Cypress Zero

by Odd_Sarge

10 - Hydrophobic Baptism

Why did she run?

She had left so much unanswered, so much unasked. She’d thrown away what might have been her only chance, all on the words of a stallion she’d been in a room with for less than an hour.

Golden Graham had answers, but it was too late to turn back.

Fokienia wore herself out on things to blame, citing all the princess-damning words she could recall. Her regret crawled in slowly, but surely.

“I’m sorry, Princess Celestia...”

Slumped against an elevator wall, she sat down. Her eyes tracked lazily around her: the ponies above fell away, and she was drawn into the isolation of the unmoving darkness below the office complex.

She knew how it had all come to be, having been made aware of the machinations leading to the technology powering her, but she still didn’t know why she was made, or who had made her and the others. What had made them likely candidates for the Project? The fundamental motives were placed in good, but the true results were much less pure. Training under a military background was a far cry from the civility of universal healing Graham had laid out.

Then, there was the illness. It was unlikely that his words weren’t true, and given the mounting supply of Cypress doomsday prophesies, there was a high likelihood of a potent bioweapon existing aboard the station, a disease that couldn’t be stopped. But she’d never seen any of that in training. In fact, all of the technology used to keep her and the others healthy, growing, and breathing was nigh miraculous. Still, she certainly felt like she’d been weaponized with that technology in some way: healing the injured wasn’t the only thing she could do with her skills and equipment. It wasn’t too far-fetched that she might’ve been a potential carrier for whatever the Project had concocted.

However, because she’d broken containment on her handler’s word, things had changed, but war was still on its way: if the ponies developing the final Cypress Project didn’t require her for use in their plans, what did they have instead? Were she and the other cyborgs the weapons that would destroy Cypress, or a distraction to deploy something worse? She’d reached the extent of what she knew for absolute certain.

Now, there was this talk of a real war, a ‘civil conflict’ in a place called New Griffonia. Without a doubt, she’d broken out at such an inconvenient time for the governor, who had just recently played a risky hoof, betraying allegiances and stirring controversy in some vague attempt to bring about the ‘best for Cypress Station’. For a pony who seemed so proud of his station’s heritage, she found it hard to believe he wanted to bring war to it. Still, he was evidently opportunistic, and clearly had loftier goals in mind. She supposed that before conquest and expansion, consolidation was needed. The ponies of the Cypress Project were a loose end that needed to be wrapped up, and presumably, she’d just given the governor the ability to do so.

Time and time again, it all seemed to come back to the governor. Governor Graham: a hardy stallion of science turned charming businesspony. She couldn’t help but feel as if she’d submitted to his demands, and given up her one piece of leverage. In the process, she’d lost Cold… though, she hoped it would only be for a moment. Did she really trust Graham? Why did he intend to keep Cold? He had control of Concord, and yet, he’d only ordered Cold’s detainment, opting to make her leave. What did he know that she didn’t? Did she know enough of the truth to put it together, or was she lacking a critical piece that could change everything she knew? More importantly, could she do anything amid the growing chaos left by the wake of her escape?

She didn’t know how exactly Cypress was threatened. For the moment, the future was out of her hooves again. And she loathed it.

The fear of the unknown rooted deep into her, but she channeled it into a quiet anger. She was supposed to know the unknown. Yet, it felt like she knew less than before. And she didn’t know where to go next. She stomped, and the metal creaked from where she sat.

The elevator slowed. She stood, and her bag slapped against her side. She reached back, and drew out the PDA. The screen came on. She read it again.

Fokienia did know where to go.

“Holly Rain.”

The doors opened into the unmoved darkness.

Fokienia took a breath, and exchanged the PDA for the stowed disabler pistol. It was the last one left—Cold’s pistol had been blown to pieces by a heavy disabler beam in their previous firefight—and she had a few charges to go with it. She slot a new charge into place, dumping the near-exhausted one on the elevator floor. It clattered to the steel, the echo bouncing through the elevator and the unlit space ahead. Holding the disabler by the mouth-grip, she crept out into the dark. Her optics showed nothing ahead, but she fell back on her training; she’d only spent three days with her augmented eyes, and while she’d learned to exploit their capabilities, she knew better than to rely on the tech alone. The organic pieces of her mind and body hadn’t been honed just for show.

The room was filled with cold concrete. She passed under a billowing ceiling vent, and her body shivered beneath the jumpsuit. As she continued forward into the darkness with her weapon readied, the pin-drop silence shattered; pairs of caged, circular, dome-shaped lights clicked to life on either side of the hall. The red emergency lighting was all too familiar, and it put Fokienia on edge: from the Facility, to Cold’s vessel, and to this lonely, cold hallway, red lights had promised nothing but trouble. Fokienia focused so deeply that she began to measure the passing time with each breath she pulled.

At the end of the hall, a single pneumatic door stood. A heavy inter-locking mechanism, like that of a vault door, was exposed on her side of the doorway. As she approached, it began to spin, clinking rapidly like a lowering anchor. The door hissed, and cranked inward. She stepped backward, waited. It all shuddered to a stop, and more red lights revealed themselves to carry the illumination forward, framing a cramped stairwell: it ascended at a steep angle, up and away from the frigid, featureless corridor. There was the sound of steel sliding, and Fokienia whipped back around. The elevator had just closed. Now, the only way out of the empty space were up the stairs before her. Bracing, she took a breath, and trot past the heavy pneumatic door.

With every step she took, more lights appeared. Click, clack, click: she counted each activation of the guiding lights. With no movement ahead and to the side, the stimulation was precious, forcing her to keep her guard up. This was the kind of nerve-wracking situation her neurostimulators had been designed for, and yet, they were still quiet. She shifted her rump to jostle the bag at her side. Maybe it was for the best that they learn their new place in the hierarchy: she had total control of her body and augmentations, and she would let them back in when she wanted them in.

A few more seconds of her careful crawl passed before more stimuli reached her sphere of awareness. The outline of movement fed to her through her modified optical nerves was a transparent, cloudy sight, and the glimmer of moving crowds was something she was now well-acquainted with. Away and above her, ponies were trotting, though she could still hear nothing but the lights. Then, her path flattened out, and the steps gave way to more smooth concrete. A metal runged-ladder led up to a thick mechanical hatch, painted with hazardous blacks and yellows. Giving one last check behind her, she holstered her disabler in the front jumpsuit-loop, and began climbing the ladder.

The lever of the manually-operated door was slick and oiled; it turned smoothly. Groaning in spite of the ease of access, the hatch allowed Fokienia to push it open. It swung out wide, then stopped before hitting the floor above. She clambered right out and into a stuffy, pale-lit room. A ceiling fan spun idly above her, and a cursory look about showed her several empty shelves. On one side of the room, there was a rectangular outline sized perfectly for a door, but lacking one. On the other, a proper external pneumatic door was fixed in place. Finding nothing else of note in the stuffy concrete room, she triggered the switch for the door.

Fokienia stepped out of the side of the office complex, and right into the rays of artificial afternoon sunlight️.

Without alleyways to shroud her escape, Fokienia dipped back into the wide streets’ crowds. She doubled her speed upon seeing a few pegasi dip out of the other fliers in the flight lanes up high. Their uniforms were unfamiliar, but their red-and-black flightsuits matched the shade of her jumpsuit. A squad’s worth of the pegasi descended—did that one not have wings? She shook herself. Spotty details aside, they aimed right for the entrance on the opposing side of the building.

Fokienia squinted about for any landmarks to indicate where she had to go. Nothing jumped out of her, so she continued on, moving as quickly as she could; she was careful to avoid bowling over the little ponies about. There wasn’t anypony visibly following her, and she wanted to keep it that way. Her swift wake was a minimal trail.

The street and name in her coiled into a mantra of sorts. Pent-up anxiety sulked beneath her flesh, and as she reached out for aid, nothing came—why was the touch of the neurostimulators completely absent? “Holly Rain,” she whispered at her capricious, crowd-weaving canter. Her true feelings and worries were buried beneath the information flooding her other senses. Right now, she had one mission, and one active process: get to her destination. Eyes pivoting left and right, she searched high and low. “Holly Rain.”

Finally, Fokienia discovered where the signs for the street were placed—they were hung high on the bottom corners of the buildings—and she was quick to begin a proper search for the street. With luck, it would be on this side of Cypress Central; she wasn’t prepared to figure out how to work the fragile-looking PDA. There may have been half a million ponies aboard Cypress Station, but she was hoping to get lucky looking for just one. All her escape came down to were two things: intuition, and pure luck. There wasn’t much more she could fall back on.

From quite a ways behind her, a siren wailed. The clattering, whooping bell of it forced her ears to swivel, but having turned a corner already, the source of the sound was out of sight. The ponies nearby had mixed reactions: some shared her pause, holding their own ears aloft; most continued on as if nothing had happened. What few murmurs bobbed about were mentions of ‘Concord’. The siren bobbed across the echoing city soundscape, adding to the ever-pressing crescendo as it sped from one ear to the next. Fokienia turned away; this wasn’t the time to ponder Concord activity.

Now, instead, she turned to the life in her immediate vicinity. Unlike Cupresso, the ponies about had coats clean of soot. Some of the crowd was unkempt of course, but not sullied to the degree the lower city inhabitants were. In general, the unicorns wore either formal attire or nothing at all, while the earth ponies and pegasi wore a variety of clothes, from smooth blue-collar uniforms, to coarse, single-piece threads. Despite the wide range, there were still ponies of the latter two tribes who wore sharp suits and dresses.

Every so often, pegasi would congregate on the corners of intersections, their eyes trained to the restricted rows of pegasi soaring above. Then, they would lift themselves directly up—merging with maneuvers both smooth and rough—into the apparent sky-lanes. From the rooftops of the high-rises, there were occasional teams hauling metal trailers into the traffic with just wingpower, but a vast majority of sky-cargo was carried by the same hovering machines of Cupresso. As opposed to their industrial-grade counterparts, the machines were painted in all kinds of bright hues, and the words of their designation styled in popping corporate-crafted fonts. Moving electronic billboards still buzzed and cried out as the couriers passed by to take their place beneath the sky-lanes. Shadows of sound and light constantly arranged themselves over the vibrant city.

All of it, like everything else she’d experienced outside of the Facility, was an everyday occurrence. A world above her head, full of experiences to be had, and all of it plucked from her reach, and for what?

Maybe the answer didn’t really matter. If it did, it was too late for her to change her beliefs.

This time, the sounds of life brought no feelings of fear. Nor did they bring the warmth that Cold had brought her to see, taught her to feel. Instead, the sounds cleaved a moat of emptiness between her, and the ponies who lived aboard Cypress.

Shuddering slightly, Fokienia’s gait slowed. From a canter, she crested at a trot, only to delve deep into a heavy, earth-plowing walk. Her lower lip quivered, drooping with her muzzle as she strained to whisper, “Holly Rain…” Glazed eyes met concerned looks as a deep frown came to her. Imperceptible to most, ponies began to shy away, but Fokienia noticed. Her heart slowed, and her short lime mane fell into her eyes again. It took longer for her to notice that: it wasn’t often that she brought her head so low. Her hooves carried her autonomously. If she was being chased, or going the wrong way, it didn’t matter. She’d failed her only friend.

Fokienia’s bag buzzed, and it brought a halt to everything. Stopping just short of the alley, she retrieved the PDA with her mouth. It continued to rumble. She swapped to her hoof, and brought the display to life. Amid the confusing jumble of scrawling ‘news’, one repeated line rang clear.

“CUPRESSO CLINIC TERROR-BOMBER DETAINED IN CYPRESS CENTRAL.”

Fokienia closed her eyes. A rage boiled. Her throat welled up in anticipation.

Then, the neurostimulators returned. She welcomed them in.

She sagged, her muscles relaxing in moments. An unnatural calm curled around her, and she gently slid the PDA away. “Holly Rain,” she said simply. A few passing ponies stared worriedly at her, but she paid them no mind.

She had a target, and the location was just around the corner.

Even with what little knowledge she had, the make of the building appeared to be as fine a place as the towers beside it. Etching up two stories, the silver-sheen of the installation glowed in the sunlight. Like many of the imposing structures around, there were few windows, but the presence of one in particular made it immediately clear that the operations within were not too dissimilar from the businesses operating in Cupresso: to the left of the opaque pneumatic front-door, a wide pane of acrylic glass stretched across the building’s face. It offered insight into the goings within, or presumably, it would have, were it not for the metal-slat shutters sealing off all sight-lines. It wasn’t a problem for Fokienia. Peering with her optics, she could see the forms of two ponies facing one another, with a small space between them. There were no signs to advertise a product or service provided by the business, but she knew that it didn’t immediately classify the place as covert in nature: if there were publicly-accessible data-banks to pinpoint the place’s location, then the ponies who needed whatever the enterprise provided could just as easily find that out. Fokienia gave the structure another once over.

The door opened automatically.

The interior was warm. Not a stuffy kind of warm, but with the sweat now foaming slightly in the gap between her jumpsuit and her coat, it was uncomfortable all the same. Discomfort was all but out of mind in the moment, however. Her keen eyes honed in on the two ponies. The door hissed shut behind her, its motion sensor deactivating at the sheer stillness she inhibited.

The floor was covered in an unfamiliar, planked material. Slated against the walls was a simple peachy paint that almost matched her coat, but the floors… it took her longer to identify. She lifted her hoof carefully, only to bring it back down. Wood flooring was an interesting anecdote of the site, but it had little to do with the mission Cold had given her. There were no major furnishings: a few potted plants, presumably for décor; and some recliners and tables to go with them. A big wooden display case was placed beside a door on the left side of the room, and it was filled with all sorts of fine pieces of glass.

When the interruptions of the curiosities had passed, Fokienia re-oriented herself. The other two ponies in the room were staring at her.

“Thank you, Holly,” the mare on her side of the room said, turning slowly. “I’ll call you on my comm-link.” The earth pony leaned over and picked up a plastic case of bottles, then trot toward Fokienia. “’scuse me,” she mumbled.

“What?”

The pony was shaking. Her muzzle quivered around the handle of the case. “’s-scuse me,” she said again, her mumble a little louder.

“Yes?”

“Miss.” Fokienia looked up; the pegasus at the counter called to her again. “Please, let her through.”

Fokienia looked down.

“…I need to pass…”

“Oh.” She stepped aside cleanly. The mare kept her eyes down the whole way out, hurriedly trotting through the pneumatic door.

Fokienia and ‘Holly’ eyed one another. The mare had a look of great curiosity, but the ruffling of her wings suggested there was more to her otherwise placid demeanor. “Welcome…”

“Hello.” Fokienia approached, eyes sweeping left and right, though her neck remained locked in place. She stopped almost precisely where the mare had stood, analyzing the pegasus’ now slightly-worried face. “Are you Holly Rain?”

“Yes… did you place an order?”

“I didn’t. But I was given one.”

An eyebrow quirked above one of Holly’s emerald eyes… a color that reminded her painfully of Cold. The mare tilted her head to sell the look even more. “Given one?”

Her ears twitched, and she puffed lightly to herself. “My name is Fokienia.” She bowed her head, half in respect, half to avoid those eyes. “Searing Cold wanted me to come here.” Discretely: she was sure the governor didn’t know.

“Cold?” The mare’s voice brimmed with warmth. “Are you a friend?”

Did she deserve that much? “He’s helped me… in innumerable measure.” She looked up.

Holly had a beaming smile, but it fell with her pale purple and white mane. “Why did Cold tell you to come here?”

Fokienia’s mind fell into fritz. “I… we were on the run. From bad ponies.”

Holly breathed, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes flicked to the disabler pistol, still on brazen display against Fokienia’s breast. “Who?” her voice was filled with urgency and care.

“Ponies from my past.”

Where Fokienia expected upset, she got it. But it was immediately voiced that it wasn’t for her. “Oh, that stallion.” Holly sighed and looked away. “Always getting involved with the wrong crowd.” She came back up and smiled weakly for Fokienia. “No offense.”

She shuffled. “It’s fine…”

“So where is he? He’s okay, right? He’s usually good at staying out of trouble.”

“He…” Fokienia swallowed. Even under her control, the neurostimulators were faltering again word-by-word. It was painful to force each truth out, but it was only the fault of her biological programming. “He interned himself with the governor for protection. The… news, has reported him as ‘detained’.”

Suddenly, Holly’s forelegs were up on the counter. The pegasus’ eyes were wide. “He—! He’s what?!”

Fokienia’s heart jumped all over the place. “He’s fine, but—”

“Well I’m not!” Holly huffed, and clambered back down. “That stupid, stubborn stallion.” Her eyes softened as she looked Fokienia over. “He always puts his best hoof forward for what he believes in… even though that usually means putting himself in harm’s way. He’s a brave stallion.”

Cold was brave? Fokienia stared into herself with incredulity. He was brave. Searing Cold was a brave pony. She’d deluded herself from the start into thinking otherwise, but at every step of the ceaseless onslaught of a day, he’d proved that theory wrong. Fokienia shrunk inward. “Yes. Very brave.”

“…So, what did you do?” Fokienia looked at the mare. Holly was tapping anxiously. “Well?”

“It started two days ago.”

Holly interrupted, “But Cold wasn’t on station until yesterday.” She wilted. “Sorry… please, go on.”

Fokienia couldn’t blame her. “He got involved when I… well…” She sucked in a breath. Telling the truth of her actions so far was so much harder when the first pony she’d told had suffered for it.

“Hey, it’s okay. I can see you’re stressed out. And to be honest… this is stressing me out, too.” Holly started to walk away, and Fokienia’s eyes followed her. “We’ll talk out back.”

Fokienia looked behind herself. “But you’re operating a business.”

Holly had disappeared into the space behind the storefront. “I was about to close up to do inventory,” she called. The blur-in-motion paused mid-stride, and Holly lifted a hoof to a wall. The bolts to the shop’s entrance thud heavily behind Fokienia. The pegasus continued walking: a non-pneumatic door on the wall beside the counter clicked, and swung open. Holly stepped out. “And finding out what happened to my special somepony is much more important.” After penetrating Fokienia with a steel-eyed gaze, she brightened up, and tapped her hoof. “Here, come on around.”

Fokienia followed after the pegasus, closing the door behind them. There were no other signs of movement, and she had no reason to not trust the mare. She’d been very understanding so far, especially given her failure to protect Cold—Holly’s ‘special somepony’.

“So, Fokienia… is that how you like it pronounced?”

“Fo-kie-nia.”

She tried the word again. “You must be a native.” The light lavender pegasus hummed her thoughts aloud, her back still turned to Fokienia. “And here I’d pegged you for a spacer…”

The wooden floors extended further into the building. The mare, or whoever had built the place, had really gone all out on the wood. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s a very, er, Cypressean name.” Holly spun, brushing her mane before gesturing with the same hoof. She smiled. “Through here, Fokienia.”

The small living space beyond was… quite cozy. The floor was real wood, but the wooden trim-accents that had overrun the walls like reaching vines were clearly of the faux variety. A solid, lacquered dining table for two was placed below a sunny, but pleasant ceiling lamp. A few framed and hung pictures brightened the room further. Polymer chairs against the wall, and a few red cushions slid under the table, served as humble, yet comfortable places to rest. A small kitchenette attachment was carved into the side of the living space, and an upward stairwell led off the only other way into the room. Everything about the room was the polar opposite of the clean-lit halls of procedure outside. This was its own little world aboard Cypress, and from the touch of life scattered about—from the few set-out glass bottles of drink, to the smell of fresh linen draped over the table and chairs—this was a well-loved, and lived-in home.

She knew it was all meant to be inviting, but the modest display made Fokienia feel as if she didn’t belong. This was a better place, a place of dreams, and days determined on-the-wing. In a different life, she could have lived here. Once more, she’d crossed paths with a pony who lived a good life. A better life. And one she didn’t deserve to savor.

“Have a seat, Fokienia.”

She flinched out of her sphere of thought. She straightened out as quick as she could. “Are you sure?”

“Please. Take a cushion or chair, whichever is more comfortable for you.” Holly’s visage brought another sprat of déjà vu: she gave Fokienia a sad smile. “I can already tell it’s going to be a long story.”

Fearing that she might break the mare’s chair, she opted for the cushion.

Flapping caught her eyes and ears, and she tweaked to look at Holly. She skipped across the room, teetering just a hoof’s edge above the floor as she hummed her way to the tiny kitchen’s island. Her head crooned as she reached below and retrieved two bell-shaped glasses, just as easily finagling her way around a modest green bottle, tacked with a red flower of some kind. In a feat that floored Fokienia, she swooped into the side of the counter with her wings flared. Where the glasses should have spilled and fell, she swept them easily onto her wings, balancing her way over to the table. With gentle, eased grace, one glass came down before either of the seated sides. It fizzed softly, but not a drop was spilled.

Holly seated herself on her own cushion, beaming as she lifted her glass of amber liquid to her muzzle. Her hoof held the drink so oddly, but it did flow. It clinked as she brought it back down. She shook herself, feathers rustling. “Sparkling tea. My own batch, of course.”

Fokienia stared at the mare with incredulity. She peered down at her own glass, then back up.

The pegasus blushed, and went for another sip.

Fokienia poked hesitantly at her glass. As much as she wanted a drink, it felt wrong to have it without Cold. “Where do you want me to start?”

Now, Holly’s jittery joy took a turn: the rosy blush evaporated from her. She firmly set her glass down. Her whole face seemed to furrow in focus. “Where did Cold come into play for your… business?”

Nothing but the truth.

“I boarded his ship… and I ambushed him.”

An ambush. A boarding action. An escape. A grove.

“To see them… to really see them, not on a data-bank display…”

Beauty. History. Ponies. Cypress Station.

“And then we had to run…”

Gravity-powered flight. Ancient concrete complexes. A rapidly-advancing society.

“Then… the governor.”

“You mentioned him before.”

Fokienia blinked. It took her a long moment to shake the fuzz of her memories, and focus on the pegasus across the table. The mare had since drained her glass. In its stead, Holly had brought the whole bottle of tea to the table. Fokienia’s mind slid inward—it had felt like forever, but had it only been an hour since she’d begun her tale? Holly had been remarkably quiet the whole time.

“Yes…”

“Sorry, go on.” She moved to pour more tea. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Holly was fine: there wasn’t much left for Fokienia say. “The governor sat down and spoke to me. And he knew things about me that most ponies don’t.” She trailed off. Did she tell her…?

“Bad things?”

Fokienia wriggled on her cushion. Cautiously, she picked up a hoof, and set it on the table. “Classified technology,” she murmured.

Holly looked at her cybernetic foreleg with a generous dose of curiosity. “Wait, that’s your leg?”

Fokienia nodded. “Past the knee, and up toward the forearm. For both my front legs.”

“Wow…” the pegasus whispered. She leaned forward across the table, then back. Her eyes lifted Fokienia’s gaze. “How’d that happen?”

“A prototyping process.”

“Did it hurt?”

“…Sometimes.”

Holly sat quietly. It took Fokienia a moment to identify it as patience. “The governor had no knowledge of my current augmentations, but his words provided a great deal of credibility to his understanding as a former ‘research director’.” Fokienia breathed. “Which provides further reasoning as to why he chose to intern Cold. For his protection.”

“…I think I’d like to know more about these ‘augmentations’ of yours.”

Fokienia obliged; Holly would receive the same treatment and knowledge he’d earned. So she willed forward the truth, of cybernetics and cyborgs, augmentations and bioengineering, of covert and overt operational training. Just as Cold had laid out his culture for her, Fokienia put out the secrets of the life she knew to another innocent pony. It was only through sincere, fastened hope, that Fokienia believed she could protect this one from further harm.

Once she’d finished, Holly was remarkably calm. “So after you spoke to Governor Graham, he took Cold. What happened after that?”

“Cold willingly surrendered himself, and I arrived here.”

Holly chewed her lip. “That’s it? He gave himself up?”

“Yes.”

Holly hummed strangely; the sweet tone was tampered by worry. “How do you know you can trust the governor?” She tapped the table nervously. “Fokienia, Governor Graham is a good pony, but with everything you’ve told me about this… technology, and the plethora of ponies after you, and the fact that they’re calling Cold a terrorist, I’m not so sure the governor views you and Cold the way you think he does.”

“What do you mean?”

Holly licked her lips. “He’s a pony of corporate, fulfilling his needs through… manipulation.” She cringed. “That’s not the word I was looking for. But he’s a modern businesspony. They all are.” She shut her eyes, and leaned back on her cushion. “I should know. It takes one to know one.”

Fokienia cocked her head. “Are you a politician?” The loose and chipper pegasus certainly didn’t look the part.

“No, no,” Holly remarked with a tender giggle. All too soon, she gave way to a tired sigh. “I’m just… it takes a lot to get an installation like this in Cypress Central, no less one with full-residential capacity. The corporations usually do their best for the community—most of them are local institutions—but the higher you ascend on the corporate ladder, the more rungs of hooves you have to step on…”

“I see.” She had her doubts, but something about the governor… Holly was right, it wasn’t manipulation, but some ulterior motive was there, or she thought there was. Fokienia hadn’t fallen prey to that trap, had she?

Holly sipped at her tea. Her ears twitched, and she sat up. “Oh, I’m so sorry! You’re probably starving.” She stood suddenly, and flit her wings as she stepped toward the tiny kitchen module. “I’ve got some leftovers in the fridge. Real cooked meals, none of the pre-packaged.”

Fokienia knew better than to resist. “Okay.”

Soon enough, ‘some’ leftovers made their way to the table on pretty wings. A steaming dish was laid out before Fokienia. It was loaded to the edges of the fine plate, positively brimming with a smattering of greens and bread. The light drink of tea continued to sit idly, unstirred, but increasingly tempting, especially with the bounty laid about before her. She could imagine the richness of the intoxicating scents pouring down her gullet in droves, filling her till she was capped with all of the most self-servient pleasures she could ever dine upon. And there was little she had to do to capture the feeling.

“Alfalfa and rye with maple butter spread.”

Even if they’d tried, her neurostimulators couldn’t have stopped her.

Salivating, she dug in with max gusto. Holly fell out of her vision as she tore through the plate like no other meal before. Nothing this heavenly had been served in the canteen, and it was absolutely beyond the cold, calculated nourishment of a bio-pod. Her glass seemed limitless: every time she reached for it, it was filled just for her. All signs of greediness fell wayward to her path of devastation, inconsequential in the grand feast freely provided to her by her host, Holly.

It was when she’d cleaned the wide plate that she got the better of her control.

Fokienia stood up. A sharp clink, and gasp shook the room. She tilted her head down, peering at the still-seated pony across from her.

Holly held a hoof to her breast. “Sweet Celestia,” she whispered.

Fokienia faltered. “I…”

“I-It’s okay!” Holly laughed. “You’re fine! Just… gosh, I’ve never seen a pony go through a plate so quickly. And so cleanly, too!”

The cyborg looked down, half-expecting ruins. Instead of destruction, there was a used cloth napkin. The plate was totally clean, and the glass hadn’t even cracked slightly in the flurry of steel hooves.

Holly pulled a pitcher of water away, one she’d presumably been trying to pour. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She paused. “I was saving it for Cold, but… it’s okay.”

“…Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A soft pause followed. Holly politely excused herself and stood, taking the ‘clean’ plate with her. Fokienia stayed where she was. She stared into the cool, half-full glass of water. Water flowed from nearby.

“And you know, I didn’t want to say anything… but you’re covered in soot.”

Fokienia scuffed at the front of her jumpsuit, jostling the awkwardly holstered disabler pistol. Her steel hoof pulled away with a smudge of black. She blew it away from the table. “Cleaning it would take time,” she said pointedly.

“Yes, but I intend on having you fully-prepared to go help Cold.”

Fokienia’s ears fell back. She looked at the pegasus, though Holly’s muzzle was turned to the sink. Despite her sated thirst, her throat felt dry. “What would you have me do?”

The water turned off, and Holly reached for a towel. “Well, right now, I have a few things to say.” She came down from the counter, turning to face Fokienia. Her eyes were light, but her voice was hard. “One. You’re going to stay here. Cold told you a lot, and he doesn’t trust as blindly as you think he would. I believe you.” She began walking back to the table. “Two. You’re going to talk about what you know. I might be Cypressean, but you clearly know less about the galaxy than even I do. I need to hear you talk more.” Stopping just shy of Fokienia, she held a hoof out. “And three. I want to know what’s in your bag. I don’t need any unpleasant surprises.” She nodded to the disabler. “But I appreciate knowing you’re armed.”

“You do?”

Holly frowned. “I know my way around a wing-pistol. Let’s leave it at that.”

After a moment, Fokienia stood to her full height. She towered a full head above Holly. The pegasus looked up, her eyes hardening. In response, Fokienia unslung her bag, and lightly laid it on the floor between them.

“Supplies for my augmentations, three energy charges for the disabler, an implant scanner, and Cold’s PDA.”

Holly flinched. “Cold’s PDA?”

“He gave it to me when the governor took him.”

Holly lifted the flap on the bag and brought out the white tablet. “And this is the ‘implant’ scanner?”

“Yes.”

“What does it do?”

“Use the switch.”

The screen buzzed on. One dot. Holly tilted the device, then looked up at Fokienia. “It tracks you?”

“And the others like me.”

Holly hummed. “The cyborgs.”

“Yes.”

Quietly, Holly shut the scanner off, and placed it back in the bag. She next brought out a few pressure-tight containers. The contents smoothly sloshed. She read the labels to herself. “Is this what you picked up at the clinic?” Fokienia nodded, Holly frowned. “And is this for the others, then?”

“No, they’re for me. I acquired it for resupply.”

“You mentioned needing to resupply. This was why you and Cold went to the clinic… what you were making when you said Concord ‘breached’ the building. What are you supplying?”

Fokienia lifted her steel hoof.

“Oh.”

She lowered it back down. “It is purely medical in nature. Inert, so long as it remains stored. Safe, so long as it is applied in the correct dosage.”

“…Okay.” Holly breathed, and brought the bag up with her. She slung the strap over her neck, and it came to rest against her cutie mark: a dark gray cloud, dripping with lavender rain. Holly’s eyes brightened, and she smiled again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

When Fokienia had seen the niceties of Holly’s welcoming-nature cast aside, she’s figured she’d never see the mare smile again. Now, at the top of the stairs, and through a door, she was stood in a well-sized, white-tiled bathroom. The mare’s sudden flip-flop, her relationship with Cold, and the situation ahead filled her with a great deal of unease.

“Actually, can you take a bath with those hooves?”

Fokienia blinked. Could she? She’d never actually thought about it.

Holly sniffed. “…Have you ever?”

Fokienia blushed, and the pegasus gave a trilling giggle. “I’m kidding! But really, if you can’t, that might throw a wrench in the works.”

“I should be able to,” Fokienia started. Then, her voice dropped. “Both the inner and outer coating are rated for lifetime deployment, and are hydrophobic in nature. A majority of my operating hours are spent in submerged stasis.”

“…Okay then!” Her hooves squeaked across the floor. “Here, let me help you with that jumpsuit…”

Hanging her bag on an empty wall-rail, Fokienia drew the disabler, and set it aside as well. The jumpsuit was well-fit and comfortable. That didn’t mean it would require simple means to escape. “Thank you.”

It’d been a long time since Fokienia had bathed like a ‘normal’ pony. Holly was doing her best to make her comfortable, and for that, she was very grateful.

“There we go,” the pegasus murmured, shucking the last binding from Fokienia’s jumpsuit.

Stepping out of the jumpsuit felt… freeing. It pooled around her hooves in a clatter of metal and synthetic fabric. She stretched her hindlegs, rolling her body from the tip of her spine to the base of her neck. Dewspots of sweat were pinned all across her, and the cool air of the bathroom felt all too sweet; she felt cleaner already.

Running water poured from Holly’s hooves once again. “This shouldn’t take more than a minute to warm up.” Standing, she shook her hoof out, and turned to Fokienia, who was still basking in the glory of her naked freedom. “Wow…”

“What?”

“Your coat is in dire straits, which I can fix.” She leaned to the side. “But your tail still looks great. You do it yourself?”

Fokienia didn’t pout—big mares didn’t, and she was a big mare. But she did make a face, and bounce her tail. “Yes, I practice self-maintenance.”

Holly sounded again with her tickling laugh. “I was just going to ask if you wanted help. Being an earth pony and all, especially with all those hard to reach spots.”

Fokienia glanced between the rising tub and the mare before it. To be honest, it had been a very long time since she’d properly bathed: most of her ‘maintenance’ was held together by the bio-pod process. She couldn’t even remember if a pony had helped her bathe before. “…Are you sure?”

“Of course! Pegasi are the best bath partners, haven’t you heard?”

“No.”

Holly’s cheer fell slightly. “Oh, well… then you don’t know!” She sighed, and put on a light, hopeful smile. “Come on, it’s better than I make it sound.”

For some reason, that was enough for Fokienia. She’d spent two days on the run, and despite the stresses that came with meeting new ponies, sowing chaos, and being an overall target for anypony who saw her, it was the mostly-bubbly pegasus that was her most sudden and unseen enemy. Whether it was a forced kindness or true-hearted attempt, Fokienia couldn’t hold herself back any longer. Even with all the power she had in operating alone—especially without the strain of neurostimulated thoughts—it turned out that one good pony was all it took for her to lose her grip on reality. “Okay.”

Still unsure of how she’d gotten into this situation, Fokienia stepped into the tub of the mare she’d just met.

Holly made a quiet squee. “How’s the water?”

Fokienia had no augmentations directed toward temperature-sensitivity, but what she did have was the experience of hot-cold chambers and pressure pods. “It’s…” She held her breath, and slouched a little more, relieving tension as she pressed her rump and body into the clear water. “Perfect.”

Now well beyond the point of caring, Fokienia closed her eyes, and lulled her optical augments to sleep. The eigengrau world behind the lids of her eyes was smooth, totally unmarred by the slimy feeling of bio-fluid. It was a distinct state of non-sight, and it brought a ripple of pleasure to her ever-soothed mind.

“I can take over for you, if you’d like.”

A wave crashed over Fokienia’s back as Holly climbed into the tub with her. She didn’t have to see to know it was her: the pegasus spoke softly, but the words didn’t have meaning. They didn’t have to, not now. There were no secrets to find in this tub, brimming with two mares. They were both from a different Cypress, but that didn’t matter. It was a good, nigh-melancholy blurb of peace. Holly asked nothing of Fokienia, and Fokienia did the same. She imagined that a song was playing somewhere, and she brought it close. Music was something so rarely felt in the Facility, but the few measures she’d heard of Cold’s sleeping melody played over and over.

Warm water poured across her withers, and a hoof and brush touched at her neck, sliding to a new place when they’d been scrubbed thoroughly. Her apricot coat must’ve been gleaming with suds by now, husked of sweat and subdermal grime. Fokienia had always prided herself on keeping both herself, and her weapons, clean. It was nice to have somepony else take care of her. She’d never felt the touch of another pony, not like this. Loving was too strong a word—but at the same time, it was the right word.

Holly didn’t have to ask how she felt; she hummed happily, and that was enough.

The bathtub was more than big: it could fit more than two ponies. It was even wide enough for her to turn around when asked. There were no big waves made by her movement. The scrubbing resumed. Soapy water and conditioner lysed away the deepest grit. She didn’t so much as make a sound as Holly dug into the worst spots. It felt good, and there was no other way to go about that. She didn’t even mind when Holly asked about washing her cutie marks.

With each passing moment, Fokienia hoped more and more that her freedom would last this time.

“You have such a pretty coat. Is it natural?”

Fokienia opened her eyes. Her pegasus bath partner was hard at work. “Mostly.”

Holly splashed some water on Fokienia’s front, and looked up at her. “Meaning?”

“As a part of early bio-pod testing, my natural pigmentations were altered.”

“And you were fine with that?”

“That process took place…” She slowed; for some reason, she couldn’t exactly remember. A substitute answer quickly bobbed up. “About nine years ago.”

“So, you were a filly.” Holly sighed. Her hoof fell into the water, as did her gaze. “I knew this… life, had to have started when you were young, but still.”

Inwardly, Fokienia winced. “If it makes you feel any better, I like my mane and coat. They let me choose my colors.”

The pegasus smiled faintly. “I’m sure you do.”

“…I’m sorry for getting Cold in trouble.”

“It’s okay, Fokienia. Everything will turn out okay.”

Now, the moment began to slow. Reality dragged its sorry-self back in. Fokienia brought her passive augmentations back online—idle muscles of fiberglass and flesh twitched across her, and Holly noticed. Quietly, the mare excused herself, extracting herself carefully from the bath. Holly took one of the fluffy towels and left the room, leaving Fokienia to finish rinsing herself, and to do the same. Peace could last forever, but it had no safe ground to hold yet; the storm had yet to pass.

Fokienia checked through the walls as she rose from the tub, ripples of filth-straining water dispersing like slick oil. Holly had descended back downstairs, and true to her parting words, she’d snuck into a back room and begun sorting through shaky shelves and boxes: inventory. With one last peaceful breath, Fokienia stepped out of the tub. Holly had left her things untouched, and for that, she was grateful. It was nice to feel safe, especially when there was more work to do.

Resupplying her hardware was another chip in the coding of her life. It was as routine as a pony brushing their teeth. Shuttling up beside the draining tub, Fokienia willed the artificial nerves in the first hoof to move for her. A rack of rigged, opaque tubing slid out. The access port for her own fluid inventory was accessible now, and she took advantage of it. With the bag of reagents by her side, she started the semi-laborious operation of resupplying the complex chemical system that fed the veins and microprocessors below. The whole while, she stayed alert: having performed diagnostics so many times under her supervision, the automated systems were well-tracked, prepared for even the most strenuous of circumstances. Despite working under the lightest conditions possible, they worked as if her life depended on it.

It took less than ten minutes to fully replenish her stores, fewer than that to dry her now field-tested hooves, and just a little longer than she should’ve to brush out her mane, tail, and coat. There was one last thing on the docket to deal with: Fokienia stared at her jumpsuit. It was still sat in a pile on the floor.

She took a breath, and looked further down. Her steel forelegs greeted her. At the top of her legs, her coat blended smoothly against the metal. It was as sturdy as any other patch of coat, but she still felt exposed without the jumpsuit to cover it. Her eyes roamed back over to the black bio-pod jumpsuit.

Fokienia neatly folded her jumpsuit, placed it in her bag, and left the room with her gear in tow.

Trotting down the stairs as a fresh, clean, and now disrobed mare, she watched the bustling crowd outside the front. The waves of motion were like that of lunar tides, though she only knew of one example from her studies. Her lip twitched; she wanted to see the Equestrian homeworld in the flesh. Her hindlegs shared the same sentiment—she loosened her steps to avoid creaking any more of the precious wooden floorboards. With so much to see in the pony-manufactured home of Cypress, it was incredible to believe there was still worlds and stars waiting for her to see them. At least, she hoped they would wait for her.

Fokienia started following along the back-side of the counter to where Holly had gone.

Rising door bolts made her stop.

Her ears and coat-hairs rose, utterly alert. She turned to the front door, the door that should have been locked. Her heart panged: her disabler was still in the bag. The figure on the other side was moving too quickly for her to react. Her guard had been lowered so much that there was nothing she could do but stand still behind the counter in the milliseconds that passed before the pneumatic door slid open.

A pony peeked slowly into the building. Their eyes met hers, but that didn’t stop them in their tracks. Instead, they stood up, and walked out until the door sealed automatically behind them. Around their neck, a small black square was hung by a thin rubbery cord, and the gray-coated pony used a hoof to push it back into the collar of their equally toned attire.

The mare smoothed her blue mane back, and shined her fangs. “You’ve been a busy operative.”

Comments

[NorrisThePony]

In a different life, she could have lived here. Once more, she’d crossed paths with a pony who lived a good life.

It's the little things like this that make these characters so much fun to read about. So much said about Fokienia in only a few lines.

“Alfalfa and rye with maple butter spread.”

It's a rare but welcome occasion when a writer is able to successfully make pony food sound like the tastiest thing in the world

Resupplying her hardware was another chip in the coding of her life.

This was a cool line.

Cozy, relaxing chapter, and duly needed before shit inevitably hits the fan.

[Rambling Writer]

“CUPRESSO CLINIC TERROR-BOMBER DETAINED IN CYPRESS CENTRAL.”

Goit. Can't believe I forgot about that. Too many stories just shrug off collateral.

“He’s helped me… in innumerable measure.”

Ponies!

The wooden floors extended further into the building. The mare, or whoever had built the place, had really gone all out on the wood.

You know, the station can grow trees just for a park. Maybe they're growing trees for lumber elsewhere and wood isn't as expensive as it would be in other habitats.

lavender rain

Or maybe purple rain, given Cold's love of music.

The cyborg looked down, half-expecting ruins. Instead of destruction, there was a used cloth napkin. The plate was totally clean, and the glass hadn’t even cracked slightly in the flurry of steel hooves.

When you want to eat everything, you want to eat everything. Breaking stuff gets in the way of eating.

Holly frowned. “I know my way around a wing-pistol. Let’s leave it at that.”

It's not going to be left at that, is it?

Hello there, Sundown. I'm suspicious she might not be working for the Project at the moment, if she was the one who told Fokienia to leave; time to see if that's true. (And how Cold's situation turns out.)

11507312

It's a rare but welcome occasion when a writer is able to successfully make pony food sound like the tastiest thing in the world

I've been meaning to skim through the Redwall books again for just this reason. The food in that series is generally pony food (with some extra fish) and there are entire chapters devoted to feasts that sound like heaven. (Author Brian Jacques grew up in post-WWII rationing in the UK and fantasized about the dishes in his aunt's illustrated Victorian cookbook.)

[redmar]

Holly is clearly a pony that is aware of how dangerous the situation is but seems to be capable of handling herself. Probably moreso than Cold,