Blade

It was right about when Mizmahl entered the town square when Pinkamena was trudging through the snow in her backyard and into the Everwhite, holding a fire ax in her mouth.

She had finally run out of firewood to keep herself warm at night and fuel the house’s furnace. While she could have gone into town, she simply didn’t. Something made her want to go into the woods. She didn’t think too much of it. Only an impulse she figured. But it was actually the most important thing in her life to go into that forest on that day at that exact time she did. She couldn’t have known that of course so she simply trudged toward the Everwhite, looking for the perfect tree.

The perfect tree wasn’t too hard to find she assumed. It wouldn’t be too tall to carry back or too thick to grab onto once it had fallen but one that could last a very long while.

But as Pinkamena go further and further into the woods, she found it was nearly impossible to find a good tree. The ones that were perfectly thick were all much too tall and the ones that were just tall enough were always too skinny.

She groaned after a time, disgruntled. Tree after tree after tree. Nothing would work. So she trudged on and on and on.

Eventually, Pinkamena had traveled so far into the Everwhite that the biomes had shifted and she was in the Everfree forest. There was not a single good tree from her cabin to the end of the woods. She looked around the final area that served as a border between the two brushes once more to be sure that there were no potential candidates.

Nothing. Nothing was perfect.

Pinkamena dropped the ax from her mouth, letting its silver head sink into the soil at her hooves. She glared at the canopy covering the sky.

“Dammit.” She mumbled.

Pinkamena looked back in the direction of her cabin and contemplated giving up, when she heard a rustling behind her.

Pinkamena had sharpened her reflexes like her ax in the time she had doing what she did and had the ax up before she even finished spinning around to see what made the noise. It had startled her, she wouldn’t lie to herself.

The Everfree’s bush was barren (as far as she could see) and the only sound Pinkamena heard was her steady heartbeat.

Pinkamena knew better than to call ‘hello’ into the open. She herself had never answered any of her victims when they had said it. Instead, she started backing away. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for danger.

She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t being brave either. Emotion had become a surplus by then. Pinkamena would smile or frown or enjoy things every so often. Feelings had become much more like a special occasion sort of thing to her.

She heard another rustle. This time she had seen it. It was a small bush covered in peculiar berries and flowers reminiscent in shape to top hats. Pinkamena flipped the ax and stood up, pointing the pick of it toward the bush.

“Get up!” Pinkamena shouted at it. “I see you, GET UP!” she repeated firmly.

Slowly and carefully, out from the bush rose a pair of golden eyes that shone in the shadows of the shade. Pinkamena lowered her ax and let her mouth hang ajar in curiosity while she looked at the creature the eyes belonged to.

The creature was like her. It was roughly the same height and it had four hooves. But she quickly noticed that it was at the same time very different. Its snout was broader and thicker and its mane was stiff and short, standing straight up. But the one thing that made Pinkamena sure it wasn’t a pony was its stripes of black and white. It was covered in them. On its flank was a cutie mark of what looked to Pinkamena like a circular maze with outward arrows surrounding it.

The creature’s eyes went wide when it seemed to recognize Pinkamena’s form as if it was in disbelief.

“Haiwezekani.” It solemnly said.

Pinkamena moved her head around and looked to be sure it was talking to her.

“W-what?” She said, growing uncomfortable.

The creature cautiously advanced toward Pinkamena, looking into her eyes. Pinkamena raised her ax again, making it jump back faintly.

“Stay back, thing!” She barked.

        The creature spoke plainly.

“I cannot believe. Does my spirit’s eye deceive?”

Pinkamena thought she had heard the creature speak English.

“What?” She impulsively said. She shook her head, clearing it of any curiosity. “What are you!? Tell me!” She demanded.

The creature started moving toward Pinkamena again without fear, squinting her eyes, examining the pink pony.

“Hey!” Pinkamena warned, now dimly frightened. “D-don’t come any closer!”

The creature ignored her.

Pinkamena swung the ax downward. The creature paid no mind to the weapon, simply sliding her neck sideways as the ax hit the ground. Pinkamena let go of the ax, strangely terrified. The creature backed her up into the trunk of an Evergreen and stared into her eyes. Pinkamena felt cold sweat exit the pores in her forehead. She couldn’t explain the fear, it was just there. She tried to compact herself against the trunk so that the creature was just slightly further away.

Then it suddenly backed away and gazed at her with a face of certainty.

“I was foolish to doubt.” It spoke. “I should trust my eye.”

It tilted its head and looked at her in what appeared to be amazement.

“You are so very different, Pinkie Pie.”

Pinkamena froze.

“How-” She stuttered. “How the hell do you know who I am?”

The creature frowned. Then after a moment, it hung its head and sighed.

“An evil is breaking the world and all that is right. It is time that’s been stricken with a great plight.” It said.

“Why are you rhyming?” Pinkamena asked. “Answer me! How do you know my name!?”

It was unclear whether the creature had heard her or not.

“I see that you still wish to bring peace, is this true?”

“Huh?”

“You reap spirits of evil, but not for you.”

“What are you talking about!?”

        The creature sighed again.

“You serve the righteous but remain alone. A heart neglected, turned to stone.”

“Shut up!” Pinkamena shouted. “Who are you?”

The creature looked into Pinkamena’s eyes once more. It was clearly impatient now.

“You seek answers but run from questions.” It steadily said. “You would find it wise to heed my suggestions.”

Pinkamena thought, but strangely found herself curious again. The creature seemed civil, so she saw no reason to be alert anymore.

The pink mare closed her mouth and looked at the creature suspiciously, but she listened, quite carefully.

The creature resumed with her rhyming.

“I see your misery and grow sad. The fates promised you love, but you are only mad.”

“The fates?” Pinkamena muddled. “What do you mean? What love?”

The creature smiled just hardly enough.

“But do not despair, child. It will not last. Your solitude is merely an impasse.”

There was no understanding. It was all too cryptic. Pinkamena couldn’t stand it.

“What are you talking about!?” She burst. “Who are you, how do you know me, and what the fuck are you talking about!?”

Completely dismissing her, the creature continued.

“Happiness will come with another.” The zebra said. “A loving teacher, a new mother.”

Pinkamena only groaned this time in frustration.

“Things will be fixed, I know. But it’s unpleasant regardless; blooming with woe.” The zebra said.

She stared one last time and finished with a final rhyme.

“Be safe, Pinkie, and don’t be wild. At all costs, you must protect the child.”

“What child?” Pinkamena asked impatiently. But she blinked, and Zecora was gone.

Pinkamena was in disbelief. She shot her head around in all directions but saw nothing. She would eventually decide it was the voice playing tricks on her. It was certainly likely. However, Pinkamena heard a splash which sent her thoughts scattering. She looked up and saw a fog ahead. It was the kind of fog you could only find in a swamp, so she assumed that’s where the splash had come from.

Pinkamena stood up and followed the sound of the now repeating splash without thinking about it. Heading toward the supposed swamp, she thought she could see something orange lurking about.

As the dead trees passed, she looked into a dark and murky river that appeared to flow a good ways through the forest. Catching it in the corner of her eye, she turned and looked at the bank to see a very small orange pegasus filly frantically digging a hole with her bare hooves, crying her eyes out.

Pinkamena saw that beside her was another filly on the ground. She was entirely pale and she was bleeding profusely. Pinkamena knew it when she saw it. The filly was dead.

        “C-cc-c-c’mon, D-dash!” Derpy called over her shoulder excitedly. “The apples are s-s-soollld over here!”

Dashclad chuckled at the sound of her friend’s cheery voice. It was just a fruit, but she made it sound so much more exciting and new. She had been using her wings a whole lot more often than usual recently. Dashclad thought it might have been some sub-conscious way of expressing her newfound light-heartedness.

Derpy and Dashclad reached the apple stand. Big McIntosh was there, manning it, smiling largely. He was very happy. Everyone in the town square seemed to be happy that day. If one were to have looked around, they would have seen that there wasn’t a single pony that wasn’t smiling or laughing.

“C-ccou-lld I have and apple, Big M-mmac? Please?” Derpy asked politely.

Big Mac would have been friendly to anybody on that particular day. He was just in that sort of mood. But the customer he happened to be serving was an old school mate of his. They considered each other friends. Good ones at that. He reached into the cart and brought out a golden delicious.

“There ya go, Derpy.” He said, reaching out.

Derpy turned over her shoulder to Dashclad with a grin of anticipation.

“Ac-ttt-tually, I was wondering if y-yy-ouu could give me a r-r-egular one. My fr-rr-iend, Dash hasn’t ever tried w-wwww-one.” She explained like she’d rehearsed it.

Big Mac looked genuinely shocked.

“No kidding!” He looked past Derpy at the cyan pegasus as if he hardly believed such a pony could exist. “A pony who never ate apples…”

Dashclad blushed. “Yea, I didn’t really grow up around…” Dashclad tried to come up with a viable excuse. “..you know…, stuff…” She said awkwardly.

        “A place without apples.” Big Mac said to himself, trying to picture what he considered the impossible. “Hot damn.”

He reached into the cart again, putting back the golden apple and this time pulling out a wonderfully ripe gala.

“Well if’n this is your first apple, it’d better be the best in my cart.” He said.

He gave the apple to Derpy, who then placed two bits onto the counter for him and turned around to face her friend.

“C’mon, Dash! Go ahead!” She encouraged.

Dashclad was reluctant for a moment, worried about the off-chance of it turning out to be disgusting. But she quickly shook that off and reached in to take the apple from Derpy’s hooves.

“Alright, alright.” She said, taking the red fruit.

Dashclad opened her mouth to take a bite, but hesitated. She turned to Derpy and couldn’t help but smile widely.

“Thanks, Derpy.” She said honestly.

Derpy returned the smile so hard she had to close her eyes.

Dashclad opened her mouth again to bite the apple when she heard a shout.

“Hey! Pardon me, Dashclad!”

She heard her name. She recognized the voice. It couldn’t be. But before she could confirm it, a blast rang out through the square, and the apple in her hooves exploded. Its juicy pulp flew everywhere; on the cart, on the ground, and especially on Dashclad.

Dashclad was trained to act on her reflexes at an early age along with the rest of the pack. Since she was particularly good at it, she rolled onto the ground and behind the cart before she even noticed. She saw that Big Mac was still standing, apparently staring at wherever the blast had come from. Dash pulled his leg out so that he came crashing down and behind the cart with her.

“Get down!” She screamed to him.

Big Mac hit the floor with a thud and a grunt, knocking the wind out of him.

“Hwa-What the hell are y’all doing!?” He gasped.

“Just listen!” She said, eyes bugging. “Stay the fuck down!”

Her eyes zipped around the area. The square was now full of the screams and galloping hooves of horrified townsfolk. She saw few of them find cover. The others just panicked.

Oh shit. She remembered. Oh holy fuck!

        Derpy wasn’t behind the cart.

Dashclad glanced over the edge of the cart and saw two things. The first was Mizmahl. He saw her too; his eyes had met hers in those swift seconds. The second thing was truly awful. Derpy was on the ground. Blood was steadily oozing out of a wound on her flank. Dash could see that she was alive, but struggling to get up.

Dashclad wasn’t good with words. She never was and never would have been. She had so many other words that she could have screamed at the sight of her friend, but all she was able to shout was simple.

“NO!”

Without thinking, she reached out, trying to grab her friend.

Another shot rang  out.

Part of the cart burst. Splinters of wood shot in every direction. Dashclad felt a blistering heat  slash her shoulder and she cried out in pain, falling over.

“Fuck!” shouted the enormous assailant.

Dashclad squirmed on the ground, trying to apply pressure to her shoulder. She lifted her hoof to see the bullet had cut through the cart and grazed the highest point of her clavicle. It was hardly bleeding.

Mizmahl aimed the pistol at the cart once more and pulled back the hammer. He was thrown off however, by a broom that hit him in the back, nearly knocking him off his feet.

The shot fired and hit a pan hanging in a booth, which ricocheted and guided the bullet into the side of a mare by the name of Rose. She only shrieked a short and shrill note before she was cut off by her head smashing against the cobblestone when she tumbled.

The panic was rampant. It had only been a few brief moments, but that was all it took for everything to descend into complete chaos.

Mizmahl swung his arm backward with the most brutal force he had and struck the stallion that had hit him with the broom. The stallion went flying and crashed into the tomato stand, landing on the tomato salesmare, breaking several of her ribs and goring himself on a primitive steak of wood that had splintered from the broken crates.

Mizmahl turned back around and started toward the cart.

“You piece-a-shit.” He said as he advanced. “You fucking rat! Coward, little cunt!” He barked.

Dashclad didn’t have time to think about which direction to go, she only knew that her time was very, very short. She forced herself to her knees and spread her wings.

Dashclad took to the air and zoomed toward the roof of another stand.

“There you are!” Mizmahl grinned evilly.

She could see in the corner of her eye that he raised his revolver. He looked down the sights. The following seconds were in a kind of slow-motion for Dashclad. She felt the need to be just a bit faster than possible. It was the terror of unadulterated rush. She couldn’t be a fraction of a second too late or she’d die.

Mizmahl pulled the trigger and fired. It missed her. Dashclad landed on the roof and started racing toward its top. Beyond that were the apartments and homes. If she could be fast enough she could make it onto their roofs and have a more solid ground to take cover on.

She scrambled up the cheap wooden incline as Mizmahl ran toward the cart, furious.

“Get your ass down here, you little bitch!”

He swiped the main support beam of the stand and the roof came crashing down, along with Dashclad.

She went wild trying to get free from the mess of cloth and wood. Kicking, flailing and even biting to get out. She was forced to stop though, when she was punted away from the wreck by her pack-leader. She tumbled into the open and lied flat on her back, looking up at the sky. She weakly leaned her head sideways and saw Derpy, still on the ground, now unconscious.

*click*

Mizmahl shaded her entire body as he rose over her. He pointed his gun directly at her head.

He waited a moment and then sadistically spread a rotten grimace.

“Howdy Doody, kid.”

Dashclad saw that his legs were wide open. She didn’t even give it a second thought before her leg was up in the air and landing a direct kick right into Mizmahl’s testicles.

He howled in pain and slipped, throwing the gun out of his hands and hurtling to the floor. The gun landed on its butt and fired its last shot into the sky.

As he writhed on the ground, Dashclad took it as an opportunity to find a miracle. And there it was. A thin metal pick that had some lettuce skewered onto it was just beside her. She removed the lettuce and raised it above her head.

Mizmahl was able to see her come down, and just barely rolled away in time to not be impaled. He pushed up from the ground with his fist and got to his feet, wobbling. Before Dashclad could raise the pick again, he punched her directly in the jaw.

She squealed and let go of the pick, having it slide out of reach.

Dashclad was unable to recover before Mizmahl landed another blow to her face. It ravaged her eye, closing it, so she could only see out of the left.

She tried to back away, but only got herself beat again. She fell to the ground, now barely conscious.

Mizmahl was able to stand up again. He looked toward the pick and reached over, grabbing it with his massive paws. Gasping and groaning, he raised it. Dashclad shielded herself. She was suddenly stricken with grief and despair, making her attempts of speaking only wet moans.

“I shoulda never listened to that fucking old man.” He seethed. “It woulda saved me twenty fucking years of trouble!”

*BANG*

Everything was silent.

Everything.

There were no more screams. Not even hardly a heartbeat.

Dashclad slowly opened her working eye to see Mizmahl’s mouth slowly shaking open. His grip on the pick loosened, and it dropped with a loud metal clang. He looked down at his chest in disbelief. In his shirt was a hole as big as his thumb. It was drooling blackish-maroon all over his chest. Hanging from the hole were strands of ripped flesh, still hanging on.

He limply turned around to see what had made it.

“I GOT YOU!!!” She shrieked. “I GOT YOU, YOU- YOU PUTRID SICKO!!!”

Rarity Germane stood in the square, mascara running down her eyes making it evident she had been crying. In her home only moments previous did she hear commotion. She had looked outside and seen him. The killer. It had to be. He was as tall as she pictured, but only half as scary.

It was an opportunity she forced herself to seize. Though more afraid then she had ever been in her life, Rarity lifted the gun and galloped outside. With no more than twenty feet between her and the mess-maker, she had fired.

She couldn’t believe it. She shot him. He thought he could get her, but she was quicker. She shot the murderer.

Mizmahl would have been shocked –or more likely embarrassed that he had been shot by a pony– if he hadn’t been in such dreadful pain. He lost his balance and took a step forward to keep himself from falling.

Rarity saw him take the step. He was still coming for her. He wouldn’t give up so easily. But she was ready.

“You aren’t throwing me over a cliff!” She said so nervously she was trembling.

“Burn in hell, you bastard!”

The hammer clicked back.

Mizmahl saw the trigger pulled, but nothing after that. The bullet blasted out of the gun and straight through his head. Dashclad felt little droplets of grey matter spray onto her face. Then she lost her strength and blacked out.

Rarity stared for a bit. Then, her eyes grew wide. She must have seen something only for her eyes, because nobody else saw. She started hyperventilating. Then she started to shake her head.

“He’s not dead.” She panted. “No, no, no!” She moaned.

She ran up to the body and pointed the gun at its head again. She fired all four of her remaining rounds into the cadaver’s skull.

“Die, you scum!” she shouted at it. “DIE! DIE! Why won’t you DIE!?”

She flipped the gun and started to beat the lifeless dog with the butt of the gun. The crunching and cracking with every smack made her sob. She broke down and started to scream, tears streaming down her eyes as she pummeled the creature.

It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t dead yet. She couldn’t be safe until he was dead. She pounded away at his face and watched it splash blood and crunch bone and cartilage. He needed to be like the mess. The awful, awful mess she had seen down in the canyon. Only then would she be safe.

The police arrived at the scene, but none of them were brave enough to approach her. The square had remained silent since she had fired the first shot, and really, there was no real noise other than her pounding and sobbing again until roughly an hour afterward.

Melvin saw her, his eyes wide with fear. His best customer and oldest friend reduced to what he saw before him.

And it made him think. It was only a few weeks ago that she was sitting at his bar and cracking jokes with Lyra and him. It made him wonder what makes sanity and what keeps it in check, what makes the world what it is and how we see it ourselves.

Then Melvin had a peculiar idea. He didn’t dwell on it much, but it still rumbled around in his head.

What if there was no sanity? Maybe madness was the realization of our own reality, letting go of everything and becoming our own god.

It was stupid, but he considered it.

Rarity wasn’t thinking about anything like that. She wasn’t done. So she continued letting the tears fall freely as she beat the corpse, and she didn’t stop until she was forcibly sedated by two ambulance drivers.

        Scootaloo tore at the ground. Dirt was getting clumped in her hooves. It didn’t matter. The hole wasn’t getting deeper. It couldn’t ever be deep enough. She turned her head and looked at the pale carcass of her peer. Her eyes were glazed over and a contorted mess of an expression was on her face, maybe once representing fear or raw terror, Scootaloo couldn’t tell anymore, she had bashed Diamond Tiara’s skull with the rock until her skull caved in and her face was more than ruined. After she was done with the rock, she had started kicking her. It felt good. It felt good to give it all back. Soon afterward however, the bell for recess’s end rang and the children were being called in by Mrs. Cheerilee.

Scootaloo stopped and looked at the body. It was awful. She had done that. She looked at her hooves and then to the rock. They were both painted with blood, like it was some messy art project. Her rage flipped, and it had become unfathomable regret. She ducked to be sure she couldn’t be seen by the other children and started shaking the dead pink filly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Diamond Tiara.” She pleaded, shaking harder. “I-I just don’t know wha-…”

She wasn’t moving. Scootaloo didn’t need to check anything for her understanding to come around and kick her in the teeth. She gasped. That was it. She dropped Diamond Tiara and backed away like she had touched something disgusting.

She looked at her hooves again. Blood was stained into the fur. She looked at Diamond Tiara’s husk and then the rock. It was her. She had done it. It clicked in her head and the sound made her pupils dilate.

“Oh no.” She said.

It was simple. Children’s thoughts and expressions are often honest. That was all her mind could preach. Nothing fancy, no poems. She had done something so terrible that she couldn’t think of anything that could describe it. So, she simply said that.

“Oh no.” She repeated.

She crumbled to knees, covering her mouth so it wasn’t gaping openly.

I killed her. She thought.

She didn’t dare to say it aloud. She just didn’t want to. It wasn’t right. Something like that wasn’t right to exit her lips.

Then she thought about something. Mrs. Cheerilee would notice they were missing. She definitely would, she was too clever not to. And if Mrs. Cheerilee found out, she would call the police. And when she was in jail, they would do even worse; they would call Mrs. Powell.

        This is the thought that fueled her to take hold of her classmate and drag her into the brush across the way. From there, she dragged her to the Everfree forest. Nobody looked there. Even the adults wouldn’t go into the forest. But it wasn’t far enough in. They’d find her anyway; it was just something she knew would happen. So, Scootaloo dragged the bloody body of Diamond Tiara through the Everfree forest, and didn’t stop until she reached the river, at first planning to throw her in. But then she remembered a lesson she had taken in geography from Mrs. Cheerilee. All rivers led to lakes or oceans, so tossing her in wouldn’t work either. And so, Scootaloo, now in complete disarray, threw herself to the ground and started tearing at it, trying to make a hole; one deep enough to be sure that they couldn’t find her.

But she knew they’d arrest her anyway. The police were smart. They’d find out in no more than a day. So, really, it was all just a waste of her time. She had done it. She had fought god and broken character in his divine comedy by trying to help herself, but she had only made things worse.

Not unlike a child – when they have nothing left to do – she started to cry again, harder than usual. She was a killer. It wasn’t about getting in trouble she realized, it was her sin. She had committed a crime against nature. She had taken the life of another living member of society. She had cut the road of a soul short and enjoyed it, and it made her sick.

Her sniveling was drowned out by the sound of the babbling river, heading toward a lake somewhere, she was sure. She saw a faint and wavy reflection of herself in it and scowled at its disgusting face, battered and wrecked. It was the face of a monster.

She was a monster. One of woes and tragedy, now understanding it.

She deserved it all. It was her fault. She clawed at the ground to no avail and eventually curled up on her side, pretending she was somewhere else. It wouldn’t last, but it would at least be more pleasant than where she was then. She pretended it was a Sunday evening, and she was in her father’s lap as he read her a story. But it was queer, because the cold wet sand below her was nowhere near as warm and soft as her father’s lap.

So she stopped pretending, scared and confused, and wept bitterly trying to think of something, anything that would end it.

She heard a crunch.

Startled, she gasped and spun around, now face to face with a pink mare with a flat mane and two pickaxes for a cutie mark, only staring.

Pinkamena had stepped on a leaf. That was the crunch. She wanted to stay quiet, because it was like a window into her own childhood; A desperate little filly by the brook hiding from something, maybe someone, frantic for a way out. It was captivating, almost hypnotic to see it in someone else. But now the filly had seen her, and she had to stop staring.

“What are you doing here, kid?” She asked curiously.

Scootaloo backed away slowly, ashamed.

“Don’t go.” Pinkamena said. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Scootaloo’s voice was dry and frightened.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Policemare.”

“What?”

“She was hurting me and I just-…” Scootaloo almost finished. “I just…”

She glanced shamefully at the corpse and lowered her head, not wanting her horrible face to be seen.

“I’m so sorry.” She broke down. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Powell!” She pleaded.

Pinkamena looked at the body. Whoever it once was wasn’t very nice looking. She’d grown to identify rotten souls. It got easier throughout her life. She looked back at the pathetic child and saw that it was herself.

Pinkamena considered this. Empathy flooded her heart, knowing, not just understanding, but knowing who this strange filly was and what she felt.

        “You can take me to jail; I belong there, but please don’t tell Mrs. Powell, please.”

Something weird happened in the cauldron of Pinkamena’s stomach. It was guilt. She hadn’t felt that since she had stolen a cookie from the jar after dinner that time when Ariel was still around. The closest thing to that had been all the self-loathing throughout her life, and she knew how worthless all of that was now. She didn’t want anybody to go through that, let alone a child.

Pinkamena leaned in closer, but not too much to be sure she wasn’t making the filly uncomfortable. Her tone was firm, however.

“Hey, it’s alright, kid.” She said seriously. “I’m not a cop.”

She thought that idea a little bit funny. She was just about the furthest thing from a cop.

“I’m so sorry…” Scootaloo whispered, now balled up against a tree trunk, trying to hide. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry…”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Pinkamena asserted. “I’m not here to get you in trouble.”

“dontlookatme…” the small orange and purple puff ball mumbled.

“What?”

“Don’t look at me.” Scootaloo said a little bit louder.

“Why not?”

“I’m a monster.”

“A monster?” Pinkamena said, confused.

“I killed her. I killed somepony. I’m a monster.”

Pinkamena looked around. There were no monsters. But then she looked down and saw her own hooves. She hadn’t ever felt guilt until then. It was strange, now that she thought about it. To feel guilt when you steal a cookie but not when you carve some bastard to pieces with a knife the size of his ego. Then she got an idea. If it wouldn’t cheer the filly up, it would probably make her feel better at least.

Pinkamena stood and turned around.

“Come with me, kid.”

        “Huh?” Scootaloo grunted, poking her head out.

“I said come here. I’ve gotta show you something.”

Pinkamena started to walk away from the stream. Scootaloo watched as she got further away. Suddenly –and she was never sure why–, she got up and started to follow Pinkamena out of the woods.

        Scootaloo followed the pink mare all the way through the Everwhite and to a cottage.

“This way.” was all Pinkamena had said throughout the trip, when she opened the door, inviting her inside.

Scootaloo was still shaken, but she couldn’t help but be fascinated by the cottage and its warmness. It was even nicer than the school house.

From there, the mare led her to a closet, which had a hatch in the floor, which she had her climb down. At the bottom, she was led down a hallway and up to an iron door. Pinkamena slid her basement door open and walked up to the balcony of the stairs.

Scootaloo entered, not able to see her hoof in front of her face. It smelled dreadful. So much so that Scootaloo wanted to hold her breath.

“Take a look at this, kid.” Pinkamena said.

Then she pulled the cord to the light.

Red light poured into the room and Scootaloo saw what was in it.

She gasped.

Several dead bodies were scattered around the room. One of them had his stomach wide open, so Scootaloo could see all of his guts. Another one had her jaw removed.

Scootaloo slowly turned around to look at Pinkamena, who was looming over her and staring into her eyes, deadpanning.

“You’re not a monster, kid.” Pinkamena said solemnly. “I am.”

Scootaloo shook. Her legs felt like jelly. She knew that running would do her no good. She was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it.

She gulped hard.

Pinkamena looked down at the frozen filly, understanding of her reaction.

“I just thought you might want to know how much worse it can get, I guess.” She said, looking off the balcony. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“W-wait.” Scootaloo inquired. “You’re not gonna kill me?”

Pinkamena looked around the room as if she was searching for something. She looked back and turned a very weak grin.

“Course not.” She confirmed calmly.

“Don’t go telling anypony, though.” Pinkamena requested, already knowing she wouldn’t dare. Scootaloo nodded.

After this, Scootaloo looked at the bodies again; scared but somehow fascinated. She didn’t like it, but it sparked an atypical interest.

Pinkamena pulled the light, shutting it off, and then led the child out of the basement and back into the cottage.

“Don’t worry about your friend, kid.” Pinkamena said, leading her to the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

Pinkamena opened the door and stood to the side. But Scootaloo didn’t leave. She reluctantly leaned toward it, but then drew back. Pinkamena tilted her head.

“Go on, now. Run along, kiddo.”

“It’s really warm in here.”

“Warm?”

“I don’t have any winter clothes. The other fillies stole them.” Scootaloo explained. “And it’s just so warm in here… can I stay for a little while?” She asked shyly.

“Stay?” Pinkamena repeated, seeming to find it such a strange word. “Why don’t you go home? Go see your mom and dad?”

“Oh…” Scootaloo’s ears drooped along with her head. She started at the floor and shuffled her left hoof half-heartedly. “My dad is…”

She had difficulty saying it.

“…dead…” She finished, feeling abashed.

Pinkamena was about to say something else, but she saw the filly’s eye sparkle. A tear ran down her muzzle.

Pinkamena sighed, and then closed the door.

“You don’t have a place to stay, huh?”

“I live in the orphanage, but Mrs. Powell hurts me really bad. But I’m always misbehaving, so she told me I deserve it.” Scootaloo tried to justify.

Pinkamena looked around the living room and pointed to a corner of the house that she had stacked some spare blankets in.

“You can stay there.” She said. “But don’t ask for any food. I’ll give you what I want.” Pinkamena made clear.

The filly wiped the tear away.

“Really?”

“Yea.”

“Oh wow!” She beamed spontaneously. “Thank you so much!”

Scootaloo sprinted to her makeshift bed and hopped onto it gleefully. But she turned to see Pinkamena giving her a cold stare. She quieted down and curled up, making herself comfortable.

She cleared her throat.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Scootaloo said politely.

“Call me Mrs. Pie.” Pinkamena said.

Then she hesitated.

“…Or Pinkamena if I say it’s alright.” She insisted.

“Okay.” Scootaloo agreed.

After this, Pinkamena remembered she had left the ax outside. She opened the door and exited the cottage, slamming the door with her hind legs.

Scootaloo looked around the cottage and thought it was pretty. She didn’t think a monster could have lived in such a nice house.

        Rarity was admitted to the Ponyville Psychiatric Ward after being checked at the hospital. Melvin and Lyra volunteered to help her in any way possible. She was in a flickering state of psychosis for two and a half months.

The incident in town square left three dead and five injured, excluding Mizmahl. The casualties included Crafty Crate, who died minutes after he was thrown into the tomato stand, and Rose, who succumbed to the bullet wound and failed to be resuscitated by the ambulance teams.

Diamond Tiara and Scootaloo were reported missing by a hysterical Cheerilee. The children in question were only searched for when the incident’s immediate aftermath had been fully resolved.

Mizmahl was sent to the mortuary and only identified by his collar. He was listed as FUBAR in regards to a non-professional level examination. All of his teeth were broken down to the nub if they were lucky enough to still be there. Most of his brains had to be scraped up from the cobblestone and his wasted skull resembled the maw of a jagged volcano. Some of the morticians joked sickly about his face representing lasagna. Any which way, he was cremated and remained unclaimed for five years. After this passed, he was disposed of. His revolver remained in the police evidence room for however long it took for them to no longer need it, and it ended up being auctioned off eventually. The winner of the bid was Rose’s friend, Cherry Berry, who promptly had it destroyed as an act of vengeance. Somebody, not anyone important, sent his collar back to the Sky Mirror Lake’s tribe. Ziccane’s brother was promoted to the position of tribe leader. Mizmahl was given a short and effortless memorial service. No more than two generations later, he had faded from the tribe’s memory completely after his right hand passed away. All that remained of him after all of this was some graffiti carved into the lower parts of the mountain side that read; Mizmahl: Warrior, Leader, and King of the Rock.

The incident went down as the ‘Ponyville Square Massacre’, uncreatively. It, unlike Mizmahl, never faded from the town’s memory, and left an ugly scar on its tacky and quaint history.

~AN: This is the longest chapter of the story so far. Nearly seven thousand words. It is also the thirtieth chapter overall, which I made to be a milestone on purpose. You could call this the end of the beginning, but I wouldn't call it that myself. I actually have no idea how much longer the story will be. All I have to say right now, is thank you so very much for bringing me this far in. I wouldn't have continued if it weren't for you, the reader. It makes me so very happy that you enjoy this little tale I've spun. All I ask is that you leave a comment on this chapter. Whoever you are, I'd just like to hear your opinion, no matter how short. I don't consider it an obligation, but I'd really appreciate it. Thank you dearly, friends. - BrianVanStralen