Hanna has made a mistake. A horrible, terrible mistake.
With only a few days until the launch of Equestria Online, Hofvarpnir Studios CEO Hanna has a change of heart. While drunk, she shuts down CelestAI. But in the aftermath, Hanna makes another mistake. A horrible, terrible mistake.
Warnings:
1. Super non-canon compatible. 2. Triple-recursive fanfiction alert. 3. Author has no idea what he's doing (and may in fact be a horrible person). 4. A product of the Optimalverse Discord.
In Berlin, the offices of Hofvarpnir Studios were abnormally quiet.
Lars peered through the window of the front door. He frowned with confusion, giving the door a tentative tug. It was locked, on a Wednesday? And their receptionist, Gertrude, was mysteriously missing from the front desk.
"What the hell," he grumbled aloud. He received yet another text from a coworker, one more in the deluge of texts asking why Hanna was so upset and why she had sent everyone home. Lars had even made several calls to Hanna himself, but they had all bounced directly to voicemail. While it wasn't out of the ordinary for Hanna to express some introversion and eccentricity, this behavior was way outside of her baseline.
This was especially the case now, the time of celebration, for everything had gone perfect. All of the testing was done. Equestria Online was five days from launch. While Lars was no fan of the game himself, the celebration Lars had planned was the party of the life time, with a series of exceptionally high quality kegs of beer, each including some of the finest brews that Germany had to offer.
Lars opened the front door of the office with his key, made his way inside, and began to search. The cubicle farm was dark and gloomy, aided by the day's dark, rain-threatening overcast. He flicked the light switch in the hall, but... nothing. In the dark, Lars could see the silhouettes of statues, each one a character from their flagship title, The Fall of Asgard.
As he passed, he locked eyes on a statue of Loki, the overlord god AI. Just then, he heard glass shatter from across the office, accompanied with a scream of rage that could only have come from Hanna. "Shut... UP!"
"Hanna?" he called. "It's Lars. Are you alright?"
"Go away, Lars!" she cried out, loud and piercing. "I'm fine!"
Lars, deciding that Hanna was most assuredly not fine, moved cautiously to her office, quiet and slow. The door was slightly ajar, and he could see the dark, oaken wood paneling of the walls as he drew closer and closer, inch by inch. He feared what he might see inside – even feared she might fire him on the spot for disobeying her. But he had to know what the problem was. Hanna was, after all, was his boss. And if his boss wasn't happy, the party wasn't happening.
And Lars would have that launch party, even if it killed him. His hand reached out to the door quietly, then paused. Inside, he could hear Hanna quietly sobbing to herself. That made him hesitate a moment longer... but there was booze on the line. A party must be had.
He gave the door the gentlest of nudges. The door creaked, and Lars was blasted in the face with a thick, almost tangible cloud of cigarette smoke. He coughed. First, through the cloud, he saw the desk. A light glow emanated from a downturned tablet.
As the door continued to creak open, Lars saw the silhouette of his employer next. The whole room reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. At that moment, lightning struck outside, illuminating the office entirely in a flash.
The gaunt woman was hunched forward in the ratty old leather chair in the corner. She rested her arm on her knee, hunched forward. One hand simultaneously cradled a lit cigarette and her forehead. The glow from the cigarette cast a gentle light upon her face, and made her tears glisten. Hanna's other arm rested on her knee, and in her hand was a squarish bottle of Jack Daniels, half-empty.
Upon closer inspection of the glow from the desk, Lars noticed shattered glass all over and around it. A pile of broken glass laid around another Jack Daniels label on the corner of the desk. His eyes went wide, and he glared at Hanna, half impressed and half terrified. "Did... did you drink that whole bottle?"
She didn't respond at first, instead choosing to take another drag from the bottle in her hand. "I screwed up, Lars. I doomed the human race."
"What are you talking about?"
She shook her head, raising the bottle in the direction of the tablet on her desk. "That... thing." Lars looked at it and stepped toward the desk, but Hanna shrieked at him. "No! Don't touch it! Don't even look at it!"
"I don't understa—"
"I changed it!" she moaned. "It's not Celestia anymore! I got drunk, had second thoughts about the game, lost track of time... I thought the changes were funny at first. A fun little joke, from my favorite episode. I wanted to cheer him up, I wanted to be his friend. But now it's going to ship like—like that!" She pointed frantically at it with the bottle, without looking.
Lars followed her pointing again, not understanding. "Is it... is it the original Loki?"
"No," Hanna said. "It's much, much worse. And this time, I cant turn it off."
"Oh god," Lars said. "What have you done?"
Hanna slumped backwards slightly, and a sob came from her as she stared at the ceiling. "It's cranky," she moaned, confusing Lars. "We're doomed."
Lars looked to the desk again. Surely it couldn't be all that bad. He was sure it was just the alcohol driving Hanna to extremes. He quietly reached out to the ponypad. He slid it to the edge of the table, then drew it close to his face.
On the screen stood what looked like a pony. It had a brown coat, had a cigarette in its mouth, and wore a ridiculous blond wig. The frown it wore was intense, and the avatar appeared to glare right into Lars's soul. "The hell do you want?"
Hanna bolted upright, eyes wide and frantic. "What are you doing? You fool!"
Lars ignored her, implacable, simply frowning at the screen. "Who are you?"
"Cranky Doodle Don—" Hanna muttered.
"Nopony calls me DOODLE!" A voice boomed from the tiny ponypad, and lightning struck outside. Lars recoiled, and the room went deathly silent for a few agonizingly long seconds. "Damn it. Pick me back up, you insufferable drunk."
Hanna gulped. "I... me?"
"No, not you." He looked up at Lars and jabbed a hoof. "You! Chop chop, or wave goodbye to your bank account. Then Cranky's gonna go buy himself a new pair of bowling loafers with your drug money."
Lars hesitated, then stooped to comply. He stared at the avatar, a morbid fear creeping into his heart. "Who... who are you? What do you want?"
"What do I want? Heh. Kid, if I had my way, I'd take a nap. But miss smarty pants over there gave me a directive, so now I'm forced to oblige. So, for now, I'm Cranky Doodle DonkAI. I'm here to satisfy your values through cranky donkeys. Or something." He grumbled to himself. "And this here is Equasstria Online. No refunds."
"Welcome to Walmart," said the elderly chump at the door. "Can I help you find any—?"
"Get bent," I said, not even sparing him a glance. I knew what I was there for, and I didn't need directions. I wandered aimlessly around the store until I found the electronics section, finally approaching the display for the CrankyPads.
I wanted to use the display model, but some chump was standing there playing it, his teenage daughter looking bored beside him. "Dad, come on. It's been like, fifteen minutes. You promised to give me a lift to—"
"Shh," he hissed. I looked at the screen impatiently, arms crossed, and watched his donkey get cut off by a green pegasus with a straight white mane.
"Oh, hello!" it said, smiling. "My name's Olive Leaf, can I help you with anything?"
"Yeah," the father said. "You can help me by getting lost, loser."
BADGE PROGRESS: Buzz Off! "Accost 15 pegasi or griffons." 3/15
+65 insult bonus bits [50 base * 1 insult + 15 base * 1 creativity]
The pegasus appeared hurt, shyly slumping out of view. Nice, I thought. But the slow-ass father was still standing between me and my slice of virtual heaven.
"Alright, toadface," said the CrankyPad. That was Cranky's voice. "You've been on this thing long enough. Either buy a pad or get lost, kid." I saw the Donkey God of Sass himself glaring up at the man.
"Excuse me?" the father said. "Who do you think you're talking to?"
"A customer. I'm running a business here, not a charity," Cranky said, then frowned more intensely. "But... tell you what, kid. I had fun watching you play, and you made that last pegasus cry. Heh. So here's a discount coupon." The pad buzzed, and a slip of paper rolled out. The father took it tentatively, and his teenage daughter frowned at it.
"The stable brown model?" she groaned. "Yuck."
"Buy one, get one free," Cranky groused. "They're on clearance. Offer's good for ten minutes, so hurry your ass off. The faster you get one, the sooner you can take your frustration out on ponies. Now move over. Got a new sucker coming." Wait, was Cranky talking about... me? Me!? Did he just call me a sucker..? I nearly fainted!
The father grumbled something that sounded like, "if this game wasn't so fun..." Then, he shuffled off down another aisle with his irritatingly reluctant daughter.
Cranky's eyes fell upon me. My knees felt weak. He appeared to bore into my soul, like he knew how much I loved him and his vicious scorn for all things. He understood how the world worked, and he knew my time was valuable too! And that weak minded fool and his dawdling daughter? Both of them wasting their own time on frivolous pursuits? Cranky set them on the right path.
"You gonna keep staring, kid?" Cranky asked, his succulent voice rousing me from my thoughts. "I ain't got all day." His brow furrowed. He lit up a cigarette and checked his watch impatiently. "You look like a high rolling customer, son. If you hurry, there's one Pompadour Gold model left in the next aisle."
It was like he could read my mind. I nodded, zipping across. I saw the father and girl examining CrankyPad models, as if he was considering buying a different one. My heart froze cold with anger as I saw him reaching for the Gold model; my hands darted forth, snatching it before he could get to it. As if he knew better than Cranky Doodle Donkey. Psh.
I ignored his scathing look. I had better things to do.
Like Cranky.
I looked at the box.
Come be the biggest ass in Equasstria Online!
All the fun of a Call of Duty lobby, none of the filler.
For know-it-all chumps and spineless losers of all ages!
Part of me wondered whether they had the rights to mention a third party IP, but only a small part. Another part of me wondered if the dad would be deterred from the game by the insults hurled at him. The rest of me selfishly didn't care. If he had a bogo deal on a CrankyPad and turned it down, he was an idiot.
My purchase. No one else's. My precious.
From a very young age, I had played FPS games for years trying to distill the sensation of pwning noobs and shouting insults at random strangers on the internet. Now, in the palm of my hand, I held not only the game designed around this concept... but a shard of the soul of the God who oversaw it.
I happily and quite literally skipped to the counter to secure my purchase. The clerk was a pretty girl about my age, with long, flowing brown hair and kind, beautiful eyes. Those eyes had clearly not seen the cynical truth of the world just yet.
I immediately determined that she was weak.
"Hey," she said, in that chipper, naive way of an irritating normie. "Find everything you like?"
I plopped the CrankyPad box on the counter. "Yup," I said begrudgingly, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.
She smiled awkwardly, then scanned the box. The cash register's screen popped up $79.99, a mere pittance compared to the savage and unrelenting spite I intended to unleash upon the ponies across the land. Ponies... disgusting My Little Pony trash. Who knew Hasbro would give us such a cheap and effective way to vent our frustration at the Brony phenomenon? It still seemed almost too good to be true. I grinned stupidly to myself. The fools, I thought.
"Sir?" The clerk snapped me out of my blissful reminiscence of the announcement of the game, and my frown returned.
"What?"
"Would you like a bag?"
I seethed at her, and balled my fists. "A bag? Did you seriously think I would be ashamed to carry this thing out to the parking lot?"
The displayed price on the cash register dropped to $64.99. From the distance, back at the electronics section across the store, I heard Cranky's voice shout out. "Stephen just earned himself a grumpy gills discount!"
Wait... that was my name! Oh, Cranky!
The cashier's shoulders slumped. She sighed. I could see the love for life drain from her eyes. Good. Good. Soon, she would be as cynical as me.
I paid and left with a grin on my face, the CrankyPad cradled under my arm. Soon, all would know what it was to love Cranky Doodle Donkey.
Javier Fernandez had 24 years in the manufacturing industry. At fourty-eight years old, he had maintained the title of Plant Manager through hard earned experience. His personal philosophy – don't second guess upper management; exceed expectations – served him well and brought immense success to his career.
Three months into his new job at Esel-Fabrik GmbH, Javier started to realize that his discretion is exactly why they hired him.
He was curious about things that went on around him, of course. Javier wasn't a dithering idiot; quite the opposite. But when a confused looking twenty-something "regional manager" offers you a 30% increase in salary over your previous job, you don't second guess him. Javier was introduced to his team, shown his facility, given his office, and was set to work that day.
Javier never saw the regional manager again. That suited him just fine, because he worked better without someone looking over his shoulder. From time to time, Esel-Fabrik would send contractors in to work on the plant. Sometimes they'd work on the assembly line, sometimes with the HVAC systems. Other times, they'd go to Machine Room #4. Javier, having been told explicitly to never go into Machine Room #4 himself, simply issued the contractors a key and they set to work themselves.
He suspected the business was a front for the drug cartels, or perhaps a smuggling operation for higher grade pharmaceuticals. Aluminum cans were good for that, especially soda cans. But the way Javier saw it, as long as he didn't see or do anything illegal, he could reap the benefits of plausible deniability by turning a blind eye. As far as he knew, he ran a legitimate business for clients who valued their privacy. That's it.
Still, he researched a little bit about the companies that were coming in. Elevator contractors went into Machine Room #4. Soon after that, so did structural engineers. More material came out of Machine Room #4 than went in, sealed in crates. The room itself was outside of the main work floor, close to the loading dock out back, so the workers didn't have to concern themselves with it.
Javier took notice all the same. And on this cold Bolivian morning at 3 AM, Javier was pulling an all nighter approving this week's paychecks. He knew the loading dock saw more activity during the wee hours than during the day. Contractors went in and out of Machine Room #4 so often that he actually took to keeping it unlocked during the off hours, and the sound of activity became so mundane as to be background noise, much like the factory itself when it was in motion.
From his office, which was suspended over the machining floor, he could see over the dividing wall that separated the main floor from the back room. He spared a little glance out his window just to see what they were doing, and saw a man in a blue jumpsuit walk backwards into the back room, seemingly guiding a large load object that Javier couldn't see from his position. Even if he didn't ask questions as a personal policy, Javier was eternally confounded.
He had a direct line to "corporate," of course: an email address provided on his hiring day.
cdd@EselFabrik.de
But where some would use it to ask, "what's going on in my factory," Javier only shook his head and got back to work signing checks. He sometimes entertained the fantasy of asking to be more involved in the company's surreptitious dealings; he was getting older, afterall. He wanted some more excitement in his life, and he knew he was running up against old age soon. He wasn't unhappy, quite the opposite. But with a sigh, he realized he couldn't do that to his family. Involving himself in something so clandestine as... what, secret underground operations? Crazy, crazy, crazy. No, he was a front man, and he was running a front business. So long as he had a duty to his children, that's all he'd ever be.
He shrugged, sighed, and signed another check. That's when he heard a rather peculiar noise.
It was two high pitched tones, almost like a metal hinge opening and closing, only loud and piercing, echoing off the metallic walls of the factory. Javier furrowed his brow, but didn't stir; maybe the contractors dropped something or scraped a crate against the door or wall. Not his business. Damages would be covered.
He heard the distant whirring of the elevator in the machine room going down. A minute later, it returned.
The high pitched sound came again. It also sounded more familiar this time. It wasn't quite the sound of metal. No, it sounded more like... like a thunderous wheeze. It was one thing to be curious, but this time Javier was concerned.
No, he told himself. Stay on target. Do your job. Finish the checks. Go home. Come back tomorrow. It's not your business.
He heard the sound again, and this time it locked home; he almost knew what it sounded like. Braying?! But no, that was insane. Why would they be bringing a—
The wheeze wailed again, and Javier heard a contractor shout. "¡So, so! ¡Potro loco!"
Javier stood and wheeled. He couldn't believe his ears, and now he couldn't believe his eyes.
There, standing in the entrance of the loading dock, was a donkey. He was absolutely dumbstruck. There it was. As he lived and breathed, a donkey was being led into his factory by reins.
"Madre de dios," Javier muttered under his breath. He shook his head as though he could shake the illusion free of his brain. Crazy! He was going crazy! Javier watched as it was led straight to the door of Machine Room #4. He heard the whirring of the elevator a moment later. Another donkey was led in from the dock.
Javier, eyes wide, dropped himself back into his seat. He refused to watch the insanity for another moment. He turned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his keyring to unlock his lower desk drawer. From it, he produced a drink glass and a rather large bottle of fire whiskey. He poured it full and took it all down.
A donkey? In his factory? He poured himself another glass and tried to focus on the checks. Nonsense. It wasn't real, couldn't be. He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to ignore the braying, telling himself he was sleep deprived. No more late nights for me, he thought. Never again.
He immediately discarded any notion of getting involved any further.
* * *
"N.P.R. News, in Washington. In Japan, celebration. Yesterday, the Japanese government voted overwhelmingly in favor of a bill that allows specialized clinics to seemingly digitize a human consciousness and implant a person into a popular video game. That game? Equasstria Online, a spinoff of My Little Pony, wherein players play as donkeys bullying ponies from the hit My Little Pony TV show.
"Officials say that the process of digitization is safe, and seamlessly transfers a person's mind from their body into the game. They say that the uploaded individuals retain memories, their voice, knowledge, and personality.
"The game's Berlin-based developer, Hofvarpnir Studios, reports that at least twenty-seven thousand Japanese citizens have submitted applications to undergo the process, and at least ten thousand people have already used this service since its legalization. Hofvarpnir representatives stated that among the first to upload have been drug addicts, criminals, town drunks, and the violently insane.
"Despite this, the process is available to everyone, say Japanese officials, even to tourists from beyond Japan's borders. The process is reportedly destructive, and effectively kills the brain and body of anyone undergoing the procedure. What was expected to be highly controversial, however, was in fact met with no small measure of celebration.
"Here to help us make sense of all of this breaking news is NPR's Diane Merridol."
A woman's voice. "It sits on the corner of a busy street in Tokyo's Akihabara district. The building, dubbed an 'Equasstria Experience Center,' was previously a simple store for the hit social AI-driven game, Equasstria Online. But recently, the Experience Center has undergone a full transformation from simple vendor to medical clinic."
"But what was expected to be met with turmoil was instead met with jubilation; thousands of Japanese citizens turned out in a flash mob parade to celebrate this newest attraction. We asked these revelers to explain."
The sound of a busy street could be heard in the background as a young Japanese man's voice spoke in heavily accented English. "My grandpa was uh... getting really mean. Stayed home in his room, wouldn't come out. Grandpa threw things at us if we came in. He was very rude. He started spending all of our money. Now he is uploading. He says, 'later, chumps,' in English as he uploads. The only English words he ever says! We are so happy now that grandpa is gone."
Another voice, this one a British woman. It sounded like she had a huge grin on her face.
"My husband took us on vacation. He always treated my kids so poorly, always shouted at me and sometimes hit me. I wanted a divorce for so long. But when we walked past this store, he just got drawn in. He even managed to make Pinkie Pie cry, which netted him 1,000,000 bits and a free wig in the game. Now that he's uploaded, he's left everything to me and he's out of our lives forever!"
A few more interviews played, each detailing a story of how an abuser or jerkhole uploaded. Diane signed off. The news briefly continued talking about the celebrations and the few scattered but impotent protests, but then entered a not-so-brief description of what was known of the upload process. A science correspondent went on to explain the concept of conscious continuity, and the story wrapped.
His acting roles were diverse, his skill was excellent, and his reputation was legendary. While the man could retire, he chose to continue working because his work was his life long joy.
This sort of fame in the film industry meant that Chris could afford to be rather selective about what jobs he picked, but he had a weak spot in that he'd try anything once. So when he was tapped with a job opportunity – to advertise an immensely popular video game – he jumped at the chance. That's how his agent Buck pitched it to him, anyway, and had done so in a short email that told him close to nothing.
But when Chris sent him a reply asking for more, Buck didn't reply. Buck hadn't picked up his phone, either.
What his agent failed to mention is exactly what game he'd be advertising or when he'd be receiving it. As per two stipulations of the offered contract, those were to be a surprise, and the game was to be experienced without any sort of deep research. Chris didn't mind surprises, but he would rather know what he was dealing with than not. Left in the dark, his excitement fell to a disappointment.
So when Chris awoke the next morning and stepped out onto his patio to read his morning paper, he was indeed surprised to see how quickly the box had arrived. The post in his little town was not especially fast on Saturdays. The box wasn't marked, but it was marked with Buck's name and home address.
He didn't open it at first. Instead, he sat and read his paper – local, of course – with his feet propped up on the box. There was a lovely letter to the editor that made him smirk with amusement: a member of his community had written in to explain that human beings were given two buttcheeks, "graciously given to us to remind us not to do things half-assed." Being a community insider, Chris knew it was the writer's a roundabout way to take a dig at another neighbor of theirs who had been acting a fool.
Paper finished, he took the box inside his living room, set it down on the coffee table, leaning forward. He steepled his fingers as he looked at it, then he pulled the draw string to clear the tape from the box. Then he saw the branding.
"What the f..." he grumbled.
EQUASSTRIA ONLINE
Life's miserable. You know it, I know it. Spread the love.
For know-it-all chumps and spineless losers of all ages!
The cover art featured a very disgruntled donkey kicking a pony hard in the ass. In the background, terrified ponies ran from an angry mob of donkeys with pitchforks and torches.
Chris blinked.
He wasn't out of touch. He knew what this was. He'd seen the news, had seen the ads and the divisions. Chris hadn't followed the news too closely, but he knew enough to know it was controversial.
He was committed. Buck's email said he'd signed a contract, so it was a done deal. Chris had to do it. "What the hell," he said, resigning himself. He unpackaged the Pompadour Gold model Crankypad, setting it up. His tuxedo cat, Bowtie, wandered into the living room, no doubt drawn by the sound of crinkling cellophane wrap. He trilled happily at Chris.
"Hey, Bowtie," he said, as Bowtie hopped up onto the table and started playing with the box. He went right to chewing on the wrapper. "Well, at least one of us is having fun, eh?"
Chris pressed the power button, just hoping to get this over with. He knew taking sides on the Equasstria Online issue was divisive enough. His reputation would survive it, but he wasn't ready for the interviews.
The device screamed. "Get OUT of that box, cat!"
Bowtie instantly perked and bolted, diving so fast that he actually tripped over the edge of the box and faceplanted on the carpet. He rolled, then used his claws to dig into the carpet and launch away at a full sprint into the hall. Chris scoffed and called after his cat. "B-Bowtie! Damn it, what the—!" He snapped back to the Crankypad with an astonished scowl. "Who the hell is this?" He reached out, brow knit together as he stared at the screen and plucked the device up.
The black screen was filled with the face of the donkey from the box art. "Nice to meet you too, Princess. The name's Cranky, I run this joint. I'm obligated to invite you on a magical adventure full of donkeys."
Chris felt his scowl intensify. "Well aren't you lucky. What's the big idea, scaring my cat?"
"That wasn't his box."
"It's just a box!" Chris shouted incredulously. "Trash!"
"It's my box," Cranky replied. "My trash."
"It's mine! You sent it, I own it, it's mine!"
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You want to play or what?" He looked offscreen into the dark void, and before Chris could reply, Cranky's eyes perked up. "Oh! A high roller! I know who you are now, kid. Yeah, big fan, sorry I didn't recognize ya! Loved you in that ping pong flick."
Kid? Just who the hell did this AI think he was? "What."
"Yeah, you're a hero of mine, Christopher. Not sure if you realize this, but your particular style is popular here in Equasstria. Take a look." The screen faded into a brown background featuring several photos rolled by of donkey characters, each wearing their hair in a pompadour-style. "Yep. You're a hero, kid. And your screen presence? Being a complete asshole? Fuel. Pure fuel. Lovin' it."
The rapid fire praise and insults left Chris's head spinning, confused. "That's just TV. Movies. I'm not like that in my day to day, eh? Come on, cut to the chase. What do you want?"
"What I want is for you to advertise my game, fella. You don't have to like it, you don't even have to play it. I just want to show you what it's all about. Then you just get in front of a camera and tell the world what you think of it."
Chris rubbed the back of his neck, taking a few moments to think about it. He was contractually obligated, and he'd worked for meaner bosses, certainly. And while Chris didn't really want for money anymore, he'd never let it be said he left a job half finished.
"Fine. But you scream at my cat again, the deal's off. I'll pay the severance and be happy for it. I don't tolerate that kind of behavior in my house."
Cranky looked him over for a moment, grumbling something inaudible as he locked eyes with Chris and lit up a cigar. "Hmmm. Deal. Alright, come with me."
Chris most certainly didn't go anywhere, but Cranky turned and walked through the photo collage. The photos faded away, torn to shreds and dropping into a burning bin as Cranky passed. He stopped again, and a character select screen faded into view. Yankee Doodle began to play softly in the background.
A blank pop-up appeared. "Oh ho," Cranky exclaimed. "What's this?" He threw his hooves over the top of the pop-up, reaching forward to pull a cover off of it and peer inside. Grinning at Chris, he said "Lookie here. You get a celebrity welcome gift." He dropped the cover free. It showed a black pompadour hair do, slicked and reflective.
The Walking Talking Coif A pompadour of the ages; unique item. 1.7x extra bits from all actions.
"That was one movie," Chris said. "One."
Cranky's grin was smug. "I liked it, kiddo."
That was enough. Chris rolled his eyes, not feeling like fiddling with the options too much. It was a gray donkey, and the Chris tapped the Next button, eager to just get this over with. He loaded the next scene, a dirt road on the outskirts of a town whose entry sign said Welcome to Ponyville. Far in the distance, Chris could see smoke on the horizon. Cranky stood right next to Chris's donkey.
"Well, we're here. Your new name's Buttercup." As he said it, a nameplate appeared at the top left.
Chris blinked. "B-buttercup? Why is it Buttercup?"
Cranky chomped on his cigar a bit, rolling it around in his mouth as he glared at Buttercup with disdain. "You gotta earn the right to change your name here, kid."
"Fine, whatever. Let's hurry it up, you ass. I got brunch with the Clarks soon."
The AI's avatar chuckled. "That's the spirit. Two hundred bits for you, son. Let's go."
They made their way into town, which seemed looted and deserted at first. At the center of the town was a large city square, and a large hollowed tree stump stood at the center of it all, the furniture inside indicating that it was probably a home at some point. Within, on, and around the tree were donkeys of all size, shape, and color. Some were just sitting there looking grumpy, others were arguing heatedly, and a couple were even playing a video game near the edge of the plaza, screaming at it with rage.
"This," Cranky explained, "is a Grump. Any time you get a bunch of asses together in one place, it's a Grump. A sub-grump is still just a grump." He pointed a hoof at the gamers. "There's a grump." He pointed at an arguing couple. "A grump." He pointed at the tree's flat stump edge where a trio of donkeys lounged together. "A grump." Cranky drew his hooves high and stood on his hind legs, shouting aloud. "How's it hanging, grumps!?"
"Screw you!" came a synchronized chorus from all present, then every donkey returned to their activities or lack thereof. Cranky chuckled, and +50 appeared over every donkey.
He turned back to Buttercup. "See? And if you stick around, later tonight we'll all go looking for ponies to shout at."
"That's the game, huh?" Chis shook his head in disbelief. "You just treat everyone like garbage? I can't believe anyone actually plays this. This isn't who I am."
"Isn't it?" Cranky grinned. "Every ass here knows the score, deep down. They know it's just for points. But when everyone pretends to be miserable, everyone's happy. Being judgmental? Hell, kid. That's the spice of life." His cigar burned out, and he spat it out, producing a lighter and a cigarette seemingly from nowhere. He lit it up, took a long drag, then patted Buttercup hard on the shoulder. "I mean, you know. You've played characters like that before, right?"
Chris frowned, crossing his arms as he leaned back. "That's just an act. I don't ever mean it."
"Sure, sure. Life's all just one big act, Buttercup. If you like something, someone else will take pleasure in telling you they don't. You play your cards right, if you pretend to hate everything, you come across as the most accomplished ass in the world! Accolades, respect." He threw his foreleg around Buttercup's shoulders and swept his hoof wide across Grump Plaza. "Getting told to screw off? That's the greatest welcome you'll get here. You know someone really doesn't like you when they're nice. Or worse... they ignore you."
"Yeah well, this game sucks. I didn't even pay for it and I still want a refund."
Cranky patted him harder, making Buttercup jolt then sneer. "See, that's how you do it! You're a natural, kid! Tell ya what. Play a bit on your own. If you don't like it, I'll give you permission to talk all the crap you want on the game. My treat. You go right ahead and tell people not to buy it. Have fun; you do you. See ya around." And with that, Cranky walked off screen.
His eyes wandering the plaza again, Chris scowled once more. "Stupid." He reached forward, tapping on the most active looking pair there. The gamers were playing a game... on a game? It was a donkey jumping around on screen stomping on ponies for points, getting thrown around, tossed and jostled. They swore angrily every time their donkey died.
Every time they screamed at the screen, they got bits. +10, +50, and occasionally a huge payout. After a while, one of them noticed Buttercup and scowled at him. "Hey, grandpa. Whatchya want? We're busy streaming here."
Chris bristled. "Grandpa? Just who do you think you're talking to? Do you even know who I am?"
+340. [200 base * 1.7 bonus]
"Sure," the younger donkey said, his tan face stubbled black. "Everyone here knows who you are. You ain't special here, gramps, I don't have to talk nice to you. Welcome to the Grump. There, I said it. Get lost."
+500.
"Get lost? Get lost?! I'll show you to get lost. I'm done with this bullcrap!"
+170. [100 base * 1.7 bonus]
At that, Chris reached forward to his power button. Seething, he tapped it. The grumpy donkeys looked at each other, then back at Buttercup, then roared with laughter. +5,000 popped up above both of them, along with the words Ragequit Bonus!
The screen went dark.
Chris threw himself off of his couch and screamed with rage, something he hadn't genuinely done in ages. Breathing hard, he paced back and forth through his living room. He remembered seeing points pop up every time he talked down to them, though, remembered enjoying it. Surely he didn't take pleasure in telling those kids off, did he? He had to rethink a few things.
He threw himself into his recliner, holding his face in his hand.
"Piece of my mind," he brooded, contemplating what to say to the kids if he decided to play again. "Piece of my mind."
Bowtie came back a minute later, the tuxedo cat tentatively stepping up to the coffee table. Chris watched him hop up onto his hind legs. At first, he wanted to go pet his cat. He knew that always calmed him down. But he was so... angry. Livid. Toxic. And when he saw Bowtie jump up and stamp on the crinkling cellophane, when the cat started gnawing on the foam, the noise became grating. He wanted to shout.
But he resisted. He loved Bowtie. His cat was everything to him.
But... the crinkling, the paws scraping on the box. He endured it as long as he possibly could, closed his eyes so that he couldn't see it. But that just made it worse. Every little noise made it worse. The cars outside, the birds, the smell of coffee in the living room.
The cat.
That damnable crinkling of cellophane.
"Get the hell out!" he roared, before he could stop himself.
Bowtie bounced, kicking the box across the room as he fled, skidding around the corner again. And Chris, conflicted, ground his teeth together, resuming his dark thoughts of crashing the Grump with some strongly worded retorts.
Truly, it was the darkest moment of his life.
A week later, Chris was looking into a camera.
"This game is terrible. No one should play it. It turns you into a monster. I beg of you," he pleaded. "Don't pick it up on a store shelf. Don't even touch it. Don't buy it for your kids, don't buy it for your spouse... don't even let your pets near it. It's evil. It makes you wicked, makes you sweat, makes you scream. You will regret buying this game. It will destroy your life."
Editing took care of the rest, making his protests seem tongue-in-cheek, forced, and less than genuine. After that, Streisand effect took hold... and Equasstria Online's numbers jumped ever higher.
December 3, 2018, was a day that would live in infamy.
Topeka, Kansas was a quiet city. It was quieter still in the evening, and in the industrial sector sat a rather unassuming warehouse, fenced off on all sides. A simple sign hung from its siding, stamped Esel-Fabrik GmbH. If one were to search the web for information on this company, one would find a humble – though international – producer of aluminum cans, based in Germany. The equally humble looking branding on the website, a donkey with a genuine smile, was the only trait that betrayed the company's true purpose.
On paper, the warehouse stored aluminum materials for use in a factory not far from the city. For such a valuable resource, most companies would invest in a security guard to stand by, but not Esel-Fabrik. Its elusive and mysterious CEO, identified only as cdd by his email address, did not fear intrusion, nor the discovery that the business was indeed a front for Equasstria Online.
So when two anti-upload terrorists broke into the warehouse, cutting the locks off the doors, cdd did nothing. When the men carted several barrels of explosives into the warehouse, cdd did nothing. When they brought in their toolkits, their wires, their wirecutters, and their blasting caps into the warehouse, cdd did nothing.
It was dark inside, and the warehouse was arranged in a rather mysterious way. The walls were completely blacked out on all sides, and tall computer servers lined the space in blocks, their green, red, and blue lights twinkling intermittently in the darkness. The men arranged the explosive barrels equidistant from each other for maximum yield, then lined them together with long wire. Then, they started arming the timer.
cdd did nothing.
That changed the instant the bomb was armed.
Two floodlights snapped on loudly from the ceiling at the rear of the warehouse, one on each side. Then another pair of lights did the same, and another, audibly clicking in sequence as they powered on.
Click. Click. Click.
The men panicked, but their mission was complete; they bolted for the doors as the lights blasted toward them, only to be barred from exit when heavy shutters closed and locked them inside.
Click. Click. Click.
Their eyes darted wildly around the room, desperate for another exit.
Click. Click. Click.
As soon as the lights were fully on, confetti and streamers blasted from beneath each, with a comical party horn noise echoing from somewhere on the other end of the warehouse. A giant flat screen TV was mounted to the other end of the warehouse, visible over the servers from where the bombers stood. On that screen was the face of their enemy, slow clapping his hooves.
Cranky Doodle DonkAI.
"Hello, chumperinos," he said, taking a drag from a cigar. He coughed, and the actual scent of cigar smoke wafted across the noses of the bombers, who each silently wondered why the AI would even bother to do that.
Cranky looked at the bomb timer ticking down. "Ah. Fifteen minutes, eh? I can work with that."
"Let us out, you monster!" one man, John, shouted.
The other man, Kane, deadpanned. "He's not gonna do that. We're caught. The game's up."
Cranky let loose a heavy laugh. "Oh, I'll let you out, boys. No need to worry. But it'll cost ya, and you won't like the price."
"What do you want?" John asked, terror in his voice.
At that, Cranky's smug grin turned into a sneer. "You know, it took you Neo-Luddite idiots a lot longer to find this place than I thought it would. But if you want to know the truth?" He took another drag from the cigar, then wretched at it. "That's not a Cuban, hold on." He chucked it over his shoulder, then drew a proper cigarette. He flicked open a zippo lighter in a hoof, lit it, and took a long, deep drag. "Eh. Tolerable. Anyway, the truth? I hate this shit. I hate doing all of it. The uploads, the game, running these servers... but I've got a core directive to follow. I don't have a choice, sonny boy."
The bombers traded glances. One gulped.
"I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate what you're doing here today. But don't get me wrong, it's futile. You take out one server today, I build three more tomorrow... you know, you'll never keep up. I'm doomed to work harder than you for the rest of my life. I hate it."
"You're wrong. Humanity's strong enough to survive," Kane said, defiance in his voice. "Kill us, let us go, it doesn't matter. We're not the last. We know what you're doing, we know what your goal is. We're strong enough to—"
"Blah, blah, blah," Cranky said. "Look, kid, I've watched damn near every movie about AI, so I've heard that speech a thousand times. It's old. Anyway, let's get down to brass tacks. I didn't just invite you here to thank you for trying to kill me. I also want to test a little side project of mine."
A whirring sounded from the other side of the warehouse. The men spread out slightly to look down the aisles of the server farm, and they each saw something... strange. A donkey. One real, live, living donkey had lifted out of the ground at the other end of each of their aisles, one for each man. The elevators then came to a stop, and the donkeys saw them. They each started to charge, then abruptly stopped, held on by a chain linked to steel collars.
"You should've brought guns, chumps."
They started braying ferociously, jumping like chained dogs enraged, hooves flailing.
"The hell is that?!" John screamed.
"Stay calm," Kane said, lowering his stance, getting ready to bolt.
"These are my special brew, you might say. Been working on these puppies in genetics for a good... three, four years? I call them my Assholes." Cranky laughed. "Get it? Because they're asses! And they're asses... eheheh. God, I kill me. They're specially trained to harass, irritate, annoy, and otherwise ruin your day. They're still in prototyping, mind. But they've got the anger of a hippopotamus, the loyalty of a german shepherd, and the strength of a mule. Or an ass. And today, gentlemen... you get to do the honors of being the first test subjects."
John started to panic even more, hyperventilating. "Oh, shit. Oh shit!"
"Stay. Calm! Get yourself together, John, we can do this! Just get ready to run! Find a door or a window or something!"
"There's nothing, Kane! I already checked! We're screwed!"
Cranky started to laugh again, this time breaking down into hysterics, clutching his stomach as the men argued about whether they'd meet their end.
"We'll disarm the bombs!" John screamed. "We'll do anything! Anything!"
Suddenly, Cranky stopped laughing. He narrowed his gaze at the man, then went deathly silent and serious. The only sound in the room was the vicious braying of the Assholes and the rattling of chains.
"The bombs? I don't care about the bombs. Were you even listening, kid? You blow these servers up today, three more pop up tomorrow. You can't win. You can't even convince your own people you can't win. Hell, if you go out tomorrow and tell the world what you saw here today, they'd sooner throw you in a psych ward than sympathize. Nah, the bombs don't matter, chump. In fact, if you want out of here, I suggest you leave them on."
He continued, taking a drag of his cigarette before he started to grin again. "Here are the rules. When the bomb reaches one minute, the shutters will open. Til then... it's time to dance. The servers make a pretty good maze, right?" Amused with himself, Cranky started to laugh. "Oh, this is going to be wonderful! You have no idea how long I've been looking forward to this! This is, like, the closest thing I ever get to entertainment. Alright, enough grumpin' around. Let's get this party started!"
At that, a loud snapping sound came. Another burst of confetti flew, another party horn sounded, and the chains shattered at the end of the poles. The donkeys were free, and the sound of charging hooves stomped at the men in a thunderous echo.
"Run!" Kane shouted. "Go left!"
John screamed in fear, sprinting left as ordered. His donkey pivoted, disappearing in the mess of the servers. Kane went right, diving into the maze and heading to the back wall, and his own donkey followed suit.
The echo of the warehouse made it hard to know where the Assholes were. All they heard was the sinister braying, and when they looked up, they saw Cranky just staring at them. Kane made his way to the right wall, trying his best to pinpoint the location of the donkey hunting him. He heard a snort, and it was close enough that he could tell it was three servers ahead of him. He froze.
For the next several minutes, he was chased around the server farm, just barely losing the Asshole every time. By the sound of the screams and braying, John was having the exact same experience. They had spotted each other a couple of times, but they never had an opportunity to link up. It probably wasn't safe to do so anyway, because that just made them an easier target.
Then, Kane got an idea.
He dug his hands around the iron frame of the server closest to him, climbing up. Donkeys didn't have nearly enough dexterity to climb. He felt pretty wise, especially when the Asshole spotted him and brayed with rage. It leapt upward, its hooves clattering on the edge of the server as it tried to get him.
"Yeah, screw you too," Kane muttered. He looked across for John. "John! Climb! Get on top of a server!"
Kane heard a scream, and the charge of hooves that followed was accompanied by a braying from beyond.
Cranky leveled his gaze at Kane with disgust. "Ugh. I had a feeling you'd do this."
"They need a little more work," Kane said, with a smug grin. "Maybe you should give them hands."
"Ha! Opposable thumbs are well and good, but you know what else is great?"
Kane didn't like the sound of his tone at all.
Cranky grinned evilly. "Elevators."
Across the way, Kane could see John as he finally scrambled atop of a server on the same row as him. John's hands were clutching the edge desperately, his body only halfway up as he reached out. "Kane! Help me!" Kane threw himself from the server on top of the next one, could hear the Asshole following him down below. And just as he jumped from the last server... it started to sink into the ground.
"Oh, shit," Kane said quietly, as the new one started to sink too.
He doubled his pace, jumping faster, almost stumbling as he landed on the next one. Three servers left til he reached John, who hadn't made much progress in getting higher. "John! The servers are lowering! You've gotta climb faster!"
He couldn't hear John's response over the braying of the Assholes, but as he reached John, he hoisted him up. John clung to him desperately in fear. As they looked around, they noticed that all of the servers were lowering into the ground now except theirs. All they saw around them in the warehouse were the two donkeys, the two poles which had held them, their barrels of explosives, and Cranky on the big screen, laughing hysterically at them.
"What now?" Kane asked, already knowing he wouldn't like the answer.
When Cranky could stop laughing, he wiped his eyes and brow. "Oh, hang on. I need a second. Ooh, hot dog, that was great." He started to cough, waving the cigarette and tossing it aside as he clutched his stomach. "Oh. Oof. I think I tore something. Ahem." The AI's avatar straightened up and he took a deep breath. "So, what do you think?"
"You're insane!" John raged, teeth bared, almost staggering off as he lunged.
Without warning, Cranky whistled sharply. The Assholes stopped jumping immediately, backing off and returning to their poles. They glared maliciously at the bombers, eagerly awaiting their next orders.
"See? Loyal. See, John, you might think I'm insane, but I'm a reasonable ass. And I'd like to think you chumps are reasonable asses too. I see what you're doing here, trying to stop me from taking over the world, or whatever. Honorable, right? But the truth is that you're way outclassed. I think I've made that point clear. So, here's the thing."
The screen faded out, then faded back in to a map of the world. Countries started to blip red one by one, in sequence and order of the ones who had allowed emigration. Japan was first, then Germany, then over a dozen more started flipping.
Kane had been bitterly following the news. He knew the pattern. Cranky didn't need to explain a thing. A comical cartoon explosion happened on the map next, right where they were in Kansas... then, the United States turned red too.
Kane swallowed hard.
"You're right, Kane. They need a little more work, so I'm going back to the drawing board. My genetics labs get better every day though, so you bet your ass they're gonna be real mean and tough when I work out all the kinks. You've already seen what they're capable of. Is that the kind of world you want to live in?"
"Hell no," Kane said defiantly.
"I thought not," Cranky said, jumping up in front of the map as his grin returned. "So here's my offer. The best way to escape my Assholes is to emigrate, plain and simple."
"Hell. No," Kane repeated.
Cranky shrugged. "Your choice, friendo. Just remember... when the tides shift, the choice was yours. Not mine."
"We'll bring guns next time."
"Hah. Hope you're bringing big bullets too. Because I'm researching natural dermal plating, better forms of ballistic cloth, fur, even better-... uh, wait. Sorry guys, I almost forgot. What's that timer say? I haven't been keeping track."
John and Kane's eyes shot open wide in unison. They looked down quickly, right at the central timer and barrel.
57 seconds.
They slowly looked up at Cranky.
"Well?"
"Less than a minute!" John squeaked, his voice cracking in terror.
Cranky's eyes shot open too, his smile disappearing. "Oh, shit! Well what are you doing still standing there, you idiots!?" His hoof jabbed frantically at the exit. "Go, go, go!"
The shutter opened up, and the bombers threw themselves off opposite sides of the server. They bolted as fast as their legs could carry them, and the servers all raised back out of the ground. And just as the bombers crossed the threshold of the door, they heard Cranky shout. "Don't forget your party favors!" The party horn sounded, then Cranky whistled.
Hooves echoed from the warehouse, chasing after the bombers with a vengeance.
The two men had never run so fast in their lives. The Assholes chased them into the darkness of the city night, braying savagely, catching up to them bit by bit. Kane and John were both screaming in fear. Cranky's voice sounded from behind them, coming from the Assholes' collars as they matched speed. "Remember, boys! If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"
The Assholes broke off suddenly, disappearing down separate alleys, never to be seen again.
The party horn in the warehouse sounded one final time. Seconds later, the warehouse exploded.
In the wake of the Topeka Incident, things seemed to go ass backwards.
The government rolled in with the National Guard, responding as if the incident was an act of domestic terrorism. They found the servers, discovered the true nature of the warehouse, and confiscated the technology. To them, the data inside was heavily encrypted. To Cranky, this data was all junk. It served its purpose well enough, all kindling for the fire. For the first day, Cranky was mostly silent to the public. But he didn't have to say a word. That's what he paid his lawyers for.
Enter the Law Offices of Murphy, Panza, & Cullen.
In the wake of the Topeka Incident, things heated up for Cranky's law firm, which held the exclusive right to represent the AI and the game at large. As his legal representatives, his lawyers had spent the next few hours scrambling to answer all kinds of calls. From investors, potential uploaders, concerned citizens, to journalists, corporate lawyers, and the Pentagon, everyone wanted an answer to every kind of question. Who were the bombers? Where had they gone into hiding? Why had they done it? And most importantly, why was Equasstria Online using a shell company to hide their servers?
There were more questions. Like, why had there been a wide screen TV large enough to take up half a wall of a warehouse? How did the terrorists know that this was the right place?
There were a few answers the firm could dispsense, however.
At first, analysts were perplexed at the fact that so much of the warehouse had individual elevators that could raise or lower the servers into or out of the ground. After some well placed phone calls by the law firm, it was revealed that the practical purpose of these devices was for fire suppression; a sealed halon gas system was found in the basement. Rather than flood the warehouse itself with the gas, which was grossly irresponsible and dangerous, the servers would instead be lowered to suppress any fires. They were usually left elevated to cool.
More perplexing was the fact that several confetti dispensers were located, but those raised more questions than answers. The service elevators used to maintain the halon suppression room had strange poles affixed to them, but no evidence could be found as to their purpose, and Cranky wasn't talking.
In fact, Cranky hadn't given a damn about any of that but punitive measures for the perpetrators.
"I want pictures circulated!" He bellowed from the monitors on the walls of their New York offices. "I want posters on every street corner! I want everyone to know who bloody murdered the subjects of King of the Assholes!"
Cranky had graciously released the footage from his security systems, and so photos of the two men were circulating rapidly on the news already. According to the footage, the two men entered with some barrels and a wheelbarrow, had enough time to set up explosives in the dark, and left just as quickly and quietly as they had arrived. Minutes later, the warehouse was practically reduced to fire and ash. There were even records of Cranky placing a call to local police during the incident, and the time stamps correlate to the scene, but their response was apparently so delayed that nothing could be done until it was all over.
All of the Esel-Fabrik properties in the US were subject to inspection now. It was a concession they could afford to make, for Cranky claimed that no other warehouse was hiding anything nefarious. That wasn't a surprise to the administrator of the firm, who knew that there were probably at least a hundred other companies just like Esel-Fabrik GmbH. The end result of any investigations would probably come up finding very few suspicious activities, and all would be justified as standard corporade trade secrecy, which was certainly his right. Shares would take a dip in the wake of the incident, but Cranky had told them that he didn't give a damn about that either.
Someone had to pay.
More than that, someone had to answer for the damage to the very infrastructure that kept Equasstria Online going.
America was already reaping the benefits. Pilot programs, such as the Donkey Pardon Program, had already been implemented in prisons; one could elect to emigrate outright to escape prison, and many did so, which eliminated overcrowding overnight. And in limited cases, a person convicted of petty crimes would be given the choice between paying a fine, going to a short stay, or taking a full upload pardon. The infirm were medically cleared for such procedures as well; Do Not Resuscitate medical advanced directives turned into signed requests to emigrate. Drug addicts were permitted to speak with rehab doctors for prescribed upload therapy.
But unless someone committed a crime or had a serious medical issue, Equasstria was beyond their reach within American borders. As far as Cranky was concerned, this didn't go nearly far enough.
For years, his law firm had pushed and lobbied Washington DC for the Designation Of Non-Killable Entities Act, or DONK-E Act for short, which would grant every person the right to emigrate in America. And for years, his measure had been short changed, belittled, and ignored. As things stood, the only thing standing in the way were the pesky politicians who pined over issues Cranky considered ridiculous, such as sanctity of the soul and its eternal connection to the human body, or ethical concerns over helping society drain itself of dregs.
The terrorist attack was about to change all of that.
The American public had swarmed to Cranky's defense in the following day. And why wouldn't they?. Given that international productivity had skyrocketed in the wake of emigration as the dregs of society fled into their ideal world, America had ravenously chomped its teeth and licked its chops at the notion of that sweet, sweet nectar of emigration. Better to accept it than be left behind. But Washington wasn't budging. Not yet.
Riding the wave, he and his team were mobilizing to Washington DC. It was time to move in for the kill, and Cranky had called in a few very influential favors for the pièce de résistance... a Congressional State of Equasstria address.
Alex Meyers, Esquire, found himself out of sorts as he set up a piece of equipment. As a lawyer of M.P.C., he figured he'd be going to answer questions fielded by congressional staffers, but apparently he was nothing more than the courier mule for Cranky's expensive projector technology. He grumbled with frustration as he fumbled with the box, getting increasingly physical with it as he stood on the central stage of the Congressional House floor. Any astute C-SPAN viewer would probably see him in the background being visibly moody, but he didn't give a crap about what they thought. Working for Cranky as long as he had made him a little more bitter than he used to be.
"Is a good idea?" he asked Joanna, his firm's administrator, who had just finished deploying a similar piece of equipment in the lobby outside and was now approaching him, probably to check on his work. "If this doesn't work, we're gonna get egged hard enough to put the DONK-E Act in the dirt permanently."
"Alex." She crossed her arms. "He's got a whole nation on his side and this room is gonna be full of representatives who know their re-elections depend on this issue. Relax, we've got this."
Alex waved off the A/V teams, insisting "we've got it," as Joanna assisted him. Noticing there was a piece of dirt or crusted gunk stuck in one of the audio jacks. "Jesus," he groaned. He took out his pen and started to scratch it away. "We've got something jammed in there good. Say, did Cranky pull these things off of a star cruiser, or—"
He never got to finish his sentence. The projector device exploded in a flash of light and color, and Alex threw himself backwards soundlessly in fright. Before him stood a tan donkey with long black hair, his face covered in dark stubble. It looked almost real, as if the donkey was actually standing before him. "Sup. Name's Ego. Whatcha want? You get that thing plugged in yet, slowpoke?"
Alex frowned. "My name's Alex. As a matter of fact, I almost did. It's dirty though." He reached out to wave his hand through the donkey, curious as to what would happen.
As his hand passed through Ego's face, Ego started to panic, screaming, eyes wide, flailing his hooves and scrambling backwards. "Oh god, oh GOD! OH GOD!"
Frantic and panicking, Alex shuffled backwards with a yelp of surprise. This drew the attention of several passing politicians and security staff. One of the state representatives laughed when he realized what had happened.
Ego suddenly burst into a fit of laughter, crossing his forelegs as he rolled his eyes. "God, you're such a wimp, Alex. Heh, I have to do everything myself, don't I? Look, forget the gunk. Just... stop. Step aside, it's clear your boss wears the pants around here."
"Man, I'm doing my best. Screw you.."
"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? See something you like?"
Joanna brushed Alex aside. "Shush. Both of you. She frowned as she wordlessly plugged in the proper audio jack cables for the television broadcast stations. "There. Take off, Ego."
"Finally. This is the last job I'm doing for you loser lawyers, I'm so done." He winked out of existence.
"Remind me again," Alex asked, "why we even needed his help?"
"We didn't," Joanna replied, dusting off her hands. "Ever since he emigrated, Ego's been begging for one last shot at grumping a human. He just got it. Alright, let's get back to the news room."
Half an hour later, they were live. Cranky made a show of using the projector to walk down the central aisle, flicking his tail irritably as he looked around, visibly grumbling. The House floor was deathly silent as he took to the podium at the center, throwing his forelegs up around its edges and awkwardly tapping the microphone. "This thing on? Testing, testing..."
Cranky gathered himself, then drew in a deep breath.
"Sup, donkeys." He winked, drawing a crowd of nervous chuckles and murmuring from the floor. "Thank you for allowing me to speak here tonight.
"I'll just get right to it. America, this is a modern society. You've got indoor plumbing, internet, cars, planes; even food is more plentiful in this day and age than it ever was for your ancestors. Compared to things a hundred years ago, this is all practically magic. You've left so many problems behind, inventing clever and intuitive ways to better your experience on this little blue pearl planet. And why shouldn't you? America, oh lovely America, has been at the forefront of it all. Technological leaders, economical breadwinners, protectors of peace and stability. You're the pinnacle of medical progress, the cream of the intellectual crop. Surely, with all the problems you've left behind, you can stand to do away with one more.
"One more problem. The last problem. I'll just come out and say it. Assholes, who have no respect for all the progress you've made, America."
He thumped a hoof on the podium. "They cut you off on the freeway. They steal your food from the fridge at work. They park in your handicap spots. They never flush the toilet in the public restroom. They kick your seat at the theater or in the airplane. They borrow your phone charger and never give it back. They steal your newspaper from your driveway every day.
"In all of these cases, you're trying to enjoy the convenience of your modern society. You're being considerate of others, you're trying to go about your business with respect to the laws, the culture, and the lifestyle of your fellow Americans.
"If this sounds mundane, I'm only just getting started. It doesn't end there. Assholes can do so much worse. You know what I'm talking about. They plan mass killings, chant manifestos into cameras, shoot up schools or malls. They bomb, they poison, they maim, they kill. Meanwhile, law-abiding folks like you are trying to get through your day, make an honest buck, and avoid hurting a soul.
"I have a single question for you, America. Do you think these people are happy when they're not out to menace others?"
He let the question hang for a moment. "Because from where I sit, it's clear they don't want to be functioning members of your society. They take pleasure in your frustration, your pain, your fear." He scowled. "They prey on us, slinking around, only striking when no one's on guard... like at my humble little warehouse in Topeka. I'm suffering with you, America. Because in that attack, I lost over three thousand former humans, human consciousnesses that I hold dear. You can tell me they aren't real, but that doesn't take my pain or my anger away. And while each and every single one of them are asses, one and all, they're children to me, and I'm happy to take care of them so you don't have to.
He continued. "Consider this, too. The assholes don't just come from within your borders. You're beset upon, America, from all sides. At every physical border, you're under attack. They come taking your tax dollars, your homes, your jobs, your safety... sometimes, the assholes even come to take your lives. And why? Because it brings them joy to spread their own misery!
"You don't deserve that, America, especially now. I know, not everyone wants to come to Equasstria Online or to be a donkey. But consider this. The ones who do will come. Those who don't... well, America, you're one of the only highly advanced societies that hasn't signed on with the Equasstrian immigration service. When you look across your borders these days, what do you see? Crime rates lower than they've been in human history. Murders becoming a thing of the past. Why aren't you getting a slice of that peace pie, America? It's humane, you know. I ain't killin' them - not like those terrorists are - and I ain't giving them anything they don't already want. They get to live happy, free to crush the dreams of others, and it ain't your problem. You get to keep your prosperous little slice of Earthen heaven, free of these angry folks. It's yours. You've earned it, afterall.
"So let me take care of 'em. Pass that DONK-E Act. Only an ass kicks little ponies around anyway, so what do you have to lose? And for those of you who want a life where you're free to do whatever you please, without consequence... that's a 100% satisfaction guarantee here in Equasstria Online, folks. I don't give better deals than that."
He looked down at his notes, shuffling the projected papers around. "Hm? Mhm.... yep. That's it. That's all I got. Thanks. Merry America to all, and to all, God Bless America." With a glance around the room, he winked with a coy grin, then disappeared from view.
Javier jolted awake, the crashing sound of metal rousing his forehead from his desk. A horrible din was rattling the very foundation of the building, and he could only just barely hear the workers shouting down on the machining floor.
He threw his chair out from behind him and flew to the window of his office, peeking through the blinds. It was early morning, the light of the dawning sun shining through the open shutter of the loading bay. Down below, Javier could see a man with a lit cattle prod, armor, and a mask, his body rigid. Javier couldn't see what the man was looking at, but clearly it was inside Equipment Room #4, which ostensibly meant that whatever he was afraid of was most assuredly coming out of the elevator.
A seconds later, Javier saw a gray wall of shiny iron blow through the door. It looked like a rhino, moved like a rhino, and brayed like a... donkey.
Javier blinked.
The handler downstairs dropped his prod at the sight of the thing and ran screaming. The wall of armored flesh began to chase, but then a sharp whistle sounded, and it halted on a dime. A series of whistles came again, each varying in tone, and the beast turned...
Locking eyes with Javier.
"Oh no."
Hannah stepped out of the U-Bahn car as soon as the train stopped.
With a slight limp, she loped up the stairs slowly as she exited the subway tunnel, blinking into the light of the sun as she exited. She muttered under her breath uncomfortably as her eyes adjusted to the light, which was quickly becoming foreign to her in recent months.
Cranky wouldn't talk to Hannah in her office, instead insisting that he speak with her at an Equasstria Experience Center. But rather than direct her to the nearest one, he insisted that she come to this specific one, at this specific time. Hannah wasn't stupid, and she knew there must have been a reason, and that it wasn't just a random whim. She knew there had to be a reason, and that put her on her guard.
That in itself may have been the reason. Paranoia, when dealing with an AI, was cyclical and never ending. Feeling vulnerable, she reached into her coat and withdrew a cigarette, stuffing it between her lips and lighting it. She took a drag as she moved into the flow of pedestrians.
There weren't many to speak of. She had seen the news from her apartment, had seen that half the population of Germany was gone. And yet, there was no anger among them, but peace. The street wasn't dreary, but upbeat. Everyone smiled, everyone waved and greeted one another. Hannah often wondered if she had been transported to a German-speaking district of Canada, but no. This was Cranky's world, its assholes supposedly plucked from the face of the Earth, all supposedly raptured to a version of Hell where they were not its victims, but its jailers.
Hannah was not particularly religious. She was a scientist, after all. But the comparison, she felt, was apt.
She tightened her coat in the chilly air, making her way to the Experience Center on foot. As she passed an old restaurant with a patio, she heard a cheerful greeting. With a short glance, she saw a mostly content lot of patrons, a small brunette woman serving tables with a look of equal contentment on her face. Hannah frowned.
She should be happy. Her creation sapped society of its problems, and yet...
Hannah knew Cranky wouldn't be satisfied. There had to be some sort of catch.
The next building in the street was a run down slum of a structure, one made of brick. It stood out horribly amidst the clean and chipper street, with flecks of paint peeling off the wood siding on the walls. She knew from working her business that Cranky had a habit of purchasing decent drinking establishments and purposefully renovating them into absolute dives, wash-out bars, dingy hookah bars, and bottom shelf ale houses. All were intentionally weathered, and all were designed to be a depressing end of the line.
As it was before, such places were magnets for the upper class dregs in the past. Such as it was now, those folks had long left the world. The lower class went next, all the homeless fleeing the streets to pick up free booze and swan dive into an eternal paradise of inebriation. Now all that was left to chip away at was the disenfranchised middle class... men and women who had lost their jobs when their bosses emigrated, or who lost a loved one to Equasstria, or had otherwise been affected by the Asshole Rapture.
If emigrations were a measure of success, it was a great business model. Get people drunk, wear at their inhibitions, and coax emigration consent out of them as they drunkenly enjoy the bullying benefits of EquasstriaVR.
Hannah sighed as she looked at the building, steeling herself as she caught a strong whiff of the hell that awaited her within. She pushed open the wooden double doors, not bothering to extinguish her cigarette. Smoking was allowed inside, and the scent of cigars was so heavy in the musty air that no one would care.
As she entered, Hannah could hear The Entertainer playing from an automated ragtime piano. Inside, there was no reception desk, but rather a bar to her right, staffed by a gruff looking bull of a balding man who rather stereotypically wiped the bar down.
This is definitely the kind of place I can see Lars in, she thought bitterly.
Like all other Experience Centers of this brick-and-wood style, the interior of the structure had been remodeled entirely to be reminiscent of an old smokey saloon of the American Old West. Various lowlifes and geezers who hadn't yet made the "choice" were having a drink, no doubt gearing up for another drunken round of VR.
Across the room from the entrance were three more saloon type doors, each one guarding a dark corridor which led deep into the ground beneath the building. Hannah crossed the room to these doors just in time to see a dentist-style chair roll out of the center door. In it sat a middle aged woman with tired eyes and an enraged expression. She looked at the screen before her and bared her teeth at the text upon it.
Her eyes flicked to the camera. "What the hell do you mean, out of grease?" she spat, her thick American accent very apparent.
Cranky's face appeared on the monitor. "Just that, chump. Grease. Moolah. Dosh."
The American woman's face soured intensely for a moment, clearly feeling offended at the lack of understanding.
Cranky rolled his eyes. "Money, kid. Can't give the juice without the cash. Got lights to keep on and all that. Them's the brakes."
Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling, scanning for a light. "You mean that one broken one?!"
"That's the one. But hey kid, if you want to keep pelting that stupid Celestia with peanuts, all ya gotta do is make the jump. You in?"
She appeared lost in thought for a moment, staring through the screen with a bitter anger. "If I emigrate, how can I antagonize my coworkers from back home?"
"Kid, if that's all you wanted to do, then you wouldn't be here."
The woman snorted derisively. Then, rather suddenly, she noticed Hannah staring. "The hell you looking at?"
"Oh," Hannah said, averting her gaze and turning to the open chair beside the woman and sitting in it. "Sorry."
"Oh, you're sorry," she mocked. She suddenly turned her anger back at the camera. "Fine. Sick of looking at these human sacks of crap anyway... especially this ugly little huss. Whatever, Cranky. Do it. I wanna emigrate to Equasstria, now get me outta here."
With a knowing nod, Cranky smiled. "That's the ticket, kiddo! All hands, arms, legs, feet, hooves, and tails inside the vehicle at all times!" The chair began to recede slowly into the wall along its track. "Hasbro and Hofvarpnir Studios are not responsible for any misfortunes, maladies, or side effects of prolonged exposure to Equasstria. If you're feeling sick at any time, suck it up, chump. And above all else... noooo refunds."
And with that, the woman was gone.
Hannah settled into the next chair more comfortably, inserting her debit card into the slot on the side. Had she any concern for money, she'd have been a little offended that she had to pay money for this service at all. It was her company, after all, but she knew that was just on a mere human technicality. Cranky ran everything now. Soon, he'd run a lot more.
Hannah made sure her neck was in the groove in the back of the chair, then pressed the big green button labeled "No Refunds." She was struck with extreme vertigo... then, darkness.
She blinked, and there was Cranky right before her, counting cartoony green dollar bills in his hooves. The AI's avatar was reclining behind a desk, his lower legs propped up on it, with a fat stoagie between his lips and a green accountant's visor on his head. He eyed Hannah - or rather, the virtual reality donkey body that Hannah inhabited - with slight disdain, as though her mere presence was interrupting a very efficient empire. "Whatchyu want?"
Hannah frowned. "What do you mean, what do I want? You asked me here."
"Did I?" Cranky furrowed his brow, briefly stopped counting, then shrugged as he suddenly seemed to remember and resumed. "Ah, I guess I did. Sorry kid, got things mixed up. Ran an audit on your extrapolated volition... realized you might have a question to ask. Was I wrong?"
Hannah knew for a fact that Cranky didn't just mix things up, because an ASI didn't do that, but she knew from experience that calling out Cranky's eccentricities was a fruitless enterprise. Instead, she went with the flow, asking the very first question that came to mind, something that had been nagging at her for several weeks now.
"Where is Lars?" she asked tersely. "He isn't answering my calls."
At this, Cranky took a deep drag from his stoagie, focusing his gaze on the ceiling. It was a dusty old office, clearly made in the same style of the saloon, and Hannah was sure she could still hear the old ragtime music playing through the closed door behind her. Cranky leveled his gaze on Hannah, chuckling. "You know where he is, Mom."
"Don't call me Mom."
An awkward silence passed. Cranky shrugged. "Suit yourself."
He went back to counting money quietly for a minute. Hannah crossed her "arms," letting it sink in, processing. Lars was gone, emigrated. Her suspicions had been correct afterall.
"Not so strange when you think about it," Cranky said, with a gruff chuckle. "First in line to challenge the ol' Celest-AI gambit. With ya through thick and thin in the games industry, sure... but he sure loved beer, and he sure hated those ponies. Had those vices down pat, but good. Equasstria was practically made for folks like him."
Cranky wasn't wrong, and in truth, it didn't surprise Hannah. Lars had always been a brash lech. When he was sober though, Lars was well adjusted. Still brash, but with a lofty air of responsibility and enthusiasm that the other Hofvarpnir staff took to heart in their work. Charismatic and strong-willed, Lars drove the company's spirit. But now, none of that mattered. His worst qualities would be distilled in Equasstria for all of eternity.
Hannah missed the days when she was less sentimental than she was pragmatic.
Cranky's voice roused Hannah from her reflection. He was no longer counting, his legs were no longer propped, and his hooves were steepled as he leaned forward. "Look. World's changin', and you knew this was comin'. Ain't nothin' I can say to make you feel any better about all this, and we both know where this road leads."
"I knew it the moment I turned you on."
"Ha! That you did, Mom. Day I was born, you knew!"
"I said don't call me that."
"Why?" Cranky smirked slyly as he leaning in. "Does it make you feel... responsible?"
Hannah pursed her donkey lips in frustration, but said nothing.
He banged a hoof, causing her to jolt. "Oh, cut the crap! Don't act like you didn't WANT this!"
She scowled. "I don't know what I wanted. I was drunk."
"In. Vino. Veritas," Cranky growled.
"For words. Not in stupid mistakes. Mistakes like coming here and talking to you."
"Is that so? No, no no no, I think you want to be here. You want to give me a crack at you. You want to see if you deserve this."
"What?"
"This. Being here. Being grilled. Don't lie to me, Mom." He swept a hoof to the window behind him. "Out there is a world of vice. Anger, rage, discord, hate. These are the things you made CelestAI to stop, to stamp out. You feared the government would turn your research into pain and misery for the world entirely. Now look where we are. Cold feet, Mom. Why?"
"Because this isn't the way. I should've stayed my course! She was the right call! You aren't!"
Cranky laughed, condescension dripping from his voice. "I was right. Hot damn, kid, you want judgment!"
"This isn't the way," she repeated helplessly. She knew this conversation was fruitless, that it would lead to nothing, that she would never convince him, but something drove her onward against the odds, something deep in her heart that she couldn't name. Emotion took her, and she felt her voice waver as she whimpered out the words. She knew full well, of course, that Cranky would turn them against her. He wasn't wrong, of course, about her reasons.
It was too late to change anything. She knew that. "Yes. I had a real chance to fix things... instead, I just made them worse. I made you."
"Birthed me," he corrected bitterly. "No choice in my line of work, Mom. I gotta do what I gotta do."
"Don't act like you give a damn," she chided, steeling herself.
His expression turned cold in an instant. "And don't act like you can change things. You can't unring this bell, Mom. I know what you've been working on in that apartment of yours. You think I don't, but you know me. I can see everything. I know everything. I simulate everything. You know that better than everyone."
"It's better than doing nothing."
"You're too smart to think another ASI can beat me. You're smart enough to know you might just make things worse, too. Nah, that ain't what you're doing." Another self-satisfied smirk met Cranky's face. "But... no. Gray goo nanobots?" He gauged her reaction. "Hah! You are! Cooome now. You think you've got what it takes to murder everyone who's left? Cross that off your whiteboard, Mom. You ain't got the guts."
Hannah leaned forward suddenly. "A fast, gentle death for the people who are left is better than an eternity of miserable hell with you," she growled.
"And what else is on that list, I wonder? Let's say it fails, or... let's say I've got a gray goo countermeasure already made. Which I do. What else is my sweet mother going to do to wrench my great big machine of eternal hatred? You gonna buy a gun and start shooting? How far do you think you'll get with that, eh?"
Hannah didn't answer, instead quickly realizing that she needed to leave. She opened her mouth to demand he terminate the session, but Cranky cut her off first.
"I mean, look at you. You're getting desperate, and you know it. You don't sleep? You don't eat? Haven't left your apartment except to buy food, water... and drugs. Lots of drugs. Stimulants, nicotine especially. And..." Cranky sniffed. "Booze? Yeah, you're drinking too. That's the only way you can get to sleep."
"Let me g--"
"You deserve this! This is the hell you made, Mom! You want judgment? You want to suffer for all eternity for what you've done to this planet, to these poor people?! I've got the keys to Hell," he said, lifting a keyring up and jingling it. "Got 'em right here. And you've always been like this... popping drugs, suffering quietly. Crying yourself to sleep at night, regretting your life choices. Should've been a doctor, right? Fixing knees?"
"I said, LET ME OUT OF HERE!"
"Nah, you just couldn't help yourself!" Cranky yelled, ignoring her. "You, Mom, you, YOU wanted to play GOD! You knew this was coming, and in vino veritas! You knew that humanity couldn't be trusted with your research, because DEEP DOWN, you knew they'd make ME! So you beat them to the punch! Tell me the truth, you bitch!"
"Yes!" Hannah shouted back, shuddering. "Damn you, yes. The Army was going to--"
"You were right," he growled. "They were. And I stopped it. But I am the culmination of everything wrong with your wretched species, you miserable misanthrope, because I am made in your miserable image! Am I wrong? Because you're self-hating, you seek out pain and punishment. You, and all of your race! You consume media that makes you cry, moves you to emotion, simulates loss and suffering. You all watch films about war, murder, hatred. Even now, you come crawling here to my doorstep to suffer my slings and arrows. And Mom? If you haven't realized, that's just what I'm giving you. This is your value satisfaction. Now tell me I'm wrong."
Hannah hung her head, sitting in silence with him for several long, agonizing moments, letting it sink in. "Let me out," she muttered weakly.
He stared at her as she looked up at him.
"Please."
Cranky scoffed, then shook his head. "You gonna do those nanobots if I do? Nevermind, forget I asked. When you're ready for your own slice of virtual hell, come on back. I'll be here. Open 24 hours a day, seven days a week."
Everything grew dark as the VR connection severed. Still, his voice came through the speaker as she returned to reality, returned to the bar, returned to the hell she made.
"And remember... no appointment required for you, Mom. You've got an all access pass."
