Chapter 11
'Flicka Jewelry.' Under the picture of a mare whose face was lit up with love at her stallion's gift of a diamond horn ring, the black billboard read, 'Love, guaranteed.'
Neon lights played across the curved glass of the hovercarriage window as they flew through the theater district. Rarity looked outside at the vibrant canyon full of flashing marquees and glowing billboards fighting for space in her eyeballs. Several of them caught her eye, blazing advertisements for soft drinks and expensive ciders guaranteed to put smiles on happy unicorn faces, upscale stores where both of those could be bought, and deluxe hovercarriages with drink compertments that could hold them and keep them chilly. She suddenly wanted a drink; luckily, she had all she needed already. As she ogled a huge billboard advertising her new fashion line, positioned right on one of the most prominent corners in the theater district, she asked Coco to mix a cider and soda. When it was done, she sipped it as ladylike as she could in the jostling hovercarriage. A blissful buzz swam through her, putting a smile on her face just like the ads guaranteed.
She stared out the window at the theater marquees, which seemed so much more alive now, as they advertised whole new worlds she could slip into. All she had to do was walk through the doorway. But there were so many, and so close together. She'd didn't have enough time to wander through all the different worlds, not with her busy, busy life. No, time was a precious commodity, and she had to content herself with only one. But she couldn't go wrong with Cynic DeKey. He was a unicorn she could always rely on to make this wearying world go away for a little while.
Raising the glass to her lips, she got only a mouthful of ice and frowned at the empty glass, unable to remember drinking from it more than once. Her body had drank - practically inhaled - the whole thing without her being aware of it. Ah, she sarcastically mused, the wonders of the unconscious mind. What would my doctor say about this?
Across the hovercarriage, Coco shuffled papers and asked, “Have you seen these operating costs for Las Pegasus?”
Rarity groaned. “Please, I've had enough business for one day.”
Coco gave a disapproving murmur. “Well, ma'am, I wouldn't presume to question you.”
Why can't she stop nagging me? Rarity thought, staring at the fusion of multicolored lights out the window. I know she's only trying to help, but I....that is, we spent the whole day working. I just want to relax and unwind for one night without all this fuss.
In the window's reflection, she saw Blueblood sitting next to her and fiddling with his curled mane. Ruining all the hard work her well-paid stylist had put into shaping and crafting his hair so it meshed perfectly with his golden yellow crushed velvet jacket and retro-cric frilly lace cravat. She turned to glare at him and said, “Stop that!”
“But this isn't me,” he whined. “I would never wear my mane like this. It's too....icky.”
“It goes better with your outfit. My outfit, actually. I designed it for you, remember? By this time next week, every stallion in Canterlot will want one, because of you. So pipe down and let me create the future of fashion, would you?”
He huffed and pounded his forelegs onto the seat padding. Rarity turned back to the window, nursing a seething contempt that spread through her until she wanted to kick him out the door. The hovercarriage door, that was. Watch him fall to the ground, his long golden mane streaming in the wind.
The high pitch of the engines descended until the vehicle came to a stop, thrusters rumbling to keep it aloft fifty feet above the autocarriages packed onto the asphalt. Outside, the marquee for The River Runs Wild shone brighter than any other. Out the front windshield, a line of hovercarriages idled in front of hers, waiting for the ground crew to wave them into the landing space in front of the theater.
In the front, her driver was listening raptly to the radio. "....look all around us," one of the characters said over the sound of a tropical jungle. "Nothing but ocean for thousands of miles in every direction. But us, our airship crashed here, on this floating island in the clouds, and we all emerged....without a scratch. We're here....in this place....for a reason. Now, why can't you believe that?!"
"Because feelings and intuition aren't proof, Keye. We crashed here because our airship went down, and now we're stuck with each other. End of story."
"One of these days, Flock, you'll feel differently. You'll open your eyes to the magic of this place, and when you do, you'll thank me."
"The only way that'll happen is if they stick us in the same insane asylum. First, of course, I'll have to get us rescued. But you, Keye? I couldn't rescue you from yourself if I tried." There was the sound of hooves stomping through the jungle, and the character's breathing became fainter.
"Funny," the other character said, "I was about to say the same thing to you."
There was a staccato blare of horns, and then an announcer declared, "WILD will return after these messages."
Rarity raised her voice and asked the driver, "How much longer will we be?”
“We're about ten vehicles from the front,” he called. “Shouldn't be long.”
"Darling, would you mind changing the station, then? Please?"
He gave her a sharp look, but he held his tongue except to ask, "108.5 again?"
"Yes," she said, catching sight of Coco giving her another disapproving look. I pay them, I can listen to whatever I want. To the driver, she said sweetly, "Thank you."
“....but then something strange happened. I headed for the next room of the exhibit and found myself right back at the entrance where I came in. I wondered if that part of the exhibit. Was it supposed to represent the chaotic nature of degenerate art? The space reflecting the things inside? But, man, I looked down at my map and it hit me all of a sudden: I'd been reading it wrong the whole time. And everypony else, all those ponies in my entourage, right? They all followed me around blindly. I turned to my assistant and saw in his eye that he knew the whole time, and I got on his case and demanded to know why he didn't tell me. 'We just follow you,' he said. None of them corrected me, not one. It seems famous Thorny Bends, star of the air waves, is beyond reproach."
"Gee, Thorn, I never got that memo."
"Let me write out another copy, and I'll staple it to your forehead, how about that? Anyway, so the pony in charge read the map wrong. Big deal, right? But it is a big deal, and lemme tell you why: what is a map?"
"Something that gets you from one place to another. Like, say, me getting the heck out of this show."
"It's a smaller version of reality. It's, it's, it's just like art, when you get right down to it. Lines on paper that stand for walls, roads, objects of interest. It speaks the same language as our words, which are another set of lines on paper that stand for something else. We use all these different kinds of these maps to, you know, orient ourselves in the world. Let us know where we stand. Of course, here's where the problem creeps in: the world is a big place. Except for maybe Princess Luna, nopony can see it all in one lifetime. We may have cities on the moon soon, but even then those brave settlers will only see a single side of our world at a time, and from so far away all the little details will blur together into a smear of shadow. The world is just too big and complicated and three-dimensional to see everything at once. So we need these maps to let us take everything in at once. Princess Luna, who's been shepherding our world for almost a millennium now, gave us an atlas of the world. Now, picture in your mind the whole of Equestria.”
Rarity did as Thorny asked, summoning the image of Equestria into her head.
“You got it in there good? Alright. Now, did you think of the rolling hills, covered with farmland and the imperial pens? The hills dotted with mines? The sprawling cities? Or did you think of the map of Equestria hanging on your old kindergarten wall?"
Rarity was dismayed to realize she had, indeed, thought of the map that used to hang in her classroom.
“You probably didn't even realize there was another way to think of Equestria, did you? The map represents our nation better than the nation itself does. But no map can show everything. Details get lost in compression. Things undiscovered remain uncharted. The unknown lurks off the margins. 'Here There Be Dragons', and so on. That's the price we pay for the ability to see all of reality: we have to rely on the map more than actual reality, because we can't....we can't wrap our heads around all of reality at once.
“But the map, my friends, is never as good as what's on it. Can you stroll through a map of the Whitetail Woods national park? Go skiing on a map of the Crystal Mountains? Sail across a map of the ocean? Of course not. But here's the kicker, folks, here's the thing that's going to keep you up at night: if the map is the thing that's really real to us, then what does that make all these supposedly 'real' things that exist in the world around us?”
I don't know, Rarity thought, perplexed and very much on the edge of her seat. What does it make them?
“Well, folks, let me tell you....” Thorny said.
Squirming with excitement and trepidation, Rarity thought, Yes, yes, do go on!
“....right after a word from out sponsors, Baudrillard-brand Cartography.”
Rarity cursed so loudly she made everypony else in the hovercarriage jump in their seats. When they all stared at her, slack-jawed and startled, she blushed deeply and apologized in a sheepish whisper.
The hovercarriage in front of hers dropped down, guided to the landing space near the red carpet by a pegasus crew on the ground wielding light cones, like at an airport. Rarity sighed softly to herself; they would land before Thorny Bends came back from break. Rarity would miss what sounded like the most stupendous revelation, the one to end all revelations! What she wouldn't give for another ten minutes to sit and listen to the radio. But no, what would the ponies watching, gossiping, snapping pictures say about her? The iron hooves of public opinion hustled her onward, into the neverending whirlwind of flash bulbs and loose lips. Was there a transcript she could purchase? When she got home she'd get in touch with Radio Free Canterlot and ask. Perhaps invite Thorny Bends to the gala she was planning for the millennial celebration. It was always in Rarity's best interests to be seen with the most popular ponies.
Her hovercarriage was now free to land, and it descended and settled on the ground. The crew darted in and undid the latch, allowing the door to swing upwards. The old familiar sound of flash bulbs and adoring crowds poured in. Blueblood climbed out and waved, soaking up the attention, but Rarity lingered and gave Coco a look that was half-grimace and half-gratitude.
“Here we go again,” she said wearily.
As always, Coco had a peppy smile, an inexhaustible well of good cheer and energy. “You've done this plenty of times before, and you look as elegant as ever.”
Rarity blushed. “Thanks, Coco.” She looked down the red carpet, at the twin walls of ponies pressing against the velvet ropes clamoring for her. The thought of Coco not being at her side filled Rarity with dread. Coco had always lent her a word of encouragement when she was feeling down, good advice when she was at a crossroads. And now she had to part from Rarity and use the service entrance? It wasn't fair.
Be bold, Rarity. Be like the princess, when she freed Equestria from tyranny.
Making up her mind, she took Coco by the foreleg and pulled her off the seat. “Come on, let's go.”
Coco's smile disappeared. “What? But....ma'am, I have to--”
“Not if you're with me,” Rarity said.
Coco's knees began to shake. “But think of the image it'll send....”
“You're such a fabulous assistant I'm proud to have you by my side?”
Coco's mouth flapped open and then shut wordlessly.
“Just stick right by my side,” Rarity said, “and nopony will say a word. Who'll stop me?”
Blueblood extended a hoof to help Rarity out of the hovercarriage. It was the proper gesture expected of a gentlecolt when the cameras were watching, but she saw the impatience writ on his face, under his smile. She put on a well-practiced one of her own and gave the crowd a great big wave. They erupted into a wall of sound as she slipped out of the vehicle on a graceful, dainty hoof. Then she pulled Coco, who was hunched over and had her ears flat, out alongside her. Behind them, the hovercarriage's engines thrust against the landing pad and rocketed it up into the sky.
Nowhere to run.
Smile, wave, sashay. Rarity had long since stopped thinking about walking the carpet. Smile, wave, sashay. Don't forget to subtly flaunt the dress. Smile, wave, sashay. It was second nature to her now. But all the while, her mind dwelled on the unheard revelation and drove her crazy. Was the DJ at this very moment disclosing it, unheard? She knew it was a foalish notion, but she hated how ponies needed radios, those expensive and complicated boxes of wires and screws, to hear transmissions. Radio waves were all around them, or so the engineers said. Why couldn't ponies listen to them naturally?
Her body continued to go through the mechanical motion of smiling, waving, and sashaying. As long as she kept her poise, it didn't matter what thoughts were in her head; the photographers couldn't get in there. Only what was recorded on film mattered to them and to the city.
Next to her, Coco peered around, expecting the rocks to pelt her at any moment. But Rarity was unrepentant, even though some of the faces closest to the ropes were shedding their smiles and replacing them with looks of confusion and doubt. The clicking of cameras only accelerated. The only thing more salable than a picture of a celebrity was a picture of a celebrity breaking the rules. Still, she didn't care. She wanted the whole world to know what she thought of Coco Pommel, assistant extraordinaire. They followed the red carpet up to the grand entrance it fed, the center set of three double doors.
But two soldiers in gray fatigues stepped away from their posts on either side of the double doors. Ponies like these were everywhere, yet they had a habit of fading into the background until the moment they called attention to themselves. They planted their hooves firmly into the red carpet and held their heads erect. She angled herself to walk around them, but they blocked her and Coco. Around them the crowd hushed. The clicking of cameras intensified yet again, lending Rarity a great deal of strength and commitment. Blueblood shrank away, eyes bulging, she would stand up for her earth pony, and all of Canterlot would see that. But when the cameras were on her, Rarity took charge.
“It's alright, ma'am,” Coco said. “I'll go around back--”
“You're not going anywhere,” Rarity said, throwing her foreleg around Coco and pulling her assistant close. To the soldiers, she said, “Coco is with me, and I happen to be acquainted with General Mace himself. If you don't step aside, I assure you, he'll hear all about this. Now, please step aside.”
The soldiers' forehooves came to rest on truncheons sticking out of their saddlebags.
Go ahead, she thought, filled with absolute confidence. See who looks better in the photographs: fashionable Rarity, talk of the town, with blood on her face, or the sneering pegasus wielding a bloody truncheon.
In the silence the cameras clicked away, capturing the situation Rarity had created. The two soldiers begrudgingly woke up to the whirring shutters and exploding flash bulbs and skirted their eyes over the crowd. What thoughts ran through the crowd at this? Would they consider it scandalous? Probably to some jealous hags who just wanted to tear her down, like Upper Crust. But Rarity had faith everything would turn out just as she intended. With all the photographers selling these photos, maybe she could inspire other unicorns to stand up for their servants, and in turn inspire earth ponies to be better servants and get ahead in the world. An advertisement for a kinder, gentler Canterlot, splashed across the front of every newspaper and magazine in Equestria. A place where unicorns and pegasi respected their earth ponies instead of herding them into ghettoes. They could dismantle these checkpoints, make the ghetto habitable, even reopen the discotheques.
Anything was possible if a pony dared to dream it. The problem was getting everypony else to follow them.
To follow her map, as a matter of fact.
It was quite possible the Midnight Guard would investigate her, censure her, maybe even proscribe her. But recriminations could wait until tomorrow. She had come to the Chariot to watch a show, and she wanted to leave politics at the door, not be confronted by them at that very same door.
“Is there a problem?” asked the concierge, stepping out of the building. The lights gleamed off the bald patch on his skull, above his horn. “Why, Miss Rarity,” he said nervously. “What a delight.”
“Yes, I do have a problem, actually. These gentlecolts won't let us pass.”
“Well, ma'am, it's, uh, you see....”
I do see, but I still want to hear you say it, she thought viciously.
“It's all about keeping out the, uh....that is, making sure the, um, right crowd....is left out. Um, let in, I mean.”
“Oh, so you don't think I'm the right crowd?” she asked, affecting a haughty tone.
He broke out in a nervous sweat as his eyes flicked away from Rarity, taking in Coco, then returning to the fashionista. “That's not what I meant, of course not. Of course you are, I mean. Naturally. But your, ah, 'companion', she, uh, she is....not.” Lamely, he added, “I don't make the rules, ma'am. The board of directors does."
“I see. And what would the board say if a certain patron of the arts were to donate, say....” She licked her lips and stared up at the facade. “Five hundred thousand bits to this fine, fine establishment?”
“Fi-five hundred....?”
“Oh, silly me. I meant to say five million.”
The concierge let a strangled yelp out of his throat and lost his ability to speak in anything but a stammer.
“Do you think they'd install a plaque for that?” Rarity asked, touching her hoof to her chin with innocent grace. On the inside, she thrilled in watching the concierge look like he was about to faint. "So....?" she asked, batting her eyelashes at him. "What do you say?"
He took another look at all the dumbfounded and confused faces in the crowd, and looked up at the stone-faced soldiers watching him with impassive eyes like marble with irises painted on. Sweating and trembling as much as Coco was, he stepped forward and whispered, "Please, I could....I could be investigated by the Midnight Guard for this! I could be arrested! The name of the Chariot Theater would be tarnished!"
"Oh, silly me, I forgot to add the last zero at the end!" she said with childlike innocence. "Fifty million. And that is my last offer."
The concierge looked like he was about to cry. "I....I must insist on...." Quickly, he said, "The check first."
Rarity smiled sweetly and took her checkbook out, ignoring the growing chorus of booing and the occasional threat from the crowd. She gaily wrote 'Fifty million bits' in a looping cursive font; it was a fairly big hit from her pocket, but the satisfaction of playing the situation precisely the way she wanted it to go was its own reward. Besides, she was confident she would earn the money back by next month.
Suppose there's a boycott, though? she thought. What if my profits plummet?
It was still worth it.
Once he had the check, the concierge peered at it closely and inspected the date. When he was finally resigned to the fact that it was real, he finally let out, “Let her in. At once.”
Rarity flashed him a smile and made to move past him, with the terrified Coco in tow. The Civil Force soldiers looked like they were going to stand their ground, but in the end they obeyed the unicorns and stepped aside, disgust roiling their features at the sight of Coco.
"Come along, Blueblood," she called. Then she gave the crowd one last wave and called out, “Ta!”
The shutters kept clicking, but the ponies in the crowd were either sedate, confused by what had happened and whether they were still supposed to cheer for her, or fuming with anger at the sight of an earth pony walking in the main entrance. But Rarity, her foreleg slung around Coco, gave her personal assistant a squeeze. If she had to, she'd do it all over again. Even if it was brought to her attention that every single other earth pony who had ever been foaled was swine, Coco Pommel had helped Rarity every step of the way to success. She'd never have got where she was if the industrious earth pony at her side hadn't been with her. This was the least she could do.
In the lobby, her darling little sister waited off to one side, shuffling from one leg to the other, waiting with the rest of her entourage between red-and-gold pillars. Sweetie Belle wore the little purple ensemble that accented her mane perfectly. Of all the dresses Rarity had designed for Sweetie Belle's stay at boarding school, it was her own personal favorite, and her sister looked adorable in it.
“Ooh, ooh, Rarity!” Sweetie Belle called, her eyes lighting up. “Rarity, I'm over here! Rarity!”
Rarity let go of Coco and glided up to her beaming sister, whose angelic face was split in half by a wide grin. “Rarity, I--!”
Photographers were slipping inside to keep snapping pictures of her. Smiling, Rarity nuzzled Sweetie Belle's cheek and subtly angled her sister's face at the camera lens. Click, snap, flash. Another image, forever impressed on celluloid. Frozen in time. Only film is eternal, Rarity realized. It can be so fake, so constructed, but at the same time it's also the truest and most lasting thing. These thoughts in my head, nopony knows those. But everypony will see those photos and remember what happened. I'm the one leading them through the gallery now.
Then she thought, I've been listening to too much Thorny Bends.
For some reason, it seemed like a splinter of the DJ had lodged itself inside Rarity's head and was stuck on repeat, putting thoughts in there Rarity herself would never have thought. She didn't mind, exactly, but it was a bit disconcerting, wondering where Thorny ended and Rarity began.
As she and her entourage walked across the lobby, Sweetie Belle called out her name. The little filly hovered at her side, trying to get Rarity's attention. Just like all the posters on the wall, all the advertisements and the brand name soft drinks and candy behind the unsightly abomination of the concession counter that ruined the theater's classical décor. Everywhere, flashing signs clamored for her attention, demanding a place inside her eyeball. It was all too much. Far, far too much. She was suddenly very tired, and found the facade increasingly harder to keep up.
“Rarity,” her sister said, “Rarity, I--”
“Not now, Sweetie,” she said, rubbing at a brewing headache inside her skull. Her voice came out a little more brusquely than she intended, so she softened her voice and added, “I've had a long day, and I just want to relax and watch the show.”
Sweetie Belle's ears flattened. She let her head sag and her legs drag on the floor. “Alright,” she said dolefully. “If that's what you want.”
At the sight of her sad sister, Rarity reached into Coco's saddlebag and brought out a gift-wrapped box. "Maybe this will cheer you up," she said. "Go ahead, open it."
Sweetie Belle took the package and tore the wrapping off. The shiny black box inside had 'Flicka Jewelry' embossed on the lid. Sweetie opened it to reveal the exquisite diamond necklace Rarity had picked out for her, imported all the way from the territories. But rather than Sweetie Belle's face lighting up with love and gratitude, she remained curiously blank. That's not what the ads guaranteed at all.
"Don't you like it?" Rarity asked. "It cost quite a lot."
"I like it fine," Sweetie Belle said sharply.
“Oh, look, there's Rich,” Rarity said.
Sweetie Belle peeked up and saw her personal assistant trotting over, his sagging back laden with a tray of food from the concession counter. All the junk food made Rarity apprehensive. She wasn't sure what she thought about the practice. Such things were fine for a discotheque, but it spoiled the theater's rarefied air. Such things simply didn't mesh with the classy dresses and monocles. Was the theater was going downhill from its glory days? You sound like General Mace, she thought, feeling worse than ever. Glory days of what? Making earth ponies use the service entrance? Stringing them up from trees?
Panting, Filthy Rich stopped in front of Sweetie Belle and bent his forelegs. It looked uncannily like bowing. Another one of Sweetie Belle's entourage, a pegasus bodyguard, hovered nearby to escort the earth pony and make sure he was accounted for at every moment in this land of the unicorns. I bet they came in through the service entrance Rarity thought. Shame they didn't wait for me.
Sweetie Belle swiped a soda cup off the tray and slurped it. Her face screwed up with rage and she threw the cup at her earth pony. “I said grape, not orange,” she snapped. “Useless dirt-eater.”
“Sweetie Belle!” Rarity exclaimed. The cameras, Oh dear, the cameras! Are there any around, taking pictures? No, musn't look, mustn't seem desperate. But she's ruining everything I worked to construct just a few short minutes ago! “That is no way to talk to your servants!”
Her seething sister rounded on her. “How should I know what kind of talk you like and don't like? I haven't seen you in a year!”
“What has gotten into you, Sweetie?” Rarity demanded.
“Oh, forget it,” Sweetie Belle sneered, turning around and flicking her tail at Rarity. “Get over here, Filthy.”
“Yes, ma'am!” the earth pony gasped, trotting over while trying valiantly to keep the food balanced. Together, they walked up the marble staircase and into the auditorium at the top.
Rarity give an apologetic look to Coco, but the earth pony just stared back at her. I....did the right thing, didn't it? she thought. 'We just follow you', the pony on the radio had said. 'Because you pay us,' he had surely finished. Well, there's naught to be done now. Whatever happens, happens. But it will happen tomorrow, because I'm tired and I want to watch the show tonight. She turned and followed her sister up the steps and into the auditorium.
Caught up in the crowd, Twilight swayed with its power. It was mob rule, where irrationality overwhelmed normal ponies through sheer passion. The multicolored marquee lights and multihued coats exploded against her aching, watery eyeballs. All the colors swirled like the sea, surging and ebbing around her and wrapping her senses in a haze, sweeping her away in fury and fervor. The dense passion of thousands of bodies pressed together, right up to the velvet ropes. Jostling against her, boxing her in.
She hated all of them. Simpering, celebrity-seeking leeches. All of them, she thought with malice, wanted nothing more than to catch a peek of the celebrities. To delight in the latest fashions and the latest celebrity flings, hungrily watch their social superiors commit a faux pas and have a hearty laugh as they tear their fallen idols down to feel better about themselves.
The actual art? Irrelevant. A vehicle for gossip. A prop, a backdrop for petty starlets.
But some kind of osmosis was taking place, infecting Twilight with the crowd's mindless cheer. She wanted it to stop, to purge herself, to control her own body, but she was powerless before the onslaught. She was weak, just like when the pegasi had savaged her like the brutes they were, and she hated it. She pushed her way to the entrance. There were three sets of double doors, but the red carpet cordoned off the center one, leaving one free on either side. On the wall right before the doors, a beautiful hoof-painted poster was in a glass display case. It depicted a unicorn standing tall and staring boldly into the distance with a grim sneer of determination on her face. She and the stallion behind her, whose face had an anguished grimace, stood contrasted against the solar fire scorching the landscape. A tagline was scrawled under the show's name: 'A Sensational Epic of Sound and Fury!'
Twilight entered the cavernous lobby decked out in alabaster and gold trim. She handed her ticket to the pony in the booth beside the door, who tore a piece of off and gave it back to her. “Enjoy the show!” he said with a plastic smile. When she moved off, she heard him say the exact same three words in the exact same tone, like a machine: “Enjoy the show!”
She crossed the room and joined the concession line. Her hooves dug into a plush red carpet with golden concentric designs. Overhead, an enormous crystalline chandelier with thousands of electric candles dangled from the central point where the intricately-carved arches of the vaulted ceiling met. A majestic spread-winged Luna, divided in four by the rib arches, stared down sagely. The antiquated architecture was awe-inspiring. But in a burst of insight and insanity Twilight saw a maze of cables snaking behind the gilded ceiling, powering the chandelier. Running like veins through the whole building, just out of sight. The mural was a beautiful facade for a twisted, mechanical nightmare.
Stop it, she told her brain. Right now.
But her brain wouldn't listen. It was in that dreamlike limbo between drunk and sober, that twilight state where the bits and pieces of thoughts occupying her head collided in new and unexpected and sometimes outright depressing ways. Her mental inhibitions were failing, allowing her unconscious material to bubble to the surface, yet she still had the presence of mind to recognize what was going on. Twilight and her doctor had discussed this at length over the past few years. He firmly recommended she stop drinking cider and focus on overcoming the thoughts that tormented her. But that hadn't worked, because the thoughts always crept back in. So she took the liberty of giving herself a new treatment: drink and drink and then drink some more, until the thoughts were dead and buried beyond her recollection. So far, her miracle cured had worked wonders.
As long as she had a chance to take her medicine regularly.
"....and then she just barged in with a dirt-eater right beside her," a stallion in front of her said. "I mean, I never....her....?"
"Right through the front doors of this place?" his friend said.
"Yeah! It was disgusting!"
"And yet you're giving this place your money anyway."
"Hey man, I already bought the tickets. I want to see the show. Hey, you think I can demand a refund after the show?"
Letting a dirt-eater come through the front doors? Twilight thought. He's right, that is disgusting. All part of the plot, I suppose. The pegasus ponies let earth ponies worm their way into high society, until the moment they're all poised to strike and destroy civilization. Another piece of evidence for the book.
A prickle went all up her back, from her tail to her neck. She felt a presence behind her, and something about it rankled her. Pretending to take in the lobby's decor, she casually let her head drift around until she looked over her shoulder. What's she doing here? Twilight thought, immediately putting her eyes front and center on the concession stand again. She didn't dare look back again, at the cowardly little yellow eyesore right behind her, eyes firmly on the carpet, shoulders slumped in bitter defeat, hoof pawing at the floor so much Twilight expected her to dig a burrow any minute now. It seemed like the whimpering, huddling pegasus had dogged Twilight the whole way to the theater, like some invisible tether had joined them together.
But why?
Maybe she's a spy for the Shadowbolts, Twilight thought, her heart thumping in panic. Her leg muscles itched and burned, ready and waiting to run. The walls seemed to press in around her, the air grew so heavy it pushed down on her. The whole arrest was a set-up. They sent her to follow you and she's only pretending to be meek, because have you ever seen a pegasus who was that much of a wimp? It must be a put-on, a facade. There's no other way she could've gotten into a sold-out show like this.
....the scalper did say he had another ticket. Maybe she got it from him.
Of all the ponies, what are the odds he'd pick the very same one who nearly got you arrested? And why would one of them be dumb enough to put their hooves on another pony's passport? And nopony in their right mind would ever think a weakling like this was a spy, so it's the perfect cover. Twilight wanted to check again, make sure the pegasus was really and truly there, study her demeanor for any signs of a hidden agenda. But she refused, because looking back would only tip her off that Twilight was suspicious.
Best to ignore her. Or pretend to, anyway. But as the line dwindled, the shadow of her lingering presence frayed Twilight's nerves during the long wait. Her hate grew stronger with every passing second, until finally she reached the concession counter in a state of rage. She glowered at the row after row of prepackaged candy wrapped up in cardboard and plastic waiting for her. The eyes of advertising mascots gave her wide smiles, begging her to buy them and tear them open. All those happy, grinning mascots who conspired to interrupt Thorny Bends with their useless ads just as the DJ was on the verge of delivering an important truth. Twilight's lip curled up instinctively, and she huffed under her breath.
“Popcorn,” she demanded.
She dropped some bits on the counter and let them fall where they may. The cashier gave her another plasticine smile, then turned and scooped freshly made popcorn into a red and white striped box. Made right in front of my eyes, she thought. This popcorn is real. True. Not a simulacrum.
The cashier put the down, still with that plasticine smile on his face. “Will there be anything else, ma'am?”
“A hay smoothie,” she said.
As he turned to the smoothie machine and filled a cup, Twilight saw a sticker next to the hay mix swirling around in the tank window: 'Made with imitation hay'. The cashier put the cup down in front of her, like he expected her to drink something made of imitation hay. But she felt that pegasus watching her, felt those eyes on her back, scrutinizing her. Isn't that just like a pegasus? Watching you only when you aren't looking. Well, I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me make a scene and reporting it to her superiors. Twilight would have to drink her fake smoothie and grin. Just another fake smile in a world full of them.
“Is that all, ma'am?” the cashier asked.
“....yes,” Twilight said, pushing her pile of bits over.
But of course it cost more than that. Theater food always did. She dug around in her saddlebag and pulled out more coins, sensing the pegasus behind her take mental notes of her disorganization. Twilight wanted to turn around and scream that she was very organized, but didn't dare. That was what the pegasus wanted, wasn't it? To trick Twilight into making a fool of herself. To make Twilight seem like the irrational one. She knew it was impossible, because the idea had only come to her a few hours ago, but it felt like they were trying to sabotage her book - her expose - before even a single word had been written. She put the money on the counter, swiped her things away, and hurried up the stairs and towards the propped-open double doors into the auditorium. Away from the deceptive little pegasus.
Twilight crossed the threshold into the theater, where the world of the musical lurked behind the red curtains. What did the scenery look like? It could be anything, really. The world beyond was endless possibility. An overture came from the orchestra pit, a jaunty tune running under the excited murmur of the ponies waiting with baited breath, slowly immersing them into the mood. Seat Z-15 was along the back wall. She edged past the ponies sitting on their haunches in the seats. As she went, the music morphed into an ominous war march. Sudden fear gripped Twilight. She realized that behind the curtains could be anything.
Even the black void from her dreams.
It was insane, she told herself. There was a set back there.
But how could she ever know what she couldn't see with her own two eyes?
Get a grip, Twilight. Overtures have all the songs from the show in them. It's a showcase of the musical's mood, that's all.
She set her food down on seat Z-15's forelegrests and settled down on her haunches. The world she lived in couldn't be swept away soon enough. No more Shadowbolts, no more empty conapt, no more deceased brother. She munched the popcorn and sipped the smoothie as she waited for the lights to go down. It might have been made with artificial hay, but she had paid for it, so she might as well drink it.
Something yellow moved in the dim auditorium beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the pegasus sit down right next to her. Fuming, Twilight's head filled with rage at the conspiracy ensnaring her, tearing her down. Destroying her.
Wait....if that pegasus is sitting there, that means the pegasus did get the ticket from that scalper. His tickets were right next to each other.
....maybe, she thought.
She conceded to the rationality of the argument. But then again, manufacturing rational pretexts was how these spy agencies operated.
What if....?
'What if.' Ha! What if dragons could be brought back from extinction and house-trained? In life, there's a hundred thousand different what-ifs, covering the gamut of possibilities. You can say 'what if' about anything you want, but unless you have the evidence to back it up, it's meaningless. Now shut up and open your eyes.
Her nerves on edge, Twilight sat uncomfortably and waited for the show to begin.
'What if?'
Trotten Pullet's life revolved around that phrase. The art of artifice, pretending to be something she was not and treating fake consequences with absolute realism. The faculty of imagination was her guiding light, and her success would be measured by how truthfully she answered the question. How well she informed the audience 'This is what!' in a way that rang true in their ears.
Waiting in the wings of the Chariot Theater, she was fraught with anxiety. Her heart was in her throat and she felt like she was about to vomit. The buzz of the other players, scurrying towards their marks, filled the backstage like radio static. She knew the sound well; her career had started on the airwaves. The torturous, drawn-out crawl of the countdown was an intimate companion, whether it was to airtime or to curtains up. The moment of truth, of do or die, blazed ahead of them all like a raging flame, and as time brought them all closer to it, it grew hotter and more intense. Ponies could either be energized, or horribly burned by the fire.
For Trot, it was a little of both.
Sweat from the lights ran down her shaved skull and dripped off her muzzle. It made her costume stick to her coat. She marveled how such a professional piece of work could be made to look so ragged and dirty. The company's contract with Rarefaction Industries was well worth it.
All those months of planning and rehearsal, distilled down into this one night. Opening night. Every movement, every line, every note had to be flawless. A movement made on the stage couldn't be taken back; the theater wasn't like writing a book, where an author could scribble out her mistakes and start over, pouring over the text and agonizing about the words, sight unseen by any eye but her own. A performance in the theater had to be a perfect confluence of acting, lighting, props, scenery, special effects, and all of it on the fly. It was ephemeral; it lived only in the minds of the audience. One wrong move would ruin the illusion for them. And tonight, it was the cream of the Canterlot elite. They decided not only government and economic policy and social standards, but the very worth of a thing itself. Tomorrow night she could screw up all she wanted, but first appearances set the stage for everything that came later.
To calm herself, she breathed slowly and reflected on the world of the play. From her vantage point she saw the stage sideways: both the facade the audience saw, and the machinery behind it, the lights and the fly ropes and the trap doors. A monologue from her favorite play came to mind. She whispered it softly to herself, and in her imagination strutted out and acted the part of Starswirl, commanding his illusions:
O, light'd orrery of this my stage,
Know you that subtle is the craft of mage:
Illusion cast by wond'rous dramaturge,
Who works his wonder fleet like thaumaturge.
He sets the stars to spin in firmament,
And fixes firm the meaning that he meant;
O, constellations set by watchful eye,
Bold shape drawn out from yonder starry sky
That turns pond'rous about the worldly rim,
An orb now set in centerstage by him
Whose hoof in motion sets solar ballet
To dance across the sky in joyous play,
To spin and whirl to some music divine,
The magic of the spheres that do incline
To Breezy charm that plays upon his theme
And binds those sprites of hill and lake and stream.
A disquiet settled over Trot. She could have gone on and done the entire monologue, probably even the whole play, but why bother? Starswirl was a unicorn, and nopony in their right mind would cast Trotten Pullet as the most powerful sorcerer the world had ever known. Even if a playwright was inclined to it, which none of them were, the Midnight Guard would see to his or her arrest, surely, for flaunting the natural order. Trot may have been a star of the stage, but like the monologue said, she was only part of a constellation. They all were. Cynic created the world onstage, and he made them all orbit around his ideas. The pony in charge had the final say. And on that stage, the most an earth pony could hope for was to play who and what they were.
I'm so lucky to be here, she told herself. This is more than any earth pony has a right to. I should be thankful the High Castle gave me this opportunity.
Trotten Pullet always tried to look on the bright side. At least she could make the audience laugh. They loved laughing at her antics, and she in turn loved to make them smile. But she had to put aside Trot right now and become Brownie. It wasn't hard; Cynic wrote the role especially for her. He was such a generous unicorn to an earth pony like her. Fresnel Glow had it hard by comparison, having won the part of the determined River Wilde despite going through her third divorce and an addiction to antidepressants.
Trot commanded herself to become.
She emptied the brains out of her head and filled her skull with a new set of memories. A new paradigm of thought, according to her favorite book on acting. It involved laying a new decision-making structure, influenced by the study of mathematics, over her normal one. Analyzing all the little intricacies of how her present actions would be informed by a new set of past memories, and what effect it would have on her actions. What would the character see, or not see, in the world around them? What neuroses would develop? All she had to do was plug in the imagined memories of a character and let the new paradigm work itself out. An algorithm of memory. She'd spent many a sleepless night analyzing the technique. Being an earth pony in the middle of unicorn high society left her with a lot of time to study her craft.
The stage manager called for the players to take positions. The curtains were about to rise. Show time. Trot wasn't in the opening number, so she stepped aside and watched the crew as they finished adjusting the props and scenery so the fake farmstead looked as authentic as possible and made a final check of the special effects to ensure they went off seamlessly.
Hooves hit the polished hardwood floor behind her. Blockbuster roughly shoved her out of the way with a snide, “Move it, dirt-eater.”
There was plenty of open space on either side, but nonetheless she stepped aside and let the slim, tall unicorn, whose strong, outthrust chin was level with her ears, pass. He walked with a proud and gallant step, all too aware of his own very secure place in life. Trot shrank away, nearly folding over, until Knight Errol playfully hit her on the side.
“Cheer up,” the blue pegasus said, smiling. “You're our dirt-eater, and I know you'll knock 'em dead.”
“Thanks,” she said, resisting the urge to be offended. Knight had always been nice to her. “You too.”
“Always.”
He spread his wings and lifted himself up into the flies, leaving her earthbound. She stared after him as he disappeared among the lights and the drop scenery, feeling alone. But, to stave it off, she took her copy of the musical's book out and ran through her lines and lyrics one final time, reassuring her that her memory wasn't playing tricks on her, and that everything was exactly as she remembered.
Memory, she thought. That's really all we have, isn't it? Just memories of past emotions, experiences, teachings. That's what influences our present, determines who we are. Yet we actors and actresses live - and get paid - to put all their memories aside and adopt new ones all the time. Put aside who we are. What are we, then, if our memories are as ephemeral as this?
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I think you meant fifty million bits, not dollars?
Never forget what?
5041975
This, maybe?
"1941 – World War II: On Jewish New Year Day, the German SS murder 6,000 Jews in Vinnytsya, Ukraine. Those are the survivors of the previous killings that took place a few days earlier in which about 24,000 Jews were executed."
I found it on Wikipedia's page for September 22nd.
5042650
5041975 5042650 5043699
After some google research, I can bet, that unless ponichaeism is a Pittsburgh-based fan of Metallica or really cares about changes in Ukrainian construction codes concerning putting finished buildings into use, he's likely referencing to this.
5044997
huh
5043699
...Was that there before? Did I just... completely not see the year there, somehow? Sorry.
5044997
Ah, thank you.
5044997
I like it, but no.
5045646 So I left with "Lost" TV series première as only viable option, unless I'm missing something...
"Wardrobe Malfunction"?
5057091
Uhhh....what?
5057228
LinkThe only thing else is a 'Lost' reference...Or Porter Gross being appointed the head of the CIAEdit: I feel stupid. Carry on.
Um, guys, of course it's a LOST reference.
Throny TrendsThorny Bends just did a reference to it with WILDS!