//------------------------------// // Nagging Resemblance // Story: Amnesia: To Err // by JLB //------------------------------// The flicker. The greyish light. It could not have been, and yet it was, floating in the air. It called to him, drifting further and further away down the chiseled passway. He was the only one who could see it. The only one allowed. The only one worthy. All it wanted was someone who could understand, someone who could take its brilliance in, so that the deeper purpose may be fulfilled. None that ever found it were worthy. No matter how many superstitious, savage sacrifices and rituals would take place in its name, The Orb was dim in the dark of the catacombs. It only drew its followers more and more insane… or, perhaps, it was their own obsession that did it. Now, however, it has found one who could understand. One worthy. Fixer made step after step towards the calm light, his legs stiff and leaden, his head in a whole other place. So soon it would stop drifting and finally let him bask in its otherworldly knowledge, mere snippets of which flashed through his mind, turning him giddy. If only something small and insignificant did not feel so horribly wrong. --- Why has it forsaken him? Why, after all this, disappear again, and throw him even deeper into the bowels of this world? If only he knew.  The rules were not his to set. If there were rules at all. The one thing left for him was to persevere, to find out what happened… to find the one thing that gave him determination in the darkest hour, only to fade away. Livid and exhausted, Fixer sat, his back pushing up against a bed. At the very least that took care of his pounding head and shaking legs. It was yet another nightmarish installation that kept stinging him with incomprehensible memories. A rather big house, though not one that you would call a mansion. Something you would well find in a countryside, perhaps - the interior was not rich, but not cheap either. Practical. Absolutely surreal and in no way appropriate for the series of events that brought him there, but practical, rational. It could be appreciated. The unicorn tensed up at a screech and a definite sound of steps somewhere above him. Having spent a couple of seconds with his ears perked, he was getting ready to take off at the sound of danger, but it soon went away. - Bullshit, - he spat out, feeling up the bruises on his chest. This kept on happening. It had been a decent amount of time since he found himself in there - that time was enough to tell him that the house also doubled as a maze. A haunted maze at that. “Wish I could still believe it’s all just my mind playing tricks. Say it’s all superstition, that there’s nothing supernatural. Hell, right now I wish I knew what natural is.” The layout of the rooms and corridors made absolutely no sense. Bedrooms lead right into parts of kitchens, living rooms turned into tool sheds. The rooms themselves tended to disappear as soon as he left them and reappear in other places. The murk and the dull hum that persisted in the maze made it hard to decide whether it was, ultimately, his mind playing tricks, or the architecture rearranging itself behind him. What little light there was came from the windows, which seemed to all be smudged and blurred on the outside, only a few rays making it through the thick layers. That was well welcomed, as Fixer much preferred darkness to the horror that started whenever the nonexistent grey hell showed itself. Besides, the lamp head from the office in the forest worked still, miraculously so, although its reliability took a hit. Every now and then it would start to flicker violently, or simply turn off for a lasting minute. He was starting to see a pattern with the flickering, too. It lead into what was the biggest problem in the current situation. "Fixed it." There was something else in the maze with him. Very often he would hear the wooden floors creak, as if something shifted over them in the darkness, the doors flinging open and shutting at random. Additionally, there were audible steps sounding off in distant corners. These steps had a distinct sound to them - and after the encounter in the “forest”, Fixer was rather literally afraid that he knew who could be making them. The fact that there were multiple theories did not help much, as all of them were less than pleasant. Lastly, whenever those sounds came from somewhere close, ringing a hum of familiar distortion - or wheezes -  the lamp would begin to flicker. Then, he could swear that there were horribly, disfigured, shattered shapes on the far end on the light, but they disappeared each time the flickering died down. It occurred to him that it was not too wise to keep the light up so much, as whatever was out there could very well find him, a torch in the dark, but the darkness was so thick that there was no adapting to it. Not even for him. At the very least, he found a way to shut the light off - giving the lamp a kick did the job, the light coming back from one more. “Help them. Find a way.” A pressing headache washed over his head once again and left, surely to return in a few minutes. Fixer wished he had a plan to work on during that break. Unfortunately, all attempts to draw some sort of map failed, if only using his own blood that leaked from his mouth, so he was as much in the dark as he was before. Health concerns took a tertiary position on his priority list. Once again, he took a look at the diary. A new page appeared there when he was thrown in. As always, it came with a message, one cryptic as ever. He had already looked through it, multiple times at that. There was little else to do when he took refuge in rooms to regain stamina. “Day 2(?) What a mess. That is the one thing I know for sure right now. This is an utter mess. I barely remember… I barely want to remember. Time will tell if anything I went with is going to work. As it stands right now, my temporary residence plan is taking hits. Not only am I stuck in a hospital, but I also feel the part. Now, I have plans that turn that to my advantage… only that does not make up for what is going on. Really wish I could buy that it’s all just a fever I caught in there. WON’T LET OUT PUZZLING DARE DEFY FOLLOW FOLLOWght be suspecting something, can’t be sure. Sure isn’t a flying disaster, but something seems wrong about her. Difficult to track, too. Seems she’s one of the few who actually work for a living and don’t have much time to visit some weird fuck in the hospital. Will have to work her out somehow. Or at least explain that not everyone shares her obsession. I swear, I get a stomach ache just when I look at them. The rest were around, but I must have passed out then. Will continue later. Should secure the book, hell will break loose if any of them find it. My head is killing me. Hard to think. Maybe I’m just tired… or maybe my plan may just get easier to execute. In the worst way possible. As always.” The huge letters, left over a part of the text, sure got one thing right - it was all very puzzling. He had no way of tracking down time, but it must have been a while since he found himself on the old wooden planks, surrounded by darkness and an amalgamation of endless rooms. Most of that time was spent being subjected to the ever-changing maze and the disturbing sounds and things in the dark. Not much progress was made. Granted, not much more would be made if he were to just sit down and wait for something. The time was for him to move out again, to look for anything of note in the creeping darkness, and to hope that whatever was out there stayed out there. --- The storm was getting bad. Raindrops were falling on his head, cleansing him somewhat, but they could not wash off that what was the worst of all. The fear. Lightning struck. Illuminated for a second, the street assaulted his eyes with more disgusting colors, boiling up the anger that went dormant after it was done. Even that, however, was not enough to quench the fear he felt. Panic. Plain and simple. He could not afford it, and yet there he was. He ran as fast as he could, aiming for the encroaching treeline. He was afraid. Not of what he had done, or of the terrible images he kept seeing, or of the repulsion that the world cast upon him. He was afraid of how calming what he just did was to him. How clean and fulfilled he felt. That shattered everything. What used to be a plain plan fell to pieces. There was doubt. There was definite doubt. It was that doubt that drove him to flee, it was that doubt that made him question himself. What little remained of the worthless, scrunched up, brainwashed being. That also made him fear - the better part of him. A coward in the wrong place and the wrong time can do so much wrong. Fittingly enough, just as he was about to rush into the enchanted forest, a snarl came from nearby. Pairs of glowing green eyes emerged all around him. But those were not the manifestations of the powers that he meddled with now. These were timberwolves. They sensed fear. They preyed on it. --- Supposedly, there was an end to everything. Fixer part agreed and part disagreed with the statement. On the one side, his calm was certainly to be scraped at the bottom. On the other, the labyrinth was rather endless. The only thing that changed in the time that he spent roaming the endless dark corridors and rooms was the fact that he was starting to really lose it. It took a lot of resolve to simply move on from what he had seen before, but it seemed like that was not going to be a problem after the injection of sheer resolve he felt upon seeing the Shard in the “forest”. He looked for it still, hoping to see the glimmer of bloodstained glass somewhere along the way, wishing against fate that it would show up and guide him. The insane mess of a world laughed at him and had him run on in his little maze. That alone would probably not have been enough to discourage him, for he had seen reality bend unto itself before, and it would not be the most unlikely thing for it to twist and bend again. It was a possibility. He would just do something right and there would be progress. Unfortunately, however, the haunting flickers and sounds kept on happening. With how long they have been going on, no proper estimation could have been made, but Fixer could just swear that they were getting ever closer. Another room inspected, with nothing of note found, just more of the same, thrown in together, another hallway passed, and then - a startling breath and heavy thuds on the floor, the terrifying presence so near… The light would then flicker, and the sounds disappear in a distorted, broken up echo. At first he thought that these things were just trying to scare him into further insanity - something they were starting to do a really good job at. Among the shapes in the blinking light, shapes that seemed to be very much real and no less horror-inducing for it, he now often times saw things that had to be hallucinations. For a moment, there would be a bloodied spike coming out of the floor, a limp body hanging from it, a body hanging on a noose, large chunks of flesh, even a gaping hole in the floor - or, other times, he would see some other pony, completely unharmed and properly dressed, stare at him from no more than a meter away, piercing him in that half a second with their faceless gaze. And so on, and so forth - only getting worse as time passed. “The shimmering dark light… the impossible geometry… oh sweet heavens, why? Why indeed.” Eventually, it got so bad that he no longer wanted to open his eyes. The things he saw in the blinking light burned through his head, the memories cooking in place. It had become clear that with how frequent and how violent the visions had become - one would haunt him nearly every five minutes - that he was supposed to have fallen to them. But even though the insanity graduated ever upwards, the doors banging far away and the corridors sometimes leaving him into dead ends, turning into entirely new sprawls as soon as he looked away, he kept going. The fever slowed him, the horror well-near paralyzed him, but he was neither dead nor hopelessly insane. From the few memories that he still had, Fixer knew one thing well. Everyone has a limit. Push them past it, and they will fall. This horrible concoction of a world has well exceeded the line that he considered to be his limit. The sheer fact that he was not dead or climbing the walls was wrong. He came to the only conclusion that his burning thoughts conceded to him. - Who are you? - the unicorn yelled into the dark, splattering blood with a violent cough after what felt like hours of not having to talk, - Why are you helping me? He looked around, praising all that was good in the world gone wrong for the flashlight keeping up a steady light. Another long hallway with a hint of a window far ahead. If anything would appear, it would be either in front of him or behind him. - just hell trying he to tto to help At the end of the day, it was impossible to get used to an Error’s presence. When he heard the words, his whole beaten being tensed and reeled so hard that the bruises from the encounter in the catacombs hurt again. Fixer panted rapidly - the flickering had begun. He still tried to find where the irrevocably wrong non-entity was, if only to look his end in the face, his mind not yet having processed just what that thing screeched out. The flickering intensified - donn  Tdon’t please - Who are you? - don’t shh shh only plea on wants she to HELP don’t   The lamp finally caught it - the same possibility-defying kaleidoscope of broken pieces of the world, twisting and twitching in place, standing there where minutes before there was only darkness. It was not coming to him. - What is going on? - don’t RUN The Error’s last word came out so twisted and disrupted that it nearly shattered Fixer’s eardrums, but he heard it well. What was there that still had the ability to think straight noticed that, directly afterwards, it disappeared in one of the flickers, as if it was never there. With that, his vision finally unblurred, his few collected thoughts put together an intriguing theory. What was there that wanted to survive, however, took to frantic galloping down the hallway, as another sound emanated from behind: - what are you do DAn in here GEROUS He could not even swear, panting and violently spitting what had to have been blood, rushing down the corridors, infrequent light showing him the way down the guts of the insane halls. The occasionally lit maze of corridors and rooms turned into an endless branching tunnel with no light at all, safe for the lamp head which blinked as feverishly as its owner did. - why don’t you DANGER inn jj jj This one did not just go after him, unraveling all on its way, like the others did. It would reappear ahead of him, striking from dead ends and secondary passways, shaping the labyrinth into a design of its own. He felt like an animal being herded. - stAY IN Much like livestock lead to the slaughter, he only complied for fear of what may happen should him and the Error collide. It chose corridors for him, near electrifying his tail whenever it got too close, forcing out an exhausted gallop. As the last of his strength was beginning to drain, the hectic run suddenly came to a close, his hooves not finding solid ground anymore. Fixer slipped and slid - no, flew - down, surrounded by darkness, the only remaining thing being the lamp, which got released from his aura. He was so exhausted that he barely took the time to get scared by the sudden fall, as it allowed him a moment to take a breath. Better yet, as he flew, the light stopped flicking - the ray only rotated around now, as the flashlight twirled in the air. That meant that he went so fast that the Error could not catch up - or did not do so at all. That tossed aside, a couple of seconds later he did at last let out a short shriek, put to a stop by something very big and very soft - soft enough for him not to injure himself from what had to have been a great fall. The loud hum in his head and the disorientation after the terrible run left very little room for question or panic in his head. He just slipped out of consciousness, giving in to the pain in every part of his body, and assumed that he just landed into a gigantic hay pile. Strangely enough, he was quite correct. --- She just doomed herself. It could have been so simple, but she would not have it the easy way. Violent cracks, thunderous bashing - or was it thunder itself? - and frantic rustling. All by herself, she drove the pack away. They thudded, murmuring and cracking, as far away as they could, to save their barks. They left him to fend for himself. - Come on… You’re gonna make it. There was no easy way out anymore. He felt himself being loaded on her back, coughing and barely conscious. His hind leg, stuck in one of the fallen wolves, got in the way, nearly throwing his body off her. The jolt of pain brought some clarity of thought about. - Why didn’t ya just stay in? It’s dangerous business, going out the door at this hour. She would bring him back in. To her place, probably. It was much closer than the hospital, and even he could feel that he needed immediate medical attention. Nothing more than a bandage and something to clean the wounds on his chest, but those alone were important. She would leave him at her place, she would take care of him and she would leave him no choice. There was no room for doubt anymore. He started the job, and then he tried to drop it. There was no dropping it. This was his second chance. No choice but to be worthy. - Don’t worry. We’ll fix ya right up. No. He would. --- Something was rotten. Deeply rotten, straight to the core, and decomposing, all around him. The stench was so heavy that it went past being mind-numbingly odorous and straight into electrically rancid - so much so that it woke him up. Perhaps it was for the better - had he spent even more time lying in that putrid place, he may just have succumbed to the toxicity. A surreal addition to a picture that has long ago forsaken the bounds of reality, the gigantic pile of hay towered above the spacious underground compartment of the maze. That is, of course, considering that there was any connection between the two. Fixer, climbing out the hay’s depths and struggling to breathe, assumed that he may just have been transported to a different place entirely. That assumption, however, took a hit as his hooves broke through and got him out, most of him miraculously largely intact. Opening his eyes and tearing up at the stench, he saw above him what must have been where he came from - a twisting organism of rooms and corridors, with a few lights that barely made it possible to see it from where he was. It rippled and smudged second by second, changing before his very eyes, sending quaint waves of chewed up sounds down, just enough to tingle the ear. It also stood on thin air - or, at least, the section of thin air that appeared to be infested with the rippling and the distortion. The shifting house just hung above him, gladly showing off its ever morphing structure. It was then, perhaps, somewhat helpful that the awful smell in the lower half was so strong that Fixer could not focus on the sheer wrongness of the vista above. Quickly switching to breathing with just his mouth, he had fortune in finding the lamp head lying nearby still in working condition, as a quick shake showed. Shattered reality or no shattered reality, the stench of that place was so heavy that escaping it became the top priority. Even through his mouth, the air tasted foul, like something badly rotten. Coughing, he stabilized his grip on the lamp, and aimed the ray directly below the hay pile. - Oh, are you kidding me. ---- “Sweet, merciful… how can a mare talk so many apples and still live?” As beneficial to the task as their visits were, they were starting to drive him insane in more ways than one. They each showed signs, signs that made his inner being electrify at the sheer thought of them, and were simply wrong in most meanings of the word. This one, however, took it deeper than most others. - Sure you don’t want an apple? Look at it, it’s darn tasty. - I’m sure. Please, I’m having a headache here. - Ah, come on, what’s wrong with ya? It’s an apple! It’s the best thing against a headache. This one was just plain puzzling. She not only made him want to hurl on the same bases as the rest, but she forced him into conflict with himself. Even from what little he saw of her in the brief moments when he could open his eyes without his head mercilessly punishing him, it was clear that she was by no means inept. It was in the motions, in the body language, in her voice. She was a smart one, her head was not just there to breathe and stare and blink, like so many others’. Oh, no. In fact, hers took on more functions than any of them. Not only could she very clearly think quick and think well, she also had it to deceive those less knowing into thinking her a dumb hillbilly. It would, by all means, be most others’ first guess - that they were dealing with a dimwit who could not add two and two together, the freckles, the tan and the ridiculous western hat fitting the image perfectly. He remembered the notes. Honesty she was, but deceit she employed. It took him time to realize that - even he had trouble figuring out who she really was behind the charade. She was dangerous. To those who went against her business and, therefore, to him. That alone was bad enough, but that was not all. Probably by some cruel coincidence, she drew on a petty disgust that made it all the more difficult to think. She talked about the freaking apples with it. Apples. Apples, apples, apples. He hated apples. --- In all the chaos of the world gone wrong, Fixer’s main strive was survival, that much was true. A close second, though, was finding out what lead to the horrid catastrophe - for what else could have caused this? - and, consequently, learning more about himself. Not a blank slate, no, but a very grey one, he tried to catch onto any memory or picture he saw, even if they were so fleeting. This one was an exception. In the current situation, he really would rather not remember his hatred for apples. “Where did it even… how… why so many???” They were everywhere. They littered the floor, squashing with half of his steps, they piled up near the wooden posts that went up into the darkness, they were all over the place. Rotten, mouldy, decomposing, it was them that created the awful smell. The disgust and repulsion they caused were not only physical, but also mental, an anger swelling in his stomach. As he was getting acquainted the new feeling, there was a faint rattle of metal. That perked his ears up, the lamp turning to light up the spot in the apple-infested dungeon. When it did, the anger had to spare the seat to something the unicorn was better acquainted with at the moment - terror. - De… thec… thive? “What have they done to you?..” It sat in the dark, nudging to try and get away, but to no avail. It tried to shield its eyes from the light, but the effort was futile and meaningless - not only could its legs no longer turn in that direction, but its eyes were already covered by a tough metal bracer. Pale and drained, the tortured form instilled the same mix of fear and pity as the one he encountered before. A stern metal chain roped around its neck, almost certainly choking it, twisting the bones and confining it to the wooden post that it connected to. The tight noose prevented the creature from possibly rushing out at the unicorn, leaving it to reside on a pile of disgusting rotten apples. Unable to pry his eyes away from the Victim, Fixer walked closer to it, his eyes twitching from the memories stinging him in the back of his head. Like the other one, it felt familiar. No, not it. They deserved better. This was an earth stallion, a little younger than him. He could not find a name in the swirling whirlpool of memory, but this one used to have a personality. They all did. It was not proper to call them like that. And so, Fixer stopped, standing as close to the Victim as he could without putting himself in danger. Half voicing his thoughts and half hoping for an answer, he asked: - Why are you chained? - Defective… “What?” For a second, it seemed like the Victim had actually answered him, showing sentience, the ability to communicate. Perhaps, it was not just a nightmarish monster, drawing on something from his past. Only then Fixer saw his mouth  - bloodied and bludgeoned, it was almost completely devoid of teeth. His tongue hung near aimlessly, bloated and blackened, much like it should have been with the murderous pressure on the neck. It merely misspoke the only word that it could utter, mocking the unicorn further. - De… thec… thive? An accidental inhale through the nose sent Fixer into a coughing fit, nearly having him vomit. Nigh stepping into the danger zone, he shook his head, and in that motion, his eye caught something else in the dark. Too taken by the stench and the repulsion, he dismissed it before. He brought the light over the rest of the chamber. “Won’t let out.” It was a prison. There were lines of cells there, stacked up like sections in a barn. Wooden plates and steel bars held the figures inside hostage. They were all Victims. Each cell held one of the mangled creatures. Near devoid of life, most of them only breathed. Locked up in their quarters, so much like livestock, they stood apathetic. That is, until he brought a light to them. Then, they woke up. - De… thec… thive? - Detective. - De- tec- tive. - De- tec- tive! And so they gurgled, muttered and screamed, thrashing in place, as if his appearance brought them motivation. The bars held them in, despite their best efforts, but they thrashed and moaned, and Fixer just stood there, paralyzed in combined disgust, horror and regret. “Why do you feel so guilty now?..” - yyjjyyy not safe here He panted, trying his best to stay on the sane side and prevent himself from inhaling the putrid rotten fumes so as not to pass out at the worst moment. There was a shorter time limit now, he had to do something fast. If not the fumes, then the unfortunate creatures would be the end of him. Near frantic, Fixer paced around, trying to find something that would give him a clue. “Puzzling… dare defy?..” As he cast his eyes to the murky, shifting display above, he saw it. Something so obvious. “Dare defy.” Above the Victim by the post, a big wooden panel hung, flickering and rippling under the light. On it there once was something of a menu, or a price list, nearly each item beginning with “Apple-”. At the top there was a stylized title, “Sweet Apple Acres”, which yet again stung a memory into his head, but what actually mattered were the familiar letters, written over it all: "STAY AWAY DO NOT DISTURB DO NOT DISLODGE DO NOT OPEN UP GOOD LUCK" He knew now. Perking his aching head, he turned around with improved strife. He had no time to question the message, not now and not those that came before - not when he saw his treasured beacon twirling in the air, not at all defying his expectations. As he gripped the Shard with the aura, empowered enough to still have control over the lamp, he breathed in and took to work. He inhaled and exhaled, the foul residue of the stench far from enough to discourage him. Now he saw more, the dark giving way before him and his sparkling, blooded companion. He thrashed through the hidden subsections, leaving deep cuts on the metal that kept the bars in place, he lodged the crude, distorted cogs that enslaved their contents, leaving the dual symbols on them smudged and desecrated. He tore the grand chain that held its Victim with what one saw as but a piece of glass, and he relished in the liberation, both his and the others’. - no what gooD no stay insidegood what for you doing?! Then he watched the horde of shambling, broken figures cast shambling, broken shadows as the cloth-covered wall behind them ripped itself into eldritch greyness. Sickening colors assembled yet again, for the first time facing him in a state other than crippling fear and confusion. - how you DARE? what do shreds what did you tore to her But as he faced it, he suddenly saw his shining star no more. The Shard disappeared from his grip, almost as if it was never there. Betrayed, he stood there, watching the cerulean Error launch itself at him, another one skipping and blinking and pacing around. That other one looked almost like it tried to hold the first one off, placing obstructions in its path, for them to only fall to bits. It was orange, the other one. It looked a little more consistent, but never seemed to move - it disappeared from one place, reality roaring for two, and reappeared in another. Its fragments projected the same kind of warm, wrong images that the rest did. A treeline. A load of sacks. A bag of coins. An early sun. A late moon. A plowed field. A happy family. Apples. Apples. Apples. He hated apples. It sparkled somewhere far from Fixer, and carried him away from the deafening screams, maddening noise and repulsive odor. --- - No, you see, it’s not your apples that I have a problem with. It’s what they represent. - Really? What’s there to be wrong about an apple? - They aren’t made properly. - Ah, shucks, that’s crazy talk! You just never had good ones. - No, you don’t understand. It doesn’t matter if there are good ones or bad ones. The problem is, they are ultimately not up to snuff, not anymore. - Naw, I don’t get it. What’s there to be up to, exactly? - Apples are forced on us as every course of your fucking dinner. Apples are here, apples are there, apples are fucking everywhere. Half our food is apples. And yet, they ultimately fail as a reliable food product. With all their sorts, the majority tastes the same, but that isn’t even what I’m getting at. I know, there used to be other kinds, those died out - because they got offed. Not tasty, not delicious, not sweet, they just got capped out because someone thought it was better if they stuck to the ones that felt nice. And still they didn’t fucking consider the fact that the nice ones rot like all hell, that their sweetness ties you to the stupid taste, that once you try one that deviates from the bunch, you just throw it away, it’s not nice enough for you. You know what the old sorts had in them? - Huh… yah, I do. Said they were tougher, more resistant to the touch. Did not rot as fast. Their lot could get poisonous too, though, and half the ponies could barely digest them. What are you getting at? - I’m getting at how we have allowed apples to become just a bunch of overly sweet, overly nurtured, overly saccharine foods that rot as soon as you forget to give them proper FUCKING care. That is not what food is about, not when it needs to be nutritious and work for you, not the opposite. That is not what life is about, not when there are twenty four fucking murders in a city per month, not when there is filth everywhere, but we are painted a picture of sunshine and rainbows by those who will throw those few too tough to be chewed up out! Don’t you see? I know you are smart, how don’t you see it? - Mr. Fixer… you really aren’t feeling well, are ya? Cause… I mean… woah. Crushing headache. - Ya know, I’d better get you some tea. Best thing for when you’re not y’self. I’ll be right back, and you stay inside. It’s dangerous out there. See? Everything’s fine. Be right back. She was wrong and she would never be.