~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Darkened by time, the masters, like our memories, mix and mismatch... These are the lucky ones, the shelved ones; the twice-erased.

-Charles Wright, "Black Zodiac"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snow.

A sea of white to infinity.

Snow that didn't come from water. Snow you couldn't boil down. Snow that defied the rational laws of physics, because it wasn't a product of natural creation. It was magic.

Our transport bumped along through the blustering night air. The winds were calmer at night. During the day, us and our transport would have been a spray of debris and wind-swallowed cries.

The city's neon spires shrunk away in the rear viewfinder. All of Baltimare sat atop a black pedestal; an artificial plateau that held the base of the city hundreds of stories above the tundra below. That, along with the faded purple orb that encased it all, made it resemble a filly's snow globe. A globe where the snow was outside.

Off beyond the city was another solitary tower enveloped in phosphorescent blue. I had never seen it before. It was much further off and I could barely make it out. It looked the same height as Baltimare's tallest spires. Thus, at its distance, it must have been considerably taller. A prodigious blue gem surmounted the top. It may have been a trick of the eyes, but it looked like a balloon.

Finally, they were miniscule needles in a distant alabaster sea. Against the vastness of the snow, the events of the last few days stood in comforting triviality. Then it was gone.

I winced at every rattle and drop. The two pegasi pilots grinned.

This expedition was funded by House Apple, but the Church wouldn't let it happen without their involvement. Enter our three-pony "supervision" team. They needed a chemist. A request from one friend, the alteration of some computer records by another...

Could I really call them my friends?

I lied to Breakbeat. I lied to Apple Peel. I lied to everypony.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What was I like before?"

I lounged on one of Breakbeat's bean-bag chairs. The grey unicorn mare looked up, brushing her purple and white striped mane from her magenta eyes. Normally, she spiked it, but it now hung limp over her face. Her ear flicked.

"You definitely didn't do anything like this," she chuckled.

"No, really. What kind of friend was I?"

"Well, you were kind of my quiet counterpart. You let your mane down sometimes, but for the most part you balanced me out. Don't know what I'll do not that you're a born-again party pony. Probably end up dead."

"Great. I need the guilt."

The visitor intercom buzzed.

"Ah," Breakbeat said, "That must be Syntax."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We sat on metal benches along either wall, facing each other. Apple Peel slumped in the corner, black goggles over her eyes, a churning mouth-full of bubble gum the only indication of life. Her two earth pony retainers stared daggers, looking past the three specialists in red House Apple barding at the varied shapes of the Underwell mercenaries. Mostly pegasi. Two hulking diamond dogs in carapace parkas and rebreathers. Twenty figures in all. We thumped and whistled through the night.

The Albatross (as labeled) finally hovered a shaky landing, and the rear ramp's lowering hiss showered us in cold.

Abridged, a cream-colored unicorn with a puffy brown mane and the slick countenance of the young and undamaged, huddled next to me. Her meekness made me look positively heroic by comparison. Still, she had a certain subtle magnanimity of which I was instantly fond. We piled out with the rest.

The wind yanked at my parka and saddlebags like a determined thief. The barren cold was, in a way, freeing. If I died in the cold, I died on my own accord.

"Dernit Lozenge," Apple Peel nudged me, "Ya let me fall asleep. Now I got gum in mah mane!"

The two diamond dogs, Clip and Hobble, canvassed the area with shoulder-mounted spotlights. I understood why Apple Peel insisted on hiring them. The looked like murder on two legs.

Hobble, so named for his cybernetic leg (did I say murder on two legs?), swept his shotgun across the featureless landscape. "Nothing here," he shouted, staring at a wrist-mounted screen. For such an imposing creature, he had a small, nasally voice.

"Stay close," said Hush; the black pegasus' green mane and purple eyes hidden inside a parka hood and bubbly rebreather. He was supposedly a historian. A historian with a stiletto cutie mark.

The ramp of the transport closed, cutting off the light. We trudged behind our diamond dog guides until we were surrounded by derelict remnants. Whatever it had been, the Hoarfrost long ago claimed it. The scant stone and steel that escaped the surface, however, had strange markings. Whirling black markings.

"It looks like there was a fire," Abridged said what I was thinking.

A dilapidated arch passed overhead, casting eerie shadows in the searchlight. Chunks of ice had been recently cut out and hauled to the edges of the clearing and built into a sheltering wall against the wind. Hundreds of years worth of accumulation smashed and torn away from what looked like a set of blast doors. The snow and ice was already working to reclaim them.

"Ya see, we were checkin' the Hayseed Tundra fer places to mine phosphates, fer fertilizer," Apple Peel stabbed a hoof towards the marred doorway, "We found this."

"And the survey team never returned?" I ventured.

"Ha ha," she said, "Nah, the survey team just couldn't get in."

"So why the combat gear?"

"Ya know, darlin'," she winked, "I'm just wearing this getup t' look good."

"Oh, so your barn door swings that way?" the bat pony interjected. He was obscured by a faded orange cloak, but a long rifle barrel poked out from beneath.

"Mah barn door is double-hinged, thanks fer askin'," she said, "but sorry, I don't go batty."

He snickered.

Abridged now cowered to the other unicorn in our cadre; a red stallion. "So, what's your special talent?" she asked, her voice low and flirtatious.

"You'll see in a second," he smirked.

The diamond dogs unloaded gems from their pack and began lining the doors with them. I checked over my chemistry kit and adjusted my boots while the others kept watch. I brought sampling and testing supplies, but under those I stashed two syringes of Laughter Double-Plus. You could inject it anywhere, but it had the side effect of giving you the four-cups-of-coffee jitters. A small jaw pistol rounded out my gear. The diamond dogs finished by connecting all of the gems with thin grey wire.

"Well alright, Sizzlestick, do yer thing."

Sizzlestick's horn shone red under his parka hood, and seconds later the gems mimicked it. The metal glowed, sizzled, and melted away. With the muscle of the remaining mercenaries, two large swathes of metal toppled inward. Clip and two pegasi went in.

"We're speculatin' this is a third-era Orchard," Apple Peel explained as we followed, "Built a smidge after tha Second Fall. Maybe by Saint Apple Bloom 'erself, when they came to rebuild tha cities. A'course, not enough records survived that era fer anypony to say anythin' fer certain."

"Maybe there are records inside. Maybe artifacts!" Abridged gushed.

"Whayel, we're hopin mainly fer farmin records, er equipment. Anythin' that'll show us why they were so much better at it than we are."

The initial antechamber was unremarkable. It looked like it must have hundreds of years ago. Circular benches surrounded ancient planters, the things inside long since murdered by the cold. Sizzlestick had to melt a second set of doors for us to enter the facility proper.

The second room was completely destroyed. The ceiling had collapsed into a pile that dominated the chamber's center; radiating outward into sloping snow drifts. Furniture and charts were thrown against the walls, showing damage conducive to the ravaging of long-extinguished fire. Abridged was practically bouncing in place. Hush was conspicuously uninterested.

One of the pegasi mercenaries shouted, "Frostsprites!"

They screeched out of the darkness; several round, bloated orbs marred by multicolored frost; jagged and oblong ice shard eyes alight with hunger; blue, insectile wings barely perceptable in the quick, urgent dark. One opened its mouth impossibly wide. I leapt and rolled to one side, narrowly avoiding what could've scooped me up wholesale.

Hobble's shotgun barked, reducing one diving frostsprite to a bloody mist. Another sprite spat shards of ice, toppling him ungracefully onto his back; the shards impaled into his carapace armor. I took shelter under a jutting piece of concrete. The world was flashing weapons, wildly bouncing lights and swarming mouths; the snap and ping of projectiles. The whole affair was utter chaos.

I struggled to get my pistol out of the saddlebag. How prepared I was. By the time I had it, half of the sprites were splattered across the floor. The rest dispersed out the overhead hole. Rapid puffs of my breath chased after.

"Anypony hurt?" called Apple Peel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as Breakbeat shot me up, I felt immensely better. The syringe floated away as the happy washed over me. I was the edges of a happy wave pool. There was an edge, though. Frivolity didn't have the same clean feeling as medical Laughter. It had a tinge of nervous, frenetic excitement. It made you itch.

Breakbeat's cutie mark, a synthesizer pedal imposed with an eighth note, looked like it started to move. Happy music.

"I don't get why you do that stuff," Syntax said. Her voice, as usual, was disaffected. She was the polar opposite of Breakbeat, and I was apparently the axis keeping them in friendly orbit.

"Because life is brutish and short, dorky swoop, " Breakbeat said; too unabashedly boisterous to be insulting.

Syntax did have a pretty dorky mane swoop. It covered half of her face, hanging to one side of her her horn; the reminder I was the only pony present unable to do aerial stunts with my breakfast cereal. She was a very light shade of grey; a sad grey; a grey that just wasn't trying hard enough, like her painstakingly-pressed-flat orange mane, with one thin blue stripe running off-center.

She had perfect vision, but wore glasses anyway. They were great glasses. Really great. I kind of wanted to kick them off her face. Then we'd sing together to the happy music. The coding symbols that made up her cutie mark started to move.

Focus.

~Body toxin levels at 0.8%.

"Was I... nice?"

"You are sooo killing my buzz."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With only minor injuries and equipment damage, we continued. Amazingly, the Generosity terminal nestled into the back wall powered on. The earth pony technician jacked in and began working. I started clearing away snow from a pile of charts. Then, I saw it. I gasped and stepped back.

A hoof jutted from the white.

We cleared the snow, revealing the remains of what once had been a pegasus mare. She was prone on her stomach with the flesh from her back and head removed. Some blackened tissue still clung to the bones. The initial damage had been catastrophic, and the resulting cold mummified what was left.

"Whatever 'appened, it was a long time ago," the House Apple medic confirmed.

Machinery sprung to life after long years of dormancy. The doors issued a subdued pneumatic hiss and slid open, shrugging free centuries of stubborn ice; revealing a larger, more expansive chamber that extended beyond immediate perception. We froze.

There were two dozen of them. Skeletons. Unlike the one outside, these bones were devoid of flesh, dessicated or otherwise. The clean white reflected our searchlights back with almost deliberate menace. This room was completely sealed. There was no snow. Exchanging glances, Clip and Hobble reluctantly crept into the sepulchral air.

The tech was still making consternated effort with the terminal.

"What's the issue?" I asked.

"This terminal is independent; I can't get into the rest of the system. There's mostly records on this one. Personnel rosters and day-to-day stuff."

"That's great," beamed Apple Peel, "we can use those."

"There's three distinct tiers of files, each from a different span of dates. The bulk are from about two hundred years ago. There's a few dating back 600 years."

"These second era terminals are incredibly durable. Preservation spells were part of their construction," added Abridged as she pulled her hood back and lit up her horn.

"Yeah. Obviously. The last file is from over fourteen-hundred years ago."

We fell silent. Almost no records remained from before the Second Fall, yet here it was. I don't think I quite grasped the enormity as much as the others. They looked like they just woke up in the hospital parts room.

"It's got some kind of five-tiered encryption, though. And a weird format. I can't open it."

The terminal flashed as he tried without avail to hack in.

"Try fr0z3n_@mbr0s!a," I suggested a password the program gave me.

"Nope."

Something tugged at my mind. I sighed, "Try it looks like rain today."

"Why in Tartarus would it... oh, that was it." He gave me a confused look. He wasn't half as confused as I was.

Through the screen's spider-webbed cracks glowed a pink earth pony with a poofy pink mane. She wore a white dress shirt with a black vest; accented with sapphire buttons and embroidered white flowers. Piercing blue eyes stared from a stress-lined face. I had to remind myself it was some ancient aperture she was studying, not us. The tech flinched back. Abridged looked with equal bewilderment.

"Hmmm... there?" the video pony's effervescent voice sputtered through the ancient speakers, "Stage right?"

"That's what's in yer drawin', Mrs. Pinkie."

She was speaking to someone off camera, but her hoof was pointed directly at me. Gesturing through hundreds, maybe thousands of years. Pointing inquisitively from the grave.

"So you might be wondering why you have a fever, and not even disco fever. That would be a fun fever, but this one isn't so fun."

Impossible.

"Aaaaaand you're trying to fix this little situation you're in. Buuuuut, there's a much bigger situation you're in, too," she continued; I noticed the bags under her eyes, "And it's partially my fault. Soooo, I'm going..."

The picture broke into sharp static lines.

"Fix it! Fix it!," I jabbed the technician as he worked.

"... giggle... we didn't... this means... trying to re-grow one, but... understand how it works... Unless Apple Bloom puts this on the wrong terminal..."

It continued cutting in and out. What in Tartarus was this?

"...but it is here. Don't worry. Pinkie promise! Cross my...bzzzzrt... eye."

Hush was paying full attention.

"Who's the other one?" the pink pony turned toward Abridged, "Oh. Ouchies."

The terminal shorted and died. The technician grumbled something about 'poking him one more damn time'.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"A metal table? Really?" Breakbeat's voice was incredulous.

"...and I just don't get this whole... thing going on," I lamented, "I guess I shouldn't be talking about this."

"Don't you get brainwashed to keep you from talking about Church stuff?" asked Syntax.

"The washed part of my brain fell out," I grinned. I was loose.

Breakbeat flipped through her music collection until she found something sufficiently bass-heavy. I pitied her neighbors. She did live in the Artist's Quarter, in the shadow of Pon3 tower, so maybe these types didn't mind.

"If it is a conspiracy, who do you think is behind it?"

"I have an... acquaintance that got a hold of some records."

"Ooooh. Another hacker? She's cheating on you, Syntax!" Breakbeat interrupted, now upside-down on her couch, kicking her rear hooves to the beat.

"Har. Har," Syntax huffed, "Is it Prompt? If you want sub-par work, have at it."

She looked genuinely hurt.

Wow. I really did keep some bad company.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What was that?" Abridged gaped, "Did she... point at me?"

"Nah that's crazy talk," Apple Peel offered a reassuring hoof, "Don't get yer saddle-straps cinched."

We continued into the facility's central branch, quiet and thoroughly apprehensive. Opening the next set of blast doors revealed another pile of skeletons. We closed this set behind us, finally sealing out the wind and flurries. This terminal yielded a facility schematic. It was an entire colony built into one massive, branching structure. From above it looked like a broad leaf, with fields interspersed in its dome-covered flesh. All of this slept under a blanket of snow, claimed by the blizzard and forgotten by time. Lives swallowed by obscurity.

"This doesn't make sense," I whispered to Apple Peel.

"Whaddaya mean?"

"There were files from two-hundred years ago. The Church must have records of that."

"Whayel, church lady, do they?"

"No. The only record I found was the short blurb by your first survey team."

The tech worked on the next terminal as the security team milled about. The entryway opened into a dome that rose into stifling darkness. I tucked my pistol into the front of my parka.

"There's another video on this one. A recent one. Lemme see if I can open it..."

A grey pegasus mare in blue security barding sat close to the camera. Her bedraggled white mane hung over amber eyes. Her countenance was one of resignation.

"Sleetsweet... head of security, team Clover Hill. I shouldn't have let Knick-Knack's team back into the dig site after Brûlée. It's the same thing that happened to the builders. So... ironic. They didn't care about Hailheart. They didn't care about anypony. I don't know who... I'm even recording this for...," she sobbed once, and only once, "Maybe I just want somepony to remember I was here."

This was recorded with the terminal's camera. She sat right where we were.

"Look, a lightses," Clip's voice came from further down the wall.

There was a thud and faint rustling, but no light.

We found the localized generator under a removable floor panel. It looked considerably older than the surrounding machinery and wiring. As the resident scientist, I was expected to coax it to life.

"Yah do r'member 'ow to do science, raht?" inquired Apple Peel. The word seemed unnatural on her lips, like she'd say something along the lines of I saw a science over there or could I have a science.

"Of course," I gulped, "it's my special talent."

It was a chemical battery. A rune-covered stone flanked four chemical tanks. Bonewire ran to the stone, and copper cabling ran from the center. A combination of unicorn magic and earth pony engineering. The chain reaction, held in perpetuity by the stone, created the electrical current. All we had to do was power up the stone and it should separate the chemicals, restarting the reaction.

This was simple theory; turning magic in electricity. The reading had paid off.

Chemistry was my special talent.

"Sizzlestick, Abridged, if I could possibly get a charge," my voice brimmed with new found confidence.

As the stone absorbed the aura from their horns, the chemical separation in the tanks occurred readily. The cloudy material drew toward the stone. The solution began to roil, and the generator hummed. The two unicorns jerked their heads back, sweating.

"It's full," Sizzlestick panted.

"Wow, that's really 'fficient," glowed the House Apple chemist.

"Says you, earth pony," grumbled Sizzlestick. The chemist shot back a derisive glance.

The hum spread across the floor and all around. The lights overhead finally clicked on, and Abridged stifled a scream. The high dome was covered in a crawling carpet of bright red fur. It churned, patches of light appearing and disappearing as it moved. The mercenaries mouths soundlessly flapped. I tried to read their lips. Some of it was pretty impressive. I filed it away in my meager glossary of vulgarities.

Wings fluttered. Parts of the mass broke off and floated in descending crimson circles.

They were moths.

"You're kidding," the bat pony chuckled.

The rest were overtly spooked. My gut sank with the same feeling as in Dr. Needleminder's office. Why did I walk in here?

"We didn't sign on for this," one of the pegasi said.

"Judgin' by that recordin'," Apple Peel jabbed a hoof toward the awakening moth cloud, "I'm callin' this. We're leavin'."

We closed the door as we made our way out. It was much easier with functional lighting, and it was alienating being dumped back into the complete dark of the outside. Utter, unbroken dark cast over a barren landscape. The transport sat lifeless. The levitation spell crystals had been removed from its underbelly.

Apple Peel tried to hail the pilots on her comm link. Nothing. When we finally pried our way in through the emergency hatch we found it empty. The battery crystal was missing entirely. We were trapped.

"Who would take the crystalses?" fumed Hobble. Flashlight beams illuminated panicked looks.

"What about the amplification crystals? Can we fit those into the ship?" the technician proposed.

"The heating matrix gem is gone," Sizzlestick replied, "we'd freeze in the air."

"There has to be some communication equipment inside, and our best chance right now is to find it. The moths didn't seem dangerous," I said. My boldness shocked me. So did my unyielding selfishness. Then again, I had taken a run at a murderous superpony. I was bold, as long the options were singular.

We cantered through fluttering moth clouds. The diamond dogs swatted at them. Abridged levitated groups of them away. Ultimately, they were more an annoyance than a threat; but their color... I couldn't stop clamping my eyes shut.

Doors, marred by the exertions of desperate hooves, opened on skeletons piled in groups; some trying to force through doorways, some clustered in alcoves as if seeking to simply not face the end alone.

Following the schematics, we worked towards the communications hub, but every route was blocked by sealed doors. We needed a security key. Who would have a universal key but a security pony?

SECURITY WING

As we passed under the blue and white sign, I heard a whisper from all around. Faint at first, then rising. As quickly as it came, it faded, and the group's panic was barely contained behind practiced facades. Even the hardened mercenaries were sweating. Abridged was visibly shaking. Only Hush and I maintained a somewhat unruffled veneer.

I was raw to shock.

In fact, I was angry. Was I the universe's whipping pony? Couldn't these burdens belong to another? The heat welled up. My parka was suddenly stifling.

Sin's debt is paid by the young.

What?

Closely-spaced doors with reinforced adjacent windows lined the walls. Looking through the portholes revealed uniformly arranged studio-style living areas, some with scant personalizing items; pictures, tapestries, beads. This had to be the barracks.

We noticed one hatch suspiciously welded shut. Blast shields sealed the window. A relatively new-looking placard by the door read: "Sleetsweet - Head of Security". It stood up admirably, but ineffectively, to Sizzlestick's talent. This room had been a refurbished living space, with ancient walls contrasting new furniture and sanitation devices.

"What about paying for sins?" I asked.

"Don't joke about things like that!" Abridged shivered.

"Good one. Dark, but good," chuckled the bat pony. He flapped his membranous wings to shoo some circling moths.

There was a second doorway in the corner; the room beyond completely dark. The light over the door was smashed. Stepping tentatively inside, I saw all of the lights in this room were likewise smashed. Oddly, there was no broken glass on the floor.

I nudged my flashlight on. A bed, flanked by two tables, was positioned at the far end of the oblong room. To my left was the lavatory. The rest of the room's furnishings had been thrown violently inside it, with a bent canvas bed wedged into the door. The bat pony walked past me towards the bed, and I followed close behind.

My jack monitor made a faint whistle. It was the most pleasant sound I'd heard from the thing.

#~Sparkle radiation levels 5% above mean.

Maybe not so pleasant.

"Did you get a radiation warning, too?" Abridged peeped. We nodded.

A sheet had been tied to the overhead light apertures and hung around the bed. I shined my light over the tables. Aged apparitions stood in the cold, preserved in what was essentially a giant refrigerator. A stuffed Ursa Minor. Some plastic jewelry. A hoofball.

"Abridged, do you mind?" I asked.

She carefully peeled away the sheet in a white aura, revealing a carefully wrapped pile of blankets. My fever was starting to incite sweat. The blanket glowed and started to unravel. I took a step closer and tripped over the table leg. The bat pony tried to bite onto my parka, but I toppled past too quickly and sprawled yelping into the bed.

I grunted and flailed, trying to untangle my head. When the predatory textiles finally released me, I came muzzle to muzzle with a bleached white skull. I leapt backwards onto my haunches, again misjudging the distance and toppling onto my side. My two companions stared down at me.

"Are you the group dance supervisor?" snarked the bat pony.

I shot to my hooves. Jerk.

We stood before the filly's remains and all of her worldly possessions. She'd been wrapped carefully in her shroud of blankets. That was, until my ungraceful, centuries-late respects. This room wasn't a refrigerator. It was a makeshift tomb.

"Is there a card'n 'ere 'er not?" Apple Peel's head poked through the doorway.

Abridged was obviously unhinged, "She must have died in here."

"If she had decomposed in here, there would be some remnants the bacteria couldn't dissolve," I replied, "Even then, it's cold enough that she should be mummified, like the mare in the foyer. There's nothing. She was brought in here as bones."

"What if something... ate her," Abridged gulped.

I furrowed my brow, "And wrapped her up nice and cozy after?"

"Great myst'ry," interjected Apple Peel, "Card?"

There wasn't one. Maybe there was something on the terminal. Solstice bless these preservation spells, and whatever olden pony wove them. The password took a few guesses: "Hailheart".

>>USER: Sleetsweet
>> Entry #1
>> I'm optimistic about this opportunity. Just to get away from Manehatten is a relief, and Hailheart is in high spirits. She's coughing less, too. Doc Flask is taking excellent care of her. And he's good looking, but I digress. The pay for the assistant head of security is pretty good. I'll finally be able to take proper care of her. It'll do wonders for my guilt. Keeping the Church at wing-tip distance will do wonders for my anxiety. Maybe we'll both breathe easier out here.

This facility is crazy. I can't believe the previous homesteaders just packed up and left. Then again, I'm wary about the archeological team imbedded with us. They're supposedly here to check out something under the Orchard. That makes me nervous.

>>USER: Sleetsweet
>> Entry #7
>> I could see this relationship with Flask going somewhere. Mom would be so excited if I married a doctor. We'll commission another little filly or colt. Listen to me, gushing. Bah. Not a fan of the Trottingham accent, though.

>>USER: Sleetsweet
>> Entry #19
>> Today I'm head of security! I feel bad for Longrifle, getting shipped out like that, but he was becoming... unstable. He started complaining about voices and such. I guess it's best for everypony. The pay is muuuuch better, which is exciting. Problem is, now I have the unenviable job of overseeing the dig site and meeting with the Priests and various Church emissaries. I'm not the most tactful mare.

>>USER: Sleetsweet
>> Entry #22
>> Hailheart is doing so well. Flask and I are trying to keep this as professional as possible, but everypony knows. It's a small settlement, after all. I finally feel like my life is coming together. I still hate the site and all of those annoying moths. I wish the Butterfly team would let me torch them.

>>USER: Sleetsweet
>> Entry #34
>> Now I'm hearing voices. Everypony involved with the site is. What's under us is definitely Second Era, but there's something else even deeper than that. First Era? Before that? No doubt it's where the moths are coming from. I'm kind of wishing it was me they took away in the straight jacket.

>>USER: Sleetsweet
>> Entry #39
>> Flask went back into the dig site with the others. I'm going in after them. No time. Leaving the spare security key with Berry Tart.

>>USER: Sleetsweet
>> Entry #40
>> I tried to follow old pegasi traditions. This is as close to a cloud as I could manage. We'll be together again soon.

It took them months to hear voices. We'd been here hours.

There was also a video titled "Only Young Once". It was a recording of this room. A gray pegasus mare played with a giggling filly, bouncing a ball back and forth. That same ball lay flat on the table. I gritted my teeth.

Berry Tart was a cook, according to the roster. The whispering continued as we navigated the now-lively clouds of moths. As we neared the kitchen, the chaos started.

It started with a flutter.

The soft rushing, like settling snow, built into an alarming whoosh. That became a roar. By the time the flock of red moths swooped around the corner, it sounded like a blizzard rattling my brain. These monstrosities were half the size of an adult pony, with six barbed wings and obtruding proboscises. Jumpy mercenaries now had things to put rounds in, and responded with their own flashing cacophony. Several bugs dropped or exploded. The rest soared in through the obscuring red cloud.

One pegasus' saddle cannons spat rings of pink fire. Smaller moths sizzled and burned, clearing openings for others to aim. He was the first victim. One wing tore along the back of his head. He leapt, spurting blood as he wheeled into the air to fire again. A second moth rammed him head on. A third slashed off his front leg, which skidded to a bloody stop next to my hoof. He managed one more shot, incinerating another wide swath, before his eyes were slashed from their sockets.

The smaller moths greedily lapped up the blood.

"Tha' kitchen!" roared Apple Peel.

I ducked a red blur and rolled. My saddlebags stuck and pinned me onto my back under the anarchic typhoon. That was their strategy. The smaller moths were a screen. Hobble grasped me by the parka as he shredded a moth with buckshot; growling, "Stupid pony!" as he righted me. Managing to yank out my pistol, I galloped after the disappearing set of House Apple barding.

A moth landed on the back of the pegasus next to me and sunk its thorny proboscis into the base of his skull. He immediately went limp. I fired in its general direction, not stopping to see the result.

Abridged was weeping. Hush had disappeared. To top it all off, I heard a whisper.

Surrender your days.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Did I like stallions or mares?" I asked.

"Oh, wow," Breakbeat face-hoofed.

"What do you like now?" inquired Syntax, paying all-too-much attention.

"I don't know."

I was trying to drink while lying on my back, and dropped my half-full glass of apple whiskey onto my face.

"You were always a klutz," snickered Breakbeat, "made all the more hilarious by your poetic waxing."

"And so my flanks shall seek the sweet soft of ground," I paraphrased; the sting of the whiskey leaking down my nostrils.

Syntax broke her indifferent demeanor and grinned.

"Do you remember anything about... us?" Breakbeat was suddenly sedate.

"I remember that we were really good friends."

They both smiled.

I lied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eight of us made it to the kitchen; Abridged, Apple Peel, myself, Clip, Hobble, the bat pony, Sizzlestick, and a black pegasus. I bucked the door control and it hissed shut. A few of the smaller moths flitted around. I crushed one angrily under my hoof.

"About ya joke from earlier," the bat pony panted, "It's suddenly not funny."

No key. No key anywhere! I unsealed the larder. The three corpses inside hadn't suffered the same fate as everypony else. They were preserved by the cold, frozen and dead in the act of... copulation? If you had to go, I guess, though I admittedly wouldn't know. That one stallion was as lucky as a dead pony could be. Again, I guess.

The whole colony was a larder.

"Car-, car-, car-!" I rooted around in their stiff, ancient clothing, drooling all over my pistol. How did other earth ponies hold these things for so long? It went off right between my hooves, putting an unnecessary hole in what must have been Berry Tart, judging by her faded cutie mark. She was the dandelions in the sandwich. Berry Tart indeed. I put the pistol away.

In mingled anger and panic, I started bucking over the shelves. Each collapsed, showering me in an array of canned tomatoes, pickles, and eventually a security key. She'd put it under a tin of beets.

Something had been bothering me since coming in, and I finally, horrifically, put my hoof on it. The covers on all of the air vents were gone. All of them.

"They're in the..."

A moth erupted from the vent, tearing across Clip's shoulder, sending ribbons of his carapace armor spiraling through the air like torn paper. A spray of blood followed. Hobble grabbed it by the head and dashed its brains across the preparation table.

"Dammitses!" Clip hissed.

I was oddly numb to the whole situation. Adrenaline pushed my body along. The others howled and darted, firing their weapons.

It was going to wheel left.

We outran the moths to the Communications blast door, but it wouldn't close fast enough. A moth sailed, like some graceful red harbinger, under the door as it hissed down.

It wheeled left.

I leapt before anypony could aim in. As it turned I stomped it violently into the ground with both front hooves. Blue ichor spurted as I reared back and trampled again. My anger finally found a way out. I stomped the whole, hideous mess of my life into the cold metal. When I was done, the fore-sleeves of my parka and my boots were stained blue.

"She's crazies," said Clip.

"I like her," replied Hobble.

Blocking them with a door only delayed them until they could find a vent. Of course! They must be tracking us by something other than sight or sound. This was chemistry. Making a lure would be complicated, and require ingredients I didn't have, but I could make something so strong it would screen everything.

"What'n-the-hay 're you doin', Lozenge?"

I was flustered and hurried, rage and fear shaking my muzzle as I tried to maintain the required precision to mix the chemicals in my kit. I only managed to blurt back, "Science!"

The vent directly overhead started to rumble. I poured out the initial mixture. It vibrated as I pulled out the last vial, the catalyst, and smashed it into the puddle.

Amaroidal smoke rose into the entering moths. They floundered about wildly, their senses overcome. To us it was mildly irritating. To something so chemically sensitive, it must have been like acid.

"That should buy us some time," I snapped. Abridged stopped crying for a few seconds in awe. Hobble yanked her along.

"I don't... feelses...," Clip groaned and toppled over.

"Quick, fix!" Hobble nudged me; as if my one chemistry trick now made me, the earth pony, a magician.

He wasn't bleeding badly enough for shock, I was pretty sure. In fact, it looked like the powder on the moth's wing served as some kind of coagulant. The wound was, however, full of barbs. It had to be a toxin. Clip wasn't dead either; he seemed to be catatonic.

Oh no.

"They're preserving us."

"Wh... what?" Abridged gasped.

"I aint never seen nothin' like this," Apple Peel sighed, "This'll make one whoppin' r'port, if I get t'make one."

Hobble was dragging Clip by the vest, but eventually wore down. He was a pragmatist. He gave his unconscious companion a reassuring pat and stuffed him in a supply locker, leaving only a promise he'd come back. We were lost. The technician had the schematic, and was most likely a mess somewhere between the kitchen and security. We stopped at a terminal, but I couldn't get past the encryption. Dammit.

Sometimes, just sometimes, the universe gives you what you ask for. It pays you for your pound of flesh. A faded green and white arrow pointed "Communications".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was really loose when I plugged into Breakbeat's terminal unit. Familiar text immediately popped up.

>>How much time are you going to waste?

"As much as I want."

>>Great. Well, I have some documents that might interest you.

I started reading.

~Body temperature at 103 degrees.

>>As you can see, Doctor Helix was oblivious to what he was doing.

No.

>>How about my proposal? I'll arrange everything, you just need to go where I can't.

"You know, you'd make a great secretary."

>>Maybe.

~Body temperature at 104.1 degrees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes the universe dangles a carrot just so it can beat you for licking your lips. The control card was gone, proclaimed the flashing green control screen. Please insert. I wanted to insert my pistol. Into my mouth. The wrong way.

"We're... gonna get out of here, right?"

There it was again. Somepony grasping at me for hope.

"Sure, Abridged," I replied, "We're going to get out."

Fine, if that's the way the universe wanted it. What I was after was in there, somewhere behind an abhorrent death. What my stalker wanted was in there. That would get me what the zebras wanted. That would get me what the Church wanted. That would get me off this barbed metaphoric hook. But my lies killed ponies.

I didn't know. It sent me in here blind.

Well, not entirely.

I jacked in. This terminal took the password from my stalker. Finally. I mapped out the dig site and downloaded a copy. This terminal wasn't cut off from the main record bank, either. Whoever was in charge used this office. I could see every terminal that hadn't been severed from the network. Records detailing the expedition laid before me; a mosaic of tragedy.

>> USER: Doctor Flask
>> Entry #9
>> I'm unsettled by the lack of records from the builders. The equipment itself is still in top shape. This was clear and deliberate expunction. Only the few files with strange encryption remain, leaving all the more questions. Why build something this elaborate on top of a second era site? Why try to re-colonize it now?

On an unrelated note, the mare working with Longrifle is making her interest in me slightly less than subtle. She's good looking, no doubt. I usually don't dabble with mares that already have a foal. Eh. I'm not getting any younger.

>> USER: Doctor Flask
>> Entry #28
>> What happened with Longrifle seems to be indicative of a colony-wide phenomena. Those that spend the most time in the dig site are obviously the most affected. Worse off, the medical staff seems suspiciously unconcerned and dismissive. I'm no psychologist, but all of these ponies seemed normal. Just hopeful settlers. Now it's akin to living in a colony of agitated zomponies.

The samples from the site are most certainly Second Era. It was obviously a research facility, specializing in military applications. We're having an awful time trying to bypass the security. Our technology is obviously a pale comparison to what they had arrayed back then. Most of the security is biometric, so I wonder if a cloning solution would suffice. It's extremely precise. I doubt we possess the contending precision to fool it.

Strangely, there seems to be samples predating the original facility site. They built the base on top of something else. We have a site on top of a site on top of something else. Oh my.

Just what the devil are we doing here?

>> USER: Doctor Flask
>> Entry #40
>> Sleetsweet has a plan. It's a tad nihilistic, but breaking cycles is no easy business. The main communications components should be compatible with the machinery in the old facility. It's not like we can call for help anyway. They knew what was going to happen when they allowed us to come here.

I've always considered myself a pragmatist, a man of science, unperturbed by mysteries. Still, I must admit, the unknown precipice of death looms heavy. It's been a pleasure, you vast and ridiculous universe. May rats eat the eyes of the Bishopric.

Hopefully we can all meet our fate with such aplomb.

Video records; starting with the same shiny-pony optimism, ending with the same sunken faces. Some ended in panic. Desperate messages for friends that would never get them, or for nopony. Just their conscience. The system had auto-wiped the surveillance bank.

The surveillance system.

Every store room, promenade, and hallway corner flashed before me. None of the orchard cameras came online, but that was understandable. They had been exposed to the elements with no maintenance for too long. Many of the cameras only showed moth underbellies. My jaw dropped.

"What is it?" asked Apple Peel.

"They're dragging the bodies into the dig site."

Nervous glances all around.

"Whayel lookee 'ere," canted Apple Peel, "Anypony know 'ow to pick locks?"

The armory locker (marked "Armory") was sealed by several thick metal latches with old fashioned, physical key locks. Shooting at a weapons locker was probably not the best idea. Luckily, I had brought a good amount of strong acid for rendering mineral samples. It ate right through the hinges. Picking locks was for suckers.

Hobble threw open the lid, revealing some small arms and ammo. I stuffed a flare gun and an extra pistol clip into my bag, and snagged a satchel marked "grenades"; the things inside resembling crystal apples. Dominating the box was a heavy weapons rig. A shiny white-and-red-checkered rocket protruded from the top, counterbalanced by a heavy machine gun.

Apple Peel whistled, and winked back at the bat pony, "Looks like ah found mah new colt-friend."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Going down the tunnel; a sharp, curving decline carved into the center of a cordoned-off dome; took a certain mindset. The lone spotlight hit at an angle, rendering the entrance a wavering black pool. Climbing in was like wading into liquid darkness. I teetered between ambivalence and a cold and clawing fear, pushing icy wedges between my roaring veins. Beneath it was the same gutsick anger I felt in Deep Well Two. Something primal and half-there.

I counted the doors. One, two, three, four, five...

Surprisingly, Abridged had insisted on accompanying us, ignoring our offer to stay in the control room. Her archeological curiosity had overcome her fear. Plus, the light from her horn was mighty handy indeed. The group formed a protective ring around the two of us.

"Why are they even here?" the bat pony snapped to Apple Peel.

"It's thar choice."

"They're a liability. This isn't a research trip anymore."

"Hey, I have a gun," I defended myself.

"The closest thing you came to shootin was my flank! Or do ya count the mercy killing of the lusty freezer mare?" he replied.

Crap. He saw.

All arguments silenced. The tunnel ran into a hatch marked "Emergency"; the door marred by abrasions I couldn't faintly place the cause of. As we approached, it slid open. Fresh bloody smears trailed across the ground.

My whole coat tingled. This was wrong.

"The door," I grumbled.

"What abaht it?" asked Apple Peel, tottering under the weight of her new rig.

#~Sparkle radiation levels 15% above mean.

"It's the sixth."