May 27, 8057 AD

Tashla Estate

My employer, mistress, and friend paces stressfully around her room. Sweat glistens on her brow and she mutters quietly to herself.

I keep telling Faeliar to cut back a bit. She hasn't had a respectable rest in at least four years, and the situation with the High Ghartah isn't remotely conducive to her health.

As it is, however, I'm standing stock still with my back to the wall, in accordance with Trissite maid's etiquette. If she needs me, she will call for me. That is what I have been taught.

But the problem is that she doesn't always realise when she needs me. I sometimes try to hint at my feelings on any given matter, but my mistress doesn't generally catch on.

"Hiikana, I just can't stand it!" Faeliar exclaims, plopping herself on the large bed and nervously twirling the hem of her cape in her fingers. "Korchikah has to be alive! If he was disintegrated, there would at least be some trace of a weapon discharge! He can't just die and leave no corpse whatsoever! I have to look into this!"

I shake my head slightly despite myself. This will only add more to her overfilled plate of work.

"I can't leave my duties behind, but I just... I need to investigate this! Hiikana, are any of the other ghartahe able to assume my responsibilities right now?"

It's my business to know the work state of each ghartah. The second-order is probably available, but I don't know if it's a good idea to tell Faeliar. I war with myself until one side finally wins me over.

"Yes, mistress. Julikal isn't very busy this week. I expect she could take over for up to six days, but -- forgive me, mistress -- I implore you to reconsider! At least wait another week for the security camera footage."

Faeliar lets out a breath and stares at the ceiling. She's weighing her options; I recognize that distant, dreamy look in her eyes and the slight parting of the lips.

After several seconds, she sits up. "No," she tells me. "I have to know as soon as possible. I think I'll take leave for this week. Thank you, dear. I don't tell you enough how much of a help you are to me."

She gives me a grateful hug that could crush a whale. She's always been a bit of a cuddle bug around others. I return the embrace with a small smile. I want to support my friend however I can.

Faeliar lets go and does a short twirl of excitement. "Hiikana, would you prepare my car, please? Also, inform my chauffeur; she's a much better driver than I am."

I bow to her and exit the room while Faeliar begins to pack a week of outfits in a suitcase.

The grey jubilee of the Holy Kulak Decaying

Temple of Dust, Harkonni homohowk

"Great Kulak Nevermore," he said as he knelt to Us, the Twisted King.

He wore nothing, save the vision-enhancing mask, the braces around his waists and knees, and the gauntlets without which his fingers would fall apart. His nudity represented his honesty; his tail lashed reverently.

We raised Our armoured, gemstone-adorned fist for him to kiss. He did so hungrily, yearning for the praise of his Kulak.

A painful smile curled Our lips upward. We saw his hearts beating out of turn. We saw his shredded lungs compress and split with every broken breath.

A starved animal's growl sounded from the shadows around Our throne. Our servant shivered.

"Akorra, High Vicar of Dust."

We cast his name into the darkness of Our ancient and holy temple. The warden did not flinch as superheated air flowed across his sensitive antlers. We have trained him well. No pain, no fear, not a scrap of compassion. An utterly ruthless force is the key to victory. Other armies shudder when they hear the holy name of Shorotara, the Kingdom of Shoro Torn.

"Akorra, High Vicar of Dust, may Shorota bless your name, give us your tidings."

The mangled soldier rose like a puppet, although his head remained bowed to Us. His vocoder clicked into the slit in his throat so that he could speak again.

"The sister of the Finsha is setting out for the Koh za in search of her brother. Forty men and women stand at the scene of his disappearance, searching for his body. I come for your guidance, O Holy One. What shall we do when they discover the rift? Surely it is fixed into the warp drive."

We sat in silence, Our fingers steepled. A smirk spread across Our face as the High Vicar of Dust slowly became nervous. We saw red-hot adrenaline spiking in his veins. We saw his hearts beating so fast.

We saw he was afraid.

The animal by Our throne began to whine, and Akorra cringed away.

At last, Our little game ceased to amuse Us. We spoke to him. "Should they find the jump-rift, we will use them to our advantage," We said. "This could be an opportunity for new knowledge. We know not how the rifts function. Send a drone to monitor their studies. Perhaps even we can learn from them."

Akorra shifted uncomfortably. "How could one as high and mighty as You learn from the Impure?"

We glanced at his brain, at his shattered, twisted nerves, and We saw that he was sincere in his confusion. A perfect success in upbringing and indoctrination.

"You need not know," We replied quietly. "It shall worry the Kulak and the Kulak alone. We have told you what we wish you to do. Obey Our commands."

Akorra jolted as if struck by an electrical shock, such as the ones used for infants' instinct training. He groveled at Our hooves and shambled at great haste from the Temple.

We watched him go, and a short, childish giggle escaped Our lips. We enjoy the fear of Our servants; it has always brought a smile of laughter to Our face.

A dusty chandelier, sent swinging by Akorra's clumsy exit, cast light briefly on the beast chained to Our throne. It began to scream with Our voice.

"You shall have your fill soon enough," We crooned to the malnourished creature, stroking its antlers. "You and We both."

Our mind gradually turned back to other things, and We devoted Our energy once more to maintaining the mind web We call Shorota.

A plan began to form. It took shape in Our mind and was molded by every Shoro's unconscious desire to help Us. Shorota connects us and binds us, and it all bows to Us.

We decided. We will send an agent.

We will bring forth the Infected.

May 20, 8057 AD

Canterlot

I don't manage to run very far. That's no surprise, considering my broken leg, but it's still a bummer. The pain is almost unbearable, and I fall, but I try to crawl away before Luna can catch me.

It's no use. She shouts and telekinetically pulls me back. Several guards pile over me, binding every inch of my body with metal cables that feel stronger than Arcturan iron. Somewhere in the fray my raybeam emitter slips out of my pocket, barely noticed by anyone.

The Princess looms over me, her eyes a blinding white.

"Be still and silent, insolent fool! Do not resist!"

I am irresistibly compelled to obey. I don't know why, but every muscle in my body stiffens and ceases to respond to my commands. Even without the cables, I'd be completely paralysed. All I can do is breathe.

Luna Starsong glares down at me, growling deeply.

"Take it away to the dungeons," she spits. "We shall speak to our sister of what hath occurred here."

"Yes, my lady," Batwing says.

She nods and steps furiously away, allowing the soundproofing barrier to collapse.

The big kahuna spins around to me and the other guards. "Evening Light, Shining Star, are the two of you together able to carry it?"

"I think so," one of the thestrals, Evening Light, responds. "He looks heavy, but I think we can manage it, yes."

He prods my side with a hoof. "That's solid muscle," he says quietly with surprise.

Without further ado I am hoisted onto the guards' backs by four other thestrals bearing ropes. My carriers strain under my weight, and I silently hope their knees buckle.

No beans, but their grunts of exertion are satisfying. At least I'm causing them a great deal of inconvenience.

We make our slow way across an earthen path, crossing a small stone bridge over an artificial creek. I think we're still in the palace's courtyard area, but I'm just guessing from the looming buildings I can see above me, so I'm not sure.

At last, we come across a grand prison, insufferably ornate, which lies behind the palace. Most of the front is taken up by a pair of sturdy metal gates which shine unnaturally. Two gargoyles sneer down at me from the buttresses.

A pair of equines, a thestral and a pegasus, stand guard at either side. The pegasus wears shining, gold-plated armour rather than the thestrals' smooth, shadowy suits. His fur is a warm shade of white.

"Our Entrance is sanctioned by Princess Luna Starsong, Steward of the Night," Captain Moon says to the prison guards. "An initial trial for this monster is to be held in three weeks' time. Inquiries are to be made directly to the Princess."

The guards salute and move their spears to let us pass.

The entrance hall's left wall has murals on it depicting ponies in chains standing before a pair of winged unicorns, heads bowed in shame. The words Abandon thy evils are repeated every now and then. On the opposite wall, another mural shows the same characters, now smiling with their chains broken, with the words Forgive thine enemies. Pretty sappy.

The guards walk on, carrying me through the dark, musty hall. The entire place is made from worn basalt bricks. Eventually, we reach a smaller passage, which branches off on each side into dozens of little cells, a few of them barely large enough for someone like me. Thick metal doors mark the entrances, with heavy iron bars set in the windows.

At long last, we stop. Captain Moon opens a large cell to our right, and Shining Star and Evening Light stuff me inside, slamming the doors shut behind me.

The head honcho looks at someone among the guards. "Shadowmane, use your magic to unbind him," he orders.

A pitch black unicorn slinks to the front of the crowd. They seem to back away slightly in fear. Yellow eyes gleam at me.

This man looks very dangerous indeed.

"Yes, sir," he says, only slightly above a whisper.

The static-electric feeling returns at full force. The cables spin and twist artfully, slowly but surely parting themselves from my body. A rich lime green aura surrounds them, lighting up the cell.

The cables fall to the floor, and Shadowmane and I stare at each other through the barred window.

"It would be easy to escape, you know," I say casually, looking around. "Stone can be quite fragile if you handle it right."

The corners of Shadowmane's mouth turn upwards in a chilling smile. "You go on," he replies quietly. "I'd love to see you try." He bows his head to show me his horn, which I now see is filed to a lethal point.

"Your first trial will be held in three weeks' time in the Moonlight Court," Moon states. "Until then, you are to remain here. You are not to disturb others with loud song or uncouth manner of speech. You are not to harass your assigned guards. You are not to attempt to escape. You will be given two meals a day, along with water."

"Alright, sure, whatever."

"What are your nutritional needs?"

Let's spice things up a little. You can't eat anything but medium-rare steaks and rich gravy, with a glass of milk on the side. How about that?

I think I'll follow Rational Finsha's advice. Nothing so obvious as that, of course --

Oi! I'm right here, you know!

-- but maybe I can make a little bit of this work in my favour. Now, these guys are horses, so they probably eat grass and flowers and weird shit like that. I know for a fact I can't eat those; I've tried. Pebbles are tastier.

"I'm unable to digest many types of plants," I tell him. "Grass, flowers, leaves, ferns, things along those lines. I can't eat them. Artichokes are way out. I need a diet very rich in protein, so you might want to acquire some kind of meat. A steak would do nicely."

My bullshitting skills have improved since the last time I was arrested, that's for sure.

"I also require a large amount of calcium -- these old bones didn't build themselves, you know. I would recommend milk or other dairy products to that end."

Well done. We'll be having some fun tomorrow.

I can taste it already. For the uninitiated, lactose is to us what alcohol is to Terrans.

May God have mercy on my livers.

"We'll see what we can do," Captain Moon says. "Until then, I bid you a good night."

I scoff as the guards file away, leaving Evening Light and Shining Star to stand by my cell.

A torch on the side of the wall slowly burns down over the course of three hours. Evening Light leaves to replace it, and Shining Star yawns.

I settle down in the corner next to some kind of torture implement and let my chin fall to my chest, although my species doesn't sleep. We can get knocked unconscious, yes, but we don't sleep, per se.

It's going to be a long night. I fold my arms over my chest and let the quiet snores of the other prisoners take me into a peaceful state of mind.

The world swims before me.

I'm running through a rainy forest, leaping and vaulting over fallen branches and logs. A smile spreads across my face as I let raindrops from the leaves above drip onto my outstretched hands. I need no water. I need no breath. I simply run, faster and faster and faster, never stopping, never tiring.

The trees blur together from the sheer speed at which I move. I sidestep and dodge anything in my path effortlessly. The smell of rain and wet vegetation fills me with happiness. I am in paradise.

Suddenly, a voice compels me wordlessly to slow down. The voice is gentle and a little bit nervous, it seems. Whatever it is, I think it's okay to humour it for now.

I let my legs carry me to a gradual halt. At last I stop in a large clearing, about forty metres wide. In the middle stands a strange tree. Its trunk is incredibly thick, and some of its roots sprawl away toward the edges of the clearing. It looks like a Martian titanic, judging by its size and the bark texture.

Curiosity replaces the utter euphoria I felt earlier, and I move slowly forward. The ground is shrouded by post-rain mist, although it's thicker than any mist I've ever seen. I can't even see my boots.

I stoop by the titanic and examine it. Simple designs are carved into the bark, going further and further up in a single-file line.

The first picture is a humble little carving of a Marrissans maggot. After two minutes of contemplation, I realise that it's me. I remember my lower jaw was slightly lopsided when I was a maggot, which is a feature shared by the carving.

Excited and not knowing why, I look at the pictures above it. They seem to represent milestones in my early life -- my first day of school, me and my family sitting around a cozy fireplace, my mother laughing while holding me in her arms.

I smile sadly. Life was so much simpler as a child. I had a father. There were no Shoro. My biggest worry was my favourite show's mid-season hiatus.

The next picture up shows the shell of a metamorphosing Marrissans. I know from the prior carvings that it's probably me.

I don't know why, but I can see the higher carvings clearly, despite their distance. The next one is similar, but it shows a four-fingered fist punching a gaping hole from inside the shell. I am depicted curled up within. The pictures grow more realistic and detailed as they go on.

I skim past the next few -- the pictures of my father are like a bullet to the heart -- but my eyes stop moving when I come across a horrible day that I've tried not to remember for a long time.

My big argument with Shorkah. The worst things I've ever said were said to him. It was brought about by my conversion to atheism, I think. Shorkah was a Methodist Christian. It was so long ago I can't really remember what the tipping point was.

Shorkah said he was ashamed to call me his son. I said I was no longer proud to call him my father. We fought.

I had thrown one final heart-shredding insult at him as I stormed out the door. This was all thousands of years ago, but Marrissanse have a deserved reputation for grudges.

Above this depressing account of events, the tree splits in two. Another trunk grows from the side of the first. The one still going straight up shows the expected interpretation of my journey through life, but the other tells a more disturbing tale.

One one trunk, I'll see a happy experience with a group of friends, like the time I got roped into an outlandish country metal band. On the other, the staging and poses will be similar, but instead of shredding the electric banjo, I'm cowering and shielding myself from a hideous monster.

It continues like this all the way up the trunks, showing regret for the argument on one and utter hatred for Shorkah on the other. The second trunk grows darker and more rotted as it goes further up. The main one looks a lot healthier, but the decay is reaching it, too.

Finally, a change occurs in the shape of the tree. At some point, the rotten trunk bent back toward the stronger one, rebalancing the tree and allowing branches to grow properly between them.

I squint at the carving at the point where this happened, and gasp in spite of myself.

It's my father's execution. On the first trunk, I'm crying with rage and devastation as my father's head swings from a rope.

On the second trunk, I myself am ripping him limb from limb, grinning sadistically all the while. I avert my eyes in horror.

I know what the rest of the carvings will be like, so I stop looking at them and instead search for anything to distract myself from what I've just seen.

The leaves of the tree glow faintly, and greenish veins, also glowing, run down from the highest branches to the topmost carving, which is me crying into Luna Starsong's chest.

I then remember the voice that told me to stop in the first place. I hear a shuffling behind me.

I turn around, automatically shifting my hand to my raybeam emitter's pocket.

My fingers brush against a smooth undershirt and nothing more.

I look down with a yelp and see that my father's coat is gone, as are all the things I keep in it. I'm left with only my trousers and shirt. I look up into the shadows of the forest and see something moving into the clearing.

A tall, quadrupedal silhouette steps quietly toward me. A faint blue light surrounds it.

It's Princess Luna.

She walks into view, her head bowed in respect. She coveys somehow that I have authority in this place.

Where am I? I ask.

She takes a breath and lets it out. We are in thy mind, she replies.

I stare blankly. What do you mean, 'in my mind'?

This is a representation of thy thoughts, thy memories, and everything that defineth thee, she explains. We hath discovered at great length a way to take thee here, to the Astral Plane. 'Twas very difficult. Thou hadst no dreams to manifest! Thy species knoweth not the joy of sleep. We hath never laid eyes upon a creature like thee.

The Astral -- what? Explain this in a language I can understand.

Suffice it to say, we have connected with thee through thy mind. Across this link, we may speak to each other.

Okay, then.... How do I know you aren't some weird hallucination?

We will send thee back to there thy body lies, and we shall give thee a feather from our wing, to prove to thee that what we speak is truth.

The forest shimmers and fades.

My surroundings change gradually. I'm back in the cramped, dark cell with two disinterested guards outside. My good leg is numb from being sat on for at least an hour. I shift it and stretch, and then I look at my hand.

Sure enough, my fist is clutching an azure feather. I slip it into one of my pockets.

I snap back into the forest. Luna is standing next to me again. We lock eyes.

I give her a nod. What are you doing in my mind? I ask her.

She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she paces uncomfortably, walking round the tree and staring warily at something I can't see.

I open my mouth to repeat the question, but she speaks before I can do so.

We hold concern for thy safety, and for thy future.

I frown. What do you mean?

Thy past is broken. Thy memories are corrupt. Two stallions reside in this stallion's head.

I look involuntarily at the tree, at the place where the trunk splits in two. Unnerving connections are made in my mind.

Two stallions reside in this stallion's head.

Show yourself, coward, she calls into the darkness with her thousand voices.

I look sharply up at her. Who are you talking to? Have you brought someone else here?

Nay. Thou hast summoned him unto thyself.

Are you looking for me?

I watch, afraid, as someone else shambles into the clearing.

It's me.

At least, he's shaped like me, and he sounds like me, but his scales are charred and blackened, and his eyes are sunken and bloodshot. His fingers are very, very long. All he wears is a tattered brown cape. A massive, bloody wound gapes at me from his chest. His spidery fists clench and unclench.

Hello, Princess, Rational Finsha says, grinning and waving a skeletal hand in greeting.

I jerk awake, hitting my head on the wall. My guards jolt and turn, brandishing their spears.

"What's going on?" Shining Star asks me.

"Nothing... just -- just a nightmare..." I mutter, breathing hard. I expect they'll buy the excuse, since they don't know I don't sleep.

They look at me suspiciously for a few seconds more and the move back to their original positions.

I sink lower to the floor, shivering. Hours blur past as I dwell on the charred man who stood in my mind. I keep seeing his fingers flex, over and over again. The way the muscles parted in some places to reveal burnt bone disturbs me to no end for reasons I can't explain.

Before I know it, someone is coming down the hall with breakfast.

Author's Note

You could say the language in Korchikah's mind is a little...

*dons shades*

...colorful.

Ironically, this is the longest he's ever gone without swearing.