Chapter 7: Hell’s Uncertainty Principle

Snippets of the folder in splayed out on the table in front of Rock were starting to fit together. Pieces of random data, collected from a variety of experiments. Somewhere, not here, or, at least, wherever here equated to in the real world, a group of ponies had gotten it into their heads that there was stray information rolling around the empty space of the universe. Radio signals, created out of the sheer chaos and miasma of the origins of life, things we couldn’t detect until we had the proper equipment.

What they hadn’t predicted was that it wasn’t just technology that needed to evolve for us to perceive this information properly. It was us. Ponies. The Equestrian race. The collective Equine consciousness had not yet achieved a state in which all of the information in the world could be known. For, in some places, that information had gathered. Had developed. Maintained itself, created, for itself, a consciousness. Throughout the ramblings and mathematical mumbo-jumbo that filled the folder to the brim, threatening to explode, there were simplified phrases. Journal entries. Pieces of information laid out in layman’s terms. Perhaps for somepony to find, for that pony to deliver into the proper hooves should anything go truly wrong.

And in and out of it all, there was a recurring theme. A simple idea that could only be what Rock found himself a part of now. Once that consciousness had been... observed, understood, or at least, attempted to be, it had found a kind of focus. An anchor, if you will, holding it in place and giving it a hold in the universe around it. Instead of floating aimlessly about the cosmos and having nothing to do but exist and evolve on its own, it had created for itself a new purpose in the environs it had been tethered to in the attempts made to process it like any other information presented to the scientists that had “discovered” it in the first place.

That purpose, was to be known. Acknowledged. Not by a select few. By everything. It would spread awareness of itself, its form, across the world. It would force itself into the minds of every living, sentient creature it could latch onto. And it would to so in the most efficient manner possible: trauma. Trauma leaves scars. Is nearly impossible to get rid of. Happiness can be erased, forgotten in the annals of time. Even moments of pure joy can be lost in the torrent of true misery. It was through this insidious machination of the conscious mind that it would plant seeds of awareness and presence throughout the world until there wasn’t a single sentient being it didn’t infest. And throughout this mass awareness, this connection of consciousness, it would live. Be truly alive. Feel. Breathe. Laugh. Love. It would possess each and every being, as only the entirety of the race could be enough to perpetuate and maintain it, in an attempt to create a solid and perpetual host with which to experience the universe the way it believed the universe should be seen. Should be felt. Should be known. And through that knowledge, it would make itself larger. More powerful.

It would infest and feed on the race until that race died, and it on its own could become strong enough to not need another’s body to experience the world the way mortals do. Without the simple shackle of mortality.

It was a simple, perfect plan. Because the only way to stop it was to learn more about it. Which would only make it stronger. The more ponies knew it existed, the stronger it’s hold and anchor would become.

Rock stared out of the false window, wondering just how much of the world around it the presence had already infected. He had no track of time in here. And thus, no idea of where to start, or when it would end.

Of course, unbeknownst to Rock, the real Rock, the one on the inside, the creature riding his body had discovered a small, yet fatal flaw in it’s plans: it couldn’t spread fast enough. The bodied he possessed, or infected, what have you, could not last. Already a small hooffull of patients had either collapsed, or died, from the knowledge. From knowing him. It wasn’t enough to simply “spread the word”. He needed a way to propagate, to spread his influence at a rate faster than the bodies it touched could collapse. Perhaps, he surmised, if he spread fast enough, if he stretched himself thin enough, his presence wouldn’t overload his victims before he could anchor himself properly. He needed to find a balance. A rate of infection that could maintain him without killing its host.

The easiest way to spread was the numbers. Numbers were everything, to the pony consciousness. They wer ehow the rational mind calculated, quantified, qualified, in some cases. How it understood. Simply presenting a small part of his pattern was enough to plant the seed. Yet therein lied the problem: those sane enough to understand the numbers were the most likely to collapse under the stress of understanding. And those who would not collapse, those like Rock, were either too unstable to fully process, and thus properly implant, or did not entertain the information long enough to allow any kind of hold. They simply didn’t focus. Didn’t allow their minds to make the connections necessary to let the thought fester and grow.

Even Rock, as “suitable” a host as he was proving to be, was having... problems. “Rock” stared down at his hooves, as he tucked himself away in the shadows of an unlit corridor, while the background filled with sounds of urgency and panic as yet another pony collapsed on the floor.

Of course,t he hoof was much more relevant than the failed attempt, the dying pony behind him. For the hoof was... coming apart. Collapsing, crumbling beneath him. The information, the load it took for the pony mind to properly process such a being, was simply not enough. It drew on other resources, synapses, nerve endings, the entire central nervous system, in an attempt to carry the load. And it wasn’t enough. The body was dying by inches, necrosis encroaching from the tips of the hooves, threatening the entire limb. And even if he had simply severed the infected location, it would only give the body less resource to draw on in its attempt to keep itself alive.

If Rock had been aware of even an ounce of the overload currently wracking his body, he would never stop screaming.

“Faster,” “Rock” hissed. “I need to spread faster. I need more ponies, all at once. More information. THe numbers station isn’t enough. I need a faster way to reach... everypony...” his attention was drawn by a voice he didn’t recognize. Not that he knew any of the voices around him. But it was not a voice that spoke information into his mind. It was not a presence he could read like the others. he looked around, and saw the source: a television screen. Simply a recording of a pony.

“I need to go live,” he concluded, a smile twisting his features that would have caused the original owner of the body to pass out in pain.

Rock had established a kind of... battle plan. A form of attack that, even if he didn’t stop the creature completely, would leave it in a position where all it could to was wither and die.

More research, or, at least, more reading of the research already done, had shown that once the presence had found... some kind of host, some body that it could walk around in, the transmissions stopped. It couldn’t stay “alive” in more that one form. Even it had limitations. So as long as he was stuck in Rock’s body, he was unable to possess or manipulate digital information. The signal was restricted to his physical form.

So Rock had two options. He either needed to die, or be locked away, where the creature couldn’t affect anything except the few ponies he came in contact with. He had to restrict it in the purest ways possible. Isolation. Or death.

But first, Rock needed a way out.

“Rock”, the thing that pretended to be him, needed a way out. Out of the hospital. It needed to take to the streets. To track its way to the television station. Being a creature of information, of knowledge, processing the ways in which such information could be transmitted via a device based on light and sound was less than child’s play. It was almost instinct. He had first attempted to trace the signal back to its source, physically. But given the nature of such transmissions, he found it rather difficult to simply walk the path between the television and the station itself.

Thus, he did what any”pony” in his situation would do. He looked it up on the internet.

He had considered, of course, the possibility of propagating himself, his idea, online. Infecting the web. But the process would have been too... complicated. He was too restricted in digital or signal forms. He could only maintain one radio signal. Thus, he surmised that any presence he could manifest on the internet would also be singular, in a place where such simple and solitary bites of irrelevant and unknown information were not only overlooked, but in many cases actively avoided. The paranoia associated with foreign information on the web was too great. There was too much risk of his presence being overlooked, or outright avoided.

But television. A simple broadcast that everypony trusted. A propagated signal that reached thousands, if not millions. And once he had spread himself through the minds of millions through the television, and reestablished his presence in a physical body, or many bodies, spreading himself further faster by word of mouth, so to speak, would be child’s play. He would simply need to make a few... adjustments, between one phase and the next.

And so, “Rock” crawled into a nearby laundry basket, covered himself in sheets (he had seen many a pony attempt this very escape maneuver on the web), and waited. Soon enough, he felt the cart rolling. And he plotted.

Rock, the real one, spent many a minute pondering just what in his present environment could allow him to wake up. Surely anything he tried, or discovered, would be acknowledged, felt, or even heard by the presence possessing him. And it didn’t seem that any of the “physical” exits would be of any use. What he needed was a way to suppress the presence long enough to put himself in control.

Fortunately, he wasn’t alone in here. He trotted over to the sound booth, and knocked hard on a television screen. “Hey, you in there?”

At first there wasn’t any response. Then, a small flicker of static. A couple of words. Rock hit the thing a few more times, and slowly an image of himself came into focus. One without the manic grin and emotionless eyes. One with an expression of panic, and relief, in one. So, he picked up the TV, and shook it violently. Slamming it back down, the image snapped into focus. “YO! What’s with the shaking?!”

Rock shrugged, not wanting to explain how he’d come to the conclusion that “adjusting” the TV seemed to be a metaphysical expression of simply focusing himself, willing his mind to reach out to the rest of his “tennants”. “Listen, are you the one that cracked the safe?”

The Rock on TV nodded. “Yeah. He’s paying diddly squat attention, dude. Right now, he’s got bigger problems. So do we. You’re dying, dude!”

Rock’s eyebrows raised at that, although, from what he read, “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Well it sure as shit should worry you!”

Rock shook his head. “Listen. I’ve got an idea. How focused is he on... whatever it is he’s doing?”

“Intensely,” the TV said.

“Perfect. Now, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Rock” felt a small breeze pass through the fabric of the basket as he heard a door open. Outside, he surmised. He was outside. Just wait a little longer. That was all he needed to-

-a twitch. His hoof twitched. The one that was almost dead. Why did it twitch? He held another hoof over it to suppress the motion. It was then that he noticed his other hoof, too, was necrotic. He was dying at the tips and by inches, all over. Then, the other hoof twitched.

“Ok, I think I’ve got this. The parts of you that are... dying. he can’t control them. The nerves are too frayed. But all I can do is make them twitch. I can’t get into the rest of you. But I think I have an idea. He’s trying to sneak out of the hospital, but he needs to go unnoticed. I’m going to try and get him to reveal himself,” The Rock on TV said.

The real Rock nodded. “Keep going.”

“Rock” suppressed a growl as he felt his toes twitch vigorously. He couldn’t control the motion. Couldn’t force them still. But he could quell the one doing the moving.

NO. You will NOT reveal me like this! And even if you do, it will account for nothing!

There was no response. Only another twitch. This time, the tail. the tip of an ear. The tips of the hooves.

So he focused. He bore down his consciousness on the source of the disturbance. He bore it all down, like a hammer, and felt the will of the mental presence crush beneath his.

And for some reason, he felt himself rising. Not in mind.

In body.

Rock. The true Rock. He had found a way out. A gap in the walls. The more the presence focused on crushing the voice in his head, the less control he exerted over his own body. And so, Rock lifted a wing. Simple. Instinctual, for a pegasus. Flapping. The earliest of movements in foal pegasi development. He flapped. And prayed.

“Rock” lifted his attention from the voice, the extra presence, to the world around him. He felt the breeze of fresh air on his wingtip. And heard a voice.

“What the hell?”

“Rock”, the imposter, rose, intending to silence the single voice. To then jump a fence, or break through a door, and run. To escape.

What he saw was not a singular presence. It was many. The laundry had not, in fact, been brought outside. Or, at least, not out of the building.

It was being moved through the yard. Through the courtyard, in the wing for the mentally unstable patients. And there were many.

The slip of focus. A single moment of uncertainty. It was all Rock needed. He had control, for a moment. Because the other didn’t know what to do. He did.

He saw a security guard. Young. Loosely trained. Staring at him with wide eyes. Scared. A patient, dressed as a doctor, erupting out of the laundry basket not feet from him.

Rock attacked.

The presence was aware of many things. It had, up to this point, realized, and ignored, the body’s ability to feel pain. Had it not, the simple pain in the nerves would have destroyed him. Every nerve ending was on fire, attempting to process the signal of absolute agony. But even that was overridden with the need to keep his presence alive. Save for the parts of him, now, the entirety of him, that he had lost. Lost control of. Lost focus of.

Because nothing had prepared him. For uncertainty. For the unknown. He was a beast of knowledge. Of facts.

He did not know there was such a thing as being surprised. Nor that he, himself, could be.

The first bullet surprised him. As adrenaline coursed through his body, as he lost more and more of himself to the body’s natural functions, time slowed, as it does for all in a crises. The second bullet did not surprise him.

And he didn’t feel the third.

Neither did the real Rock.

Author's Note

This is, effectively. The end. There will be an epilogue, up shortly.