//------------------------------// // 3: Intuition // Story: Chaotic Emergence // by Gambit Prawn //------------------------------// Oikogéneia was a perfectly legitimate business. Squeezed in between a pet-grooming service and a café, the small, two-story restaurant proved invisible to anyone not looking for it. To locals, however, the hand-painted sign above the eatery more than delivered on its promise of “authentic Greek flavor”. Housing no more than a dozen tables, the interior radiated a homely atmosphere. The imported Greek chefs working in full-view of the customers and photos of sponsored local charity events—an excellent excuse to forgo expensive décor—combined to give it a close-knit feel, making it an ideal place to forge and temper friendships and business partnerships alike. Despite the late hour, the tables were filled to capacity, and lively chatter filled the limited dining space. Nonetheless, when the door slowly opened to a barely-audible chiming, half of the restaurant shouted greetings at the delivery man, a familiar sight to most regulars. The portly, well-dressed fellow shifted his delivery bags to one arm as he leisurely began making his way to the kitchen, stopping to shake hands with some of the patrons and occasionally exchange snippets of small-talk. When he finished wading through the friendly crowd, he hung his hat on an empty hook, dropped off his bags and began making his way upstairs. He knocked once at the manager’s door, mostly as a formality, and waited only the briefest of moments before beginning to open the heavy door. “I don’t know about that. We’re traditionalists," came a voice from behind the door. "Sure there's religious undertones in some of our language and our rituals, but I shouldn't have to explain that our family businesses aren't exactly among the most pious lines of work." The delivery man entered, revealing the speaker to be slimly-built young man with jet-black hair, olive-colored skin and a perfectly pressed suit that practically screamed its considerable price-tag. The youth nodded in acknowledgement and gestured for the other man to take the seat in front of the sturdy, oak desk. These are always fun to overhear. The delivery man thought to himself with an internal chuckle. “Look, Raimondo just came in with the handmade shoes I've been waiting on." "No, it's not more important than you, but you do want me to look best for our wedding, right? It'd be a tragedy if I didn't try them on first and the shoes clashed with my tux on the big day". "I’ll talk to you all you want about aliens and religion later.” As he said this, the manager made eye contact with Raimondo and flipped his palms face-up while pointing the fingers of both hands upwards, creating two miniature walls before hiding his face behind them in anguish. Raimondo gave a nod of sympathy at the incredulous gesture. If only a barricade against that woman's air-headed ramblings were that easy to come by. He mused to himself “Yes, you’ve made that point several times. Now I have to go.” “Yes, I love you too,” he finished, slamming the phone down to decisively smother any lingering embers of conversation. The force of the action hung in the air for several awkward seconds. “Trouble in paradise I presume?” Raimondo finally asked. The man behind the desk didn't respond at first, instead taking a moment to regain his wits after ninety minutes of grating, mostly one-sided conversation. “It really is unbelievable,” he finally said with a sigh. “She’s always been the type to blather on about whatever captures her fancy, but now her interests have taken a strange turn—aliens, religion and power dynamics.” “Maybe she’s legitimately broadening her horizons?" Raimondo suggested. "Most people who have just taken an interest in the so-called bigger questions can be insufferable at first, preaching stone-age philosophy as great revelations about the human condition. It really was hard not to say anything during that phase of your teens, you know?" “Can you please let me live that one down already?" the other man begged, his voice betraying a twinge of embarrassment. "In any case, I doubt that’s it. Her hypotheticals are just too disturbingly specific. She asked me where humanity would stand if some species—alien perhaps—were to knock us down a notch on the food chain. ‘Would that make them gods?’ she asks. This is the daughter of a man who took being singled out for excommunication as a badge of honor, and now she's suddenly entranced by religion? I just don't buy it. I know her, Raimondo. I doubt she's had an original thought in her life. Hypothetical questions like this are basically a direct-line to her mind.” “And that’s why you think she’s been—replaced is it?” “No, not quite. There’s no way anyone can impersonate her so perfectly. After all, she maintains the 'endearing' quality of bringing up things I had long-forgotten for emotional blackmail. It’s like it’s still her but someone else is lurking behind the veneer of her personality.” “I can sort of understand where you’re going with this. If something has gotten to her, you think the same force is pulling the strings behind the unification of crime factions?” Raimondo asked, falling into his customary role as the young successor's favorite sounding board. The manager stood up and let his gaze fall to the floor. “Raimondo, I get it. Just tell me I’m crazy. I don’t believe half the things that come out of my own mouth these days about this phantom force in the background. Before, I would at most suspect that her sudden insistence on meeting me alone is a transparent kidnapping or assassination attempt. I really am trying to ground my imagination in the face of all this weirdness, but so much doesn’t make sense otherwise. And given what Giovanni saw, even mind control doesn't seem so impossible. And if nothing is impossible anymore, I look at tonight and start to see dime-store conspiracy theories and I can't rule out complete nonsense and everything..." Raimondo walked behind the desk to put a hand on the shoulder of the Don's son. “I get it. We’re all a little jumpy about tonight’s negotiations. Even without your nose for danger, this talk of a united syndicate is moving too fast for my liking. For what is being offered, I could maybe believe some of Cosa Loro's splinter factions rejoining the group, but we’ve been seeing bitter enemies suddenly jump in bed together. Hell, racial issues alone should exclude the few triad and yakuza factions on the island, but they’ve been accepted all the same. "Simply put: I trust you, Mimmo," the middle-aged mafioso said, punctuating the sentiment with an affectionate diminutive. "But, it also helps that you hit an ace with your first crazy idea.” He pulled a manila envelope from his breast pocket and dropped it on the desk. Young Domenico opened it and spread the photos out in front of him. They featured ponies of every color and tribe wearing utterly miserable expressions: five mares moped in an enclosure that was clearly built for two, restless from lack of exercise; a well-built, blue stallion grazed, his back to an electric fence; a white and pink pegasus struggled to stay a meter in the air, armed guards and a note-taking researcher surrounding her from every angle. “Those 'shoes' set us back €10,000 apiece. You were right on all accounts, though—private security firms were contracted, a no-fly zone was declared and that whole structure went up in about a week on EU land. It appears there are thousands of these ‘ponies’ showing up all over the place, and the feds want to keep a lid on it.” “Ponies?” “That’s what our contact inside the concentration camp called them, and apparently it’s what they call themselves. He even tried to convince me that they were magical,” he said, finishing with a disarming laugh. “So, were they really human before?” “We don’t have direct confirmation on that point. The fiancée of the late Moon Young—may he burn in hell—is the only possible intermediary form we’ve ever seen. However, I’ve found more people to back the rumor you heard: the Pegasus that was allegedly being sold in L.A. does indeed seem to be Conrad Hannar, heir to a small crime family. Add that to the guard's claim of the camp going Hotel California on the few human arrivals, and, hell, you'd be crazy not to bet on the crazy pony theory.” Domenico couldn’t tear his eyes from the photos. These were clearly miniature equines—hundreds of them—but their expressions were unsettlingly human. Raimondo’s confirmation was unneeded—their oversized eyes spoke of intelligence and misery. “Do you think it’s contagious?” Raimondo asked The front manager shook his head. “I doubt it. The researchers aren’t wearing any protective equipment in these photos, and if it could spread through the air we’d probably all be pony people within a few months.” “Shame we couldn’t have had Giovanni watch Moon for a bit longer. We could have seen if it spreads in… other ways,” Raimondo said with a grin, his index fingers side-by-side and pointing to the ground, with the others curled into a fist. “Calling animal control on him would have been very satisfying,” Domenico said while giving his first smile of day. “While we're on the subject, did you learn anything else about those aggressive cultists?” “Afraid not,” Raimondo said, shaking his head. “We’ve been able to raise our protection fees with all the hysteria they’ve been causing. It’s almost as if they’re filling the void in violence a crime alliance would leave." This hitherto-unheard-of cult seems to have been very successful at recruiting from the stray groups that passed the alliance by. No, not just them—it has been very popular with opponents of the idea in general. Domenico thought. “Raimondo, hand me that family tree.” “Whatever you say, Mimmo,” he said, removing a large, detailed diagram from the bulletin board. The constantly updated diagram depicted all of the interconnections, rivalries and alliances between crime factions inside and outside of Italy, and understanding it had allowed its creator to dodge bloodshed and come out on top on with psychic intuition. Domenico took a red pen in hand and found a small box near the bottom left representing Moon Young’s small but ruthless group. He mumbled to himself while tracing over the lines of alliance, coming upon Cosa Loro—The Reunited Mafia's centerpiece—almost immediately. He expanded the red web of ink along the solid lines and, after a moment of thought, traced over dotted lines of unstable neutrality as well. His eyes widened as the simple pattern confirmed almost everything. It can't be... Just by tracing perfectly mimicking the growth and expansion of the umbrella syndicate! Northeastern.... Iai group... There are no holdouts at all! After a tense minute spent finishing the trace, Domenico let the pen fall out of his grasp at the sight of the final product. His own group, which he had earnestly placed in the center of the diagram, now found itself in a noose. I've been a fool. This whole time, I had assumed that a third faction was responsible for the weirdness in the underworld. But if you ignore the inexplicable pony thing, the truth is obvious—the cultists are behind it. After all, Giovanni's observations give a mechanism in the form of that psychotropic gas. It's a crude model, but the spread looks just like what we were discussing just now. It's like a contagious virus. I know that look. Raimondo thought. “I take it you have a plan?” Domenico nodded. “Although the two seem on the surface to be at odds with each other, this fishy alliance may be related to the cultists after all.” “You needn't say any more. What will you need?” “Prepare gas masks for our entire party. I’ll be attending the negotiation as well." "Will do." A buzzing came from Raimondo’s jacket pocket, and he distractedly the text while mentally mapping out a to-do list. However, he came to a halt when the contents of the message sunk in. “We’ve found one! One of my contacts in Alcamo has just informed me that an American with a horse tail checked into an underground clinic to have it removed.” Domenico sprung up and pounded on the desk, scattering the photos. “Shit! Why now? We don't have a lot of time left! Raimondo, I don’t care how you do it: bring him to us. It could be a coincidence that the future Mrs. Moon ended up butchered by those cultists, but if the ponies are connected in any way, bringing one along may provoke them into making a mistake. It could be our trump card.” "I know you probably don't need me to tell you this, but should we rush into this? I'll talk to your for you father if you want to call the whole thing off, wait for more information to surface." "No, if I turn out to be right about this tinfoil hat nonsense, we don't have the luxury of waiting. I'll voice my misgivings to him in a way he can understand." Besides if am wrong about this, tonight could be the deal of his career. Raimondo took the hint and immediately sent the invitation for Mimmo's last-minute guest. To call the unlicensed operation the most painful experience of Taylor’s life would greatly undersell the unmitigated agony. It would still have held that distinction had it ended at merely cutting off the tail, but the act of tugging the bony stump free from him was nearly awful enough to cast alternative of life as a pony in a new light. He sat in the afterglow of the pain-triggered adrenaline, rubbing the bandaged incision near the base of his spine. The operation had left him feeling a sort of post-traumatic numbness, but there was a nugget of satisfaction building from within him. I did it. He thought. I beat this thing. The stomach pains from earlier have worn off, so it might have, just maybe, actually worked. Taylor beamed. The tail’s gone! Now all I need to do is shave the fur and come up with an excuse to hide these horse ears for the rest of my life, but that can wait until I have a good long nap. To Taylor’s dismay, the ears had finished shifting into their inhuman shape at some point during the operation. Although he had shied away from his own reflection since the tail had started to come in, there was no denying the ears’ elongated, floppy feel nor their increasingly automatic movements. I can handle damage control when I’m out of the lion’s maw. Time to get out of here before my tired brain persuades me a criminal enterprise is a nice place for a nap. Taylor grabbed his backpack but had to wait for his sleeping feet to recover before steadying himself and walking to the door. Halfway there, it opened, revealing the mustached guide from earlier. Time to face the music I guess; although I would have liked a few more seconds of celebration before reality kicks me in the nuts again. “We have delivered what was agreed upon. As for the payment,” the guide said, pausing at the end to fish for the correct words in English. “I’ll give you all that I have now as a down payment. I just need to call my parents and you’ll have the rest as soon as the banks open. Please,” Taylor pleaded, kneeling before the other, equally out of exhaustion and supplication. “Actually, that is no longer in our hands. For you see, someone was very insistent in purchasing your debt.” “Wha!? Who! Why?!” Taylor said dumbly. “That would be me,” a third voice answered. Its owner, a man in his early thirties with somewhat long black hair, a suit of the same color and an orange tie stepped into the operating room. He held an unlit cigarette in his left hand and stroked a villainous mustache with the other. He approached Taylor and extended his free hand. “I am Giovanni, your mysterious benefactor. I believe this is a lucky day for the both of us.” “Look, I’m just a broke nobody on vacation,” Taylor began, immediately regretting the insinuation he couldn’t pay. “But I can get you your money I just…” “Who said anything about wanting your money?” Giovanni asked with casual, sinister dismissal. “Huh?” was all Taylor could manage as his stomach did a somersault between relief and horror in sorting out the implications. “All I ask is for you do a little favor for me—nothing big. I’m paying an enormous premium for convenience. For you, it will basically be the easiest money you’ll ever see.” Taylor moved his mouth to speak, but Giovanni led him out of the room by his shoulder before he could begin. “Real easy. Let’s finish this discussion in private, okay?” With a nod to Taylor’s seller, Giovanni walked the American outside. Upon reaching the mafioso’s sports car, Taylor was hit with a new sense of urgency as all his indoctrination against stranger danger reemerged. “You don’t want me. I’m terrible under pressure; I won’t be able to lie to anyone. I’m a liability. Just let me pay. I’m not cut out for doing anything illegal. I’ll never survive in prison!” Giovanni gave an internal groan, resting his right forefinger just above his temple. Americans. “Would you stop being stupid already! This whole scared shitless of the Mafia thing is running thin here. We’re not going to smash your kneecaps in on a whim or any shit like that—we get nothing out of it. Hell, most businesses around here deal with us in some capacity, and you don’t see them pissing themselves in fear.” Taylor froze and stood dumbfounded for several seconds. Seeing intimidation have the opposite effect to what was intended, Giovanni decided to revert to the slower approach. “I’m not lying: we really aren’t asking for a lot. We just need you to pose as a financial backer from America in a meeting to make us look better. We'll say you have a website—anyone can do that. Since you don’t know Italian, it'll be hard to mess this up. You're just a prop. So get in the damn car.” “That’s…. I don’t know what to trust, and if…” “I can always hand you back to them, and you can see what ‘payment’ they would have. And I assure you: they are not as nice as I am,” he finished, coating his previously perfect English with a thick accent. Taylor reluctantly grunted his agreement and walked to the passenger side of the vehicle. I can’t believe I’m doing this. So it’s further down the rabbit-hole I go. “Wrong side. You’re in Europe, kid.” Dammit, I’m losing brain cells by the minute. He thought, slumping onto the proper passenger seat. Probably shouldn't sit like that with the stitches. Even in death, the damned tyrant rules my posture by decree. Well it doesn't matter now. Tail: one, Taylor: infinity. You lose; I win. The drive itself passed fairly uneventfully. Taylor had to struggle to stay awake and ultimately lost that battle, completely wrecking his perception of time. For most of the drive, Giovanni's eyes were fixed firmly on the road, but at one stop, he took the opportunity to inspect his cargo. He batted the hood away to reveal a dark-colored pony ear and rolled up Taylor's sleeves to observe the fur starting to encroach on his forearm. So those ears really were real. He thought, feeling the fur for himself. I’ve never doubted Domenico before, but even I thought he had gone nuts with this talk of ponies. What happened to Moon’s group is hard enough to believe, and I saw that with my own eyes. Still, there at least I had the gas to blame it on. These ponies, on the other hand, are popping up out of nowhere. I'd better avoid getting any fur on me. Just in case. Delvaux lounged on a posh couch in a luxury summer home in the mountains. As a missing world leader, he couldn’t exactly return to his own manor, but as substitutes went, it was more than satisfactory. He had Marcel by his side as a personal butler, a fully stocked wine cellar, and a fully-equipped personal spa/sauna. It was a hard sell, but the home's former owner was more than willing to turn it over for the good of the cause following a brief discussion with his parasitic “negotiator.” He had sent the newly-obedient mion out grocery shopping for him. Yes, it was mostly a petty gesture to massage his ego, but at the same time, he wanted to witness the extent of the indoctrination first hand. Shame I didn't have this trick back in the day; it would have been a fun way to deal with lobbyists. Maybe I can still find a way to work that into the plan. Despite his indulgence, Delvaux was no idiot. The plan was practically implementing itself at this point, but he still made regular checks with his most important underlings. His representatives from Cosa Loro were even now preparing to bring Sicily's last major crime group, Sagrada Famiglia, under his control. Smart delegation made his job a cakewalk. It was something he learned a long time ago, and it did wonders for his stress level. Have you removed the final obstacles to starting the second stage of the plan? the Herald’s voice asked in the missing politican's head. "Fine and how are you? he snarked." Yes, just a few minor setbacks. I only needed to prepare alternative means to get to Sagrada Famiglia’s so-called criminal genius of a leader. The big cheese himself is paranoid even when meeting with allies. I had thought it would be trivial to get to him through his incompetent son, whom he's relegated to managing a restaurant, but I’ve never seen a healthy young man so opposed to a night of passionate lovemaking with their gorgeous fiancée. Hell, I couldn’t even get him to meet her for coffee without a suit or two following him everywhere. You are making your move tonight? "Yes, if he’s as good as rumored, we need to assimilate him before he begins to suspect anything. Once he's out of the way, the government will be too pleased at the drop-off in crime and inter-syndicate violence to question our monopoly. Sure, people in my line of work know to always look a gift horse in the mouth, but we’ll still turn its best side to the camera and ride it all the way to the polls. It's simple, really: While ruthless fanatics are assailing the fair people of the Italy, we brand our puppet organization as defenders people in their time of need. We raise their prestige, and this further multiplies the considerable reach of the underworld. If this goes through as planned, you won't need any of your other projects. We'll grab the whole continent by the balls. “We'll see about that. What of phase two?” I have identified entry points into the mainland groups, but the same Vincenzo Salicina we're dealing with tonight probably knows the connections better than anyone else in the country. I'd like his intel before we continue. “Very good. There's no reason to rush when we can claim a clean victory before the fighting has begun. I'll leave it to you then. ” The Herald’s presence faded and Delvaux let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Speaking before audience of millions is nothing compared to a dialogue with one he knew could destroy him with a thought. It's all about appearances. If you look weak for a moment in this world, they'll eat you alive. Giovanni effortlessly steered himself around a potential collision as he concentrated all his effort on making sense of the upcoming negotiation, an effort in futility that had occupied his mind for most of the past week. Cosa Loro dwarfs us in size, and it was only due to Dom’s quick-thinking that we avoided a recent turf war. A week ago, I'd still consider it a miracle that we’re not shooting at each other, but why do they suddenly want to negotiate—let alone offer us that!” Taylor stirred, saw that they were still in transit and tried to doze off again without heed to the thought that there was was still a very dangerous man next to him. Giovanni, seeing this, slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “We’re nearly there. You’ll want to be alert for this one even if you’ll be in the least danger of any of us,” the mobster said. At least until those ears come out that is. It’s good that he seems self-conscious about them. “Is there anything you want me to do specifically,” Taylor asked as his brain slowly rebooted. “No, like I said, you’re only here as a prop. Image is important in this business—you’re to show that we have connections and resources to give an impression of strength. It’s like those Chinese companies that pay foreigners just to look important and constantly go in and out of meetings. ” It was an offer too good to be true. Taylor knew it, and the mafioso’s insistence and dark sense of humor didn't help matters. He still looks nervous, but who wouldn't be? Giovanni thought. Maybe knowing what was behind door number one will give him perspective. We don't want him to freak out on us. “As I was saying before, it really is your lucky day.” Okay, I’ll bite. “What do you mean?” “You essentially just went under the knife in a chop shop operated by an organ trafficking operation. Since you couldn’t pay—and possibly even if you could—you would have likely been missing a lung or kidney or two when all was said and done.” Taylor blanched. He felt a brief, rush of adrenaline of nervous relief at avoiding a horrendous fate. However, his enthusiasm was tapered by the full realization that he was being manipulated. Even with his addled thought process, it was fairly easy to catch due to his instant distrust of the man. Not that it’s much consolation though. I know he’s prodding me in the direction he wants—big deal. In the end I don’t have the guts to refuse his “offer”, so I should just take his 'optimism' for what it's worth. You’re nearly there, Taylor, you beat this transformation thing. Just do what he wants and get out before hell drags you back in. As if on cue, the tip of Taylor’s reemerging tail pressed against his stitches, but for the moment, he was able to push this, as well as the itching sensation of expanding fur, out of his mind, vetoing even the briefest of acknowledgement in order to avoid further strain on his taxed mental fortitude. “We’re here.” Giovanni’s declaration spared Taylor any further second guessing as the youth staggered out of the passenger side. “You all right there?” In truth Taylor had to exert himself to even walk normally. Am I that tired? Nonetheless, he refused the offer to spare what little dignity he had left and hobbled down the deserted street with his 'savior' in the lead. It was early morning—or at least that was Taylor’s best guess in the face of his shattered internal clock. Giovanni got several paces ahead even with a slow gait and turned around to call out Taylor’s struggle. After a moment's consideration, he instead said nothing and slowed his pace to a crawl. We’ve got a little time. Taylor felt his lack of sleep pressing down on his limbs and eyelids. While not overpowering, its presence was constant like an unshakable, nagging wraith that had decided to hitch a ride. In this state, the three block walk, a distance padded by Giovanni’s caution, felt as draining as a full triathlon. The mafioso eventually herded Taylor into a corner against and invited him to nap against the brick wall. Oh joy! I didn’t even need to become a animal to get the full livestock experience—I get poked and prodded in whichever direction with no say in the matter! Giovanni started to say something about last minute preparations, but Taylor didn’t care enough to stay awake. This is it. There’s no turning back. We have to do this. Domenico thought. I'm not fully convinced myself, but if there’s even a 1% chance of my suspicions holding true, we need to do everything we can to minimize the risk of total annihilation—even if it means chasing ghosts or ponies or whatever. He patted his concealed gas mask in affirmation. He took his first look at the American boy sleeping against the wall. He was fairly scrawny and was cloaked in a heavy jacket. Though what’s sitting over there may void everything we know. If people really can turn into these ponies at random, the rules we know may no longer apply. For now, it’s just a matter of choosing the right moment to reveal what he is to them and gauge their reactions. “Don’t tell me you forgot the extra ammo again” Giovanni accused a brown-coated man in shades. “Come on!” he said, shrugging his shoulders with his arms spread apart. “I couldn’t after the chewing out that you gave me last time. Besides, it only happened once.” “Once is enough to bury you. You should know that by now.” Domenico smiled. The Corvi brothers were at it again. Diego, the younger of the two, may not be as pragmatic as Giovanni, but Diego surpassed him in marksmanship; although the elder of the two would never admit it. “Is everyone ready!” came a deep voice, ordering rather than asking. The young mafia heir and the brothers immediately stopped what they were doing and stood attentively as their leader, Vincenzo Salicina, approached. He walked with a reserved confidence, and the combination of his pronounced square-jaw, crooked nose and gorilla-like arms completed the picture of a formidable man few dared to mess with. Raimondo was at his side in "serious business mode" and was prodding a zombie-like Taylor to keep pace. The party of six walked in silence to an indiscreet café. It wasn’t exactly neutral territory to those in the know, but such locations were quickly growing with the silent expansion of the united criminal front. They opened the door to total silence. The only occupied table was taken by a tall man with hands adorned with expensive rings. Three stiff, identically-dressed, armed men stood behind him, juxtaposing his relaxed demeanor. He slowly lifted his focus away from his hot cup of coffee and he stood, reflexively combing what little remained of his hair. “Ah, Don Salicina long time no see. I see you've brought your son. How are the wedding plans coming along?” Not bothering to wait for a response, he pointed to Domenico. “Are you going to get your dad some grandchildren soon? Take my word for it: they can really change your perspective on things.” “Cut the crap, Lucca. We both know why we’re here,” Vincenzo spat, taking the seat opposite the rival Don. Taylor and Domenico took a distant table. The guardians standing behind Lucca scrutinized the two only long enough to determine they were non-threats before they resumed facing their counterparts on the other side of the table. “Yes: Salice—for the obvious reasons. As I get older, I realize some things in life, like petty gripes, just aren’t worth holding onto. We’ve never gotten along in the best of times, but no matter how I look at it, Salice should be yours given your history with it. As you’ve undoubtedly noticed, it’s hard for us to manage with its distance from the capital, seeing how we don't control any of the neighboring territories anymore.” “Just spit it out! What do you want?” “I’m sure we can come to an agreement,” Lucca said, further adjusting himself for comfort. And after less than half an hour of negotiation, the two Dons shook hands in agreement. That was easy. Domenico thought as they finalized the exchanged of their least productive claims for most of Salice. Lucca jumped on the first offer. That can only mean they’re buttering us up for the sales pitch to come. Sure enough, Lucca then began singing the praises of a united criminal outfit—the increased revenue that comes with monopoly, an end to bloodshed and a return to the peak power of the global Mafia. When Vincenzo voiced his predictable objection to answering to someone else, the other man assured him that this would not be the case: “Think of it not as a merger but as a cartel of sorts.” Domenico’s father was just as suspicious as his son was, but, nevertheless, they had no trouble agreeing to end of hostilities between the two and to respect each other’s allies. Domenico would have killed for those terms a month ago, but it was nerve-wracking to suddenly have everything go their way. His elation was placed under strict quarantine as he desperately looked for the fly in the ointment, his eyes periodically darting towards the vents. Taylor, for his part, was either petrified with fear or napping. He said nothing, but upon closer inspection, his eyelids appeared to be drooping over eyes that were too small for them, and his face seemed to be smushed forward. I guess that answers that. Seems like all his desperate efforts to fight fate will only serve to render him a tailless pony in the end. “All of this seems satisfactory, and additional meetings will be needed to confirm the details of your joining, but there’s one thing I must insist on.” Classic. Domenico thought. The last minute demand after the other party is fatigued from negotiation. “It is customary for members of this group to share blood as testament of our union before God.” The poor choice of words hung in the air for several moments, and Raimondo had to strain every ounce of his willpower to refrain from snickering. "It is customarily done privately with the leaders of each party, symbolizing newfound brotherhood." This is it! Domenico thought. They want to gas my father in private. That strange cloud really is related to this. He swallowed hard. For the second time today, I’m horrifyingly right. Vincenzo turned to his son, who nodded at him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten for a second I've forgotten who I’m talking to Lucca. Like hell I’d follow you somewhere so you can stab me in the back. I want to put this bad blood behind us as much as you do, but blind leaps of faith are not how I operate.” “Now, now,” Lucca said chidingly with a wave of his hand from a position of outstretched fingers beneath his chin. “I assure you it’s nothing of the sort, but if it makes you feel any better, anyone here would suffice. One of your bodyguards perhaps?" “How about him?” Vincenzo asked, pointing at Taylor. “He’s not been with us long, but he has been invaluable for his connections with the outfit in America. He may not look like much, but his hacking skills have been really impressive so far, and I could think of no better commendation than allowing him this historic honor. After all, it’s symbolic: those of different backgrounds coming together,” Vincenzo said, the last part completely in jest. “That’s as good a reason as any. I’ve been meaning to promote young Ignazio here for a while, so I hope you don’t mind if I take a page out of your book and hand off the honor to him,” Lucca said as the man on the far left nodded. “Of course not.” Domenico shook Taylor awake. “You’re up,” he whispered in English. Despite his enormous fatigue, Taylor was not the least bit drowsy, a fact that surprised him in face of his almost-narcoleptic struggles from before. Powerful crime lords, flanked by their armed bodyguards and arguing noisily in Italian, tend to hold your attention. Besides, he needed something to distract him from newly-returned deep stomach pains, lightheadedness and that constant itching sensation. How long has it been since I’ve eaten now? 12 hours? 18? With this phantom itch as convincing as it is, I’d better get some sleep before I start outright hallucinating. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was hallucinating all of this—me in a friendly mafia meet and greet. Fun. “You’re up.” The sudden onset of words he could actually understand grabbed Taylor's attention. He had to pull up his sagging eyelids to notice a man whom he might have been introduced to at one point help him up. He would have made a snarky comment, but his tongue dragged in his mouth as if suddenly inflated. Resigning himself, he followed one of the suits, a man remarkable only in the fact that he had about nine inches on Taylor, into a backroom storage closet. He tried to come up with some mental jab about not swinging that way but found himself too tired to grab the low-hanging fruit. Forgetting what he was thinking for a moment, Taylor was overwhelmed with the smell of coffee beans—hazelnut, cinnamon, vanilla and a few other flavors he couldn't place. “You are an American, correct?” the now-unarmed man asked in flat, sterile English. Taylor nodded, straining his muscles to focus his wandering mind. “If you don’t struggle, this won’t hurt a bit.” And without telegraphing a single hint, he grabbed Taylor’s throat and easily lifted him with one hand. Something slithered from underneath his sleeve to the sound of dripping mucus. MOTHER OF ELVIS!! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING!? If there was one word to describe it, "wrong" would most likely be it. It's sickly color alone was nearly enough to induce vomiting, and its form suggested a chimeric amalgamation of all of the planet's worst, thankfully uncommon parasites. But whatever it was, the unnatural wormlike protrusion slithered pants-shittingly close to Taylor’s eye and raised its triangular head. It stopped. Its form blurred Taylor’s visual field, and its feelers tickled his turquoise eyes. And it waited. Waited as a concoction of fear and oxygen deprivation brewed inside Taylor's chest, threatening to explode at any moment. Is this really it? No fanfare. I just die? It's really as simple as making the wrong choice? As simple as turning the wrong page in a cruel Choose Your Own Adventure Book? Why the fuck did you stop! Delvaux telepathically screamed at his independent mion, Ignazio. It won’t move. The great one refuses this vessel as if it is poison. The ex-Mafioso mentally radioed back. Impatient, Delvaux commandeered the man’s body for himself and looked upon the traveling American. If you want something done right…. The worm turned. Delvaux psychically raved at it to assimilate the boy, but it burrowed defiantly back into the Ignazio’s arm as if it had just been asked to chug a gallon of bleach. It was no use. Delvaux’s plan was toast. All the buildup had gone flawlessly only for the climax to be rendered dead on arrival. Fuck! What now! I can’t kill the kid. He thought as his experience in damage control kicked in. Perhaps I can tell them that it’s part of the ritual, symbolizing how we’ve got guns to each other’s back at all times, and it’s about trust. I just need to ask him to do the same for me. Taylor was dropped, and his hood fell, revealing his pony ears. The Herald had briefed Delvaux about this: some were immune to the mion plague, and the so-called ponies were as well. So there’s a connection after all. He thought before freezing at a more important realization. They know! Hacker from America my ass! They have to have known, but that’s impossible! I always made sure there were no observers! I was always careful! He lamented to the heavens. He retreated to his own body in the borrowed cabin and set his nascent backup plan into motion. I hate to make a mess, but I have no choice. Taylor, collapsed on the floor and gasped for air with great difficulty. Before he could say a word, his tormenter pulled him to his side and make the unspoken threat very clear with the enormously strong grip around his waist. Taylor didn’t doubt that he could break his arms like toothpicks and, garroted by panic, he stayed silent. Gunshots erupted just before the café came into view once more. The deafening pops make Taylor's ears attempt to bunch themselves inward, but they were still left ringing from the brief firefight. Upon being led around a corner, his eyes fell instantly to the corpse of the tall, balding Don bleeding out onto an upturned table. A fat man fell over onto him dead as a flash from the brown-coated man’s gun finished off Cosa Loro's last member remaining in the room. The surviving Don reoriented himself as his son rushed over to their fallen comrade. Their voices came in fast, desperate Italian with their grief penetrating the language barrier. Sensing the opportunity to strike, Taylor’s captor released him and charged at the group with suicidal determination. The brown coat dispatched him instantly with a headshot, aiming and squeezing his right trigger finger in one swift motion. However, no one in the room saw Don Lucca’s corpse go for Raimondo’s fallen handgun. Jerking back to life, it shot Giovanni in the heart, offering the gunman no time respond, and sent the younger Colvi flying with a freakishly strong punch before grabbing the other Don in a bear hug. The ensnared bellowed out an order to his son, who gave a pained look before gritting his teeth and dashing out the door. Taylor bolted out behind him, stopping briefly to grab his backpack. Spines began jutting out from Lucca's arms, and one cut through Taylor's two layers of clothes, nearly pinning him to the wall. Taylor's heart skipped a beat as he charged through the café's front door and saw the fleeing mafioso making a beeline towards a parked car. The man, twenty feet ahead of Taylor, reached for the keys in his pocket, flung open the passenger door, mentally kicked himself for forgetting the car was American-made and climbed over the left-hand driver’s seat. Without making a sound, a dozen red-skinned humanoids of various races ages and genders came out from inside buildings and around street corners all at once. They carried crowbars, bats and firearms and approached the cafe position briskly. Seeing the whirlpool of Charybdis forming around him, Taylor made the snap judgment to bet on Scylla once more and hopped into the passenger seat of the car just as its driver floored it. The sudden acceleration caused the door to painfully spank Taylor right where the incision had been made. Yeah, that about sums up tonight. They drove without a word exchanged. Not once did Domenico question Taylor being there, and he in turn neither asked for permission nor for the destination. They just drove down the highway, cutting off and pulling in front of other cars whenever convenient. Taylor would normally ask if the driver had a death wish, but a day( night? morning?) spent staring danger in the face had inured him to the “thrill” of reckless driving. Domenico, his mind elsewhere, looked out on the road with soulless eyes and only his left hand on the wheel. He could ask him to drop him off at any time now. However, now that he was in relative safety, his psyche had recovered enough to endure the weight of his failure. He knew. He had known all along, but the familiar pain of a pinned tail eliminated most deniability. Reaching to the back of his jeans, he felt the thin, crumpled appendage already at half of its original length. Taylor gave an exaggerated sigh and thought for a moment that this was all his emotional reserves could offer. This soon proved false as he felt a familiar rage—a rage of being wronged. But this had no outlet—no agent to pin it on. He felt ready to boil over. He wanted to thrash about and tear the car up, scream in agony and beat his head against something, but his inhibitions held and funneled the anger back inside. What’s the point? A tantrum would accomplish nothing. So do I accept I’m some animal—fuck it! Pony! I get some book from nowhere about a civilization of ponies right when I sprout a tail—a pony. Time to stop denying it like a fucking coward and take the emasculating hit for what it is: I’m becoming a fucking pony! Oh hey, what a surprise “acceptance” made me feel even worse! Guess I’m shit out of luck. “So why me?” Taylor asked, bitter, to have anything at all to do. “Seeing as you just needed someone to throw to the dogs, why me?” The driver merely pointed to Taylor’s exposed ears, feeling that he deserved only pity if he hadn't already put it together on his own. “You know what’s happening to me?” Taylor asked after a moment spent choosing from an array of questions. “No, not quite,” Domenico began in heavily accented English. “I just found out today that there are a whole lot of ‘ponies’ in government concentration camp. “The government doesn’t want that others know, and I thought that other weird things are happening.” He paused for a moment to consider how much to say. “And I was right.” The too-recent-for-comfort memory of the monstrous creature crawling towards his face reared its ugly, eyeless face. It gave Taylor a jump just remembering. “What was that worm thing then? What the hell did I sign up for?” “Worm thing?” “Your friend in the closet shoved some nightmarish wormslug thing in my face. It was close—like real close. I thought it was going to burrow into my eyeball like some room 101-style torture, but then it just stopped like I was the ugly one. Domenico turned his head to the side to examine Taylor’s face more closely. It was quite a sight: his jaw looked abnormally undersized as his nose pushed out into a rounded muzzle under the watch of his unnaturally massive eyes. Nope, too easy. “Did he say anything about what he wanted to do?” The Don's son asked. “No, he didn’t say anything. He just did that one handed lift/choke-hold thing—which I was surprised to learn actually exists outside of movie—and tried to shove that thing in my face—in a decidedly unsexy way I might add. Hey wait a minute! When did you start asking the questions. I’m the one that……….HgggghuAYRNNRRRRRGH,” Taylor out cried as a prelude to agony. A piercing pain exploded from within his groin. He grit his teeth as it slowly dulled from mind-numbing to merely overpowering. Why there? I suppose it probably will be bigger now—possibly the only upside of this whole thing—but I barely felt anything from my ears changing and moving around, so why does this hurt so much? Strange…. it doesn't feel like it's growing at all. If anything it….. Taylor then remembered the pains from earlier that only recently let up. Those weren’t stomach pains. If anything they were closer to my…….. ……….womb…………….. He slumped into his seat and could only stupidly blurt out what was going through his mind: “I think I’m becoming a girl pony.” His driver/chauffeur/kidnapper said nothing. “It’s because I liked that princess land isn’t it? That must be it." "No!” Taylor squealed, clasping his hand together. “God, Buddha, Xenu, anybody, please don’t do this to me. You can make me a donkey for all I care, but please don’t do this to me. The gender I already have barely tolerates me as it is—you don’t want me embarrassing another one. Please I’ll do anything!” “I can be manly. I'll show you! If you spare me this, I’ll marathon all of Fist of the North Star—even the crappy live action movies!” “I’ll base my entire identity around going to the gym and constantly look for an opening in every conservation to describe my fitness regimen in excruciating detail!" “I'll outsource my happiness to the fleeting success of a local sports franchise and spend a large chunk of my free time endlessly speculating with other fans." "I'll..." Dammit I’m out of manly stereotypes—and I’m supposed to be a man here! “It’s like the natural selection gods looked down and said, 'Hey Taylor, you kind of suck at this, so you might want to try something entirely different; after all, It's not like you can have any less luck at this procreation thing.'" "Now I’m starting to sound like my parents with their nagging about grandchildren. Wait a minute! Did my parents put you up to this?” he asked clasping his hands together once more. “Whatever they prayed I’ll double it!” Domenico relaxed his grip on the knife in his suit jacket’s pocket. He’s real. I don’t care how committed a manipulating intelligence is. Nothing can replicate that sort of inanity with a straight face. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road as Taylor continued his rambling. He needed something else to distract him now that his suspicion of Taylor had ended. There will be time for mourning later when I'm safe.. Taylor was currently launching into something long-winded about Artemis. It’s like those American police movies. The driver is focused and concentrating on important things while the sidekick annoys him and the audience alike. But I thought the rule was that the white professional cop gets an annoying black sidekick and vice-versa. More Hollywood lies. “And that’s reason number thirty-eight why I would make a terrible mother,” Taylor said. “I knew it,” Domenico interrupted. “Huh?” “You being a girl pony. I suspected it.” “What?” “Your voice, your face—if I hadn’t know you were a guy earlier I would have guessed wrong. Your nose is rounding and too short to be a male. I observe racehorses I know.” “But how would you even begin to think…” a photo was shoved into Taylor’s hands. It depicted rows and rows of miserable ponies stuffed into stable stalls. “Notice there are up to six females in one stall, while some male ponies only share with one. There are just more females.” Domenico began. “This suggests that this is happening to more women or what is happening to you. I had thought that it was the first, but you proved differently. Interesting...” “Enough with your deductions! Your taking this in stride really pisses me off—acting like it’s ‘to be expected’ when my entire existence is being challenged here.” “I’m sorry. Everyone I loved just died. Your problem doesn't seem so big.” “Yeah, I’m sure that Giovanni thug was a blast at parties with that condescending attitude of his. Next you’re going to tell me that fatso had the soul of a poet and would donate pounds of flesh to feed sick orphans." The other man shook with visible ire, nearly rear-ending someone before regaining composure. “Raimondo had a dream—a humble dream,” he managed through gritted teeth. “What? To break the most kneecaps out of anyone?” “He wanted to write a dirty jokebook. He only needed three more to reach one-hundred and two and finish it.” "A jokebook? Haven't encountered those since my second-grade book fair. Probably because the format lends itself to about that level of intelligence.“ Fine, ”Taylor baited. “You say he's funny. Prove it.” “I don’t know. Are you old enough to hear this?” “You don’t look any older than me.” “Raimondo himself wasn’t old enough for some of these, but let’s see if I can find one age-appropriate.” Domenico paused and spent three minutes in thought, making consecutive blind turns automatically. “Well?” Taylor asked. "Trying to choose between knock-knock jokes?" “One thing: what do you call ancient kings of Egypt?” “Pharaohs?” “Yes that. I couldn’t think of the English word. " "Anyway, there once was a powerful and virtuous Pharaoh. He ruled over his prosperous kingdom for decades to great approval of his people. He had unstoppable martial might, untold riches and a harem of one-hundred beautiful women. After a successful military campaign, he declared a national holiday to honor his brave warriors. Since they would one day be honored ancestors, it was to be a day to honor one's forefathers with equivalent equal to the dead. One day, the Pharaoh and his entourage were wandering through a crowded marketplace just outside the palace when they spotted a young boy crying. Selfless ruler that he was, the Pharaoh ordered his party to halt and he approached the boy. The child was crying and was wearing only rags, which were covered in bread crumbs. 'Tell me, boy, what is the matter,' the Pharaoh asked the boy with a gentle confidence. 'Well, my momma told me that since it was the holiday, I needed to take the money and go gift shopping for my father, grandfather and great-grandfather, but I got hungry,' the boy said, embarrassed. 'I can see that. Since I am a generous king, I will give you these silver pieces to get presents suitable for your forebears. However, remember that you have to buy gifts for three. Put all your chickens in one coop, and a single hungry wolf can ravage them all, so remember to budget accordingly. Do you understand?' 'Yes, my king. Thank you, my king.' 'Off you go then,' the Pharaoh commanded as the buy sprinted back into the heart of the marketplace.'" "Did the ancient Egyptians even raise chickens?" Taylor interrupted. "I don't care. Shut up." "After checking that the celebrations were proceeding accordingly, the Pharaoh's entourage was looping back around the marketplace when the Pharaoh once more spotted the poor boy. This time he was leading a beautiful, white ewe back towards the palace. Some of the guards prepared for the order to punish the boy for his mistake, but whereas a lesser man would have at least given the boy a tongue-lashing, the Pharaoh had his caller hail the boy to politely point out his mistake." "Again. I'm wondering if ancient Egypt had enough grassland even raise...." "Shut up!" "'Hello again, my king,' the boy said with a bow." 'That is a lovely ewe. Is that what you purchased with the coins I gave to you?' 'Yes, my king.' 'Do you remember what I said about conserving the money to be able to buy all the gifts you need?' 'Yes, my king.' 'And is one ewe enough for your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather?' 'Of course. I hope you like her, my king.'" Dead silence was had for half a minute after Domenico had delivered the punchline. Did I mess it up. I guess I'm no match for Raimondo, and besides, it's best in Sicilian anyway. Taylor then abruptly broke out in shrill laughter, riding the line between spontaneous and forced. He stretched it out for a few extra seconds before stopping and giving a confused sigh. "You just now got the joke?" "Oh, no, the joke was terrible. I'm laughing at the absurdity of it all—I nearly lost my organs to some chop shop doctors, I sat in on teatime with the Mafia, I find out I'm turning into a female horse and now I hitchhike with a fleeing mafia member while listening to him read from a dead guy's unfunny jokebook." "Can you really judge what's clever or not when you can't keep your eyes open for more than a minute at a time?" "I'd argue that point, but I'm too tired. Considering we're already at the stage where I crash in your car, I suppose I should ask for your name at least." "It's Dominic," the Sicilian said. "Really? It's not something funny-sounding like Dominico, or something?" "Yes, that is my name," Domenico said, perturbed. "Oh... I don't suppose you have any more jokes?" "I would, but a lot of them are bestiality jokes, and I think that is a subject that still hurts." "Yeah, I would appreciate you don't remind me what my most biologically compatible options are now." "All right then. I won't tell any more bestiality jokes." His English is passable, but that's the first time he made a mistake that confused the point. He probably meant "bestiality jokes anymore." The way he said it implies that the first joke already... DAMMIT! Taylor glared at Domenico. "I hate you so much right now." Rest in peace, Raimondo. Domenico thought, blinking back tears. Domenico guided Taylor by hand, feeling his noticeably shorter fingers. They met with a customs officer the mafia heir had paid off beforehand, and he gestured them aboard a large cargo ship. The duo crouched behind some boxes, out of sight of anyone who might not be on the payroll. “We should be shoving off fairly soon,” the Sicilian said to fill the silence. “You shove off.” “Should I wake you when we will arrive?” “No thanks take me wherever. I don’t care anymore. I’ve gotten fairly used to being a pinball of fate. Or is it a top or a dreidel? If you can keep me off the state-sponsored dissection table, I'll pull my weight. Bottom line is this though: I don’t care how pretty a pony I become; no taking advantage of me while I sleep, deal?” “Okay?” “Goodnight then!” Taylor, declared decisively and plopped down to catch his first substantial rest in days. Fifteen minutes pasted with nothing but the sounds of the sea to keep Domenico company. He sat still in silence, hardly believing how badly things had gone. The need to look tough for Taylor had passed, so why couldn't he grieve? It wasn't denial because he had clearly seen Raimondo pass away before his eyes. He occupied himself by trying in vain to rationalize his feelings until he was suddenly blinded by the first light of the day. He peered out a window that he had only noticed seconds before and saw them approaching a port in Southeastern France. The staff on the other end was thankfully paid to ask no questions and even helped him move his unusual cargo into the passenger seat of the truck he had prepared. He put the keys into the ignition and turned to look at the still-clothed Earth Pony mare to his left. His features brightened a little. Oh, he’s going to love that color scheme for sure. Nothing in the photos came close to that. He thought, snickering to himself before fastening Taylor’s seat-belt for him. Storm Chaser raced through masses of low, humming clouds, their darkened white exteriors a satisfying umami. He still reveled in the pure joy of flying, but why wouldn't he? After all, you don't become the paragon of Wonderbolts without loving flight, even after the years of thankless work needed to reach the top of the mountain. In this case, it was literal as Storm Chaser zigzagged between the tallest peaks of the Pyrenees. The cold weather would deter all but the bravest, but the stallion's strong wings had carried him over even Mont Blanc; this was nothing in comparison. Storm had retired from the Wonderbolts with the personal blessing of Princess Celestia and now served as a special agent of the crown. However, his unique skill set ensured that his retirement would be in-name-only for years to come. Despite his great legacy, the stallion did not look a day past twenty-five. His emerald green coat and dark gray mane were now the official colors of his hometown, and his cutie mark was among the most recognizable in all of Equestria: an old-fashioned windmill with a speeding cannonball crashing through the center. Storm had been religiously keeping up on his training, but his heart once more began to yearn for excitement. He longed for something challenging, fun and romantic to once more cross his path. As if responding to his heart, his marks shone for a brief moment and he suddenly felt a familiar pull. "There it is! The call to adventure!" The Pegasus exclaimed with glee. It was a sensation he had grown accustomed to, akin to a second magnetic North appearing on the internal compass all Pegasi possessed. It had led him into many dangerous situations, but the fact that he was still here, unscathed, was all the justification he needed to one more dive headlong towards its siren song. While Storm's technique hadn't dulled a bit, he had to admit that he was a decade or two away past his top speeds at the academy. Nonetheless, he arrived at his destination in under an hour and surveyed the place from above. It was a run-down farm with only a stable and a weathered shack left standing. A greenhorn might have flown off bored after thirty seconds, but Storm trusted his legendary sense for adventure. It paid off when he spotted two short, hairless minotaurs leading a pair of unicorn mares on improvised leashes. The two met eyes briefly before huffing and going their separate ways. Praise Celestia! I've found them. A reddish unicorn with a red and yellow mane—that's definitely Warm Spirits, future duchess of Cantermore. The champion of the Wonderbolts then turned his attention to the cyan, blue-maned unicorn. And that has to be Ocean Breeze, princess of the independent cloud kingdom of Featherven. Storm paused for a moment and brought a hoof to his chin. But shouldn't she be a pegasus? No, it doesn't matter--that's definitely her! He admired the beautiful, young mares from a distance, but abruptly averted his eyes when he saw Ocean begin to squat. They're being lead around by leash until they relieve themselves openly? Like common dogs!? Unforgivable! I was going to wait for backup since Celestia knows how many more minotaurs and their Diamond Dog allies are about, but I wouldn't be a stallion worth my salt if I abided this for a moment longer! He readied himself to give the handlers a well-deserved zap courtesy of the cloud supporting him, but he then spotted several trucks approaching the farm from a distance and lay back down on the cloud. No, I can't carry two unicorns on my own. We'll have to go on hoof. If they were Earth Ponies we might be able to make a clean getaway, but unicorns—especially ladies of such standing—just don't have the endurance to lose any pursuers. I don't like it, but I'll have to wait for these reinforcements to pass through. "Hang in there, brave mares! You needn’t endure the enormity of these vile fiends for much longer. You won’t suffer yet a single setting of Celestia’s brilliant sun in chains—this I swear to you!"