Icebox

by Sabre_Cat

Rating: mature
Tags: Horror, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Drama, Original Character
Length: 11669

An inventor, looking to renew his broken marriage with his wife, decides to go on a “second honeymoon” at a cheap motel, but ends up trapped in a supernatural fight for his life against an encroaching state of hypothermia.

An inventor, looking to renew his broken marriage with his wife, decides to go on a “second honeymoon” at a cheap motel, but ends up trapped in a supernatural fight for his life against an encroaching state of hypothermia. Sealed inside their room, and at the shaky whim of a dark overseer, they must do their best to stave off the impending cold--else they fade like the heat that slowly seeps from their bodies.

In memory of Yondy--a mentor, a teacher, and a role model. You will be forever missed.

1st place, $100 prize winner of the FFF Winter Contest on Discord.

Note: If anyone reading this has any feedback to give, please do share it in the comment section below, as I'm very much so about gathering as much of it as I can get so I can improve. I don't bite, I promise.

Published 2017-12-13 02:30:10 UTC
Last updated 2018-01-18 17:25:12 UTC

Chapter 1: Body Language

Chapter 1

Body Language

Why wouldn’t she work? She was supposed to play music.

The small and fairy-like princess mare, posing as if she were on a sound-adorned stage right now, did not twirl or dance for me like she was supposed to. Perhaps this was punishment for trusting in a unicorn’s magic to run the clockwork gears of my invention, and not the science of collaborating parts.

The powerful whoosh of a train’s horn sounded just beyond. The coal-driven, hulking mass parking itself at its earth-bound, snow-infested dock just over yonder. Just near my oaken, decaying bench. I had not the time to look it up and down. My ballerina mare was more important. The simultaneous clunking of a couple of suitcases, however, was enough to draw my eyes.

A suited stallion across from me, carrying suitcases--about four of them--presumably packed with a trio of some foals’ trinkets and clothes, could not seem to overcome gravity’s greedy urges. His consistent “oofs” began to call upon my inner 10-second hero. The dancer beckoned to me, but I let her charm me into forgetting the real world existed enough as is. Duty called. I pocketed the music box.

Approaching him, I asked, “You need any help with those?” He seemed a little reluctant to accept at first, but gave in after a pause for thought and a lick of his lips soon after. Stallion’s pride, I suppose.

The landing site for what was now our luggage wasn’t very far. Just near my actual luggage. Just by a sweet-faced mare with drama masks for a talent mark and the stallion’s now temporarily attentive, triassic triad, staring up at the mare like she were a zealot chosen by the princesses themselves.

“I got 'em from here, ma’am.” The stallion said, setting his bags down and passing a gracious nod my way. “Thanks for watching ‘em.”

“Oh, but of course! Good little colts and fillies like these couldn’t make anypony feel like a true babysitter.” The mare said, almost sounding like she could be a professional voice actor with her pitch-perfect vocal chords. She smiled and gave the colt in the middle a pat on the head, ruffing up his mane. “Behave for me, okay?” It’s almost like her words came equipped with a silent, unspoken happy face emoji.

“We will Ms. Masquerade!” They said in kiddy unison, sounding cute. They each took a share of their father’s load before stumbling off towards the train, talking among themselves while that poor male did his best to keep up.

When she turned to face me, she had the potential to be a supermodel too. I could see her eyes and flowing mane straddled across the cover of edgy fashion magazines all over Equestria. Photo Finish’d be all over that.

But of course it’s the father and his children that get the silent happy face emoji. I get the illusively hidden “stressed out” emoji.

She sighed. “Ya ready baby?” She was trying to sound loving. Sort of.

“Well, I was just trying to see if I could configure the gears on this thing. Been thinking on and observing it for awhile. May have a solution.” I said, adjusting my glasses, feeling the tape piecing them together glide over my muzzle.

She tilted her head, looking to the midsection. “Tinker, we really need to get those replaced sometime....”

“Once I get these things selling,” I held up the other most important mare in my life. “we can get to talking about that.”

“Uh-huh. Excuse me for putting your actual vision first, and not just your fantasies.”

And…. there it was. ¡Silencio! The most awkward form of it. I stowed the music box again and feeling it, my mind drifted on. Some blabbering, feminine noise came from my front somewhere, but it was insignificant.

Could it have been the gearwork itself? What of the spells? Is there some sort of something I can do with the scroll I was given by my colleague?

...By Luna’s silver moon! Just look at the legs on that bench over there! To think I thought that the one I was sitting on was old. Almost looks like… rust? Rust. Always strange how air, such an essential element, helps us organic types with cells and organs, then turns on those that are artificial and non-organic. But then again, I suppose you can’t turn on a non-organ-

“Hey!” The mare protruded my vision and ruined my carefully-knit string of errant ponderings. She didn’t look so patient.

“Yes? In need of something?”

“Well, I was just saying that it might help if we worried about your music box later. The train’s here and we need to get going. Were you listening to me?”

The rust on the bench looked awfully fascinating. “Yes, of course.” I reassured her.

“No you weren’t.” Her words cut right through me. I looked down to her hooves.

“Why would you think that?” I asked her.

She tilted her head, dissecting me like does a surgeon to an unconscious pony with his chest cut open. “Well, you were staring off into space. Again.” She pointed to different parts of my body, demonstrating her ‘evidence’. “You also don’t seem to be facing me. And not once, but twice, you broke eye contact.”

I turned my head off to the right. To the train. The black, mechanical, steam-spewing monstrosity--waiting for it to go “choo choo”. Masquerade looked to it and back to me.

“You ready to board?” She asked. I nodded.

Train was bound to leave any minute, but that didn’t stop another flurry of passengers from trying their earnest to join the party. Was much nicer in the cabin. Comfy, plush booth. Insulation and heat galore. Toasty.

The walkway was nice and crowded. Jam packed. Most of the members of the growing line of cattle that was forming looked discontent and didn’t have much to say beyond the few exchanges between each other to those that presumably weren’t strangers.

Masquerade was staring out the window. Out at the snow-capped plains of Equestria in Winter. Didn’t look all too happy.

I nudged one of my legs against hers, trying to play hoofsies, but didn’t get much of a returning response. A second nudge and she’s pulling it away from me. Might’ve been better just to keep my hooves to myself.

I looked to where she looked. Outside. Frosty. Sparkling. Hearth’s Warming-y. It was serene right now, but you could almost imagine every good occupant of Ponyville jumping out of their houses and hidey-holes to join in on the annual Wrap-Up.

Masquerade turned her head towards the line of ponies, not glancing at me. I did so in turn, mimicking her, and saw the judgemental eyes of some whore with nothing better to do pass over in our direction. My own eyes leapt to Masq, who didn’t seem to be taking it to well.

“Masq?” I asked her. Her eyes darted in the direction of that passing mare behind her, signaling me. I waited before she left our car. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” She sighed, then stared out at the window again. I felt saliva slink down my throat as I swallowed, then sighed to myself, looking out alongside her--reclining my hind hooves below.

Chapter 2: Hypothermia

Chapter 2

Hypothermia

A steel door colored like it just came out a pit of tar. Just like the train, only with a golden, decorative line streaking around the edges. It flew open by command of a stallion’s furry, mitten-wearing hoof.

“Y’all ready to git-a-going? We got us a longgggg trip ahead.” He asked us in his country accent, sounding as though he were an Appleloosan native--holding the stagecoach door open with a giddy smile--unshaken by the the dabs of snow falling down from the sky and the fearsome wind which cut through us normal folk like an obsidian razor.

I gave him a nod and stepped inside, offering a hoof to my “majestic mistress”--hoping to score points on the “proper gentlepony” and “good husband” charts. The gesture seemed welcoming, but the running board sure didn’t.

Masquerade slipped and nearly hit her face on the cabin’s flooring. Both myself and our snow-hardened compatriot leapt to her aid, but she assured us all was ‘well’, then took her place beside me in the stagecoach as the door slammed shut with the sharp, metallic click of the handle. Seems it wasn’t only the tired fathers of three small foals who were qualified to exhibit “stallion’s pride” syndrome--even if the somepony in question was a mare.

The interior wanted dearly to make a good first impression on me--probably trying to compete with the train car we’d gotten off of a short while ago. Same standard of cushy seats, insulation, and nice, toasty warmth--just throw in peaceful seclusion and a velvet everything. Velvet seats. Velvet floor. Velvet ceiling. If only there was a carpet to guide my maiden up into the cockpit. But knowing my luck, it’d probably resign itself to an ugly shade of green.

Oh, and there was a radio just across from us.

When the stagecoach started hauling itself forward, I didn’t feel like engaging in any sort of conversation. I kicked my hooves back and let my head lean against the corona-colored padding behind me and faced outward. Out to the window. Just like on the train.

Snow. Everywhere. It was both a wonderland and a hellhole all the same. My eye caught a falling snowflake in the distance as it touched down and become uniform with the rest of the ground.

Is it REALLY true that no two snowflakes are the same? Is it not maybe, just maybe possible that there’s the chance for an identical pairing? I suppose that, even if it were, it’d be quite difficult to encounter--let alone document for the rest of the world to see.

A laboratory might be able to replicate the process, but then the results would be artificial and thus invalid. Maybe if-

The static click of a switch or a knob buzzed in. The faded voice of a mare, sounding as though she were on channel coming at us live with the latest breaking news chimed in.

“...couple…just recently married...trapped inside a hotel by snow…” Masq seemed to telepathically agree that the hissing was too much to bear and turned it off. I let myself slide back into my thoughts--wondering at all the scientific probabilities and improbabilities of flakes born of frost.

The static click returned.

An ironically chill, but nonetheless annoying track of smooth jazz forced its way out of the radio, letting me know loud and clear that it was not going to end anytime soon.

I backed my head into the corner, trying to seal my ears away within the intersection of the interior, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever lay outside Masq’s window. Muffled, but ineffective.

I stared on outside, but saw nothing but shrubbery. Shrubbery and the top of a road moving like it were the rolling surface of some miserable treadmill.

I reached a hoof over to the radio and switched it off. My head instantly turned to my window, looking again at the snowflakes as they whirled around in the air.

An artificially-made twin set of matching snowflakes may not be as valued as a pair of natural ones, but they’d still prove the concept, wouldn’t they? Perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary. It certainly wouldn’t be good to have some frilly, magic spells get involved in the experimentation process--which they most certainly would, knowing this world. It might be best if a pony were to lay up in a field like this with some sort of device to capture various specimens, and then-

Masquerade turned the radio back on.

I settled for the shrubbery and the icy ground.

Masq made a careful, firm step over the running board as she got out. I followed shortly after, suitcases in-tow. A thread on my winter jacket caught onto the hook of the door’s locking mechanism--for which I had to set free before taking my place beside her.

Masq approached our driver with a proper exchange of well-earned bits. His Appleloosan face signified that he was more than happy to receive payment.

“Y’all take care now!” He said before jutting off, the stagecoach whooshing around and charging away from us. I turned my gaze to Masq, to which she turned to our destination.

Faded paint on the walls. Single-story rooms, of which there were roughly 16 with bright orange entryways and gilded knobs--presumably made from some foreign material shipped in cheap from the zebra or griffin domains respectively. Windows with bars on them. Surrounded by nothing but an endless, icy, dead tree-filled wilderness. A big, bright, light-green sign. “The 6 o’ Clock Stop! Catering to every need a pony could ask for!”

A poor excuse for a living space, but a doable one nonetheless. Masq turned her head back to me.

“Well, this is almost expected of you.” She snarked.

I adjusted my glasses, feeling a tinge of the cold on the frame. “Yes, yes--I’m sure you could have done much better my dear. Much.” I turned back to face her. “I will again remind you we have a budget to manage. Funds need to be allocated where they belong or we will go broke.”

“Broke?” She scoffed.

“Broke indeed.” I pushed my glasses up again. Seemed they didn’t want to behave at the moment.

“Tinker, we don’t have a lot of money, but I assure you we’re not going to be living in boxes anytime soon. We could have afforded better. Is it so much to ask for something a little more expensive for stuff like this? For what we’re trying to achieve?”

I turned and, with the motion of my hoof, displayed all the forestry around us to her.

“Look.” I beckoned her. She tried to find the hidden beach resort stuck out in the distance.

“And I’m looking at…?”

“Nature. Nature everywhere.” I continued, waving my hoof around like a mad scientist. “Think about it!”

She looked puzzled. “Think about what?”

“Well, everypony’s always talking about seeing it, right? Returning to the ways of old and all and getting back to their roots?” She was already shaking her head. “What is this if not an opportunity, Masq?” I got closer to her, looking in her eyes. “Why don’t we capitalize on it?” The twinkle in the corner of her eye pierced through me like did the howling breeze through our fuzzy winter coats.

“Tinker… I’m not here for some half-baked camping trip.” She took a step forward, staring right up from under me. “I’m trying to do something more.” It was enough to give me pause--just before I shook my head and regained my senses.

“Right. Well, let’s head inside, negotiate pricing. We came all this way, after all--so it’s worth a shot.” I equipped myself with our bags and turned around, giving the sigh I heard from behind me very little thought as I proceeded towards the gateway of our soon-to-be vacation paradise.

Another step in the snow revealed a strange texture. It was wet. And it was soft. But it didn’t feel like snow. It felt plush. Plush, but frozen.

Lifting up my hoof, I saw the sewed-on button eyes of a stuffed animal mare gaze back to me. Long mane. Cute wings. She must have been some foal’s dearest friend before succumbing to the elements.

The ding of a doorbell struck me. The headlights flicked on as I followed Masquerade inside, very quick to seal out the chill behind me and close the door.

The interior was just as dingy as the exterior--just less snow. White wallpaper that was so faded it looked it was on the verge of death. A bulletin board stamped with papers with dates for events that had transpired half a decade or so ago. A shelf stocked with enough dust-collecting knowledge to make any able-bodied bookworm scream. And a lovely, dead houseplant by my hooves near the door. Splendid.
A green flannel-wearing stallion in an ushanka hat sat in a chair behind the front desk, hind hooves kicked up, reading from some old catalogue with bent corners--sipping from a sour apple-flavored bottle of soda. The top of the desk bore a series of tally marks. Six to be specific.

Masq took a step in his direction, but I was intent upon things being handled properly.

“Hello there! You’re the…” Words. Words. Think of the words. “Owner? Curator! You’re the proprietor of this motel, yes?

The desk keeper cocked an eyebrow, sitting up and smiling. “Yes I am! I’m the owner, the curator, AND the proprietor.” His accent was cooky. Corny. It was welcoming, but corny. Definitely a northerner’s if I’ve ever heard one (and probably a hockey addict’s, too). He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hooves. “What can I do for you, sir?”

I dropped my suitcases to the floor. Clunk! They went--just like that stallion’s back at the station. “Well, it’s a long story. See, my wife and I here wanted to go on a vacation. Ya know, kindle some old flames in the relationship and all? But wadda ya know, reality came calling and, well, ding! We had to work within our means. So, coming all the way by train-”

Masquerade stepped in front of me, cutting me off. “We’d like to purchase a room please.” She said. I couldn’t see her face, but I swear I could sense that smile she liked to use. Sense it from where I was standing by the other side of her head.

“Sure thing. Nopony else’s here, so you get to pick which room ya want. Anything in particular ya had in mind?”

“Oh, you’re too kind. Any ole room will do, but thank you.”

Listening in, I opted not to cause a scene. To the left, there lie a helpful haven of literature just waiting to be explored. Looked like an itch in need of scratching. The virgin of 40 years. I glanced it over for a closer inspection.

“Mors de Inventore” one title read in some strange language I did not understand. “The Pony and the Princess” read another--probably fiction. “Bushcraft 101” read a third.

I pulled out the third. Dust flew out everywhere, causing me to sneeze, but the cover was enough to drown out the noise behind me. Seemed to be some kind of survival manual. Just more of a focus on tools from the stone age and… primitive innovation?

I flopped the pages open--one of them a bit sticky. The opening really established the narrator’s matter-of-fact-ness. Almost like he had his own cheesy survival show.

“Introduction”

Your body is like a house. When you pay your bills, go to work, and do everything you’re supposed to like a good little pup, the boat stays afloat. The water continues to flow. The electricity continues to spark. And, you guessed it, the heater keeps you nice and warm at night.

In a survival scenario, things won’t always be going in your favor. In fact, the majority of the time, they won’t. Ponies are social creatures. Social animals. The only reason civilization ever rose and came to be what it is today is because we decided to collectively put aside our differences and embrace the magic of friendship so very long ago.

But you’re not in civilization. You’re not in a town. In a group. In the smallest possible sociological labeling: a diad. No--you’re alone. You have only yourself, your clothes, what you have in your pockets, and whatever’s nearby. Everything is a tool so long as you think creatively, and...

I skipped through a few dozen pages, wanting to get to the parts that I felt had some semblance of actual importance. The center of the book had a section on hypothermia.

“On Cold Weather Exposure”

One of the first things you need to watch for--out in the cold weather--is hypothermia. I don’t think I need to explain what that is, so all I’ll say is that your house needs a working heater. Nopony wants to live in a freezer, after all. Check for the following symptoms listed below:

1) Cold skin and a prickling feeling.
2) Numbness of the hooves.
3) Shivering.
4) Hard or waxy skin.
5) Clumsiness due to joint and muscle stiffness.
6) Shallow breath or slurred speech.

Again, I don’t really need to explain; this is no bueno. I don’t think anypony reading wants a bad case of stage 4 seeping down into their sub-cutaneous tissue that leads to either a wheelchair or set of bionic hooves, so if you are experiencing any of the symptoms mentioned above, I’m going to recommend the following:

1) Assuming you’re in a toasty house, a gentle soaking in some warm water--perhaps coupled with a moist cloth. If outside, please note that getting wet is one of the WORST things you can do.
2) Trapping heat. Also known as getting warmed-up. The body is a furnace that generates heat on its own. If you cover yourself in enough dry cloth and seal out any stray air from outside your pocket of heat, you’ll heat up in no time. The effect can be maximized by sitting in shelter, standing by a heat source (like a fire), and huddling with your fellow…

A mare’s hoof tapped on my shoulder. The book slammed shut. I turned around, seeing Masq’s face, and blinked.

“Still up for a week like you said?” She asked me.

Took me a moment to come back to reality. “Yeah, yeah--a week sounds fine.” I nodded.

“Good!” She said with a gleeful smile. “I’m sure the nature trails’ll be quite pretty this time of year.” She turned around and took one of the suitcases into her hooves before walking out, jingling the keys. “Room 14. Help me out with the other, would ya hun?”

“Sure thing.” I said as she walked out, dinging the high-pitched doorbell which, in an abstract sort of way, sounded like the chirp of a bird. A bird that was probably in hibernation this time of year.

I took hold of my share of the load and proceeded towards the exit. Before leaving, though, I heard a hair-raising scratching sound from behind me, then the springs of an office chair--as if somepony had gotten up.

I turned behind me and saw the proprietor walking into a room in the back. Back behind his desk. Back turned to me. I peaked my little head over the top of his workstation. 8 tally marks there sat--scarred freshly into the wood.

Chapter 3: Viridi

Chapter 3

Viridi

The winding sound of the gale working its way around each and every tree. The snow sparkling like fizzy soda water--untouched by the mark of civilization’s many pony hooves. It’d almost be pretty, if not for how sickly all the twisted flora looked. Masq and I continued down the trail, the 6 o’clock Stop nowhere in sight.

And just what are the repercussions of using a unicorn’s magic, hmm? I speak of it like it were a devil--what with my Earthen hooves--but just how much of that is conjecture? Do stupid little spells really belong somewhere more arcane, or can they really be practically applied in the realm of an engineer?

Maybe I am just a little closed-minded. Maybe there really is no magic in friendship--but only psychology.

Maybe magic is just for eccentric idiots.

The air pockets beneath the snow crushed under my hooves. My breath, shown by fog, floated upwards like from the top of a chimney. I couldn’t really see too well from this angle, but it looked as though we were approaching some kind of open valley.

It’s a practical problem though, isn’t it? It’s not philosophical or magic. It needs pony minds and pony hooves. It’s…

“I never noticed how quiet it can get in a place like this.” Masq noted, looking around at her surroundings. I gave her a nod, continuing to look forward. “I guess you never see it all in the same light in Ponyville, do you?”

“Yep.” She didn’t seem very content with my take on the matter, but shrugged her feelings off to the side.

“I just think it’s so weird, ya know?” We were nearing whatever lay ahead. An open space. A pasture? “It’s like somepony hit the off switch on whatever used to be here before.” She continued.

“Mhm.” I nodded.

A few steps more and (and some further crushed air pockets), and there it was. A lake. A frigid, icebound lake. Long and expansive. Stretched far across the greater area that was my former theoretical plain. Lined with the dark, crooked toothpicks that were the trees of this wannabe forest. Masq, seeming taken by the sight, moved forward for a better view.

“Wow… wish we brought some ice skates.” She said, then turned back to me, bearing a smirk. “Assuming it’s thick enough to support us, of course.” She turned her head back again, then trotted ahead to the shore. I followed, not too hot in pursuit, watching her as she sat her coated rump down on what was presumably once a beach so very long ago--sands now lost forever to time.

Spells? Spells. I don’t think I’m even qualified to examine the spellwork here. No, I’m better off ignoring it. I should polarize--focus--towards the gears.

I took my place beside Masq, eyes in direction of the sub-zero water, but not really seeing, nor hearing anything around me.

That’s what really matters, after all. Tangible. Real. It can be measured. Recorded. Tested over time. Popping it open later tonight might do me some good. It would-

“Tinker?” A voice to my left called me. I turned and saw Masq, blinking at me with long, dark black eyelashes.

“Yes?”

“Is something on your mind?”

I sighed, breaking eye contact and looking off. Off to the bent toothpicks some few hundred meters away. “I’m doing well, thank you.”

She cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head. “You’re not stuck thinking about your ballerina?” She knew me all too well. Had a divorce ever transpired, I may have just killed her for it. I looked back to her. Back to those long, dark eyelashes.

A kiss on the lips took me by surprise.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” She said, pulling back.

“I just really want to figure it out, you know?”

“Tinker, you’re brilliant. You’re the smartest stallion I’ve ever met. Give or take some time, and there’s no way you won’t figure it out--figure it out like you always do.” She laid the side of her head on my chest, looking out at the low-level vista. I smiled and wrapped my hoof around her, looking in the same direction, taking my other hoof out of my pocket--away from the dancer within.

Dusk began to beset us, and with it, a punishing drop in temperature for lingering outside too long. We were nearing the motel--I could tell--but like the lake, I didn’t have the greatest angle.

“So you just wanna go on the nature trails? Maybe sit inside and watch some movies?” Masq asked me.

“I think that sounds all right. A fireplace would be nice, though.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She teased. “I’ll be your fireplace.”

“Well try not to combust too much.” I said, pushing up my glasses. “I don’t think I’d particularly enjoy sweeping up after your ashes.”

The 6 o’ Clock Stop came into perspective. Just over the top of the hill--clouded by the stripes of bark that shot up from the ground.

As we got closer to our room, Masq pulled out our only set of keys. Key, I should say. You’d think it a card, for which you’d swipe, but that wasn’t the case. Our room, fitting for the building’s outer decor, came equipped with an opener made of a hardy nickel silver.

My eye caught the caging on the window. The formidable bars that had something in common with the key. Eternal. Unshaken.

Masq, the mare, opened up the door and stood to the side for myself, the stallion.

“Ladies first?” She suggested.

I tried flipping a hoof at the gentlepony before me, charmed by his chivalry, but didn’t really know how to follow through and play along with the act. I gave a big, toothy smile, the socially inept dork I was, and walked inside.

All around me. At every corner I turned to. When Masq shut the door, there was no escape.

Green. The wallpaper around us was an olden, decomposing shade of green. A tear in the surface at the corner beside me. The pencil-drawn scribblings of a twelve-year-old foal’s petty obscenities and doodles by the lightswitch. A small strip that disconnected from the baseboard and peeled up like the skin of a stripped orange. Place could really have used a paint job.

Aside from all that, ‘twas a modest setup. Two beds. A nightstand in the middle with a digital alarm clock which told the time in a blinding blue font. A lamp that looked like it was ready for retirement. A midget of a refrigerator. A metal door connecting us to a neighboring room. A television that sat upon a wooden set of drawers. Our suitcases sat beside them. At least the heater seemed to be working fine. Not like the carriage, but still cozy.

Slink! Went the sliding chain lock from behind. Masq stepped out in front of me.

“I’m going to go pack our clothes. Wanna help?” She asked me.

“In a minute. I need to use the bathroom.”

“All right. I’ll go ahead and get started.”

I walked past her towards the lavatory across the room as she picked up each suitcase, one by one, and laid them up on the bed closest to the door--one by one.

The bathroom door’s knob decided to be more than a little obtuse. Stiff. A good jiggle was enough to bring about submission.

The dim light tries its absolute hardest to illuminate the area around me, but, like a vegetable trapped in a hospital bed, was bound to go out anytime soon. “Pop!” As I imagined it. A quick glance at the shower, and I suddenly felt like I was trapped in the remaster of a vintage murder movie of some form.

The side of the toilet bowl, covered in leaky, dry stains of brown, looked like it had one too many unwelcome guests over the course of its 30 year lifespan. My bladder suddenly seemed a lot stronger than it had before, but I sucked it up and did my business anyways--didn’t have to make a lot of physical contact with the wretched thing, after all.

Washing my hooves and looking in the mirror, I saw a white medicine cabinet on my reflection’s right. I opened it.

A used toothpaste bottle, squeezed and curled up into a static roll. A pencil that had no earthly business being there. A razor ready to aid one’s snorting endeavors. A box of sleeping pills.

I pulled out the medication and undid the top. A sheet of green pills, wrapped in plastic. “NeighQuil” read the striped purple label. I put them back and shut the cabinet door, stepping out of the horrorshow to help organize our burdens.

Masq was standing. She was standing, but she was not working as she said she would.

“Masq?” I called to her. No response.

She stared down at the floor--somber; almost like she were mourning.

“Masq?” I called to her again. Her eyes darted up to me.

“Yes?” She asked me.

“You all right?”

Her eyes moved across the floor, then back to the clothes in our open bags. “Yeah…” she sighed. “Yeah, I’m all right.” Instantly, she turned to the contents of our luggage and, with a strange haste, began sorting and stuffing them into the dresser. I took a seat at the corner of the neighboring bed, watching her.

Grab. Stuff. Pack it down. Repeat. Masq was getting forceful with the items in question. Grab. Stuff. Pack it down. Repeat. Almost like she had forgotten she, once upon a time ago, wanted my help.

I saw the fridge that suffered from dwarfism and felt hunger swelter into a self-aware knot in my stomach. Hadn’t eaten all day, what with the travel. Unfortunately, it was not nearly as brimming as were our suitcases. No food. Nothing.

“Hey, do you mind if I ask if the owner’s got any food available?” I asked Masq. She was still stuck in her overdrive state. “Masq?”

Her senses came flying back at her. “Uh… yeah. Sure. I’ll be here.”

I nodded and took my leave of the place, adjusting my coat, slinking the chain lock open, and pushing against the door--closing it quickly--as not to expose her to the cold.

Night. All beyond the light fixtures surrounding the motel and the main road was a boundless void one could find only during deep space exploration. The greeting desk/ lobby stood a ways away from me--a pair of lit bulbs on either side of the screen glass double doors.

I stood at the foot of those doors. The owner, as if in the stasis of his natural environment, sat at the desk with his hind hooves kicked up, a catalogue shoved in his face, and a new sour apple soda by his side.

I looked down to my left. She was still there. That sweet little foal’s doll, rotting in the cold, wept alone with nary a tear to show.

I made my way inside. Ding! Sounded the doorbells before my host jumped up, setting his articles to the side.

“Heh, well heya there!” He said, still corny as ever in his green flannel and ushanka hat. Fucking northerner. “Anything I can help ya with?”

I stepped forward, leaning on the desk and looking down to it, thinking. A quick comfort adjustment of my hoof revealed the tally marks. Eight.

“I was just wondering if you serve any food. I know it’s kind of late, but I could really go for a snack right now.” I said, pushing my glasses up.

“Sure thing.” He got up, moving to the back room, back turned to me. I looked down to the tally marks.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Eight. Six. Eight.

I looked back up as he returned with a set of succulent red apples. They almost looked too good to be true.

“I appreciate the gesture, but were you requesting payment or are these-”

“On the house.” He said, setting them on the desk and pushing them in my direction. “One for you and your lady friend.” He scratched his nose, looking at the pair. “We also have a vending machine in the back and breakfast in the morning.”

“Right.” I grabbed them with a hoof. “Much obliged. Very kind of you.”

“No problem.”

He sat back down in his seat, but maintained the eye contact. “Anything else I can do for you?”

My eyes fixed to the tally marks, then back at him, but my mouth remained shut. The owner leaned forward, noticing what I was staring at.

“I was curious about those.” I said, beating him to it. “I saw you take down two after we checked in.”

“Eh, just something I do. I’ve only owned this place a few weeks ever since the last guy handed it down to me. Like to keep track of all the customers I’ve checked in. I’m weird like that.”

“Who was the old owner?”

“Just some guy. Don’t remember his name.”

“Ah.” I tapped my hoof on the marks, staring them over and feeling across the imprint of the indentions. “Well, I appreciate the free food.”

“No problem.” He said, kicking his hooves back and peeling his magazine open, sipping from his fruity soda. “You need anything else, you let me know.”

“Sure.” I said, turning around, walking out the door, apples-in-hoof.

There I was. Out again. Out in the darkness. The stuffed mare on the curb still sat without a guardian--soaking up the snow. My eyes turned to our room. A single light to pit against the desk keeper’s pair.

Approaching it, I held a hoof to the doorknob, but then decided to pull it back. A muttered, muffled yammering raved on from within--tuned to the voice of a mare I knew. It was unintelligible; I couldn’t tell what she was saying.

Opening the door, I found a very surprised-looking Masq.

“Oh, uh… hey.” She murmured, frozen in place.

“Hey…” I murmured back, shutting the entryway behind me. A few seconds count--1… 2… 3…--and she was back at it again. Back to stuffing clothes into drawers. Forcefully.

The middle drawer shut and the bottom one slid out. Grab. Stuff. Pack it down. Repeat. Grab. Stuff. Pack it down. Repeat.

“Masq…” I put a halt to the viscous cycle with a touch of my hoof, setting the apples down on the bed. “Are you all right?”

It took her a moment to collect herself. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m all right.”

She was about to start on her frenzy again, so I put my hoof over hers and asked, “Shall I take it from here?”

Another moment to collect herself. “Yeah.. sure." Her voice a far cry from anything audible. "Go ahead.” She went down to lay on the bed in the back.

I uncomfortably took out each member of our small apparel army individually and neatly set it down in its appropriate section--invisible borders dictating their placement that I alone could see. A stallion’s scarf. A mare’s coat. A stallion’s ear muffs. A mare’s red beanie--perfect to match with her pretty red eyes.

The drawer shut resolutely before I opened the one at the top--pulling off my winter clothes and jumping to a spot on the bed in the back beside Masq. I just noticed that she still had hers on.

“You ready to sleep hon?” I asked her. She rolled to my side, groaning and looking down at the covers. I sat and watched her, trying to deduce the odds, or perhaps waiting for her to speak.

She took in a long, weary breath. “Did you see that mare in the train?”

“The mare in the train?”

She sighed. “The one who.. ya know… looked at me funny?”

“Ah. I recall. What about her?”

“What did you think of her?”

I blinked twice, puzzled by the motive in her questions. “What bearing does that have on anything?”

Masq did not seem like she was having it. Shaking her head in a defiant "no", she got up from her spot and refused to face me. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” She returned to the drawers, opening the one at the top and rearranging the contents within.

“What are you doing?” I asked her, sitting up from my place in the bed.

“I need to sort these properly.” She insisted. “I didn’t do it right the first time. I should be more organized. Like how you do it.”

“Masq.” My voice boomed into her ears. She stopped in her tracks. “Are you getting insecure again?” She didn't much of a returning response. She never would when she started fixating on little things like this. Silly mare. I patted twice on the bed to her. “Come here.”

She pushed the drawer shut and took her place on the bed beside me--still in a full winter getup.

“I know it may be hard, but you know what I always tell you, don’t you?” She didn’t have much to say. “Do you remember?” Again--silence.

“Masq,” I began, leaning in. “You’ve got to learn to get your mind off of it.”

What a tough audience.

“Just push it out! Think of something else, you know? To the void! To oblivion! Suck and spit it out like you would with poison from a snake. You can do that, can’t you?” Slowly but surely, she gave a cautious, conservative, affirmatory nod. I pointed a hoof to her. “There you go. And that’s the attitude you need to have.”

I tucked myself under the sheets and comforter. “Now go ahead and get dressed, all right?” I reached across to switch the lamp off. Flick! “We’ve got a long vacation ahead of us.”

She sat there--only for a moment--then got up to change.

Chapter 4: Nicotine (Revised)

Chapter 4

Nicotine

Dots. The ceiling above me was covered in dots. A countless army of them--all waiting to greet me when I woke from my nighttime slumber.

Always funny how they’d call such a thing a “popcorn ceiling”. What did they use to describe it? A “form of ceiling texture”? And what good is a texture if you should never be able to touch it?

I stared on at the sky-reaching plaster which now reminded me of microwaveable, pressure-cooked food. My hoof reached out over to the side, but nary was there a mare to hold. Only sheets. Sheets, a mattress cover, and a roughed-up pillow. My hoof reclined.

Could one not consider them stalactites? They very much so behave like them, it seems. That is, apart from the fact that they’re more like brittle nubs than sharp, rock-made spears. What of pimples? Celestia could surely recall how mine would pop out like those above when I was still in school.

And what of her sister?

Perhaps she would compare them to stars. Seems fitting, after all.

My nose wriggled from side to side as it was unexpectedly infested with the foul-smelling stench of some chemical odor--ruining the nostalgia of my post-slumber dreams.

I sat up.

Green.

‘Twas nothing but the damned wall.

I looked to my side and saw the morning light shine through the window, then looked back again and saw Masq sitting on the edge of the rivaling bed. I had somehow missed her in my first graze over the room. She stared on at the wall and held something in her hoof that I could not immediately make out upon first glance.

A cigarette.

“Masq!” She paid me no mind. “What the hell are you doing?! Since when are you a smoker?!!”

Putting the vile roll to her mouth, she sucked in--then--puffed a small cloud of gray smoke right out into the open air--ready for the world to inhale.

I immediately jumped for the comforter and pressed it to my mouth, then reached underneath with a hoof to slip it between--hoping to add in some extra layering.

“Why are you doing that in here?!” I asked with a muffled, muttered, masked voice. “Why didn’t you go outside??!”

Looking off to the side, she let her response limp in. “Didn’t wanna get cold.” She said.

“Didn’t want to get cold?!” I laughed, pressing the blankets harder to my face--as not to risk exposure. “And you would sacrifice the health of those who you care about for a petty shift in temperature?!”

She dabbed the ashes building up on the cigarettes tip to the open carpet--not a care in the world for the stallion who owned it (nor the maid lady who probably cleaned it).

“Bad teeth. The skin of a raisin. Lung cancer. Secondhoof! Do all of these things mean nothing to you? Hmm?!” I asked her, demanding a proper, justifiable response.

Lost in space, she did not care to communicate back. Inhaling once more and exhaling out, her hoof sagged down to the side--the lit, burning end draping over the cotton fabric of the comforter’s lining.

“Masq!” I reached a hoof out, bursting from my makeshift air filter, then very quickly returning to it.

A scant eye glanced in my direction, then the hoof lifted itself back up again. She inhaled again, then puffed out another gray cloud.

“Masquerade, if you’re going to choose to do this, then I’ll kindly ask that you take it outside. While I cannot and will not endorse this sort of behavior, I think it’s only fair that you not make me a victim of your bad habits. Surely you understand, correct?” I had hoped she could make out all of what I just said--what with the blankets.

Looking over to me, she put the thing between her lips a final time, then pulled it back out and let it slide out of her hoof’s grip to the floor--still burning. She got up and walked to the door, snatching a pack and a lighter from the table.

I jumped from my spot in the bed and went for the smoldering remnant immediately--stomping on it with the fury of a bucking bronco--trying to put it out. When done, the floor (and my hoof) was covered in enough black to paint the train from the station back in Ponyville.

“Outside, correct?” she asked me, pulling out a second cigarette and holding it in her mouth. I shook my head and returned to the safety of the blankets--shielding my face and body from the world.

Masq gave the knob a twirl and pulled.

Tug!

It didn’t seem to want to open.

Masq twirled and tugged again. Tug. Tug. Tug. Tug.

Nothing.

I sat up, revealing myself from my cover. “Having some trouble, hmm? Forgetting how to use doors, are we?”

She shrugged, stepping to the side. “It just won’t open.”

“Won’t open? Won’t open. There must be a reason for it.”

“Well,” She put the cigarette down to the side. “I don’t know why.”

It seemed she was content to sitting and staring off into space. I didn’t want to enable her, but the hunger of whatever meal the desk keeper had waiting in the lobby was enough to force me to get my ass up a second time over.

I popped out of the blankets--once again--and walked to the door. I twirled the knob.

Tug!

I didn’t feel like playing a game that had already been played before, so I backed up and began to observe--probing the thing for weaknesses.

I checked out the window to see if anything was blocking the door’s path, then recalled that, from our end, it was a pull--not a push.

“Maybe it froze over.” Masq suggested. I returned to the front of the door again, looking it over from head to hoof.

“Froze over” you say. “Froze over.” I suppose that’s technically possible, but I doubt it’s a reality. The lock’d certainly be suffering from an onslaught of metal-killing cold from the outside, but it’s also being warmed from within. So if that be the case, what’s the stimulus, then?

The screws on the knob lacked indentions for a screwdriver. Just nice, smooth, and chromed over the heads. (Not the most reflective chrome, though).

I went for the phone on the nightstand, almost stepping on the blackness smeared all across the floor, and read off from a small, thick, plastic-coated piece of paper beside. I dialed for the front desk. The red font on the digital clock nearby struck 11:13am.

No answer.

I hung up the phone and looked to the card. Thick plastic. I thought it a worthy sacrifice.

I picked up the card with the desk’s dial number on it and returned to the door. I slipped it into the crack between the slot where the latch hooked on--thinking I might free it loose. I grated the card against it--pushing and sliding and bending it over the top. Then the existence of the deadbolt came to mind.

I went back to the phone--my chewed up, impromptu companion tool in-tow, and dialed for the emergency services.

A tri-tone jingle invaded my eardrums. “We’re sorry,” said the text-to-speech robot voice of a mare. “You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have-”

I hung the phone up. Looking to the card, there read a headline at the top. “This phone can only be used to dial the front desk.”

So it would seem.

A static clicking buzzed into my ears from above.

I looked up and saw the light of the ceiling fan. It flickered. Click! Click click!

Shadow.

The power had gone out. The heater, with a painful choke, cut out with it. I rushed to the window and checked the lights on the street and the lobby outside. None of which were illuminated, but that didn’t offer my mind any respite in the middle of daytime--my options, OUR options, began to wear thin.

I stood before the door and took a step back.

Slam! I charged into it, knocking against it like what I hoped was an angry hoofball player mid-game--sacking a quarterback.

Slam! I charged again--but still to no avail.

Slam! And with the third, the ache of my shoulders--numbed only by my adrenaline--began to get to me. I wanted to sit down, but decided instead to try a fourth time--only to meet the door with a wimpy thud. It seemed that, in this room, it was neither brawn nor brains that would win the day.

“I used to smoke them a lot, you know.” Masq said, sitting in a chair by the door. “Back before I met you.”

I blinked, looking her in the eyes.

“I guess old habits never die, now do they?”

Chapter 5: Chocolate

Chapter 5

Chocolate

Night.

No telling what time it was; there wasn’t any power, after all.

The nipping cold brushed against the top of my face, but the rest of my body lay warm by the heat of the blankets, the wrap of my winter clothes, and the body heat of the mare huddled against me--sitting upright and also well-awake (if not a little tired).

“I need to use the restroom.” She said quietly in the dark. I adjusted myself and the covers to give her a clear path--to which she climbed out.

I quickly shut the blankets back in to seal the heat--thinking myself like somepony with the wings of an unusually fuzzy bat. The bathroom doors lock clicked from behind me.

I was never one much to understand the biology of a bat--nor do I feel I’ve seen enough pictures of one to tell--but they never seem to be the types of creatures that would fair so well in the cold. As my memory recalls, they were light on the hair and thin on the skin--particularly on the spread they call their wings. I suppose there wouldn’t be a lot of blood in such a section, but it all seems like good kindling to stoke the flames of an icy chill.

That wasn’t a very good comparison. My creative writing instructor would be disappointed.

I leaned back onto the mattress, cozying up with my “wings” and looked up once again to the popcorn ceiling above me. It was the closest thing I felt I’d be getting to a night under the stars anytime soon. Don’t think Luna’d be too happy in my situation, assuming she’d be just as hobbled as I by a stuck door on the side of some shitty motel.

My mind took off to the silhouettes of all the different objects in the room. A TV. A desk. A chair. The other bed. The inactive ventilation system. The front door (locked). The barred window. A possible reason for those bars was becoming very clear to me now.

From my spot on the bed in the back, the old, yellow light of the street posts shone on the snowy asphalt outside and, by consequence, the edge of the room I was in. Electricity seemed to be flowing to the rest of the motel, but then again, I hadn’t peeked at the dual lamps by the side of the lobby’s screen doors, so I couldn’t say for sure.

I leaned over and extended a hoof--hoping to find my nerd optics--but only managed to knock Masq’s cigarette pack to the floor. Not feeling too sorry for myself, I felt around again and finally found my glasses.

Sliding them over my ears, I relinquished myself from our jointly-made blanket cocoon which, by this point, could hold its own in the shape of a droopy, dreary, mopey triangle. I approached the window--passing all the objects I had observed--and stared out into the night.

I could only barely make out the shriveled plants in the far background near the trail. Anything further beyond was a part of a different dimension. The road which brought us here--gone. The Moon and stars--gone. Not even snow would reflect its crystalline glimmer from the illuminating posts on the side of the motel’s courtyard driveway.

I looked to the left, searching for the outdoor lamps by the lobby, but could not find them. Come to think of it, I could not find the doors either.

The asphalt in front of them, the little bright dot that represented that lonely mare doll-- Everything in that direction looked as though it had been swallowed by a circular veil of pitch. It was almost as though there were a wormhole about the size of a large plate. I repositioned myself and tried to change perspective.

I saw the outline of a boxy, wintery cap, then a neck, and soon after--a muzzle.

Not a few inches from my own muzzle, there stood, on the other side of the window, the face of a silhouette. Soulless and unshaken. Black and murky as the portal to another universe just over yonder. Looking ahead into the back of the room, it ignored my movements--acting as though I hadn’t existed.

I banged on the window. “Hello?” I asked, thinking the fellow on the other side might respond if I gave some auditory indication that I existed. Silence filled the air as it kept staring. It turned and walked towards the door, breaking its grim gaze. It revealed a pair of lights by the greeting area, the asphalt in front of them, and the little bright dot that represented the lonely mare doll.

I tried pressing my face to the window--hoping I could find the being with a little repositioning--smearing my cheek against the cold pane.

A door’s latch clicked from behind me. I turned around.

“Tinker?” Asked Masq, her voice felt as though it were booming across the room, causing me to jump.

Ring ring! Came a sound from the nightstand, startling me once again. The phone had gone off, despite the lack of electricity.

Ring ring! It went again, but I wasn’t at my wits enough to answer it. Masq was making the weary effort of taking a step forward to finally cease its incessant noise, but stopped when I stuck a hoof up, signaling her that I’ve got it handled.

I approached the phone, leaving the front door to its fate. Ring ring! It went for a third time.

Taking hold of the phone and placing the receiver to my ear, I heard the voice of a syrup-drinking, hockey-loving northerner.

“Hey there!” Said the desk keeper through the phone line, corny and annoying as can be.

“Uh hey! Hey! Good to speak with you again! I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a predicament.” I looked over to Masq, who was climbing into the bed to my side and wrapping herself in the comforters while listening in. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but the power’s gone out in our room and the door’s stuck closed, but I think I just saw you outside, didn’t I? Is there any way you could offer some assistance? Any way you could help?”

The muddling of background noise dominated the sounds coming out of the speaker. It sounded as though somepony were fiddling with a foal’s toy across a desk, or perhaps throwing rocks against it? “That’s good to know!” The voice popped back in--faded, and laced with static.

“What?” I asked him--bewildered.

“Goodbye!” The caller on the other end had hung up.

It had gotten darker--if such a thing could be believed. The light shining through the window gave everything just enough of a glare that it could be made out, but it didn’t help the fact that I felt I had developed an annoying stigmatism whenever I tried to look around--glasses or no glasses.

Masq lay against me, sound asleep. I could feel her breaths moving in and out of her body as it rose and sank with the shifting shape of her lungs.

The side of my face was cold, but my body was nice and warm thanks to all the insulation.

I looked off to the nightstand and lazily blinked one eye at a time. I made out the outline of my glasses--of which were laid over the top of Masq’s open cigarette pack.

I stared out at the window--the long, cylindrical bars reflecting the light of the street post. They ran up and down like the thinly cut stripes on a zebra--just without the white.

A flickering came between them. My shadowy voyeur had returned. As he stood, I looked, blinking--again, one eye at a time--and counted off by the second.

One. Two. Three.

He walked off to his right. To the door. Just as he had done before. I had not the energy to investigate his motives; my brain was without the theories it normally liked to produce.

I let my vision turn just as black as his skin and felt the energy fade from my body. The warm mattress glued to my skin. I felt water dripping down my side.

I shifted in the blankets, trying to wipe the miniscule drop away, but only more came my way. I opened my eyes. White.

I was now laying down, covered in a blanket of snow.

I freaked out and jumped, sending chunks and clouds of icy dust up into the air, trying to get to my hooves as fast as possible. I felt them sink in, but never touch the ground below.

The winding sound of the gale had returned--just as it roared by the trail--running between my legs and across my exposed, naked body. I shivered, the shake rattling my spine down to the center. I pulled my appendages closer together to conserve what little heat I had left.

It was still dark out, but the 6 o’clock Stop didn’t seem to be anywhere nearby. Just trees.

Like a last, lonesome, column remnant of a fabled, dead ruin, the desk keeper stood a distance away with his back turned to me. I tiptoed over to him, weary of each chilling, piercing step into the snow beneath me.

“Hello?” I called out. A strong gust of the wind blew into my face--drowning out the sound of my voice. He didn’t seem like he could hear me. “Hello?!!” I shouted. Nothing.

“What are we doing here?!” I asked him, trying to out-volume the wind. Again, nothing. He was just as mute as the silhouette.

Still, he wore his brown ushanka hat. His green flannel. He didn’t seem like he’d be very warm either, and he didn’t hold anything that could be of use out in the cold in his mouth or hooves. Despite all the flicks and specs of winter precipitation grazing over his body, he was not one to succumb so easily as I.

A solid 180. He turned around--like a soldier performing an about face--and looked in my direction, but not at me. He walked right towards me. I stepped out of his way, allowing him to pathfind like an NPC in a video game as he passed by.

Turn! He switched direction erratically--following a different invisible arrow now.

Turn! He did it again, ready to collide with me. I once more stepped out of the way.

“Look,” I pleaded desperately, pushing up my cold-framed glasses, teeth chattering. “I don’t know what we’re doing here, but my wife is still stuck inside the motel.”

Turn! His eyes lifelessly beamed ahead.

“There are enough blankets and cold-weather clothes to keep her warm, but I don’t know how long she can last.”

Turn! He still did not seem one much for conversation. My body was shaking harder--my hooves below feeling like they were being stabbed from every angle.

“Maybe you have some sort of crowbar? Some sort of tool, yes? Something--anything that we can use to help get her out??”

Turn! The desk keeper was to sail past me based on the trajectory.

“I just don’t want anything to happen to her...” I begged.

The desk keeper stopped in front of me, facing off to the side. His body and head snapped to my direction with a robotic twitch, but still, he refused to look me in the eyes. He reeled back as if he had a baseball bat in-hoof. I peeked around behind his head and, for a flash of a second, saw the metal spade and wooden handle of an old shovel come swinging at my ear.

My eyes opened.

Green.

The hue of the wallpaper showed true--even in the dark.

I was sitting up in my bed, facing forward. A warm hoof was locked around mine, gripping tightly. I turned my head and saw the concerned, pretty red eyes of a mare I knew, looking to me, awaiting a response.

“We need to stock up on food.”

A small bag of trail mix, a bruised up banana, and 3 water bottles, sinking into the sheets with their combined weight on the bed that rivaled the one we were sleeping on. The both of us stared blankly down upon our pitiful ration stockpile--neither expecting it to last for… however long we’d be in here.

Masq took off for the door in the center of the room that connected us to the next room over. She gave the knob a good, smooth turn and--unlike other knobs I knew--it obeyed like it was supposed to.

“Masq, what are you doing??” I asked, caught off guard.

“Well,” she shrugged, “I thought it would be a good idea to check out another room. Maybe there’s something we can use.”

“What? No! Absolutely not!”

She looked at me like I had just got back from a thousand year trip to the Moon. “Why shouldn’t we?”

“Because those aren’t our rooms! That’s why! We paid for this room and this room alone. No matter the peril, we cannot solicit other members of the motel, and that’s final.” I said, stomping my hoof to the ground.

She held a hoof up as if to knock.

“Masq.”

Knock knock! The deed had already been done. “Hellooo….?” She asked the door. “Hellooooooo...?”

She leaned in and softly pressed her ear to it, whispering and holding her red eyes in my direction. “...Did you hear that…?”

I’m afraid I did not, my dear.

“...That’s because the stallion at the desk said we were the only guests he had.” A cruel smile stretched across her face as she swung the door open, waltzing in and ready to loot. I reluctantly sucked in my urges to hang back and followed closely behind the butt of my budding, bodacious bitch of a starlet.

The room on the other side was a near mirror image of the one we had walked in from. Green walls with peeling on the corners and spots on the edges. Dresser with a TV. Midget fridge. The works.

The added accessory of a few unique decorations stuck out to me, though. An old painting of a double barrel shotgun that loomed over me with a dark, oily, shamrock background. A lonesome, cardboard box with a panel that had been savagely torn off by those unknown. A bobbing hula mare with suggestive hips by a lamp, playing a ukulele. Her poorly painted face made her look psychotic and deceptive rather than welcoming, as I imagined her maker would have intended.

A tropical getaway would be nice right now.

Masq was already at it with the mini-fridge, pulling the little white door open and pilfering through like a raccoon in a trashcan--only to find another water bottle tucked inside. She set the crinkling, god awful thing down atop the fridge and pulled the drawers of the dresser open, serenading us both with the sound of wood running against itself thrice over. Finding that all three of them were empty, she took her leave of the place with the bottle in-tow. The plastic, held in her muzzle, gave a minute pop with every step that she took. Sweet Celestia.

I was now alone in the room. Alone with the painting. It was not positioned very high upon the wall, but it towered over me. Just like did an abusive, strong-hooved father over his smart-mouthed colt.

Out of curiosity, I went to the front door in the hopes that I might have more luck.

Tug. Tug. Tug. Of course it wouldn’t open.

My eyes turned to the side of the room opposite of where I came in from. To the next connecting door. Small flakes of its old, orange paint had fallen to the carpet floor below, exposing a sickly, gray metal beneath. The handle, just like the last door I came through, turned with a resounding click from the hinge.

“Oh, I didn’t know we were planning on getting exploratory.” Masq sarcastically snarled through the walls of our original room.

“I didn’t know we weren’t minding our own business.” I snarled back, mirroring her tone and hoping she’d hear me.

The room on the other side of this door was not a conformist like the other two. A long gray background stretched all around me. No peeling. No spots. Not much furniture to be had. There was a mini-fridge, a bed, a filing cabinet with its top drawer left open, and a desk with a chair of glossy, hard, ceramic padding. There was no connecting door across from me, nor a front door for entry. Just the red door for a closet on my right and another orange door like the one I came in from mysteriously hanging off to my left. If I had recalled the buildings layout correctly, that orange door should surely lead outside into the snow out back. Perhaps the contractors were feeling a little artsy?

The mini-fridge took the priority in my mind. Carefully opening the door and hearing the rubber-shielded magnet disconnect from the frame, there lie only one thing, waiting to be unearthed from its place at the wall in the back of the fridge. A mare-shaped piece of dark chocolate with gleaming, beautiful red eyes--head yanked off with animalistic fury. Decaying alone in the chill of a freezebox within a freezebox, her body had overgrown with a subtle, white mold that had the texture and appearance of gathering dust. I pulled each part of her out and set her neatly upon the top of the fridge, politely shutting the door.

The desk, weathered, worn, hardy, and reliable, looked like a signature piece from my home workshop back in Ponyville. Feeling its cold touch with my hoof and smelling the old metallic scent that radiated off from it, I must say that it felt like it were crudely and unjustly abandoned by its former owner. It was almost like it was waiting to put back into service.

Each of the metal drawers of the filing cabinet slid out with a smooth, elegant ease--almost like they were brand new. There was nothing inside any of them, but it was satisfying enough to listen to and feel them shut close as they glided across the railings within. Good engineering on the part of whoever made it.

I flinched when I saw what lay at the top of those cabinets, taking a step back and pushing up my glasses, which had fallen out of place again upon my surprise. A hoof-sized, shining, golden alligator statuette which bore down on me with beady, bulbous, perverse eyes--nose angled downrange towards the center of my body. In this room, its influence was small, but present enough to keep me in-check. I did not tamper with it.

The orange door beckoned me with an unholy call that tore its way through my flesh and bones. Thinking it surely must lead out to the back, out into the snow, I heeded that call and reluctantly opened it.

Two beds. A nightstand in the middle with a digital alarm clock which presumably told the time in a blinding, blue font when the power was on. A lamp that looked like it was ready for retirement. A midget of a refrigerator. A television that sat upon a wooden set of drawers. No windows. No entryway. Just another orange connecting door at the other side and an old, decomposing shade of green all around me. A small strip of the paint disconnected from the baseboard and peeled up like the skin of a stripped orange.

In the corner lay a phantom-like haze--a shimmering in the dark no different from the blur of the Sun’s heat upon black asphalt in the Summer--edging its way to the center of the room. I closed the door immediately and went straight for my chocolate mare.

The red door beckoned me as well. A more welcoming call, but I did not feel like opening anything else that night. I returned to our old room.

“Hey.” said Masq, sitting on the bed, wrapped in the blankets. Based on the way her eyes darted down, I could tell she was staring at the decapitated mare I was holding.

“Hey.” I said back, storing that mare in the fridge. Seems Masq moved the rest of our rations there as well to keep them insulated. I sat beside her, looking at her lips and cute little nose, softly rubbing her thigh with a hoof.

“Everything all right?” She asked me.

“Everything’s fine.” I said, staring into eyes that were the same color as those of the chocolate mare.