Death by Dragon

by Compendium of Steve

Ep3: Trap the Keeper

“...And you are absolutely certain of this?”

“Most positive, Your Highness.”

A week has passed since my return from Appleloosa. No book thefts or late returns to speak of, resulting in complete uneventfulness. When things get slow like this, my work switches from hunting book hoarders to standing around looking imposing in the Librarium. As a princess of Equestria, Twilight took on nearly all the royal responsibilities that comes with the title, including the Day Court. During peacetime (ie downtime), it’s customary for the princess to have an audience with the common citizen, to provide aid and learn of the state of the empire from the viewpoint of the little guy.

Ponyville being as small and (seemingly) content as it is, there aren’t that many folks clamoring to have a word with their great protector. Sometimes a short schedule is arranged, but Twilight mainly has an open-door policy: if you got something to say, just walk in and spill it. Of course, this means lots of time where nothing happens at all, which leaves me standing around, bored out of my mind without breaking posture. On the bright side, I get off work earlier than usual during these times, meaning more time to partake in worthwhile hobbies, such as laying around, taking lonesome walks, jumping in the stream (finally got to do that sometime ago. Refreshing in a primal sense), spending time with Sweetie Belle, and reinforcing the armor on my mailbox (Pinkie had gone back to old methods of keeping my awareness sharp, so I have to be ready for a fifty percent chance of getting one of her “surprises” in the morning).

On this particular day, however, we’re graced with one interesting visitor: a royal agent.

“I have been keeping close watch over this for the past three weeks,” he says. “It’s all right there. Proof undeniable of a solo smuggling operation.”

While I’m the signature badass when it comes to carrying out the law of the princess, Equestria is still a big place. Plenty of offenses happening at any given time in every corner of the empire, so to keep in touch with the vein of criminal activity, Her Majesty employs dozens of lesser agents to serve as her eyes and ears amidst the populace. Keep tabs on book tracking records, survey circulation routes, investigate possible leads (most of them are bogus, or a miscalculation in rental period. Many an unwarranted head-bashing came as a result of such errors). Oftentimes, they’re the ones that alert the princess of wrongdoings that I would need to take care of. Mostly, though, the knowledge of their presence helps keep law-abiding citizens leery of any unlawful ventures.

Cross Track is a local surveyor, and one of the area’s most reliable. Intuitive, well-educated, a bit on the anxious side, but just about every one of his reports is dead-on. A good number of assignments around these parts came courtesy of him. Quite the achiever for a fairly average-looking earth pony.

“Are you sure it’s a solo operation?” Twilight asks with the expected uncertainty of a proper ruler, shifting the papers floating before her at the same time.

“Absolutely sure,” he says promptly. “If there were others, there would be more missing items. As it stands, each instance of a book disappearing happens in one place at a time, making this the work of one careful, cunning individual.”

Her Highness gives another look through the papers before lowering them. “And you located him just recently?”

“Yes, Your Highness. It took longer than I would have preferred, but considering where they are located, it’s not too surprising. About three miles down the road to the next town over there is a house on some old fairgrounds. I’ve been over to investigate and found it to be derelict, seemingly abandoned, and with the door locked. But witness reports and my own searching points to that one spot.”

He has a tendency to tap his hoof for emphasis at just the right parts. Can come off as obnoxious, but he knows how to space it out. The princess rubs her chin with a thoughtful hoof.

“Unusual choice for a hideaway, out in the open like that.”

“Result of desperation? I cannot say, Your Majesty,” Cross replies. “For all my experience out in the field, I know very little of how the criminal mind works, particularly for this type of crime. I wish I could provide more insight on where the sense is in it all.”

“That’s perfectly alright, Cross Track. You have put admirable effort in making this discovery. And since your opinion is deeply trusted within these walls, I shall see to arranging a more in-depth investigation of the premises this very day.”

“You humble me greatly, Your Highness.” Kneel, and back up again. “If I may be so bold, I would suggest having it done sometime after the sun has set. Provide the element of surprise, as it were.”

“Yes, that would be a very savvy approach. Swift, silent as the night.” Cross raises a hoof. “Hm?”

“If it is alright with Your Majesty, I wish to provide assistance as well. Specifically, perform reconnaissance around the area until the investigation party arrives.”

“Oh? You have done enough as is. There is no need to do anything further, or put yourself into unnecessary danger.”

“I insist. I familiarized myself with the area, so I can make sure that no traps have been placed, and see if my presence has given cause for suspicion to any unseen eyes.”

The princess nods. “Very well. The investigation shall commence at eight o’clock. Proceed with caution.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” A bow. “I shall be off, then.” He gets up, turns, and leaves quietly. Part of me sighs in relief that the stiff talk (sucking up) is over, but then that part straightens up for what’s next.

“Spike, you are to meet with Cross Track tonight and investigate this supposed smuggler hideout.”

“Of course, milady.” I’ve become so good at doing things solo, the princess learned early on that instead of sending out groups of ponies, operations such as this could be done more cheaply and with a higher success rate if left in the claws of a trained dragon. Of course it means I have to do the work of five, but I’ve managed so far (effortlessly, really. A pony on their own can’t do much on their own compared to something bred to literally move mountains [if need be]).

“It befuddles me why criminals continue to hide in such odd places,” she admits. “Or continue to break the law, for that matter. It’s not as though they’re difficult to uphold. The stipulations are outlined very clearly.” (upon pain of death otherwise)

“Desperation, as Cross Track mentioned? One can grow very attached to a good book, and putting a tight restriction on how long it can be lended can affect one’s judgment.” Which makes you wonder...

“Perhaps. Though they can always purchase them, granted they’re not rare. But at present, I’m entrusting you with determining if criminal activity is indeed ahoof, and take whatever action is necessary.”

“Understood,” I respond. “I will ensure that justice remains intact, and if it’s not, I’ll repair it swiftly.”

“As always, Spike?”

“Absolutely.”

Ep3

TRAP THE KEEPER

It made for a relaxing night-time stroll. The roads going in and out of Ponyville have never been busy even in the daytime, so they’re completely empty after the sun goes down. Full moon lights up everything like a bright fever dream, intense and at the same time surreal. There’s no wind, no sound of animals, or anything else other than my feet treading soil. Trees and grass on either side of me like some outdoor corridor, but they’re not tall so it’s a pleasant kind of enclosure.

Seeing the wide space of a plain some yards ahead approaching, I begin wondering who exactly would live in some old abandoned house. Maybe another old kook like Belljar. If it’s a crazy cat lady, I can only imagine the sort of hassle that would entail (please don’t let it be another crazy old pony. One a month is more than enough).

The open field is undoubtedly the fairgrounds; looks large enough to house a fair, at any rate. Wide space of emptiness all around, except to the far left, which is occupied by some large misshapen tumor of a structure, more blackened than the actual night. Naturally I start heading in that direction, but a fluttering at the tree line makes me pause. I look over, and amid the dark foliage stood out a vibrant lump of brown with large all-seeing eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hoo,” he answers.

“The princess is doubting me this time?”

He shakes his head, then replies, “Hoo.”

“Personal hunch? I see. Well, it’s a free country, so whatever. Hey, this is probably going to be a small job, but if you stick around, you might get to see some fireworks. Places like this seem to go up whenever I stop by.” I look back to the structure and get back to walking. Owlowiscious does get around when he wants (but usually not in the same direction I’m heading...).

Eventually I get close enough to see the building for what it is. Looks like a dilapidated house alright, but it still seems a bit off (aside from the dilapidated part). Roof is tilted in weird places, window frames appear warped and different from one another (including colors), and I swear it was smiling at me through broken shingle teeth. A large sign hangs over the entrance, missing some letters, though the “F” is prominent in the low light. Cross did say this was a fairgrounds, after all.

At my right I spot the stallion, track shirt and all. He’s keeping low to the ground, and may come off as hard to see to anyone without night-vision like me. His head swivels in my direction, and spotting me, he ditches the stealth and trots over to me.

“Ah, Spike, a surprise to see you here,” he says. “I didn’t think you would be part of the investigation team.”

“I’m it.”

“Oh... very well. Then you’ll want some new details?”

“You got it.”

“Well, there are none. Nothing has gone in or come out for the past several hours. I might have missed it while I was making my way here. For all I know, they’re long gone without my noticing.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. I’ll be the one to decide if it’s a lost cause.”

“Very good, then. I’ll remain out here and watch the perimeter. If something’s amiss, I’ll come to your aid... or seek the princess’s aid, depending on just how amiss it is.”

“Thanks. I’ll see ya in a bit, Cross.” I head to the house, leaving Cross behind. Soon I reach the front of the house, and three steps up onto a rickety porch I find a large metal door best fit for a restaurant’s freezer. I look at the bits of rust around the corners, then look at the handle on the side. A grasp and jiggle show it’s firmly locked (more for decoration than actual use).

“Hrm, didn’t know what else to expect. Eh, no biggie.”

I place my claws over the side of the door with the handle, feeling for a crevice near the lock bolt before pulling out my sword. The blade goes into the space, and once packed in tight, I step back and stomp the hilt with my foot. Heavy metal grinds mournfully as the door opens inward. I take my sword (not even a nick. Count myself lucky), sheath it, then push my way inside.

Utterly dark. Even with my eyes I can’t make out anything aside from the space of flooring lit up by the moonlight (which is a little weird). I could go looking for a light switch, but instead I hold up a thumb and breath fire onto it. It catches, making an impromptu mini-torch (the little tricks I can do with dragon fire. You may think silly, or plain badass). The extra lighting does nothing, though; everything is as dark as when I first stepped inside.

“Something’s not right,” I mutter beneath my breath, looking at the dark corners. Figuring that standing here won’t get anything done, I step forward into the darkness. Once my foot falls into the black outside the moonlight, there is an immediate heavy slam behind me. I turn to find more darkness instead of the moonlight, and before I have time to mutter “Terrific...” there is the low rumbling of things coming to life. Suddenly lights flash up around the sides of the room, showing walls of black in a sickly greenish-white shade.

“Greetings, Vanguard.”

More lights flare up until an industrial light in the ceiling blinks on, showing me exactly what I’m standing in. Most of the walls are covered in some black metal, pretty thick-looking, and no signs of any doors around me. I see that the entrance is blocked by a particularly large slab of the stuff. In front of me is a raised structure, similar to the stairway in a mansion, minus the stairs. At the top “landing” is a high wall of glass.

“Welcome to your night of Judgment.”

Through the glare of the lights I make out a figure appearing through the glass, gazing down on me. Something short, equine-like.

“I take it you’re the owner of this place?” I shake out my lit thumb. “Not too pleasant a welcoming.”

“Why should it be, given the predicament you walked into?” the gravelly voice asks. “To think, the mighty Vanguard to Her Majesty, so blinded by duty, could fall into a trap so easily. It’s a bit disappointing, actually.” (damn it all...)

“Trap, huh? What about book smuggling?”

“A ruse I knew neither you nor your princess could pass up. A dabble of misinformation and some stolen articles to grab your attention. The articles have been sent away, so there’s no need to worry of them. However, rather than books, what I seek is you, Vanguard.”

“Heh, I’m touched. So what’s the occasion?” Gotta play it calm and cool. Always important from the get-go of entrapments to never give the captor cause for satisfaction.

“You should know very well the reason. Years of destruction and suffering created as you uphold your precious duties. It was only a matter of time before they would catch up to you.”

“Revenge. That’s all you had to say: revenge.”

“Your life will cease by night’s end, Vanguard. But before it does, you shall see the weight of your sins. Come, let me show your accommodations.”

The silhouette backs away, leaving nothing but glass. To my left, a section of wall slides up to reveal an open doorway. I have two choices: stay here, work my way up to the landing and break the glass, or tear my way back out (that metal doesn’t look too thick). Or, possible third choice... I could play along. I stand around for a moment, then shrug before heading in the direction of the doorway.

It’s been a long time since I got into this kind of situation. Everyone wised up after the first few failed attempts at a vendetta, so having this happen makes me curious as to this guy’s beef, and hence what swayed my decision (stupid though it may be). It has to be pretty personal if he's referring to me as Vanguard instead of Fetcher, and it’s not often someone shows the most lethal warrior in the land his sins. Hopefully it’s a well put-together display.

Through the doorway I step into a much smaller room, lit up only by a fake fireplace. From the furnishings it looks like one of those old-timey sitting rooms with the antiquated carpeting and portraits, though only frames hang on the walls, with tatters in their corners of what had occupied them. That glass from the last room is set in-wall over the fireplace. The center of the room has a table with three chairs, all of them taken up by pony corpses dressed in period piece outfits (including tophats and bonnets). The door behind me slams back into featureless wall (I’m in for it now). There’s a crackle from the upper corners of the room before the gravelly voice of my “host” comes on.

“I know how fond you are of walking, Vanguard. I would offer you a seat, but none appear to be available.”

I walk up to one of the stiffs, look over the vacant holes of its eyes, and give it a tap. It shakes with the dull rattle of plastic.

“Real cute,” I comment, just when I spot one of the badly-hidden speakers. “Some cheap scare is gonna show me the weight of my sins?”

“In due time you will see. But it’s important to remain patient, and not lose one’s head.”

Oh Crap is what I think when I hear the clanging. Immediately I roll backward and a split second later there is metallic snap. From my crouched position I see the closed bear trap on a cable dangling over where I had been. The thing is rusty as hell, and big enough that it chopped the head off the fake skeleton.

“An unpleasant surprise, wouldn’t you say? I’m sure many a quiet, peaceful dinner were disrupted by your ‘fetch quests’. Loved ones dragged away, or cut down before their families, regardless of there being children present or not. Do any of their eyes haunt you to this day, Vanguard?”

I have time to stand up and dust off before he resumes.

“Of course not, otherwise you would have abandoned your position long ago. No, it would take far more to upset you. Or, is there even anything remotely decent to upset?”

A doorway by the fireplace opens up as the ‘host’ goes silent. Does this guy think he’s clever? Trying to get under my scales and wear me down from the inside, fill me with doubt and paranoia and all those wondrous emotions that precede insanity. Pinkie and years of duty helped kill and rebuild that vulnerable part of my psyche into something fit for a proper Vanguard, Fetcher, whatever. Like I’m gonna crack from destroying a family or two, or a dozen. But that bear trap shows he’s more than just mind games. I raise my alertness accordingly as I go into Door #2.

A long black hallway is what I face. Utterly featureless, but lit enough from some glass sidings to enhance the blackness. I scan the walls. A nagging arises in my mind as I fail to find anything. I withdraw my sword and hold it to my side before proceeding at a cautious pace (dammit, he’s getting to me).

A yard goes by with nothing happening. Then another. Uneasiness sets in, scales hone to register every particle that brushes by. Can’t make out the end of the hall, way too much black on black. Without me realizing it, the place goes dead quiet. No breath, hardly a heartbeat. Walls closing in. A waft of air from my right, and suddenly a grey blur comes at me.

My blade swings up on impulse, severing the blur. Sound rushes back into the hall, the walls back off, and I regain my focus. I realize that I was accosted by another of those fake skeletons, popped out of the wall and carrying one of those novelty axes like you see in comics. On the ground before me is the thing’s head, grinning madly and giving an ancient artificial cackle, the sort that terrifies and delights the kids. As its lifeless gaze taunts me, that familiar crackle comes up.

“On edge already? How disappointing, but also fairly amusing.” (so much for not giving him satisfaction)

I bring my sword back to the side and ease up as he continues. Of course he’d have a front row seat through that glass. Adds to the paranoia factor (if I were actually paranoid).

“That deep-seated dread, that uncertainty to what’s around you, that fear of a sudden end. You imposed such feelings unto the masses when you took up that sword. Peace through intimidation and fear, yet fear realized through murder, sanctioned by royalty. Tell me: what kind of kingdom would enforce that kind of peace?”

The kind you don’t mess with.

“More cheap scares? I’m the one who should be disappointed,” I say before resuming my walk.

“Don’t be quick to judge, Vanguard. For like the poorly-veiled tyranny held sway over this land, the fear I bring is not without validation.”

Another of those wall skeletons shoots out ahead of me, driving a pike across the hall into the opposite wall. Immediately there’s a grinding noise above, and I throw myself at the embedded pike and vault it before something heavy smashes down behind me. I land in a crouch, claw pressed to the floor. A shifting feel alerts me to spring up before an array of spikes pop up beneath (seriously??). Mid-air, I catch a glint of something far ahead, and angle myself to avoid whatever sharp object’s (knife? Arrow? Spear?) headed my way.

I slam my claw into a wall and push myself further up the hall and away from the spike floor. I roll and spring up into a run, which gets me past two more of those wall skeletons that bring down two very large, very sharp, and very authentic axes. A wall of spikes drops down in front of me, and before I run myself into some extreme frontal acupuncture, my sword slashes up and gives me an opening. Past the wall I stop a moment, only for the floor to drop out under me.

In a split second there’s a sharp thunk as my sword sticks into the side of the pit (lucky it’s not metal-plated like the rest of the house). Dangling about two feet below the opening, I look down and see (surprise surprise) more spikes, except larger and more bunched together. One of those tiger traps I read about once, converted into a dragon trap (har). The spikes are still a good five feet down; idiot made this thing too damn deep is what I tell myself as I pull myself onto the edge of the hole. Not even two seconds of finishing that thought that I look up, then claw the floor in front of me and throw myself and my sword out onto level floor, just before a metal weight crashes down onto the pit.

Yeah, playing along had been a really stupid idea. I get enough of this crap from Pinkie, but to have someone else make me evade twitch-reflex deathtraps? Sure, the payoff means getting to live, but so far this guy hasn’t done a thing to wow me; only stating things I already know. I bet his motives are just as unimaginative. Can’t believe I let this stupid fun house make me nervous back there.

Things appear settled down as I climb over the weight (even has “1 TON” written on it. Like hell it’s that heavy). On the other side of the obstruction, the crackle comes back.

“Still alive; just what I’d expect from so seasoned an executioner. Proceed, for there is much more to show.”

I see a section of wall further down the hall slide up. With the way I came blocked off, I “proceed” into what will undoubtedly be more surprises.

And surprises indeed, because the first thing I notice in the next area is that it’s lit entirely by candlelight. Over a dozen of them. The next thing I notice is that nearly every inch of the walls and ceiling are covered in paper. Walking down the lengthy room, my eyes adjust and see the various sheets are covered with words, and just about every one of them has a picture, some of them in color. Stallions, mares, old and young. A good number of them are even familiar. And every one of them ripped straight from a newspaper. Obituaries to no end.

“Look upon the depth of your sins, Vanguard,” the gravelly voice reappears. “Every face a weight on your immortal soul. Constant reminders of the terror you bring to the public. Have you ever considered the lives they had led? The ponies that relied on them for companionship, for survival? Did the consequences of your fatal actions ever cross your mind before you cut them down, even as they begged you for their lives?”

Once. A very long time ago.

“So which of these belong to you?” I ask. I’m still miffed by the Hallway of Death, but may as well pump this guy for his backstory. See how seriously I should act when I have him under my foot.

“None. What you did to me is far, far worse than what you have wrought on everyone you see around you. Many of them were given a swift death, never having to face a life of misery and hopelessness, without a future or reason to go on living. The very life you imparted on me, Vanguard.”

The hidden speakers cut off as I start to think; what he said came off rather harsh. What exactly did I do to make his life so bad, supposedly? Let’s see: there were some destroyed families, some orphans, ruined businesses, the fear thing. I think there might have been a suicide or two way back, but only when they were on the run (I think). In any case, this makes my predicament a bit worse. If what he says is true, that he has nothing to live for, then he’s not gonna play around for long. These hopeless types (or at least think they’re hopeless types) will go all out for what they want. And it’s never pretty.

At the other end of the room is another wall opening. Stepping through, the wall slides down shut behind me, just as I take in my new surroundings. Turns out it’s only me. Dozens of me. A freakin’ damn mirror maze (terrific).

Never was good at these back when I went to carnivals. Always find myself moving slowly, bumping into glass unless I have my arms outstretched like a dork, which is precisely what I’m doing now. Feeling my way forward, I touch upon a corner, followed up by another turn. As I maneuver around my many selves, ol’ crackly comes up.

“You go by many titles. Royal servant; fierce warrior; heartless murderer; monster. But underneath all your years of regal tutelage, slaughter and pony upbringing, what is the real you? Which of these are but mere masks to your true self? Maybe you are so corrupted that they all represent you. Each one a part of your whole identity.”

Sheesh this guy loves the sound of his own voice (though it’s nothing to be impressed over). I make it to a straightway as he resumes.

“If one were to fracture or vanish, the whole would be in jeopardy. And you should know just how devastating a shattered identity can be.”

A deafening crash fills the air as the mirrors to my left shatter before a large, sharpened wooden battering ram. I sprint forward to get out of its way amid a hail of broken glass, but just ahead another battering ram smashes through more mirrors. Shards of glass start falling from the ceiling, and luckily I prevent myself from looking up and instead put my arms over my head. Through the cracked mirrors still standing I spot another battering ram swinging my way, and, to my chagrin, I roll away onto a floor covered in sharp glass fragments.

I feel the tips and edges pierce the back of my suit and prick my scales, but I’ve no time to gauge how deep since I’m too busy covering my face from the noisy hail of evisceration coming my way. As I’m steadily getting buried in glass, some of the shards manage to hit my shades before everything goes dark. Everything is completely still for a moment after silence returns to the room. I push away the glass over me and sit up to view the destruction. Not a mirror left standing, and three battering rams hanging around (don’t know if it’s me or Mr. Host who’s getting the bad luck). Certain that there’s no more glass coming down, I take a moment to remove my shades and look them over. Not a single scratch (damn fine magical reinforcement there, Twi). Suit didn’t fair as well, though: cuts and tears here and there. A few trickles of blood from the occasional nick, but not really worth noticing.

Gotta hand it to the guy. Murder by mirror maze? I’ll give him that, though he made that lame heads-up beforehand. Annoyingly Pinkie-like. Shades go back on as a section of wall at the other end of the room slides up.

“It is nearly done. Step through for your final judgment.”

Thank Celestia. I carefully stand up, keeping my feet below the shards, and drag them through the field of broken glass and through the doorway, to what’s supposedly the end of this “ordeal”.

Another small surprise, for I step through into the single largest room yet. Big enough to be a ballroom, but from the decor and furniture, it’s more a dining hall. Long table with tablecloth and silverware in place, adorned with a candelabra in the center next to one of those silver trays with a cover. A massive chandelier hangs from high above, crystals dangling and embedded in nearly every inch of it. There’s about sixteen chairs, and four of them at the head of the table are occupied. The food before them is fairly rotten, and judging by the extra heavy scent of decay, so are they. And they don’t look like props.

Each one is in some contorted pose of death: hunched over, stiffened straight, open mouths and blank gray eyes. To my left, the brown one at the head of the table I quickly recognize as Cross, even without his trademark track shirt. Doesn’t look recently deceased though, what with the sunken eyes, withered skin and the bones showing through. Actually, apart from the obvious stab wounds or strangulation marks, they all seem to have sucked dry. Not even a speck of blood on them. Come to think of it, they all look kinda familiar apart from Cross...

Far behind the former Cross is a high wall, at the top of which is another sheet of thick glass through which I see that silhouette from so long ago.

“And so the feast of carnage comes to an end,” he says, unaided by crappy speakers. “Death is all your life has become. You exact death, on both lives and livelihoods. And those foolish enough to ally with you are also subject to the death you bring. But every reaper must be reaped themselves at some point. Years into the future, or instantaneously, it’s the same no matter who or what you are. This is your crypt, Vanguard. I say it’s rather suiting for you.”

“It’s okay,” I shrug nonchalantly. “So will you be showing yourself before I take the big nap, or you gonna at least tell me precisely what I did to deserve such gracious treatment?”

“Bravado will not save you from this,” he answers in a tone more grave than gravelly. “No, you will receive no explanation. This will be your final torment in the little time you have left: not knowing what wrong, of the countless many you’ve committed, brought this on you. Just know that this was a long time coming, and you deserve every agonizing moment of its culmination.”

Noise begins to fill the room, unseen gears tumbling about, locking into place and getting primed. Something massive in motion, but every surface in the dining hall is completely still. Not for long.

“Farewell, Vanguard.”

Instantly the section of floor to my left explodes as something with metallic teeth erupts and snaps shut. The nightmare bear trap retracts back into the floor, and feeling the slight rumble through my feet, I turn and sprint to the right just before it springs up, devouring more floor. I keep running, but as I near the other end of the table, I notice the wooden shrapnel flying up from the other side and look to see the teeth of another one trap. Theoretically, from the way these things are moving, I could just run for the very end of the table and let them pass, but given this guy’s penchant for pitfalls and spikes, that thought left my mind. I leap onto the table instead.

For the moment it seems I escaped becoming lunchmeat, right when a wooden pike shoots up through the table, about an inch from my crotch (CELESTIA BEJIMMINY DAMN!). I hop over to my left, but hop again as another pike bursts upward from the table. I’m hopping from one foot to the other as more sharpened wood seeks to make a kebab outta me, and passing by the tray and lid, a pike shoots up under it, knocking it aside and sending a severed stallion head flying (real classy). On either side of the table the industrial-sized bear traps are following along with me, snapping up remainders of floor, hungry for dragon meat.

I’m down to the last square foot of table in front of Cross’ corpse, and the last pike smashes up the table, sending me to the floor and knocking Cross and his chair back. There’s a shrrink sound, and I look over to see a bed of spikes have pierced through Cross’ head (seriously, that’s plain distasteful). Spikes on one side, a row of pikes blocking the other, and two bear traps in front in back. There isn’t a moment to formulate an escape strategy when the sound of a catch releasing silences everything else in the room. Regrettably, I look up and see, coming straight at me, about ten feet of sharpened steel pendulum, looking to make a point with the new “head” of the table.

The sound of another catch releasing mutes the roar of impending death, just before the pendulum stops midswing and plummets onto the gnashing bear trap in front of me, crushing it into pieces in the loudest, most ludicrously destructive way possible.

“What?!” Mr. Gravelthroat yells, right when a heavy fluttering fills the air. I catch the ball of brown circling overhead before it settles on the chandelier, a metal bolt of some kind clasped in his beak as he looks down at me. That’s one other thing about Owlowiscious: he’s as good a tinkerer as he is a listener. Rather than question exactly how he got into this fortified deathtrap, I just laugh.

“Some hell of a hunch, huh Owli?”

He spits out the bolt to reply with a casual “Hoo.” The hidden sounds from earlier begin filling up the sides of the room again.

“Enough distraction. Prepare to die!”

A displacement of air above tips me to jump forward before a massive iron ball squashes me. I land on all fours amid torn metal, cutting a claw on a sharp bit. Quickly I make time to swear under my breath and suck at it before leaping back into action. Panels along the walls flip open, and I head toward the center of the room to draw my sword. From a panel in front of me, a line of arrows are let loose, which are swiftly cut from the air. Two more lines of arrows come at me and they’re dispatched just as swiftly, but my focus snaps when two arrows pass by my sides and plunk into the wall before me. Owlowiscious swoops by my gaze a moment later, a single arrow held firm in his talons as he gives me a wink. Cheeky owl.

Heavier rumbling emanates from the upper seams of the room before flipping open to reveal several freakin’ massive ballistas stuffed into the woodwork, each locked and loaded (bringing out the big guns I see). One fires off a loud bolt, which hits and tears up the floor to my left. I start hopping back as more bolts are fired, bringing myself back toward the middle of the ruined table as floorspace and pikes get destroyed by the onslaught. I’m at center table when the rounds are spent, but a rattling turns my gaze upward toward the chandelier, and I leap and roll onto splintered flooring just as the ceiling-piece drops down in a nasty crash.

I add wood bits and moldy hair to my growing list of suit ruiners (one of the stiffs cushioned my fall) as I get back up, and looking over I see the chandelier shake before moving around a few inches in a small circle. It picks up speed, but I’m heading for the far edge of the room before its circle widens by a few feet, smashing pikes and whatever’s left of the table. A burst of speed in the midst of a revolution sends the chandelier right at me, forcing me to duck and leap just before it smashes into the wall behind me. Bastard went and installed a damn wrecking ball (a very crude one at that).

The collision halts the chandelier, but the extended chain holding it pulls away, swinging the chandelier back for another go. I run from its second impact, slide to avoid the third, and double-back when I remember that the other side of the room still has a bear trap going for me. Dust and mold fill the air from the chandelier’s failed strikes, and the ornament of mass destruction retracts upward and starts spinning around again. More heavy rattling as its chain releases and sends it plummeting right at me, but its slow enough to allow me to pull a sweet backflip (might’ve gotten another splinter on the way. Starting to hate this hardwood flooring).

The chandelier starts dragging across the floor as the chain retracts, but I run and hop onto it before it gets airborne. Apparently my host isn’t pleased about that, because immediately the chandelier starts swinging wildly. Figured the safest place at this point would be the wrecking ball itself, and he looks to be correcting that.

“Submit to judgment and Die already!”

Every smash into a wall knocks more dust and wood around, and I shake violently each time. My grip stays firm throughout, though. Just need to think of something before this thing angles properly to smear me across the walls. Inspiration strikes when I see Owlowiscious resting at the spot where the chain meets with the frame of the chandelier. With everything coming down around us, we nod to each other and get to work.

In the moment between swings, I draw my sword and run my palm along the edge, wrapping it to make sure there’s an even coating just before the chandelier hits another wall. I lose my balance but grab hold of some metal before I fall off. I’m now looking in the direction of the back wall, and the chandelier swings around to line me up. I look up quickly at Owli, who’s got a talon down on something.

“At the ready,” I say over groaning metal, to which he acknowledges with a “Hoo Hoo!”. As the chandelier begins to swing, I bring up my sword and start letting out flame, muttering the incantation as much as I can through the heat. Thing’s picking up speed, wall’s getting closer, gotta hurry. Midway over the room and the length of the sword is radiant with fire. I prime it as the wall speeds toward me. Better time this right.

“Malachite Piston!”

A yard before point of contact, my sword is driven into the wall and creates a green kinetic blast that sends us going the other way, high velocity. A split second after, I push off from the chandelier and fall to the ground in a crouch. Everything seems to have worked out, because there is the sound of crushing metal, breaking wall and shattering glass, all rolled into one calamitous din. A few bits of metal bounce past me, and when the ringing in my ears stop and the world stops spinning, I slowly stand back up. Looking around, I see that the chandelier is nothing but scrap metal, having blasted a jagged hole through the observing glass and getting embedded into the wall beneath.

The bear trap on the other side of the room has stopped, so that’s added relief. Owlowiscious flutters down onto a chair that miraculously survived the mayhem intact (unlike just about everything else), dropping the bolt he took from the chandelier.

“Great work up there,” I tell him.

“Hoo.”

“Credit where credit is due, man. Sorry there weren’t any fireworks.”

“Hoo.”

“Yeah, I bet. So what told you things were sour? Your hunch couldn’t have been that good.”

“Hoo. Hoo.” Well, there’s a shocker.

“Snuck in through the back, you say?” He nods. “I suppose that would seem suspicious. Yet I don’t think it’s as cut-and-dry as that.”

Owli shrugs before giving a neutral “Hoo”. I look over to the smashed observation window, letting a pause settle between us. Then I say, “Go inform Her Majesty we got some agents KIA.” I hold my sword out to the side. “I’m gonna finish things up here.”

He nods, then flies off to wherever it was he came from (should ask him about that later). Alone, I hurry over, hop up, and climb the wreckage through the jagged hole in the window. A crushed console gives off some random sparks beneath the scrap pile within; that would explain the bear trap not moving around. Hopping down onto the floor of the observation room, I take two steps and immediately come upon my oh so generous host, lying against a wall.

It’s Cross Track, track shirt and all, just like Owlowiscious said. But something’s off: parts of his fur flicker from brown to black, and his eyes, full of pain and unfathomable hate, switch from atypical to dull, pupil-less blue. He’s clutching a gash on his chest, no doubt caused by some shrapnel. My head might still be reeling from the chandelier ride (or maybe I don’t want to believe it), but all I’m seeing is green.

“Thwarted by an owl. And just when I had you,” he says in a raspy, insect-like voice (voice modifier, or...).

Instead of making a snappy remark, I point my sword down at him and give his chest a light poke, which he barely flinches at (too weak to). Some of the green collects on the tip, and I bring it up and give take a whiff. There’s no question. A scent like this you can’t forget, especially after being covered in seeming gallons of it.

“This night really is full of surprises,” I mutter aloud, and in a flicker of green “Cross” reveals his true self. Beneath the blood-stained shirt it’s nothing but black chitin, perforated horn and fangs. Pure Changeling, alright.

“At last, the criminal sees the damning evidence,” he/she/it says, trying to sneer through its pain. “No point in answering your earlier questions as to ‘why’, just by looking at me. Heh, a nightmare you thought you had gotten over, wouldn’t you say, Vanguard?”

“Not really,” I put it bluntly. “So how many more are there waiting to ambush me?”

“None. I’m all that’s left.” He/she/it spits out some blood. “There were only a few of us at first. Some like myself were elsewhere during the attack, but a few managed to escape with some eggs. None were queens, though. And they died shortly after hatching. Those who were left, most had allowed themselves to be hunted down. A few even took their own lives to avoid an existence without guidance. Only I had the strongest desire for revenge to stay alive. Years of surviving, observing, planning. Scavenging from the shadows to keep my body functional, in the hope that the destroyer of my kind meets his end by the hoof of one of his victims. It was to finally come to fruition this night...”

“But it didn’t work out quite that way, huh?” The Changeling hisses in some breaths as he shoots an extra vicious glare at me.

“Blessed by a vile goddess is what you are. Possessed with damned wretched demonic luck! You needed to die, after all you did to me! To everyone I ever knew in my life! Gone because of your murderous steel!”

“...You brought it upon yourselves.”

“Siiiiiish, but that’s how it works, doesn’t it? Violence begets violence; an eye for an eye. For every revenge, another follows that is far worse. We did as our queen wished; her will was our life. But you took that away, and subsequently denied me the ability to bring about the full despair you deserve. I could only take satisfaction in simply killing you, when I should be destroying all you’ve built your life around... Which is exactly what you had done. Or was it just merely a pest problem to you and your miserable ponies?”

Memories beg to spring to the forefront of my thoughts, but I hold them back. Doesn’t prevent a glimmer from slipping through, though. Things like that you can’t suppress completely, even if it’s something that was wholly justified. The Changeling props itself up the wall more for a straighter sitting position, its breath becoming more haggard.

“So, what will you do now? Deliver me to your princess? The last Changeling alive: oh what secrets I hold. I’ve seen what your masters do with creatures different from themselves. There’ll be no trial, no sanctioned prison sentence. You’ll cut and stab and shock me like all the other wildlife that’s a nuisance to you. Manticores, cockatrices, parasprites. Hydras are extinct because of your ‘scientific endeavor’. But you do it out of fear.” A smile starts to form on his none-lips. “You’re all lousy with it. I’ve seen it, smelled it, every day I’ve been in your society. No one ever feels truly safe until the ‘monsters’ of the world are gone. Which is what will happen after your researchers have had their way with me.”

Its strained breathing is the only sound between us, as we look each other eye to eye. I shift my eyes over to my sword, then bring my other claw to the hilt. The Changeling’s smile becomes a smug sneer.

“Ohhh, I see. That’s the reason you came out here to begin with: not to capture, but to kill.” It points to me with a shaky limb. “Doing precisely what your precious princess told you. Just like the eternally loyal dog that you are.”

Sword raised over my head. I stare extra hard this time.

“I’m no dog. I’m a dragon.”

One slice and it’s just a twitching carapace and a streak of blood on the wall. The sparks from the destroyed console had stopped; just me, silence, and recent death. My nostrils take in that unique but familiar smell, all of it, for the very last time. This moment’s far heavier than most, and I let it sink in.

There’s no denying what it said. Certain creatures had been dealt with as society expanded. Some suffered more than others as their numbers dwindled to nothing.

But that’s how you make a civilized world safe: keep the wild element in check. At whatever cost.

TRAP THE KEEPER
end

*Funhouse of Penance belongs to all respective parties.

Author's Note:

You should go listen to Chopin's Etude Op. 10 No. 3. Fits really well with cinematic executions.

Comments

[UltiXevoz]

Spike knows those repressed feelings will come back to haunt him when eventually even he is deter surplus to the Equestrian society. I will say you do a sam good job at making me pissed at the protagonist, less pissed at Spike and more at Equestria

[Pyro The Reader]

Maan, really liking this story. Love a good stoic character like Spike. Couldn't find a better word

Also changelings going extinct? Good riddance.

[Fido]

Major badass he is but you can't help but feel sorry for him. He has given up basically all the his honor the normal Spike is known for. I bet at the end of the day, he is just an expendable agent like Cross was. I assume Her Majesty sees him as nothing more than her go-to agent. Though being the only dragon in a pony's world does give him some uniqueness.

[Compendium of Steve]

2692723
But how far can uniqueness alone carry him? Didn't seem to work for the hydras, but we can only wait and see.