The door opened, revealing a brown earth pony in denim with a factory showroom behind him, checking to see what the noise was. Before he could notice I stood behind the door, I teleported past him.
I was surrounded by new fabric smell and roses in glass vases amidst perfectly arranged living room sofa sets, breakfast-nook kitchen sets, and bedroom and dresser sets. Magic sconces and wrought iron chandeliers lit a room full of mahogany, oak, and maple, with book shelves stocked with faux classics, and bedspreads glowing with hearts. At a black granite kitchen center island, below pristine copper pots, a pink mare in a lavender business suit was looking away at a coffee service; she jumped at the sound of my teleport exit pop. Opposite her were glass doors leading out to Chestnut street.
I teleported past them, my quick draw approximation landing me in the street. I had enough strength to dodge a yellow cab pulled by a green stallion who didn't have the time to swerve, though he did have time to curse.
Before I could topple on the curb, I teleported one last time past a shoe shine kiosk halfway down the block—and struck a brick wall with the momentum of avoiding the taxi. Though further bruised, I was saved the ignominy of falling on the sidewalk. I heard the shoeshine colt jump up, his brushes, files, and rust-cleaner scattering around him. I again left a blood smear as I levered myself upright again. I adjusted my cloak to hide the wound and walked.
Now everything was whirling. I struggled to get numbers moving in my head. I wasn't going to be able to teleport any time soon. As I approached an alley, I turned into it. Early morning sunlight streamed down it, illuminating broken pavement and the morning dew condensed into the cracks, as well as a stinky overloaded dumpster. Unfortunately, it also illuminated a wagon with unicorns unloading bolts of fabric for the factory. The sun was behind me, and though I cast a long shadow, none of the workers noticed me.
I stood there, breathing hard, working up the numbers. Behind me, on the street, I heard ponies talking, and one galloping—and he wasn't pulling a taxi. The hue and cry had begun.
Slowly, relying on the rubber soles of my horseshoes to keep quiet, I walked down the alley until I finally got Don't See Don't Hear Don't Look properly spun up. Now, I only had to keep it going despite the pain and a real chance I might faint. Slowly, one-two front steps, one limp, repeat. I had to duck a two-hundred pound red velvet roll that would have surely laid me flat and unconscious, but I got past the wagon. I approached Cottonwood, which meant that to the right lay Elm. I tasted blood as I sucked my lip.
I stopped at the sidewalk and watched a mare in a red business dress trot by. She didn't seem to notice me, even when I threatened to step into her path. So, the spell still worked. Avoiding traffic and succeeding, barely staying upright, I got to Elm, a less busy cross-street. Delivery wagons interspersed with bus-and-eight—each harnessed pony in metro-white and purple livery—that pulled dozens and dozens of salary ponies and their supplies to stores that would open within the hour. I was about as far from my flat as I could get, and though relatively close to the university district, the last thing I was going to do was show up and beg Sunset Shimmer for help in my current state. I nearly collided with a cut fruit vendor, but only knocked over his chili powder shaker and had to fight to keep the spell and not sneeze at the same time. The pony in white and blue pinstripes stared at the ground where the shaker had mysteriously leapt.
Don't See Don't Hear Don't Look was magnificent when you could maintain it. Maybe because I believed my life depended on it, I succeeded.
I found my old alley, the one I'd spent part of spring in. I did not feel an ounce of nostalgia for it, or any contempt for the amalgamation of plastic sheeting, both rigid and tarp-like, that surrounded a lean-to near the dead-end fence. I limped forward and soon smelled a pony who, like myself not long ago, rarely had the opportunity to bathe or the luxury of a nearby toilet.
Having had to live this way—no, correction, having chosen to live this way multiple times over the last three years—the smell didn't bother me, nor did I despise the blue pony who I saw sleeping away beside sacks of clothes and gathered recycling. He wasn't a symbol of decay. He was just another oppressed pony, whether by choice or circumstance, or by lack of a cutie mark that might lead him to be the oppressor.
He just was.
I took no satisfaction in what I needed to do. With the harsh shadows of the new day and the general disinclination of ponies to look down an alley that might harbor something dangerous or uncomfortable, I let my spell sputter out. It took me a minute to spin up the numbers, and as soon as I knew I had it right, I stunned the poor stallion. He yelped, but with all the street noise echoing about, no pony heard.
I pushed myself into his rather spacious shelter. Pushing aside his bags of stuff, three stallions could fit without hooves or flank exposed. I piled the bags into a blind and pushed him with my nose in his noisome flank into a corner, into his blankets so he couldn't see me.
"I'm really sorry about this, but it will be worth your while. Do me the favor of not looking at me when the stun wears off and I'll soon be gone."
He jittered and jerked, but he continued to breathe normally with his head facing away. As I took off the cloak with my teeth, I did as I said I would. I reached into my saddlebag, found with my tongue the silver bit I had reserved for visiting One Fell Swoop, and spat it beside him with a clink he could mistake for naught but money. After few minutes, I managed levitation and got my Grimoire costume off. I might not be able to launder out the blood matted into the black fabric, but I put it in my saddle bags with the shoes. I sponged off the absurd cutie mark and rearranged my hair into pigtails. That took a long fifteen minutes. If the hue and cry reached out four blocks, I'd be caught cold.
That left me with a cut across my withers and a bloody lip, not to mention a startling limp that surely Detective Fellows had taken good note of. Stupid me. What had possessed me to lecture him, as if anything I might say could sway him. Stupid.
Stupid.
If only I had Dr. Flowing Waters to help me, but then I would have to get through the bailey gate and into the castle for that.
Or would I?
I glanced at my bunk mate. Though he had stopped jerking and jittering, he did shiver a bit, but he did kept his head buried in his blanket. "Good fellow. Just keep looking away."
"Yes, ma'am," he said in a phlegmy voice.
I took my time, breathing deeply and regaining as much of my strength as I might under the circumstances, resting, as I did, on cobblestones. Eventually, I wasn't quite so dizzy and bone tired. With my head a bit clearer—it helped that I didn't move my leg—I intentionally remembered both massaging my leg from the inside and how the doctor had spoken to my wounds and told them to heal. I could remember that conversation as if it were branded into my memory.
That didn't mean I could do it, but I would get caught if I limped out of here or if they found me. Best that I concentrate and work through it. I had impressed Dr. Flowing Waters with my awareness of the ebb and flow of his spells, and amazed myself that I'd gotten as far as I had.
Just work through it.
It took about an hour, and fully half of that resting with my eyes closed, but I began to see more detail in the numbers that came back when I moved the tissue in the sliced flesh on my upper back. Craning my neck, I could mostly see the slit skin. It began to vibrate and I could perceive a pattern of knitting that seemed to be innate and right for the skin and vessels lying below it in layers. This feedback told me what was right and I told it to become right again.
Oddly enough, it did as bidden. The flesh heated up and became feverish, and after a half-hour, the scabs worked loose and fell off, revealing skin that puckered a bit. It looked faintly scared, but under my fur it looked basically perfect.
I worked on my lip and—though it pulled up, probably giving me a faint sneer—in ten minutes it felt whole. I levitated the blood away, if not the smell.
My friend moved, rearranging himself but not looking. I said, "I've left you a silver bit. Please humor me for an hour longer."
"About an hour'll be as much as I can hold it."
I nodded, though he couldn't see. I was already regarding my leg. Well, there was no choice and certainly time was running out. I dove my magic into the wound. I had a torn ligament, which caused the limp and the majority of the pain, and a slight fracture that was more painful than dangerous. Bruises peppered my upper leg, but wouldn't be visible under my fur except as puffiness, so I concentrated on the worst—the ligament.
It fascinated me that I could learn as much as I did about my own anatomy, and trust me, I knew very little anatomy. It was like being handed a broken machine and when you went to repair it, you found it came with a very detailed, easy to understand repair manual. It kind of made sense. School taught that all ponies grew from a single cell. Ponies could heal. That meant that somewhere inside us all lay both the operations guide and a full schematic as well as the repair manual. I kept that in mind as I detected the correct pattern of the ligament, and used brute strength to pull the stretched tissues back into place as the cells raced frenetically to mend themselves because I simply told them they could and they should. This time the fever filled my whole body, and maybe I suffered a bit of delirium because I was dimly aware of an immense pain that caused me to shudder and moan, but I managed to continuously maintain the spell spinning as if it were my breath itself. I sweated buckets, but persisted.
And then it was done.
I glanced at the homeless stallion. He shivered. Perhaps he had looked and had seen me encased in a green glow. Perhaps he was frightened just by the sound I emitted. Or maybe he need to go and thought his life depended on controlling his bladder. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes averted.
I took a deep breath and flexed my right rear leg.
Ah, there was pain. And it felt stiff and well bruised, but it moved and articulated correctly.
With a sigh, I carefully stood and hit the tarp ceiling. I put my weight on my leg, then pushed down; the fracture twinged, but if I walked slowly, I felt convinced I would not limp. I took precious moments to comb my hair and used a square of cloth to dry the sweat off. I checked my flank for smudges—and for a half expected cutie mark.
Thank Celestia and all the forces of nature it was still blank. I checked my ponytails; perfect.
I said, "I'm leaving. Give me five minutes, okay? I promise not to visit again if you don't talk about my stay."
"Yes, my lady."
I shuddered at the title, but knew he wasn't clairvoyant. I nosed myself from under the tarp and pushed the bags of stuff aside and entered the alley.
At least a couple of hours had passed; I felt each one of the 26-plus hours since I'd last arisen. My tongue wanted to stick to the roof of my mouth and my eyes were dry, from dehydration. There was a pond in Blueblood park were I could drink if I found nothing else.
At the end of the alley, ponies gathered, talking. The ears of one perked up and he looked my way. He was mustard yellow with a green mane and eyes. He wore a simple khaki shirt and tan tie. Though he wore neither a copper badge nor a uniform, investigator radiated from him like heat radiating off dark pavement at noon.