//------------------------------//
// Wherein Trixie Browbeats a Foal for Her Own Amusement 
// Story: The Last Illusion 
// by ScientistWD 
//------------------------------//




Act Two
“You didn’t do the voices,” I pout.
“So,” he begins, ignoring me outright. “You attended Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns?”
I pout a bit further, more for show than offense. “Yes, she did,” I say, rolling my eyes. My chains rattle as I did so.
His questions continue. “And this must be where you learned to wield a sword?”
“Humph,” I smile. “Trixie was the best on the sword fighting team. None could ever hope to hold a candle to her.”
“Oh really?” he says, fake impressed. “Very interesting. Tell me more about school.”
“Charmer,” I tease, aware of this game we’re playing. Still, I have nothing to hide. A bit of reminiscing will do me some good, so I lower my head and close my eyes to hide from this light before I continue. “Trixie was quite the rebel in school. Teachers could not handle her skill, and her classmates were equally put off by her expertise. She would speak up best she could to correct the vastly inferior opinions of the masses, but the status quo was, alas, too enticing for them.”
“Sounds like you had your ideas and they had theirs.”
“Indeed. And theirs sucked.”
“An example?” he posits.
Hm. Intriguing. Humorous, even, as the oppressive interrogation I currently find myself in was not unlike the time I spent at Celestia’s. Ponies in positions of power, knowing what they want to hear and from whom they wanted to hear it. As if all they want from me was to become a history book. Make no mistake; I loved history then and I still do. But I always preferred the idea of making it than mimicking it. Something a decent number of “mature” ponies in my life couldn’t quite understand at the time.
“They did not like her tricks.” I lilt. “They silenced her innovation until she could take it no longer.”
“And what then?” he quips.
My tone solidifies. This isn’t much fun anymore. “I got out.”
A wisp of magic flutters behind the mirror. It’s hard to say, but it resembles a mail spell, one I’ve seen used by Canterlot elite to quickly deliver important letters. He must be corresponding with somepony else, too.
“Are you commuting with another?” I playfully ask him. “How rude. Trixie should be the center of your attention.”
“Believe me, you are,” he returns. There’s a warmth to his voice, almost like he’s joking. He continues, “Quite perceptive of you. But I shouldn’t expect less from one of Celestia’s alumni.”
My lips lift. “You should not expect anything ‘less’ from Trixie. But enough about school. She doubts it to be relevant.”
“I’m only trying to get to know you, Trixie,” comes the warmth to his voice again. “We don’t have to be enemies if you’re innocent, which I’m thinking is the case.”
“And this is how you treat your ‘friends’, hm? Locking them in bright rooms with only their reflections to look at? Granted, Trixie is fabulous, but she must assure you that her mane has seen better days.”
“I told you, I can’t change that, and—“
“Tell me something about yourself then, good stallion. If you are really to express your good faith.” 
I eye him for a beat through the mirror. But his quiet persists.
He concedes. “I can’t... I can’t do that, Trixie.”
“Oh, woe is me!” I mock. “Trixie has woken up tangled in rusted chains and fields of white only to be prodded and scrutinized by the oppressive hoof of the law. Why not spare this poor mare, lost in mind and disheveled in body, all of these games, hm? Some food, or water perhaps? At the very least a real display of compassion!”
A beat follows. Looks like I have him now. I don’t mean to offend him, but I think I deserve a little compensation at this point. My muscles are sore, my eyes are sore, and I can feel several sores on other parts of my body, parts that I cannot currently see because I’m chained so tightly, are they themselves sore. I’m hungy. This light and cold have parched me. I’m only as optimistic as I’m still performing.
He pauses. I hold my hoof out in supposition, allowing it to hang there with my raised eyebrow. Surely he has something to say.
“Trixie...” He finally begins with grounded words. “I thought I was clear about how serious this is.”
Oh. “Humph… I… She understands what you mean…”
“Based on this interrogation and her own judgement, the Princess will decide your fate. Until then... I’ve been instructed not to trust you. Until then, Trixie, you’re the enemy of Equestria.”
I twist my mouth, and I watch myself in my reflection. This is an odd dilemma. On one hoof, I could concede that I may not have done the “treasonous” thing in question, great and powerful as it may have been, in an effort to preserve my innocence while simultaneously failing to live up to my own personality. Of course, I could also cater to the possibility that I did something so potent, so severe and profound that I need to be literally locked in a cage with every possible precaution taken to ensure the safety of my interrogator. The day may have finally come when I went too far.
In this world, at this time, I am performing for my life.
“Don’t look so defeated.”
“Trixie does not look defeated!” I quickly retort, only a tinge of panic in my voice. “She’s only thinking, that’s all.”
His voice is patient, and understanding. “I know that this is a lot to take in. Despite the circumstances, please know that I’m only trying to help you.”
“Oh really?” I droll, losing patience. “You’re not even slightly interested in finding your traitor?”
This room is completely white, save for myself and the mirror, but it is not completely silent when the good stallion and I become quiet. There is a hum in the distance. It is high in pitch, sitting on the tops of my eardrums. My stage lights buzz similarly. They have a way of filling a lull in the action.
I remember. What it’s like to be alone.
“I have a niece.”
I don’t respond.
“She is in elementary school. I love her and she means a lot to me.” There is concession, a low rivet in his voice as he continues. “And I’m sure that she would adore your story so far. But I shouldn’t say more.”
I sigh, furrowing my face to try and block out the humming of the lights. I turn away from the mirror, and away from my reflection. My head shies, pointing my nose to a small crack in the tile.
“At least read it to Trixie as you would to your niece. The story will be much better that way.” My voice is just above a whisper.
He pauses a moment.
“I’ll see what I can do.”




Ah! Oh dear! The scribe was in the clutches of another pony’s magic! A young, light purple unicorn was on the run, veering off of the path and avoiding the low-hanging arms of trees. Her breath gasped with exasperation, and her tongue licked her lips, begging for moisture and a few driblets of stew. What manner of madness was this? Where was Trixie? Where was Miss Doo? No evidence of their presence was given; the late morning light beamed through the thick forest canopy, brightening exposed tree roots and resting toads but not on the fleeing vigilante.
“Huff… heh… wow…” she panted, still galloping around obstacles. “I didn’t know that was a unicorn’s stuff. Still. That stew was worth it…!”
Crash! The rustle of her escape was cut short by a loud bang far behind the escaping pony. Above the trees, through gaps in their branches, a billowing tower of magical smoke was broadening and sparkling like glitter. “Trixie has no patience for thieves that offend her!” The cloud thundered. “Return her belongings at once, scamp, or she will find a VERY creative way to punish you!”
Funny how when it was thugs and an innocent old pony in the road she cowered in fear, but when it was a foal and her personal effects she threw a stormy fit. Tsk, tsk, Trixie.
Regardless! This behavior was unacceptable! And this burglar would have done best to leave the scribe be; she was not who this story was about!
“Ha…! See her catch this…!” the ruffian smirked, horn aglow. The magic intensified until she teleported, taking the scribe with her a few hundred paces ahead. Here, things were quiet; trees were thinner and had their own patches of sun to themselves. How optimistic they looked. As optimistic as the scribe was that it would soon be rescued. 
The young mare panted, brushing away bits of her unkempt, darker purple mane. She leaned on a tree, clutching the scribe with slightly dirty hooves. “Whew! Pretty close! That mare’s really packin’, huh?” She took a deep inhale, settled in the grass, and lay down properly. Much needed, it would seem. This young pony was covered in fresh sweat and dust. A few deep breaths did her well. “Now,” she began at the peak of a breath. “Let’s see what you’ve got, spellbook.”
Spellbook…? Spellbook!? Rude.
She saw that the scribe was autonomous, and watched its quill inch along the pages. “Hey, cool!” she remarked at its loquacious sentences. “Do you write everything I say? Bananas? Apple cream menagerie marmalade? Rusty Oaks is a smelly, crummy school and so is Mister Irons! Ha! Look at that! It looks so good in nice writing. So fancy and official. Hm… will you say….?”
The young mare then casually spat several asinine profanities. How immature.
“Pfft!” she chortled. “You’re hilarious. I’m so keeping you.” The purple pony worked the scribe about with her hooves, checking for more details, no doubt. “You look so old,” she mentioned. As if she knew. “Like a library book back from Discord’s days.” She peered at the insignia on the back cover, squinting. “Like, what mark is this?”
The scribe did not answer. As if it would, even if it had been capable. A scribe with no heroine becomes rather disgruntled, no?
The pony re-examined the latest writings, raising one of her eyebrows. “Are you… talking to me…?” Such a notion was ridiculous of course, as the scribe is incapable of speech.
An “oof!” interrupted the scene, rattling the branches of a nearby tree. The surprise alerted the young unicorn to her hooves. Miss Doo had arrived.
The rascal kept her eyes on the scribe’s fresh writings, while still alert to her new opponent. She was anticipating. “H…hey!” the she called, probably because she was a little bit scared. But she was soon distracted by the scribe’s rude remarks, looking back and forth between it and Miss Doo as if she was cornered by them. Are you in trouble, little unicorn? “Wha… you…? You’re Miss Doo!”
“Um, yes!” popped Miss Doo, right-side-upping herself.
“Wow…!” came the impressed purple unicorn. “Tell me more, book! Where’s she from? What’s her cutie mark, why’s she in the woods outside Hoovesvale?”
“Oh, you’re kind of young huh?” Miss Doo returned, urging the young theif. “Come on, you should know stealing is wrong. You should give the book back; Trixie is really upset about it.”
“No! Shhh!” she held out a hoof to silence the pegasus, looking to the scribe expectantly.
…
…
Nothing was happening. A steady silence filled the air, taking up the space just beneath the gentle singing breeze that—
“What!? No, tell me about Miss Doo!” sputtered the rude purple unicorn. How brash of her to interrupt.
Miss Doo started to approach, no longer intimidated. “Just push the scribe over to me, okay? I promise you won’t get in too much trouble! But we’re gonna have to tell your parents.”
“‘Trouble’, Miss Doo? You mistake Trixie for a lighthearted schoolteacher!” That voice, one both whispering and booming, washed over the crowd. “For JUSTICE is all this fair pony desires!” Zap! The sky flashed with darkness to herald the showmare’s descent, and just as fast she appeared inches from the young pony’s face. Purple eyes met purple eyes, one pair flinching and the other focused and sneering. “So how about it, my little pony?” they writhed. “Will you hand over her scribe willingly? Or will you incur Trixie’s wrath?”
But flinching eyes did not stay that way for long. The thief looked to the scribe in her hoof, back to Trixie, back to the scribe and back to Trixie again, this time with a singed resolve. “How about shove it!” the purple unicorn shouted, flaring her horn again with the bright light of her teleportation spell.
Unfortunate for her that she reappeared on the ground several feet away, pinned down by the flat of Trixie’s magical sword. “Oh my,” the showmare sang, whimsically. “It would appear that you hath been dunked on, knave.”
“What…!? How did you—!?”
“Please,” she jeered as she magically wriggled the scribe from the theif. “Your first teleportation spell was panicked and sophomoric, the only reason it was difficult for Trixie to follow you. This time, with you right here and your path of escape so obvious? Child’s play, knave. And now…” Trixie lowered her head to the filly’s, mouth curling up into a sinister grin. “You. Are. In. Trooouble.”
Trixie skipped off to the side dramatically, allowing her pinned prey to watch with one eye. “What say you, Miss Doo?” she mused. “Ought we tie her to a tree and leave her? High in the branches, of course, so the birds might peck at her bones. Or perhaps we could test some of Trixie’s new spells on her first. You know, the one that inverts the eyes with the ears? Though, Trixie is quite hungry, since our stew was eaten as well. So perhaps…” she smiled. “We could eat her… alive…! A little filly sounds oh so delicious right now, doesn’t it Miss Doo?”
The pinned prey gulped. “No way…!” She struggled to escape, but Trixie’s sword was still pressing her to the grass quite hard. “You guys are freaks! Let me go!”
“Ah, I know…” Trixie walked, hoof by hoof, to stand over the thief. With magic, the sides and edges of her cape widened until the morning sun was eclipsed, casting darkness over the poor delinquent. “We could send her to another dimension,” she whispered maliciously. The underside of Trixie’s cape became a cold cosmic panorama, a kaleidoscopic haze of wooden boards, stage lamps, and visceral dark. “One with nothing but time. No friends… no food…
“and not…
“quite…
“enough…
“oxygen…!”
“Whoa, Trixie, settle down!” came Miss Doo’s shouts from beyond the veil. “Let’s just take her back to her parents!”
“Hmmmm….” hummed the still encroaching tides of the void. It ached, as if there were some great beast beyond, a massive leviathan groaning in anticipation. Trixie’s prey held her breath, looking for light that was slowly draining away. Then, turning to the shadowed showmare above, the thief showed desperation slowly growing on her face.
“Brilliant idea, Miss Doo,” and at once the veil came down, flooding the pinned pony’s eyes with light. “Fortunate,” she continued, looking over her shoulder at the fallen pony as her sword de-conjured. “That Miss Doo and Trixie are such kind and reasonable individuals. Come on now, my little pony. Town is not that far.”




As they approached town, the young pony kept her distance. But not too much distance, lest Trixie think that she was escaping. Getting dunked on was likely not a fun experience. So she had just let Trixie take the lead. Better than being watched or pushed, certainly. Not many can handle Trixie.
Miss Doo slowed her pace to meet up with the thief. “Hey, sorry about Trixie,” she said. “I’ve… never seen her get that wild before. But she’s not a bad pony, she’s just really intense!”
Neither of the two mares saw Trixie smirk.
“Anyway, my name’s Ditzy Doo! You can just call me Ditzy if you want, though!” Miss Doo smiled. “What’s your name?”
The thief puffed out her cheeks a little, embarrassed. “You don’t have to treat me like a little kid. Just drop me off back in town and leave me there.”
“Back in town… you mean that little place just off of Canterlot, right? Hoovesvale, I think?”
“Yeah I live there so just mind your own business, okay?” she whined.
“Sorry, but that’d be irresponsible of us! And besides, you did steal our soup and almost steal Trixie’s scribe. You really should have been more careful! What if we weren’t nice ponies? What if we really ate you!” Miss Doo nodded her head at her own words. “That’s it, we gotta tell your parents! It’s only right.”
“Yeah, well I don’t have any parents, so it’s no big deal and who cares.”
Miss Doo’s face fell. “Oh…” she gave. “S-sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well I’m homeless and… and that’s why I ate—“
“She thinks not,” interrupted Trixie. The two mares looked forward, seeing Trixie peering back at them with the scribe in her magic. She had been reading the entire time. “You shouldn’t tell lies, my little pony. Trixie knows that Rusty Oaks is a small boarding school. She has performed there. And, orphan or not, it is the responsibility of mature ponies like Trixie and Miss Doo to return you to your guardians.”
“Y-yeah…! Well that place sucks! And I’m not—“
“What did you say your name was?”
“Amethyst Star! Can you stop interrupting me!?” shouted the foal. “I’m not a foal!” She stomped a hoof to show how much of a foal she was not. She stopped walking forward, making Miss Doo stop too. But Trixie did not, she kept walking forward. Her hoofbeats were the only ones left, no longer kicking up dust as the well-trodden path into town was not dirty.
“Humph,” she huffed. “Then act like it.”
Miss Doo was crestfallen at the bullied Amethyst Star, but Trixie still would not stop walking. The pegasus gestured for them to continue. “She’s still right,” Miss Doo said, twisting a fake smile. “You have to go home. Even if it sucks.”
“Ugh!” she conceded, continuing. “Just like my teachers at school. Always watching me and judging me and thinking I’m just a kid! I only got out today because those stuck-up jerks were distracted by the festival. And you two had to ruin it!”
“Well hey, I’m sure it’s not all bad!” Miss Doo tried. “A festival sounds fun, right?”
“Oh yeah,” sarcastically. “Tons of fun if you’re freakishly talented like some ponies. You basically have to be a savant, or they’ll just lock you in the dorms. But whatever! Whoever brings in the sympathy gets all the attention, of course!”
“Aw, that’s so sad! Why can’t they just let you guys go?”
“So they can all watch Melody win the hearts of everyone at the music contest or whatever the heck it is instead of ‘chaperoning’ us. As if we need it.”
“Oh… hm…”
Trixie had paused at the top of a short hill, allowing the rest to catch up. She had stopped to admire the view below. “Poor, poor little Amethyst Star,” she smiled, keeping her eyes ahead. “Trixie knows your story all too well. But she is so busy, so so busy with what she has to do today. For she’s forgotten ’til now of her commitment to the Hoovesvale Music Competition. It slipped her mind completely! There is simply no time to take anypony anywhere other than where Trixie intends to go with her own valuable assets.”
“What the heck are you talking about?” Amethyst Star rudely asked.
“Quiet, knave. Trixie has no time for your shenanigans today. Perhaps later this afternoon, once the Competition is over.”
Miss Doo chuckled. “Heh. Trixie are you saying what I think you…? Oh…!”
The fluttering surprise at the tip of Miss Doo’s “Oh” blew high above the expanse of the Hoovesvale festival grounds below. The plaza, consisting of an ornate stone fountain and a road cobbled with very large, flat rocks, was dotted with bustling ponies carrying balloons. Giggling, skipping, comparing goodie bags, and accidentally getting separated from the group only to find them again with their faces painted. Some carnival clown was playing with cotton candy, showing the foals with his magic how to make it fly into the sky, and a little pegasus or two took on after it. Though the ponies here were anything but rural. Unicorns dressed in summer skirts played hopscotch on the rocks like foals. A busy midmorning. An afternoon of fun yet to come. And Trixie had her eyes to the future as a scheme appeared on her sneering cheeks, for it seems she found an ideal group of ponies that she could impress.
Her words teased maniacally. “No, no, Trixie has no time to escort ponies home. She has to practice for the Music Competition.”
“Oh? Trixie, are you good with music?”
“Oh, oh oh of course she is…!”