Introduction / Prologue

He felt the cold steel of the wire cutters in his hooves. Such crude things wire cutters, using them in such a field as specific as medicine seemed wrong to him somehow. The room around him was dark, unusually so. A lone light flickered, on and off, in the middle of the room – over the cadaver. The smell of sulphur filled his lungs, making him gag a little. This room made him feel uneasy; its metallic walls offering no safe haven or respite from the task ahead of him. Cutting through the flesh, he thought that would be the hardest part. Alas the steel scalpel, cold to the touch, cut through the mare with ease. Whilst doing this Dogezon had felt out of place, almost like he wasn't himself. He knew that possessing the skills of a Coroner and Doctor would help him bring home the bits, but he knew not if he wanted these skills. To cut open a pony, fiddle with their insides, and treat them with such inhumanity seemed immoral and unjust.

Dogezon inhaled, the sulphuric air filling his lungs, making him gag again. He sensed the end of the wire cutters, and heard the slow crackle as they cut through the rib cage – and the loud crunch when one of the rig bones snapped. This made him feel uneasy, but he had no choice in the matter. Four years he had spent at Trottingham medical College, he couldn't blow it in his final year; what would mother think? It was her who had convinced him that a life of medicine would suffice. He had little interest in the medicine itself, but did rather enjoy seeing the effects of it; families reunited, relatives saved from death, and an answer to prayers given. He had little interest in medicine, but a great interest in its healing effects.

As he cut through the last rig bone he sighed, and place the wire cutters down on the stand next to him. The light slowly flickered on and off, swaying side to side. All around him were containers for the dead, their names replaced by a number – their coffins and beds, which had provided comfort, now replaced by slabs of steel? Steel, such a funny metal; it came in many forms but all them seemed indifferent, all of them seemed to symbolise professionalism. Much like professionals steel just got on with its job, regardless of what that job may be. Much like professionals steel never lost its skills, never grew ineffective with age. Sure it may not be up to the tasks that it could do in its youth, but it could still be used for other purposes. The wire cutters were steel, the scalpel used to open up the mare's body was steel.

But the user of these instruments was not steel, he was put flesh. Dogezon wished at times to be steel, to be able to do his job regardless of his emotions. To physically have your hooves in another pony's body, he could not think about it and not shiver. Such an invasion of personal space, such indiscrimination against the individual involved; you would be opened up and your insides made out regardless of your opinion. Funny, did the dead have opinions? Dogezon let out another sigh. Thoughts like this would occur often to him, yet he would never come to a definitive answer. He looked away from the cadaver, and at the walls. Still steel, still metallic, still unresponsive. The sulphur in the air tasted metallic in his mouth, or at the least the molecules that made it past his mask did anyway. The light above him flicked still, on and off, then back on again. It has occurred to him that this hospital did not have the best funding, but he daren't raise the issue with the residents. After all, he was just a lowly intern, a pair of scrubs. His opinion didn't matter to these other ponies. He looked back down at his cadaver, and smiled

"At least my opinions matter to you"

The cadaver didn't respond, which was to be expected. The smell of the sulphur was rising, making him begin to choke. It was a fault in the air conducts, which were steel as well. It seemed to him that everything was made of steel in this hospital, whether that be the tools used by the Coroners, such as himself, or the Doctors upstairs that dealt with the living. He turned away from the cadaver, and sat down in the corner of the room. When he done so his hairs stood on end, and he shivered. Four years and still the cold floor shocked him. He looked back at the cadaver.

"Oh, it's alright for some. Your synapses are no longer charged, you can't feel the cold steel beneath you."

He glared, angrily, at the cadaver. Again, no response. He wondered why he done this, why he tried speaking to the dead. Perhaps it was because he was too shy to speak to the living. He chuckled under his breath. Perhaps that's it he thought.

He knew what this cadaver had died of; it was a stomach ulcer that had broken the stomachs linings, causing the stomachs acid to break through the wall linings and destroy the intestines. This cadaver was being used as a test for Dogezon, a test as to whether or not he should be a Coroner or a Doctor. He had queried his mentor as to why he couldn't be both. He shook his head and trotted off, mumbling something about "young bloods" and "overzealous". Well, he would prove him wrong; he'd prove them all wrong!

He stood up with confidence, and trotted, with pride, towards his cadaver. Reaching the autopsy slab he looked down into the open torso. What confronting him was peeled back flesh, dysfunctional intestines, and a stomach that was still producing acid; still dissolving the intestines. As the placed his hoof on the red flesh, and lowered his head, the stomach gurgled – and spat out an intestine, which landed in Dogezon's mane. He stood still for a few second, breathing in the smell of rotting intestines and decomposing flesh – it filled his lungs. He began to gag again, and then felt the presences of a foreign object in his mane. He felt terrified, sick, and thrilled all at the same time. He, slowly and nervously, began to raise his hoof. He had no idea what it was, for all he knew it could be that his scalpel had got stuck in his skull. He wished that his scalpel had got stuck in his skull, for he hated to think what the fluids in his hair could be – if it was his scalpel it'd just be the liquid lining that keeps his brain in place that had leaked into his hair, no big deal, but if it was what he thought it was.

It was.

He immediately retracted his hoof from his mane, as he did so the smell of decomposing flesh and gastronomic fluids suddenly overcame him. He stumbled backwards, away from the source, and vomited on the floor. He cried, as he felt the mixture of fluids and solids rushing up his neck. As the stream of yellow water left his mouth he collapsed on the floor, no longer able to hold back the tears. His gut wrenched, but it was empty. As his body struggled to find a new source of fluids or solids to send up through the neck, the half dissolved intestine fell off Dogezon's head. It landed with a splash, as his face was spattered with vomit. Dogezon closed his eyes; the pain in his gut was unbearable. His thoughts were consumed with pain, and he was mentally pleading with Celestia that the pain would stop. He cried out as he opened his mouth, nothing came out. But the taste of the smell of vomit did, the taste of the smell of decomposing intestines did. He cried out again, still nothing. He stumbled on his hooves, as he backed into his corner, his gut wrenching all the way. He sat in his corner and sobbed.

Eventually the pain subsided, the tears did not. If he couldn't manage a simple stomach ulcer how could he be a coroner? How could he make a career out of vomit and pain? He needed to be like steel, but he was not steel – he was flesh. That phrase echoed in his head "You are but flesh". His stomach was still in pain, his lungs were now filled with the horrendous smell of fresh vomit, and the autopsy room was contaminated. Worst the intestine was just there, watching him. It's like it knew what symbolic message it brought across.

He stumbled to his feet, keeping eye contact with the intestine. A feeling of failure overcame him, and his body language showed this; his shoulders were slumped, and his head was hanging low. The mare on the table was laughing at him, he was sure of it. She couldn't vomit, no matter how hard she tried. She was at peace now. Dogezon was jealous of her in that sense. He stumbled past the intestine, and to the bathroom. The smells changed. Decomposing flesh and vomit, which left a sickly taste in the mouth, were replaced with chlorine. The smell overcame his senses, and he was glad of that. The walls in this room were identical to those in the autopsy, yet they were different at the same time. They seemed, calming, relaxing, at ease. They had not seen the butcher's work. Furthermore, the smell of chlorine made this room seem altogether more medical and not so, barbaric. He inhaled as deeply as he could; filling his lungs with this new, clean, smell. The feeling of nausea left him and, for a few brief seconds, forgot the calamity that had just occurred. A grin found itself upon his face.

He exhaled a long, forceful breath. He felt the breath against the inside of his nostrils, the long forceful breath had dislodged some vomit that was still in his nostrils – it was lining the inside of his nostrils and, when he exhaled, became dislodged so that he found the substance hanging from his nostrils; finding itself mangled in his fur. Whilst he could not see this directly, he felt it. Immediately he cantered to the mirror and looked, in disgust, at himself. Not only did he find his snout fur with pieces of stale yellow vomit scattered around it like some modern art piece, he also saw the, residue, which the intestine had left on his mane. Instead of its usual black, his mane was now red; absolutely covered in flacks of decomposing intestine, and saturated with blood.

The effects of the chlorine were now redundant, his kinetic sense, and his sight, overcame his sense of smell. He could now feel the flacks in his hair, each individual piece slightly pressurizing his mane. He could feel the blood in his mane too; it had turned his hair into a collection of smaller 'lumps' if you will. Each individual lump had its own constitution, its own government, and its own culture. They would occasionally send representatives to the main 'lump' where 'inter-lump' policies would be discussed. These meetings often deteriorating as the bigger 'lumps' pressured the smaller 'lumps' into accepting their polices, lest action had to be taken. Of course these meetings never achieved anything; small 'lumps' branded together in order to voice their objections to the bigger 'lumps' polices, and each voted against each other in spite and malice. This malice would be felt outside the main 'lump' as the big 'lumps' and the coalitions of the smaller 'lumps' actively attempted to hinder the other. Of course in times of strife politicians will often turn to war as a tool; both to unite a divided people and in order to pursue their own interests. The resulting conflict was disastrous; the 'lump' states sent thousands of innocent hairs to fight each other, and across many battlefields these hairs now lay dying, entangled and trapped with other innocents who are their enemies solely to fulfil a few hairs lust for greed and power. Many of the smaller 'lumps' were gone now, that had been annexed by the larger 'lumps' – but their smaller 'lump' cousins fought on bravely. Of course their struggle was fruitless, and they too were eventually annexed by the larger 'lump' states. When this happened 'peace' was declared across the continent. Smaller 'lump' state hairs were looked down upon by those from the larger 'lump states, and there was friction between the two. But alas, the larger 'lump' states had carved an Empire – an Empire that they weren't soon going to lose. All the 'lumps' were now united into one large lump, one large red lump of hair – that was the site which face Dogezon in the mirror now. He began to gag again, and his stomach began to churn. He felt the acids trying to dissolve food that just wasn't there. He placed his hooves on the side of the sink, getting a firm grip. He took a deep breath, hoping that the chlorine would save him. It did not. As painful tear worked its way out of the corner of his eye, he prayed to Celestia again. It was no use. Instead of inhaling chlorine, he inhaled the smell of blood. Granted it's not particularly nauseating on its own, but he knew its source. His entire body wrenched forward as a small amount of black liquid projected itself from his mouth. It struck the sink ricocheting a little and adding black splodges to his mane. As he collapsed to the floor a thought re-entered his mind: "Perhaps you're not cut out for this after all?"