Checkers
Up in his bedroom, Tinker Toy hunted voices.
Sitting in front of his jury-rigged transmitter, the earth pony pressed a hoof against his earphones, twisting the radio dial with the other. Like an old-time prospector panning for gold, he sifted through the electromagnetic muck, searching for even the smallest, faintest signal.
Nothing. Frustrated, Tinker pulled the microphone to his muzzle and pressed the “talk” button. The hunter was becoming impatient;time for some bait.
“Attention, this is Tinker Toy of Ponyville, broadcasting on all frequencies,” he said slowly and deliberately. “If anypony is receiving this, please respond.” Releasing the microphone, Tinker listened again, hoping to hear something, anything, other than the frying haybacon sound of static.
Again, he was disappointed.
Tinker slumped in his chair, rubbing his apple-red forehead against his workdesk. “Great Queen of the Universe,” he mumbled in a voice only She would hear, “please, help me out.”
A response. That’s all he wanted. It didn’t have to be anything complex; a sentence, a fragment of a sentence, a word, something to prove him right. Something to show him that the world wasn’t dead.
Feeling a little better, Tinker pressed the send button again.
“Repeat, this is Tinker Toy of Ponyville broadcasting at all frequencies. If anypony is out there, please respond. Please respond.”
Again, he twisted the dial, methodically searching through all the frequencies. He stopped. There, between 750 and 760 mhz, there was something different- a faint whistling sound- barely audible over the torrent of static.
Tinker’s heart leapt. “Come in, this is Tinker Toy, I repeat, this is Tinker Toy of Ponyville, can you read me, over?”
There was a smell like burning rubber bands, a loud pop, and the headphones went silent.
“Horseapples!” With a growl, Tinker flicked off the set and tearing the headphones off his head in disgust. With a screwdriver in his teeth, he opened the back of the set and with a pair of pliers, pulled out a chunk of magically-conductive crystal; clouded, fractured, and completely worthless.
Of course. The stallion turned the burnt-out crystal over in his hoof, as if glaring at it would solve all his problems. This monstrosity of his had a voracious appetite for spare parts. That was the third crystal he’d burned out in as many days. It’d take hours for him to get the damned thing working again. It was times like this he really wished that his friend, Timer Turner, was here. That stallion had had a knack for working with tiny parts.
For a moment, the radio became a symbol for his life. Just as it seemed like he was making progress, the universe pushed him back. Go up a step, and fate would push him back down. All of existence had turned against him. That’s how it’d been, ever since the sky went dark. Ever since the Blot.
-
Tossing the crystal into a wastebasket, Tinker brushed a strand of greasy, lemon-colored mane out of his face and slipped off of his stool, catching a look out the window as he did. It was black, same as always. If Tinker hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought it was midnight, even though it was only eleven a.m.
The Blot. As a name, it was fitting and unfitting. At first it sounded so innocuous; like the sound of a bowl of pudding being dropped on somepony’s head. But really, what else could he call it? If there a better name for an unholy, all-consuming darkness, Tinker Toy was all ears.
Shaking his head, the stallion fished a replacement crystal from a drawer. He needed a distraction, fast. The less he thought about the Blot, the better.
There was a soft clicking of hooves on plywood.
“Dad?”
Tinker snapped out of his trance and turned to see his son, Gearhead, trot into the bedroom.
“Dad, did you raise anyone?”
Putting on the most genuine-looking smile he could muster, Tinker turned to face his son. “Yep. In fact, I just ordered a pepperoni pizza from Extra Cheese’s Pizzeria; It’ll be here in about twenty minutes.” He sighed, trotting over to the colt and putting a hoof on her shoulder. “Sorry, champ, nothing today. But I think I’m getting close!” Tinker said.
A low growl came from Tinker’s stomach. “Guess it’s time for breakfast,” he motioned to Gearhead. “Care to join me?”
“Mmm, okay. Sure,” Gear said, nodding
With that, two trotted out of the bedroom, squeezing their way past skyscraper-like piles of boxes and crates as they made their way to the house’s tiny kitchen for a hearty breakfast.
At least that’s what they called it. In this land of eternal midnight, night and day were a memory. Morning, noon, evening, weeks, months, had all blurred together into a single, continuous stream.
“Alright,” Tinker set some paper bowls on the table. He cleared his throat. “Good day, monsieur, and welcome to chez Tinker,” he said in a terrible Prench accent. “My name is Jacquez and shall be zour waiter tonight.”
Gearhead giggled. “Very well, good sir,” the colt said in an equally horrendous Trottingham accent, studying an invisible menu. “I say, what is your special today?”
“Monsiuer, our zpecial today,” Tinker suppressed a giggle “...is ze canned peaches in zyrup, along with a glass of our finezt water.”
“Hmmm…” Gear put a hoof to his chin, tapping a hindleg. “Very well, I shall have that.”
“Ah, an exzellent choice, monsieur.” Tinker scribbled something down on an invisible notepad. “I shall be right back.”
With that, Tinker trotted over to a crate labeled “Rich’s Barnyard Bargains” and started rummaging through the worryingly low contents. Like an archeologist extracting an artifact from a chest, Tinker fished out a can of “Peachy Keen’s Canned Peaches”, perhaps the last of its kind in Equestria. Gripping the pull tab in his teeth, he peeled back the lid and scooped out the syrupy lumps into two paper bowls, which were soon joined by two cups of water.
“Here you are, monsieur,” he said, placing a bowl in front of his son. He blew a kiss. “Bon appetit!”
Both ponies stared at each other for a bit, struggling to keep their respective faces straight. Pressure built in Tinker chest, he put a hand to his lips, then burst into laughter. Infected, his son also burst into laughter. For a moment, the world felt safe again; Tinker and Gear were just a father and son, having breakfast together.
Once the laughter reservoirs inside them depleted, Tinker finally returned to his meal, spearing a peach with his fork and slowly chewed it, trying to trick his stomach into making the bare-bones breakfast more filling than it really was. Gear subscribed to a different school of thought, scarfing down his peaches like Pinkie Pie at a pie-eating contest.
“So, Dad,” Gearhead said, wiping syrup from his lips, “what are we gonna do today? Play some checkers?”
“Later,” Tinker said, throwing the bowls into an overstuffed garbage bag. “First, we have chores to do. You slop the hogs, while I milk the cow.”
The colt rolled his eyes, “Really Dad, what do we need to do?”
Tinker started down the stairs. “I’m going to charge the batteries. While I do that, you inspect my portable charger, I think one of the crystals might be burning out.”
“But Dad, I checked it last night, the crystals looks fine.”
“Gear...” Tinker said, frowning and tapping a hoof.
“I know, I know,” groaned the colt, “if it looks good, check it twice. If it looks great, check it thrice.”
“Exactly, now go on.”
With that, Gearhead trotted off into the workshop, lugging one of the portable generators on his back. There was the clunking sound of tools being taken off a shelf, followed by the the ratcheting clicks of a socket wrench. As his son worked, Tinker connected the house’s main generator to a modified exercise bike, then clambered on.
Two hind legs pushed against the rubber pedals, fighting against inertia. The pedals turned slowly at first, like they had just gotten out of bed after a good night’s sleep and still needed their morning coffee, then slowly built up momentum. A belt attached to the bike’s flywheel spun, turning a wheel attached to the generator. There was the itchy, ozone smell of magic, and the generator’s mageometer lit up, needle twitching.
“One two three four, one two three four...” Tinker counted off, trying to get a good rhythm going. It was funny; before the Blot, he’d rarely use the thing. Now he pedaled every day- or whatever passed for a day in this sunless land- each pedal adding a few more seconds of life.
Without light, the Blot would smother you in seconds, squeezing the air from your lungs. Without magical energy to power the light crystals, there was no light.
On the plus side, he was getting in great shape.
The alarm clock went off with a cacophonous ring. The mageometer needle pointed firmly in the red; the batteries had finished suckling on magic. Stretching, Tinker slid off the bike, letting it freewheel for a bit, then decoupled the generator from the storage batteries. The moment he did, the interior lights shone a bit brighter, pushing the Blot back a little more. His little private universe felt a little safer.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Tinker trotted over to the workshop, joints popping and cracking all over his body. He poked his head inside to see one of the precious portable generators lying partially disassembled on the workbench, like a patient on an operating table, while Gearhead examined its crystal, poking and prodding the crystal at its center.
“How’s it look?”
The colt looked up at Tinker, the magnifying goggles on his head giving him a comical, bug eyed appearance. “It looks good, Dad,” Gearhead said, gently placing the crystal in its nest of conductive wires, then screwing the generator back together with a socket wrench. “Crystal’s a bit scratched, but not too bad. Be a while before we’ll need to replace it.”
Tinker smiled. It seemed like just yesterday his son had been a curious little colt, playing around with his dad’s tools, trying to take apart the radio. Now he could disassemble and fix pretty much anything in barely any time at all. In a few more years he’d probably surpass his old man.
If only his mother could see him...
Once the generator was reassembled, Gearbox slid off the stool, placing the magnifiers on a hook by the workbench.
“Well, now that the chores are done,” Tinker grabbed an old checkerboard and a bag of game pieces off a shelf, “what do you say we find out who really is the Grand Checkers Champion of the Universe?”
“You’re on!” Gearhead said, trotting over to a nearby barrel NS setting up the faded cardboard board. Missing pieces replaced with washers and nuts.
“So,” Tinker said, arranging the pieces on the board, “what’ll be this time? Red or Black?”
“Black. Gotta be black.”
“Excellent choice.”
Gearhead moved one of his pieces. Tinker responded in kind.
Something was wrong. Gear was making all sorts of mistakes. By his third turn, Tinker had already captured two pieces, and was ready to jump a third. He didn’t like this, at all.
“Gear?”
Gearhead looked up from the board. “Yeah?”
“Is something wrong?”
Two orange ears flattened against Gear’s head. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think that things will ever return to normal?”
Tinker smiled. “Of course they will.” He jumped one of his son’s pieces.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I know our Princesses,” said Tinker, placing the piece in the POW camp aside the board. “ I’ll bet that right now, all four of them are whipping up a spell to destroy the Blot.”
“But Dad, we don't even know if they’re still alive.” Gearhead shouted. “ We don’t know how big the Blot is; for all we know, the entire planet’s been gobbled up! We might be the only ponies left!”
“Not necessarily,” Tinker replied. “We saw some ponies make it indoors. They could still be alive.”
“Then why haven’t we seen anypony? What happened to them?”
The two stared at the floor for a second. Tinker tried to find the right mold for his thoughts. “Look, Gear, I know that things look pretty bleak. Wait, scratch that, they are pretty bleak,” he said, forcing out a light chuckle. “But this isn’t the first time it’s been like this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember when Nightmare Moon returned, how we thought we’d never see the sun again? Remember when that magician enslaved the entire town or when Tirek tried to steal all the magic in Equestria? Things were definitely bleak then.” He sighed. “I won’t lie; there were times when I wanted to curl up in a corner and cry.”
“But you know what? It all passed. Nightmare Moon was destroyed. Ponyville was freed, and Tirek was cast back into Tartarus. This won’t be any different.”
While Tinker tried his best to sound confident, there was a little seed of doubt in his heart. Every word he said fertilized it. Every suppressed feeling watered it. Every time it’d grow a little bigger, its’ roots would spread a little deeper.
The Blot was nothing like Nightmare Moon or Tirek. It hadn’t made any grandiose speeches about how it was going to conquer the world or how futile it was to resist it. All it wanted was to smother the town with its presence, snuffing out anything unfortunate enough to be caught within it.
Worse, whenever he looked into the Blot, he swore he could feel it looking back. Examining him. Probing him. Stalking him.
There was another pause. “Dad, if...when the Blot goes away, will things ever get back to normal?”
Tinker sighed. “Gear, I won’t lie.When the Blot goes away, things won’t return to normal at once. In fact, they may not be normal again for a long time. But you know what? We’ll survive. We’re Earth ponies, aren’t we?”
Gearhead gave a half smile, “Yeah, we’re strong like that.” The smile turned mischievous, as the colt picked up a piece and, with a Clack Clack Clack, jumped over three of his pieces.
“King me.” Gear plucked three of Tinker’s pieces off the board, a smug smile on his face.
“Dangit! I left my guard down.” Tinker moved to jump the brave little piece, then froze, sniffing the air. He caught a whiff of something disgusting, like rotting fruit mixed burning rubber.
Something froze inside Tinker. A lead weight dropped into his stomach. That smell...
“Dad?” Gear tilted his head. “Are you-?”
“Shh!” Tinker put a hoof on the floor. He could feel them; tremors. Coming from the east. Fast.
“Gear...” he said, barely louder than a whisper.
“Dad?”
The vibrations grew louder. Tinker could hear a soft ‘thump..thump…’ in the distance, slowly growing louder. Slowly, he turned to face his son, mouthing the words, “Don’t. Move.”
The little colt’s eyes nearly bulged out of their skull. He froze, pieces in hoof. Tears started trickling down his cheeks
The thumps grew louder and louder. Everything that wasn’t fastened down began to rattle and shake. Windows shook in their frames.Teeth rattled in Tinker’s skull. The checker pieces danced across the board.
It’s alright It’s alright It’s alright, Tinker told himself, cheeks wet from fear. The Beast is blind in the light.As long as we don’t move, it can’t sense us. We just need to wait until...
An ear-piercing shriek cut through the air, the strange properties of the Blot giving it a bizarre, electronic peculiarity, like something from a magical synthesizer rather than a living creature. Gear closed his eyes and covered his ears. The ammonia smell of urine filled the air.
The thumping footsteps ceased. Something started scratching at the door, rattling it on its hinges. The doorknob rattled and shook in its socket. Tinker closed his eyes. Dead dead dead they were dead they were dead they were so dead!
The scratching stopped. For a brief eternity, there was nothing. All Tinker could hear was his son’s terrified whimpering and his own frantic breathing. There was another thump, another unholy shriek, and the thing outside moved along.
Stallion and son didn’t dare to move. They couldn’t let their guard down, not yet. For all they knew, the creature was biding its time, waiting for them to move. The smallest twitch was a death sentence. A sneeze would doom them both.
Finally, the thumps grew softer and softer until they disappeared altogether. Father and son finally let themselves relax, legs aching and nerves shot.
“Dad…?” Gearhead whispered.
“Yes?”
“I, kinda...” he motioned to the puddle around his hoofstool.
“It’s ok Gear,” Tinker said, pointing at the floor below him. “So did I.”
---
Author's Note
Enjoy!
“Hello, number Twenty! “
Balancing himself on the hoofstool, Tinker held the dangling light crystal up to his face.
Quite a few things had changed since the Blot arrived, not the least of which was Tinker and Gearheads’ chore list. With their limited water supply, doing the dishes was out of the question. Cutting the grass was pointless when grass had crumbled into dust, and when all of their magic was dedicated towards lighting, vacuuming was impossible.
Still, there was one chore that hadn’t changed since the darkness fell on Ponyville. If anything, it had become exponentially more important.
“How am I?” Tinker held an ear up to the fixture. “Eh, I’m okay. How about you?”
The gem was silent. If it had something to say, it was keeping it to itself.
“That’s good to hear,” Tinker said, trying to hide his despair as he inspected the crystal. Number twenty was not in good shape. Not only was its brightness noticeably dimmer, but tiny, hair-thin cracks were spreading over its faceted surface, flecked with bits of soot. It wouldn’t be long before this little gem went to that big recycling bin in the sky.
“What’s that? How does it look?”
It’s bad, twenty. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go.” With a low sigh, the stallion gripped a pair of pliers with his fetlocks “Please don’t take this personally.”
Carefully, carefully, Tinker coaxed the photomagical crystal from its socket, like a parent coaxing a frightened colt out from under their bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead, glistening in the light of the twenty or so other crystals strung about the house, looking for all Equestria like fruits dangling from copper vines.
The light at the crystal’s center went dead. There was a soft “click”, and the stone popped out of its socket and into Tinker’s hoof. Tossing it aside, he gingerly reached back into the haversack around his neck and pulled out a fresh lightcrystal.
Now that Tinker thought about it, these things were actually quite lovely. Maybe it was just a side effect of being stuck in the Blot for a while, but there was something aesthetically pleasing about these seemingly mundane little stones. Maybe it was the way their facets caught the light, bending it into a little rainbow. Or that soft, welcoming glow they gave off when you screwed them in...
Tinker realized that he was ogling a rock. Shaking his head, he gripped the stone with the pliers and ever so carefully inserted it into the empty socket, making sure not to touch the sides of the jury-rigged socket. One wrong move and...
Tinker’s nose twitched. Oh no. Not here. Not now.
Desperately, Tinker tried in vain to stifle the tickling in his nostrils. The pressure grew, and grew, then…
“Ah...ah... Achoo!” the sneeze exploded from his mouth. The foreleg holding the pliers thrust into the socket. There was a feeling like being punched in the face, a loud pop and a flash of light, and the next thing Tinker knew, he was on the floor, the world spinning around him..
“Ugh..Bucking Horseapples.” Tinker shook his head, trying to regain his bearings. Frantic, Tinker scrabbled over to the fallen gem and cradled it in his forelegs, scanning the little stone for the ittiest, bittiest scratch, then breathing a sigh of relief; it was still intact; not the slightest nick or scratch marred its beautiful faceted surface.
“Oh thank the Queen…” Tinker said, giving the gem a light kiss
“Uh, Dad?”
Tinker froze in place, then slowly turned to see Gearhead standing at the top of the staircase, clad in his Daring Do pajamas.
“Yes, Gear?” Tinker said. The awkwardness in the room was so thick he could taste it.
“What are you...doing?” he said, tilting his head
“Oh, just replacing a lightcrystal” Tinker said, picking up the pliers and climbing back on the stool.
“Do you need some help?”
“No, I’ve got this,” With a few careful twists, the crystal slotted into place with a satisfying click. A gentle light grew in its center, before blossoming into a soft, white light. Satisfied, Tinker gave the gem a gentle pat, then climbed off the hoofstool.
“Good.” Tinker smiled. “So, cadet, ready to get some sleep?”
“Space cadet Gearhead reporting for bed, sir!” he said, giving a sloppy mock salute.
“Alright cadet, forward, march!”
With that, cadet and officer marched down the hallway and into the assigned bedroom. Carefully, Tinker picked his way through the obstacle course of loose nuts, bolts, and screws that littered the floorboards like caltrops.
Once, a very long time ago, Gearhead’s room had been clean. Scrupulously clean. Every day, the little guy would make sure that everything was in its rightful place; every book, every toy, every bit of dust had to be properly sorted and put in its proper place. That was, until Gearhead received his cutiemark.
“Alright, Cadet.” Tinker barked in the most authoritative voice he could muster. “Man your sleep station.”
With a giggle, Gearhead clambered onto his bed, sliding himself under the star- and-planet themed comforter.
“Begin pre-sleep checklist.” Tinker said in his best imitation of a Royal Guard “Teeth brushed?”
“Go!”
“Pajamas?”
“Go!”
“Stuffed animal”
Gearhead clutched a stuffed Ursa Minor to his barrel. “Stuffed animal is go!”
“Alright, Cadet. Commencing goodnight in three, two, one…”
Tinker kissed his son’s forehead. “Good night.”
“‘Night, Dad.” Gearhead slipped on a pair of blindfolds and rested his head against the pillow. Once cadet Gearheadhead was sleeping, Tinker quietly slipped out of the room, wincing as a rogue nut stabbed into the frog of his hoof, then closed the door.
Queen, look after him Tinker whispered, his stomach churning and bubbling with dread. Ideally, he would have had his son sleep in the same room as him, while keeping the Gearhead's unlit, but, now that the entire universe had been confined to a few rooms, and with so many bulky supplies cluttering up the house, he'd been forced to convert the bedroom into a partial storage room. Besides, in all this craziness, that bedroom was probably one of the few normal things Gearhead had left.
“It’s all right, Tinker.” He muttered to himself. The light crystals in that room were practically brand new; as long as he stayed awake and kept an ear out for the Beast, they’d be fine.
With that, Tinker trotted into the main living room and plopped down on his favorite couch. That was the last of his chores for the “day”. Now, maybe he could have some time to relax.
The Blot must have heard him; the second his head hit the sofa, the house began to creak and groan, as if it were buckling under the pressure of the Blot.
It’s alright, Tinker,” the stallion told himself. It’s just the house settling on its foundation, nothing more. You’re safe in here.
He might as well have tried to plug a leaking dam with chewing gum. In his mind, the sturdy, dependable house became a wooden bubble, lit by a few guttering candles. One which the Blot could crush any time it wanted.
Shivering, Tinker looked around the room for something, anything, that would serve as a decent distraction. His eyes fell on a homemade bookcase, overflowing with Princess Twilight Sparkle’s opiate of choice.
That’d do.
Quickly, he tilted his head, scanning the shelf for something interesting.
The Fog?
Read it twice
The Tale of the Scratching Hagr?
Nah
A Roadside Picnic?
Nuh, uh.
Tapping his hoof, Tinker continued to scan the bookshelf, then shrugged and picked out a dog-eared copy of Wrench: A History. Sitting back on the couch, he racked the little tome open, relishing the musty, papery smell that came with an aged book.
“Chapter one: From Humble Beginnings...”
“DAAD!”
The book fell to the floor. Tinker threw himself off of the couch and towards the staircase, his heart beating and his blood frozen solid. As he shot up the steps, the stallion’s imagination turned sadistic, killing Gearhead a thousand times over, each way more horrifying than the last. He could already see the Blot-spawned horror, swore he could already hear Gearhead’s screams.
After a few eternities, Tinker finally reached the top of the stairwell and hurled himself at Gearhead’s bedroom door nearly ripping it off its hinges to see...nothing.
“Gear?” Tinker said, looking around the room. The room was pretty much unchanged; same walls covered with sketches of rocket ships and machines. Same work desk with its partly-disassembled radio. Same stacks of supplies and spare parts. The only difference he could see was the Gearhead-sized lump under the covers, quivering like a blob of jelly.
“Gear?” Tinker walked up and gently pulled back the covers, revealing a sweaty, wide-eyed colt.
“Gear, what’s going on?” He said.
“I-I-I-I wuh-wuh-wuh-” Gearhead blubbered, gasping like a fish
“Easy, champ. Take a few deep breaths. Breathe in...breathe out. Breathe in...breathe out.”
Gearhead took a deep breath, then released it. Deep breath, then released it. His trembling calmed down a bit.
“There we go.” Tinker said, rubbing his son’s neck. “Now, what’s wrong?”
“A shadow...it came in through the window!”
“What shadow?”
With a trembling hoof, Gearhead pointed to a small elliptical shadow, no bigger than a hoofball, hanging just beneath the windowsill. Tinker smiled, trying his best not to burst into laughter. It was just a shadow. Just a little bitty shadow. Perfectly harmless.
“It’s alright, Gear,” Tinker gave the tiny shadow a poke. “It's probably just a bit of dirt, or some bug on one of the lightcrystals. It’s nothing to be afraid of.” He turned towards the light crystals. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll get rid of it for--”
Tinker’s eyes shot open. He looked to the lights, then to the shadow. Looked at the lights, then back to the shadow. There was nothing casting that shadow. The lights were as clean as the day they’d come out of the factory; no bugs crawling on the crystal, no stains or flecks of grit.
There was a soft, scratching sound behind him. Tinker turned to see the the shadow began to ooze towards the floor, the syrupy darkness stretching itself into a long, skinny pencil, dripping down the wall and pooling on the floor like an ambulatory ink stain. Fine, flat “hairs” popped out of the mass, growing into thin, wiry tentacles.
“Dad…” Gearhead said, barely louder than a whisper. “What is that?”
Tinker didn’t bother answering. Instead, he shuffled over to Gearhead and pressed the colt against his barrel, heart pounding, his mind frozen by fear. Shadows didn’t do this. Shadows were obedient; always tagging along behind you. They did not just form out of nothing. They didn’t move by themselves.
Like a two-dimensional fish, the shadow swam across the floor, expanding and contracting as it slid over nuts, bolts, soda bottles and other trash, leaving a strange, black residue wherever it went. Its Tendrils thrashed, stretching all over the supply crates stacked all over. Probing the room. Tasting the room.
One such tendril slid onto the bed right towards Gearhead. Reflexively, Tinker pulled his son out of the way and let the tentacle writhe over his coat instead. For a moment, there was a feeling like cold, scratchy ice crawling across the stallion’s pelt before tendril left, apparently satisfied.
As Tinker watched, one of the tendrils stretched onto the ceiling and brushed against a dangling light crystal. In an instant, the shadow retracted its tendrils and glided up the walls to the ceiling, painting a black line over crates and boxes, then gliding up the rocket-ship wallpaper and wrapping itself around the light crystal, quivering like black jelly. Inside, the crystal’s internal light flickered and dimmed, then popped in a spray of glassy shrapnel
With its food source gone, a much larger and darker shadow once again glided across the wall, tendrils waving like ropes. Frantic, Tinker grabbed a nearby baseball bat and swung wildly at the wall, bashing ragged holes in the plaster. No use; the shadow just kept gliding along until it reached the next lightcrystal, snacking on precious light. He might as well have tried to beat a sunbeam to death.
A small bulge appeared on one of the tendrils, then ruptured with a wet “spurt”. A bit of the black liquid splashed onto Tinker’s foreleg, sizzling like frying haybacon. There was a slight tugging sensation, then there was nothing but pain.
Pain knocked Tinker’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the floor. This was pain like nopony had ever felt before; an itching, burning agony coursing through him, as if he was being incinerated from the inside out.
As he writhed in pain, Tinker was vaguely aware of the Pop of a second lightcrystal exploding. As glass rained on the floor, the light in the room began to take on a strange, rust-red hue, like it was being viewed through a red filter. Something pressed against Tinker’s barrel, slowly squeezing the air from his lungs. Breathing became a conscious act.
Dad…” Gearhead gasped, holding a hoof against his chest as his cheek turned blue. A fresh burst of adrenalin surged through Tinker, pushing the horrible pain back. Gritting his teeth, Tinker forced himself up and galloped towards the bed, hoisting Gearhead up on his back then galloped out of the nightmare Slammed the door behind him.
“Gearhead. Blanket.” Tinker hissed. The world turned fuzzy.
With a nod, Gearhead ran off into Tinker’s room and grabbed a thick woolen blanket, stuffing it against the crack beneath the door. For a moment, there was a horrific screech, followed by a sound like claws scratching at the door, then nothing. One by one, Tinker and Gearhead heard the last of the lightcrystals pop, followed by a blast of intense cold, then an eerie silence.
“You okay?”
Gearhead nodded, his eyes as wide as dinner plates.
“Good.” And with that, Tinker finally allowed himself the luxury of blacking out.
-
Well, this is disappointing
Tinker groaned, prying open his crusty eyes, clearing the fog from his head. From what he’d read in the Book of the Queen, the afterlife was supposed to be a lush meadow, where believers from all species laughed and frolicked in the presence of the Queen. Instead, all he saw was a plain wooden ceiling and part of a ragged couch. You lied to me.
Wait a minute, Gearhead! A pang of fear shot through him. His son was still back there, in the house, In the Blot. Already the little colt was probably hunched over Tinker’s lifeless body, crying.
A slow, dull pain began to spread through Tinker’s body. Something occurred to him: pain, he was feeling pain. The dead didn’t feel pain, ergo, he wasn’t dead! Overjoyed, Tinker started to push himself up, until he remembered that pain was a bad thing.
Everything hurt. His entire body was enveloped in pain. Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt. Existing hurt. It was if somepony had hollowed out his body and filled it with barbed wire and fishhooks, while a bunch of little gnomes danced on his body whilst wearing hoofball cleats.
Tinker shuddered. That was a disturbing image.
There was a soft snoring from Tinker’s side. Slowly, he tilted his head towards the side, clenching his teeth so hard they almost snapped, and saw Gearhead sitting on a hoofstool beside the couch, his head buried in his forelegs.
“Gear…” Tinker croaked, his tongue tacky from thirst.
Two ears perked right up, a small orange head lifted up, revealing two bloodshot eyes, underscored by the dark lines of tears. Like a light crystal being activated, Gearhead's face lit up in a huge smile.
“Dad!” He whinnied in delight, wrapping his forelegs around the Tinker’s chest, sending a fresh spike of pain lancing through the stallion's body.
“Gear, please…” Tinker hissed through the pain.
“Oh,” He clambered off the couch, blushing. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Tinker said. “Aspirin. Water. Can you...?”
“On it!” With a mock salute, Gearhead dashed off into the house and brought back a bottle of water and a bottle of Ache-Aways aspirin tablets. “Requested items retrieved, sir!”
Despite his pain, Tinker managed a smile. “Good work…” He said, popping the cork out off of the bottle and shaking out three of the little white tablets.
“Uh, Dad, I think you’re only supposed to take two of…”
Three little tablets dropped into Tinker’s mouth, followed by a hearty flood of water that sent them tumbling into his stomach.
“Those…”
For a minute, Tinker just lay on the couch, allowing the pills to do their work. As he rested, he could feel the tablets dissolve, dulling the razor-sharp pain, calming his tortured nerves. Slowly, the universe became a bit more bearable. Now the little gnomes were wearing ballet slippers.
“Are you feeling better, Dad?”
“Yes...” Tinker said,wincing as he rolled onto his stomach . “How about you? Are you all right?.”
Gearhead nodded. “Yep. I’m a hundred percent okay, sir.” He sniffed, ears drooping. “I thought you were…”
“It’s all right,” Tinker spread out his forelegs, wincing as his son buried his tiny muzzle in the stallion’s chest. “I’m still here, I’m okay.” A jolt of pain shot up his back. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.” he chuckled, coaxing a soft giggle out of Gearhead .“Anything happen while I was out? Any more of those shadows?”
“No,” Gearhead said, detaching himself from Tinker. “The house is safe. Those things...they aren’t going anywhere.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Tinker started to push himself up. “Yeah, but that thing might have friends out there. We’d better board up the windows, to make sure they don’t join him.”
Another spike of pain drove itself into Tinker’s spine. Instantly, he fell back to the couch. “But I think that can...wait a bit,” He looked at his son. “You, probably don’t want to go back to bed, do you?”
Gearhead shook his head, his face noticeably paler. Tinker wasn’t too surprised. With everything the Blot had thrown at them, they’d both be having nightmares for weeks. Well, more nightmares than usual, at least.
“Well, in that case,” Tinker motioned towards the bookshelf. “What do you say we take a little road trip down memory lane? Can you fetch the photo album?”
“Okay.” Gearhead said, trotting off towards the bookshelf with a hoofstool. Propping it against the shelf, he reared up on his hind legs and grabbed an embossed photo album in his mouth “Here you go!” He said, spitting the book onto the couch.
“Alright.” Slowly, Tinker set the well-worn album on his belly and cracked it open. “Y’know, they say that life is just one big story,” Tinker said, opening up to a page of photographs, all arranged in neat little rows.
“And where best to start a story than at the beginning?” With a smile, Tinker pointed to the first photo on the page; a picture of a young earth pony mare lying on a hospital bed, cradling a tiny orange colt in her hooves.
“There’s mom, just a few minutes after you were born.” Said Tinker.
“Whoa.” Gearhead stared at the photo. “Is that really me?”
“You bet.” Said Tinker. “ You know, The doctors said that your mom and I would never be able to have foals. By the Queen did you prove them wrong."
“Moving on,” Tinker turned the page and pointed to a photo of a much younger Gearhead wearing a bright pink hat and pink socks, sucking on a wrench like a metal pacifier.
“Even back then, you liked playing with my tools.” Tinker said with a chuckle.
Gearhead tilted his head. “Uh, Dad, why am I wearing filly clothes?”
“Oh, that,” Tinker blushed. “Funny story. At first, your mom and I thought we’d be having an adorable little filly. We didn’t have enough money for little colt clothes, so, well…”
The flustered colt flushed bright red. “Please, please don’t show this to anyone at school!”
“Don’t worry, champ.” Tinker said, “I’ll save it for when I meet your first fillyfriend.” He nickered
With that, Gearhead and Tinker continued their trip down the nostalgia-paved road. With each photograph, he grew a little less anxious; his posture became less rigid, more relaxed. Not so with Tinker. Instead of healing his anxiety, their little excursion was pouring salt and vinegar on it. As he looked at the photographs, something tore within him, like a wound that he never knew he had.
“Now.” Tinker turned to the last page of the album, pointing at a photograph of Gearhead at Sugarcube Corner, flanked on both sides by his friends while he bared his flank to the camera.
“You remember your cutecenerea?”
“Course!” Gearhead said excitedly. “That was the coolest day ever!”
“I know. Everywhere you went, you’d keep shoving your flank in ponies faces, shouting ‘I got my cutie mark I got my cutie mark!’”
“Yeah.” Gearhead blushed.
“It’s okay.” Tinker put a hoof on the flustered colt’s withers. “I was pretty much the same when I got my cutie mark. Showing my butt off to everypony I met, bragging about how cool it was.”
Another chuckle. “ Hey,” Tinker said, turning the page to a photo of the entire family standing in front of a fairytale castle, accompanied by a pony in a rat costume.
“I sure do! That was fun!”
“Yep, Whinnyland.” Tinker said. “If I recall, that was your reward for getting straight A’s in school.”
“Yep! Straight A’s, all the way.”
Tinker smiled. “Remember how you chased down Ricky Rat, how you begged for him to give him your autograph!”
“Yeah and remember when we went on Haunted Palace ride, and you screamed like a filly when we saw that one ghost in the mirror!”
“Hey, you know me and ghosts!” Tinker said in false indignation
“It was still funny.” Said Gearhead.
“Yeah, funny…” Tinker stared at the photograph for a while.The wound inside him tore wide open. A heaviness settled over Tinker, like a heavy blanket was being draped over his heart. “Gear?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Could you go get some two by fours out of the workshop. I...need to lie down a little bit longer.”
“On it!” With a mock salute, the colt trotted out of the living room while Tinker lay down on his back, staring once again at the ceiling.
A toaster. That’s what’d saved them. A malfunctioning toaster brought in by a last-minute customer that refused to stay fixed. If they hadn’t both been inside, trying to fix the balky appliance, they would have been on the way to the Ponyville cinema to catch the latest Daring Do movie. Out in the open. Easy prey for the Blot.
That couldn’t have been a coincidence. When he was a colt, he'd been taught that there was no such thing as coincidence. The Queen had sent that customer to make sure they stayed inside, but why him? Last he checked, he wasn’t part of some ancient prophecy, nor had he been chosen by some mystical artifact to be its bearer. Aside from raising a wonderful son, his greatest accomplishments were fixing Princess Twilight's radio and inventing an automatic can opener.
If this was the Queen’s plan, then she’d chosen the wrong pony.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got the stuff ready? Are you feeling better?”
“Yes.” Tinker lied, slowly pushing himself up, ignoring the pins and razors flowing through his body. None of that mattered anymore. Worthy or unworthy, he was alive. His son was alive. If he wanted things to stay that way, he couldn’t afford to feel sorry for himself. He had to stay positive.
For Gearhead.
Author's Note
Big shoutout to sevenofeleven for helping me proofread this chapter!
