Pinkie is invited to a business that on its surface seems like fun and games. But looking deeper behind the facade, she finds an undertow of darkness, and a spiraling abyss.
Pinkie is invited to a business that on its surface seems like fun and games. But looking deeper behind the facade, she finds an undertow of darkness, and a spiraling abyss.
Leaning down with a mitt in her mouth, Pinkie grabbed the baking tray out from the blistering heat of the oven. Pivoting and using a hindleg to shut the oven door, she trotted to the counter with an organized chaos of baking supplies and placed the tray down in an empty space.
"Uh-huh," Pinkie chirped, examining the perfectly formed exquisite and warm cookies laced with extra sugar.
Mr. Cake raised a brow. "Are we already out of sugar cookies?"
"Yep! It's been super-duper busy this week."
"Speaking of which, I was wondering if you could go get the mail? And afterwards, if you'd like, you can take today off."
"Okie dokie!" Pinkie replied.
"Thank you," Mr Cake said, departing through the saloon doors.
Outside Sugarcube Corner, a lone pink mailbox stood. The door to the mailbox mysteriously fell open, a pair of cerulean eyes opening in its shadows.
The familiar pink mare began to crawl out of the mailbox. Her hooves touched the dirt except for a hindhoof that was stuck in the mailbox, and a forehoof holding the mail.
She examined the first letter at the top, using her mane to slide it in the back after she finished reading it. Cycling through the not so fun taxes, she stopped on one, noticing her name written in flowy, fancy, almost calligraphic writing– except for a few jitters. "Hm," Pinkie mused.
Removing her hindleg from the mailbox she trotted back into Sugar Cube Corner.
Mr. And Mrs. Cake were at the front counter conversing.
"We've had a busy week," Mrs. Cake confirmed.
"Here you go!" Pinkie chirped, leaving the other stacks on the counter, and failing to see the perplexed expression from Mr. Cake as he looked from the kitchen to the front door.
Pinkie began up the stairs.
"You'd think I'd get used to her doing that by now," Mr. Cake said.
Shutting the door inside her room, she sauntered to her bed and plopped on it, bouncing up and down a few times, fixated on the letter in her hooves…
She flipped the letter over, bulging a conspiratorial eye as she examined its lines and creases. Bringing the letter to her nose, her nostrils flared as she sniffed, then lifting her head, she raised a brow with pursed her lips.
Shrugging, she tore it open with a content smile, expecting at worst for flying snakes to explode forth. Instead, golden confetti popped out, making Pinkie giggle.
Her eyes wide, brimming with excitement, she began to read.
Hello, Pinkie Pie! You're invited to the luxurious establishment of Nepenthe! It's all about the party, and you're considered the heart and mastermind of them! We'd like your input on how to make our experience more enjoyable, appealing, and most of all fun and the best it can be for our customers! We get a smile from seeing the smiles, especially after a dark day, it gives us a purpose and a reason to continue forward! And we'd like your help to see more! If you're interested, we reside in Las Pegasus! Hopefully, we'll see you there!
Sincerely, D.
Pinkie lowered the letter, staring blankly while in thought.
Possibilities of what the place could look like cycled through her mind: ponies laughing as they all played party games, ponies laughing as they enjoyed their meals, ponies laughing enjoying the time they spent together. A wonderland of fun all so ponies could enjoy themselves and have a good time.
Pinkie smiled.
She darted out the door, practically tumbling down the stairs.
"Hey, Mrs. Cake! I'm going to Las Pegasus! I should be back later today or tomorrow!"
"Oh," Mrs. Cake replied, taken aback for a moment by the sudden declaration. "Okay then. Stay safe and be back soon, okay, dear?"
"Will-can-do!" Pinkie called, waving while trotting backwards out of Sugarcube Corner.
The smell of the revitalizing morning air filled Pinkie's nostrils as she trotted down the steps, the sound of a creaking nearby wagon prompting a sidelong glance. Earning her full attention, her eyes lit up as she pivoted and waved her hoof in a blur.
"Hey, Applejack!"
The gamboge earth pony stopped, unlatching herself from the cart with a smile. "Hiya, Pinkie! Where ya headin' off to?"
"I'm heading to Las Pegasus!"
Applejack raised a brow. "Yeah? What for?" She asked, sauntering to the back of the haul. She heaved a wooden bucket from the cart, letting it rest on her back.
"I got a letter from a pony who wanted my help with their business since I'm the heart of the party," Pinkie said, placing a hoof to her chest.
"Are you sure that's a great idea?" Applejack asked, sauntering toward her.
"Why not?"
Applejack stopped in front of Pinkie, "Not to be too cynical, sugarcube, but a lot of places over there ain't the best, some even rotten to the core, unlike these beauties," she noted, turning a bit to show off the apples in the bucket.
"Have you been there before?"
"Yeah," Applejack muttered and borderline glowered. "And I reckon if my previous experience is anything to go off of, it probably won't be great. But who knows, maybe I'm jumpin' to conclusions," Applejack muttered, passing Pinkie.
Turning, Pinkie smiled. "You most undoubtedly are," she confirmed in jest, closing her eyes with a slight bow of her head.
"I suppose if I tagged along I could find out myself," she said, walking up the steps, "but I've been mighty busy helpin' run a business of my own."
"Or you just don't want to be proven wrong," Pinkie replied in a sing-song voice, with lidded eyes.
Maintaining her smile, Applejack rolled her eyes before she looked over her shoulder. "Just– be safe, alright, Pinkie?"
"What's the worst that can happen? I go there and leave having an existential crisis? I have a Pinkie Sense after all," she said, her frizzy tail vibrating on cue.
Applejack looked up, her emerald eyes searching the morning sky.
Pinkie giggled.
The farm pony smiled shaking her head, entering into the building.
Pinkie bounced away from Sugar Cube Corner with a bubbly smile.
Pinkie's forelegs draped over the side of her hot air balloon, the wind ruffling her cotton candy mane as she looked down on the distant landscape of Equestria, now beyond the vast green plains, seeing shimmering lakes, rivers, and cascade forests.
Part of her wished Gummy came with her so she could play I Spy. Gummy was the master at it. She could've played with Applejack, but Applejack had chores to do to keep the family business going, and from what she knew, with the help of a busted water shoot, it was hard work, and not really fun. But, from the sound of it, the business she was visiting may be the opposite of that.
She just hoped it wouldn't be like the Gala– which did actually get better since the first time she went. A little bit. A tiny bit. An itty-bitty bit.
She thought the Gala was going to be quite the shindig, but of course, it fell short of her expectations, face first. Now however, her expectations were lower, and it did surpass it a few times with some of the experiences and memories she made. But this place sounded promising, and she hoped it lived up to her expectations.
Her gaze lifted up towards the clouds, seeing a distant city above a lake.
The balloon ascended, swimming through the sea of clouds in the blue sky. The clouds grew dense before she burst forth, now above the 'ground' of the city.
Landing on the designated platform, she hopped out, tying off a knot to keep her balloon in place before she gazed at the city in all its exciting extravaganza.
Trotting over the bridge, she looked around wide-eyed with her mouth slightly agape, seeing various large elaborate structures and even a distant ferris wheel. Despite the sight-seeing, she reminded herself to stay on the path and away from the edges so she didn't fall through the clouds.
She continued around, scanning various building names and logos, until she noticed a pegasus with unfurled wings and a wobble as she walked as if they had been spun around and asked to pin the tail on the pony.
The pegasus flapped their wings, managing to get off the ground but their wing beats alternated out of sync, causing them to drop back down with a stumble. They tried again, managing to actually fly but not very well or steady. It reminded Pinkie somewhat of Twilight when she first got wings, making her internally giggle a bit.
Down the road where the pegasus came from, a sign that seemed promising snagged her attention, prompting her to head in that direction.
The explosive and attention grabbing sign read Nepenthe and the building climbed high and dwarfed many others nearby.
Giddy, Pinkie pranced in place before trotting inside. The first thing she was greeted with was a sign that advertised some sort of party with masks tomorrow, then neon lights accentuating the semi-opulent architecture and shapes, along with a carpet with almost psychedelic patterns that were mostly red and black. Passing the threshold, it opened into a spacious room, housing a plethora of ponies who were partaking in mini games and–
"Hello, is there anything I can help you with?"
Looking over, Pinkie noticed a pale pegasus mare with a clean suit, wearing a tight tuxedo vest with a white undershirt, a black mane in a bun, and cerise eyes.
"Yes, indeedy!" Pinkie reached into her mane pulling out the letter, "The owner, Mr. D, contacted me because he needed my help."
The mare's cerise eyes skimmed over the note. Raising a brow, she lowered the letter, examining Pinkie who was grinning ear to ear. She enunciated each word slowly, "Right this way then."
Pinkie bounced behind her until eventually, they arrived at a corridor with a fairly inconspicuous door at the end.
The mare knocked on the door.
"Come in," a muffled voice replied.
The mare opened the door, allowing both to enter.
Pinkie's eyes widened when she saw who was sitting at the desk. It wasn't a pony at all, but some sort of bipedal creature. He wore a black tuxedo with a red undershirt, had a short goatee with a light mustache, mini horns poking out of his forehead, and goat legs kicked up on the table while holding a wineglass of some sort of blood red liquid.
"Well, if it isn't the one and only Mrs. Pinkamena Diane Pie," he said in admiration, getting out of his chair.
"Hello, Mr. D," Pinkie greeted, extending a hoof forward.
He took it with his left hand, "Some call me Desire," he said in jest, wiggling his eyebrows to the mare behind her, "but I prefer Dilate, but you can call me whatever you'd like," he finished, looking down at her with a smile, shaking it gently.
Pinkie examined the smile, noticing it seemed genuine on its surface. But something was off; it was extremely faint, vague, opaque, like there were small cracks in his visage. It had a strange.. reminiscence.
Alongside it was the feeling as if he was hiding something under his sleeve, but that he wanted to keep it that way. She made note of it but dismissed it for the time being, content with her overall assessment.
Dilate turned around with a sly smile extending another wine glass in his left hand, "Care for a drink?"
Pinkie glanced at the crimson liquid. She hadn't drank anything in a while. She saved it for, in her words, super-duper omega special occasions with her friends– or Cider Season, particularly on the first day– but it was tempting to say those occasions were everyday with the friends she had.
She shook her head. "No thanks."
"Really? Are you sure? It's the best drink I've had. One drink wouldn't hurt, right?"
"Nope!" Pinkie replied, raising her head, waving a hoof across.
Dilate's brow knitted as he quirked his lip, retracting the glass a bit. His visage returned to his normal smile as he brought the glass to the other, pouring it almost to the brim, "Not much of a drinker?"
"Sometimes I do, occasionally with my friends. But otherwise, neh," Pinkie dismissed with a downward swipe of a hoof.
"I wasn't really either," he admitted, "but here I am. Life happens," he finished, drinking the remaining liquid. "But I'm surprised you made it here."
"What do you mean?" Pinkie asked.
"I assume you know how business goes up here," he replied, passively placing the empty glass on the table.
Pinkie's mind traveled back to what Applejack told her. She scrunched one side of her face. "Not really."
Pinkie gave the room a once-over, noticing a table next to the wall riddled with stacks of paper and documents, and a white board on the wall with various notes and writings, one phrase standing out saying: The Three H's, written in marker. But the actual words that started with the 'H' were too small to see.
On Dilate's oak desk itself were a few papers with strange scribbles, some looking irritated, and others.. like hieroglyphs? At the corner of the desk sat a vase with strange trumpet shaped white flowers, with sharp prongs erecting from the petals.
"Oooo, what are these?" Pinkie inquired, trotting to the flowers and leaning forward.
Dilate raised his voice, "I wouldn't get near those," he admonished, his voice lowering upon getting Pinkie's attention.
"Why not?"
He paused for a moment as if searching for the right words. "They're... dangerous."
Pinkie raised a brow. "Then why do you have them?"
"Let's just say they're a souvenir," he grumbled, waving away with his freehand.
Pinkie looked back at the flowers, their presence now eliciting an eerie undertone.
"Anyway," Dilate resumed, his tone brightening, "I guess we should get started. How about a tour?"
"Fine by me!" Pinkie exclaimed, attempting to rekindle her enthusiasm.
He opened and held the door with a wineglass still in hand, allowing Pinkie to pass through, giving him a smile as thanks. She sauntered down the corridor, entering back into the spacious room.
"We have a vast amount of party games," he gestured with his left hand. "Varying from slots, to wheels of fortune, to poker– it's all very popular among our guests."
Pinkie could see various ponies playing mini games at machines or tables, all of them smiling with wineglasses or bottles in hoof or aura, a cheer erupting from a distant table, alluding to a big win.
"That over there is where I think you'd be most interested. Perhaps you'd like to see our selection of sugary sweets."
Pinkie followed his finger seeing a section at the side that seemed to house a kitchen.
"And that way is where guests can check into our own hotel rooms that are above us," he said, gesturing to a large staircase at the end of the room.
"So, any ideas on where you'd like to begin to make this place more fun?"
"What's the best thing you offer compared to other places?" Pinkie asked.
"That would probably be our drinks. We have some exotic flavors and concoctions..." His expression shifted, his brows furrowing as he gazed behind her.
She turned, seeing a pony approaching with a stern visage, smoke billowing from the cigar in his muzzle. His mane was slicked back and his features were sharp even though he appeared to be an older stallion. It was as if he was resisting the aging process or found some fountain of youth solution in a bottle.
"Dilate," the pony greeted with a faux smile.
"Doctor," he greeted with a hint of insincerity. "Come to cure another victim?"
"We have some things to discuss about your business," he said sternly. The stallion smiled at Pinkie. "if you'd excuse us for a few minutes."
Dilate sauntered away with the pony alongside him.
Perplexed, Pinkie watched them depart for a few moments, before she surveyed her surroundings. She spun around in a circle, feasting her eyes upon the constant stimulation, entertainment, and eye candy. There were constant distractions everywhere, begging, calling, enticing for her attention. You could almost get lost in it.
Almost. Something felt off. The distractions and aesthetics felt substance-less somehow, banal, surface level, lacking any depth, empty at their cores. Despite probably being heretical to someone like Rarity, she wasn't too concerned about it, waving it off, instead, the feeling of the party did perturb her.
She'd gotten an inkling of it from Dilate, but now observing the party itself, it was more apparent and potent. The fun felt almost fraudulent, spoiled, illusionary. The ambiance was lively but somehow felt… lifeless. The little areas of rambunctious behavior should've been more appealing, especially to someone like her, but even the Gala, though mostly boring, had some genuine fun despite its more dignified and pompous nature, but here it was nowhere near the same vein. Like a dark carnival; it felt more… insidious.
Her eyes surveyed the chaotic fun, seeing all the commotion, the chatting, the joking... the drinking.
Her gaze traveled beyond to what looked like the center of the room, a hot spot of activity where a circular bar seemed to be, with neon letters at the top surrounding its circumference with the words: Pleasure Island. Above the sign appeared to be withered branches and limbs of a tree.
Ambling forward, she had to maneuver between ponies, which got more difficult as she neared the island bar. The density reached a point where she turned and twisted her body, no longer able to weave through. Despite bumping, nudging, and squeezing past ponies on her way through, offering a few whoopsies and sorrys, little paid her any mind.
Arriving at the bar where a plethora of ponies sat, she saw plenty of drinks on display and what looked to be the tree roots crawling up pillars and the walls. It had a strange aura emanating from it. Climbing on to what appeared to be a one of the only vacant stools, she read the different names for the drinks: Divine Daiquiri, Alicorn Mead, Alicorn Ale, Endorphin Elixir, and in large letters– Soma, and Lotus Root.
Pinkie swiveled on the stool, surveying the party further, her scrutinizing eyes darting between ponies expressions but most of all, there smiles.
The smiles weren't forced. But they looked… possessed? She supposed it's what it meant to be under the influence.
She had a passing thought weighing if alcohol just really revealed the truth of who one was, removing the 'filter'. She herself couldn't help but say what was on her mind sometimes, even without drinking, especially around her friends, or when she was happy. But deep down, she felt it wasn't exactly true, but she couldn't exactly articulate why. Maybe because it distorted who one really was instead?
Upon further inspection, she noticed that many ponies didn't have Cutie Marks.
She felt a surge of semi déjà vu, the strand of skepticism amplifying.
Hoof touching her chin, theories and ideas jumped in her mind as she began to postulate what was occurring. The best she had to offer was that their was a giant conspiracy involving a secret syndicate running the casino and that the drinks were enchanted to keep ponies hypnotized and trapped. It was fullproof.
Except that ponies didn't appear 'hypnotized', they just appeared to be having a good time–
A pony with a hoof wrapped around another fell back, bringing the other along, intertwining their fates as both wineglasses in their hooves flung golden liquid through the air as they hit the floor.
Recklessly.
"Anything I can get you, ma'am?"
Swiveling back, she saw a pegasus stallion bartender who appeared to have a more slim stature with a thin mustache.
The thought of having a drink entered her mind. She realized she could see for herself, after all, even if she was wrong it wouldn't hurt to have just one, right? But if she was right then she may be under the spell.
"You wouldn't happen to know what's in the drinks, would you?" Pinkie asked, attempting to act nonchalant by resting a foreleg on the counter and turning her head.
"Uh, well, it depends on what you wish to try, but most of our concoctions are made of things that make them taste as good as alcohol allows. A personal favorite of mine is Divine Daiquiri. It's pleasantly strong but not overpowering. Pretty smooth as well."
Pinkie's mind raced as she weighed her options. She internally relented. "Uh, I'm a pretty big fan of water!" She offered with a brittle smile.
The bartender's expression shifted to one of slight intrigue. He quirked a brow. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely," she affirmed with a nod. "Hydration is important," she added, punching to the side with her hoof.
"Al-right then," he replied, leaving her while attempting to shrug off the slightly idiosyncratic display.
Tossing her previous theory mostly out, she continued to think.
Her ears flicked to the sound of someone yelling. Looking over through the crowd for the source, her curious eyes laid upon a stallion at a blackjack table with an irate expression staring flames at the dealer.
The dealer had his hooves up as a de-esculating gesture but the stallion was having none of it.
"I want my bits back!"
The ambient chatter that muffled the voice started to diminish.
The dealer replied but his voice was inaudible.
"I don't care! GIVE ME MY BITS BACK!"
Two stallions in black suits approached the table, conversing with the stallion. The stallion abruptly flipped the table, sending a mess of cards and chips to the floor. He was then swiftly restrained, held by his forelegs as he was dragged away.
"It's all rigged!" The stallion yelled, kicking, as he was dragged toward the exit.
Pinkie scanned around, surveying ponies reactions, but after a few moments, the chatting resumed, as if nothing had transpired. The ponies continued their jovial discussions, rough banter, and guffaws, in a state of ignorant bliss or apathy.
Some ponies couldn't handle being the losing-loser-pants, Pinkie thought, Rainbow Dash entering her mind making her smile. But as quick as the smile came, it vanished, her muzzle now stricken with a frown.
The sound of something sliding on the counter in front of her pulled her attention back. She noticed a glass of water.
"Thanks," Pinkie said.
"Yeah, when night rolls around, it's a lot worse," the bartender replied. "Clean up crew has a lot of work to do."
He began attending to other ponies before Pinkie could ask anything further.
She brought the glass in front of her, and looked down at it, swirling the ice. It seemed to be plain old water. She took a sip, and sure enough, it was.
She surveyed the room once more, when something snagged all of her attention. Her eyes rested on a pony sitting on the floor near the far corner of the room outside the crowd, his expression grim and blank as if he was staring at nothing.
Pinkie felt compelled to follow the calling.
"Hey," Pinkie said, causing his ears to flick, "are you okay?"
He seemed to search her eyes and expression for a few moments, giving Pinkie a glimpse into the hurt behind them before his eyes scanned the room instead, as if looking for something else.
Pinkie watched with curled up brows. "What's your name?" She tried, with a concerned smile.
"Why are you here?"
"Because you look like you're having a not so fun time."
"How'd you guess?"
"Well, I can see it. Especially with that frown."
"What do you want?"
"To turn that frown upside down," Pinkie informed, standing straight, pointing to her muzzle while giving a heartfelt smile.
The stallion simply stared blankly into the party.
"Do you have any friends or family?" For all she knew, his 'friends' could've helped get him into this position.
The stallion in response turned the bottle in his hoof beside him, faintly seeing his reflection on its dull surface while his eyes seemed to be reliving memories…
Pinkie glanced to his flank, noticing it bare of any mark. "Do you have any hobbies?"
"Yes, he does," a voice answered. "Being here."
Pinkie saw Dilate who sauntered toward her then stopped beside her with furrowed brows.
Pinkie looked up at him, her visage stricken with concern. "Is there anything we can do?"
"We could give him to Doctor Glean," he casually suggested, swirling his drink while looking into it. "But I'm not inclined to do that."
Pinkie raised a brow but her attention was pulled back to the stallion, noticing he was still staring at the bottle. "Deep inside you don't you feel like there's more to life than this?"
The stallion seemed to not be paying attention, his eyes still fixated on the bottle.
"It's okay to have a bit of the sweet stuff from time to time," she continued, "some of it. But having so much of it that you destroy yourself and slide down a downward spiral isn't good– or fun, especially later on."
"Wouldn't that make you a hypocrite?"
Pinkie was taken aback by the comment as she whipped her head over and up at Dilate.
"You are the heart of the party and quite the party animal. But you also have quite the sweet tooth. You let and encourage others to indulge in them."
"Indulge?!" Pinkie parroted, the word offending her and sour on the tongue. She glared. "You're exploiting these ponies' pain!" She said, gritting her teeth.
A glare flashed over his features, then returned to his sly smile. "I'm offering them a fun time with smiles and a place to let loose. They have the choice. I'm not forcing them," he said, holding his left hand up as if he was free of blame or guilt. "After all, you didn't take the hospitable drink I offered earlier. Besides, tomorrow's not a guarantee. Might as well enjoy the party while you can until it's over," he said, drinking from his wineglass.
"Parties are meant to be a gathering for ponies to celebrate life and have a good time," Pinkie growled, pointing an accusatory hoof. "To maybe forget about hardships and pain for a bit–"
"Life is pain," He corrected, his tone rising. "And isn't that what I'm offering? You and I do the same thing. You sell sugary sweets. I sell drinks."
"It's not the same thing," Pinkie denied. "Your drinks are worse. You even have one!" She pointed to the glass in his right hand.
Dilate's smile turned almost sinister, like a withering grin as he chuckled and leaned forward speaking in a hush. "Didn't you hear me? You consume all the sweets your gluttonous little heart desires. We both have vices. But one of us may need it more than the other."
Pinkie's confusion morphed into sadness upon gazing at his visage, seeing the dark cracks, but now, she could see a liquid leaking forth, finally revealing what was obscured on the other side.
She'd recognized that smile. The deep pain, misery, despair, reaffirmed beyond the dull red eyes. She should've known better, listened to her gut, acted on her suspicion. But his grin was laced in something else…
Pinkie sagged as her head lowered. She took a sidelong glance at the stallion, noticing him staring intently at her. Pinkie understood what it was like to be trapped in a dark pit, clouded by mental anguish, blinded by misery, unable to see the light. "I'm not perfect," Pinkie confessed. "I can't say I know exactly how you feel, but I've been in a deep dark pit too. And I don't want you there." A thought crossed Pinkie's mind, reminding her of something Twilight would say. "You still have so much potential. You can still come out of this," Pinkie said, extending her hoof forward.
The stallion looked down at her hoof, then glanced at her hopeful sincere smile. His eyes then flicked to Dilate who judged with furrowed brows. They moved back and forth between them. Endless moments stretched as the air thickened. He leaned away. "J–just leave me alone."
"Let him pursue his happiness," Dilate said.
Pinkie lowered her head. "You don't want to be happy... You want a meaning to sustain you through pain, and tragedy, and to give you a reason to get out of bed. To move forward."
Turning, she started at a steady gait, the chaotic party ambiance around her blurring while her cerulean eyes rested on the floor.
Outside, she walked across the bridge, arriving at her hot air balloon, and untied the knot, allowing the balloon to fly freely.
The balloon descended below the clouds to a steady altitude, floating over the vast pine forests, sparse teardrops falling from it almost like a lone raincloud.
Supine in bed staring at the darkness concealing the high ceiling, the deafening silence coaxed Pinkie's thoughts to flow like rapids.
She imagined she was going to be laying there for a while, the bed becoming her tomb, but to her, it was inconsequential.
It felt as though she was wobbling, balancing on a cliffside she's already balanced on before, on the verge of falling into a pit of despair.
She'd been at rock bottom, seeing just how deep and practically bottomless it could go, knowing it could end up deeper becoming a practically endless fall in space, but in the dark, she found the light. But apparently, it wasn't good enough. Or maybe even real...
Maybe she was just stupid, she wasn't the 'brightest' after all, or that's at least what she thought– unable to articulate what she felt deep in her soul, to help, convince, or show others in need that there was more to life. Pinkie's mettle had endured great tribulations, allowing her to hone her own resilience.
But the splinter of doubt in her moral fiber put everything into question.
She had lived with moments of absolute sorrow, with everything becoming heavy, deflated, colorless. The only thing underlying the numbness and able to surface being pain.
The words 'life is pain' echoed in her head, stroking her anguish.
Hanging by the edge now, feeling the sad thoughts spurring madness, the possibility of derealization underlying it, she held on, her grip slipping.
The tranquility of falling asleep would be a her only escape, but despite the lengthening night, it wasn't within reach.
"Feeling the robes of void," she jingled, her pitch faulty. "Feeling the pain of an open wound I'm trying, to soothe. All I wanted was a smile that was true. To fulfill my purpose, what I was born to do. But I'm unable to deal with the fact… I couldn't help you," she finished in a monotone cadence.
She rolled over, laying in a fetal position.
Piercing through the darkness, a thin light shone across the room, staying that way for a few moments before extending across and over her bed, revealing a shadow stretching across the floor. Pinkie could hear a few hoofsteps.
A weight sat at the end of the bed. Willing herself to look down, her eyes met Applejack's emerald ones.
"You okay, hun?"
Pinkie sighed. "You were right."
"What happened?"
"I went to the place, and it seemed like fun. I met the owner, who turned out to be a goat-monkey, or something, and he seemed nice– until he wasn't. But after hanging out for a bit, I noticed something was wrong, the party just wasn't right. It felt hollow and rotten, everypony was drinking and it was sort of crazy. I saw a pony sitting in the corner who looked sad and miserable. I tried to help him but…"
"You can take a pony to water but can't force them to drink. At least you tried," Applejack comforted.
"He did seem to want it! I think," Pinkie added, her tone flimsy. "But that monster, Diehate, or Dielate, or whatever his name was, was convincing him not to! He's deceiving ponies into going there and trapping them with fake fun, offering them those nasty drinks!" Pinkie exclaimed, tossing her forelegs. "But why?" She mumbled.
"Pinkie–"
"I know, for the bits…"
"He could be telling the truth, or what he believes is the truth, believin' what he's doin' is right, justifyin' the bits. Hopefully deep down, he's lyin' to himself and he knows it."
Pinkie was unsure. She didn't know him, but he appeared as if he was too far gone, uncaring, corrupted somehow, whether by the drink, greed... the sadness.
Pinkie remained quiet, sinking in her failure, plagued by a deep corrosive doubt.
"What're ya thinkin'?" Applejack asked. "Be honest," she chided playfully, nudging her with a foreleg.
Pinkie sat in silence. The impossibility of putting what she was feeling into words overwhelmed her.
Applejack slid off the bed and began toward the light of the doorway. Stopping, she looked over her flank. "Come on. Let's go for a walk," she said gently, motioning her head toward the door.
Despite the lead blanket draped over her being, and the chaotic consuming feelings, something deep within her, shining invisibly from her unconscious, connected to even her instinct, motivated and compelled her to move.
She could feel the weight in her limbs and body as she attempted to move. The weight grew as she heaved herself out of bed with all her will, her hooves seeming to drag across the floor as her head hung low.
They entered the quiet night, the cold air gently holding them as they sauntered through sleeping Ponyville, the only sound being their hoofsteps on the dirt path, the army of crickets and cicadas chirping, and the croaking of distant frogs.
Pinkie's eyes stared at the dirt, seeing only Applejack's tail and hooves ahead of her which she absently followed. The sound of a gentle river filled her ears as she walked over a bridge, then the dirt changed into grass, but she didn't notice, she was too lost in her mind, the chaos apparent, so much so, she didn't even want to enter it, even if she might attempt to quell it. She just let it be, simply observing the anguish.
After a bit, she underwent slight strain, her task at walking becoming a bit more difficult, the acclivity of the terrain along with the weight she felt working together, but it wasn't enough to pull her out of her own inclination and stupor.
At the top of the hill, Applejack stopped and sat down in front of a tree, just shy of the roots crawling through the dirt behind her. Pinkie simply stood in front of her with her head still low, waiting for her to speak. Applejack with a sincere smile patted beside her with a hoof. Pinkie obliged, sitting beside her, but her eyes still never left the ground.
"Sometimes," Applejack began, "I like to come out here after a long day on the farm and relax. Or even after a hard day. Take in the simple things in life and what most of us overlook. It sort of reminds me of my years as a young filly."
The symphony of the night filled the lengthening silence between them, the distant gentle river coalescing with it.
Until Applejack gently spoke. "What's on your mind, sugarcube?"
Pinkie thought about denying her feelings or simply letting it inundate her, but she glanced at Applejack's emerald eyes, seeing a caring true friend.
Pinkie opened her mouth and took a breath, "Ijustdon'tknowifmypartiesareactuallygoodorifthey'rereallyreallybadandleadingponiesdownabaddarkterriblepathlikeescapinglifeorsomethingbutI'dliketothinkthey'regoodbutIjustdon'tknow."
Pinkie sighed. "I just– wonder if my parties are like that one. Or if I've led anypony down a bad path, chasing happy feelings, partying all day and night long, all the while destroying themselves…"
"Do ya have rigged party games and take ponies' money every chance ya get?"
"No, but–"
"Do ya try to keep ponies miserable for profit?"
Pinkie sighed. "No."
"It's good to feel doubt every now and then," Applejack said gently, "but I can assure you that your heart is in the right place. The fact that you're concerned proves it. Parties are gatherings meant to celebrate events, or deeds, and maybe let loose a little bit. Have a bit of fun. Not as an excuse to shun responsibility or get–get," Applejack reiterated, searching for the right word.
"Wasted?"
Applejack sighed. "Yeah."
"But what if ponies have so much fun they don't want it to end? And what if they only want to party?"
"Some ponies don't want to grow up, or even go back out into the world. They try to force being happy, or chase it, but happiness doesn't last forever. Ya need something to give ya strength, that you believe in with all your heart when life gets tough…" Applejack seemed to be absorbed in her own thoughts, and after a few moments reached up with a hoof and readjusted her stetson. "Some of the happiest moments of my life came naturally; times where even if it wasn't easy, it felt like everything was lined up, and was right," she said in reminiscence.
A piece of heaven is being joyfully lost in moments but lucid– enraptured especially through play as the clicking clock is blurred to a silence and time disappears as you're in complete enjoyment or bliss; and even if it was relatively ephemeral, paradoxically, it did but also didn't feel that way, having a lasting residual effect. It felt almost as if everything was aligned, good, and going to be okay. Those magical moments were one of the core things Pinkie lived for, that gave her fulfillment, and she had them often with her friends.
"Your parties do have integrity. Practically everypony after your parties is in high spirits. Everpony smiles more. Your positivity is infectious. You show ponies that there's things to smile about, and that things can and do get better. In the darkest of times, you give them hope."
Pinkie's gaze rested on the meadow field down the hill, fireflies swirling and dancing everywhere freely, their silent undulating lights shining despite the darkness.
An undertow of emotion grew, eliciting potent echoes of what she felt long ago, that there was something profound and meaningful woven into existence and the mysterious nature of reality, that it all had purpose.
"You're a living example of that. You know how to make me laugh, cheer me up, and make me happy, Pinkie. Especially after a rough day. You mean a lot to me and always will."
Pinkie's eyes went glassy as they welled up, her vision blurring. She squeezed her eyes shut and lunged at Applejack, wrapping her forelegs around her. "You do too," she uttered, hot tears trickling down her cheeks.
Applejack returned the embrace, resting her forelegs over Pinkie's back, leaning her head into her.
Her breaths were uneasy as the emotion cascaded from her, giving a loving squeeze as she pressed her cheek into Applejack's neck, holding her like she was the only thing in the world.
Warmth emanated from her chest, a powerful sense of gratefulness, happiness, and most of all, love coursing through her, that despite the pain, and everything tragic, she was able to experience moments of joy, that she had a strong friend like Applejack who loved her despite her issues and she loved back deeply with all her heart.
"I'm glad that mane of yours is still puffy."
Pinkie's uneasy breathing turned into a fit of laughter. "My eyes are too."
She pulled back and sniffled, using a foreleg to wipe her tear stained cheek, a smile now dawned on her face. "Can I ask one last thing?"
"That's what I'm here for."
"Do you think I have a sugar problem? Be honest," Pinkie playfully chided while nudging her with an elbow. "And don't sugar coat it," she said, winking.
Applejack chuckled. "Honestly, in my opinion, I think ya could probably cut back a little bit, but I know ya like the stuff ya bake, and it's not like ya need it or anythin'. Ya look fine and seem healthy, so I think you're alright. And you're fairly responsible. But moderation is key."
"Yeah, that's sort of what I thought. But some of the stuff I bake is de-licious."
"Sometimes I wonder if your stomach is a bottomless pit," she noted.
"Nope. No bottomless pit here."
Applejack had a way with words that Pinkie envied in a way. Most likely because they were honest or truthful to the best of her ability– not that she herself was necessarily deceitful– but Applejack spoke with integrity, her words never empty, utilizing her accrued distilled wisdom. Even when it hurt, it usually came from a place of love.
She also admired Applejack's strength, especially in tough situations. Pinkie sometimes wished she had those attributes, but she supposed it just wasn't who she was. But it didn't mean she couldn't try to emulate them or aspire to be better– be the best version of herself...
"I wish you came with me so you could've given them a piece of your mind."
"I don't think I could've done much. Some ponies can't be helped, and need a rude awakenin', Ya can tell them things all day long, but in order to learn, they have to get a burn."
Despite agreeing with the latter statement sorrowfully, Pinkie still contemplated going back with her mettle now reinforced, willing to try again even if it may be in vain. She didn't like to see ponies fall or hit the bottom. Even if it may be a lost cause, something told her it wasn't, she still had hope. After all, she wasn't one to miss a party, and she never has.
Within the comfortable silence, wind brushed the leaves above, making the branches flow with the breeze. The thoughts submerged, her attention captivated, watching the branches cease motion with the wind before looking over at Applejack. She followed her emerald eyes to the field in front of them, letting her own wander the valley with a smile.
Dilate's eyes followed the pink earthpony mare as she walked her walk of shame and lonesome defeat. Watching her leaving at the distant threshold obscured by the many boisterous ponies, he spoke. "No. He just wants the pain to end."
His awareness coming back, he glanced over his shoulder at the stallion on the ground. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Dilate saw curiosity, then shame, then they averted their eyes, appearing dejected.
Without a word, Dilate left him and sauntered through the party, the ponies around him a blur.
"Uh, sir, can I ask you something?"
Glancing over, Dilate saw a tan stallion with a finely combed cerulean mane, who wore the waiter attire. He stopped and stood idle, giving the stallion his full attention. "Absolutely!"
The stallion pawed at the ground with his hoof, finding something of interest. "I was wondering if I could get a.. a raise?"
Dilate looked around at the rambunctious ponies. "Hm. It has been tough I imagine. How about a bonus?"
"Really?" The stallion blurted, surprised he was being humored.
"Nope."
The stallion's hopes appeared stolen as he lowered his head with tucked ears.
He nudged the stallion in the chest. "Just kidding. I'll have to check the books but," he said, waving him away with a shrug, "It'll be fine. Sound good?"
"Uh, yeah! That'd be great!"
"It won't be as much of a surprise anymore but I doubt you care. I'll get it to you soon."
"Okay, thank you!" The stallion said, both of them departing.
He opened the door to his room, looking around, then shut it behind him. He fell into his seat, swirling the half empty drink, staring at nothing, simply wallowing in his hollowness. But his body felt pleasant, warm, and relaxed.
He brought the glass to his lips, taking a drink, the tangy and bitter elixir coating his taste buds then funneling down his throat, leaving a residual burn.
Dilate began to mull over what Pinkie had said. Normally he rolled his eyes at the idea of moral authority or even superiority, acting sanctimonious, especially when it came with finger wagging, or tut–tutting, but she didn't seem that way, instead, she seemed concerned and genuinely hurt...
But who was to say they had the key to someone else's chains? Or if they're arrogant enough, a master key?
After all, it was freeing simply being able to do what one found fun whenever.
His mind manauevered specifically to what she said about potential, almost alluding as if they had a destiny to fulfill. Which in a sense, they did, and under different circumstances he would envy that about ponies in a way. But now, he laughed at the idea of destiny due to what it gave him…
He brought the glass to his lips again, taking a swig.
No, he observed everything with a jaundiced eye. He viewed life as a cesspool of chaos, random chance, a snowball effect of reactions that led to the body he possessed, a prison vessel to experience the pain of being, waiting to decay into nothingness. There was no meaning, no underlying order, no reason to aspire to some unattainable perfection or even higher 'good'. No reason to overcome flaws and be a better creature. That was to live like a slave, only for someone you loved to die, only to get a chronic disease, only to die yourself. All of it, for nothing. Gone into the windless silent void.
So why did he live?
He swirled the drink around in the glass.
Some drink to feel pleasure, or to simply feel, some use it to forget, others use it to escape, some use it for all of the above. But the harsh reality quickly comes knocking, but for Dilate, it was always there, like a specter haunting him with its constant presence. But the moments of relief brought happiness.
Words echoed in his mind. You don't want to be happy... You want a meaning to sustain you through pain, and tragedy, and to give you a reason to get out of bed. To move forward.
He brought the glass to his lips again, and gulped down the burning elixir, as if attempting to poison the seed planted.
Swiveling in his chair, it gave a loud creak and groan, leading him to look down at it.
"Didn't know you were angry," he chuckled. "Good thing I don't weigh that much."
His eyes flicked to the acoustic guitar propped up against his desk. An urge overcame him, and acting on it, he placed his drink on the counter without looking and reached out, grabbing the guitar by its neck then resting it over his lap.
His fingers found a position along its neck then he began strumming. Hearing that it sounded a bit out of tune, he twisted a tuning peg at the top, the sound rising as he flicked the string with his thumb. Satisfied, his fingers along the neck got into position again then he started strumming.
He attempted to find a rhythm. It continued that way for a while until he attempted to find the proper transition with his fingers repositioning, but it sounded discordant upon the ears, leading him to go back home. The strumming continued then he tried again, but this time, he stayed on the new chord, trying to determine if he liked it or to see where it could or wanted to go. But he returned home again. He tried again, this time finding something that rang true.
He went back home and played the two chords in quick succession in a certain rhythm and instantly found the next transition, then the next. The chord progression had developed into a riff of gloom– despite the growing soreness of his right forearm. But upon its third loop, his fingers missed the mark, creating an unpleasant discordant sound. The cycle broken, he went back home and tried again. On his second attempt, he played through but his fingers weren't nimble enough, the disjointed timing creating a discordant sound emanating an abrupt end.
He growled in frustration.
He tried again, managing to fulfill the loop twice, but the soreness in his forearm took a toll, the burning traveling down his arm, elevating whatever pain he may have attempted to alleviate, leading to his inevitable failure at maintaining the pattern…
He growled, pulling the guitar from his lap and propping it back against his desk while grabbing his wine glass. He brought the glass to his lips again, but the bitter elixir didn't touch them. Looking at the glass, he saw no red wine left. Empty.
He stood up and sauntered over to another table, putting the glass under a nozzle as he pushed down on it. But nothing came. He realized he drank the last of it when he tried to offer Pinkie Pie some. Sitting back down at his desk, he pulled open a drawer. But there was no spare bottle.
As if on cue, knocking sounded at the door.
"Come in," he called.
The door opened and shut, a pale mare with a mane in a bun standing in front of him with a bored expression. He thought it was perfect timing, serendipitous, or what others would call aid and influence from the divine.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite waitress," Dilate greeted. "Maybe we could do something fun later, 'ey?"
The mare grimaced.
"Fair enough. You're the boss," he reminded her.
The mare's shameful eyes looked side to side for a few moments, then strengthening her resolve, met his. "... Sir. We're having a hard time managing the behavior of some of the guests. It hasn't even reached nightfall yet."
"Don't worry about it," he handwaved. "Let them have their fun. But do you mind getting me some more medicine?"
"Sir, we can't keep doing this. Especially at night. It's getting out of hoof," the mare said. "I don't know how we're going to handle the masquerade tomorrow," she mumbled.
"You've never been one for good parties, huh? We've dealt with it before, we can deal with it now. I may have thought the masquerade was a great idea, but you agreed, you even convinced me we should do it. Now do you mind getting me my medicine?"
The mare appeared disheartened by his response. Her brows furrowed. "No."
Dilate noticed her solemn expression, one of aggravated refusal, and felt a flicker of suprise, but it was quickly engulfed in irritation. He feigned a laugh. "Haha, very funny, Silvertray. Come on, what have I done to you? You know where they are, right? My special concoction?"
Silvertray spoke in a dejected tone as she turned to leave. "Get it yourself."
The ball of anger exploded. Dilate slammed his hand against the table, the sound of glass shattering.
Silvertray's eyes widened as she looked over her withers.
Feeling sharp pains in his now hot hand, Dilate lifted it off the oak table. Glass shards in his hand reflected glints of light as blood dripped onto the table.
Silvertray lifted her foreleg as though she were about to help, but seeing Dilate's grave visage, she averted her eyes and looked to the floor.
Silvertray simply opened the door, and shut it behind her, leaving Dilate alone.
He fell back into his seat. Blood rippled and pooled around the shattered glass where his wine used to be, getting various papers with scribbles and scrapped letters wet.
Pain shot through his nerves as he opened and closed his hand, the glass shards digging into flesh and cutting into tendons. He closed his fist, pain burning and radiating as it shook. Opening his hand again, reaching out with his fingers, he began plucking bloody glass fragments. Some were stubborn, requiring a bit of a jiggle before being pulled, forcing a wince.
He moved his hand around, using the light above to find any remaining glints. Finding none, he took his suit off, placing it on his chair, and unbuttoned his white undershirt with mostly one hand and a growl. Pulling it off, he wrapped it around his hand in a tight bind, the shirt already turning crimson.
His dull red eyes examined his hand, then traveled up his bare arm, resting upon a hefty chunk of flesh missing from his bicep surrounded in scar tissue.
The pain was a strong ache in his hand, but what one would normally find unpleasant, he found relieving. Despite the dispersal in location, he knew it would be short lived.
Wiping the stained blood off of the oak table with a paper towel, and throwing it away into a nearby trashcan, he noticed blood dripping through the shirt. He groaned.
Putting just his suit back on, he sighed as he sauntered to the door cradling his hand.
He passed various ponies again, oblivious to the chaotic behavior around him. But one pony did stand out, like a beacon of shining light, becoming a focal point.
Silvertray was talking with a security guard near the entrance. At first, he was struck with a pain of shame, causing him to frown, but an idea bubbled from his mind, influencing a smile that tugged at his lips.
Hunched over, with a devious grin, he tried his best to keep his hoofsteps quiet. The commotion seemed to completely mask his steps as the distance shortened. He pulled his injured hand close, and slowly extended his other hand toward her.
He planted his hand on her croup near her hip. "RAH!"
Her body jolted in response with her head jumping to attention.
She whirled her head around, immediately giving a disappointed look as if to say 'really?'. But her expression melted into one with knitted brows, her concerned cerise eyes glancing at his hand held close to his gut.
Dilate chuckled to himself at the initial reaction. "Hey, would you mind looking after the place for a minute? I gotta see the doc," he said, showing his wrapped hand for emphasis. But before she could even respond, he was already waltzing backwards toward the exit. "Thanks. I know it's above your pay grade but I'll make it up to you. Promise," he emphasized pointing at her.
Giving a reassuring smile, he pivoted around to face the exit.
Passing the threshold, the sunlight nearly blinded him, causing a dull ache behind his eyes. He brought his good hand above his head to block the bright light. Dilate chuckled to himself upon thinking of a quote. He continued down the street. His eyes darted up and down, paying attention to the 'ground'.
Despite being a more land oriented creature, Las Pegasus was designed and constructed to be more accessible to other species, but even so, it was dominated by pegasi and still dangerous. All it took was one misstep and he would be falling through the clouds to his death.
He wondered if he should have a unicorn cast a spell on him or perhaps wear an enchanted amulet to be safe. But then again, he didn't really enjoy living in the clouds anyway. But it was a necessary sacrifice.
After a minute or so, he stopped at a building and entered inside. Luckily, there was no line, and only ponies waiting, so he approached the mare behind the counter.
"Hello," Dilate greeted, "I'm here to see doctor Glean."
The mare's eyes studied him for a few moments. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Well, no, it's more of–" he grabbed his arm and lifted his wrapped hand for her to see.
At first, her eyes widened, then she gave him a look that he was not of a sound mind. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
Dilate waved her off while holding his hand. "Nah, I don't think so... Maybe. No."
The mare raised a brow.
He sighed. "Look, just tell him Dilate is here to see him so I can be done with this."
With some trepidation, she pushed herself back and off her chair and trotted away, disappearing from sight.
Dilate let his attention wander in an attempt to pass time, leading him to notice the pegasi sitting around, and though subtle, and mostly intuitive, they were displaying and exuding a certain demeanor, which made the air thick with awkwardness.
"Long wait?" He asked aloud to no one in particular.
No one gave him much attention, if even a passing glance.
"Don't worry, they'll probably tell you your fine and send you home."
A few moments later, the mare appeared again, but this time, accompanied with another. "Dilate?" The other mare said. "Right this way."
Dilate followed the mare, appearing handcuffed as they made their way down the halls.
They stopped at door number six, and the mare turned to face him.
"He's currently finishing caring for another patient, Dr. Glean said he'll be with you shortly."
The mare trotted away, leaving Dilate alone in the hallway.
He stood in the white neat hallway, looking for something external to keep him occupied. He could hear muffled voices on the other side of the door but also a strange tapping sound. Looking down, blood was dripping through the wrap on to the sterile white floor.
Groaning, he put his ear to the door and began to listen.
"So, with the blood test we'll check your liver, but like I said, we should be more concerned about what's going on up here."
Dilate groaned and rolled his eyes and opened the door. Inside, his apathetic expression shifted into one of being perplexed. Dr. Glean was talking with a stallion who Dilate instantly recognized– the one he and Pinkie fought over.
"Do you mind, Dilate?"
Dilate looked at Glean and smirked. "Sorry doc. Got a problem." He showed his wrapped hand for the umpteenth time.
Glean noticed the makeshift bandages and exhaled through his nostrils, his angry visage remaining.
"Excuse me for a moment," Glean said, getting up.
He washed his hooves and sat down at an extra small table nearby, waving Dilate over to have a seat. Dilate obliged, sitting down with his arm outstretched on it. Dilate and the stallion's eyes met for a brief moment, and he saw the same shame but this time enveloped in awkwardness.
Glean unwrapped the bandages, revealing his red soaked hand that instantly trickled with blood like a leaking faucet.
"Mother of Celestia, Dilate. How did this happen?"
"See, I heard a funny joke, and when I went to hit my hand on the desk, it unfortunately hit an empty glass."
"That's quite the joke," he grumbled.
The doctor moved his hand around further getting the full picture of the damage, his hooves getting blood at their tips.
"You may need stitches for this."
"Really?" Dilate replied, unamused. "Can't you just bandage it up?"
"These lacerations are deep, Dilate, and going to scar. You're lucky you didn't sever a vital tendon. We don't want another infection do we?"
The words cut deep, eliciting silence from Dilate for few seconds. "Just wrap it," he asserted, attempting to quell the anger.
Glean shook his head, scooting back in his chair to grab a few things along with bandages from the drawer.
He put a bottle upside down over a cloth then without warning, started to clean his hand, making Dilate wince, which he didn't mind– physically at least. Then using bandages, he wrapped Dilate's hand in a brisk, precise, and almost rough fashion.
"Here. Spare bandages and some band-aids for the fingers," he said, sliding them across the table to Dilate.
"Maybe you should have the horns instead," he grumbled, taking them and heading for the door, while Glean washed the blood from his hooves. The stallion and him shared another glance as he passed.
"You're welcome!" Glean called, as Dilate shut the door behind him.
In the hallway, with his hand still on the doorknob, Dilate's gaze rested on the white floor with gouts of blood, thoughts and memories playing in his mind.
They were so vivid that despite his irritation, and desire to just leave, something else deep within surfaced and took priority. One could say it was curiosity, which is what he may answer with when asked, but the true emotions' roots were strong enough to keep his hand on the doorknob then turn to place his ear against the door.
"Sorry about that. Anyway. Depending on the amount of consumption, your neurotransmitters and receptors could be damaged. Hopefully not irreversibly. But to me, it sounds like you are severely depressed, so we could prescribe you with some antidepressants. That'll help alleviate your current mood and elevate it in the future and prevent a relapse. But we could also go with something like naltrexone. But since you have a history of extreme anxiety, and are more susceptible, I was thinking we could go a different direction and try benzodiazepines."
Dilate gripped the doorknob tight, his eyes searching with intensity, the chaotic conflicting unstable yet intertwined emotions growing in size and severity. With little resistance, it burst, consuming him.
Dilate opened the door and shut it behind him, his posture stiff, his head bowed, ire in his eyes as he stared at Glean.
Glean raised an unfazed brow. "Yes, Dilate?"
"What's the treatment?"
"None of your concern."
Dilate looked at the stallion who was now looking back. "Don't listen to him. He doesn't have your best interest."
"And you do?" Glean answered.
"He's trying to get you addicted to what he's giving. To keep you broken forever."
Glean leaned forward. "I'm trying to get my patient off of the substance YOU gave him. Something you can't seem to fathom."
Dilate's furrowed brows deepened, and he closed his bandaged fist tight, the red spreading. "You think the money will make any difference? That exquisite house, that land, all of those useless things will solve your unhappiness, make you feel fulfilled. You're a greedy old pony, profiting off of incurable pain... Stop hiding behind your lab coat."
"And this is coming from you– the same satyr in a suit who owns a business that is profiting off of self destruction because it's 'fun'. You're projecting your misdeeds on to others, along with your misery. What do you have without that drink of yours?"
Rage coursed through Dilate, one that had been brewing deep within him for a long time, amplified by an invisible powerlessness. The hidden chains had manifested.
But despite this, a smile crept to Dilate's lips, and he couldn't help but chuckle. "A customer cured is a customer lost, right, doc?"
Glean's glare deepened.
The stallion and Dilate's eyes met again, and he saw the confusion in them, the intrigue, and the doubt.
Turning around, Dilate opened the door and shut it behind him, walking down the hall with a closed fist, leaving a trail of new drops of blood on the white sheet vinyl floor.
Dilate shut the door to his office. His eyes flicked to the side of the room to the whiteboard. He stopped in front of it examining the notes. All of it was written in a sloppy flowy style, one of them illustrating a plan for a special event, another talking about proper layout, but one section stood out the most with three big H's.
Hook. Hobby. Habit.
Dilate's brows furrowed as the anger rose again, leading him to turn away. He made his way over to his chair which he fell into.
Grabbing a quill, he started to write on a scrap of paper. His handwriting was jittery and jagged at places, leaving little drops of ink that distorted words, but he noticed he left a smear of blood on the paper when his hand drifted left, causing him to cease. Tilting his bandaged hand to examine it, he noticed tears in it at the palm, and a splash of bright red on white with the blood seeping through. He sighed, dropping the quill.
He glanced over at the acoustic guitar propped against his desk, then turned his bandaged hand again, pinching his index finger and thumb together before moving his wrist. The verdict was grim.
Knocking sounded at the door.
"Come in," Dilate said.
The door opened and closed, but Dilate was too preoccupied with his own thoughts.
"How'd it go?" Silvertray said.
Without looking, Dilate lifted his hand, showing it off, then let it fall to the desk with a thud, the pain flaring for a few moments.
Silvertray trotted over to him and examined his hand. "Did he not wrap it well or what?" She asked, prodding his hand with the tip of her hoof, then turning it over to see his palm.
He pulled it away.
Silvertray's eyes wandered the floor for a moments. "Who was the pink mare?"
Dilate finally looked at her. "Pinkie Pie? I'm surprised you don't know about her. Live under a rock?"
"Nope, in the clouds," she replied, with a small smile.
Dilate reciprocated the smile for a moment. "Hm, well, she's one of the biggest party ponies around, and I invited her to see if she could help spruce up– er, make the place more appealing for our guests, more fun and engaging." Dilate sighed. "And to increase profits," he finished offhandedly.
"Did it not go well?" She asked.
"Nope. I just thought we shared a common interest."
There was a pregnant pause, with Silvertray glancing at Dilate's hand, traveling to his upper arm, then back at him intently... "Do you need a drink?" She finally asked softly, breaking the silence.
The question was simple enough at its surface, but its true depth was illusive, with Silvertray's gentle tone resonating within him. It felt as if she was relenting, offering him a drink despite not wanting to, but also offering it out of empathy.
The temptation to fulfill the longtime habit was strong, but looking at her, his emotions stirred, and he felt something deep within him, a seed twinkle.
"Not tonight. I think I'm just gonna head to bed early."
Silvertray seemed surprised for a few moments, then offered a warm smile. "Alright."
After a few hoofsteps, she opened the door, gently closing it behind her, leaving Dilate by himself.
Dilate couldn't help but sigh again. He grabbed the spare bandages from his pockets, tossing them on the table, then unwrapped the bandages from his hand, seeing the dried blood on his palm and some fresh spots near wounds. He quickly wrapped his hand in a careless fashion.
Once he finished, he simply sat idle, the dead air incentivizing his mind to wander and emotions to resurface, threatening to consume him. But it wasn't long before he didn't want to think about how he felt. Or even feel at all.
He let his eyes wander instead, looking for distractions or anything of substance to meet them, which then laid upon the vase holding a bouquet of white trumpet flowers.
His stare devolved into a wince as he growled to himself. Sitting up, he sauntered to the other side of the room, tugging the pull switch for the lamp, and the light overhead, darkening the room. He laid onto a couch off to the side of the room, staring at the ceiling.
Lifting his hand, he looked at the bandages, seeing it wasn't leaking, but there was still a blotch of crimson on his palm.
He let his hand fall onto his chest over his heart, and closed his eyes, hoping to fall into a tranquil and numb slumber. But he would only get half of his desire.
Collapse is coming.
The voice was clear, concise, and without malice, yet ominous. It had a grand pithiness.
At his desk, Dilate looked up, seeing an empty room. He put a hand over his head. He needed a drink. Looking around the room, he felt like something was out of place, as if the layout was shuffled, the "order" disturbed.
But he didn't dwell on it. He opened a drawer for a drink and found it empty. He checked his dispenser with the same results. He gave a frustrated growl.
A weight formed on his upper arm that moved lower, but its heaviness grew enough that Dilate couldn't ignore it and had to examine it.
A large iridescent snake was coiled around his arm, and for some reason, he simply watched its head move, as if he were mesmerized. The fear was present and it was potent, but so was the confusion and even a morbid curiosity. He watched with a keen eye, painfully aware of the venom it could inject.
The snake turned its head and looked him straight in the eyes, piercing past them, peering into his soul.
Dilate was still unsure of the snake's intentions, docile or hostile, but he felt something emerge from his depths, complex and enigmatic to an extreme degree. The serpent gave off the impression that it knew him. He waited with bated breath.
The snake moved its head to look at his arm, then leaned back, then lunged. Its fangs sunk into his flesh, its jaws gripping his arm as its body constricted. Panic surged through Dilate as he felt fluid enter in his arm, leading him to grab the snake by its neck and attempt to yank it off.
It writhed as he used all his strength, but the snake was powerful, and he felt that it could break his arm with its strong girth if it so desired. But with the aid of his adrenaline, he managed to pull it away and throw it a few feet.
He grabbed his arm, his chest heaving, and his eyes wide. On instinct, he inspected the damage, rotating his arm while wiggling his digits, noticing two bloodied puncture marks in his fur.
A wet churning and tearing sound resembling crumpling wrappers touched his ears, prompting him to look for its source. On the desk, a raven was picking and pulling with its beak from a brick-red lump of flesh. He couldn't make out the organ or it's identity.
"Why can't you see?"
Internally startled, Dilate pivoted to the voice, seeing Silvertray standing with a frown holding a tray with a bottle.
"I can see you got me what I needed," Dilate offered.
She frowned.
The bottle exploded, red wine spraying on the floor and over her body. She screamed.
Dilate's eyes widened seeing her fall to the floor, writhing as if the wine was boiling water blistering and scarring flesh.
A burst of panic shot through him as he rushed over to help, but he slipped, tumbling forward using his hands to catch his fall. Pain jolted up his arm causing him to cry out.
But the pain was the least of his concerns as the screams filled his ears. He used both his arms to crawl over to her, where he tried to grab her and pull her away from the puddle of wine, but as soon as his hands touched her, pain flared in his hands. He withdrew them swiftly and looked at the damage. Steam came from them as the skin was peeling away and the flesh was exposed.
Silvertray's movements slowed, becoming sluggish, as the vigor faded from her body.
"Don't die on me! Please!"
He used his words as if they were magic and could alter reality, and with this notion he offered everything he had, but it was in vain.
Dilate's eyes fluttered open, a dull ache in his sockets, leading him to squint. He sat up, putting a hand to his throbbing head. Removing his hand, he noticed the red blotch still on his bandage. One word managed to surface in his drowsy and aching mind. Drink.
But as soon as he sat up, the weakness in his limbs were apparent, and when he went to walk, it was as if he awoke with vertigo without being necessarily dizzy. The delirium from emerging from sleep combined with a brutal hangover led him to stumble a few times, a churning growing in his stomach, like something needed to and was going to erupt from his core.
Lurching forward, he collapsed to his knees beside the trash can, retching. Putrid tasting bile gushed from his mouth, each heave leading to another burst of stomach acid and chunks of unrecognizable food. He used the time between each expulsion to catch his breath, coughing, and spitting in an attempt to cleanse his mouth of the bitterness. His throat burned, and it felt like it was spreading throughout his chest.
Expectorating for a bit, he cursed his wretched body.
His purging had finally stopped, but his breath was still labored. Waves of tingles and coldness coursed through his body, but the headache, and the growing burn in his arms, particularly one, eclipsed it. His right arm shook, straining to hold him up, and he relinquished control, letting himself roll to the ground.
Pain, a hole that ached in his tricep wreathed in flames, made him lay a hand over it.
"Good morning, world."
Time seemed to blur, the fog of drowsiness and residual sleep lingering, though his awareness was also acute. The pain was constant, and with his attention, he tried to observe the bodily sensations and determine if the pain climbed in severity. He couldn't tell.
Sitting up with a wince, determining sleep was not going to be possible, he got to his hooves and stumbled to his desk, this time not from a pleasant alcoholic stupor. He slapped his bandaged hand on his desk, pain flaring as he used it to guide himself around it to the seat. Falling into it, he winced. The chair groaned under the weight.
"Yeah. Me too."
Figuring he should probably get to work, he pulled open a drawer, then tossed a binder on the desk with many tabs at the top. Opening it, he licked his fingers, turning to a specific page.
The various numbers on the page seemed to amplify the ache in his skull. He grabbed the quill from the table, dipping it into the ink cup, and started to write, with disdain.
He was tired of the pressure, the chasing of higher numbers. To him, the bits were used to do fun things and things that were freeing. Freedom.
The intensity of the burning in his tricep forced him out of his mind. He pulled the quill away before it could form a puddle. His handwriting was jagged with black spots, like holes of void destroying letters and coherence.
Knocking sounded at the door, amplifying the thumps in his head.
"What," Dilate growled.
Entering the dark room, Silvertray did a double take, the light from the hallway behind her stretching across the floor, touching the shirtless satyr in the darkness, his hand resting on his forehead while looking down at the desk.
"Shut the door. No light."
"Where's your suit?"
"On the chair. You're here early."
"Is that okay?"
Dilate gave a grumble.
"Are you okay?" She asked approaching him, then her muzzle scrunched up. "What's that smell?"
"I just puked some of my misery away. What do you want?"
Silvertray's disgust faded as her eyes wandered the floor for a moment. "I'm… just here to make sure we're up to speed about the party tonight."
"Nothing's changed."
There was a poignant pause.
Then Silvertray ended the gap. "Do you need something?"
The urge presented itself to him, the temptation like an alluring beckoning finger, but like a raging inferno, the resentment consumed it. He winced. "Water, and an ice pack. Please."
Silvertray turned away.
"Also, before you go," he lifted his bandaged hand, shakily cradling three bags of bits, "Give this to Pristine for me."
Looking back, she raised a brow but allowed him to place the bags on her back. She sauntered to the door, glancing at Dilate one last time.
The door shut, signifying his solitude. He let his eyes wander to the clock high on the wall, squinting to see it was already past noon. He hadn't slept that long in years, which he would normally appreciate, but along with the rude awakening, something about his sleep evoked enigmatic figments, something he couldn't grasp or visualize but could only feel unpleasant echoes of.
Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump
The sound of his steady still burning heartbeat led him to put a hand to his chest. He wondered why he could hear it. He figured it was the aftershocks of his body's response to being hungover, with the stomach acid he vomited staining his esophagus, but it felt different. Almost like he'd finished a jog.
Time seemed to drag, as the sound of his heart and the clock overlapped, and the fiery pain in his arm was on the periphery of ensnaring his full attention.
The temptation to fulfill the habit, the vicious cycle he lived, grew ever more alluring as time ticked on.
It would alleviate his headache, and pain, giving him the strength to persevere and break the cycle. Just one wouldn't hurt, right?
Looking at the binder, he glared, forcibly closing it.
The chains that bound him must be broken, he thought, he needed to be free. He no longer wanted to be a slave to synapses. He refused to take the fall…
A fleeting thought passed, positing why things so good, that reached pleasant heights, always have to fall so hard?
An answer made him grin ever so slightly. What goes up, must come down.
His finger tapped on the desk, the fire in his arm gradually increasing as did the tapping. The specter's presence that never left his side grew ever closer– the irremovable thorn, the thing that kept him shackled to his prison. But he vowed to be free, no longer bound to his begrudging servitude.
But it was eternal to existence. A child when born gave wails, cries, from the sheer overbearing stimulus, and from the one thing it felt above all else, the grim truth underlying life. It was now doomed to live a life of struggle, and tragedy, fated to die. And it all came from love. Or at least, that was the best case scenario or ideal one. Otherwise it emerged from a carnal desire, a creature simply acting on pleasurable instinct, which he himself may have been guilty of.
Love was something he viewed as a mechanism of the mind, an instinct to incentivize procreation for lasting survival, to perpetuate more suffering. It was the perfect lie.
Light pierced through the darkness, stretching across the room bathing him, threatening to sear his retinas, then it receded back, followed by a thud as the door shut.
Silvertray sauntered over to him through the dark.
A tray was placed in front of him, and he saw a few tall glasses of water. Without any thought, he reached out and took it, bringing it to his lips. The cold liquid graced his mouth, cleansing it before funneling down his throat, spreading throughout his chest, alleviating the burn.
He gulped down, the glass tilting higher as the water disappeared into his lips, until it was gone.
Placing the glass, he let out a strained exhale. Looking over, he saw Silvertray offering a bag of ice with a worried countenance.
He took it from her hoof, pressing it against his upper arm. The nerves collided in sensation, then it slowly began to dull. The fire diminished in severity, the ice numbing the pain to a mere ache, eliciting an exhale.
"Feel better?" She asked in a hush.
"A little."
Silvertray stared at him, seeing he was in bad shape with disheveled fur, bags under his eyes, and his bandaged hand shaking.
She sighed. "Do you need a drink?"
"No!" He snapped.
She leaned back, startled by his outburst.
"No," he reiterated at a lower volume.
The air was thick, and heavy, weighing down on her body, the pressure climbing as the silence lengthened.
He spoke just under his breath. "The best prison is the one you don't realize you're in. Maybe that's what love is."
Silvertray frowned. The poignant pause lengthened until she finally spoke. "Are you not gonna come dance?"
Their eyes met for a brief moment.
Dilate looked away. "No."
Silvertray's ears tucked back, her cerise eyes downcast. She seemed to nod to herself then turn away, leaving with a brief curtain of light that vanished with the shutting door.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
He placed his bandaged hand over his chest.
"What is happening?"
But something else snagged his attention just out of the corner of his eyes. He looked in the shadowy corner of the room where he swore he saw movement, but nothing was there.
A feeling emerged, making him freeze and his breath hitch. The feeling itself isn't what bothered him, what was strange is it felt almost outside of himself.
It manifested as maniacal laughter.
Instantly, he attempted to rationalize it, figuring it was just the commotion from the casino floor bleeding through the walls. It wasn't uncommon to hear some cheering every once in a while.
But it felt so real.
The shadows in the corners of the room took on a whole new nature, concealing what was lurking, threatening to consume the whole room.
He wondered what was causing the irrational fear, one only a child would have. His own wellbeing didn't matter to him after all, and because of this, he refused to turn on the light.
The burning in his arm had returned, and examining the ice pack, it was now only lukewarm water.
But it was bearable, until it started to climb, and climb, and climb.
Ignoring it only lasted for so long, it seemed to intensify, consuming his perception like a vain admonishment, filling his being. He growled, gripping the edge of the table as his body shook.
He slammed his bandaged fist on his desk. His eyes searched the room for any way to make it stop. They laid upon the trumpet flowers.
In a rage, he slapped the flowers across the room with his bandaged hand, the vase shattering. But his sight resting on his hand and seeing the pieces on the floor, an idea manifested.
Stumbling to the pieces, then collapsing to his knees, he rummaged through them swipping the flowers away, finding a piece that was slender and sharp.
Getting back up shakily, he stumbled to his desk, and fell back into his seat. Looking at the shard in his hand, he searched his body. His eyes rested on his goat legs and with labored breath, he brought the shard to his left leg. Looking up, the sound of dripping filled the air, and he let out a sigh.
The blood eventually dripped down at a steady rate, like a broken tap.
But something else in his ears took priority.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
Even with his steady breath, his heartbeat refused to slow down, pumping fiery blood of its own will.
A looming doom overcame him. A sense that something was coming.
He wondered if he should continue to injure himself, to get relief, but it felt miniscule in comparison to what was just on the horizon.
But something in him answered his question, replying with no, and in response, he asked 'why not?'
The fear he felt earlier returned, but its intensity grew as he no longer felt alone.
It felt like he was being watched, a bunch of eyes were observing him. Despising him. Judging him. But it felt like something beyond him, beyond simply evading his perception and hiding in the shadows, he felt there were things that transcended his observable surroundings, things that knew all his flaws, his issues, it made him feel naked. Exposed. Inside out.
Being under the magnifying glasses, a powerful fear coursed through his fiber, for he was convinced one of them may have the power to pass light, one that threatened to burn him.
"It's just inside my head," he affirmed aloud. "No. No! There's no significance to any of this!"
Not a shred of comfort came with the proclamation. The weight of everything, and the judgment, along with being under scrutiny, made him crack. "I didn't ask for any of this! To be born this way! Into this place!"
The emotion was relentless, consuming him, warping and threatening to destroy any coherent thought of his own.
Invisible shadowy hands of Hades gripped his body, threatening to pull him down into the depths.
Then it all culminated, feeling himself fall into an abyss, grasping at air while wreathed in a maelstrom of lunacy, an onslaught of uncontrollable existentially terrifying thoughts flooding his mind.
Boiling blood coursed through his veins. It felt like his whole body was on fire. His breath felt labored, forced as if it took a conscious effort, and ineffective in that he couldn't get any vitality from the inhale.
He wondered why what he did even mattered when nothing did. But something in him told him otherwise.
His eyes ricocheted around the room, looking for a way out, until they rested on the door.
Another eruption of laughter from beyond. It felt like he was being ripped apart, waiting to be completely mauled, while being mocked, and ridiculed.
He gripped his hands around his head with his horns poking between his fingers. "No. I will be free."
Something delivered an emotion to him, saying that his fate was already sealed, and had already been written. This further perpetuated his confusion and madness.
"NO! I control my fate!"
Dilate yearned for vacuity, something he occasionally had under the influence, his current emptiness was acting as a vessel of a torrent of feelings he didn't know how to begin to understand, but he felt that just one drink would deliver him from his torment.
The pain had made a quick resurgence, becoming a focal point of his attention whether he liked it or not. But it didn't distract from the assault of emotions.
His channeled anger which motivated his rebellion had broadened, prompting him to look up.
"What role am I in YOUR PLAY!? What am I supposed to LEARN?!"
No response came, except for a continued mocking within, which to an extent, he actually agreed with, scorning himself as foolish with a shake of his head. But his resentment had to go somewhere.
Tremors racked his body, whimpers passed his lips and though his arm was on fire gripping bone, an unpleasant coldness spread.
Any semblance of thoughts he had ceased as fear filled him, his primal instinct lighting a fire under his feet with the approaching possibility of passing a threshold of darkness which could not be returned from.
His legs wobbled as he stood, and he stumbled to the door. He caught himself on the door, his right hand gripping the doorknob. His hand shook as he stood at the door, gripping the doorknob with everything he had. The seconds coagulated into one moment, one feeling.
The door opened, and Dilate stumbled down the hallway, toward a chaotic blur. He reached the casino floor, with ponies around in sumptuous attire, from suits and dresses alike, but they all had something in common. Each pony wore a mask, many with holes of shadow where the eyes would be, all with grins etched on.
The masks concealed their true nature, intentions, and identity, allowing them to evade consequence. But there was a thread of darkness– an undertow revealed by the masks, allowing shunned or repressed aspects to manifest or even for it to possess.
What normally would be an equalizing of the hierarchy of social status' was upside down, a facade. The intention he had for the party was enjoying the freedom of anonymity, freedom of words spoken without direct judgment, which under different circumstances could facilitate ponies to find the truth. But the truth isn't what they sought. Instead, he could see the underlying animalistic tendencies simply in their behavior, in a trance, like denizens of chaos waiting to commit joyful destruction for some meager entertainment.
Their hollowed eyes stared at him as the laughing intensified.
He rushed through the crowd, pushing through the chaos, his focus honed on the island despite garnering some attention. The attention led to some ponies parting a way for him, but as he got closer to the heart of the casino, the ponies' height was nearly up to his chest, prompting him to lift his arms up like he was trudging through a muddy swamp.
The bar within sight, he pushed through one last bunch of ponies, not even noticing the lack of physical masks and made his way behind the bar.
"Dilate?"
The satyr in question jerked his head to the source of the voice, seeing in the crowd a stallion with a suit and slicked back mane, with a cigar in his muzzle. His instinct incentivized him to lash out, but thoughts of a coherent nature managed to surface through his cloud of primitive panic. "What are you doing here?"
"I've heard you aren't doing well, and I've come to check on you." Glean sat on the stool on the other side, his cigar emitting a strand of smoke into the air. "What are your symptoms?"
"Pain."
"And?" He asked, smoke expelled through his mouth and nostrils. "I can't help you if you're not specific."
"My blood is boiling. My heart is burning."
He raised a brow. "Is that all? Do you want some vasodilators? Or perhaps, you're hungover. A bit of a drink would help," he said, the ring of fire at the end of his cigar brightening and moving toward him, leaving a cylinder of ash.
Dilate stared at him with knitted brows.
There was an elongated pause then Dilate averted his gaze to the various wine bottles on the wall behind him. He grabbed one, and placed a wine glass on the table between them. The crimson liquid poured from the bottle, initially crashing like a wave then swirling in its transparent confines. It eventually stopped halfway, and Dilate set the bottle down with a thud, their gazes meeting.
Glean tilted his head, bouncing it once in amusement, a puff of smoke expelled from his lips. "What inspired this change of heart?"
The commotion behind Glean was a violent blur, but both paid no attention to the escalating chaos, with bottles flying across the room, ribbons of alcohol tracing squiggles through the air from ponies' grasp like marionette ballerinas dancing.
"What motivates you?" Dilate finally replied. "A ravenous hunger? A greed that cannot be satiated? Are you unfulfilled?"
"Unfulfilled," Glean parroted. He studied Dilate for a few moments, staring into his soul. "Power moves," he conceded, "Power heals."
"It will all fall apart. Everything does."
"Instinct, the things that keep you alive, they're a powerful thing. Some of those things never change."
Glean smirked, extending a hoof and pulling the drink in front of him. He lifted the glass and brought it to his lips, the red liquid slowly disappearing. The wine now gone, he slid it forward in front of Dilate, the glass waiting to be filled.
Dilate stared at it for a few moments, then grabbed the wine bottle, examining it. He gave a smirk of his own with a chuckle. He took his hand and began to unwrap the bandage, until it was a long and crimson stained slender cloth.
"What are you doing?" Glean asked, looking perplexed.
He tied a knot and pushed the end of it down the bottle with a finger.
"A rigged game isn't very fun now, is it?"
Dilate climbed onto the bar table. "To all of our beloved guests, to all driven by animalistic impulse, destructive play, and instinctual pleasure seeking, which we have so magnificently facilitated, I have come to say the party– and all good things, must come to an end." His eyes searched the chaos, meeting a cerise pair that captivated his attention.
Silvertray's lips opened, and Dilate smiled and nodded.
"You're being irrational," Glean spat. "Bordering psychosis. With these delusions of granduer you've crafted a fantasy. Reality doesn't revolve around you. Wake up."
"And yet," Dilate snatched the cigar from Glean's muzzle, "you're somehow more asleep," he replied, the cigar's burning end placed against the bandages.
Flames climbed the bandages, and Dilate in a rushed gait made his way to the door behind the bar.
"Stop! You fool!" Glean shouted.
Opening the door, a large parched tree with sparse leaves among its dying branches was revealed. Dilate threw the bottle with all he had at the tree near its roots, an explosion of glass and flames erupted. The flames spread and climbed the tree, and Dilate blew air from his burning lungs, aiding however he could in the fire's quest.
Screams and yells filled the room, ponies scrambled and funneled toward the exit. It wasn't long before the fire climbed to the branches, swelling beyond and touching the ceiling. Falling branches hit the bar and places around it, using shattered bottles and the alcohol on the carpet as fuel.
The flames roared as they had spread all throughout the room, consuming, and destroying all that it touched. Dilate sauntered out from the bar expecting emptiness and flames when his eyes met Glean's who were consumed in his own ire. The two stood glaring at each other like effigies, the raging inferno spreading and swelling, the brightness and aura of the flames distorting yet revealing.
Fiery leaves fell, transforming into ashes with an orange glow like fireflies just before they hit the ground. A smile crept onto Dilate's lips as he made a show of his hands at his sides in a presenting gesture, as if awaiting to feel the burning rain touch them.
Glean's furrowed brows deepened. Turning flank on Dilate, he sauntered away through the surrounding fire. The distortion of the flames muddied his appearance as he shrunk before disappearing like a mirage.
Dilate dropped to his knees, then fell to his side in a fetal position. His body felt drained, lacking any vigor, torn apart, and mangled, while his body clung to life. He shivered uncontrollably, the surrounding inferno unable to bring any warmth to his body. The ultimate choice presented itself to him, and he didn't have a resolute answer, but his inaction sufficed.
He awaited his known and unknown fate, condemned in an oven of painful all-consuming flames that crawled closer to him. But maybe he would finally be free.
The floor cracked and a rumble sounded, a thought occurring to him as a smile adorned his features. Then he started to laugh as if he was told the funniest irony, being the butt of an existential joke. But in his cackling, it devolved into a coughing fit. He laid a bloodied hand over his drumming burning heart with a smile, until it fell away upon another thought surfacing.
Pain is necessary.
Dark edges formed in his vision that drowned the crawling flames, both slowly closing in. But despite his fading mind, his flesh was biten by the flames surrounding him expelling a groan as his instincts moved him. The flames then surrounded him with no escape, further nailing his coffin, but the pain they caused made his body writhe, preventing him from falling unconscious. Then his eyes finally closed, but one last whimper expelled from him when the flames grabbed him, furred flesh searing.
A muffled shout managed to pass through the roaring inferno, evoking a glint from the seed inside Dilate.