Sheets. A pillow. Blankets. I love heavy blankets. Sometimes I’ll open the window and let the cold air come in, just so I can pile blankets up on the bed. I always start with the blue fleece blanket, then work my way up to the down comforter, then the big quilt. It’s nice to snuggle in until I’m a little head sticking out of a big pile of warm fluff. It’s so relaxing. So soft. I can just drift away.
Of course, I have more than the blankets to feel good about. The Princess is here with me, and that always makes me smile. I’m back in Canterlot, with all its colors and decorations and banners hanging from every wall and tower. Princess Celestia is walking alongside me and smiling back. I’m showing her... something. Something I made. I can’t see it, but that’s okay. She likes it. She wraps a wing around me, and I nuzzle up into my pillow. Into her shoulder.
Then we move into the throne room, with all the sunlight shining down around us, and I notice there are bars on the windows. These elegant, golden bars. Like a bird cage. That feels wrong. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. I try to ask Princess Celestia about it, but when I open my mouth, all I end up doing is singing the first few bars of some song. “Da da da da daaa.” Celestia laughs and squeezes me against her side, and I laugh too, but it’s not funny. Why am I laughing when it isn’t funny?
Something clicks. A mechanical sound. I look ahead, and where the throne should be, there’s a door set into the wall, watched over by two royal guards. It’s one of those big metal security doors with the gem in the middle, but that’s not right. They don’t have those in Canterlot. I try to ask Celestia what’s going on, but all I do is sing again. “Da da da da daaa.” Again, she laughs, and again the door clicks, its mechanisms twitching. Like it’s responding to my voice but I didn’t give the right password. We’re getting close to it now, but I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to but my legs won’t stop and I just keep singing.
My breath is coming faster. I can feel it. Why can’t I stop? I curl up tighter in bed and try to dig my hooves into the floor, but I keep walking forward. I keep singing, and Celestia keeps smiling and urging me on and every time I let out a note the door mechanism clicks. Click click click! The gears are trying to engage, trying to open the door, and they get louder with every step closer. The windows don’t have bars anymore—they have purple forcefields that pulse like a ticking clock. No. No!
We’re at the door now. It’s straining to open. Click click click! Princess Celestia leans down to kiss the top of my head, and then pushes me forward with a wing but I don’t want to go! I don’t want to go, Princess! Please don’t make me go, please! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean it! Don’t make me go. Please! I scream and I beg, except now it’s not the Princess at all. It’s Rarity, holding a pot of her tea, tut-tutting at me as she pours it out all over the floor. It’s boiling, and the water level is rising around me, hissing and snapping and full of steam!
I cry out. I scream. I curl up so tight my scars start to burn, my body shaking in protest. The pillow that started under my head is tangled up with my hooves now, hugged flat against my undercarriage. It... I...
Click click click.
That wasn’t a dream—that was real! I shout in earnest now and leap up in bed, trying to jump out and get to my hooves. All the heavy blankets come with me, and they twist around me as I move, tripping me up and sending me tumbling off the edge of the bed. The thick covers partially absorb my impact, but not enough to stop the stabbing pain—the shattering feeling as my shoulder hits the ground and the rest of my body follows it. Oh Celestia, I think I broke something! Click click click! I fumble around with my magic, horn shining as I reach for something, anything! Where is all this light coming from!? Knives. There they are! I roll up to my hooves, flipping over and shoving myself up.
Click click click. My ears twitch, and I swing the knives around, pointing them at the door and whatever’s on the other side. Click click click. My vision is blurred, full of splotchy shapes and weird colors. There are dots of white light floating in front of me, and this strange blue glow. Where’s my magic? Why is it so dark? Click click click. I have to... I have to clear my eyes. Just for a second, I dare to take my eyes off the source of the sound, rubbing at them with the back of an ankle. An ankle that’s... that’s covered in hair.
I blink. Once. Twice. My eyes refocus. There’s a window next to the bed. A window with a beautiful view of the city, showing me all its sparkling white lights. And below that window, on an end table, there’s a phonograph. A phonograph whose record has long since run out, slowly turning as its springs run down.
Click click click goes the phonograph as its needle catches the edge of the slightly irregular record. Three clicks per rotation. Next to it, all wrapped up in a blue aura, I can see my weapons of choice: one knife that’s floating with its point towards me, and one ink pen. On the end table, next to the phonograph, the other knife sits untouched.
Right. I... right.
Right.
I stand there dumbly for a little while. How long I couldn't say, but eventually my shoulder starts to really hurt. I put the knife and the pen back down on the end table, and slide down to the bedside. My shoulder feels like it’s full of splinters, and the scar down my chest and undercarriage is burning, but I don’t think I’m that badly hurt. It might just be the adrenaline wearing off, but I feel really numb. Still, better... better give it a second. So I wait for the fog to clear out of my head, and I watch the city through the window.
It’s calming, sitting there. I could watch the city all day. Seeing the trains come and go, the little equine shapes in the windows. I’m too fuzzy-headed and blurry-eyed to make out any details, but I can still see the motions. I can sense the shape of things, and the scale. Now that I know the city a bit better, I can even make out some landmarks. The enormous tower in the center of it all is Sparkle Enchantments. The blocky building with all the forcefields is Neptune’s Bounty. The giant grid of identical hexagonal towers barely visible at the edge of the city is New Apple Acres. I know what Tiara Tower and the Pavilion look like too, but I can’t see them from here.
Eventually, the fog begins to clear, and my surgical scar feels better. My shoulder still hurts, but it’s a dull pain instead of a stabbing pain, and stretching it a bit makes it hurt less. I think I’m fine.
“Good morning,” I say, and the little figurine on the opposite nightstand rises. Just like in the Pavilion, there’s a little statuette that controls the lights—giving me a graceful bow as they come on. This one is a miniature wiredoll instead of a Big Brother, and it has a fancy stand with a built-in clock, but the concept is obviously the same. I squint in anticipation of the glare, and soon, my windows add two more white points to that beautiful starfield outside. All the blankets are wadded up on the floor where I knocked them down, so I levitate them back up onto the bed in a big ball. It’s tempting to roll back onto them and go to sleep, but no. No.
I’ve got stuff I should do today.
The blood rushes out of my head when I rise, and the joints in my legs snap and pop in protest, but the disorientation doesn’t last long. It’s actually really nice to stretch, and soon I’m stumbling into the bathroom. The care packet—for lack of a better term—that Trixie’s helpers gave me is still on the counter where I left it. I glance at the mirror, but only for a moment. Then I sweep the soap up out of its bag, move to the shower, and turn on the hot water. I keep it just shy of scalding. That always makes me feel better.
Well, it usually makes me feel better. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference today. It’s still nice though, I guess.
It’s some time later that I step back out, feeling physically cleaner and more alert, if not quite as refreshed as I had hoped. There were no towels in the packet and none in the apartment when I arrived, so I shake myself off. I do it when I’m still in the shower, of course—I’m not some country hick. Then it’s time to step back up to the counter and brush my teeth. The toothbrush is made of cheap resin, but it gets the job done, and I fall into a rhythm quickly enough.
I’m really bony now. Like, of everything wrong with me, that shouldn't even make the top twenty, but it keeps bothering me every time I look in the mirror. I’m... lanky. Not thinner exactly—I didn’t lose any mass, so I’ve still got a bit more padding than is quite ideal—it’s just distributed differently. My legs are longer, and the resting point of my shoulders is higher. The net effect is to make me seem kind of gaunt. It makes my joints stand out a bit.
Only a bit, I mean. I’m not deformed or anything. I wouldn't think twice about it if I saw this pony on the street, but seeing it in the mirror is another matter. It makes me want to roll my shoulders to try to get them back to normal, but I restrain the urge. That way lies madness. It’s like my scars—how they’re all gone, but I can still feel them under my coat. My body has changed, and if I start noticing everything that’s different, that’s all I’ll ever notice. I need to take it as it comes. Like my magic. It’s greyish blue now, instead of pink, and yeah that’s weird, but if I get all self-conscious about it I’ll go crazy. I need to accept it and get used to it.
Right, so, I’m bony. And a little tall. And grey. Well, green, technically. I’d call it a dark sea-foam green if I was being strict, but it really comes across as grey. That’s at least in part due to my eyes, which actually are grey. It’s a dull color, but the effect works, particularly when you combine it with my mane and tail. Those hairs are teal, with a few strays that carry some different shades of blue, and atop my almost-grey coat, you can really tell how Sea Change fits. I couldn't manage the look better if I was covered in ocean foam.
My face is different too. My muzzle is more drawn out and aristocratic—a bit like Princess Cadence. My cheekbones are more noticeable, and it makes the Daring Do mark on my face stand out more clearly than it used to. The green blends with my coat a lot better, but the gold stands out even more sharply by contrast. It doesn’t look good.
It’s not terrible though.
My tail is short. That wasn’t the doctor’s doing. Trixie had a bunch of helpers waiting for me when I got off the crate. They cut my hair and got me some survival supplies and threw out my belt. I got to keep the saddlebag Applejack gave me because it’s generic—apparently New Apples Acres sells them. They also asked what name the apartment was going to be under, so I told them Sea Change, and they spent a while filling out forms. So that I’ll legally exist, the way their leader put it. It got pretty boring after that. They gave me some maps and a little bag of bits and the key to the apartment and stuff, made sure I knew where I was going, and told me to expect a wire sometime the next day.
And that was it. I was free.
I lean down to the sink and turn on the tap. There’s no cup or anything, so I have to stick my muzzle under the spigot, sucking up a little water and swishing it around my mouth. The toothpaste leaves a minty aftertaste when I spit, and so swish my mouth out a few more times until it’s gone. I gargle too, for good measure.
There’s no hairbrush in the care packet, but there is a little comb, so I finish up by giving my mane a good combing. If it’s going to be short, it can at least look nice. I turn my body a little as I comb. A quarter-rotation, so my side faces the mirror.
A heart and a pair of shackles. That’s what’s on my flank now. Doctor Stable said that the tonic doesn't change my special talent—only the symbol that reflects it. So, I guess that was always there. And I guess I always knew. Bindings of the heart. Making ponies feel what I want them to feel. Making them do what I tell them to do. Making them like me when they shouldn’t. A star and musical notes may be a gentler way of showing it, but that’s only because sailors who get drowned by sirens never come back to tell stories.
I did like art though. I really did. It was fun, and it was challenging, and... and I was good at it. I bet that’s why Celestia always encouraged me so much, even though she knew that wasn’t the kind of pony I was. She thought it was a healthy outlet for me. And she was right of course. She was always right.
“I’m sorry, Princess,” I say to the mirror. I can see my own expression. Flat. Dull. Like my tone. “I know you’d never hurt me.” After a second, I add. “I love you.”
Then I... I’m done. I put the comb down and leave the bathroom.
My bedroom is small, but not cramped. The bed is in the middle with windows and a little end-table on either side, and a chest at the end of the bed. The end tables hold the little figurine that controls the lights, the phonograph that was here when I arrived, my knives, a pad, and a pen. Applejack’s saddlebag is resting against the side of the trunk, still stuffed full of apples. All my other possessions are resting on top of the chest, inside a cheap little paper bag Trixie’s helpers gave me. There was a divan too, but it’s right where I left it—propped up under the door handle, wedging the door shut.
I levitate an apple out of the first bag, polishing it on my coat and then taking a bite. It’s delicious—all crisp and juicy. Applejack knows her trade. I really wish I had something more substantive, but the apartment was empty, so if I want anything weighty I’ll have to go out. That was on the agenda anyway.
I spent some time last night thinking about my next move. In the long run, things are still pretty sketchy. I have to find a way to hide myself and Green from Rarity, and to make some kind of life in Vision. I also need to get ready for when Trixie betrays us—because I sometimes make bad decisions, but I’m not that dumb. Things are a little simpler in the short run. I need to recover from my surgery as quickly as possible, to get the lay of the land, to find out what was up with those vision-inducing-drugs I had in the doctor’s office, and most importantly, to find a way to help Green get her life back together. That’s five big tasks to get done in the few days I have left before Green gets out of the hospital, which means I have some errands to do today. Food. Medication. Exploring a bit. The doc did say that I should be going for walks.
I rip my shopping list off the pad on the end table and read over it as I finish off the apple. Budgeting will be a problem. I have no idea when Trixie is planning to start paying me, and knowing her, she’ll make me suffer and bleed for every bit. For now, the care packet did have fifty bits in it, but I don’t know how far that goes in Vision. In the Pavilion, fifty bits would get you lunch if you didn’t get anything fancy, but I heard enough ponies complaining to know the prices there were super inflated. If I’m lucky, I’ll have enough for a new belt, some food, and a sample of the medication the nurse gave me. According to the sheet Doctor Stable sent ahead, the stuff that tasted like Rarity’s tea was thirty milligrams of something called “Vultiphine.” Hopefully I can find a pharmacy that carries it.
I need to find it quickly too. My legs are already burning a little from standing up this long, and the instructions Nurse Tenderheart gave me were clear that I shouldn’t try to walk for more than ten minutes at a stretch for at least the next week. Not like I have much choice if I want real food though, so I’ll just have to be careful. The apple is about gone by now, so I scarf down the rest, and then eat the core. In Canterlot, most ponies didn’t bother eating the apple core, so I didn’t either, but I know that’s a rich pony thing. With food budget problems, I shouldn't be throwing anything away. Besides, the core isn’t bad, particularly with New Apple Acres apples. They’re seedless. I don’t know how that works but it’s nice.
Well, anyway. I finish off the apple and then pick up my knives. Into the paper bag they go, and then I grab the bag itself, rolling up the top so no pickpockets will be inclined to snatch items from inside.
The divan is wedged into the doorframe pretty tight, and it takes some wiggling to get it out. That was the point, of course. The bolt on my door is still locked, and there’s no sign that anypony tried to force it, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to skip merrily out with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. In this city, you never know what’s behind a locked door. The bolt turns with a click, and I edge the door open, peering out into the main room. My ears are up and alert, straining for sound as my eyes search for intruders, but there’s nothing. I don’t hear a sound but the beat of the lights, and there’s not a pony to be seen. The living room is just the way I remember it.
It’s a nice little apartment. Cozy is the way I’d put it—not very big but well appointed and tastefully furnished. The front door opens right into the living room, with a little kitchen off to the left, separated from the main space by an open marble counter. There are some couches scattered around the common space, surrounding a table made of glass. It even has a fireplace with a proper mantelpiece, though since the fireplace is fake, I assume that’s for holding decorations. A door in the back leads to my bedroom, and a spiral stair leads up to Green’s. I gave her the second floor because the attached bathroom has a huge mirror with cabinets for makeup and stuff.
She’ll like that.
With no sign there’s anything to worry about in the main room, I do a quick check of the upstairs, and then it’s time to go. The hallway is deserted when I step outside, and I lock the apartment door behind me. There’s not much to this place—it’s tasteful and the air is dry, so I assume it’s expensive, but the hallways are basically white stone walls with grey carpet between them. It’s not like Tiara Tower, where each apartment door opened directly onto the street. It’s closer to a traditional Manehatten apartment block, with interior hallways and a main entrance. I don’t think we’re actually in a separate building though. It’s just made to look that way.
I’ve got a short walk to the end of the hall and the elevator there. It’s like the elevators in Serpent’s Wharf—a cage of elegant brass, left open to the world so you can see the glittering mechanisms that drive it. There are stairs as well, but I pass them up. Thanks to the oddities of Vision, we’re on the sixtieth floor, but the main street is actually on the sixty-fourth. If standing up can leave me winded, I don’t think I’m up to climbing four flights of steps.
There’s no call button, but I can see the lift descending towards me as soon as I approach the grate. Another of Vision’s wondrous arcane mechanisms, I suppose. I’m still waiting when I hear a buzzing sound behind me, and turn to see another pony coming up the hall. He’s a colt—a charcoal unicorn with an electric blue mane, perched on top of a scooter. He can’t be more than nine, but his horn is already shining bright, with a pale eggshell aura. I can’t see what he’s lifting at first, but when he gets closer, I can see that he’s not pushing the scooter with his hooves. It’s got some kind of gearbox by the knobby rear wheel, his magic driving the clicking mechanisms forward. That’s the source of the buzzing sound.
He pulls up to a stop alongside me, waiting for the lift. I keep watching him, and he glances back, but he’s clearly not paying me much mind. He keeps adjusting all the little knobs and dials on the scooter’s handles, and the gearbox behind him clicks when he does. The scooter looks new, shiny. Ah, that would explain it. New toy.
It seems odd though, to make a foal’s toy that needs developed unicorn magic to function. I give him a quick check over for any cutie marks, but he seems to be a genuine blank flank. Which is good! Good, I mean. Giving that sort of thing to a foal would be... well. That happens, actually. Echo and Apple Bloom mentioned it, but—
“Somethin’ I can help you with, lady?” he asks, and it snaps me out of my reverie. He’s giving me a narrow stare, like he was annoyed. But there’s more to it than that. His whole body is tense, and he’s shying away from me very slightly. I don’t think it’s conscious, but it’s definitely there. He saw me staring and... what? Didn’t like that?
“Oh, uh... no. Sorry.” I look away from him to be polite, and take a second to check on the lift. It’s stopped on a higher floor. There must be somepony else getting on or off. I watch it for a bit to stall for time, but when I turn back, he hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me way too intently, and if anything, he’s pulled a bit further back. “Uh...” I’m left at a bit of a loss. “I’m sorry for staring. I’ve never seen a scooter like that before.”
“Yeah,” he says. A bit abrasively, actually. At first I think he’s just a brat, but then he pushes his scooter forward towards the door, staring straight ahead. He’s trying not to make eye contact with me, but as I watch, his forehooves twist uncomfortably on the handlebars, and his head keeps inching my way—straining to look at me against his conscious impulse to keep away. When the lift comes, he’s lightning-fast inside it, letting out a rapid “Sixty-four!” to the air. Too rapid. He doesn’t want me to get in the lift.
Is he afraid of me?
I step into the lift with him, and he backs away. Then the lift doors shut. I hate elevators. They’re so awkward.
Four floors up from where we started, the lift doors open with a quiet chime, and the colt immediately races out. A sharp shove from his legs starts the scooter forward, and then his horn takes over, the little vehicle gaining speed as it races out into the lobby. I hear its gearbox buzzing, and ahead of us, some poor soul is pushing in through the lobby double doors—a mare loaded down with heavy paper bundles. The colt lets out a shrill “Beep beep!” and she has just enough time to rear up before he shoves past her and weaves out into the street. She totters back and forth on her hind legs for a while, struggling for balance, but in the end, she manages to keep her bundles and get back on all four legs.
I mean, I don’t have to go help her or anything. She’s got it. She yells after him and then fumes for a bit, turning to head towards the lift. I step out of her way.
Then it’s time to uh... well. Right. The exit is right there. Double doors. Smoked glass. Locked, normally—I got a key that opens them. Of course. they’re only locked from the outside.
I...
I push them open. Only a crack, at first. It’s bright outside. No dark carpets to absorb the light, so it’s all reflective white stone. There’s a glare coming through that little crack, and more than that. There’s the sound of galloping hooves. The smell of brine. A feeling of humidity in the air. Ponies shouting. A traincar’s whistle. Phonographs advertising the latest mantles. The rattle of wheels on tracks. The clang of metal on metal. The smell of roasting chestnuts. There’s a mare, cursing that she missed her train. There’s a stallion, telling a beggar that he doesn’t have any change. There’s...
My... my chest hurts. Over the scar, it...
No. No. What are you so afraid of, Siren? Daring Do. Sea Change. Whatever you want to call yourself. What are you so afraid of, huh!? My breath is coming faster now, and I reach up to drag my hoof over my left cheek. Over the Daring Do mark there. Forget this! I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of anything. So I push open the door. And then I step out.
The humidity hits me first. Like a solid wall. The air inside the apartment complex is dry, but out here—out here you can feel the seawater around you. Next I see the crowds, hear the noise, smell the collective stench and musk of one massive herd. It’s a busy street I live on, filled by a thousand ponies and pounded by four times as many hooves. I can feel the spray from the burst pipe above us and the downbeats from the pegasus maintenance crew that hovers around it. I can sense the city’s heartbeat in the throb of the forcefields and lights, and it’s... yeah.
There are guards across the street. Two security officers in the same black uniform Echo wore. They’re only buying fruit from a vendor, not even looking my way, but I still better move on before they finish. Better safe than sorry. The thick crowd between us will offer me some cover at least. The street has four lanes: two in the middle for carts and railcars, two at the edge for ponies. The apartment block has a little overhang that gives me some breathing room, but I won’t be able to take two steps before I’m in the thick of it. So I pull out my map, double check the route I set out last night, and then lower my head to shove through the crowd.
It’s like being swept into a river. Hooves all around me, tails ahead of me, lowered heads behind me, the vast motions of a herd sweeping me forward. Ponies jostle for position, moving in and out of the flow as they angle in for the fast pockets or out for their destination. It’s all I can do to keep my space, and it’s impossible to keep my distance. I have to grip my bag tight in my teeth as a guard against pickpockets, and my horn glows as I feel for my knives inside it. If one of Rarity’s agents is in this crowd, I won’t have long to react. I need to keep moving. Get to my destination, get the goods, and get home.
Both sides of the street are dotted with stores, but I’m angling for somewhere specific. According to my map, there’s a little market just up the block. That’ll give me a chance to shop around and to get a better feel for the area, without having to risk getting stranded too far from home if my strength abruptly gives out.
It’s not far, so I don’t let myself get sucked into the deep currents. I stay at the edge of the river, weaving behind construction scaffolds and around storefronts. My legs are starting to really burn now, to ache in earnest, but it takes less than a hundred paces before my destination is in sight. There, at the end of the street! A calm pool, apart from the rapids. An area of bright banners and lonely tables, watched over by one of those giant Sine Rider statues.
I pick up the pace, ignoring the tightness in my chest and the lightness in my head as I accelerate from a walk to a trot. Almost there. Almost there. There’s a stallion ahead of me. Tan. Wide frame. Strong. Three cutie marks. A sword and helmet on his flank. Security officer out of uniform. I wait until he looks right, and then put on a burst of speed to his left, ducking behind a mare trying to corral her three foals. He’s behind me. Did he see me? I don’t dare look. Checking to see where the guards are is the best way to get them to notice you. Need to keep going. There’s a mare ahead. A unicorn. Incinerate mark on her shoulder. A red cross and a blue flower on her leg. Pavilion employee. Knows pyromancy. Probably an enforcer. Horseapples! I pick up from a trot to a canter. Then a gallop. There are too many ponies here. I need to get out of this crowd!
Then, suddenly, the wall to my right is curving away, and I realize I’ve reached the market. I dive to the right and peel out of the crowd, rushing into the marketplace. The feeling of ponies pressing around me fades, and the air is cooler. I stop and check behind me. But neither of the ponies I saw is following me. They both moved on. That’s good.
That’s good and... oh. Phew. Stars I’m out of breath. My heart is pounding like a drum, and my scar really hurts. I guess short walks rules out... horseapples. Ow. Ow. I reach a hoof down to press up on my undercarriage, focusing on slow, deep breaths. The scar may be “healed” by Poison Joke, but I can still feel it even if there’s no visual sign, and it feels like it’s about to split open! Oh, Celestia. Tell me this isn’t how I die. I can’t beat Rarity only to keel over from a heart attack caused by jogging!
No. It hurts. It hurts a lot. But it’s getting better. Every beat of my heart sends a burning heat through my barrel and scars, but it’s lessening as I make myself calm down. I think I’ll be okay. “Hey,” calls a voice behind me. A stallion’s voice—concerned. Worried even. “Are you alright? Do you need any help?”
“I’ll be fine, thanks,” I say. Deep breaths, Siren. Slow, deep breaths. “I just need a second to—” I turn to glance up at my well-wisher. He’s a stallion. A pegasus. Tan. Dirty brown mane. Two crossed palm fronds on his flank. “To...”
“Yeah?” Golden Palm asks.
I shriek. I scream. And then there’s pain. A shooting pain all up and down my undercarriage. Spots appear in my vision, small white dots, then big black patches, and the world twists around me. The floor rises up, so fast—shooting out of the ground and smacking me in the side. Floors shouldn't do that. Floors should stay on the ground where floors go.
There are ponies shouting. Hooves reaching under me to haul me up. Lights. Lights in the ceiling that go woosh and humm and pulse on and off. I wonder if parties in Vision need special lights, or if everypony tries to dance in time with the regular ceiling lights. I should try dancing sometime. I bet I’d be super good at it. But that’s because I’m super good at most things. I’m like a prodigy.
Heh. Ow. A prodigy with a weird tingling in her chest. That’s getting worse. Ow. Ow! My breath is coming fast, too fast. Why does my barrel hurt so much? What’s happening? There are hooves on me. I try to sit up but they’re holding me down!
“Woah! Easy, easy!” A mare’s voice. But I thought Golden Palm was a stallion. I open my eyes, and my vision is still full of these big, floating black patches, but I can make a little out. I see a pegasus. A pegasus with atrophied, crippled wings, not a day over sixteen. Still practically a kid. But she’s not tan, or golden. She’s light green, with a dark brown mane. And... and a uniform. An ugly, bleach-white orderly’s uniform, somewhere between a jumpsuit and a smock, with the little pavillion pin on each collar and the belt of medical tools around her barrel. And a club.
I reach for my bag, but I can’t find it. My knives. I lost my knives.
“Easy there,” she says again, using a hoof and a spare wing to awkwardly maneuver a stethoscope onto her ears. She presses the... disky bit, onto my undercarriage, and I realize I’m lying on my back. On the stone. “Take slow breaths. Slow breaths. When you feel ready, try and drink some water. Right here.”
She gestures up to the side, and I see that Golden Palm is there. He’s hovering around with a cup of water balanced in his teeth, and a worried expression. Not literally hovering, of course. Not with those wings. But that doesn’t make any sense. He’s dead. Echo hanged him because I wouldn't smile. I killed him—he can’t be standing around! “Did I have a heart attack?” I ask. Whisper, really.
“Don’t try to talk,” the mare says, shaking her head. “And no, you didn’t. You just had some heart arrhythmia. I’m pretty sure it was caused by a mix of stress and hypotension, but...” She shrugs. “Anyway, it’s not life-threatening on its own, but you need to see a real doctor pronto. Your blood pressure is way lower than it should be.”
I’m pretty sure that’s because there’s way less blood in my body than there should be, but I don’t say that. If I mention I had heart surgery, somepony in the Pavilion might notice they don’t have any record of that, and suddenly I’m on the books for seeing an illegal doctor. My head hurts, and I can’t think, so I nod and let the spots clear. For a bit, I think that maybe I dreamed up the whole thing, but then I make eye contact with Golden Palm. He’s still there, and he immediately leans down to give me the water, twitching his little wings. He’s so worried about me.
I take a sip, and it helps. The water is cool and soothing, but... no. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe the water and I don’t believe him. Stars, I wish it were true, but I don’t believe it for a second!
“Yeah, okay, she’s leveling out,” the mare says, once the spots in my vision are mostly gone. Her expression is resigned, and a frown briefly crosses her features as she puts her tools away. “Listen, I gotta get back to work. Can you watch over her? Make sure she doesn’t strain herself and get her back home.”
“Um, yeah,” Golden Palm says, nodding. Both his ears are up. He doesn't want the mare to leave. Of course he doesn’t. “Will she be okay?”
“Like I said, she needs to see a real doctor,” the mare repeats, more firmly this time, as she rises back to her hooves. What’s her angle? Who is she? “But if you’re asking if she’s going to drop dead on the way home, no. Get some food and water in her and make sure she stays in bed for the rest of the day.”
“Thanks, GD,” Golden Palm says. GD? Oh. A nickname. “I owe you one.”
“Just don’t tell anypony, okay?” she asks. She lowers her head, and when she lifts it back up, there’s a shopping bag in her teeth. Is that why she was here? Shopping? “You’ll get us both in trouble,” she mouths around the bag. Oh, now I get it. Nice way to drop that into conversation. Look at me; I’m the Pavilion’s one nice employee. I break the rules to treat ponies for free. This club is only for gesturing. As if!
“I won’t,” he promises. “See you later?” She nods and heads off, and then it’s the two of us. Me on the ground, and Golden Palm standing over me.
Or what looks like him, anyway. I’m not stupid! Even if Golden Palm managed to... what? Kung-fu fight his way out of Echo’s noose? There’s no reason for him to be here. Spitfire Station is across the city, and that’s where he lives and works! And even if there was some reason for him to be here, the odds of us randomly bumping into each other like this? Zero. Zero! This is... some trick of Rarity’s. Or Trixie! Both of them knew I ran into him. Both of them have the mantles and the doctors to make a pony out of whole cloth. I’ll bet that’s what he is. My own personal changeling invasion. Here to... to catch me off guard!
“Here,” he says, offering something down to me. It’s a little slice of a pear, delicately balanced on the end of a wing. I crane my neck up to take it with my teeth, and then let my head settle back down. It’s tasty. Still a little crisp. “Sorry for uh... scaring you there,” he says as I chew. Of course you are. I stare into his eyes, waiting for that twitch. The tell, the hesitation that marks the act. No poker face is perfect. “I’m Golden Palm, by the way. What’s your name?”
No, you’re not. Golden Palm was a nice stallion and he’s dead. You’re a monster wearing his face. “I’m Sea Change,” I say, careful not to let anything show. Flat expression, soft voice, calm demeanor. I’m not gonna get played. This could be Trixie’s work, or it could be Rarity’s, but I’m betting on Trixie. Rarity doesn’t want to mess with me—she wants me dead. This sort of unnecessarily labyrinthine bit seems right up Trixie’s alley though. The setup, the twist, the reminder. She would bring a dead pony back to life to mock me. I can see her cruel little sneer all over this!
“Alright, Sea Change,” he says, trying to be reassuring. “Just uh... just lie back. And relax. I’m gonna walk you home once you’re ready to go, okay?”
I keep staring at him, probing his face, looking into his eyes. But I don’t see anything other than what’s supposed to be there. His mannerisms are perfect. The way his wings twitch because he can’t quite flutter them. The way the joints stick. The greasy hue in his mane and coat. The worry in his eyes. If he’s an actor, he’s...
Whatever. I’ve been wrong about ponies before. I thought I had a read on Rarity, and boy was I ever wrong. It doesn’t matter how good his act is. With everything I’ve seen down here, I’ll believe necromancy is on Berry’s list of skills before I’ll believe this. “Okay,” I say, so he won’t be suspicious. The pavilion pony was odd. Maybe a feint from Trixie, to throw me off the trail? “Who was your friend?”
“Oh. Her name is Green Dragon. She’s a medical student,” he says. “We were here getting lunch. Lucky thing too.” That settles it. Definitely Trixie’s plan. Rarity wouldn't be so obvious as to have her spy dating one of her little minions. “You uh... you really freaked out there.”
He hesitates for a moment. Only for a moment. I can see the social awkwardness spread through him in that faint pause. First in the legs, then in the chest, then in the ears. Then in the eyes. “Did I do something?” he asks.
You know perfectly well what you did! But of course, I can’t say that. I can’t reach up and strangle that little monster. So instead I have to play along—make up some excuse why seeing him startled me so much.
“You probably don’t remember me,” I begin, “but we met before. At the Spitfire Station cafe. You were my table’s waiter.” I pause for a second, and then add, “I uh... smiled a bit?” with that sad, hopeful twist. Like I actually expect him to remember me out of the tens of thousands of faces he saw. Of course, playing the spy, he will. He’ll eat up that story and then suddenly remember me and—
“Oh,” he says, frowning. He’s not buying it. I can see it in tail and ears—the faint spike in tension there, letting them ride higher. He’d remember if a cute mare smiled at him. But there’s more there too. Worry? Yes, worry. Worried he actually forgot me. “Is that what spooked you?”
“No,” I give a little shake of my head. Slow breaths. My vision is clear by now. Keep your head in the game, Siren! “I ah... I went back once and asked after you. But my server said you’d been taken away by security. I guess I assumed you’d been... you know.” I give him a meaningful glance. “Snap?”
“Yeah, snap,” he agrees, eyes casting downwards. “But uh, no. No, I’m sorry. I did get arrested, but it was only for a few days. They let me go after.”
Yeah, right. Sure they did. Because if there’s one thing the law in this city is known for, it’s lenient punishments. Fine! I can play along with his game. “Oh,” I say. “What happened?” Like I was honestly curious. At once, his head lowers, and his ears fold back. Shame. I don’t know what over, but just asking was enough. Ooh, Mr. Spy doesn’t want to talk about it, does he?
“Nothing. You know. They thought I did something and I didn’t,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground by my side, only occasionally glancing up at my face. As though to seek my approval. He swallows. “That’s all.” His body is tense. Face stiff. He really doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Please?” I ask, flicking my tail to the side so it brushes his flank. It’s a blunt instrument, but that suits me fine here. Golden Palm would have crumbled like a castle made of sand if I did that. If this pony stands up to it, I’ll known which way the wind is blowing. “I’m sorry,” I deliver the line perfectly. “I was so sure, and with the way ponies vanish in this city...” I catch his eyes and leave mine slightly wide. Unsteady. Needy.
It plays him like a harp.
“I uh...” He swallows again. “I helped somepony out. A mare who got injured in the station. Took her to a doctor and got her taken care of.” His tail is completely still now. Even limp. “And it uh... it turned out she was a very, very bad pony.”
Yeah, she was.
“So,” he continues, “security took me in for aiding and abetting. I spent a day in a cell and a few more with an interrogator. But they decided I really didn’t know who she was. So they uh...” I catch that pause. I catch that motion in his eyes. He’s hiding something! I knew it! “So they let me go.”
Maybe I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. I’ve been limiting my suspicion to players I already know, but what about Rainbow Dash? Security has got to have an interest in all this, don’t they? And they’ve got the perfect way to make the swap. Arrest a pony, question them for a few days, and then “let them go,” with nopony the wiser that their friend is now a plant. You could even use the interrogation time to correct any mistakes in the imposter. “You feeling ready to sit up?” he asks.
“Huh?” I snap back to attention. “Oh, I think so. Yeah. Slowly though, please.”
Hooves and a wing slide under my back and gently tilt me over as I roll onto my side, then onto my belly. The world spins, but I’m soon sitting up, no worse for wear other than a few spots in my vision and a faint ringing in my ears, both of which are already fading. We’re sitting at one of the wrought iron tables near where I fell, the remains of somepony’s lunch left on the metalwork. His lunch, I think. Mostly fruit. “Here,” he says quickly. “Why don’t I get you more water?”
“Yeah,” I agree, blandly. I could use the water, and I could use the time to think. To plan my next move. “Thanks.” A nod sends him off into the marketplace, towards one of the little stalls there, and away from me.
I watch him go for a little while, but mostly I take the chance to look around. There have got to be other agents in the crowd. Other ponies watching us. I scan for them, but I don’t see them. Maybe that mare over there, with the unblinking eye on her shoulder? A cutie mark for spying? No. She wouldn't let that show. Or maybe somepony in the pegasus repair crew, up near the ceiling? Or a wiredoll, left running, but slack on its stand so it seems dead. There are so many possibilities, but none of them stand out!
My heart rate is picking up again. No. No, Siren. You need to calm down, or Rarity won’t even have to kill you. I look around, forcing myself to take deep breaths as I do. The market is a bit like Serpent’s Wharf must have been before the war. Tables and ponies and little garden boxes with trees. It’s so cheerful and nice, but it all has that lurking undertone, and it all exists under the imposing gaze of that Sine Rider statue. He’s staring down at us, grim and judgmental, with a determined set to his jaw. The quote at the bottom is long, with engraved golden lettering. “Friendship is strongest,” it says, “when it is selfish. I give to my friends because I desire to see them well, and for no other cause. There is no emotion more toxic to friendship than obligation.”
I bet Celestia just loved him.
It’s a good reminder of where I am, in any case. A good reminder of what this city stands for. And why you can’t trust anypony here.
Okay. Golden Palm is on his way back now, with another cup of water in his teeth. What do I do? How am I playing this? That’s definitely not Golden Palm. If it is, he’s probably brainwashed. If he’s not brainwashed, this is almost certainly a trap. And even if it’s not a trap, I have nothing to gain by chatting with a crippled waiter. So, I should excuse myself and get back home as soon as I can. Wire Trixie, in case this is one of Rarity or Rainbow Dash’s tricks. She’ll want to know. And if it’s her trick, maybe she’ll reveal something when we talk.
Right. I should get out of here.
Of course, if I go, I’ll probably never know who's behind this. What they were up to. What possible purpose could be served by puppeting the corpse of a kind stallion around in front of me. I’ll never know what really happened to him.
“Hey,” he says, gently placing the cup on the table and then nosing it over to me. “Here you go. You feeling better?”
I levitate the cup up and take a long drink of water. “Yeah,” I say when I’m done. And it’s true. As long as I move at a slow walk, I think I can make it home on my own fine. “Listen, I’m sorry, but if it’s not too much of an imposition, I was actually here to pick up my medication. I really shouldn't go home without it. Do you think you could help me out?”
“Oh. Of course,” he says, without hesitation. Rookie mistake. Even Golden Palm would show a little hesitation at going so far out of his way for a total stranger. But of course, a plant would do anything to stay by my side. “What do you need?” he asks, moving around to my side of the table. Sitting beside me like an obedient puppy.
It’s not even subtle.
“Oh, just some things from the pharmacy,” I demur, gently. “And food. My doctor put me on a special diet. To help with that blood pressure thing. But it’s no rush,” I assure him. “Go ahead and finish your lunch.”
I watch him as he scarfs down the last of his fruit, trying to finish quickly so I won’t have to wait. Watching me with every other bite to make sure I’m okay. He even blushes when I smile at him. It’s overplaying the part. Oversimplification is a common mistake of novices. Take one established fact—that he helped a mare in need—and exaggerate it until his only defining personality trait is being a spineless loser with a knight in shining armor fetish. I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier.
Earlier right now, I mean. I can’t believe I didn’t see the flaws in his act. Not before in Spitfire Station. Golden Palm didn’t act like that.
“So,” I say as he takes a pear in his teeth, quickly consuming it. “What brings you over here? We’re not exactly near Spitfire.”
“Therapy,” he says, ears twitching slightly. “Angel’s Garden is up the road, and security gave me this writ for seeing a professional.” Angel’s Garden? That’s Fluttershy’s lair, isn’t it? Is she behind this? And since when does security in Vision give ponies anything, much less concern for their emotional health?
“It’s okay, I guess,” he goes on. “I was really dubious going in. Hoof-holders, you know? I had the lot of them figured for parasites, so I was going to go for my one session and then say I felt better. But it was actually kind of nice. I think I’m going to stick with it.”
Hah! Can’t keep our story straight, can we? Golden Palm couldn’t afford to look at a doctor, much less see one every week! “I’m surprised you can afford it,” I say. “I thought that was really expensive.”
“Oh, no,” he says, trying to sound upbeat. He doesn’t want to depress me. “The writ covers as much as I want. Or as much as the doctors think I need. It’s cool, you know? Angel’s Garden is nice. Not Pavilion-Golden-Ticket nice, but nice.”
Sure, nice. Except that that story doesn’t add up! If he gets as much attention as he wants for free—yeah right—then what did he mean by his one session? Little slips like that are what mark a fake from the real thing.
Unless he meant his one mandatory session. Because the only reason I can think of that the police would send someone to a mental health specialist is if they were a danger to themselves and others.
“Cool,” I say. “I knew a pony who won a golden ticket once. She uh... got a mantle that let her hear really well.” For a moment, the conversation lulls. “And got her teeth fixed.”
I watch the floor until he’s done. My little paper bag is resting against the table leg. He must have dropped it there. No doubt after inspecting the contents. I’ll have to check it when I get home.
I’m not sure how much time passes before he pokes me with his wing. Looks at me with those worried eyes. I smile. “Great!” I say, “Let’s go.” He moves to support me with a shoulder, and I let him, even if I don’t really need it. The pickings here are slimmer than I thought. There are a lot of restaurants, but that’s not what I need, and while there are plenty of fruit stands, they’re all kind of upscale. Meaning expensive. I need something a little more in my price range.
Eventually, I spot a little store tucked into the corner, Penny Candy’s General Store and Pharmacy, and decide that’s my best shot. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to find another store, and with how exhausted I am, that probably means trying again tomorrow. I guess I can survive off apples if I must.
I’m not sure what I’ll do about my escort, in that case.
The thing wearing Golden Palm’s face is watching me as we make our way across the market, but I don’t watch him. There’s no call to. I keep my eyes ahead, focused on our destination. It’s a little store, with two big windows full of posters. One of them I’ve specifically seen before, “P.C.S.D. Affects Over 45% of Pegasi.” One of them is familiar to me in passing, depicting the pony biting its own tail with the caption “Fountain of Youth: Accept No Substitutes.” One is completely unknown to me, depicting a posing stallion with a lightning bolt and a boxing glove on his flank and the caption “Give ’em the old one-two!”
One, positioned right by the door where everypony can see it, shows my cutie mark. My new cutie mark. The compass rose takes up almost the entire poster, with only the tiniest caption at the bottom. “Courage has a name,” it reads in blocky letters. Then, in flowing script: “Daring Do.”
“Ugh!” I snap, glaring at the posters and shoving the door open. A little bell rings when I do, suspended over the door frame.“Don’t you hate these things? You know P.C.S.D. isn’t even a real disease.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, trying to keep up with me. He still sounds worried. If anything, his tone has gotten more concerned. “It’s ridiculous.”
Well it is!
This store seems like a good pick, at least. The decorations are tacky, the aisles are narrow, and there’s too much merchandise on the shelves. It screams cheap, and a quick price check on a few items confirms it. I even think this place has everything I need—miscellaneous items in the front, food in the middle, and a big sign for the pharmacy in the back.
I grab a belt first. It’s a flimsy cloth thing, but it has two built-in holders for weapons, a few pockets, and space to hook up a saddlebag. Good enough. Five bits. I pick up a big bundle of hay next, some oats, alfalfa, and the vitamin pills I’m supposed to take. Twenty bits total. Golden Palm insists on carrying them, and I let him, but only so I won’t have to put up with his stupid puppy eyes the whole way. That leaves twenty-five bits for medication, which may not be enough, but I figure it’s better this way. Finding out why my pain medication gave me visions is important, but it’s not urgent, and I can delay it if I must. Going hungry when I’m trying to recover from surgery might have more permanent consequences.
The back of the store is split in half. On the left is a pharmacy counter, where an obviously bored mare noses her way through a magazine in front of shelves of little glass bottles. On the right is some big, fancy vending machine: The Gatherer’s Garden. It’s been all dressed up, with a statue of a little sister in front, and three bounding stallions behind her. One unicorn, one earth pony, and one pegasus. The space between the counter and the machine is taken up with more posters. It’s prime real-estate for ads but that’s not what they’re using it for. They’ve only got one kind of poster there now.
It’s my wanted poster.
“WANTED,” the writing at the top reads. “Siren Song.” The majority of the page is taken up by a detailed sketch of my face, side profile, and original cutie mark. Then there’s the text at the bottom: “Wanted for treason, murder, and conspiracy in connection with the bombing of the Carousel Medical Pavilion and attempted assassination of Councilmare Rarity. Suspect should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Known Mantles: Daring Do. Known Abilities: Enhanced Stealth, Sound Manipulation, Supernatural Toughness, Supernatural Strength. A reward of 500,000 bits has been posted for information leading to her capture.”
That tension is coming back again. In my throat, this time. It’s okay. It’s okay. That’s actually a good thing. I don’t look anything like that now, and there’s no mention of Berry, Echo, or Green. They got the Daring Do mark right, but lots of ponies have that mark, so it’s not definitive. And it’s obvious the poster is mostly conjecture. I mean, Enhanced Stealth? That’s not a power—that’s an application of my sound spells. I bet Rarity just put that there because she still hasn’t figured out how we got into the Pavilion. And I have no idea where she got super strength from. I can’t even do a dozen push-ups, much less leap tall buildings in a single bound.
I need to play it cool. Laugh it off. Not show any sign I’m worried. “Sucks, doesn’t it? I just got this thing, and less than a week later, some serial killer copies my style.” I put on a hint of selfish irritation. Mares in Vision are so petty. “Still, it’s kind of funny, right? New flagship mantle comes out, and the first big user is a criminal mastermind. Bet that’ll hurt sales.”
I turn to Golden Palm. Grin to show I’m not afraid. But he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at the floor.
I stop smiling.
“Uh...” His ears are folded tight against his head. His tail is limp. “Um... I. Um...” Shut up, Siren! That pose comes out of a textbook. I’ve practiced that pose. I’ve done that pose! I’m not falling for this stupid act! “I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny. I shouldn't joke about... about ponies getting hurt. I’m sorry, Golden Palm.” He doesn't lift his head. “Please don’t look that way.”
Oh sun and stars. What if he figures it out? The Daring Do mark on my cheek isn’t enough on its own, but if that sets him off, and he starts noticing my mannerisms, that could be enough. Knowing him? The scream? It’s all so obvious. He’d have to be brain damaged not to figure it out! Horseapples! I should have used a fake accent or something. I’m an actor and it didn’t even occur to me that I was playing a part!
Then he turns his head up. He forces himself to smile. He forces himself to wear a smile he doesn’t feel, because a pretty mare is upset and he wants to make her feel better.
“No, you’re uh... you’re right,” he says, though his voice is weak. “It is kind of funny, in a cosmic way. Probably some Pavilion executive who’s ripping his mane out right now. Trying to figure out some way to spin ‘deranged bomber’ into a sales motto.”
“They would try to capitalize on this, wouldn't they?” I ask. “Bunch of heartless bean counters.” That cheers him up a bit. Or, well, not really. But he acts like it does. And it doesn’t matter because everything he says is an act in the first place.
Next to us, the vending machine fires up of its own accord. I don’t know what we did to set it off, but a few bars of some catchy jingle play, and I hear a phonograph needle engage. “My brother is stronger than Applejack,” sings out a little filly’s voice. “My brother is smarter than Twilight. My brother can conjure lightning with a flick of his wings. Are you like my brothers?” Both of us are looking at anything but each other now. Letting the stupid, stupid thing play out. “Not if you don’t visit the Gatherer’s Garden you aren’t! Don’t get taken in by shady alchemists! Get first-rate mantles at rock bottom prices, only at the Garden.”
Then it’s quiet.
I clear my throat. “Well, we should—”
“Yeah,” he says quickly, and we walk to the counter.
There’s not much to that part of things. I tell the mare behind the counter I need vultiphine and she asks how much. I tell her thirty milligrams a dose. She says they sell it in one hundred and fifty milligram bottles for six bits each, or four bottles for sixteen bits, so I tell her to give me four. That’s way more than I’ll need for experimental purposes, but it means I don’t have to worry about wasting it, and I can always add the extra to my little belt first aid kit. Then I pay for my things and leave.
The crowd isn’t so bad, with somepony to buffer me. Golden Palm grew up in Vision, so he knows how to rear and kick and elbow and butt heads in a herd, and he keeps the worst of the traffic away from me. We make the trip at a slow walk and don’t say anything during, other than little practical observances. Of course, he doesn’t know where we’re going, so I have to navigate. But it isn’t far.
Then we’re outside my building, and I stop.
“I can make it from here, thanks,” I say, levitating my things back from him. He seems worried, glancing at my weak frame and shivering knees. My legs are really, really sore.
“Are you sure?” he asks, like I was really going to let such an obvious fake into my home. “I could—”
“I’m sure,” I say. “But hey, thank you for all your help. You were a real gentlepony today. A lifesaver.” Literally. “And, um.” He’s staring at me. “Hey, I’m not usually this forward, but...” I reach down into my little hoofboot, and pull out one of my spare wiredoll tokens. The shape on the end has changed. One of the goons who prepped me cast some spell on them and the symbol shifted to a heart and shackles. It’s that symbol that I gently pass to Golden Palm. I balance it on his wing. “If you’re going to be around, you know. Maybe we could grab lunch sometime? I did kind of interrupt yours.”
“Oh!” He doesn’t know how to react. The little token wobbles on top of his wing, and he has to dive to catch it in his teeth. “Furre! Ah heen”—he shifts it around his teeth—“Sure! I’d like that. I’ll uh... I’ll be in touch. Stay safe, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.” And I’m sorry.
I use my building key to get in, and then walk into the lobby. It’s empty. The lift is waiting for me. “Sixty!” I say to the air, clear and sharp, and the door closes around me. Great! So now I... I have an agent of Trixie or Rarity or Rainbow Dash or Fluttershy or somepony on my tail. They’re disguised as somepony I knew, so whoever it is is obviously onto me, and they have excellent agents who are really good at disguise. I can’t ask Trixie for help, because it might be her, and I can’t ask Green, because Green will only see it as more reason for me to go back to Equestria!
I don’t know what to do. The lift doors open, and I walk down the hall to my apartment. Fumble with the key. The living room is empty, and I lock the front door behind me. Levitate my knives out and float them alongside. I don’t know what to do. He’s obviously a fake, and even if he wasn’t, it wouldn't matter!
I go back into my room. The blankets are still balled up where I left them, the bed still a mess. I lock that door behind me as well. The knives go back to the nightstand, and my bags on top of the chest. I grab the divan and wedge it up under the handle. No. It would be worse if he was real. Because if he was real, that would mean that he’s the one pony who can actually figure out my new disguise. He’s the one pony who knows me well enough that he could figure it out just by hanging around me. It would mean that I spilled a paper thin cover story, riddled with holes, to somepony who has all the pieces to put it together. It would mean that he could be putting it together right now. It would mean that the next knock on that door is going to be security officers, because he ratted me out because he thinks I’m a serial killer.
My eyes are starting to burn. My vision is blurring. It’s all I can do to make my way to the bed. To not think about what it would mean because it would mean that I’m going to die tonight because I was nice to some stallion who saved my life twice. Who saved my life for no reason other than because he’s a really kind and sweet pony deep down. It would mean that after everything I’ve gone through it’s all going to end because I was a stupid, stupid pony. It would mean that I know today is my last day in the world and I can’t go to anypony for help.
Because the only ponies I have in the world are Trixie and Green, and if I tell either of them there’s a stallion out there who knows too much, they’ll kill him. They’ll hunt him down and they’ll cut his throat. Because of me.
Because it’s all my fault.
I pull the blankets up around myself and over my head, and curl up into a little ball and hide from the world like a stupid foal. Like the stupid foal I am.
Then I start to cry.