Chapter 3: The Stasis Paradigm

The numbers grew louder, more insistent, the closer Rock got to the old radio. He lifted them up, almost robotically, and set them on top of his head.

Only to have them knocked off and across the room, getting his ear boxed in the process. He spun around to face his assailant-

And came face to face with the most strung-out dude he'd ever seen. A scraggly, faded blue mane that made him look at least twenty years older than Rock was willing to bet he was framed a sunken and gaunt yellow face with wide eyes and pinpricks for pupils. Most ponies probably couldn’t even pronounce what this guy had been taking, but Rock knew him right away. “Fried Circuit?”

He stared for a second, almost like he was looking over the other pegasus’s shoulder or something, then jostled himself back to reality. “What? Yeah. Dude, don’t put those on. It’s bad fuckin’ juju.” He looked around for a second, then walked off to the table full of notes. Given how he started scribbling on them, Rock concluded the newest hoofwriting was his.

Rock rolled his eyes, deciding to forgo yelling at him about physically abusing his delicate cranium.

‘Delicate? Seriously.’

“Hey, I’m fuckin’ dainty. Shut up,” he growled.

“What?” Fried asked numbly as he looked up from his... ‘work.’

“Nothing.” Rock trotted over and stood next to him. He barely registered the movement. “What the hell are you doing? And what’s with the radio?” He jabbed a hoof at the old hunk of equipment.

He shook his head. “Not the radio. Radio stations.”

“I...wha?” Radio stations? Seriously?

‘You’ve heard weirder.’

“Not normal radio stations, man,” Fried continued, scribbling frantically. “These fuckin’... fuckin’ numbers. Everywhere. I keep seeing ‘em. Like, I hear ‘em, and I see ‘em. It won’t go away. I didn’t listen to the numbers directly, dude. You shouldn’t either. Kills ya. It killed... killed Switch.”

Rock’s ears twitched as he realized they were getting to the reason he was here. “Switch? You mean some fucking numbers on a radio station made Switch off himself?”

Fried shook his head. “He wasn’t tryin’... tryin’ to kill himself. He just wanted the numbers out. They flood you. Like a disease. Different for everypony. Some ponies... they just wither away. Stop caring. Just give in to the numbers. S’all they do. Numbers. all day. They stay alive, somehow. But they ain’t them. I mean... shit, look at me. All I did was... all I did was read that fucker’s notes. Can’t get em out, man. It’s like drowning.”

‘...uh-oh.’

“Uh, you mean... these notes?” the white pegasus asked, pointing a tentative hoof at the papers.

He ripped them away, hiding them behind him. “Don’t! Don’t look. You... they’ll stay in your head. Just... hang there. Like bodies from the rafters, dude. Can’t look away. You... you didn’t look, did you?”

Rock smiled weakly. “Uh, of course not. That would be silly.”

‘We’re fucked, dude.’

“Shut up!” he hissed. Fried raised an eyebrow.

“You got voices in your head, man?” he asked, seemingly buying the lame assurance that Rock had not, indeed, read the notes that were probably going to drive him crazy.

-er. “In a word? Yes.”

He laughed weakly. “Sheeit. Must be nice, man. Hearin’ people ‘stead of numbers. Hey, tell... shit, tell who? Look, I know ponies think I gave Switch somethin’, but hey, he was alright, you know? I mean, yeah, he yelled at me, but I was always... I deserved it, ya know? But it wasn’t just to make me feel bad. He yelled so I’d do work. He didn’t care that I was baked, he just wanted shit done. Gotta respect that. He wasn’t ever mean to me or nothin’. S’why you can believe me when I say I didn’t give him nothin’.”

The white pony raised his eyebrows at that. “How so?”

He chuckled. “Come on dude, look at me,” he spread his arms wide, a little weakly. One could see track marks and other signs of abuse. “You think I’d do this to somepony I liked?”

It made a twisted, sad kind of sense. Deciding to change the subject, Rock asked, “So, uh, what would a pony do if he had indeed read the numbers?” Fried gave him a look, so he added, “Uh, Switch wrote a bunch of numbers and shit on his bathroom wall. I’m guessing a bunch of ponies read it, or whatever.”

He apparently bought that, too. “Dunno bout other ponies. Just what I been doin’ all day. Started out slow for me. Started sayin’ numbers in the wrong places. Started hearin’ ‘em when other ponies were talkin’. Didn’t think nothin’ of it till I started writin’ ‘em down. They got all over me, man. Started hearin’ em when there wasn’t nopony around to say nothin’. It gets... it gets bad...” He lifted a wing to demonstrate, and Rock cringed.

All along his side, under his wing, were scratch marks. Most likely it was the only place he could hide them. Tiny ones, like they were written with an actual pen. Upon further inspection, Rock confirmed his suspicions. He’d... carved himself with some kind of pen. The pegasus could see ink in his fur.

Fried laughed weakly. “I don’t know what’s gonna kill me first. The drugs? The ponies that think I did it? The ink in my veins? Or the... the fuckin’ numbers, man.” He went back to scribbling, and Rock figured he wsn’t getting any more out of him. And nopony else would, either. This might be the last anypony would see of Fried Circuit.

Rock patted him on the back, and he just kind of grunted. Part of him wanted to stay there, to find a way to help. But how?

‘Wait a sec.’

“What?” Rock asked myself. Fried didn’t even look up.

‘Didn’t he say something about early symptoms? Like, saying numbers instead of words?’

“Yeah, what are you-shit! Haute!!” the white pegasus screamed, really at nopony in particular. Fired flinched, but kept writing, even as Rock tore ass out of the room and down the hall.

“Go fuckin’ save the world, dude,” Fried said weakly. Then he stared long and hard at the pen in his hoof.

Some poor soul would find him later. And some other soul would find the pen.

In his throat.

Rock screeched to a halt at the front of the dormitory, where only a couple of cops were left, and a single patrol car. He flashed his ID at the one he’d seen earlier, who waved him in. “Go ahead, sir.”

Rock stopped at the stairwell as he heard the officer say behind him. “7-4-6.”

He wheeled around and stared. “What?”

“7-4-6, repeat, this is unit 7-4-6. How much longer are we gonna be out here?” said the officer, not looking up from his radio.

Rock let go of a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “Oh, Celestia. No, fuck this. Haute!” he yelled, running, or rather, flying up the stairs. He tore over the heads of a couple of mares in the stairwell, yelling back a hurried, “Sorry, ladies!” but not stopping.

He only ever slowed down when he got to his floor, long enough to push the door open. Down the hall, he saw Haute just closing his door and walking into the hall. ‘Oh thank Luna he’s alive.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s alright.’

“Stow it, you,” he grumbled to himself, walking carefully up to Haute. The normally flamboyant colt only stopped when he registered Rock’s presence. About a foot away. “Oh, Rock! Hello!” He said loudly, clrealy surprised.

“Hey, Haute. Um, thanks for the tip on the salon, they were... they were very nice. I... I told them about Switch, though...” Rock said weakly.

Haute tilted his head in a sad smile. “Thank you for that. I’m not sure if I could have. I assume by your much more than kempt appearance they did a good job?”

Rock’s eyes widened a little, and he gave himself a once-over. He’d completely forgotten about the actual manecut and preening they’d done. His bangs were neat and tidy, far from falling into his face, and his wings looked rather sleek and proper. Even his tail was passable. “Oh, yeah. They... they asked me to go talk to Switch’s classmates, see if anything was wrong. Speaking of which, are you ok?”

Haute looked ready to say something, then his shoulders slumped. “No, not very. I mean, I can put up appearances, that’s easy enough. So ponies don’t worry about me. But I guess... the gravity of it hasn’t hit me, you know? I imagine it will later, when I wake up and I’m the only pony in the room. Or when I call out for him only to remember he’s not there...” he sniffed, his eyes watering.

Rock scooted closer, uneasily, and slid an arm around Haute’s shoulders. The colt stiffened at the gesture, just for a second, then his whole body shook with sobs. He grabbed at the front of Rock’s coat and cried into his shoulder.

Not sure what to do, the pegasus just sat there, the Earth pony crying rivers into his fur. After a few minutes, Haute slowed his crying to sniffles, and then, with a rather loud and punctuated sniff, righted himself. Rock only became aware that Haute had been wearing mascara when he saw it was running. “Um...” he said weakly, pointing at his own eyes.

Haute got the hint, and ran a hoof over his face. “Oh, dear me. Now I have to go clean up again. I was actually going to take your advice and go to the salon myself. I guess I’ll see you later,” he said, unlocking his door and taking a step inside.

Rock called after him, “Haute!”

The pony stopped, and looked over his shoulder. “Hm? Yes?”

“When you see the guys, can you tell them... tell them it wasn’t Fried’s fault? They’ll know what I mean. Tell them I said... he has it too.”

Haute looked more than a little confused, but nodded. “Yes, I’ll tell them. Thank you for being so supportive, Rock. Bless you.” And he closed the door.

Rock decided to make his way back to his room, and do whatever it was ponies do to put tragedy behind them.

Which was, apparently, to lie on his back, on his bed, staring blankly at the letter he was holding above his face.

‘You know what it says.’

“Still gotta read it,” Rock responded numbly.

‘And do what? Sulk for a while? Not like that does you much good normally. I mean, look at this morning.’

“Not the same letter,” he grumbled, staring at the return address. It read “Manehattan Psychiatric”, with a familiar address and Suite number. “Fuckin’ numbers. Who the hell ever heard of numbers killing a pony?”

‘...’

“Ok, shut up. All the time. ‘The numbers don’t lie. ‘The numbers don’t look good. ‘These numbers indicate.’ FUCK. Why can’t we just die like normal ponies. Fuckin’ radio stations? Mother of Terra,” rock growled to himself, and tore the letter open. He glared at the page a few seconds before actually reading it.

‘Dear Mr. Holler blah blah blah your next appointment blah blah blah take your meds yadda yadda yadda. Same shit different day.’

“You do realize the conflict of interest when the voice in my head scoffs at me taking medication?” Rock laughed despite himself. Sometimes his world was just a bit too surreal for him.

‘Shut up.’

“Said the delusion,” Rock snickered. “Listen, you know as well as I do I’m not taking that shit. Remember what happened last time?”

‘NO. I wasn’t HERE for it.’

“...You’re in my head. With my memories. How do you not remember it?” his quizzical expression reflected slightly in the plastic of the envelope that sat over the address label. He made a face at it.

‘I’m being sarcastic. Of course I do. The fuck kind of doctor gives a pony with voices in his head a drug that makes you paranoid as shit?’

“Either a really really bad one, or a really really good one. Think about it. Repeat customers,” Rock explained.

‘...that’s fucking evil.’

“It’s also why he can go fuck himself,” Rock concluded, throwing the letter into the trash can. He knew the doc would call him eventually, and ask if he’d read the letter. At least he could say he’d done that much. As if on cue, or perhaps waiting till Rock was done talking to himself, there was a knock on his door.

It had to be Grace. “What’s up, dude?”

“Hey, if you’re done being crazy, we’re all going down to The Hole to get wasted in honor of Switchboard. You’re coming with.” It wasn’t a question. Of course, Rock didn’t exactly need to be told.

‘Didn’t we just talk about alcohol?’

“Yes, but that was about how drinking while depressed is a horrible idea. This time it’s to honor a dead friend who can’t drink for himself anymore,” Rock explained, grabbing a cheap denim jacket and opening the door, sliding his wings through the coat.

‘Uh-huh.’

Social Grace stood and stared at him. “Are we done with the Loony Tunes? I fully intend to get you laid this evening, and that’s kind of hard to do when you’re talking to yourself more than the mares.”

‘Sex? Nopony said anything about SEX. I could totally approve of alcohol in the pursuit of tail.’

Biting his tongue to hold back a retort, Rock just said simply, “Yeah, ok. Let’s go drink and fuck ourselves stupid. What’s a paycheck for, anyway?” He added with a small hint of sarcasm, grabbing a bag of bits of his dresser and shoving it in his coat.

Grace nodded approvingly. “Exactly! Now come on, I’m still sober and this shall not stand.”

Rock followed Grace out of the dorm, where he closed the door behind him. “Yeah, and if you have too much tequila again, neither will you.”

Author's Note

Not as much dark in this as there is answering questions and setting up plot advancement. Oh well.