The Slow Mutants

by Doctor Fluffy

04: It's Safe Now

Slow Mutants - 04 -

It's Safe Now

Shouts out to:

Cr0w T R0bot - for editing it and finding mistakes I just would not have noticed

Jed - for making sure the part with Wakefield wasn't too anti-HLF. I mean, it's easy, but we've all had enough of that sort of thing.

The PER camp

Here’s how I was told it happened:

An FBI agent with less social awareness than God gave to one of those big dogs with more fur and bulk than sense walks into the tunnels of what was once a PER base.

This is Garrett Nichols. Who, by strange coincidence, is also walking a black and gray... dog... that fits the description. Tall, lanky, and overall just… sharp. Her name is Alawa.

Garrett doesn’t wear a tie. He has a nice suit, and an indigo shirt with light pink patterns. It is so eighties that people have complained it makes their eyes bleed. Which was weird, seeing as Garrett couldn’t see any blood at the time.

“Strange,” he says, to nobody in particular. PHL and FBI are combing the scene of the…

Crime doesn’t quite fit, I’m told that Garrett thought as Alawa tugged her harness. ‘It was against PER. They were the only victims. So… occurrence.

“Garrett,” says a pegasus behind him. Her coat isn’t quite sky-blue, and her mane is peach-and-pink. This would be Officer - or at least, former officer in Manehattan’s police department - Cloudwatcher, who does not like underground spaces. As pegasi often do.

“It’s not safe here, dammit!” Cloudwatcher says. “This could come down any minute!”

Garrett ignores her. He’s holding out a flashlight, taking pictures of the tunnel. “...Walls are cold. Interesting-”

It is then that he sees an abnormally fat pony frozen to a wall, covered beneath a sheet of ice that simply does not look right to him.

“What the hell happened to him?” Cloudwatcher breathes.

“Huh,” is all that Garrett says. “This ice. It looks to have barely melted at all, but we ended up getting the call hours ago. It could be the fact that it’s underground, but… there’s virtually no condensation. My best guess is it’s magic.”

He walks further into the tunnels. His dog is held on his leash, sniffing the sides of the walls.

“But what uses ice magic with this proficiency?” Garrett muses. “And is an enemy to the PER?”

“It could be a PHL cell,” Cloudwatcher says.

“Not likely,” Garrett says, striding through the questionably stable tunnel without a care in the world. “A PHL cell so secretive it doesn’t tell us that they did it? There’d be more guns. I’ve examined the bulletholes, and… there’s nothing behind the PER here. No bullet wounds. All the shots came from the PER. So, a force that uses magic exclusively… perhaps. One that didn’t fire a shot.”

Garrett looks it over, confused. “Which narrows it down to… absolutely nobody I can think of.”

“Could it be a rival PER cell?” Cloudwatcher asks.

“Certainly not,” Garrett says, completely not registering the fact that he is in an unstable tunnel. “PER are unified to a fault. Same with most Imperials.”

He’s managing a jaunty stroll, now. He’s using a high-end digital SLR camera, taking pictures of whatever catches his eye. He looks almost like a hobbyist hiker or spelunker, at the pace he’s going.

“I read a novel that once said that after eliminating the impossible, then whatever remains must be the truth,” Garrett continues. “But I don’t have enough possibilities to work with yet. There’s too many conflicting variables. Possible explanations, sure, but they’re all too contrived for me to be certain of them.”

Cloudwatcher felt a tremor under her hooves, but she presses on, following Garrett.

Alawa looks back to Cloudwatcher and chuffs. Garrett’s dog - who is almost the size of her, maybe a little bigger - always unnerves her. She suspects Alawa’s part wolf, but Garrett always gives a different answer, (Dutch Shepherd, German Shepherd, Malinois) including some breeds she’s sure aren’t real (Blue Bay Shepherd, Agouti Husky, Alaskan Husky). She is like 90% certain that Garrett does it deliberately to screw with people.

“I do hope I get to the lab soon and find some answers, though,” Garrett says, “PER are known for including self-destruct devices.”

I’m told that Cloudwatcher seriously questioned his sanity at this point.

“Why in Luna’s name didn’t you bring a drone?!” Cloudwatcher yelled.

“I wanted to see it all for myself,” Garrett says, turning a corner…

Before seeing a metal door that looks to have caved in several times over, and is covered in frost.

“Interesting,” he says. “Appears to be a PER lab of some kind.”

He peers through a gap between door and wall, snapping photos.

“Nichols,” Cloudwatcher says, “I… I really don’t think this is a good idea. This could all come down at any minute.”

“That’s why I have to take pictures,” Garrett says, staring at it.

Cloudwatcher flutters up about a foot, and peers through it.

“Definitely a lab of some sort,” Garrett says as he looks over the scene. There’s tables that are either full of shattered instruments… or curiously bare.

“What’s that in the cor-”

CRACK

“You know,” Garrett says, seemingly unmindful of the sound, “Good thing I brought the camera.”

And the roof of the lab shudders ever so slightly. An avalanche of dirt, bits of wood, all of them fall to the ground, burying the lab. He jerks his head back just in time, though dirt speckles his face.

Alawa makes not-quite-yelping noises.

“Well,” he says.

“You could’ve been…” Cloudwatcher says.

Garrett cocks his head, confused. “I wasn’t.”

---

Later

“You could’ve been killed!” yells Agent James Craddock after Nick trudges up to the meeting, late. He has Alawa, still on her harness. “And don’t bring a dog in these-"

“But I wasn’t,” Nick says.

“It was an unacceptable risk,” Craddock says. “You’re gonna die like that someday, and you won’t even-”

“Bring back photos of Shieldwall’s laboratory?” Garrett says, and for a second Craddock thinks he sees a smirk - no, that couldn’t be - or expression of satisfaction on his face.

“Lay off him, Jim,” Cloudwatcher says, as they step into the meeting.

Agent Wakefield has started the presentation.

“You’re too soft on that man, y’know?” Jim asks. “He-”

“He’s good at his job,” Cloudwatcher shrugs. “Besides. I like watching him work. Even if he has a tendency to run over m-”

“He likes you, you know,” Jim says.

“Really,” Cloudwatcher says.

“No, really,” Jim says. “It’s not easy to read Nicky. But it can be done.”

As the three of them walk into the room where Wakefield is working on a presentation. As far as Wakefield’s concerned, it’s Reavers, or some other Spader-loyalist group. Because, after all, there are rumors of that side of the growing Split having advanced weaponry. A mystery, but one with an easy answer.

Cloudwatcher looks to Garrett, who has an expression on his face as he fiddles with his smartphone. Which is weird for Garrett.

“...Which is why we need to take action against government elements taking such blatant

And then suddenly, almost predictably:

“You’re wrong,” Garrett says. “It wasn’t the HLF.”

“Excuse me?!” Wakefield asks.

“It can’t be,” Garrett says. “None of the big units operate in the Pacific Northwest. Not in Vancouver, or anywhere in British Columbia - though that would admittedly be funny - or the Northwest Territories. There’s some HLF aligned with the Spader side of the split, but virtually nobody they trust enough to arm with freeze rays. Or,” Garrett says, and he taps a button on his phone, and then all of a sudden the picture on the projector changes. “Work with ponies.”

The screen comes into focus and displays the fat cook frozen in ice.

“How did you…” Cloudwatcher breathes.

“Easily,” Garrett says.

Wakefield splutters, and Assistant Director Strader is trying not to rip Garrett to pieces. He’s not quite succeeding, but he’s learned after a great deal of time to let Garrett just go with the flow, and then berate him.

It won’t exactly stop him, but then Garrett is hard to stop at the best of times and it’s often best to just go with it.

He fucking knows I hate this, is what I’m told that Strader must have thought.

“This is not the work of a freeze ray, if the Reavers have one,” Garrett continued. “Which I don’t believe they do. That’s magic ice. You can see him frozen under it, and the pattern of melting is abnormal. Cloudwatcher herself confirmed it.”

“I did,” Cloudwatcher nods.

(The real reason is that he has a backdoor into the projector’s systems, but that’s not important)

“I can believe it,” says Copper Star, the only unicorn in the room. A heavyset one with the build of an earth pony. Much like Cloudwatcher, he’s a former police officer. “When we found him, he had signs of frostbite.”

“The kind of frostbite that gets limbs amputated,” adds Craddock. “Meanwhile, virtually no melting after being exposed to the air for hours.”

“Moreover,” Garrett continues, “The Canadian Security Intelligence Service has several similar instances of PER operations such as this being shut down. One in Vancouver.”

He clicks to another photo. There is a basement full of ice, potion vials cracking under the weight of ice, newfoals frozen to the floor, along with humans of the PER shivering.

“Another in Kitsault.”

Another photo. It’s much the same.

“I can name more. But, earlier than that, this occurrence in the Alaska Panhandle,” Garrett says. “A small town in the Alaska Panhandle suffered a late-season, incredibly localized storm. Much like the unusual weather patterns over Northern Alaska, near Prudhoe Bay, earlier this year during the Sagwon Incident.”

Another slide.

It is a map of Alaska, British Columbia, and then Washington. Garrett has plotted a set of dots all along the Pacific coastline, marked by date, which slowly, inexorably lead…

To Washington State.

“I believe that something from Alaska is making its way here,” Garrett said.

“But what?” Wakefield asks. “What kind of crackpot theory could you possibly-”

“Sadly, none,” Garrett says. “I am only plotting out data. But I can find a pony of interest.”

A blurry slide of a gray pony with a not-quite-red, not-quite brown mane and a cutie mark of several raindrops.

“This pony, Dew Glow,” Garrett says, “Was wanted by Emslie due to irregularities in her Equus Refugee Code. According to Emslie, who managed to survive quarantine of Quincy, this ID belonged to a pony who died in Cleveland, Ohio in a PER attack two years ago. Glow then became agitated and escaped, at which point HLF elements within the town started a riot, believing her to be PER.”

Another slide. A yellow pony with a messy cherry-red mane, with darker highlights.

“This is,” Garrett says, “Also Dew Glow. She was seen running through the streets, trying to escape.”

“How can you be sure?” smirks one woman, glaring at both Cloudwatcher and Copper Star. “They all look pretty much the same.”

Cloudwatcher is about to butt in, yell “That’s-” but then-

“She has the exact same hairstyle,” Garrett interrupts, blasely. “Exact same facial structure. Voice recognition software from Emslie’s office was a 98% match. PHL soldier Cinnamon Stick positively identified her as Dew Glow as well.”

“What does she have to do with any of this?” Strader asks.

“She was seen being rescued by the PER,” Garrett says. “And later, seen alone traveling through Mount Rainier National Park.”

He pauses dramatically.

“I believe that if I find her, not only do I stand a chance of taking a dangerous PER operative out of the picture,” Garrett says, “But we find who’s created all these…” he pauses. “Icings? Does that work?”

“That’s not important,” Strader says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Special Agent Nichols. I need to talk to you in the hallway. Now.”

As the two of them leave, Wakefield continues. Pontificating on the impossibility of it all.

---

Later

“Whatever you have against Agent Wakefield,” Strader says, “Now is not the time for it. Where… in the hell… do you get off spitting in Wakefield’s face like this?!”

“I have nothing against Wakefield,” Garrett says. “Only that he’s wrong. And that if I investigate Dew Glow, I’ll be able to punch a hole in Shieldwall’s entire unit.”

“You have little proof of that,” Strader says.

“Only proof that it being HLF is the wrong angle to pursue,” Garret presses. “I believe that if we find Dew Glow, we find the answer.”

He looks at Strader. “Shieldwall is, even ignoring his normal threat level, planning something. PER have been seen equipped with higher-quality equipment, and going by projections, he’s used far fewer newfoals than he’s made. ”

“I don’t doubt that,” Strader says, “But interrupting Wakefield is unprofessional in the extreme!”

He sighs.

“I’d expect nothing less from you at this point.”

“I know,” Garrett says. “None of you would.”

Strader sighs again. “You’re just fucking with us at this point, aren’t you.”

“I find her,” Garrett says, pointedly not answering Strader, “Not only do I find the source of the icings, and a potential ally. But I should be able to take Shieldwall out of the picture.”

“I’ll be able to assemble a unit to help you find them,” Strader says. “But never forget one thing - you all report to me, Special Agent Nichols.”

---

Later

Later, I’m told that Strader found Wakefield in his office.

“But sir, he-” Wakefield starts.

“I don’t like it either,” Strader says. “God, I know Nichols is-”

“A total ass?” Wakefield suggests.

“You did not just interrupt me,” Strader says.

“...Right,” Wakefield says. “Sorry.”

“He’s not an asshole, he just doesn’t have social skills in the least,” Strader says. “And, God help me… he had a point.”

Wakefield just stares at him for a second.

“I know you want to do something about the HLF,” Strader says. “God help me, I know that the idea of one side having weapons that we don’t give to most of our rank and file doesn’t sit well with you. Not me, either.”

“It’s not just that, sir,” Wakefield. “I can’t afford not to investigate the HLF.”

Strader’s face is impassive. “Continue.”

“As best I understand it, the HLF coasts heavily on the momentum of armed forces and the PHL being Johnny-Come-Latelies,” Wakefield says.

“Seems like a bit of an oversimplification,” Strader says. “There are HLF units that take up the duty of protecting towns where US military forces and National Guard cannot maintain military presence.”

“There is also that, yes,” Wakefield says. “I admit it’s an oversimplification. But that momentum is a major part of their support. Turing Test and I have been running some numbers on a predictive algorithm he made, and we’ve come to the conclusion it will run out someday.”

“Turing Test is an odd name for a pony,” Strader says.

“He renamed himself once he discovered he enjoyed computers more than clocks,” Wakefield explains. “I do believe his Cutie Mark actually changed. Our algorithm looks at patterns of behavior in HLF, and patterns of aggression towards them. And… we’ve come to the conclusion this pattern is unsustainable.”

“Go on,” Strader says. He does not make it a question or even an order.

“The Cascade Range Patriots were a non-HLF affiliated militia group until a month or two ago year,” Wakefield says. “More radical militia movements that Spader-loyalist HLF would have spurned are merging with the Carter side of the split. Reports from the East Coast say that Leonid Lovikov is finding more and more recruits from these circles, too - and that he’s getting more and more desperate to free Carter. That can’t be allowed to happen.”

“You almost sound like Gardner,” Strader says.

“I’m not proposing anything like his solutions,” Wakefield says. “But Turing Test and I see a coming catastrophe we need to solve. We need to end it, or at least blunt it, before it can begin.”

“What kind of catastrophe?” Strader asks. “This is all sounding like very much alarmist talk-”

“War,” Wakefield says, trying and not quite succeeding at not snapping at the Assistant Director at the Seattle FBI bureau. “I’m talking about civil war.”

“You think people would be willing to fight the government in the last years of the human race?” Strader asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I do. There’s people in these units who would’ve very much relished a chance to fight the powers that be before the War. And they have people experienced in guerrilla tactics,” Wakefield says. “I know it sounds alarmist. I know that Garrett…”

Wakefield would have had an easier time pulling teeth. Specifically, his own teeth. With rusty pliers.

“...had a point,” he begrudgingly admits. “That other pony could be a proper lead. But I am at wits end here.”

“Very well,” Strader says. “If you are run that ragged by this, then I can assign you a unit. Much like Garrett’s. But on the condition that you are to observe unless I order otherwise.”

Wakefield breathes a sigh of relief. “Yes sir.”

“You took that last part better than I would’ve expected,” Strader remarks.

“...I’m not Gardner, sir,” Wakefield says. “And if that’s what it takes to blunt the catastrophe that Turing and I see, then so be it.”

---

A day later

Garrett is heading to the Quincy Quarantine in his ‘74 Pontiac Transam. His dog is hanging her head out the window, tongue flapping in the wind. Cloudwatcher sits, snoozing lightly despite the fact that Nichols’ dog looks like a wolf to her and is about the same size as her.

The town looks uncanny to him. Not least because of the wall rising up ahead of him. There’s the abandoned houses just outside the wall, and fields watched by towers. People here are scared. Without a doubt.

It’s been about two months since the Quarantine discovered the potion-seeding in massive amounts of crops, which are rotting in a warehouse, with PHL scientists trying to see if there’s anything that can be done.

Just a week ago, someone - okay, several someones, a group of Americans that weren’t HLF on account of being too far right for even the Carter side of the HLF split - broke in and tried to eat them, accusing the PHL of “hoarding food.”

They’d been found ponified days later, mostly accounted for, and loaded onto a truck.

Garrett didn’t like to think about where those trucks went.

His car stops at the… tollbooth? The guard station? It’s at Quincy’s main gate. There’s not much need for the walls, now, but the citizens seem to like keeping them around.

“Business,” says one PHL man, holding an M4.

“FBI,” Garrett says. “I’m Special Agent Garrett Nichols. I’m here to investigate a person of interest in the Quarantine.”

It unsettles Garrett sometimes just how much power the PHL has. They can just… take towns. Just like that. The conspiracy theorists he’s had to investigate, the HLF and militia units he’s had to take down…

He does get it. But on the other hand, he’s fine with it.

“Dew Glow, huh?” says another guard with a short combat shotgun.

Garrett doesn’t react.

“Yeah,” says Combat Shotgun Guy. “Dew Glow.”

Garrett has neither confirmed nor denied that, but apparently that’s enough for these people.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Cloudwatcher asks.

“What would it do?” Garrett asks as his car coasts down the main street of the town, towards the building where a farmer by the name of Bryan Emslie has an office. “I deny it and make a bold faced lie, or confirm it and make things worse. Best not to say anything.”

He looks in the mirror. Alawa… does not seem to care, she’s perfectly happy hanging her head out the window.

The main drag of the town is hauntingly empty. Garrett can’t tell if it should look abandoned or not. There’s houses boarded up, a warehouse surrounded by fortifications (not to keep something out, but in) and scars of gunfire and spells against the walls. Buildings are burnt, some seem to be growing plants from the walls, and there’s a hole that clearly used to be a basement. People don’t spend too long in the streets - they keep their heads down. They don’t talk. They’re quiet.

Not much to work with, Garrett thinks as he drives to Emslie’s office. According to various files he dredged up, Bryan Emslie - manager of a local farm - had hired her back in early 2021, on the basis that having a unicorn couldn’t have hurt. Made some basic charms to increase size of vegetables, enchanted them for good luck.

By all accounts, she kept to herself, didn’t drink, always wore human clothes, and seemed guarded. Somehow. Which, in Garrett’s experience, equaled suspicious behavior when locals didn’t like a pony, and sympathetic when they did.

So, with his dog, and Cloudwatcher in tow, Garrett parks the car and walks towards Emslie’s office, a modest upstairs affair overlooking a warehouse. The office has some battle scars from what Garrett assumes is Dew Glow’s escape, but otherwise it seems fairly unchanged from the ‘90s or ‘80s.

“Mr. Emslie?” Cloudwatcher says, trotting in first. “I’m Agent Cloudwatcher. I’m… well, with the FBI. And this is

“...Is that a fucking wolf?!” Emslie asks as soon as he sees Alawa.

“No, that’s Alawa,” Garrett says. “She’s a real sweetheart.”

Alawa responds to this with a toothy grin that Garrett has learned from experience is friendly, but the uninitiated aren’t so sure about.

“Right,” Emslie says.

“Her name means Sweetpea in Algonquin,” Garrett volunteers. “Not many people speak it. I certainly don’t, but I heard the name somewhere and thought it was a good name. She responds to both Sweetpea and Alawa, though.”

“Are… are you Algonquin?” Emslie asked, trying and failing to take his eyes off the large dog that has taken up residence on his office couch.

“Nah,” Garrett says.

It is at this point that Cloudwatcher makes a valiant effort to put things back on track, as Garrett seems to be doing his level best to throw Emslie off-balance. Which is normally fine - according to Garrett’s colleagues and supervisors, this has worked wonders - but not in this case.

Because I’m told that Cloudwatcher didn’t see it as all too necessary.

“We’re here about Dew Glow,” she said, trying to put on a calm facade. “Anything you can tell us about her?”

“Dew Glow,” Emslie says. He seems to have aged years since the file photo that Garrett saw. “Look, most people in town act like she’s the Antichrist. After Celestia she’s about the second most hated mare in here, but…”

He sighs.

“You know how small towns are,” Emslie says. ““Everyone’s your best friend till it’s time to stab you in the back. It’s why I miss living over in Boise. You know?”

Cloudwatcher nods. “A bit too well.”

“Where were you from, anyway?” Emslie asks. “I… think I recognize your accent.”

“Appleoosa,” Cloudwatcher says. “Moved there because there was a posting for a weather team, and when the War started, the Apples ended up…”

“At each other’s throats?” Emslie says. “Ready to brawl at the drop of a hat, but somehow afraid to say anything?”

Cloudwatcher nods. “It’s why I had to go to Earth.”

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Emslie says, “How do ponies escape Equestria? I mean, the portal network is tightly controlled, and-”

“I can almost relate,” Garrett adds.

“You?” Emslie says, with a chuckle. “That’s a laugh. Anyway. You didn’t hear this from me, but… I think there’s more to it than her being an agent. In fact, I don’t think she was an agent at all.”

“An interesting hypothesis,” Garrett says.

Emslie narrows his eyes, staring at Garrett. Who is petting his massive bluish-blackish-grayish dog, so the glare falls flat.

“I mean it,” Garrett says. “It is genuinely interesting. I’d like to hear why?”

“So, she was hiding in a farm town in the middle of nowhere,” Emslie says. “Tell me - what exactly is the end goal of that?”

“Gathering information,” Garrett says. “Or possibly serving as a sleeper agent? At least, that was what I’d assume.”

“It doesn’t make much sense, though,” Emslie says. “She was sitting here for a year. Until last night no attacks, no nothing. She just seemed like she wanted to be left alone and keep working.”

“Do you know anything about where she came from?” Garrett asks.

“She never said anything specific,” Emslie says. “I know she came from the East. I know she was in the Europe Evacuation. And I know she had a, ah…”

He snaps his fingers.

“What’s the pony version of a British accent?” he asks, confused.

“Trottingham,” Cloudwatcher supplies.

“Yeah,” Emslie said. “She had a slight one of those.”

“So we have someone hiding her identity, with a British accent, lying low,” Garrett says. “Obviously, trying to hide from something. The obvious answer is that she was PER, but…”

“I’m not sure she was PER,” Cloudwatcher says.

“Then why would she be rescued by them?” Garrett asks.

Emslie and Cloudwatcher look at him.

“They see a pony running from an angry mob of humans, what else would they do?” Emslie asks.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Garrett says. “To reiterate. Neither of you seem to think she was PER. Again, it’s a logical answer, but it feels too… almost, too open-and-shut.”

He pauses. Strokes Alawa’s head. She yawns slightly and licks him.

“For an FBI agent, you seem pretty fixed on her being PER,” Cloudwatcher says.

“I don’t presuppose that she is,” Garrett says. “But all the same. It won’t surprise me. If the evidence contradicts me, then so be it.”

“Right,” Emslie says. “Look, I went through her personal belongings. What little she didn’t burn, anyway. There was information, yeah, but… meaningless stuff. On Birmingham.”

“Alabama?” Garrett asks.

“It’s hard to tell with how badly it was burned,” Emslie says. “I… I have it in a secure locker, I can get it to you if need be.”

---

So they head to Emslie’s house, and down into his basement - most of which is taken up by an enormous model train set. Alawa is sniffing it, intrigued.

“Impressive,” Garrett says. “You really went all out with this display.”

“I figure, basements get filled up with junk anyway,” Emslie says. “Why not put in stuff I’d actually enjoy? You have a ski area-” he points to a mountain. “-A few towns, a port, even a logging railroad!”

Garrett nods. “It is an amazing display. I’ve worked to make one out of Legos before.”

“Why Legos?” Emslie asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not Legos?” Garrett says. “Besides. I like the challenge. I like the feeling of piecing it all together, and then suddenly having it all make sen-”

“That’s a surprise,” Cloudwatcher says. “Now, where is-”

Emslie points to a file cabinet, down a set of stairs about a foot high, next to a control panel. Wordlessly, he walks up…

And pulls out a sheaf of burned, rumpled, and otherwise wrinkled papers.

“These were what I managed to take from a little hideaway I found burning before she made her escape,” Emslie says. “You need any help looking them through, just ask.”

So they read it.

It takes a while, and sometimes Garrett gets bored and watches the model train display on the other side of the room, marveling at a tiny streamlined silvery locomotive that travels through minuscule woods, over bridges, and passes through small towns.

“She’s spelled a lot of things in British English,” Garrett says. “Cloudwatcher. Do they do that in Trottingham?”

“Not that I know of,” Cloudwatcher says. “A Griffin might, but all ponies seem to use the American version. Because, y’know, Bowman’s third divergence theory or something.”

“Interesting,” Garrett says, nodding… and then promptly looking over at the silvery locomotive. “Wow. A streamlined Hudson near a narrow gauge railroad. With a Shay. How fun!”

Cloudwatcher shakes her head. “Do you have any photos with her?” she asks.

“I can pull some up on my phone,” Emslie says. “Just a moment…”

“Emslie,” Garrett says. “Did you know that she was incredibly interested in early ponifications?”

Emslie nods.

“She has several articles about the first ponifications in a city,” Garrett says, looking down. “Birmingham, England. Not Alabama. First ponification there would be, ah…”

He types something out on his Android phone.

“Hope Sullivan,” Garrett says. “Riddled with cancer, of… wow. It did that? If my daughter had that, I’d almost consider it too. But then, I suppose she’d tell me no. And she’s not into horses anymore. She prefers Kubrow. She’s inseparable from that plushie that Craddock and I got her after Tennocon.”

“What’s a Kubrow?” Emslie asks.

“Wait, you have a daughter?!” Cloudwatcher asks. “Did you… did you adopt her?”

“No, I fucked Craddock’s sister,” Garrett says.

Cloudwatcher guffaws. “Oh, that’s a great one, Garrett! You-”

She sees that the look on Garrett’s face is unchanged.

“You,” Cloudwatcher says. “You. His sister. A child.”

“Is it really so unbelievable?” Garrett asks.

“Honestly, yes,” Emslie says.

“Emslie I understand, but how did you not notice until now?” Garrett asks. “We’ve literally worked together for-”

A troubled look crosses his face.

“Wait. Years. That was years ago. Why would she be interested in early ponification? PER, certainly. PHL Doctors, I understand. There’s one PHL mare, Dr. Bedside Manner, that’s trying to study them, but it doesn’t make sense for a mare trying to lay low if we operate on the assumption that she’s not PER,” Garrett says. “But, put that aside for a moment… the first newfoal in Birmingham was Hope Sullivan. According to this Wikipedia page, she was a fixture at the Cavalry Club there.”

“Are you saying she’s Hope?” Cloudwatcher asks.

“Certainly not,” Garrett says. “There’s other ponifications here, too. If she was male, I could just as easily suggest her to be…”

“Jazmin Carter?” Cloudwatcher suggests.

Garrett remembers Jazmin Carter. Even before he heard of… her... never truly trusted the potion. No news of testing? Apparently a magical cure-all that worked on everything? No side-effects?

From a medical standpoint, Garrett had just found that laughably improbable. He’d bristled against it, practically devoured casefiles related to it, including a case of non-consensual ponification where charges had just slid off like velcro on a whiteboard. And in spite of, maybe even because of the official position of “there is nothing to be afraid of,” Garrett had fought every step of the way. He’d used what little clout he had to investigate, but there hadn’t been a movement. There’d been some naysayers, some conspiracy theorists, but nothing solid…

Until, of course, Jazmin Carter. Wife of airline worker Michael Carter. Suffering from severe early-onset Alzheimers. Transgender. Took the drink…

...and came out male. Which wasn’t the part that’d set off Michael and his daughter Verity, who were now on the watchlists of what few countries the Barrier hadn’t destroyed. No, that was the fact that… (Garrett’s mind stumbled over pronouns. As it often did.) that she had claimed to be male, that she was happy, and that she was “better” now.

The Carters had taken it as proof positive that the potion did something truly terrible to the mind. There’d been a floodgate of other studies, like the Kraber reports (of plenty of relation to another man on various watchlists) in response.

While there’s hundreds of millions of similar stories, Jazmin Carter sticks out to near-everyone.

“Even now, I could make the claim that she is Amanda Pellick,” Garrett says, picking up a burned scrap of paper.

“And that would be…?” Emslie asks.

“Amanda Pellick was, as far as we know, the last Slow Newfoal,” Garrett says. “Ponified by allegedly rogue PER in the October before the Purple Spring.”

“She noticed that later-strain newfoals were changing quicker,” Cloudwatcher explains. “She was a guest on one of the last episodes of the Kraber Reports, and she determined that the current strain of the Potion isn’t meant to help people but overwrite them. And the one she was doused with - the prewar one - was meant to lull us into a false sense of security.”

“I think I remember that,” Emslie says. “Suicide, right?”

Garrett nods. “Approximately February 19th, 2020. She’d been ponified for roughly one year and four months. Knowing this, it’s incredibly unlikely for Hope to be the same as this newfoal agent who went by the name of Dew Glow. She would have to be a newfoal for nearly five years. Nigh impossible.”

He looks to Emslie.

“You’re suggesting she’s a newfoal, though,” Emslie says, just catching up to Garrett’s train of thought, which is an express that blows through station after station. “Don’t tell m… God, don’t tell me she... I ate food she made at the local farmer’s market, you can’t possibly-”

“Oh, no,” Garrett says. “The idea of early newfoals being toxic and oozing potion is largely-”

“Wait, what do you mean largely?” Emslie asks.

“-a myth,” Garrett continues, ignoring the interruption. “Besides, odds are unlikely in the extreme that she’s-”

“But she… she couldn’t be a newfoal,” Emslie says. “She just. She couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Cloudwatcher asks.

“Because she couldn’t,” Emslie says. “Look, this…”

He scrolls through more photos.

“Look at her,” Emslie says. “She looks… she looks sad. Then happy when I tell her the good news about how much the farm made. And, ah…” he sighs. “I don’t have photos of everything, but she just. She didn’t act like a newfoal. She couldn’t be. She laughed, she cried, she looked sad when I asked her about her family, she looked terrified when I told her about the irregularities with her ERC. Newfoals don’t… they… they can’t, she, she can’t, she couldn’t have…”

“I’m sorry,” Cloudwatcher says, fluttering up to eye level and placing one foreleg on his shoulder. “It’s clear you cared about her a lot.”

“She was indispensable,” Emslie says. “A unicorn? To make earth pony supercrops even bigger, even healthier? I loved having her around. And, she just…”

He looks over to Cloudwatcher.

“I can accept that she was hiding something,” Emslie says, “But not that she was a newfoal. Where do you even get off suggesting slander like that, Agent Nichols?”

Garrett is unfazed. “It’s only a hypothesis. I just… need to collect more evidence. Explore it. Did Dew Glow wear pants?”

“Pretty frequently,” Emslie says, eyes narrowed as he stares up at Garrett, who is roughly 8 inches taller than him.

“Cloudwatcher,” Garrett says. “I’ve heard that ponies can rarely hide their cutie marks well, unless they’re using clothing. Do you have any photos of her without pants?”

Emslie glares at him.

“Not like that!” Garrett sighs.

“What are you…” Cloudwatcher says, as Emslie pulls up several photos of Dew Glow, wearing a shirt, but no pants.

“She had a bad fur day,” Emslie says, scrolling past one with Hope’s fur and mane mussed.

“But… bad fur days don’t affect cutie marks like that,” Cloudwatcher says. “Look, the pattern of a Cutie Mark is nigh-impossible to hide. And yet, it looks… rumpled. Cutie Marks resist that. And...”

She looks at the photo.

“It’s… there’s a blank spot. Down part of her mark,” Cloudwatcher says. “That’s impossible.”

“Why?” Garrett asks.

“I don’t know,” Cloudwatcher says, both forelegs out in a w-shape, in a pony shrug. “I think… it’s… I think they self-correct?”

“That’s extremely bizarre. And my hypothesis? It’s only a gut feeling,” Garrett admits. “But the cutie mark anomalies, the clippings about newfoals… the news piece about Slow Newfoals… and her resemblance to Hope… I’m beginning to suspect it.”

“It sounds impossible,” Cloudwatcher says. “But you may be on to something.”

“Are you crazy?“ Emslie asks.

“The possibility has been floated before,” Garrett says. “But no. I certainly hope not. If a newfoal this clever has been alive this long, then… then Dew Glow is dangerous. In the extreme.”

“I’m not sure I believe that,” Emslie says. “Look. I know you’re dead set on her being a newfoal. And PER. But if you catch her, just… one thing.”

Garrett is impassive.

“Promise me you’ll try to get a straight answer out of her before you do whatever it is you do,” Emslie says. “If she could’ve done any PER things, she would’ve done them long ago. It’s near a compulsion for PER, right?”

Garrett nods.

Then Cloudwatcher speaks.

“If it helps, I’m not entirely sure she’s PER,” Cloudwatcher says. “Like I said, inconsistency.”

“There’s enough irregularities in the profile I’m building of her that it’s certainly possible,” Garrett admits. “She’s only a pony of interest… who, it seems, is becoming as intriguing a mystery as the actual case. If she’s a criminal, if the facts are against her, so be it.”

“Agent Nichols is only after her because she’s our best lead,” Cloudwatcher says, trying to deflect from his impersonal analysis. “Besides, what few newfoals seclude themselves-”

She glares up at Garrett. He doesn't seem to notice. But then, it’s hard to tell with Garrett if he notices everything or nothing it all.

Emslie nods back.

“Usually they gather with others in places like Bellweather,” Cloudwatcher continues.

“What’s-” Emslie starts.

“Not important,” Garrett says, and there is some steel in his voice. Which is more emotion from him than most people see in weeks or even months. A look of what could be either fear or sickness crosses his face. “I insist. If you ask, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you and move on.”

Cloudwatcher gives him a confused look, but decides it’s best not to press the issue. “Alright. What do we do if we find her?”

“Make her feel comfortable,” Emslie says. “She always craved safety. Mare of habit, too. Visited the same coffee place every day, only changed it up one or two or three times. Don’t do anything sudden, and do not suggest that she’s in danger from you.”

“Fits with my profile,” Garrett says. “Like my mentor once said, you have to give in order to get. Excellent, Mr. Emslie. You’ve been a great help.”

“Will you do it, though?” Emslie asks.

Cloudwatcher says it before Garrett can reply.

“Absolutely,” she says.

Comments

[keroko]

"It's safe now" says the title, while also throwing the FBI on her trail.

Interesting to see them, by the way. Most TCB stories have such organizations fall by the wayside, if they even mention them at all.

[Doctor Fluffy]

9146160
I was gonna title the chapter after a grunge song, (I spent a week around Seattle last June, it was super relaxing and there was this GIANT HUSKY, and also I had prickly pear mojito for the first time. It was pretty dope) but I couldn't think of one so I went with my usual habit of naming Slow Mutants chapters after synthwave songs.

Huh. Do they now? Well then.

As for why I did this, well... I was pretty heavily inspired by the podcast Edict Zero: FIS. I changed some things around, but it should be easy to tell who was inspired by who here.

[Doctor Fluffy]

9147851
So do I! But, well, she's going to enjoy herself on the adventures she has. So that's something.

[Mr cold ghost]

The part about the potion changing the individual mentally not just physically always made me disturbed more often than any other part of the TCB mythos.

[Doctor Fluffy]

9154359
It's even more disturbing in that Chat always portrayed it as an unambiguously good thing.

[pottedllama]

Have my upvote, author.

[Doctor Fluffy]

9382040
Thanks, dood