Act Three
“It doesn’t end there, it seems.”
“No, no, the scribe continued to work after that.”
“It wrote all that down?”
“Yes.”
Silence. Still rather tired, I finally manage to find the most comfortable set of positions to lay in while shackled here. All of them are painful. But painful in different parts of my body, so at least I can switch out when I must.
Sigh. I bore of this greatly now. I’ve long since “come to terms”. I don’t remember how many more pages the scribe wrote, and frankly at this point I’m doubtful anything else interesting will come up. I’m sure Miss Doo and I meet up again, but I don’t remember those details either. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I just want to go home, wherever that is. I want my hat and cape back, I want my magic unbound, and I want to escape the light blue, shackled and dirty pony staring at me in that mirror.
This must be a mistake. Like I’d really ever be in a position to be pit against all of Equestria.
But, again, all this is protocol. I guess I’m not above the system. Once this good stallion finds me innocent in all this, Great and Powerful crime or no, I’ll head on my way and figure out how my latest magical experiment ruined my memory.
“Can she go home now?” I ask, somewhat impatiently.
He replies. I’m sure that his words are as calm and kind as they were when he digressed earlier to his real personality. But the things he says, irrelevant to my question, so blatantly offensive to me and everything I stand for, so grimy and bleak in their composition and meaning…
“River Lulamoon.”
That I immediately lose my temper.
“Excuse me!?” I ask, hardening my voice. “What did you just call her!?”
“That is your real name, isn’t it?” he says, ignoring my obvious anger.
“Not at all, good stallion…!” I grit my teeth. “Trixie’s name is ’Trixie’, plain and simple!”
“Studied at Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, two years…” He must have been reading from a document. What he sent for earlier. Snake. “dropped out after that… consistently dismissive of authority, despite obvious talent… and ranked second in the school’s sword fighting coalition. That’s you, right?”
“Yes,” I spit. Looks like he did some kind of search on me for more information. “That is Trixie and she only got second because her techniques, despite their undeniable success, were deemed ‘non-regulation’.”
“No, that was ‘River Lulamoon’. No wonder we couldn’t find your record. You’re using a fake name.”
I sit up. Loud ringing as my chains become aggressively tight. “Trixie’s name!” echo the walls, filling the room with growling words. Aimed the mirror, the stallion behind them, and my grisly reflection, my eyes leer as defiance to death. I all but scream. “Is NOT. Fake!”
I realize that it’s irrational. My life isn’t at stake or anything. And lashing out in anger like this probably won’t help my case. Chances are, if I explained it to anypony, they probably wouldn’t even get it.
The stallion pauses a moment, unfazed by my voice. He attempts to disarm me. “I can verify your identity now. This is good news for you. Why fight so hard for this persona, Lulamoon?”
FWOOM
SWISH
clink
But I made a decision. No matter what happens, I’ll stay who I am. The best pony I can be. It will always be Trixie. Trixie until my horn goes dark. Trixie etched in the dirt with my aching hooves. Trixie crawling on air by my blistered tongue. Trixie burning in lights. My ad infinitum.
The name is now violently etched in the mirror. Crisscrossing her face in all of its glory.
T R I X I E
The jagged cracks and tears in the glass slowly wipe away. Figures that the mirror is enchanted. I stare at it the entire time, taking in all that was her ragged mane, those heavy eyes, that gorgeous mare in the mirror. Her ears are now ringing, and her nose is bleeding a little. She pushed my horn a little too hard, her magic bound as it is. A little sloppy. Places of her fur look a tinge red. As if there were wounds torn open anew. But for the sake of her performance, I think it was worth it. He’s shocked back there. Ha ha ha. He’s wondering Just who is this pony? What does she mean?
Exactly how great and powerful is Trixie?
“I thought it was interesting, to say the least. And I do mean the least; Trixie’s performance, while certainly stimulating, was hardly captivating. Most shows, they strive for a touch of narrative for the sake of a consistent theme. It gives the audience something to hold onto. But Trixie, while clearly quite knowledgeable in her craft, pushes it a little too far for my taste. The effects, the ‘illusions’ as she puts it, were excellently well designed and executed. Entertaining between her flowery mesophysics lectures. But if I had wanted mesophysics lectures, I would have stayed in University.
“The fact is, she simply is not relatable. Her ‘Great and Powerful’ persona, romantic as it is in its tribute to famous figures like Starswirl the Bearded, is poorly executed. She delivered the flair, she delivered the mystique, but she delivered… something else as well. Something dull and boring as the dusty texts she attempts to draw inspiration from. I, personally, passed Mesophysics 201 with high marks in University. And anyone less educated simply will not appreciate half of what that showmare says. A miracle I was able to.
“This show, these ‘illusions’, I am sure they could never be adored by the common pony.”
Remarks by critics taking their leave from Alchemy Hall echoed easily to the scribe backstage. Despite bitterness, the scribe was quite capable of continuing its duty. To the end of the story. Nigh or otherwise. As much was likely to her surprise, as an inquisitive glance was held in its direction.
But, her newest contractor had arrived to meet her on stage after the performance. Nopony else had. He must have had words for her.
“Trixie, ehm, that was…” He spoke carefully. “It was interesting; I had no idea you were so knowledgeable, and it is always refreshing to think about the ‘bigger picture’ the way you do.”
“W-w-well yes. A raving success, i-if I, if she does say so herself,” she pittered in response. “Th-though she will admit that it needs some improvement.”
“Of course, one can always improve,” he continued. “But I will insist that I invite a certain… style of pony to the Benevolent Ball, and they will be expecting something… something…” The normally composed Fancy Pants struggled for words. It seemed like there was something he did not want to say. “Something flashy and simple, no doubt?” he finished. “The Benevolent Ball, I invite the elite of Canterlot to a decadent and flamboyant occasion so they might be urged into philanthropy. And—“
“Nopony wants to bother with mesophysics, she… Trixie understands, good Fancy Pants,” she smiled fakely. “She will design a new show with plenty for your patrons to… consume very easily and comfortably.” She paused, looking out over the now empty seats. Light came in from outside the open doors. “It will have all the magnificence and flashiness; a night of pure entertainment. She can… you will appreciate it, she will not put on a show like this again.”
“Your show was unique, Trixie, but I think that you’re… capable of something better fitting. I know it’s difficult to be an artist.” Fancy turned to leave. “Best of luck,” he said, and his hoofsteps quieted until the theater was silent.
Trixie was then left on the immaculate stage of Alchemy Hall alone, darkness cast on what was once awash with light. A graceful red curtain, one she had operated swiftly and with expertise, hung over her head like a cloud. The balconies and the glowing chandelier made with rare crystals from the Empire had captivated her earlier. Now that they were visible and the show was over, some of that splendor was gone from her eyes. Magically and as if on cue, a few of her props and lights were called from the corners of the stage. They floated towards her, disappearing beneath her cape. All the same, she frowned.
Her show had flopped, of course. Ponies do not have the patience for her frivolity.
“Trixie will do better next time,” she muttered through her teeth. “She always does better the next time around. Though it’s not saying much because of how poor this was received. I was daft. Should have known better.” She put a hoof to the bridge of her nose, and rubbed the space between her eyes and horn. Keeping an omega above four zero one (0.401) for such a long time was inevitably strenuous. And that had been her minimum. “Confound ponies…” she continued, turning her back to the house with a small flourish. She walked upstage, into the dark. “Trixie will show you, Trixie will show everypony. Always famished for flashy tricks, aren’t you? Well she has plenty to spare.”
Lastly, she yanked the scribe from backstage. She sneered at the words before beginning to read just before the quill stopped.