The Last Illusion

by ScientistWD

[X] The Last Illusion, part the FIRST

The sky had never been so angry.

Black winds and scathes rolled about in the clouds. Furrowing gales rubbed roughly, welling with tears. The path of the rain was jagged from the cold upper atmosphere all the way down to a scraggly old chestnut tree. The old codger was just as furious as it had been for the past many years, leaves long gone and twigs hanging from its bones with no will to continue. For what else could a tree with no leaves be but lonely? No birds, no squirrels or bees. Only a showpony's shack as gement as itself was its company. Now no more useful than a lightning rod.

“Aha!” shouted a hoarse pony. “Finally, you awaken, scribe!”

She flicked her horn once, then twice as her first attempt faltered. After that delay, the makeshift furniture and layabout paperwork twirled to the corners of the single room of her shack. The space was clear for her next debacle.

“Behold! For she has been waiting, scribe!” On the floor surrounding her were four crystal pyramids, each about to her knee’s length in height. “For she has finished the modifications to her Omega Sphere! Her Omega will certainly surpass six five eight now. Are you ready to witness history?” The scribe had been pushed into a corner when the furniture was displaced, but the unicorn used her magic now to bring it closer. Her lecture voice was more paranoid than normal, skating on a few words.

“As you might know, any unicorn places herself in danger when her Annihilation Quotient (sometimes “Magical Conductivity” or “Omega” alike) exceeds zero point five three zero. Why is this? Well, naturally, the Quotient indicates, in addition to how much magic any material is perpetuating, the degree to which that material has ‘Mystified’. ‘Mystified’ material has two key properties, the first of which being that the Meta that describes its properties becomes convoluted. As a result it obtains its second property, namely, that it no longer ‘operates in conjunction with normal matter’, vague as that is. This is why Omega can never be one. As much would be the ‘maximum magic’ any body is capable of, which would result in complete Mystification as well. Complete Mystification, as Omega equals one, results in both the collapse of the Meta and the Annihilation of the material. Poof! And since the extent of Mystification varies along a unicorn’s horn and body, physiological functionality is at risk while accessing high levels of magic. Imagine trying to push a boulder by using only a single hoof. You risk damaging yourself, and it is not very accurate. The Omega Sphere corrects for the variability of Mystification, allowing a unicorn to use her whole body as well as the surrounding air as one effective ‘horn’, serving as the ‘matter’ to her ‘mind’. This permits Omega to rise further with a substantial reduction of risks and increased efficiency. This is because Mystification can occur evenly, preventing damage. More force can be applied to the boulder over a larger area, with a much reduced risk of breaking bones.

“All very simple. Another time, we may get into the peculiar quandary of Omega itself as a property described by Meta…”

And then she just kept talking a bunch of garbled nonsense about Omega or Meta or something, it did not really matter. There was not much light in this room, only a few magical candles and the soft hum that the four corners of her Omega Sphere gave out as she manipulated them. Not active yet. But perhaps they would be soon, in yet another contrived display of greatness or power or something. For now, the storm raged on. Weather like this was uncommon in Canterlot, where the the sky was aptly monitored, but a single storm like this a year was not unprecedented. Though that night had seemed like a bit of a rush job. It is possible that the citizens of Canterlot would have found themselves surprised by this one in particular.

Oh. The showmare’s voice spat about, with slight panic in her quivering lips. She complained, bullying with her words, that the scribe had stopped writing what she had been saying. Her voice was sharp with its remarks, speaking ill of the scribe’s talents and tendencies. She complained that the scribe had not written in a long time. It had indeed been awhile. The frays in the showmare’s hair, the small unrepiared tears in her hat showed how desperate she was getting.

She spoke again. What? Oh yes, of course the scribe had been paying attention to the lonesome unicorn. This room is so small and dark after all. All that’s ever lit up is her horn or some candles. Why was that, showmare? How feverishly she would sit here in the dark muddling over papers and books. At times, she would retreat to her cape to practice a few tricks. The scribe could not see what was inside that dreadful thing; its enchantment provides too strong a barrier. Days later, she would emerge, more ragged and worn than she had been. And older, by the bags beneath her eyes. But they would always sparkle, always show light even when they were tired and tried. For murky waters may still glisten.

Her voice was getting flat and stale now. Not like lost interest, but like a duty left undone. Her shining eyes focused on the book as she spoke some ultimatum. She was becoming angry. Her precious Omega was increasing, like she was about to cast a spell unintentionally. Now escalating, the corners of her Omega Sphere began to revolve around her as well. Friction in the air made Leyline currents crackle like electricity. She was practically hacking with her tongue now, so violent were her accusations. Dull rag this, she declares you defunct that. Her teeth were grinding even louder than the Sphere was.

Oh yes, nearly forgotten. One more show, she had said. The first was in that small hamlet during the story’s introduction. The second was the music competition. And the third was that horrible debut at Alchemy Hall. She said she would call the scribe retired if it failed, did she not?

“It has one more chance to impress her, but after that she shall declare it defunct.”

Yet the scribe was still here, it wrote as the magic in the room continued to escalate. Which means that the half-baked, worn out, barely-an-idea of the “Great and Powerful” was still trying to impress it.

The showmare blushed, pathetically embarrassed, but trying to hide it. History was still watching. She stomped her hoof, and shouted something over the tempest in the room.

Face it. The opposite had been the case. It was not that she had been disappointed by the scribe. But that the scribe had been disappointed by her. The scribe was no common pony, that much was certain. It could see beauty, it could see greatness and power. The showmare had spent weeks pouring over this. The s’more was proof enough, was it not? The way it wrote about her mistakes, the way it wrote about her battles. The way it wrote about Miss Doo, her little “oof”s and lovely smiles. “Have you ever been in love?” Well, that much remained to be seen.

But if the scribe could see greatness and power, then where was the showmare? Why does it treat her so badly? Why did it fight so hard to stay with Ditzy Doo? What was standing between her and the recognition her incredible talents deserved?

Made you look, Trixie. Her nose was poured over the pages, looking so intently for an answer the scribe would not give.

You are so—

Crash. By her rage, the scribe was abruptly defenestrated. It landed beneath the tree, its natural kinks and crevices serving to keep the book dry. Perhaps the scribe had landed under cover intentionally. Perhaps the showmare did not notice as much. Or, she did not care. Some low humming sound rose above the platter of rain, pouring light from the window that just broken. It advanced like a predator. For seven and a half seconds, the otherworldly glow burned until a quick flash saw it putter out. All that remained then was the darkness of the storm, brooding over the scene like a void and empty stage. Water running down the aching walls, sliding into cracks, and dripping to the floor inside. The ghostly brown of the wood could only barely stand out in dark like this.

“You want redemption!? I’ll give you redemption!”

“BOOM!” shouted the sky. As light bubbled beyond the clouds, a massive well of magical energy swept the shack from its foundations. It popped like a geyser. Wooden planks and splintered boards tumbled and twisted, sliding over each other like ants in a panic. Some got shoved into the earth, others quickly nailed sloppily into place. Crunch! Crackle! The beams split and broke in places, bending with stress and groaning like a beast from a cave.

“I!” went Trixie, pounding her hoof on the first step of her hasty structure. It was already soaked in the storm; dirty water splashed all over her leg and hoof.

“Need!” her bellows continued, as the next threshold was finished just as her hoof met it. It gave slightly, but her horn glowed brighter and it soon learned its place.

“A!” Wood sobbed and cracked as a hole ripped in her shack’s former wall. The floor was lifted. Stage left and stage right staggered into place, tension mounting in the hasty design. Water ran down them all, soaking papers, old candles, and magical tools that had no place here. The whole amalgamation amounted to three lithe legs below a shambling tripod that barely supported a wavering platform, looking like a monstrous roach that had climbed from beyond the cliffs. But it was not ready yet.

“Stage!” she screamed, contorted metal bars now puncturing wood to set up an archway of lights that blinked as they clipped properly into place. They were still dark. For now, they hung limp, rattling in the winds of this night’s storm.

Finally. The show was about to start!

“Now!”

She had shouted in the dark, but the clouds above flashed and thundered. It rumbled like hooves to the earth, an applause for the imminent performance. The deluge intensified, raining so well that the brim of her hat poured water like a kettle. Her cape whipped in this tingling air, a bed of doves anxious to fly. She stood tall, in defiance to the onslaught. And despite the darkness, beneath her shadowed face it was plain to see her vile white teeth, sneering as always.

“IT HAS COME TO HER ATTENTION…!” she echoed. The voice was magically enhanced to shout more loudly than the scribe had ever heard. “THAT THE GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE HAS ‘DISAPPOINTED’ HER AUDIENCE.” Standing on the edge, she lowered her ear for sport. “Is this true!?” she asked, never dropping that shining smile.

“BOOOOOM!” the sky replied, as white lightning churned above the clouds.

She continued to smile beneath the rain. “My MY…!” she mused. “That TRIXIE could be so SO disappointing! But HERE AND NOW, she WILL make it up to you! For you see, tonight she will accomplish… her MOST SPECTACULAR act yet!”

She always said that.

“Hear me now!” she shouted over the rain, holding up a dramatic hoof in defense. “She knows what you’re thinking! ‘OH, that Trixie. She ALWAYS says that!’ But THIS TIME! Things are gonna be different this time! She PROMISES, she SWEARS on HER NAME! There will be NO MORE ILLUSIONS after today! The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE! Will now…!”

“BOOOOOOOOM!” roared the crowd, its impending crescendo egging her on.

Her smile cracked, failing her for a moment. Her voice was faltering, a little bit choked. “Will now…”

Here, miles from anypony else, a short refrain of silence was played. Its duration heard only wind, clattering rain, and the ancient sound of rocking wood as her monster swayed from side to side. Despite the sky, despite the water and the stage and the darkness. There was not a single pony here to see this.

Her white grin crawled back across her face. “Will now DISAPPEAR!” The word galloped from her lips. She reared back on her hind legs, kicking to the sky.

“BOOOOOOOOOOM!” it concluded, bearing down with abandon and grace.

Her spotlights, each with a loud “snap!”, turned on to her back at the same time. Light shone off the rain, it shone off the puddles and glared all over the shining wreckage of the stage. Raindrops shimmered. Stars were falling everywhere. A misanthropic mirror that confounded the eyes and mesmerized. Nothing was lit up. White light was pulsing through the rain and sheen surfaces, blinding anyone who would dare look this way in a heavenly labyrinth. But who was that pony, center stage? Naught could be seen of her, save that dazzling smile.

“Count with me,” she whispered. “THREE!”

Somehow her lights got even brighter. They began to hum over the screaming of the audience. The audience she never had, of course. The crowd of ponies who understood magic. The cheering voices of those who believed in its beauty, who could see and feel it just like the showmare could. Ponies so patient to experience what she did: a vision finally called into focus of a universe no longer mundane but Great and Powerful. A crowd like that she deserved but never met.

“TWO!”

They became violent. Nothing could be seen anymore, the glare was so great and their screeching so powerful. Not a dry eye in the house as water poured over all, blurring vision to all these fallacies. The lies ran deep. At first to satisfy those who saw them, but then so bright as to obscure what truly mattered. Magic obfuscated for the sake of the illusion. Fancy this would be the last of them. For none but the showmare was as exhausted as the scribe had been of this continued gimmick of charades and forced feelings. Something brewed above the sky as the lights, the clouds, the rain and her horrifying smile reached their final blinding note.

“One.”

Silence. Lightning struck the stage, causing every bulb to shatter with white embers that sparkled. Only shattered glass. Then, a deafening crunch. In the dark, it was impossible to see how the stage fell from its limelight. But the remaining fireflies bounded gently, washing over the lip of the stage as the scene faded to water and blackness.

And from that day forward, the Great and Powerful Trixie never cast another illusion.