Breakdown

by McPoodle

Chapter 9: Dr. Franklin vs. the Winged Fury

Breakdown

Chapter 9: Dr. Franklin vs. the Winged Fury

---

“Gold Star...Gold Star just told me that he killed Gary,” the first of two messages on my iPhone began. Danielle was speaking with Wave Rider’s voice, in a tone too stunned to show any emotion. “It was during their first dream together. He said...he said that George thought that his life was a waste, and that Gold Star could make better use of his body than he could. I...I think I believe him.

“George always knew he was different. Knew that he couldn’t think as fast as the other kids. And of course you know me, asshole that I am, that I made sure to let him know when he screwed up. I told him he was a moron, that he was retarded, and because he loved me so much, he believed me. So when a stuck-up genius takes up residence in his brain, of course he’s going to hand over the keys. As far as I’m concerned, it’s Fate.

“I haven’t got anything else to update you about, Doc. I just...I just need to think about what happened. About this merge business. And why exactly it’s such a bad idea.”

No. No, not you too!

The second message, like the first, was sent from Danielle’s cell phone. It was only ten seconds long: “Greetings, Doctor,” said a strange voice somewhere midway between Wave Rider’s voice and Danielle’s old voice. “I am Wavielle, and I no longer require your services.”

Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!

I immediately called her back. “This is the Higher Consciousness known as Wavielle,” the strange voice on the other side of the line said serenely. “How may I be of service?”

“You know damn well who this is, ‘Wavielle’. Now tell me what the hell you just did!”

“Ah, Doctor Franklin. I should have expected that you would be unable to let go of your attachment to the former human named Danielle. For your information, Danielle and Wave Rider’s minds descended into a deep dream state, where days of perceived time pass in a manner of seconds. There they jettisoned all parts of their memories and personalities that they found stood in the way of their happiness. The surviving parts were joined into the gestalt consciousness to which you are conversing.”

“Huh.” Never was that word more filled with pain and outrage. “And what about those parts that ‘stood in the way’?”

“They were destroyed, Doctor Franklin. Annihilated. Utterly and completely demolished.”

“Really?” I replied. “Danielle’s memories of how others treated her because of her lameness, and of how her family tried to steal her brother away from her? Her earliest memories of how her mother abused her? The seething hate of the world and all false forms of sincerity?”

“I do not recognize any of those things, so they must have been destroyed.”

“And Wave Rider’s memories, of being treated like an inconvenience by his family, of being given gifts and money instead of love, of learning that the only sure path to happiness was to become invisible?”

“Once again,” Wavielle replied, “I know not what you refer to, so those things must have been eliminated to create my perfect personality.”

“And what kind of personality is that?! You’ve taken away everything that makes a personality. You’re not a person, you’re an abstraction! What are you good for? What are you good at? What...are you even capable of making a good web page anymore?”

“That is a foolish question. Of course I am an expert webmaster. It would be foolish to eliminate the skills I possessed going into the merge.”

“Alright, then prove it! Extend the site you created for me yesterday to include a news feed.”

“You are being foolish Doctor,” the hybrid pony said, “but I will take your silly test.” A few seconds passed as Wavielle used his/her hooks to type at a keyboard. “Take a look.”

And so I did. “That’s so 1995,” I told him/her. “Why can’t you give me something more like Blackstock’s upcoming concerts site? That was one of yours.”

“I fail to see why the current design is not satisfactory, but I can easily copy the code over.” A few seconds passed as the sounds of a touchpad being used and more keys being depressed could be heard. “This old design is needlessly complicated,” Wavielle complained. “All this extra code just to modulate the rate of the scroll. There’s no reason—”

“There’s every reason why those complications are in place,” I insisted, “because that is the nature of Sobek Webdesign, the reason it stood out. It was Danielle’s frustrations and outlook on life in visual form! And now it’s gone. And as for Wave Rider, you may still be able to control the water underneath you, but can you still surf? Can you still live up to—”

“I don’t have a cutie mark anymore.” The strange voice had suddenly lost all of its smug superiority. “I can’t do any of the things that made my two components unique. How will I be able to afford my rent anymore? How can I take care of Gold Star? By what means do I even justify my existence?”

There was a long pause.

“Wavielle?”

“Doctor Franklin, I would like to re-engage your services,” the voice on the phone said quietly. “Could you come back here at your earliest convenience? Before I consider doing something else we may all come to regret?”

“Yes, Wavielle,” I said with relief, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” From my spot behind some backstage curtains, I looked over at Pinkie Pie, who was still signing signatures in the audience. “My business in Indiana is definitely over.”

That happened. All of it, just as I have transcribed. But I cannot be sure about the events between then...and Fluttershy. I’ll tell you the dreams, the hallucinations, the flitting phantoms of thoughts that I can recall, and I’ll let you judge what was real, and what was not.

---

Day 12: Threesday, 7:30 PM EST. Indianapolis, IN.

---

Outside of the theater, rain was pouring down in buckets. This was nothing, though, compared with the insanity my weather apps were telling me about the rest of the country: fifteen foot flooding in Texas, hundred mile an hour winds in Nebraska, 10-pound hailstones in Florida, and fireballs raining from the sky in Oregon. It was like the opening from Flash Gordon, except, you know, for real instead of stuck in a joke of a movie. The apps didn’t how much worse it was going to get in the next six hours. They just couldn’t agree if this was going be the end of all human civilization on earth, or merely in America. For this part of the country, it was a vast tropical depression, the eye of which was seven hundred miles away, in New York City. I wasn’t stupid enough to go outside into that weather for even a moment, not without a form of transportation lined up to Southern California, the only part of the continental United States that suffered from nothing more than summer-like temperatures in November. But I was stupid enough to think that I could actually arrange said transportation using merely the power of my personality projected over the cellular phone network.

This is how my seventh phone call went: “What do you mean all flights are booked? It’s not even a hurricane yet! Money is no object, so if you’ve got any private planes for hire? . . . Oh, you do? Great, line one up and . . . well, why can’t you do it? I’ll be sure to make it worthwhile and . . . no. No, I am not trying to bribe you. Yes, I know full well that bribing a ticket agent is a ‘grave criminal offense’. I was just trying to expedite . . . well, can you at least give me the number?”

Click.

“Well a happy holidays to you too, you prick!”

The first six of my calls had not fared much better than that one.

So here goes lucky number eight: “Hello, Ready-Flite?” I’m smiling as I say this—it’s very important to smile when you talk to customer service. That way you trick them into thinking that you aren’t fantasizing about strangling them all with their own intestines. “Yes, I’d like to book a trip from Decatur to Los Angeles, or hell, anywhere on the west coast. Name the price, and I’ll pay it. . . . No planes? No planes whatsoever? Well, when are you expecting one to come back? . . . A week? Excuse me for saying this, but that’s nuts!” Calm, Nathan, calm. Think about happy kitties...burning alive as a customer service representative cackles in evil triumph. “Well, yes, I’m well aware of maintenance schedules, especially after the last couple of calls and . . . well yes, I’d love to be transferred to someone who . . . no, not Indianapolis! I’ve already tried them and please don’t . . . Damnit!”

---

Finally, finally, I got a route mapped out. It was ridiculously drawn out, thousands of miles flown over Canadian airspace in what should be early November, because for the first time in the history of air travel, Canada in November has become less turbulent than any part of America. Don’t think for a moment that I’m holding Discord blameless for this. There was only one problem: To start it all off, I needed to get to Albany. That’s right, I had to head towards the center of this storm. And it would have to be by ground transportation.

So guess what? I was stupid enough to walk right out into the pouring rain. But it was alright. Surely my limo would be back by now. Two grand ought to be enough to bribe my driver to take me a few hundred miles east and then...

“Where’s the limo?!” I screamed at the heavens. “Where the hell is my limo?!”

Text message for Dr. Nathan Franklin: “Limo recalled for urgent use. Your account will be credited by $7.35. Have a nice day, and be sure to Like us on Facebook!”

“Those...cheap...bastards!”

Alright, this is it, my last call, my last chance, my absolute last chance for Danielle, and I hope to God I can do something for Gary: “Yes, I’d like to rent a car. Destination? Albany. . . . No, I am not insane. I need to get a flight to Los Angeles in the next six hours. . . . Because it’s a life or death situation, that’s why! . . . No, of course I already tried Indianapolis, and Chicago, and Dayton and Louisville and . . . yes, and those five airports as well. This storm has got all of the flights cancelled and . . . well of course I’d rather not drive right into the blasted thing, but the only alternative in the other direction is Denver, and I’ll fight Discord barehanded in a bear cage before I’ll go back to that hellhole!”

Actually, I never got past the word “Discord” in my diatribe, but I thought what I had planned to say was colorful enough to report. As it was, the Spirit of Chaos apparently noticed when I called his name in vain, because at that moment I was toppled to the ground by several beasts at once.

The beak of a titanic eagle snapped at my hair. It was like the eagle that fed on Prometheus as he was chained upon Mount Caucasus, only it was trying to devour my brains instead of my liver. Actually, since I’m apparently on the side of the bad guys now, maybe it was one of those giant eagles that Gandalf seemed to carry around in his back pocket, except this one apparently lives on organs just like the other one. And the Middle Earth connection was fitting, because it felt like I had the entire mass of the Mountains of Moria on my back, making it impossible to inhale, and speeding me rapidly towards a blackout. The mountain was supported on the two vast hind-paws of the Nemean Lion (Heracles’ First Labor), a beast impervious to attack, with claws sharper than any sword.

I was flipped upon my back, which caused me to see the silhouette of my attacker. I was obviously not being assaulted by any sort of mythical creature. No, this was just some mountain lion, wandered into town from who knows where, that simply wanted to eat my face off.

“Geez, watch where the heck you’re stepping!” the mountain lion informed me. (Actually, I think she may have sworn a bit more than that. Typical, I’m on the verge of death, and all I can think about is scandalizing the nonexistent kids among my nonexistent listeners.)

Alright, two things: First and most important, I no longer knew where my phone was. And second, this was a talking mountain lion.

Thank God.

I mean, my doctorate is pretty much useless against your run-of-the-mill non-talking beast.

“No, not a talking mountain lion,” the creature said in a voice that was growing increasingly familiar. (Wait, did I say some of my thoughts out loud?) “Griffon. You know, with the eagle bits and the lion bits, and the bit that’s just barely holding back from eating your face for tripping over me while I was sleeping?”

See, I was right—she was going to eat my face off.

Oh, and this was Gilda. I had four patients who didn’t like Gilda, not one bit. Because she made Fluttershy cry, and anyone who makes Fluttershy cry will have to answer to her army of brony protectors. None of whom actually knew any form of martial art whatsoever.

Not that Fluttershy needed that sort of protection. After all, Fluttershy in my mind’s eye stood in the center of an island in the middle of a deep, deep sea. Both her potential attackers and her potential defenders would have to cross that sea to reach her. And doing so would be a mistake, because what we call “Fluttershy” is actually a fleshy lure sitting on the snout of an enormous dragon constructed entirely of rage. Hiding buried in the sand of the island, waiting patiently until some poor sap gets too close and then bam! The beast reveals itself, and slowly rends the screaming victim’s body into shreds, feeding on the fear and betrayal that follows in its wake.

“What the hell was that?!” Gilda cried out, slapping my face with her talons to bring me back into the land of sanity.

“I’m sorry,” I begged, recovering my wits. I reached up to try and stop the flow of blood from her claws. “What are you doing here, if I may be so bold to ask?”

“I’m just another sucker who got sent to this stupid place against her will.” Gilda looked sullen, with her beak tightly clipped.

Client opportunity!

“That’s too bad,” I said, as the rain continued to soak into my clothes.

She huffed, almost deflating. “You’re a doc, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Good for you,” she said with a light growl. “Such a shame you’re in the middle of this mess.”

I wondered which mess she was referring to: the storm, the Equestrian-on-Earth scenario, or my deal with Discord. After all, I had no idea who else he had working for him. If he wanted somebody to take out Pinkie Pie, for example, he could have done a lot worse than Gilda here, assuming that the griffon remembered what the Element of Laughter had done to her.

I suppose at this point that I should make something perfectly clear: I think that what Pinkie Pie did in that episode with Gilda was the most perfect expression of her character’s strengths in the history of Friendship Is Magic. Because what she did was put Gilda into a perfectly fair test where, if she was the true understanding friend she told Rainbow Dash she was, she would have emerged with flying colors. But because she was a phony (in the Holden Caulfield sense) she failed that test, and showed Rainbow exactly what sort of friend she really was.

But of course, it was Gilda who was standing in front of me right now, not Pinkie Pie or Rainbow Dash. So, assuming she hasn’t put the whole episode behind her, she’s going to have the same opinion of the Equestrian Pinkie Pie as I have of the monstrosity on earth that calls herself Pinkie Pie. I would have to tread very carefully.

“We make our own messes,” I replied to Gilda. “If we’re clever enough, we dig our way out. I specialize in messes of the mind.”

The griffon pointed into the darkness. “Your toy’s seven feet that-a-way, next to the drainage gate. I’m Gilda, by the way.”

I wonder if she knows how thoroughly her privacy has been violated by DHX Media?

She stared into my eyes, silently judging me. I in turn looked into her eagle eyes. They...words absolutely fail to describe them. I’ve seen the eyes of birds in zoos, and zoomed up close in nature documentaries. They always look so dead, so devoid of emotion. Normally, if you want to know what a bird is feeling, you watch its motions: how it bobs its head, how it raises its wings. But these were bird eyes with all of the expressiveness of a human being. I don’t think I could count all of the emotions I saw within them: hate, disgust, despair, fear...I looked away before she could catch on that I was reading her. “Doctor Franklin,” I introduced myself.

Coming to some sort of decision, she smiled, just a little, then walked out into the rain. Beaks should not be able to do that. She was instantly soaked before she grabbed the phone and was back by my side. “Here.”

“Thank you, Gilda,” I said. I didn’t bother to see if it was still working before I slipped it into a pocket of my jacket. I mean, there’s somebody in pain, right in front of me. That will always take precedence. Especially when it’s pretty clear that I’ll never be able to save George. No, not George—Gary.... I cast my head down in defeat. I really was going mad.

“Relax. We’re all in a mess right now.” Gilda reassured me, evenly, coolly. She hummed under her breath; her tail, soaked through, flicking. “Hmm…Well. I suppose I could use your services, if you have no way of getting out of this hell hole of a city.” She muttered under her breath. “Like I have no way of getting out of this hell hole of a life.”

“Well, you know where you stand in a hell hole,” I said with a smile. “If you want to talk, I’m here to listen. Although maybe one of the less torrential backstage rooms might be more congenial to a conversation?”

Comments

[ferret]

Might do to clarify a bit the surroundings in which the doctor came to trip over Gilda. You just have his dialog, and then her getting in his face, no idea where the altercation is taking place. In or out of the rain? Seems like out. Where was she lying? Where was he walking without looking while yelling into his phone?

[McPoodle]

4094937

Yeah well that's the trouble: he doesn't remember. In his mind, he's yelling in his phone in a white nothingness, and then he's jumped by a griffon. It's a sign of his mental disintegration.