on official contacts. Whatever source he has in the Pavilion is personal, somepony who likes him and knows all of Rarity’s little secrets. That is a very small group, and in that group, there’s one pony who is very formal, yes-sir-no-ma’am, obviously trained to fight, but he insists he was never in security. Echo and Quick March are friends!” “That is speculation,” Berry replies, because she’s boring and doesn’t understand that I am never wrong. “Maybe,” I admit. Okay, I’m wrong sometimes. Rarely. Temporarily. “But it all fits. Quick March was the only other pony there when I fought Rarity, but Echo knew about it. Quick March was the one who threw me out, and Echo knew exactly where to look for me.” It’s so obvious! How did I not get this right away? “Even the little things fit!” I say, after a moment. “Quick March is totally the sort of kiss-tail loser who would talk up his own accomplishments after work. If he’s Echo’s primary source, of course Echo thinks he’s some big player instead of Rarity’s hoofstool.” Another thought comes to mind, and I look between Berry and the wiredoll. “How old is Quick March? I can’t tell with all these aging marks around.” “Mid-twenties,” Berry says. “So that means Echo would have been about thirty-five when Quick March first became Rarity’s assistant.” I mull it over for a second, running the numbers in my head. “Somepony trained Quick March to fight, and I bet I know who. Right. Berry, come with for this one. You don’t have to talk, but I want you standing next to me in the booth. It’ll show that I have Trixie’s support.” Berry follows me in through the shattered door, and once we’re both in place, I put my game face on. Tempting as it is to greet him with a grin and a wink, I need to be stony-faced for this one. Hooves flat, eyes straight ahead, dead expression. There’s a formal name for this, but under the circumstances, it’s really my Berry impression. My horn glows and slots Echo’s gem into the wiredoll, two blank-eyed mares watching as it spins up. “Oh, hello Ms. Punch,” the doll greets us as its head swings around to consider us. “Come to lend your oratory weight to this discussion, have you? I do hope there are no hard feelings about that scuffle at the train.” I say nothing, and right on cue, Berry doesn’t say anything either. We just stare him down, dead silent, and it is gratifying to watch the hesitation in the doll’s movements. No wonder Berry does this—it’s really effective. He glances at the smashed-out door but makes no comment on it. “If this is some sort of message, I’m afraid it’s going over my head,” he finally says. I take a breath, frown just so. Tilt my head down a little. Last time, I was resolute and angry. This time though? Resolute and sad. Worn. Regretful. “I had a talk with Trixie,” I finally say. It draws out the lull in the conversation, which is only to my benefit, and provides a nice excuse for Berry’s presence and the change in tone. “A useful token to have, Ms. Song, but she might have been able to lend more weight to your efforts had she not recently attempted to kill me,” Echo says, leaning down to shake his head. “I do hope you won’t be offended if I don’t take her promises very seriously right now.” I glance up. Frowning gently, letting his words wash over me like wind over a rock. It’s not a fighting expression—it’s the expression of a pony who knows they’ve already won and just feels bad about hurting their opponent. Echo realizes it soon enough, pulling back as I draw the pause out. “Ms. Song, if you wired just so you could stare at—” “So when did you find out your student had a thing for carving up mares?” I ask. Silence. Stillness. Three full seconds of dead silence from his end, during which the doll doesn’t so much as twitch a hoof. Nailed it. “I don’t have to take tha—” “Disconnect and Zephyr gets a modeling job,” I snap, before he can end the wire. That shuts him up. “Mmm, funny. It seems you do have to take that from me,” I continue, throwing in a little sneer for good measure. “So why don’t you drop the tough-stallion act and start talking about how you’re going to get me into the Pavilion and end Rarity’s life while you’re at it?” “Blackmailing a security officer is dangerous, Ms. Song,” he says, a slightly higher volume matching his firm tone. “You aren’t Trixie, and if you think—” “No, I’m not Trixie!” I slam my hoof to the ground, leaning forward to make my point. “Trixie is clever. Trixie has plans and contingencies and a million angles. Me? I’m very straightforward. If you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, I will destroy everything you care about in front of you! Think you can puzzle that one out!?” I shout, raising my voice and tempo gradually, keeping my pace and tone right for the scene. He’s totally buying it! “I’m not blackmailing you, Echo. Blackmail is when you threaten to tell things other ponies will care about. And nopony gives a care if a bunch of whores end up on Rarity’s chopping block.” I throw the words out left and right, shifting emphasis and speed rapidly so the cadence never becomes comfortable, keeping him off guard. “You understand me?” I demand. “You understand me, you drunken, worthless thug? I’m not asking for your help. I’m giving you an order! And I swear to the vast and dark ocean that if you defy me, every mare who has so much as nuzzled you will die in agony and you’ll get to hear Quick March brag about it over drinks.” He snorts. “Oh please. You’ve never killed anypony, Ms. Song, and you haven’t got—” “It in me?” I laugh, in a good mirror to his own cruel chuckle. “I haven’t got it in me to grab a pony and stick a knife through them? Watch as they bleed out?” A faint pause sells it. “Nah. Probably not. Rarity might be more into that, but I don’t like to let the whole hooves-on approach overshadow the message. There’s nothing wrong with an artist having assistants. Somepony to keep the dirt off their hooves. I’m a creator, you know.” The doll’s head tilts a bit to the side, looking at me from an angle. “You’re bluffing,” he manages, but I can hear the strain. His voice wavering. “You wouldn’t kill a pony just to make a point. They haven’t done anything.” “They haven’t done anything?” I snort. “Oh my stars,” I say, exactly the way Rarity says it. “Darling! I do believe we’ve discovered your conscience under that rotting carcass you have for a soul. They haven't done anything.” A little breath, this time, and a more resolute glare. “Let’s be serious. I’d rather everypony live, of course. But if somepony is going to die, it’s going to be your... what should I call them? Friends?” “Security will find out about you. You don’t have the guts for that fight,” he shoots back, quick and hot. Too fast a reaction, he’s getting emotional. Good. “Old Siren didn’t have the guts for that fight, but like I said, Echo, the situation has changed,” I give my mane a little flick. “I’m thinking of changing my look. Something bold.” “You won’t,” he insists, but I can hear his voice wavering, that perfect cadence disrupted. Now the booze is showing itself more. Mixed speech, spikes of anger, inconsistent tone. “You’re Celestia’s student.” “I’m Rarity’s student,” I answer smoothly. “I’ll kill you first!” he roars, signaling that his defeat has turned into a rout. All that’s left to do is run him down. “No, you won’t,” I say, dropping my tone. “Because you know I’m right. I ran into some talk about Equestria today—how weird it is for all the old ponies who have to live here now. It made me wonder how you could possibly live with yourself, remembering the life you had before. Trixie told me all about it.” I actually have no idea what Echo was like in Equestria, but I’m guessing he wasn’t this bad. “And then I put it together,” I say, with a little tilt of my head towards him and a gentleness in my voice. The faintest note of pity. “In your sick mind, you’re the knight in shining armor, aren’t you? I mean sure, you’ll pay an underaged whore, blackmail a mare into sleeping with you, take bribes and make a teenage filly cry just to make yourself feel better. But you won’t actually hurt them. That would be taking things too far.” “Shut up! Shut up, you stupid child!” he snarls. The doll wasn’t made to scream, and its voicebox strains to manage the volume, capping out at a moderate shout as the gears start to screech. “This is Vision, Echo,” I say, taking Trixie’s mannerisms for the next line—the cruel, superior twist. “All our debts come due eventually. And you’ve got debts. You created something you couldn't control, and no amount of your chivalry to mares like Zephyr will even that out.” A bit overdramatic, but it works for the moment. “You want to balance the books? Help me.” I say. “Get me into the Pavilion, and it’s all square. We’ll save my friend, kill my mentor, and hang your student.” For a long time, he says nothing. “Meet me in the main square of Davenport Tower,” he finally croaks, his voice harsh and rough. Then the doll ejects its token and finally goes limp. I smile.