3-5-7-2-8-7-0

(Author’s Note: I feel at least some kind of preface is necessary, as this chapter is going to introduce some new characters kind of out of nowhere. To explain, I’m renaming Chapter 1 “Prologue”, as this is where the meat of the story starts.)

Chapter 1: Morose Code

Rock Holler watched idly from the door to his dorm room as a medical team wheeled out the body of Switchboard. He shook his head in distress as the clack-clack-clack of the gurney made it’s way down the hall and around the corner, out of sight. The heavy-hearted sounds of sobbing could be heard from the now more-vacant apartment, presumably as the roommate cried himself raw.

He hadn’t known Switchboard very well. Said hi in the halls, helped him move his stuff once. Maybe they had a class together? What was more distressing is that death, so close to home, is a forceful reminder of mortality. Whether or not you take away something from it, well, that’s a case-by-case basis.

Honestly, his first thought when he’d heard the screaming was ‘Oh, god, who’s having sex now?’ When he’d heard the ambulance he’d thought of it as some kind of fight gone really wrong. Nopony had explained the full story to him yet. He didn’t want to sound callous, but in reality he didn’t really care. If somepony wanted to tell him, sure, he’d listen. He wasn’t indecent. But he also didn’t care enough to go about asking around himself.

Trotting back into his room and closing the door, his roommate popped his head out of a bedroom. “So what happened? Somepony get too rough in the sack?”

“Nice." ‘It’s exactly what you thought earlier, don’t be rude.' “No, man. Switchboard is dead.”

Social Grace, aka The Antithesis to Naming Schema Everywhere, aka The Roommate, stood quiet for a moment while his eyes widened and his mouth hung open. “What, really?” Rock nodded. “Well, shit. That sucks, dude. He was a good guy. What happened?”

Rock trotted back to his room and shrugged. “I have no idea. Didn’t feel like the right time to ask.” ‘Bullshit, you just don’t care.’ “I’m gonna go practice a little. Clear my head.”

Grace walked into the living room and opened the door to the hall. “I’m gonna go ask somepony. Find out what’s up.”

Rock stopped just before he closed the door. “Yeah, sure. Let me know, will you?” ‘Actually, don’t tell me. At all.’

“You got it.” The door clicked behind him as he walked out.

Rock shook his head and closed his bedroom door. “It’s not like I don’t care, but what’s knowing gonna do? Bum me out or something? Like I need any more of that,” he rambled to himself, casting a sideways glance at a letter on his nightstand with his name on it, and the return address of home. He reached over it to pick up his guitar, a cheap 6-string Stratocolter that he used to relieve stress. “Dammit,” he muttered to himself, propping up on the bed and sitting the guitar in his lap. He plucked the strings for a bit, repositioned himself, and set in to play a cheap rendition of Fur Elise.

Or, he tried. After the dozenth or so wrong note, he callously dropped the guitar on his bed and flopped down with it, staring at the ceiling. “Next thing they’ll tell me I have cancer. Goddess.”

‘You know, you could always just not feel sorry for yourself and go do something.’

“Like what?” Rock asked his brain. “Alcohol?”

‘Oh, sure. That’s a great idea. go do that. No, you idiot. Why not try doing some work?’

“And the voice in my head sounds like my mother. Wonderful. Whatever, I’ll try it out, I guess.” Resignedly, he grabbed a nearby backpack and drug it into the living room. Dumping out it’s contents on the coffee table, he separated a textbook, notebook, and pencil from the assortment of stuff, and turned the textbook to an earmarked page. “Woo, Psychology,” he said dryly, and started writing, turning his attention to the book and turning a page or twenty when needed.

He’d lost track of time while he was working, and was a little over a page into his assignment when the door clicked open again. “Hey, Rock, what happened to practicing?”

“Can’t focus. Doing paperwork. Brain cells shutting down,” he rambled, not looking up from the text.

Social laughed a little. “Yeah, Psych will do that to you. So guess what?”

‘Oh, here it comes.’ “What?”

“Switchboard killed himself, man.”

That got his attention. He looked up to Grace taking a seat on the couch. By virtue of flinging himself at it. “Seriously? The dude was like, super-focused on graduating. What happened?” ‘Says the pony who doesn’t want to know.’ He had to stop himself saying ‘Stow it’ out loud.

"It looks like he just snapped, man. I don’t know what it is. I couldn’t see the bathroom, where he killed himself? Cause it was all taped off and stuff. But somepony said he’d broken a mirror and carved himself up. But the weird part is he carved a bunch of numbers and shit into the walls before he died. Fuckin’ creepy.”

Rock raised an eyebrow at this information. He took a moment to process, and his gaze wandered to where Grace was lighting a cigarette. If the colt’s coat wasn’t already black it’d get there pretty damn fast. Goddess knew how he kept the nicotine from staining his dark blue mane. “So what, he goes all Jim Colty on us and pulls a ‘Number 23‘?”

Grace shook his head. “I don’t know, man. Nopony’s sayin’ nothin’. My guess? He got Number Cruncher as his Arithmetic teacher.”

Rock laughed despite himself. “Dude, I don’t think his lectures actually kill ponies.”

Grace looked at him with all seriousness. “You don’t know, man. You just don’t know.” He stopped, then the two of them shared a much-needed laugh. “So what did your parents say?”

His mood just a little lighter, Rock rolled his eyes. “Same old shit. ‘How are your grades? How’s money? Got a girlfriend yet?’ They couldn’t be any harder up to have grandkids if they tried. It’s getting old. And they make it all sound like it’s my fault. I mean, I’m passing all my classes-”

“-barely-” Grace chuckled.

“Psych doesn’t count and you know it. But yeah, that’s happening. I got a job, so I can buy my own stuff, although they keep thinking they need to send me money, then dad chews me out for costing them an arm and a leg. And who’s business is it of theirs if I’m not dating? I’m only like 22, dude!”

Grace held up his hooves defensively, his cigarette teetering on his hoof. “You don’t have to tell me, dude. But I mean, come on. Look at you. How do you not have a girl yet? You’re like the only guy I know that has money to burn here that isn’t some snobby rich kid riding the Legacy Scholarship train. That right there should be landing you mares left and right. Now we just have to get past your looks.”

Rock threw a pencil at him. “Hey, I’m fine!” He stopped for a second, and gave himself a once-over. He wasn’t overweight or anything, kind of skinny, in fact. His coat was clean, at least. A nice bright white. Although his shaggy black mane could use some trimming. And his wings did need a preening... “Ok, shut up. So I’ve been distracted lately. It’s not exactly like I’m out on the prowl every night.”

“Rock, I like ya, you’re an ok dude, but that mane and tail? And those wings? You look like a Raggedy Shaggedy doll. Thank Celestia you shower regularly,” Grace said bluntly, sniffing the air.

“So what, I should just go get myself trimmed or whatever?” Rock laughed a little at the idea. ‘Oh sure, let’s march my happy flank into a salon an hour after my neighbor dies.’ “Right.”

Grace shrugged. “Hell, it’s better than sitting here doing homework. Might make ya feel better. You’re kind of bitchy.”

Rock huffed. “I am not bitchy!”

‘Dude, you’re full on Pre-Menstrual Stallion.’

“Dude, you’re full on Pre-Menstrual Stallion.”

Rock slumped, defeated. “Fine, fine. But just to get away from you. What did I tell you about smoking in the apartment?”

“The same thing I told you about practicing guitar at 3 A.M. before we both said ‘buck it.’”

“Oh yeah.”

Rock closed the dorm room door behind him, and turned in time to see what looked like the last of the police ponies tipping his hat to Switchboard’s neighbor before turning around and leaving. He saw Rock, gave a tip of the hat, and walked off.

Rock nodded back a little too slow for the cop to see him, but trotted after him, stopping for a second in front of Switch’s place.

‘Oh, just knock on the door. Don’t be a douchebag.’

“Fine,” he grumbled, raising a hoof to do just that. Before he could, the door swung open, catching him by surprise. He teetered forward a bit unintentionally, slightly bopping Haute Couture’s nose. “Oh, dude, sorry. I was just... how are you?” His voice rose at the end of the question, trying to save face.

Haute didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, hello. I guess I’m five. Or I will be?”

Rock blinked.”Come again?”

The effeminate stallion sniffed. “I said I’ll be fine. Thanks for asking. Did you know him?”

Rock shook his head. “Not very well. Just enough to say hi. It sucks, though. He seemed pretty cool.”

Haute smiled sadly. “Oh, he was the best. Always tried on clothes for me even though I know he didn’t like some of them. Always kept quiet and cleaned up after himself. Such a gentlecolt.”

Rock nodded politely. “Um, hey, I’m going down to find a salon to clean up, get my mind off things. Do you... want to come with?” ‘...did... did you just do something decent?’ “I mean, maybe get your mind off things?”

Haute smiled again, more warmly this time. “Oh, no. I’ve got quite a bit to do. Phone calls to make and such. I... I don’t think anypony’s told his family yet...” he trailed off, and Rock nodded in understanding. “Try Clip ‘n’ Trip in the university square, though. They’re very good with wings,” Haute added, seeing the state of Rock’s feathers. ‘Should have worn a jacket.’

“Well, if you need somepony, just... I’m right down the hall, ok?” Rock said unevenly.

“Oh, yes. Thank you,” Haute sniffed again. “Bye now, have a nine day.” Before Rock could ask again, Haute closed the door.

Rock shook his head, more than a little confused, but decided to write it off as a distressed pony not thinking clearly. “Ok, let’s do this ‘Clean Myself Up’ thing.”

He made his way down the stairs, passing a few ponies as he went by, and more than a few crowds whispering about what had happened. He noted for a moment that he hadn’t seen a large crowd gathered around the hall when the medics were clearing out Switch’s corpse. ‘I guess I’m not the only pony who doesn’t want to get involved.’

He barely noted the green-and-blue mare sitting on a bench by herself, shaking and muttering. Nor could he hear her.

The front door to the dormitory opened with a blinding reminder that yes, the world was still out there, and yes, the sun was bright. The surreal and vivid reminder of the rest of existence put Rock into perspective, at least for a moment, and he made a note to be a little less about himself.

Of course, this is where the actual crowds were: the ambulance hadn’t pulled out yet, and there were still a few cop cars sitting about. A passing officer came up to him, at which point he pulled out his wallet and showed his ID card. “I live here, sir,” he said politely.

“Right. Just make sure to talk to one of us before you go back in if we’re still here when you get back,” the officer told him gruffly and waved him along.

He also didn’t notice the other officer sitting in the back of a patrol car, not moving, mouthing silently to himself.

Almost nopony did.

Rock had gotten almost all the way out of the courtyard before a mare appeared out of nowhere with a pen and a pad of paper. “Hey! You just came out of that building, right? What happened? Did the guy really kill himself? What about the numbers?”

He took several steps back as the mare all but shoved her face into his. Getting a good look at her, she was kind of mousy: a light yellow unicorn in large-frame glasses, with her hair tied back into a droll green ponytail. She even had the frumpy sweater to complete the image. He couldn’t even see her Cutie Mark past it. “Look, I just want to go get a haircut, ok? I don’t know what happened. Some dude went nuts and carved a bunch of numbers into a wall, then turned himself into a jack-o-lantern or something. That’s all I got. You probably know more than me,” he added with just a little disdain.

She didn’t seem to notice. “Think it’s got anything to do with the number stations?”

He blinked. “The buck is a number station?”

That got her attention. She frowned, then stowed her writing stuff away. “Thanks anyway,” she said, and trotted off. He barely heard her mumble “Jerk.”

‘Ok, that one you can be rude to. Holy Discord.’

“Yeah, no kidding,” he told himself, and kept walking.

The room was dark, and the silhouette of a mare could barely be seen in the corner. Her voice, however, carried well. “2-6-2-4-7-8-4-2 by 6-4-3 and 4-7. 2-5 to the 2-7-5-3. 2 by 3-5 by 6-7-9-8. 1-3 by 2-3 to the 5. 2-3-5-7-3-3-1-3--7-5-5-3-4-2-3-1-2-1.” She shuffled slightly, and bumped a light switch. as the light came on, the image of her -and her hoofywork- became clear. Little cuts had been carved across her body, and the letter opener in her hoof glistened with blood in the flood of artificial light. The cuts, upon closer inspection, were actually numbers, which she continued to furiously scribble down her arm, slice after slice, digit after digit.

‘The numbers... get them out. I have to get them out. They’re in my head. Too far in. Too many of them. Have to get them all out.’

“3-5-1-3-6-4-2-3-6-6-6-7 over 6-9-7-4-5 times 5-6-9 plus 4-9 over 0. 3-9 by 5-9 by 5-3-4. 0. 0. 0. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0.....” her voice trailed off as her strength left her, her thoughts fading into blood.

‘Get them out. Please... somepony... get them... out...’

Her hoof moved for a little while longer, after she’d collapsed. Slowly, repetitively, carving a zero in the same spot in her thigh. Finally, it went limp. The numbers were gone.