Chatterlips in the cellar

8 Years later

Canterlot had been no better than the rest of Equestria, and Ponysmouth-- Ponysmouth was stupid.

Chatterlips takes solace in the fact he was spared both, conveniently omitting the fact he'd been "cast out" to sit, perfectly alive, in this cellar. Enduring ponykind's more annoying mistakes was better then the dumb tortures the one princess implemented or the boring serenity of the other. His cellar is his haven, though he wishes sometimes that it hadn't kept him captive for so long.

At one point he'd sworn that he could not die. Countless suicide attempts and near-misses from frantic-for-revenge-captives only served to cement that in his mind as a Fact. Something always distracted him—the bag of pus always lay dead at his feet, not screaming or crying or gagging through profanities—and he was always as screwed up as before. And, despite these slip-ups, he never managed that release, that cold plateau of perfection; he believed this just as much as he believed he could never get caught.

Well, he'd been dead for the better part of an hour before being dragged back to the world of pungent personalities and restless functions: one more thing in his life down the drain.

He remembers the burping fat thing people prayed to, the cheerless lazy-boys spread across an empty plain. He remembers the cheer-leader, coat-stealing succubus.

Chatterlips remembers the clamminess of arriving in his own skin, the blinding pain that preceded the opening of his eyes and followed with every flicker of light; he remembers being born again into a used body and realizing he has no chance. No second chance.

If he belongs here, without a warm blanket or answers, he'll accept that, because there is nothing else to do. And if he does not belong in either places, he wonders what'll happen when he runs out of time or sanctuaries.

Will he—is he an immortal? Chatterlips chews on this sometimes and concludes he cannot pin-point whether it is a good or bad thing to want that. But emotions are pointless. Having an eternity of dealings with that is…annoying, trivial.

Will he be a ghost?

The implications of this theory are not lost on him. He gets visits, or got them, from some strangers and they used their time to mock him, like Sombra. They are listless shades speaking in monotone fragments or strange creatures from other place, drained of what made them deserve the death they were dealt. Nearly perfect. But could he still wield a purpose? Would he still hear the voices?

Did he want his hunger gone?

Would the cellar let him go or would he be bound to it still, to the impulsive needs of an out of touch monarch?

And what of the civil service ponies above? The poor ponies would be lost without Chatterlips there to protect them. If he were not able to in life (which he doubts) then he'd rip through walls with ectoplasmic hands, put said hands down the criminal’s throat and drag out a very real heart, that's what he'd do. A buddy. A buddy to torment. The mayor would be terrified no doubt, but all the better for it.

But that's the kind of thinking that got him here in the first place.

He smiles his chapped lips.

It's a good place to be.