The Patchwork

Authors Note: quick little aside here before we begin; the ages of the mane cast in MLP are a little fuzzy. Unofficially, Lauren Faust has stated that the mane cast are fairly mature in age, between like 17-20. I'm going to go with that. So Twilight and her friends are in their late teens, very early twenties (assuming ponies in this universe age at the same rate as humans do). This makes the main character, Quill, about 19-20 years old. If things change and Faust or Hasbro issue official ages for each of the cast, then just keep in mind that Quill is about the same age as Twilight, maybe even younger.

-mbulsht

CHAPTER ONE

I'd be the first to admit that I've done some... shall we say, morally questionable things in my past. I've stolen things, lied to others, and even faked my own death. Yes, I've even killed a few ponies. And though it may seem like an extremely lame excuse, I never wanted to do any of those things. Believe me, whoever you are, when I say that none of these things would have happened if I had been given the choice. I want to make sure you understand that. I would never, of my own will, murder innocent ponies. I would never, just because I wanted to, break in to somepony's house and steal things. But I have, and I just want to justify that to you right now.

It wasn't my choice.

You may be wondering what you're reading, or why you're reading it. It's difficult to explain, so I'll say it outright: I'm afraid for my life. No, that's not it. I've been afraid for my life for almost a year now. I don't just fear my own death. I fear for the future of all of Equestria. I fear for the lives of every pony living today.

This probably still doesn't make sense. Here I am rambling on about my regrets and my fears when you don't even understand the position I'm in. I guess I should start somewhere more basic.

My name is Quill. It's not much of a name, but it's mine, and I like it. A name is a part of who you are as an individual, and for the past year I haven't been able to use it. I've been forced to take up a new name, and erase my past. But more on that in a moment. I just want you to know my name. Just the very fact that I can write it here fills me with hope.

Damn, now I'm making even less sense. I guess all the pressure I've been under for the past year has finally taken its toll on me. Even as I write this, I cannot help but glance over my shoulder at every noise I hear, afraid that I've been discovered by those who might want me dead; those who might already know that I'm writing this.

Excuses, excuses.

It's my job, you see?

Sometimes I regret accepting that promotion. It seemed like such an amazing opportunity at the time. I had worked for a while as a detective in the Canterlot law enforcement precinct. It was a rather cushy job; working in the Capital of the grand nation of Equestria. I was surrounded by other unicorns (magic is really helpful when it comes to enforcing the law), so I didn't stick out. Security was tight there, what with the royal castle sitting smack dab in the middle of the city and all. Nopony in their right mind would ever try anything there. And, working so close to royalty, our pay grades were a cut above the rest. When you boiled it down to the very basics, I was being payed top dollar to lounge about all day at a desk and do absolutely nothing. You'd have to be crazy to throw that away.

Maybe I'm crazy, then.

I'll never forget the day I was offered a position in the Canterlot Investigation Agency. I'd been scouted by their recruitment office because of my credentials. Now those are something to brag about. Top of my class at a private high school (two years only), and a full ride scholarship to Canterlot Central University. Graduated there at the top of my class also, with with a degree in Criminal Psychology. That also took two years. Two Years? They'd asked me when I told them how long I planned to take getting my degree. Unheard of! They were incredulous. Easy as cake, I'd told them. I had a mind for books, my momma had always said. And mothers are rarely wrong.

A tall imposing stallion dressed in a black suit and dark sunglasses had called upon me that day to meet with him and my boss in the main office. They said they'd scouted me because of my educational background. They told me that I was wasting my talent by taking a desk job in the Capital. It was absolutely true, of course. But I had a long time ahead of me. I was the youngest officer in the precinct, and I had only worked there for a few months. I was already ahead of everypony my age; I had graduated Central University in two years, I was among the youngest in my class and I had even received my cutie mark earlier than all the others in my elementary school. Compared to all the others on the police force, I was a mere foal. But I was used to being the youngest. It made me feel special. Nice little Ego boost. Every teacher and mentor figure in my life had always told me I was destined for greatness. To be honest, I was willing to settle for what I had. Was it so bad that all I wanted was to laze about and make money by doing nothing, at least for a little while? Seriously, I couldn't have asked for a better job.

But then they offered me that position. Think about it, that stallion had told me. A CIA Agent. You'd be the youngest operative in the history of the Agency! I did think about it. I thought real hard. Leave my easy job here for some hard field work? Leave the comforts of a city I had always lived in to get my hooves dirty as a part of the most powerful government-funded agency?

Well, the choice wasn't really that difficult. Not when I was told how much more money I would be making. Money, money, money. That's all anypony cares about anymore. Money, as they say, is the lifeblood of the community and those who have it in excess will always rise above the rest. Money is power, money is happiness. And as much as I pains me to admit, the large number of zeros attached to my projected entry-level salary proved impossible to resist. As for what I would be doing exactly, well, that was apparently classified. But I payed it no mind. If they'd scouted me for my talents, that meant they thought I could handle whatever they threw at me. And with a payroll like the one I would be earning, I figured it was worth the risk.

Now, nearly a year later, I'm beginning to have my doubts.

No, scratch that. I had my doubts the moment I joined. The moment the true nature of my job was revealed to me. But by then, I was theirs. They had their claws in me so deep, nothing short of my own death could free me.

Officially, I'm just like any other CIA agent. My job title is designated "Operative," and the one document that proves my existence lists my job description as "investigative duties, assigned case-by-case by the Agency." I suppose that's somewhat true. Of course, the paperwork is only for show. It doesn't really mean anything at all. There isn't even a space in my profile for a picture, my real name, my birthplace, or even my age (lucky thing on that last one, though. If even a single soul found out a pony my age was working for a top government agency, there'd be an uproar). The reason, of course, is that most of my duties are "unofficial." I work for the CIA, but my duties aren't put on record. The only documents related to me are basically useless. As far as paperwork is concerned, none of my missions have ever happened. It's all one big damn secret.

A secret I can't keep anymore.

There's no real name for what I do. No official name, anyway. That's just how it works when you get down to the real nitty-gritty. The kind of stuff nopony wants to talk about. The kind of stuff that would sink the CIA if anypony found out about it. But the other operatives in the Agency have their own word for agents like me:

Patchers.

It's a really cute name right? And it's got this awesome double-meaning to it too.

Mostly they call us that because of the patches we wear over our Marks. A Cutie Mark is a pony's most distinguishable feature. Slapped right there on our flanks, they proclaim to the world who we are and what we do. But that isn't exactly the best thing to have for ponies in my line of work. Patchers like me need to have a certain degree of... anonymity. See, the CIA has this really nice policy they work under when dealing with us Patchers. It also has a cute name. They call it "plausible deniability." The top officials in my organization love coming up with big words that mean simple things. This "plausible deniablility" basically means that everything I do is supposedly unknown to them. I get my orders from them, all right, its a fact. They tell me what to do and I do it. But there's nothing to prove it. No paperwork, no records, nothing. Every piece of parchment I get from them involving my orders or my missions is memorized and then burned. Any paperwork involving my existence in the organization doesn't even have my real name on it, just my Agent designation number (mine is "six").

That's not all, though. When I joined, they shaved my mane, dyed my tail, patched my Mark over (a painful process, let me tell you; sewing cloth into your skin is about as pleasurable as it sounds), and issued me a pair of super cool-looking sunglasses that hide my eyes. I'm faceless, featureless, and nameless. Any records of my life, including things like educational degrees and birth certificates were destroyed when I was recruited. If I'm exposed during any of my missions, if I get caught, there's nothing to tie me to the CIA. Hell, there's nothing proving that I even exist. As far as anypony can tell from records and paperwork, Quill Paiges was never born. The CIA can deny any knowledge of my existence and get away with it.

But why, you ask, would they want to deny it?

We'll that's because of that double-meaning I was talking about. The true nature of my job. Like any other CIA agent, my primary task is to investigate serious crimes. The CIA was put in place by the Equestrian government to aid local police forces across the country with the most extreme criminal cases. My branch of the CIA, however, the branch that supposedly doesn't exist, deals with a completely different kind of security. It's called "Information Security." Another cute name. And like those pretty little titles I've been dropping in the past few lines, this one's nice and insidious.

Basically, my job is to cover things up. To hide things my Agency deems "unfit for public knowledge."

And that's really what a "patch" is, right? You've got a hole in your clothes, and you need to cover it, so you get a piece of cloth and you stitch it in. The hole's covered, problem solved! That's my job in a nutshell. I'm given a hole in society, an unpleasant event or a particularly dangerous individual, even accidents the CIA has made, and I cover them up with sweet little stories and lies. Maybe I have to bribe a witness, or kill a potential leak. Maybe I've got to shred paperwork, or burn down houses. I do what I have to do to make sure they are never seen again. Stitch by stitch, bit by bit, I sew a patch of lies over the ugly holes in Equestria. Then I step back and admire my handiwork. Are there any more holes? Did I do a good job? Does this look cheesy? Let's fix that story, let's bribe one more policehorse. Snip, Snip, stitch, stitch. Oh, make sure that cloth folds nicely! Don't want the patch to stand out!

I'm done with it. I'm done with all of it.

There comes a point in your life when you just have to stand up and say enough is enough. I've worked as a Patcher for a year now, and I can't do it anymore. I'm through with the lies and the story. I'm through with the killing and the burning. I've seen and done so many things in the past year that I wish I hadn't. I've had to kill ponies. Kill. Think about that. Could you take the life of another pony? Could you lift a knife and slash out the throat of a police officer who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Could you swing a hammer upon the head of an innocent stallion who knows too much? Whatever your answer, at least you get to think about it. Whether I want to or not, when I'm ordered to kill, I kill. I have no choice.

I never wanted to kill.

You know what else I never wanted to do? Lie. I'm not talking about those fibs you give your mother when you're little. "Yes, mum, I brushed my teeth!" "Yes, I did my homework!" I'm not talking about telling your date that horrid dress she's wearing "doesn't make her look fat." I'm talking about massive, complicated, involved lies. The kind of lies that could get you in deep shit if anypony found out you were lying.

But the lies are part of the Patcher's job.

So why, you ask, don't I just quit? Just leave, just hand in your badge and your glasses, and leave. If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen. You're not cut out for the work you've been given. What will the CIA do? They can't do anything.

But that's the thing. They can. And believe me when I say, they will.

Legally speaking, I can leave at any time. No group, official or otherwise, can force an employee to stay. It's against the law. It's very clearly stated all Equestrian law books. But the CIA doesn't really follow the law. Hell, just look at my job. I break all sorts of laws as part of my everyday routine and I get paid absurd amounts of money in the process. Strictly speaking, my very existence is against the law. So why should the CIA follow the law when dealing with its Agents? Well let me tell you, they don't.

Let's say I were to leave, then. Let's say I were to walk to the main office in Canterlot, march right up to my boss and say, "I quit." What would happen? Well, my boss would turn to me and take my badge and my ID, and probably tell me that it was a pleasure working with me. She'd draw up the paperwork, and I would sign it and everything would be fine. Officially, that is.

You want to know what would happen unofficially?

You want to know what would happen behind the scenes? Behind those lovely Patches the CIA have strung up across Equestria? Under the lies and stories of a corrupt government organization?

I would be dead.

That's right, dead. I would probably head home in my expensive horse drawn carriage. I would trot up to my front door and unlock it, go inside and turn on my lights. Maybe I'd start up a nice dinner on my stove, humming to myself while cooking. Maybe I'd even make it to my bed for the night before they come. Maybe I'll even survive the night and wake up the next morning before they come. Them. The Patchers. Come to sew another pretty piece of cloth over an ugly gaping hole. Come to silence me lest I spill the secrets of the inner workings of the CIA. Come to ensure that I don't jeopardize the integrity of the Agency simply by existing. That's it, folks. Plain and simple. I know too much. I know far too much, and the Agency isn't going to let me go quietly. Not now, not ever.

But now there's one question left unanswered. It's a big question, and it's got a pretty big answer too.

Why are you reading this?

Why am I writing this? Why am I taking the time to explain who I am and what I do?

I'm writing this because I'm going to quit. I'm going to march right up to my Boss, hand in my badge, and give her those two words I've wanted to say for a long time.

But I'm not dumb, I know they'll come after me. And that's what this diary is for. I'm going to write about my job in here. I've got one last mission to do before I end this, and I'm going to detail every minute of it in this book. I'll tell you everything, from the nature of the case, to every little thing I do to cover it up. Then I'm going to hide it somewhere safe. I'll hide this where they'll never be able to find it. It's funny when I think about it now. If there's one thing I'm the best at, it's hiding things. The CIA made sure of that. I'm going to hide this, and make sure they know that it exists, but not where I've hidden it. Then I'm going to quit, and there's nothing they can do about it. And you know what? They're not going to come after me. They're not going to send another Agent to silence me by any means necessary. Because they're going to know damn well that if I die, this book is going to get out. Maybe to a news reporter in Fillydelphia, maybe to some connections I have in Canterlot, hell maybe even to some retard inbred hick trash down in that Celestia-forsaken Appleoosa. I haven't really decided yet. But it will get out. It will get out, and and when it does, every single pony in Equestria is going to know that their government has been lying to them.

So this diary is my bargaining chip. I'm entrusting this thing with my life.

And that means if you're reading this, then I'm dead. They got to me. The CIA threw caution to the winds and did what they always do in times like this: they eliminated the threat. I really hope that's not the case. I've grown kind of attached to being alive.

So now you know. Now you understand. I can only hope that if I truly am dead, at least one pony reading this will understand me and why I've done what I've done.

As I sit here in my carriage writing this, I have just received my latest orders pertaining to my new mission. It's going to take place in Ponyville, a fairly large town a short distance from my headquarters in Canterlot. From the initial outline I've read, its a pretty damn big one too. Very messy, lots of blood and whatnot. Maybe it will make for a great story. But whatever the case may be, it will definitely be my last. So here we go, little diary. It's time for me to do what I do best. Time to get to work, Quill ol' buddy ol' pal, my partner likes to say. Time to cut out a fabric pattern, snip by snip! Time to put that fabric together bit by bit! Kill those witnesses! Burn that evidence!

Stitch that fucking Patchwork.