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

Epilogue

The events at the hospital did, in fact, reach the news. How could they not? The signal spread wide, and far. Many knew about what had happened. The collapsing patients. The mad pegasus that had jumped out of a laundry basket and rushed an armed guard, screaming like a maniac.

Somepony, somewhere, had made a connection between the incident, and the string of deaths across campus. Across the county. Somepony else had made a map. Drawn up a graph. Realized that the density of deceased was higher, at the college. And then, when Rock was moved to the hospital, the death toll rose there.

Thus, it was assumed that Rock had been the killer.

His family mourned him. His friends, too. They explained to his parents that he hadn’t killed anypony on campus. Those deaths were unrelated. One mare spoke up about how he’d been driven to the hospital after collapsing. She talked about how different he was when he’d woken up. How it wasn’t... really him anymore. A local psychologist supported this claim.

They simply said they thought it was a matter of time, for their son.

A small memorial was held at the college, for Rock. And for the others. For Switchboard. For Fried Circuit. Some ponies said they knew Rock was mental.

Others said they knew he was a good stallion.

There was some debate about his involvement in the deaths at the hospital. Some thought he had been carrying a disease. Something from the bar he’d gone to. That he’d just been unfortunate enough to catch it, and give it to others. Some said it was a conspiracy by the government.

A few, a very small few, came to the conclusion that Rock had found what he was looking for. And it had either driven him mad, or he had decided it was safer to die than to know.

Even less knew the truth. That is, to say, nopony did.

Except one.

You can still hear him. If you tap on a radio when there’s static. If you shake your TV just right when it’s nothing but snow.

He’s there.

Always has been, in a way. Just in the background.

.
.
.

“Hey, you there? Is this thing on? Great,” he’ll say. And then, if he’s around long enough, if the signal can hold, he’ll keep talking.

“3-5-7-2-8-7-0"