Paint It Black

The pegasus quietly trotted down Haycourt Street, watching as the cars flew by overhead. He could have been flying up there, too, but it was prohibited, for safety reasons.

He passed under a brilliantly-lit billboard, towering over the street, three stories tall, featuring the face of a wolf-like creature and the words "SHEPHERDING THE FLOCK". Nopony was really sure where they had come from, but they were here to protect the people of Equestria, and they were certainly well-equipped for the task. They had the authority of Princess Twilight behind them, anyway. Nopony could disagree with the Princess.

Next, the pegasus passed by an ice-cream truck parked beside the corner. The driver, an off-white colt with bags beneath his eyes, was leaning out of the window and smoking a cigarette. The pegasus pauses to check his saddlebags--he has just enough spare change. He trots over, knocks on the service window, startling the driver who jolts upwards and drops his cigarette into a nearby puddle. Dejected, the driver grumbles as he trots back into the back of the truck, then puts on a half-hearted fake smile as he leans out the back window.

"What can I get for ya, kid?" the driver asks.

"I'm not a kid," the pegasus mutters. "but I'll have a bomb pop."

"Everyone's a kid to me--especially blank flanks like you," the driver says, turning away to dig through the freezer. Bits are exchanged and the pegasus unwraps the bomb pop; he sighs, realizing it’s quite a bit smaller than the ad made it appear.

Without a word, they part ways--the driver returning to his seat and lighting a fresh cigarette, the pegasus resuming his stroll down the street with his small thing in a big package.

It was the latest in a long series of disappointments--first with his parents, as he struggled to find his talent; then with himself, when getting a job and moving out didn't make him feel any better; then with his job, as he realized that he had done the exact same box-tossing at three different box-tossing companies and had not felt even once that box-tossing was a thing anypony needed done at all. He had tried being a bum but found that to be just as, if not more, disappointing--the freedom he expected in not having bills to pay was killed by the dull, heavy reality of not having money--being unable to afford even the smallest of luxuries. He had tried throwing himself back into his work, dedicating his life to throwing boxes as quickly and efficiently as possible, yet he felt no pride in such a pointless task. He took up a hobby, but he only had enough money to pay for a hobby or for food. He tried a bit of painting, but apparently the only color a wall can legally be is gray.

He certainly didn't want to push his luck with the law; sometimes he would see the wolf-like creatures on the posters walk into a neighbor's apartment, and he never saw the neighbor walk back out afterwards. Usually the apartment went up for rent a couple weeks later. It was never said, but everypony knew what it was.

As the pegasus trots away, he wonders what would happen to his apartment. Would it be put up for rent sooner--or later--than the ones in which tenants “mysteriously” disappeared? Would it be left until the rent came due, the landlord not noticing his disappearance until the money stopped flowing? Or would it be cleaned out immediately, all of his worldly possessions sold or thrown out, to prepare the apartment for a new source of bits as soon as possible? Would his neighbors even notice? Would they even care?

Were any of his neighbors even still alive? He shrugs at the thought. Unlike some ponies he knew, the pegasus didn't bother memorizing the ponies around him, nor did he scrutinize their actions. Some ponies seemed to think that tipping the wolves off to other ponies’ illegal acts would save them. Those ponies disappeared just as fast as the ones they had accused.

As he rounds the corner, he spots the line he’d been looking for--trailing out of an alley and onto the sidewalk. He has arrived, and he has plenty of time to enjoy his slightly melted popsicle. He joins the nervous and the dejected--younger studs and mares who are here because a friend has dared them, older ponies who are at their wits' end, stallions and mares his age who are just as tired as he is, even a few young fillies and colts who look as if they simply have nowhere else to go.

All of them are more than willing to talk--to talk of what has brought them here, to comfort each other, but more than that, they are ready and willing to talk about what might happen.

"I heard that it's a secret training program," one hopeful colt says, staring up at the towering skyscrapers and the dark dome of Upper Canterlot. "You go deep into the mountain and you get to fight Changelings."

"I heard it's an exchange program," says a mare, smiling nervously while limping up to the line. "You go to Griffonstone or the Crystal Empire, or to Hoofrica or Prance..."

"I heard it's a miracle medical treatment," says an older stallion with baggy, haggard eyes. "You'll never feel pain again."

"I heard," says a filly with freckles, "that it turns you into one of them."

The pegasus tweaks an ear. What he had heard was that if you walk through this door, you are euthanized--painlessly and instantly. Your very soul sucked away before you can so much as blink. The tale was supposed to make ponies stay away, a warning to little fillies and foals--so they wouldn't follow strangers around under the promise of getting to see what really happens.

Frankly, the pegasus couldn't care less. Any of these outcomes would be better than the life he's led so far. He’s felt lonely, weak, and restricted--no matter how heavy the boxes he lifted were, he never felt strong. No matter how close he was to his neighbors, they always felt like strangers. No matter how much 'freedom' he supposedly had, it all felt like his life was little more than a massive scam. No matter what, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was simply wrong.

All the gossip and conversation amongst the ponies halts as a pair of wolves step out from a door within. Just like the posters he has seen across town, the two of them bear black fur that runs smoothly across the sleek frames. While one of the wolves takes a seat beside the door, the other walks down the line--staring down anypony that so much as whispers.

One by one, they were admitted into the alley’s only door; and within half an hour, it was the pegasus's turn. He steps inside, and sees two more of the wolves--and a stack of five-gallon buckets, each one labeled with a biohazard symbol and sealed tight. There is also a chair in the room, and one of the wolves silently guides the pegasus into it while the other wolf dumps a bucket of thick, foul-smelling black paint all over the mare that came in before him.

So this is it, then.

One of the wolves hands the pegasus a piece of paper and a quill. It's a form, asking for his name and identifying traits--mane color, coat color, eye color, cutie mark, the standard for any legal documentation. The pegasus fills it out--"Forest Green", "Emerald Green", "Red", "N/A"--and signs with his initials, "D.B.". He hands the paper back without a word.

I would say goodbye, but I haven't got anyone to say goodbye to.

D.B. watches as the mare shakes out her coat--gasping for breath--arching her back as fangs grow in where her teeth once was. The paint flashes, shining iridescent patterns shimmering along the surface like rainbows across motor oil. The paint eventually settles into a familiar color--the color of the mare's coat. Or, rather, the color that the mare's coat was. As the paint dribbles off of her, D.B. sees shaggy black fur poke through.

The mare--now a wolf, like all the others--gives a guttural growl. The other two wolves growl in response, then direct her towards a door on the other side of the room. The paint--which has fallen into a trough in the floor--washes away, down a drain.

My turn.

D.B. steps into the basin, and closes his eyes. Moments later, he feels something cold and wet running down his back...

He wakes up slowly, groggily, in an unfamiliar alley. D.B. groans, sits up, and gives an exaggerated yawn; startling the mare sitting next to him.

"Holy shit, you're awake," she whispers. "I thought you were gone for good, dude."

"I thought I was too," D.B. mutters, visibly annoyed. "What happened and where am I?"

"All I know is what I saw. They threw you out the door and then told everypony to go home. I wanted to see if you were okay, but I couldn’t stick around so I... uh, I kinda had to bring you home with me, 'cuz they were probably gonna beat me up if I stuck around."

D.B. glances at the curious shelter around them. The walls appear to be made of a mixture of wood, mud, and an upturned trash can which catches droplets of water from the dripping pipes up above. Beneath their hooves is a matted quilt so covered in stains that its original color is nearly impossible to discern.

It isn’t much, but D.B. isn’t about to complain. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Willow," she replies.

He moves over to the trash can and peers inside--the reflection he sees in the still water looks no different than usual. "I was--they put this paint on me, and--it was supposed to--"

"Ssh. Don't talk too loud about it," Willow says, placing a hoof over his muzzle. "You're not seeing things and you're not a wolf. Just lay low for a bit, okay? If you go back home right now--"

D.B. nods. He can see it now--the wolves quietly opening the door to his apartment, walking in, and walking back out in a few short, painful minutes. Nopony would ever see him again. While he was, and still is, more than willing to let his life slip away...there's a nagging curiosity in his head now, and he wants to see how things play out.

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