Chapter 4: Possible vs Not Possible

Rock soon found out “we” came to mean himself, his roommate, Haute, and a couple of stallions from down the hall he didn’t recognize, but Grace said he talked to consistently. The lot of them met up in Rock and Grace’s living room, seemingly because it was more convenient.

The two unfamiliar faces were a couple of Earth ponies, they introduced themselves as Paint Thinner and Triple Bypass. The former was a rather skinny looking pale yellow fella with short red hair, and the latter was a brick shithouse in horseshoes. Kind of an off-green with a light blue mane.

“Hey, man,” Paint Thinner drawled. His voice was slow and steady, like he’d had to think about the sentence beforehoof. He smelled like grass and something almost sickeningly sweet. Most likely hippie salad. “So, uh, which one of you’s the crazy guy?”

Rock shot a look over to Grace before giving the two newcomers a flat stare, and raising his hoof.

“Cool, cool. So, what’s it like?” Thinner asked slowly.

‘Yeah, Rock. What’s it like?’

Rock rolled his eyes up to glare at his forehead, an expression Grace was familiar with. The black and blue stallion rolled his eyes and answered for him. “It’s like living with a third roommate that only he gets to talk to. You get used to it.”

The pegasus sighed. “You shouldn’t have to, but you do. Really it’s just like having a conversation with somepony. A very annoying conversation that never ever stops.”

Triple Bypass, who, by his Cutie Mark, one could determine was a Hoofball player, just shrugged and said, “Whatever. S’not like I gotta live with you.”

Haute gave Triple a disapproving glance. “Hmm. Shall we go? I’m rather parched... and forgetting things right now sounds rather magnifique.”

Rock and Grace both nodded, while Thinner did this slow smile and head bob thing.

‘Oh, this can only go swimmingly.’

The pegasus musician made a point to ignore “himself” as the lot of them trotted out of the small apartment en mass, and made their way down the halls of the dorm. Haute and Triple were currently in what seemed like a one-sided argument, as Haute vocalized his disapproval of Triple’s mannerisms while Triple just ignored him. Thinner seemed to just amble along and throw words around when he thought it was relevant.

Grace had held Rock back for a moment, and talked to him quietly as they kept pace about a pony or two’s length away. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I know today’s been a bit... freaky. And no offense, but I know what you’re like after a hard day.”

The white stallion sighed, and blew a tuft of hair out of his eyes, to no avail. “Look, if I thought I wouldn’t be able to handle myself, I’d have stayed home and narrated Last Stop 3 again. Trust me, let me get some scotch in me and I’ll be fine. Now come on, they might think we’re gay if we keep hanging out like this,” Rock chided, nudging Grace with a wing and giving him a reassuring, if snide, grin.

Grace nodded agreeably and sped up to rejoin the rest of the group. “Ok, boys, where are we going?”

Haute Couture glanced behind himself as they reached a stairwell. “I was thinking, there’s this delightful little-”

Triple cut him off with a sound like a buzzer. “Wrong! There’s a sport’s bar like three blocks from here with great fries, and...” he rambled on about how awesome he thought the bar was, how it always had the best beer and snacks, and what have you.

Rock barely heard Thinner mutter something about how he wanted to go to this pub underneath the local theatre when he noticed something strange on one of the brick walls on the landing they’d just reached. He stopped for a moment, and gently pawed a hoof across the rough surface of the wall, where somepony had been carving and painting. In great detail. He recognized the markings. It was more numbers, in the same pattern as the notes from Switchboard’s lab.

“Hey, you gonna start talkin’ backward in tongues or whatever, dude?” Triple’s voice carried up the stairwell, and Rock realized they’d walked off without him. He wondered how long he’d been staring, but he could swear he’d only just noticed them.

“Hey, Haute!” Rock called, pointedly ignoring the athlete’s digs at his mental stability. “Could you come here for a second?”

He heard some light murmurs, and finally, a set of dainty hoofsteps made their way too him. He felt Haute standing just behind him before he even asked, “Yes, Rock?”

The pegasus tapped the wall without turning around. “Isn’t this that same numerical shit all over Switchboard’s walls?” He felt Haute flinch as he said Switch’s name.

The fashion pony trotted closer, taking a closer look at the fine scratchings and paint on the walls. Rock glanced over and saw that he’d gone pale. “Y-yes... it is. What-”

“I saw some of that all over his notes when I went down to the lab to check on Fried Circuit. He went on and on about how dangerous it was, but what the buck is it doing here?” he was talking more to himself than anypony else, and not in the usual “voices in my head” way.

Haute turned away and acted as if it was merely part of the decor. “Let’s not... focus on such things, shall we? We have the whole evening ahead of us,” he reasoned, making his way back down the stairs.

Rock thought more of it than that, but decided to let it be. It was somepony else’s problem, at the very least.

The bar they’d finally settled on was an up-and-coming dance club with just enough room to look like an idiot and just enough alcohol to make it sound like a good idea. The interior looked something like a converted glowstick factory, with a raised stage near the back for the DJ, a bar at the other end, far enough away for a bartender to be able to hear the orders, and plenty of dance floor in between.

Triple and Grace had made their way onto the dance floor, dividing their attention between dancing like idiots and hitting on mares. Haute had just sat at a bar and let girls flock to him. Thinner had disappeared, and Rock was spending his time working through multiple orders of scotch and looking around the room, mildly interested in the occupants.

‘Oh, yeah. Real social butterfly you are.’

“Shut yer yap before I drink you up some tekillya,” Rock almost hiccuped. He waved off a passing pony who gave him a look. “Not you.”

‘You wouldn’t dare tequila me.’

“Keep talking,” he muttered, painfully aware of a few choice stares. He turned to the bartender, who looked for all the world like somepony had ordered his last fuck to give years ago, and raised his hoof for another scotch.

“Make that two,” said a rather feminine voice behind him. He half expected to see Haute when he turned around, but was instead greeted with the visage of a rather curvy and not-at-all bad to look at pegasus mare. A familiar one, at that, but he couldn’t place her. Something about her pastel coloring, her yellow and green tones, seemed familiar.

“Sure, why not?” Rock asked nopony in particular, throwing down enough bits for both of them. “You look.... I swear to Celestia I’ve seen you before. Who are you?”

The mare giggled, and held out a hoof. “My name’s Headline. Nice to meet you,” she said gently. Rock noticed she hadn’t answered the question.

“Right... I’m Rock Holler,” he said, moving to shake her hoof.

She paused, pulling her hoof back for a moment, then shook his anyway. “I think I’ve heard about you. You’re the pony in Mr. Mind’s Psych class with schizophrenia, aren’t you?”

‘The fuck. Do you put up flyers or something?’

Rock glared evenly at, or rather, in the general direction of, Headline. More like just wearing a very distraught look in general. “Why does everypony know me as the crazy guy? It’s not like I’m in any danger of being committed.”

‘Oh, yes, because what you need most is more therapy and medication.’

Rock rolled his eyes to his forehead again and snarled. “Shut it, you.” He returned his attention to the mare in front of him, currently wearing an expression somewhere between bemused and hesitant.

“So is that... common? You talking to yourself?” she sounded more amused than anything, a good sign he wasn’t about to scare her off.

He was about to respond when his vision cut out. Just for a moment. A quick glimpse of what looked like static overtook his sight as his head pounded, ever so slightly. He grunted in frustration as the world righted itself.

‘What was that?’

The voice in his head seemed distant, at first. Like it was fading in. Then, another voice. Headline’s. “You ok?” she seemed less amused this time. A tinge of worry touched her words, and her expression, which Rock noticed as he looked back up.

“Yeah, I’m good. That... that was new. I guess just a headache or something. Maybe enough of the scotch...” he added as an afterthought. Just in time for his drink to arrive. He considered it for a moment, before watching it disappear. He followed it to Headline’s lips, as she downed it in his stead.

“If you’re starting to go all weird on me I might have to cut you off,” she joked, not unfriendly. Her smile was content, if a bit mischievous. Like she knew something he didn’t.

“Seriously, where do I kn-” his sentence was cut off again as, more insistently this time, his vision turned to snow and his head throbbed in pain. He could even hear static, like his whole world had gone out of focus. Only when sound started to return did he notice he’d gone deaf.

A whole bunch of ponies were talking at once, it seemed. There was Headline: “Rock! Are you ok? Rock!”

The ever present voice in his head: ‘...the fuck was that I’m not even CLOSE to kidding what the hell?!'

Plus a few others around him, and, he noticed, above him. He looked up to see he’d lost his hoofing and dropped to the floor. Above him were a few concerned faces, including Headline’s and, he now noticed, Grace’s. “Are you ok, dude? How much did you have?” Grace asked, only mildly joking. “Let’s get you to a booth.”

He could still hear others around him talking, some in whispers, others in just the normal banter of nightlife. He leaned on Grace as the black and blue stallion all but ragged him to a booth and table against the wall. Headline followed, staying a bit behind.

All the while, he could still hear ponies talking. Which shouldn’t have struck him as unusual, but there was one voice that he couldn’t make out. Insistent, unyielding, but nondescript. Hazy, and only ever loud enough to register as there. Rock couldn’t even tell what they were saying, or if they were talking to him.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered half-heartedly at the small crowd around him. Apparently the other guys, sans Thinner, had seen the commotion and come over to investigate. “Just a headache. Too much scotch too fast, or something. Hit my head. I’ll be good,” he muttered a string of weak reassurances as ponies started to lose interest. Haute seemed to want to stay around and say something, but trotted off. Triple was already gone, figuring there was no need for him to not keep doing... whatever he was doing.

Headline took a seat beside him, and Grace stopped one last time to see if he was ok. “You sure, dude?” he asked, showing a rare moment of concern.

With one last hoof-wave, Holler brushed him off. “I’ll be fine. Trust me. Go get laid,” he insisted, more heartily.

The renewed vigor in his voice was enough to reassure Social Grace, as the Earth pony trotted away with a brief wave, turning his attention to any nearby tail.

‘Ok, now that the peanut gallery is gone, WHAT the FUCK. Did you take something?!’

Rock decided to ignore the yelling in his head, and turned his attention to Headline, who had stayed quiet while everypony else fussed. “Well,” she said finally, seeing she had his full attention. “If you’re trying to get my attention, you have it. You sure you’re ok? I’d hate to think I fell for the old ‘dizzy spell helpless’ routine.” She spoke warmly, but softly, as if trying not to set off another attack.

“Well, I’m not that creative, or desperate. No, just some bad headaches. That nagging voice isn’t helping, either,” he added as an afterthought, the quiet, insistent voice still rambling on from somewhere nearby.

She looked a little affronted. “Are you saying I’m naggy?”

“What? No! There’s this... somepony won’t shut up, they keep mumbling something. I don’t know,” he trailed off, determined to ignore the whispering.

Headline gave him a puzzled look. “How many voices did you say you had in there?” she pointed timidly at his head.

“Just the one, and he’s... complicated. So, you never answered my question. Where have I seen you before?” Rock insisted, as Headline sipped her own scotch.

She paused, then chuckled. “Oh, right! With all the passing out I forgot,” she chided. He winced, but she gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s ok. You’d probably recognize me better with a sweater and a notepad.”

Rock let that roll around in his head for a bit. Then it clicked so hard he almost heard it. “You’re the reporter chick thing from this morning!” he exclaimed, pointing a callous hoof at her. He caught himself, and put it back down.

She laughed, and nodded. “Well, of all the things I’ve been called, ‘thing’ is easily one of the nicer ones. Journalism majors don’t get a lot of respect around here... not like... used to it...” her voice started to cut in and out, and Rock had to strain to hear her.

“What was that?” he asked, tapping his hoof to the side of his head to clear out the fuzz.

“I said it’s not like I’m not used to it, but I’d like at least one pony to not see me for a story-hungry vulture,” she repeated, clear as day.

The white pegasus nodded in somewhat agreement. “I kind of get it. I’m a Music Theory major, but most ponies just see some colt going after an arts degree.”

“...sounds about... I guess... where I’m coming from,” her voice faded in and out as she spoke, yet again, and Rock felt his head go a little swimmy. Was she that close a moment ago?

“Hey, um... is it just me, or is it getting loud in here?” he asked, his voice raising slightly despite himself.

That low murmuring reasserted itself, slightly louder, and Rock could just make out a few phrases here and there, but they came and went so quickly he coudln’t remember them even long enough to repeat them out loud.

It wasn’t till Rock looked at Headline’s mouth moving did he realize she was still talking. He couldn’t hear a word of it. and she was really close...

She hadn’t been that close moments ago. He hadn’t even seen her move. She was staring at him, expectantly, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they were talking about.

The voice grew louder, as his vision blurred. Something in his expression must have changed, or he moved or something, because Headline’s eyes widened from a half-lidded suggestion to poignant alarm.

He could almost hear her yelling as he passed out, but the only real sound in his head was that damn whispering.

“7-4-8-9-9-2-5-3-8-5.....”

Rock awoke to cold. The floor beneath him. The air around him. Even his head and heart felt icy. It wasn’t a sharp cold, like the crisp bite of ice or snow, but the dull, aching chill of a room without heat, of concrete and long nights alone.

He looked up, and sure enough, what greeted him was a lonely concrete room. Like the empty rooms in the Sciences basement. If not for the fact they were a different color. There was none of the light, ugly green of the makeshift labs and occupied hallways, but the empty gray of warehouse floors and walls, built for function with no sense of aesthetics, merely there as a box for things.

Or ponies.

The room he was in wasn’t locked. It didn’t even have a door. Just an empty hole in the wall, through which one walked. So he did. He made note of how quiet it was, save for his echoing hoofsteps. At least he had his hearing.

He peeked down the hallway just outside the door, and saw lines of piping, leading around corners and over chain link fencing. Some kind of basement or boiler room. He could make out a set of stairs at the end of the hall. The other way, there was maybe ten feet of room and a dead end, so stairs it was. He plodded forward, taking peeks around each corner and reading labels. Nothing helpful or descriptive, just warning labels in multiple languages and either dead ends or hallways he couldn’t see all the way down.

Curious, he looked up, only to see the hallways being lit by mass-produced halogen lamps. Part of him had expected the light to be coming from nowhere, although he couldn’t say why.

What concerned him most was his lack of panic. The last thing he remembered was passing out at a bar in front of a pretty girl. Then he woke up... wherever here is. He was well aware that the normal response would be to scream or panic or run in any direction till he found somepony or something with an answer.

But instead, he kept walking. Calm and collected.

It wasn’t as if he wasn’t in control of his body. There was no sense of being disconnected, of any loss of control, something he’d grown accustomed to with various medications.

A small part of him mused on the thought, but he quickly let it go as he reached a door. Basic, made of metal with a solid lock, he expected it to be well and truly stuck. Instead, it gave way with ease as he tugged, and he soon found himself in the first room with any real distinguishing characteristics.

It looked like a radio station.

Author's Note

This chapter is well and truly set up for what I hope to be some of the last scenes. As much fun as I’m having writing this story, the last thing I want is to drag it into oblivion.