Genetic Superiority

Fuselage paced back and forth inside her architectural working place, hoping that somehow she would instantly think up of something in the process.

Though Fuselage knew that she will eventually have her occasional flashes of inspiration, it didn't help her that the deadline was in six months, and she was far from even completing the airship EP-21 blueprints. She has to complete it. If she failed to turn it in...

Fuselage banged her head at the table. She felt an aching pain, though it wasn't from her self infliction.

"Don't get so stressed," the director of the Aviary Developments said to her once. "Take your time and put your effort in your work." Fuselage laughed at his advice. It sure was dealing with the problem now.

The copper red pegasus cleaned the now messy desk created by her previous ruction, and reorganized her teal colored mane, then went back to work. Her personal meltdown was immediately forgotten.

Fuselage was born with the flair of piloting airships. Sadly, she was banned to pilot one due to her social class. She was Class Three; only Class Twos and above had to privilege to captain and pilot the airship. Unless she can move up to a higher class, she was to work on designing airships. Fuselage still couldn't believe that her life was being controlled even at twenty-six.

Though she hated the fact that she is most likely never place her talent into good use, she didn't feel like switching her job. This was the only place where she felt close to these flying machinery. And a few kind ponies had allowed her on the co-pilot's seat in cases of test flight.

The bell rang, snapping Fuselage back into reality. Six o'clock already? she thought. Time sure passes by when you're working.

"Time to leave, everypony. Remember to bring your things home. The office and factories will close within an hour," a pony announced, his words coming out of the multiple speakers located around the premises.

Fuselage, upon hearing the announcement, quickly packed up her suitcase and left her room. She took the stairs; Fuselage didn't like being squished inside an elevator. Plus, it was only three floors.

Outside the office were a swarm of ponies that were trying to force their way through the company gates. It was impossible to attempt flight; doing so would most likely cause collisions with other ponies. She didn't try to do the same. She was much wiser than that. Instead, Fuselage flew out from the back of the buildings. Though it took a much longer time to get to the train station, it was much better than staying in crowds, where she had little room.

Fuselage always grinned when she was outsmarting nearly everypony. If it weren't for calculative thinking, she would have been stuck there. She didn't like being stuck.

********

"Creek Road, westbound."

The mare inside the booth took a short glance at the map beside her, maintaining a straight face. "That'll be three bits," the mare replied monotonously. Fuselage paid the tired looking mare and grabbed the ticket, returning a smile for a sign of gratitude.

Fuselage passed the station checkpoint with ease, trotting down the flight of stairs into an underground rapid transit platform. The Heartland Subway was in a terrible state; it always was. The once white walls were covered with forty years of dust, and the modern stone platform was quickly wasted, turning into a nauseating dark gray and stained with dry chewing gum, spit, and mysterious black marks. The fierce stench of trash spread throughout the subway. It looked like the hallway of a slum building.

Ponies, however, appreciate the place despite it's poor quality, but Fuselage herself wasn't quite sure. She didn't dare try to sit on the benches or even lean on the pillars – who knew what kind of

Without second thoughts, she waited at the left side of the platform, expecting the subway train to arrive any minute. Fuselage idly looked behind her; she saw a colt sitting against a round concrete pillar, staring at the meager light bulbs on the ceiling. He was pathetically coated with filth. Fuselage tried not to stare too long at him. Vagrants were common in these subway stations, and were normally found by the patrollers and taken to their rightful place.

The train entered the station with little delay, the lights near the platform edge blinking on and off. The train's doors promptly slid inward, and ponies swarmed inside. Fuselage followed the crowd into the train.

Inside the subway train were multiple cars, some of them had signs above the doors, which determined which cars are for which class. Though a higher class can move to the lower classed seats if they wish, a lower classed pony was unable to seat on a higher classed car. For example, a Class Four could not sit on a Class Three car, and a Class Five could not sit on a Class Four car, and so on.

Fuselage found that the Class Three car was full; every seat was occupied by ponies who were quick to react. She looked at the nearby car door. The door sign read To Class Four Train Car, along with an red arrow next to it. It seemed uninviting, and a few eyes were on her, wondering if she'll open the door.

She moved her hoof away from the doorknob and looked around for a metal rail to hold on for the rest of the ride.

********

Ballad wakes up to a dull ache on her forehoof. She at first thinks that she might have slept on her hoof, but the injury on her hoof proves otherwise. It was an thin entry wound for some sort of bullet, though Ballad wasn't fully aware of that just yet. Her mind, along with what happened in the last ten hours, was shrouded and faint.

Then she shuddered. What if she was dead? Everything seemed so blurry. But she couldn't be dead.  The metal cage bars were real enough; the mattress she was on felt real enough. Everything was palpable and very much real, yet she continued to believe that this was all fake.

That was when she realized that she was shot by a tranquilizer gun, and that she was kidnapped by a group of ponies. It explained why the wound was bloodless, why there was no cartridge inside the wound, and why the wound was small and shallow. She learned about these special bullets when she was fourteen; they were non-lethal and used to subdue riots and other civil unrests. Ballad found it strange; how were her kidnappers able to get their hooves on such a weapon?

Ballad tries to get off the bed, but as she steps onto the ground, she clumsily slips. The tranquillizer is still in effect, Ballad thought. She sluggishly rests on the side of the bed. Ballad is in a prison cell, the walls a light yellow, and the hallway outside dimly lit.

"I'm in a prison," Ballad muttered. But it didn't seem like a modern prison; some of the paint on the walls were coming off, and the top of the bars were rusting. She shivered for a short second. Psychopaths, serial killers, pyromaniacs, and criminals once slept in the same bed she was sleeping in. So this is where they go to die.

"Awake already?" Ballad turned to see a stallion, waiting in front of her cell, smiling. He was clad in a tattered blue prison guard outfit, and next to him was a cart of food. The stallion pulls out a tray from the bottom shelf, then dumps a pile of corn and hay on the tray.

"Well...here's your supper, then," the stallion said, offering Ballad the tray of food. "The shower is near the bottom left corner and will automatically turn on for five minutes within an hour. Lights out at ten."

Ballad nodded. She tries to talk, but the words come out slurred. Her mind was clearer now, but was still unable to cooperate well with some of her body parts. Trying again, she managed to say the two words, "Thank you."

When she was sure the stallion had left, Ballad dashed around the room. There must be some way out, she thought. But, try as she might, she couldn't find anything for her to use. Everything in the room – the mattress, the chair, the table – was bolted to the ground. Only until she searched every inch of the cell did she give up.

I should have known better, Ballad thought. A prison cell is built so nothing can be hidden or detached. The best choice, the only choice I can do is to wait.

She returned to her bed, now noticing how hard the bed was. It felt like a cold slab of concrete. Ballad could not quiet her brain, and she lay there, eyes open. By many methods she had tried to put herself to sleep, but they all failed despite her attempts.

This was going to be a long night, she thought.

********

Ballad was eventually able to achieve a doze, though an hour or so later she awakened from a buzzer sound. She squirmed for a bit, believing that it was just in her head, but as the noise prolonged, Ballad finally got up.

"No! Get away for me! What are you doing?" Ballad heard a mare's shout echo through the hallway.

"Madame, I must comment that your eyes look beautiful. I like them much more than the ones I have now." a voice replied, laughing at his own remark. Ballad determined that the voice was of a stallion's. An abrupt scream, staccato, was heard, then silence.

A few minutes later, Ballad saw two ponies, a stallion and a mare both wearing blue prison guard clothing, dragging an unconscious mare, pass her cell. Where are they taking her? Ballad thought. Whatever it was, she didn't want to know. She just wanted to get away a hundred kilometers away from here.

"I mustn't lose my nerve. I mustn't," Ballad repeated to herself. She was suddenly reminded of her freshman teacher, Mrs. Write, who once told them to stay hopeful, maintain resilience in the face of adversity, and, most of all, never quit. And now, Ballad couldn't say how right she was.

Ballad chose to wait for the whole day and execute her escape at night. She didn't know how she would do it, but she will. But you have nothing, a voice in her thoughts said, how are you so sure you'll escape?

Then, on the corner of her eye, she saw something. It was near the cell, only a foot or two away from her. Though the lights were dim, she could determine what it was – two paper clips. An insignificant object, but it was something. Ballad glanced left and right, and when she was sure that there was no pony in the hallway, stretched her hooves through the metal bars and make a sudden snatch on the paper clips."

Ballad observed the paper clips. Just how they going to get them out of here? A paper clip is used to hold sheets together, not break out of jail. She bit her lip, flicking the sharp tip of the paper clip. If she only had a key...

Then the answer struck her instantly. The paper clips were the key. Or rather, the device used to turn the lock to open it. A lock pick. She heard of those, but had never used one personally. But how did the lock work? Ballad asked herself.

The key is pushed inside the lock completely, allowing it to turn, Ballad answered. She needed something to keep tension at the bottom while creating a jagged pick to act as the "key". Discovering this, she immediately bent the leg of the paper clips, turning into a straight steel wire, and curving it again, taking the appearance of a bobby pin. Ballad at first tested this at the lock, but noticed that it couldn't add tension, and accidentally bent her pin downward. Ballad dropped it, cursing under her breath. But when Ballad found that the bent tension wrench worked perfectly into the lock, her curses turned into words of delight.

She then pulled the leg of the second paper clip outward, twisting the tip inward. While doing so, she pricked herself with the tip, leaving a small cut. Ballad winced. It was painstaking work, slow work, but she forced herself to continue for an hour twisting the tip into a hook, producing an improvised pick.

Ballad carefully extended her hooves through the metal bars, one hoof pulling the tension wrench while the other was shaking, pulling, and turning the lock. The pick couldn't get into the lock – it didn't fit. Ballad jammed the pick inside multiple times, and in frustration, kicked the metal cage.

Aware of what she had done, she moved her hooves back into the cell, hoping that nopony has heard that. After a few minutes, she looked at her pick again. Ballad started bending the pick more, and put it in the lock along with the tension wrench, but ended up with the same result as before.

I would kill, Ballad thought, for an actual pick. Just one.

She pondered more. A key had a jagged edge. The pick had to closely resemble the edges of a key. Bending one end wasn't enough. She needed to curve it more.

Ballad returned to bending her pick, intricately bending a second time on the tip of the pick. She poked on her hoof again, and sucked on her wound, grimacing from the pain and the ferrous taste in her mouth.

For a third time, Ballad pushed the pick inside the lock. This time, it fit completely, and her ears rose from that merry sound. The lock, however, did not budge. She was confused. Why isn't it working?

She continued to wiggle the pick for a seemingly endless time. Ballad counted the number of seconds that has passed; she can probably do it another fifty times or so before –

Ballad heard a barely audible click, and stopped. Did something happen with the door? She moved the door left and right, finding out that it was unlocked. She went into a burst of joy.  but kept silent to avoid attracting the prisoner guards. Yes! I'm out! I'm out, I'm out, I'm out, I'm out~

She then saw that she wasn't out of the prison yet. The prison cell was only the first phase of escaping.