Pony Gear Solid

by Posh


Interlude - Schoolfilly's Whimsy

A little purple filly sits among other little fillies in a spacious lecture hall, studiously jotting down notes in a spiral-bound notebook as the instructor gives her lecture. She stops to read what she has written.

"Garish garbanzoknuckle terrify formaldehyde scandal scandal copulation."

Her tongue pokes out the corner of her mouth as she underlines "terrify formaldehyde" twice. That would be on the test.

Professor Inkwell paces at the front of the hall, a chunk of chalk sticking like a cigarette from her mouth. "And of course," she says, "we've all been asked the question, at least once, by our well-meaning pegasus and earth pony friends and neighbors: 'How do you do it? How does magic work?'" She chuckles. "What can one even say in response to such a question?"

"It's magic!" calls a cerulean filly seated somewhere to the little purple filly's left. She tosses her head to shake a lock of silver mane from her face. "I don't gotta explain nothin'!"

The room erupts in laughter. Professor Inkwell looks unimpressed. "You could," she says at length, "and that might be an acceptable answer to some, Ms. Lulamoon. But all that does is reinforce the misconception that magic is a force beyond the comprehension of anypony born without the ability to tap into it."

"Durn lickity," whispers Diamond Tiara, seated to her right. She speaks using Big McIntosh's voice.

"On the contrary, magic is an observable phenomenon," continues Professor Inkwell. "Not a mystical force that defies comprehension, but something that can studied and classified, practiced and applied. How is that different from say – chemistry? From physics? Geology, or botany, or biology, or volcanology? Obviously, magic has its differences, its unique qualities, its intricacies... but when examined with an open mind, magic ceases to be a mystery. You come to understand that magic..."

The professor uses her hoof to scrawl out a sentence on the board in bright white chalk: "I may as well have killed him myself." The little purple filly copies it in her notebook, and underlines it three times instead of two.

"...You come to understand that magic is a science," Inkwell finishes, turning back to the face the class – empty now, except for the little purple filly. "The science of imagination. In using it, your only limits are the ones you place on your own creativity. Picture a great black expanse, stretching out forever in all directions – the infinite canvas of reality. Magic lets you fill that canvas. Picture it filling with light, and life, and laughter, and see what you create. Picture it blank, and dark, and silent, and quash your creation..."

The little purple filly feels hooves resting on her withers. Inkwell's voice whispers in her ear.

"...and then create anew."

A little purple filly rests on a cushion in the Princess's study, her legs folded beneath her and a book about parasites open in front of her. The book is written in Cantoneighse. The little purple filly cannot read Cantoneighse. She finds the book fascinating.

"Did you enjoy Professor Inkwell's lecture?" Princess Celestia asks, offering the little purple filly a saucer and a teacup. She accepts it, sips at her tea. It tastes like chamomile and honey and sunlight. She suddenly wants to cry.

"Uh-huh," says the little purple filly. "Only..."

"Only what?" asks the Princess. She shines so brightly that the little purple filly has to shield her eyes with a hoof. Outside, the sky is red and raw and the towers and spires of Canterlot are silhouettes against it.

"It's all that stuff she was talking about. Science and imagination?" says the little purple filly. She sips her tea again. It tastes like peppermint and mother's milk and love.

The Princess laughs a laugh like the beating of a hummingbird's wings. "Professor Inkwell is a fine instructor," she says, "but sometimes she forgets that her students aren't all as learned as she is. Her lectures can go over ponies' heads."

"No no – I understood what she was saying," says the little purple filly. "But I don't know... Talking about magic like it's science just makes it seem so much less..."

"Magical?"

"I guess so."

"Well, your professor is absolutely right about one thing," says the Princess. "Magic is an observable force; it can be quantified and classified and applied. In that regard, the study and use of magic can be seen as scientific."

The little purple filly scoots closer to her mentor.

"But magic... how do I put this..." The Princess taps her hoof against her chin, her face screwed up in concentration. "Magic is different from the other sciences, because magic itself is unique, and it follows its own laws – similar to the ones that govern the physical world, but with differences as well. It even has its own laws that are intrinsic to it. When you cast a spell to, say, put a mustache on Smarty Pants..."

The little purple filly giggles sheepishly.

The Princess winks at her. "You're not just making a mustache appear out of nothing. You're tapping into and manipulating a powerful energy that exists in and around all ponies everywhere. The power that gives and sustains life, that Equestria – and indeed, the rest of the world – is built upon. And that force so defies classification and quantification and study that thinking of it as science will only get you so far." She smiles gently at the little purple filly. "So, in a way, you're both right. Magic is science, and at the same time, it's something more. Something... transcendental."

The little purple filly frowns. "I think I'm a little lost now."

The Princess sighs. Her smile turns melancholy. "I promise, my student, that you'll understand someday." The little purple filly shuts the book she's reading and looks at the back cover with its six embossed gemstones of six different colors. She sips from her tea again. It tastes like ash and salt and sorrow.

A little purple filly gallops through a hedge maze, cold and frightened and sleepy and hungry. She's been searching for the way out for hours. At every corner, at every turn, she's greeted by statues – a draconequus with its head tossed back joyously, a timberwolf with its legs broken and its tongue lolling from its mouth, a metal monster on slender black legs with a snake-shaped scar on its face. All of them are laughing.

She turns and veers and gallops and trots and canters and sprints and staggers and walks and doesn't stop moving until she hears the Princess's voice coming from behind one of the hedges. She sounds angry; she sounds quiet. The little purple filly can just barely make out the words that the Princess is saying. "You're speculating. You have no evidence. You're asking me to take action based entirely on conjecture."

"I seldom bring you more than conjecture," says a voice in response – one she doesn't recognize, smooth and bass and spoken from deep within the chest. "And seldom am I wrong."

"These are innocent ponies—"

"These are known associates. Collaborators. Ponies who are in regular contact with him. You and I both know he's planning to make his move. It's just a matter of time – months, maybe years. We won't know how close he is, nor will we know what it is, unless you take action now."

"I can't just..." The Princess sighs with frustration. "Detain somepony without explanation."

"You're the Princess. Of course you can."

The Princess says nothing in response to that.

"If you must have a pretense, then drumming one up shouldn't be difficult. Do what you must to ease your conscience, if the promise of saving lives isn't enough for you."

"Don't you dare patronize me," the Princess hisses. "The law presumes innocence until guilt is proven, and I am the law. I will not deny somepony their right to due process because of something they might do."

The little purple filly creeps closer to the voices. She peeks her head around the hedge and sees the Princess – pure and white and resplendent in her regalia, her mane and tail shimmering and streaming behind her.

And then she sees what the Princess is talking to.

The little purple filly stifles a scream and turns and gallops away, veering left, and right, and left, and right, and moving deeper and deeper into the maze with every hoofstep. She'll be lost forever; she'll never find her way out, but that's okay, because it will never find her either.

Then she comes to a dead end. A statue of Nightmare Moon with an empty bag of candy over her horn looms high above her. The little purple filly flings herself to the ground and covers her head with her hooves, whimpering and shivering and wishing somepony would whisk her away – her brother, her mother, her foalsitter, her teacher...

"Twilight Sparkle?" The voice of the Princess is gentle as the evening breeze and soothing as chamomile tea. "What are you doing out here so late?"

The little purple filly shakes her head. "Have to hide," she gasps, "or the monster—"

"Monster?" The Princess chuckles lovingly. "My little pony, there's no such thing as monsters." The little purple filly feels a downy wing stroke her cheek, and suddenly, the fear melts away. She feels warmth. She feels comfort. She feels safe. "This is just a dream. This is all just a dream."

"Just a dream," the little purple filly mumbles. Her eyes droop shut. "Just a dream."

"And soon you'll wake up, and it'll be like none of this ever happened." The little purple filly feels weightless for a moment, before settling down upon the Princess's back. "Hush now, quiet now..." The lullaby grows distant; the world slips away. "It's time to lay your sleepy head..."

A little purple filly walks through a dungeon. Wooden doors line the walls beside her – cells, each one holding somepony she knows. Her mother and father, Luna and Celestia, Shining Armor and Cadance, Applebloom and Zecora. They stare at her as she strides past them, their eyes wide and doleful, and they whisper pleas, entreaties to stop and free them.

At the end of the hall is a door broken off of its hinges. The body of Trenton lies inside, with one leg twisted at an unnatural angle and his head caved in. His skull is made of sparks and wires and plastic. A mouth made of silicone and copper is twisted into an eternal rictus. Directly behind him, Spike dangles from the ceiling by his wrists, held up by chains that look like ropes that look like serpents. His head is tucked against his chest. He isn't breathing.

The little purple filly hears footsteps beside her. Someone holds a gun in front of her face, offering it to her. "I didn't kill him," she whispers as she takes it with her magic.

"You may as well have," says Snake.

The little purple filly gulps. She steps into the cell and points the gun at her the body lying broken on the floor – now Applejack, now Rarity, now Pinkie Pie, now Fluttershy, now Rainbow Dash, now Rainbow Dash, now Rainbow Dash...

She laughs and laughs and laughs at the little purple filly. "Do it!" she snaps.

A hand touches her withers – it's cold and gentle and makes her shudder. There is nothing for you here, whispers a kind but unfamiliar voice in her mind.

"Do it!" Applejack cries out in ecstasy. Raucous, mocking laughter echoes down the hall, her friends and her family and the Princesses all at once.

Let it go.

"Do it!" her friends shriek all at once in a terrible choral harmony.

Don't come back.

The little purple filly screams and squeezes the trigger.


Twilight woke with a jolt and smacked her head into the window she was leaning against. "Gyaow!" She rubbed the sore spot on her head and groaned. A dream, she thought. I was dreaming. She tried to recall the details, but they were already fading away.

It wasn't a good dream, though. From the way her heart jackhammered in her chest and the cold sweat on her brow, she could tell that much.

Her breath had fogged up the window as she slept. She rubbed the condensation away and peeked out the window. Tall green grass and rolling hills sped by as the train rumbled toward Dodge. They were quite a distance from Ponyville, but the red earth and rocky topography of the frontier were still a ways away.

The air in the train car was thick and smoky. Twilight coughed and glanced down the car to where her travel companion sat with his back braced against the wall. His head was inclined in her direction; his sharp blue-gray eyes fixed curiously upon her. An ashy nub of a cigarette dangled between two fingers.

Twilight frowned at him. "It's rude to stare."

Snake's eyes narrowed, and he turned away.

Twilight gently leaned her head against the window again. Her heart had begun to settle down, and the pain in her head where she'd struck the window was ebbing. All a dream, she told herself. Everything's fine. Everything's going to be fine.

She shut her eyes tightly and willed herself to fall asleep again.

Everything's going to be just fine.