Chapter 1: A Clean Getaway
The Great and Powerful Trixie trotted down the off-ramp from the Blueskin Bridge, pulling her yellow and red caravan wagon. It had been over an hour since she had demolished Bottom Billing's office, an act which she had judged called for a hasty and unannounced departure from the crowded Island of Manehattan, most populous city in the land of Equestria. Trixie's step was still light and her heart merry, for she had crossed the mile-long metal bridge, passed the tunnel in the 500-foot-high beetling cliffs of the Palomisades, and was right now setting her hooves upon the Island pf Jersey -- which she happened to know was in the next county over from Manehattan.
And nopony had pursued her. The Mostly-Lawful but Sometimes-Misunderstood Trixie was enough of a veteran of the road life to know that leaving a town unpursued was a good thing, and getting across the county line was an even better thing, lest some ponies of evil and narrow minds decide that she was not the pony of good and noble character she knew herself to be, and organize a posse while she was in the process of leaving. She could relax now -- unless somepony had set a bounty on her, or the Royal Guards themselves for some reason were after her, she was now safe from arrest.
The road off the bridge was wide, and it made a gentle turn to the south along the route she had selected. West and south, she'd decided. She wanted to go southwest down the coast to Fillydelphia, then cut west to Manechester, stopping along the way for supplies and to scout out opportunities. Past there? She didn't know. Perhaps she would have already found a venue that would truly appreciate her talents. If she had, then she could head back toward Baltimare, maybe even by rail -- Manechester was right at the junction of the Fillydelphia and Baltimare lines.
A certain arrogant, domineering, handsome ... now why had that thought crept in? ... unicorn stallion would no doubt be amazed at the successes won by the Awesome and Impressive Trixie! He would beg to have her come back to be in his show. And after he'd begged enough, if he begged just right ... maybe something involving flowers, dinner and long and earnest conversation ... perhaps she would deign to honor the Hippodrome with her magnificent talents!
Trixie was smiling widely to herself at this vision of a pleading and worshipful Piercing Gaze, as her wagon rolled off the bridge and down the main street of the town of Lionsville. On her right rose Fort Traveler, which with Fort Blueskin on the Manehattan side had once rendered the Manehattan Straits impassable from the north to any hostile surface warships. She'd thought that they had been long since turned into historical monuments, since the last great war had ended many decades ago, and was slightly surprised to see a modern Equestrian naval airship moored to the fort's main mast, and soldiers peering over the parapets.
They must still be nervous about what happened a few days ago, she thought. Another reason to leave the island. What if somepony thought Trixie was connected to those terrible black magicians who attacked my performance? Granted, it didn't seem reasonable, as she -- or whatever had been conjured in her place -- had been fighting the shadow-shrouded nightmare ponies, but she had learned from hard experience that townies could get the strangest ideas about the Great and Powerful Trixie. Especially if something went wrong with her pyrotechnics. They are always so quick to blame me for every little thing that happens! she remembered.
It's as if they think there's something wrong with towing a caravan packed full of black-powder explosives through their quiet little towns, she thought to herself, ruminating upon the unreasonableness of towns-dwellers. Well, granted there are some ponies whom one could not trust with such devices, but I am the Great and Powerful Trixie, after all. Can't they tell that I'm no ordinary Pony from my very name? "The Great and Powerful Trixie," she meant, of course -- she hated to be called "Lulamoon." Why in the name of all sanity did some ancestor of mine pick the name "Lulamoon," anyway? It makes me sound insane.
This reminded her that she needed to purchase some supplies, starting with those very black-powder explosives. Almost all her pyrotechnics had been used up during that unexpectedly-extended Summer Sun Celebration performance, which she had perhaps unwisely contracted to play "until sunrise." No one could say that the Great and Professional Trixie would fail to honor a contract to perform! But the consequence had been that she had nothing left in her fireworks store but a few small smoke bombs.
Lionsville was a growing town. From the looks of the businesses -- many of them wainwrights, leather goods dealers and restaurants -- a lot of its business came from the freight trade to Manehattan. She saw a lot of big heavy freight wagons, some of them towing trailers, moving along the main street or parked at these businesses. There were also numerous big burly Earth ponies pulling these wagons, or walking along the sidewalks in search of food or entertainment.
Perhaps not the best place for theatrical supplies, she concluded. Still, I can get some food for the wagon's stores, maybe get a bite to eat myself. Trashing Bottom's office really worked up my appetite. She cast her gaze about, looking for a restaurant. Never shop for supplies on an empty stomach, she had learned long ago. The last time she had done so, she had wound up with a wagon full of corn chips and cream-filled donuts. That had been one long road full of -- She refused to finish the thought, as indelicate, and thus quite beneath her, even in her memory.
She pulled off the main street and parked on one of the side streets, far enough from the town's primary thoroughfare that no one just passing through would casually spot her yellow-and-red caravan. Since she had her Cutie Mark actually painted on a sign hanging from the front, and again on a panel on the rear, it was not exactly the best vehicle from the point of view of concealing her identity. This was normally intentional, as she sought publicity for her career, but could be problematical on the unfortunately all-too-frequent occasions that someone was attempting to follow her with unpleasant intentions.
Unharnessing herself, she went into her van, threw a light brown cloak over her lovely form, and strolled down toward the main street. The cloak concealed her Cutie Mark and made her light-blue, almost white mane and tail less obvious. Aside from these, she was just one Pony in the crowd. True, Trixie is a Unicorn amongst Earth Ponies, and an exceptionally-beautiful mare at that, she thought, but those won't leap out at anyone just passing through the town. On the off-chance somepony's looking for her, the Cautious and Canny Trixie should be pretty safe, she told herself. And if she's not, she has a couple of smoke bombs under the cloak. She smiled to herself as she remembered her many cunning tricks, and knew that she should be safe from any followers.
After all, she reminded herself it's not as if the Guards are on Trixie's trail!
***
The Canterlot Limited pulled into Grand Central Station at 2:43 pm, 11 minutes late.
"What is the point," asked Lieutenant Straight Arrow, as he and his partner debarked the train, "of the railroad even running a limited if they can't make it run on time?" The big, burly unicorn stallion might have leapt off a recruiting poster for the Day Guard, with his white coat, deep blue mane, and light blue eyes. All three were natural. Despite these appearances, Straight Arrow was an officer of the Night rather than the Day Guard: in point of fact, an agent of the Night Watch.
"Things happen," replied Sergeant Silent Shadow with a shrug. He was a small, wiry pegasus stallion with a dark gray coat, dark purple mane and deep blue eyes. His coloration was also natural, and it almost seemed surprising that he did not have the bat-wings of the Nocturnae. Of course, if he had been biologically a Night Pegasus, he would not have been qualified for plainclothes work, as his appearance anywhere off Mount Avalon would have excited considerable attention. He too was of the Watch.
They trotted rapidly out of the terminal. Before them hummed the life of Manehattan, apparently unshaken by the horrors of three nights past. Cabs flitted in the street outside, taking on passengers and clopping off, only to be replaced by new cabs. The whole arrangement resembled some strange factory-machine, a conveyor-belt for ponies instead of parts.
"We'll get there faster on foot," Silent Shadow murmured.
"You're the expert on this town," assented Straight Arrow. "Lead the way."
They went south on Park Avenue. Around them bustled the masses, above them rose the buildings of the great city. Straight Arrow was not easily moved by anything less than the semi-divinity he served, but the skyscrapers of Manehattan impressed him: in ranked masses they seemed less like ordinary buildings than like artificial mountains. They were awesome in a different way than were the cool spires of Canterlot: those were a fairy architecture, built to the standards and for the purposes of another order of being; while these towers of masonry and steel were purely of this world.
Straight Arrow could sense signs of the damage that had come three days ago. There was a smell of smoke in the air, and here and there he could see a collapsed building, occasionally with a faint haze rising from it. All the serious fires had been put out two days ago, but within some of the heaps of rubble, some substances must still have been slowly smoldering. The Ponies of Manehattan seemed to be paying this no mind, merely walking around the hasty barricades that had been erected around the damaged structures. As always, the ability of Ponies to rise above disaster and rebuild their lives astounded him, renewed his faith in his own species.
They trotted south about a mile together, rarely reaching even a canter along the crowded sidewalks. The streets themselves were congested with wagons of every type, loaded with all sorts of goods. The commerce of half a continent flowed through this great metropolis, Straight Arrow knew, which was exactly why Equestria's unknown enemy -- the force that the Watch was already beginning to call among themselves "The Shadows" -- had tried to destroy it.
That destruction had been attempted by a small band of terrorists -- no more than thirteen black-cloaked Ponies of all three Kinds, who had all wielded inexplicably-great magical powers. They had almost succeeded. They had been stopped just short of achieving their goals, stopped neither by the Regular Guards nor the City Watch, but instead by something impossible. By an unknown Alicorn, calling herself Illusion, who had appeared to aid the showmare Trixie Lulamoon. Illusion vanquished them, and as abruptly vanished -- leaving an unconscious Trixie, and many unanswered questions.
They really should have come sooner. But the Longest Night had caused chaos all over Equestria: there had been many strange events, and an outbreak of violent attacks from both monsters and -- ominously, Ponies -- which had still not yet wholly died down. The Night Watch had been very busy, and more than a few individuals and items had been classified "WCP" and gone into the Special Archives below the Palace Library.
Straight Arrow and Silent Shadow themselves had fought for their lives against a bestial fanged and clawed creature that had finally been subdued with the help of a specially-forged blunt silver bolt which Straight Arrow had himself fired from his service crossbow. The semblance of a chalicothere had faded away to reveal -- an unconscious a fifteen-year-old filly, two of ribs broken by the bolt, but otherwise unhurt. The big brains were still trying to figure out how that had happened -- Straight Arrow was just glad that he hadn't shot her with one of the sharp-headed bolts. If he had, those nightmares would have taken a long time to leave him.
The Watch normally would have ordered them to take some leave after an encounter like that. The Watch sometimes demanded great risk, but it was kind to its members afterward. It was a measure of the great need of the times that Straight and Silent were instead ordered to Manehattan, to interview Trixie Lulamoon and investigate the Alicorn Illusion. Normally the Manehattan Field Office would have sent their own agents, but they too were overworked: half were casualties of the Longest Night, and the others frantically searching for the Shadow Ponies who had inflicted those losses.
So Straight and Silent, barely rested from their last assignment, were called into action again. Straight Arrow supposed that it was something of an honor that they were this highly thought-of by their superiors. He wasn't complaining, though -- interviewing an injured showmare was easy compared to fighting a crazed chalicotherequinoid horror. And this "Alicorn Illusion" had been friendly, by all accounts -- there seemed little danger of violence from her, whatever she turned out to be.
It should be an easy assignment. He pitited his colleagues in the Manehattan Office, who might have to fight the Shadow Coven.
At least he and Silent wouldn't be doing that.
***
The metropolis of Manehattan sits atop an invisible city, of which its Pony inhabitants are vaguely aware but seldom see and even more seldom visit. This is the labyrinth of tunnels; of water and gas pipes, of sewers, of subways, and other delvings beneath the great city. Many date back before the skyscrapers, some date back to the time of separate port-towns. A few date back even to before the Cataclysm, to the Age of Wonders, to the city of the titan towers that preceded known history.
Much lies under Manehattan, some of it mapped, and some forgotten. It is a good place for things to be forgotten, to rot away in the Underdark. It is a good place for things to go who wish to evade attention.
***
The rat sniffed cautiously from the shadow of an old barrel.
Its kind had changed little since the Cataclysm. Gotten a bit larger, perhaps, especially above the eyes, where the cranium bulged just slightly more, in a way that only dedicated zoologists would have noticed at first glance. It was smarter than its ancestors -- all life that survived that Day when the world changed forever had been descended from the brightest of their species, forced to adapt as they had been to an environment now full of sapient, magical predators.
It was not really very intelligent. Its species had neither language nor the ability to think about thinking. Unlike most of the surviving ungulates in this new age of the Earth, among whom even the bovids and ovids were as smart as would have been the great apes of the alternate timelines dominated by hominids, it lived wholly in the now, its memories dim and connected more by chains of association than of orderly, logical reasoning. It was, however, wary. And it bred in tremendous litters. Only the smartest and the wariest grew to pass on their genes, and this rat was very smart and very wary.
That did not save it.
It was unaware of the equid form that stood in one corner, cloaked in its mantle of Shadow. It crept cautiously out, advancing in short rushes, then stopping with twitching nose and whiskers to scent and feel its environment. Thinking itself safe, it darted out to seize the morsel of cheese ...
... and was scooped up within a sickly purplish-gray telekinetic aura. Squeaking in terror, the rat felt an invisible grip handle it cruelly, breaking its tiny limbs. As it squealed in pain, it was drawn before a terrifying visage -- similar to that of the great creatures who ruled the city beneath which its whole short life had been spent, similar but different. Its near-sighted beady little eyes caught a blurry glimpse of an equinoid muzzle filled with sharp jagged teeth, like the dentition of some impossible carnivore, and cat-slitted eyes glowing with purple witch-lights. Its tiny consciousness had no concept with which to understand what it was seeing, save for one.
Predator.
It was right. Had it known that it was correct, that knowledge would have provided it scant consolation as the aura shifted, tearing loose its ribs, and wrenching its spine until it snapped.
As the rat squalled forth its death-cry, something tore at it from the inside in a way for which few even of the giant equine creatures who were the rulers of its city would have had a concept, and which would have horrified it had it been equipped to understand what was happening. Its life-force was gouged free of its housing, and sucked into that great carnivorous maw. With the last of its awareness, it was drawn into what was to it a great darkness, and then ceased to be.
***
Spiritual hungers assuaged, the being who had once had a normal Pony name, but had put that name aside to style himself the Nightstallion of Manehattan felt more fundamental cravings. The Pony he had once been would have been repulsed by what he did next, but the superior being he had become was a predator by nature as well as appearance, and did not disdain a source of readily available protein. His aura pulled the corpse of his victim into his mouth, and commenced a great munching and crunching, carefully chewing his fleshy meal before swallowing it, bones and all. He need fear neither parasites nor disease: he had consumed their life force along with that of the rat, and what was left was merely raw material for his digestive tract.
I, who deserved by right of power to rule this city, he thought to himself. This is to what I am reduced. Even in his thoughts, the one who had once been a precise and proper scholar was careful not to split his infinitives. Hiding in a stinking sewer. Dining on rats.
Technically, the chamber in which he sat was part of an old smuggling tunnel which had in turn been incorporated into a storm drain system and was merely connected to the sewers, but that did not lessen the stench in his sensitive equine nose. Nor did it make raw rat taste any better.
He could have found better fare. The restaurants of the greatest city on Earth lay just twenty feet overhead. With his powers he could easily have attained the streets, taken a bath, and dined on delicious hayburgers and sauteed mushrooms with cheddar cheese. He could even have eaten meat -- good lizard steaks, properly cooked and seasoned, served with fine wines. Manehattan had plenty of restaurants catering to Griffons and other species, or even the more adventurous among Pony diners.
Instead he was, well, here. And eating what he had just eaten.
But he dared not leave the tunnels. He and his Shadow Coven had taken no particular care not to be seen when they had launched their attack. They had expected the city to be too disorganized after they destroyed the East Docks to mount any organized search. They would have been off to another city, traveling together, their magic reinforcing each other, spreading chaos throughout Equestria.
Now, their attack had failed. The Shadow Coven was sundered -- not one of the ungrateful bastards had even stayed with their leader! -- and he was a wanted fugitive, hunted not only by the City Watch but -- more ominously, by the dreaded Night Watch, those who boasted that "when things go bump in the night, we bump back."
He had become one of the things that went "bump in the night," and he devoutly did not wish to attract their ire. Not until he had become a whole lot stronger.
It was all the fault of that showmare. The Great and Powerful Trixie, she had called herself. Somehow, she had been able to summon a being of unimaginable, impossible power. The Alicorn Illusion, which had shrugged aside the strongest attacks of his Shadow Coven as if it had all been to Her some sort of game. Then scattered them, as if She had been a foal kicking aside annoying kittens.
He did not fear destruction half as much as he did humiliation. That had been his reason for summoning the Shadows in the first place, to repay the world for the humiliations it heaped upon a brilliant scholar, one who knew he was better than other ponies, in refusing to grant him the admiration and pleasures which were after all only his due by right of superiority. He would shatter this sentimental civilization, and rule as one of its destroyers -- but this Trixie had thwarted him of his just reward.
She would pay. Someday, somewhere, he would follow her, he would find her, and then she would pay.
They would all pay. But most especially Trixie.
Author's Note
The Night Watch, and the WCP variant of the SCP Foundation, are both taken from the excellent Ask A Pony blog, Ask the Night Guards. Their specific explanation for the existence of a pre-Equestrian high-tech civilization is incompatible with my own: I simply plug the Age of Wonders in as required. The need for something like the Night Watch is apparent, given the plethora of Sealed Evil in a Can type objects with which even the canon version of My Little Pony:Friendship Is Magic universe abounds, let alone that of the Shadow Wars or the Pony POVerse.
The boast of the Night Watch given here "When things go bump in the night, we bump back," is of course taken from Mike Mignola's Hellboy universe, where it is a motto of the Bureau of Paranormal Defense or BPD, one of the inspirations for the SCP Foundation and hence for the Equestrian WCP.
Chapter 2: Supplies, Spies and Secrets
The Clever and Cunning Trixie sat at the counter of the little greasy-spoon diner, munching on her beanburger and hayfries while she casually listened to the conversations around her. She was inconspicuous, listening to the conversations around her, like the accomplished intriguer she knew herself to be ever since she had eavesdropped on her older sisters as a little filly.
This was a rough workingpony's restaurant, and the ponies around her were but rough workingponies, which suited her just fine. Who would suspect a refined and respectable showmare like Trixie to frequent such a low and sordid place? Her brown cloak was quite modestly concealing, which not only should help keep the low and sordid Ponies surrounding her from getting any low and sordid notions regarding her presence in this establishment, but also served to obscure her identity from prying eyes.
Its hood hid the fine, bluish-white mane whose beauty was such a source of pride to the Lovely and Well-Groomed Trixie -- but was, alas, her second most distinguishing feature. It was also long enough to cover her most distinguishing feature -- her Cutie Mark, composed of star-tipped wand and crescent moon, indicating to all who had the wit to interpret it her high and singular destiny. With mane and mark both hidden, she was nothing but another breathtakingly-beautiful blue Unicorn mares, sitting alone in this ordinary diner.
The diner entirely filled with big, muscular Earth Pony stallions.
It belatedly occurred to the Intelligent and Observant Trixie that she didn't fit in very well into this setting. To put it bluntly, she stuck out like a sore hoof.
She wondered worriedly if some unpleasant incident would ensue. Would there be some resurgence of race-hatreds, perhaps led by the radical Levelers whose strength had been growing among working-class Earth Ponies? Or would some of the stallions, driven mad by desire for her beauty, make a crude and lustful attempt upon her nearly-spotless virtue?
If so, of course, she would escape with her usual combination of coolness, guile, illusion, magic and sheer style, for which she was famous! For a moment, she tensed herself, readying for a fight.
Then she realized that the numerous rough and hungry workingponies all around her seemed too busy eating their rough workpony meals to spare much in the way of crude and lustful attempts upon Trixie's virtue. Indeed, they seemed not even to be casting any crude and lustful glances in her direction, save for one runty stallion who -- perhaps mistaking Trixie's gaze of vigilance for something more inviting, smiled and waved timidly in her direction. A scowl soon set him to rights! She felt almost mffed at the nearly total lack of attention she was receiving from the denizens of this place upon which she had so graciously bestowed her patronage.
Then she remembered that she was trying to not be noticed, and commended herself on her skill at evasion. She continued to eat her meal, and wondered what sinister conspiracies, or rumors of a massive hunt directed against none other than the Heroic and Elusive Trixie herself she would overhear.
She learned that the Jersey Griffons were going to cream the Manehattan Sea-Pegs in the playoffs, by majority opinion, but that one dissenter believed that the Sea-Pegs were going to "moidelize dem bums." A profound philosophical debate erupted, during which the supporter of the minority position was challenged to "put his money where his mouth" was, and the challenge was accepted.
She learned that a rather average looking brown Earth Pony was stepping out with a mare who was either named, or (more likely) nicknamed "Hotsie Trotsie," and that according to him, her nature accorded well with her name. When Hotsie's beau proceeded to go into detail about the precise merits of such social enagements, Trixie switched her attention to another conversation, to preserve her appetite.
She learned that one stallion was building a new porch on his home, and also discovered in mind-boggling detail exactly what size lumber and measurements of nails were most efficient for performing for such a feat. As Trixie herself sometimes did carpentry on her van and larger props, this was actually somewhat professionally-interesting to her, but not really worthy of her cunning infiltration.
Most of all, she learned that, contrary to certain works of pulp fiction, one is unlikely to hear much about any secret conspiracies by walking into a random diner.
Her stomach but not her curiosity filled, she paid her bill and departed. As she did so, she noticed that an Earth Pony wearing a hat, trenchcoat and dark glasses; accompanied by a huge, scarred sailor-pegasus with an eye-patch; and a curiously fishy-looking equine who must have been some kind of pony, but seemed not to blink very much, entered the restaurant.
She stood at the door, looking back indecisively for a moment, then shrugged and went on her way. She had supplies to purchase -- no more time to waste fooling around.
She soon located a general store and purchased all manner of foodstuffs for the road, and some materials to do some maintenance on her caravan wagon. To her surprise she found that the porch-builder had been right regarding the greater efficiency of purchasing the wire-cut 10d box-heads in bulk. She bought some of these as well, in addition to some newspapers and magazines for the road. She trotted back to to her wagon to bring it around to pick up her purchases.
As she passed the greasy-spoon diner again, she noticed that the three ponies she had seen before had some kind of nautical chart, a musty old book, and what looked like a bag of bits on their table, and were examining a strangely-shaped gold tiara that looked as if it couldn't possibly fit anypony's head. It takes all kinds, she thought to herself. Personally, I think that tiara is crass, and silver looks better on Trixie's beautiful blue head anyway.
Loading her purchases into her wagon, Trixie set off down Route 9, glad that she had learned some useful things in Lionsville. That she really could be inconspicuous when she wanted to be. That the price of nails had gone down amazingly. And that one can't really expect to find adventure and excitement in some random restaurant.
Which was perhaps a good thing, for otherwise life would be entirely too dangerous.
***
Belle View Hospital was a huge pile of masonry, raised almost two hundred years ago as the Enlightenment started to spread from salons and laboratories to the more practical world of medicine. It had been founded by Claria Belle, a rich Manehattan society widow, heiress to a shipping fortune, who had decided to devote her declining years to good works: there were institutions named "Belle" all over the city. The Belle family was extinct now in Manehattan, but many of Claria's good works remained.
This particular one now sprawled over four city blocks, taking up the space between 26th and 28th Streets, and from 1st to Eastside, overlooking the East Channel. It had emergency rooms, surgeries, therapeutic rooms, research facilities, a large psychiatric ward, a garage for ambulances, its own docks for the landing of casualties by ship, and a staff of a thousand doctors and several thousand other staff. It was the largest hospital in the known world. It contained everything one could possibly seek in a hospital.
Everything except Trixie Lulamoon.
"Yes, she was admitted on the morning of the 22nd," said Puller File, one of the hospital's many medical records clerks. He was a small unicorn stallion, even smaller than Silent Shadow, with a pale yellow coat, orange mane and green eyes; his cutie mark was a tilted orange file-folder, the acquisition of which Straight figured must have been one of the most boring Cutie Mark stories in the history of all Ponykind. Puller flipped through the papers in the opened folder, read some more.
"Beatrix 'Trixie' Lulamoon, itinerant showmare. Fainted on stage, brought in at 11 am, assigned at 11:30, judged non-urgent, and examined at 1 pm ..." Puller looked a bit apologetic. "We were pretty crowded that morning, as you can imagine." He turned the page. "Over-channeling, thaumic and physical exhaustion, needed fluids. Put her on IV, had her on solids the next day, and she checked out this morning, 9 am."
"I'd like to see those," said Straight Arrow, in a tone that conveyed that it was only formally a request. Puller passed them over in his aura, and Straight took them in his own.
Straight skimmed the files. They confirmed Puller's statement. "Quick recovery," he commented.
"It was just exhaustion," Puller said. "A young mare like that -- only twenty, good health -- all she really needed was some bed rest. We kept her only as long as we did because there were some weird cases that morning.
Straight knew about some of those cases. The Shadows had been drawn to some ponies -- had in some cases changed them in curious manners. They were keeping Blue Bower -- the teenage were-chalicothere -- under observation in the Watch's special hospital at Canterlot, largely to see if there would be any long-term consequences resulting from her unexpected and dangerous transformation.
Trixie Lulamoon had not behaved dangerously: according to the reports, she had only fought when directly attacked by the Shadow Coven. Mostly, she had kept Tompkins Town quiet during the Longest Night. In doing so, she had saved a lot of lives and property.
Whether or not she had experienced an unusual transformation was a question entirely dependent upon what one made of the Alicorn Illusion.
Straight wondered if it would prove necessary to bring her in to the Secret Archives, rather than merely interview her. He also wondered if she would be a good candidate for the Watch itself. There were several cases of Ponies who were both classified WCP's and agents of the Watch. Some were a bit crazy -- it came with the territory of being contaminated, mutated or possessed by things so dangerous that they needed Watching -- but they were still good Ponies.
Though from the records he'd reviewed back in Canterlot, Trixie seemed a bit unreliable -- she had been in and out of minor trouble ever since her mentor White-Beard had died. Still, she'd never committed any serious crimes, nor done anything at all on record that seemed actually evil. Straight knew some Watch agents with far more checkered pasts than that of Trixie Lulamoon, who'd been changed for the better by the assumption of serious responsibility.
He put down the medical file, handed it back to the records clerk. "Did she tell anypony where she was going after leaving the hospital? Leave any more contact information?" He had noticed that the only contact given was Morgana Lulamoon, of Hoofington, listed as "mother." Trixie was offically still resident at that address in Hoofington, but given her career probably wasn't heading home right now.
"I wouldn't know about that," said Puller, taking back the file. "Whatever she said, it didn't make it into the records."
Straight Arrow and Silent Shadow walked out of the records room, Straight dissatisfied at the results of their inquiries. "Looks like we've hit a blank wall here," he said. "And Miss Lulamoon could go on the road any moment, go anywhere."
"We could check at City Hall," Silent said. "They might have her agent on record Right on the way to Tompkins Town, too."
"Good idea," agreed Straight. "Her agent would have at least a forwarding address for her."
***
Sustained, if not filled, by his recent meal, he who was now the Nightstallion of Manehattan retreated deeper into the old smuggling tunnel. There was a place where, years ago, he had found an old rotten wood door, whose presence -- coupled with the fact that it had fallen to choking dust the moment he shoved it with with one hoof -- proved that noponies had been into this part of the tunnels for centuries. It led to a chamber which had probably once been used for the storage of illicit goods, judging by the presence of a few piles of equally-rotten staves which appeared to have formerly been barrels. If they had held some wares, those had fallen to dust long ago.
The other end of the chamber overlooked a storm drain, at a sufficient height that the Nightstallion was fairly certain that the danger of flooding was minimal, barring a return of the tsunamis that had toppled the titan towers. The masonry in places was very old, its sharp edges eroded: in places it might have even seen and survived that Cataclysm. From the fact that there was an open pit, big enough to have admit one of the old barrels, he judged it to have been a place where goods had been accumulated for transfer to a smuggler's skiff.
The Nightstallion had, of course, made certain improvements upon this facility. He had installed a new door to the smuggler's tunnel, choosing old but still-sturdy wood and staining the exterior so that it looked half-rotten, despite its soundness. He had placed a sturdy wooden hatch over the shaft to the storm drain, and weighted it down at the corners so that it would be difficult for anything save a truly severe storm surge to enter. He had already ascertained that some openings at the upper corners of the room led to some sort of ventilation shafts, and that fresh air might enter by that apeture.
When he was finished, he had a nice, quiet and very private place -- one he of course did not reveal to any of the other members of his Coven, much as its ownership might have enhanced his status in their eyes. He did not fully trust his Coven -- with good reason, as the events of the Longest Night had proven -- and he did not want to risk his ultimate hideout being revealed to the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Night Watch. He knew that there was a good chance that some of them were now in official custody, so he was glad that he had taken that precaution. He believed that it was to just that measure that he owed his continued liberty.
Of course, he furnished his hideaway. He brought down a cot, a couch, table, chairs, some boxes of dry crackers and cans of fruit -- he had starch to supplement the fats and proteins he had just consumed. Bookshelves. Some glow-crystals -- not as many as he would have liked, because he had to keep the thaumic emissions down to what he calculated the surrounding concrete and stone would absorb -- but enough that, given his now-excellent night vision, he didn't have to sit and brood in absolute darkness.
Before The Night had come, he had moved down much of his personal library, including most especially his special collections -- his grimoires, his works on occult history and other lore. He did not have the authentic Codex of Shades -- that had been last seen in the possession of Sugarwing, and Grogar only knew where she'd gotten to after that disastrous fight in Tompkins Square -- but he had his pirated and incomplete Golden Goblin copy, the one that had given him most of the information he'd needed to contact the Shadows in the first place. And he had something else, a relic beyond all mortal price.
He looked at the place on his shelf where he had placed the Alicorn Amulet.
It seemed to whisper to him. Don me, it said to his soul. Don me and gain might beyond all mortal reckoning. He looked it -- shivered at its silent regard -- then took a thick black velvet cloth and with a convulsive action of his aura lidded the deadly little thing. The crimson quartz crystal that was its central element winked mockingly at him before it disappeared.
He felt as if a great weight had been removed from his soul.
He wanted power, yes -- and he was willing to merge with a Shadow to gain that power. But he had been careful to only summon a Shadow of limited strength, a Shadow which he felt he could control, most of the time.
The Shadow that lived in that amulet was one which had been great enough to overwhelm one of the strongest unicorn sorcerors in the history of the North-Realm, Prince Crimson Quartz himself. In that amulet, the Codex said, that Prince -- transformed by the power of the Shadows into the mighty King Sombra -- had placed much of his malice and might -- and a specter of his very soul.
He was fairly certain from his studies that if he donned that amulet, it would smother his own soul in an instant, snuff out his identity as if it had never been. His body would become only a vessel for King Sombra reborn.
Only an incredibly powerful mind and will could possibly survive such an experience. A true Alicorn, perhaps, or at least the Avatar of an Alicorn. Only a fool would don that amulet. And the Nightstallion of Manehattan was no fool.
He was almost sorry he'd stolen the Amulet. But he knew that it was a powerful talisman of the Great Dark, something he might be able to figure out how to tap, or at least trade to some other entity for some power more manageable. He was tempted to take the thing and toss it into the sewers -- but he knew that something like that would make sure it would be found again, and he did not like to think of somepony else profiting from his own efforts. Like all who willingly served the Shadows, he was a very selfish Pony.
He wanted to go up to the streets. He did not dare enter a restaurant, but he was certain that he could find some food, both of spirit and flesh, which would be tastier than rats. And he wanted to find as many of his Shadow Coven as he could, though he knew this was dangerous, that some at least might have been picked up and released as bait, or identified and left at large under surveillance.
He wanted them not out of love for his followers -- for there was no love left in his shrunken soul -- but because he knew he would be stronger with others to command. And besides, though he had fallen far from his native Pony estate, even the Nightstallion preferred to lead a Herd.
By day this would be too dangerous. By night -- still dangerous, as the Night Watch operated with great facility by both day and by night -- but a little bit easier. Only a few could see him then, and even less could stop him. And, everywhere in this great and ancient city, built as it was over the festering ruins of its own antiquity, he would have access to the tunnels, should he need to make a hasty retreat. He knew that not even the Night Watch could find him down there.
So he waited. Waited, for the setting of his great enemy, the Sun. Waited, to resume his revenge against all Ponykind, for its failure to worship him.
And especially, for his revenge against one accursed little showmare.
Author's Note
Whee! Trixie has a Number One Fan!
Most of the background for Trixie which I'm using in this chapter, story and the Shadow Wars in general, comes from Alex Warlorn, most specifically his Season One: Reharmonization. This version of Trixie comes from a large family with a stage background, and left them largely because she didn't want to be just one of their herd. She loves her family -- she just can't stand to be around them for very long.
As I've mentioned before, my portrayal of Trixie tries to steer a course between treating her as some sort of sweet little misunderstood angel and treating her as some sort of vamp or outright villain. Trixie is a bitch. She's arrogant, obnoxious, overconfident and downright rude. She can be nice to somepony she likes; but she can be unusually nasty (by Pony standards) to ponies she dislikes, and she really doesn't like most Ponies. On the other hand, she isn't evil: she's a show-off rather than a sadist, a boaster rather than a betrayer, and she has a strong Code Against Killing. Sexually, she's much more inclined toward extreme prudishness than she is toward promiscuity (an idea I got from her excellent characterization in the Lunaverse.
The thing I always keep in mind when writing her is that she is a "Dream Sue" -- meaning that in her own mind she is the morally-flawless and inherently-wonderful heroine of an elaborate fantasy story she's constructed around her own life. This is half patter -- a stage persona, "The Great and Powerful Trixie," which she made up to make her act more entertaining -- but she also half believes her own mental self-image.
There are both drawbacks and benefits to this.
The drawbacks are obvious: Trixie comes off as a complete loon to most Ponies when she rants on about her wonderfulness off-stage -- most adult Ponies are nowhere as naive or easily impressed as are Snips and Snails in "Boast Busters." She frequently bites off more than she can chew. And she only slowly and painfully learns from her own mistakes, since she tends to remember her own actions very selectively to cast herself in a good light.
The benefits may be less obvious, but they are real. Trixie is quite idealistic, and in some ways even rather innocent, and there are things she simply will not do because they would interfere with her image of herself as a Mary Sue. I mentioned her Code Against Killing, which White-Beard deliberately instilled in her to prevent the Alicorn Illusion from becoming a murderous monster. She will also go far out of her way to avoid harming, or even to actively help, anyone she sees as an "innocent," because rescuing the innocent is what heroines do, and the Great and Powerful Trixie is of course a heroine in her own mind.
She feels a strong sense of responsibility to her profession, and her theatrical code of honor is what led her to face down what she knew to be a murderous coven of black magicians that dark morning in Tompkins Town. Imagine you're a heroine long enough, and you may become one for real. Indeed, that's one of her major story arcs, though as we know she's going to experience some serious setbacks along the way.
This affects her own perception of her encounter with Piercing Gaze, of course. At first she chose to see it as "the blameless heroine being taken of by the evil seducer," which is why she initially convinced herself she fled Baltimare (she actually did so because she couldn't face her own carnality). The problem with that is that she had too many really happy memories of Piercing, including ones of him encouraging her, praising her, and helping her to develop her art, for her to be comfortable with casting him as a villain. So she's slowly coming around to the idea that he's her destined One True Love, to whom she must prove her own worthiness before she can return. That makes for good drama, and the Great and Powerful Trixie's life is nothing if not dramatic.
She wouldn't have it any other way.
