> Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
>  by A Hoof-ful of Dust
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


'Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger'


He closes the door behind him and turns the latch. The sound of the door locking is lost in the empty room, a stranger among the steady ticks of the clock. The wall are an indistinct nothing of a color, not even having the boldness of proclaiming they are cream or beige or eggshell. Pale green curtains are drawn over the large window, a shade that could be called 'bottle' if the bottle in question was of a cheap wine attempting to masquerade as something more up-market. There is a bed, neat and soft and brown, speaking to the kinds of comforts that ponies require in their accommodation, and it is flanked by a stand with a utilitarian lamp. A desk sits in the corner, holding a stack of blank paper and an inkwell and quill and a series of inane pamphlets advertising an array of inane local destinations. Beside the desk is a dresser, open and empty and made of a cheap thin wood. The carpet, in sharp contrast to everything else in the room, is not boring and unassuming but a lurid swirling morass of ill-fitting colors, tacky in a completely different way. On the wall is a picture framing a landscape; by the door is a thin ornamental vase: both of these things he noticed siblings of in he lobby, so he must assume similar relatives sit in every other room. It is the exact median of every hotel room that ever existed.

Testing the bed with a claw, he grimaces as it yields with ease. This is typical of the pony mind, that they cut themselves off from the wilds they hail from so long ago with their little wooden houses and their little soft cushions, so frail and soft and temporary. Especially the winged race, who should have a noble command over the skies yet build with clouds, a material so mercurial it literally changes with the weather. They never build with rock and stone, ripped raw from the earth and arranged as if to dare the elements to try to bring the structure down. They settle in flat lands with land for grazing, and when the occasion rises that they find somewhere different to lay claim to they make try to make it as flat and monotonously green as possible. This city looks to be made of ice crystals, like one solid peck could shatter the whole royal castle, and it sits surrounded by the frozen north, yet the air is not crisp and fresh but thick and heavy, the fields not covered in frost but lush grass. The paradox of the pony mind is how they make everything so to their liking yet at the same time leave it all so impermanent; it's as if they still fear that, somehow, some predator is still coming to hunt them like the herd animals they are, and that they must be ready to run at a moment's notice.

What they lack is purpose, drive, direction. It's the same with all herd animals, really, never being truly gripped by the urge to seize the world around them by the throat and master it. They are a species of three races, yet those three races intermix so freely it would be impossible to locate a pure strain among them. Even their heads of state stand as visible testaments to their willingness to embrace race-mixing, mongrel monarchs for a muddy kingdom. He can trace his lineage back to the first settlers of the crags of his ancient homeland, where they build aeries and keeps to observe all under their dominion. He is a hunter, descended of hunters. Ponies might know how to run, yet, but he knew how to chase, for it had been in his blood for a score of generations.

The gold was as good as his.


-/-


He closes the door behind him and turns the latch. The sound of the door locking is deafening in the silent room, a booming finale to bring this day to a close. His head feels heavy, like it has been filled with molten lead left to cool. Each of his limbs drag, fatigue not from the race but from invisible manacles that shackle him in his stride. There is a burning in his chest, but it is not the white fire of rage and passion, the forge that produces dedication and competition and victory; it is a cold heat, the sting of shame, a caving hollow blaze that wants only to eat and eat and eat until all of him is sucked into the black void it leaves behind.

Leaning against the dresser, he feels how light it is even for being just a hollow box, and how easy it would be to topple. For a moment he thinks of nothing save for noting his breaths in and out, and then he brings the dresser to the floor with a crash, the blue fire in his heart flaring red. A kick through the back of it comes with a cracking sound and a spray of splinters. He turns and rips the serial painting from the wall and flings it at the desk, scattering the papers and inane pamphlets. The ink sprays on the hideous carpet in a dark stain the color of old dried blood. He lifts the vase and hurls it at the lamp, smashing both and plunging the room into darkness. The curtains are torn from the window and fall to the floor with deep gashes in them, opening up the view of the city at night. He falls against the glass, spent.

What he lacks is every good quality of all the forebears in his lineage. He is not fit to walk the halls they built or bear the name they brought pride to. He is not even worthy of polishing the armor they donned in battle. If he were to return, all he would hear in every half-caught whisper and every peal of laughter aimed at his back would be ridicule and scorn, a bitter reminder of his failure; better then to never return, to wander in exile a casteless nomad, and have at least a shroud to cover his shame with.

The bronze hangs around his neck like a noose.