???: Ace Attorney: Turnabout Buttons

by Magic Step

Rating: teen
Tags: Original Character, Mystery, Ace Attorney, Adventure, Crossover, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Other
Length: 6570

When a preteen colt sets his little sister's doll on fire, an inventor faints miles away. Meanwhile a stallion wakes up with no memory in the small village of Lucktown, near an orphanage where the children play strange games with their dolls...

NOTICE: this story is being reworked from the ground up but I'm leaving this here in case anyone is curious

When a preteen colt sets his little sister's doll on fire, an inventor faints miles away. Meanwhile a stallion wakes up with no memory in the small village of Lucktown, near an orphanage where the children play strange games with their dolls...

This story takes place in the same universe as Phoenix Flight: Ace Attorney: Welcome to Turnabout! but as of now the two have no characters or plot events in common (though that will change in the sequels) so reading the other story is not required.

Published 2018-05-29 20:20:12 UTC
Last updated 2018-08-09 01:35:12 UTC

Prologue

It was nearly an hour past the colt’s bedtime, but he couldn’t sleep. His dad had promised he’d be home before sunset; meanwhile, everypony in elementary school who’d heard where his dad had gone had been only too happy to update him on all the rumors about that town.

Where was he? The colt studied the streets outside their home in Discovery Quarter; the trademark electric lights made the outside bright as day. All was quiet.

The door behind him creaked open. “Biiiiiiiiig brother! You should be in bed!” an obnoxious high pitched voice squeaked behind him.

“Hypocrite,” the colt muttered darkly, not wanting to look at her.

“If you stay up can I stay up with you?”

“Get lost before I sock you,” the colt snapped.

“Do that and daddy will kill you.” The filly scrambled up onto the window seat beside him, her lavender curls bouncing. “Do you really think gold grows under rainbows in Luckfield?”

“Don’t talk to me. Get off my window seat.”

“It’s not yours; it belongs to both of us. Besides, I don’t get one in my room.”

The colt tried to push her off. “Go away you pest!”

She braced herself against the wall. “Look, it’s Daddy!” she cried delightedly.

“I’m not falling for that trick—”

The sound of a rattling carriage made his ears prick up, and he whirled around. He was just able to catch a glimpse of the taxi as it rolled past his window to the front door. A moment later, the bell rang.

“He’s home!” His sister scrambled off the window seat and dashed downstairs, her little pink nightgown fluttering.

Annoyed, the colt dashed after her, but by the time he reached the front door, she’d gotten there first.

“Daddy!” his sister cried, throwing her little forelegs around their father’s large one, delight shining in her eyes. Sickening.

“How’s my little rosebud?” the unicorn stallion said, swinging her into the air and letting his saddlebags slide to the ground. His sister giggled with delight.

The colt stood awkwardly on the stairs, clinging to the bannister, watching them, listening to his sister’s joyful shrieks, waiting to see if his dad would notice him, wondering if his dad would be interested in the new firework he’d built. His mom and sister were both afraid of fire; his dad was the only one who didn’t think he was dangerous just for having a pyrotechnical cutie mark. So if he was going to show the new firework to anypony, it would have to be now. Any time now…

His father set the small filly down. “You’re such a refreshing sight…”

“Was it really that bad, Daddy?” The filly oozed fake concern out of her adorable expression. It made the colt feel sick.

His father had a pained expression for a second, then smiled tiredly. “Don’t worry about it. Look, I brought you a present!”

The filly squealed in delight. “What you bring me?”

Their father rummaged around in his saddlebags and pulled out a small plush pony. It was made from red fabric with a mane of yellow yarn. Its eyes were grey buttons.

His sister grabbed the doll away and hugged it tightly. “I love it! It looks just like you, daddy!”

“Yes, I know. Down to the tiny embroidered cutie mark… though a single gear isn’t that unusual a symbol. Once I saw it I knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer; I had to have it.”

“Thank you so much!” His sister hugged their father around his foreleg.

The colt glared at the small plushie, boring holes into it with his eyes. Nursing bitter thoughts, he retreated upstairs to get ready for bed, as invisibly as he arrived.

***

“You really have to leave, Daddy?”

The colt rolled over in bed, annoyed at the sound of her voice.

“This is a super important investor’s meeting, sweetie.”

“But Saturday is Dad-erday!”

“Ha ha, usually, pumpkin, but we’re so close to getting my Wonderbutton machine patented. Surely you know how hard it is to wait for something you’ve looked forward to forever?”

“Ok… will you bring me back some taffy to make up for it?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for being understanding, sweetie.” Then a loud slurpy goodbye kiss. “Make sure your lazy brother gets his homework done and maybe we can spend the evening together.”

The colt sat bolt upright. Hay no.

He dashed into the bathroom and started brushing his teeth.

“Rocket Pack, Daddy says-”

The colt spat into the sink. “I know what he said, you little worm.”

His sister gasped dramatically. “That hurts my feelings!”

“Good; I’ll say it more often.” The colt filled his mouth with water.

“Mommy said you’re not allowed to hurt my feelings anymore. I’m going to go cry to her and you won’t get any donuts today.”

“Drop dead.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Lamia,” he continued. “Baby.”

“Just let me have my turn already.”

The colt rinsed his toothbrush very slowly. His sister elbowed him out of the way.

“Rude baby,” he continued, shuffling out of the bathroom. His sister slammed the door shut behind him.

Breakfast wasn’t any better. She cried that his donut was bigger than hers, then took all the milk in revenge. When he’d tipped the glass over onto her coat, mom sent him to his room to think about what he’d done.

But he decided not to go to his room. He went to his sister’s instead.

Sitting on her bed was the red rag doll from the night before. Its blank button eyes stared at the colt. What an ugly thing; why had his father spent so much money for a scrappy doll like that?

Impulsively, he grabbed the doll and brought it to his room. He rummaged through his cabinet and found his long, gun-like lighter.

Clomp clomp clomp went his sister’s hooves up the steps. Unconcerned, the colt messed with the trigger until a small flame appeared. Now, what to set on fire first? The ears or the tail?

As he held the torch to the yellow yarn sewn to the rear, the door slammed open. “Rocket! You took my- Rocket!!”

The note of genuine panic in his sister’s voice made him break into a grin. “Too late now, little brat.”

“No!” she wailed as the flames spread up the tail.

***

“…and the thread passes from this hook to that hook and then around the button…”

“I see,” the patent officer said, adjusting his huge spectacles. He circled the crocodile-sized machine. “I recognize this button design, though, and you do not own it.”

“Ah… I deconstructed a Dorset button as a sample pattern for the machine,” the red-coated pony admitted. “I was hoping to enter a partnership with them—goodness knows Lucktown needs the help—but they were… you know how they are. I’ll swap the program out for an original design before I—aah!” He whirled around and jumped away, nearly crashing into the inspector.

“Mr. Innovation!” The officer cried. “What on earth is wrong with you?”

The red coated pony didn’t answer. After a brief baffled look at his tail, he started writhing, then rolling on the floor.

***

“Give it back!” his sister screamed, trying to snatch the doll from the air.

The colt laughed, hovering it just out of her grasp. The flames were consuming the hind legs now. “What a wuss.”

***

The red coated pony’s screams had now attracted a small crowd.

“What is wrong with him!?” The secretary had to shout in order to be heard.

“I don’t know!” the patent officer shouted back.

The red coated pony’s hind legs suddenly locked up. Then, like magic, burn blisters and black charred fur spread up his legs, working towards his chest.

Everypony cried out in shock.

***

“I said give it back!” With a mighty leap, the girl snatch the doll from the air and tossed it to the ground. Instinctively, she put out the fire by stomping hard on the flames.

***

The red coated pony’s head snapped to attention and his screams were cut short by sudden gasps for air as his whole body convulsed, like a giant was crushing him, once, twice, three times. Then the screaming stopped; his head fell limply to one side, and blood bubbled from his mouth in a gurgle of pain.

The watching crowd was in stunned silence for one second longer. Then a young unicorn mare pushed her way to the front, her horn already lit, surrounding the injured pony in a gray aura.

“You,” she said, pointing to the stunned patent officer, “send for a paramedic. Now!”

As he hastily scribbled out a note, the crowd devolved into a flurry of conversation. What kind of monster would do such a thing?

***

The little sister lay on her bed, curled protectively around the injured doll. Her eyes were burning coals as she glared at her brother. “You’ll regret this.”

“Fat chance,” the colt retorted.

Author's Note

The next entry in the ponified Ace Attorney series begins!

This one will be a little different from a standard AA series mystery; I hope you'll bear with me as I try a few experiments.

Who am I?

The room was dark; the air was stale. A pair of golden eyes glowed, beckoning to me. Golden eyes and gleaming teeth and silver claws.

I stared at them in terrified fascination, frozen and unmoving.

The throbbing in my head woke me up. I opened my eyes to see green and brown shapes. It took me a second to recognize what they were, like my eyes were very slowly bringing the world into focus. They were trees and grass. This was a forest. A very muddy forest, judging by the wet feeling under my body.

The next thing I remembered was that I was not meant to be viewing the world from this low to the ground. A second later, I remembered what lying down was, and realized that was what I was currently doing. Then I remembered what standing up was, and that I should do that instead, if I wanted to stop getting wetter.

I remembered that I had appendages called legs to stand up with. As I slowly urged my muscles into motion, recalling the function of each, I found out that I had four. They were surprisingly flexible; for a moment all I could do was wiggle each one, fascinated by their movement, with a vague feeling of shame in the back of my mind that I was doing something so… juvenile.

Then I realized my legs needed to be underneath my body if I wanted to stand up; right now they were at my side. After some contemplation, I figured out how to roll over. The motion so greatly reoriented how the world looked that it made me feel dizzy, and I had to stay in a kneeling position for a moment to regain my bearings before I could attempt any more motion.

What was going on? This was wrong, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have to be recovering all my data about the world piece by tiny piece, right? How much was I supposed to know, though? I had no reference point.

I decided that, instead of standing up, I would try to figure out who or what I was. Slowly, I managed to turn my head to try and look at myself.

My legs had hooves at the end and were covered in very light grey fur, nearly white. They also had bigger fur—no, sleeves, those were sleeves—purple sleeves around them. They were very soft sleeves; I gently stroked one. Very nice.

Then I used my hoof to feel my head and neck. I had hair… no… a mane. But not a mane long enough that I could bring it in front of my eyes to see what color it was. There was also a strange spike on my forehead that I didn’t remember the purpose of. I also had some cloth tied around my neck. It was very fluffy in front, but too tight around my neck for me to see when I looked down. In the back it had a hard… knot, it was called. A very tight knot. I prodded it a bit with my hoof but I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to undo it. Why had I put something around my neck that I couldn’t take off?

Slowly, not wanting to make myself dizzy again, I stood up. I was a little surprised how stable I felt on my four legs. Carefully I lifted one and my weight naturally shifted. How coordinated it all felt. I ran my hoof along my now-exposed chest and found that the sleeves were attached, not to a shirt, but a jacket. The inside of the jacket had all kinds of knobs.

Oh… buttons. Those were buttons. And where there were buttons on the inside, that meant pockets.

But the buttons were too small to manipulate with my hooves. Why had I made life so hard for myself? Was there something I was forgetting? Or did I have someone else’s clothes on for some reason?

I wondered if there was more to the world than just trees. Maybe I’d find something that would jog my memory. I started walking, amazed again at the remarkable coordination between my four legs. A moment later, I remembered how to canter. I also recalled what a gallop was, but after a few seconds of it I decided to nix that; it made me too winded and who knew how long I’d have to keep moving?

The ground had a gentle slope to it, and at the bottom I found a strange noisy substance that felt cold and wet on my hoof, and had a strange pull to it. This was a… a river… no. It barely covered my hooves. This was just a stream.

I felt an aversion to getting wet because I had a vague notion it would damage my clothes, so I walked through on tip-hoof, gently so as to not splash. When I was on the other side, I realized the stream wasn’t the only thing making sounds. There were strange sounds, like nothing I’d heard before in my admittedly pathetic memory. I cantered toward them so I could hear better.

When I neared a particularly thick set of bushes, I attempted to push my way through them, and as I did, the noises stopped. Then they started again, sounding like harsh, angry barks now. I stopped to concentrate. I remembered now… sort of. These were sounds used to communicate. I wasn’t alone in the world; there were other intelligent beings. But I couldn’t remember any specific ones, and my brain was too muddled to remember what the sounds were. If I closed my eyes…

“…You listening!? What’s wrong with you!?”

Then something sharp across my muzzle. Pain. My eyes flew open.

Another creature was standing a few inches away from me… another pony, I thought. He had an olive green coat and a straw-like yellow mane and his eyes were narrowed into a glare.

“S-sorry,” I said. My tongue felt thick and heavy, and my voice sounded alien to my ears. “I must be acting weird… I’ve lost my memory.”

“Go away out of that,” the stallion scoffed. “That’s not a mite funny.”

“No, it’s not, it’s really not!” I said. “I’m lost and alone and even if I wasn’t I don’t even know where I’d be going if I wasn’t lost because I don’t know what the not-forest bit of the world is like and I don’t remember who lives where and I don’t remember you…”

The olive stallion’s expression slowly shifted from annoyed to recognition. His mouth quirked into a smirk. “You’ve really lost it all then?” His accent was strange and melodious and not much like mine.

“I… I’m sorry,” I said, not completely sure what the correct thing to say in this situation was. I stared at his hooves. “Um… if we used to be friends, I’m sorry I forgot.”

The other stallion chuckled. “Friends? That’s all right. We can jog your memory again. Come with me.” He rested a strong foreleg around my shoulders and guided me around the bushes. “Hey lads! Pull your socks up and look what I found!”

He led me to a strange, rustic campsite. The firepit in the center had gone out and was surrounded by five logs, each with a small tin cup nearby. Crude tents made from patchy fabric, branches, and bark were everywhere, and so were wooden platforms in the trees. But there was nothing slapdash about them; everything looked like it had been gradually refined over the years, added to and improved. It all seemed lived in.

Three more stallions and one mare were lounging around the campfire. The mare was all blue and had oddly sharp brown eyes. One stallion was rather fat but had a scary club strapped to one side; another was a bright red, lanky stallion strumming a strange stringed instrument; the last one was small in stature, but the most muscular of the three. Not that any of them were slouches.

I also noticed for the first time that two… no, all of them had pictures on their rears. Unlike the grass, the trees, my hooves etc., the name and purpose of these strange pictures didn’t immediately spring to mind. The pictures were all starburst effects with different weapons.

“Our lad’s lost all his memory,” the stallion said. “So we’re gonna remind him how he’s one of us, got it?”

The four ponies broke into huge grins and crowded around to get a look at me.

“First of all, I’m your mate Russel Dorset,” the olive green stallion told me. “We’re all equals here but I’ll modestly say I’m the ideas guy.”

“That you are, Russel,” the wire-red stallion said. “I’m Scarlet Flame and I keep this camp all shipshape. We often spend weeks out here at a time, without ever needing to return to civilization.”

“What’s my role then?” I asked. “And also… what’s my name…?”

“You just gotta look at yourself to tell it t'ain’t in being the muscle,” the fat one said.

The mare whinnied in amusement. “Bet even I’ve got more strength in one ear than you have in your back,” she said.

“Shut it eejit,” Russel hissed.

“Hmm?” I turned toward him.

“Nothing… anyway. You’re the decoy, my lad.” Russel smacked me so hard I tipped over. Everypony laughed.

“D-decoy!?” I said, scrambling to my hooves again. “What for!?”

“Luring in rich pinheads,” the fat pony said. “That’s why you’re in that stupid jacket. Makes you look like one of ‘em.”

Scarlet Flame had a white scarf on and the fat pony had a jacket. Russel had a strange rough wool jacket on with lots of buttons, all of them wrapped in elaborate thread patterns. None of them looked as soft or fine as mine.

“Wh… what is luring…?” I had a fuzzy picture in my mind, but I wanted to be crystal clear what my job was.

“Baiting, trolling, fishing, you know!” The formerly silent smaller pony seemed to be getting impatient with me. “You attract the attention of others and make them follow you, to get them to go where you want!”

“Luring in rich p…” the word was distasteful to me. “…rich ponies for what…?” I asked. “What happens when they follow me?”

“…do you know what rich means?” Russel asked, making the smallest pony sigh heavily.

“It has to do with having nice clothes I think…” I said.

“Not quite.” Russel suddenly looked… different. It wasn’t really happiness, though he was grinning. I couldn’t remember the right word for it. “Rich means you have tons of stuff. Clothes, food, a giant house, lots and lots of slaves… and they don’t need to lift a hoof unless they feel like it.” Then he looked grim. “Poor means none of that. You spend your days and nights trying to scrape together enough to keep the kids from starving right before your eyes.” He stomped his hoof, and his eyes filled with fire. “And here in Lucktown we say that if you’ve got a lot, it’s your job to share with those who’ve got none, and that’s how it’ll be, even if we have to take it by force.”

I felt ill. “How much force?”

“Maybe none at all, if you do a good job, pretty colt,” the mare said, winking. “That’s the job of a decoy, you see. Make the target let their guard down. Make it easy to take ‘em by surprise.”

“Don’t wimp out on us,” Russel said, punching me in the shoulder. “This is your life, whether you remember it or not. We’re your lads; we’ve always been there for you and you’ve always been there for us. Quid pro no and all.”

“Quid pro quo,” I said reflexively. Then I started.

“Come again?” Russell asked.

I felt energy surge through my body. On its own accord, my hoof rose into the air to dramatically point at Russel and I felt myself shout “HOLD IT!”

Russel blinked at me, confused. “Why so loud?”

“That's a bit overdramatic, doncha think?” Scarlet Flame said.

I resisted the temptation to set my hoof back down. I felt like if I did that, I’d lose some kind of control I had over the situation or something. “All of you are liars!” I shouted. “There’s no way I actually work for you!”

“Based on what? Is your memory back?” Russel smirked.

“N-no, but, but it doesn’t make any sense when you look at the evidence!”

“Oooh, evy-dahnce?” the mare said mockingly, wiggling her eyebrows.

“What evidence? You have three minutes worth of memories!” Russel growled.

“The evidence is those cups!” I pointed to the tin dishware around the fire. “There’s only five of them!”

“Your cup’s in the wash…” Scarlet said.

“And there’s only five logs, and five tents!” I said. “Don’t tell me my log is in the wash too. All of you are lying!”

“Ack, arguing is hard-wired into him,” the shortest pony said, rolling his eyes heavenward and smacking his forehead.

“Hush you moron!” the fat pony said.

“No, give it up,” Russel said. “It would have been a gas if it worked, but, well, it didn’t. Oh well.” He didn’t look disappointed though; he looked amused.

“So… who am I really?” I asked sheepishly.

Russel smirked silently at me for a few seconds. “Why would I tell you that?”

I blinked. “Um.”

“You had your chance, lad. You could’ve run with us and maybe redeemed yourself, but it’s true what they say that blood will always out.” Russel turned to his friends and jerked his head at me. “All yours. Have fun lads. But try and keep the forelegs and that pretty head intact.”

The grins of the four ponies facing me reminded me of a new word: wolfish. They slowly circled around me.

I felt my stomach flip. “W-wait, no, what are you--”

One of them bucked me hard in the ribs; all the breath exploded out of my lungs and I fell over onto my side, wheezing for air. I instinctively tried curling up into a ball, covering my head with my forelegs. Hooves pounded down on my body like jackhammers, giving me no time to recover, to think, to fight back. I felt the cracks forming along my ribs and the bones in my forelegs screamed in pain from being battered: one of them had grabbed my hind leg and was trying to bend it in a direction it didn't want to go, but fortunately didn't seem to have the strength to break it. I think I was screaming, but I couldn't hear over their shouts of glee. They started concentrating their attacks on my head; each blow sent white spots dancing across my eyes. Finally, one hard blow crashed down onto my skull, and everything went black.

***

The throbbing of my head and the ringing in my ears were the first sensations I felt as consciousness returned to me. Then, past the ringing, I could hear a strange, rhythmic scraping that summoned a clear mental image of a wooden contraption on rails called a sled. I couldn’t supress a feeling of annoyance that the only memories that came to me easily were so painfully trivial.

I briefly cracked one eyelid open but the light was too painful to me so I shut it again. I shifted my hooves and sharp pain stabbed one foreleg, making me whimper. And the effort of whimpering made my chest hurt.

“Hurts don’t it, rich kid?” the mare’s voice said.

“He’s coming to?” Scarlet said.

“Don’t stop scattering those flowers!” Russel shouted. “If that mangy mutt gets on our trail it’ll be all your fault.”

I felt a sob escape me. Something soft and childlike in my soul felt broken; my memory of only minutes gave me no frame of reference to comprehend such cruelty and hate. Crueler still, I had no other experience to draw on to put this in any kind of context. It seemed likely that the world was full of ponies like these and no other kind. Even if I hadn’t been too injured to run away, there was no where I could run to.

And for all I knew, maybe I deserved this treatment after all.

The sled scraped to a halt; I heard a sweeping and shuffling sound of dead leaves, then the sound of a metal hatch.

“Don’t we need to give him a ring?” the mare asked.

“Anypony who literally needs his mot's help to pick up a feather is no threat to us,” Russel replied. “Now let’s be gentle lads; if he dies on the way down it’ll be too easy on him.”

I felt a cloth under me shift and then slowly I rose into the air. My exclamation of surprise hurt my ribs again and I heard muffled chuckles. Then after I swung forward a little I touched cold metal. Cold angled metal. Instinctively I knew what was happening.

My eyes flew open and I saw that I was perched at the edge of a metal slide that lead into the dark ground. My hooves flailed as I tumbled forward and I could hear laughter as my world spun. Russel said “Have fun on the bottom, rich pony.”

I descended into complete darkness, and the square of light from the hatch overhead was soon cut off. Everything was quiet.

Author's Note

Irish slang is hard...

I probably shouldn't have bothered making the name of the pony question marks since most Phoenix Wright fans will probably be able to guess who this is...

Where Am I?

I made a brief attempt to explore the dark area I was in, but soon abandoned it. The forehoof I’d used to protect my head felt broken and my head was still throbbing. So I just rested my head on the ground, trying to breathe shallowly because my ribs also ached. My eyes felt moist.

As I adjusted to the quiet I realized I could hear muffled sounds; something very loud was happening, either very far away, or behind several sets of walls. It was hard for me to feel emotion about it one way or the other, since I couldn’t even begin to guess what it was, but it was a reassurance that the world still existed, I guess.

I remembered what death was. I wondered if I would die. The thought was strangely comforting, and this feeling made me think there was something I was forgetting. Some dark shadow in the back of my head. Something core to my very being, or something that defined me. But I couldn’t put my hoof on it.

But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I’d be better off never knowing.

With a loud crash of metal, light flooded into my small closet in a large rectangle. Instinctively I opened my eyes, but the light made my head ache and I quickly shut them again. I’d had just enough time to see a silhouette of a pony. One even bigger than all of Russel’s cronies.

“Oh Celestia,” I said reflexively, before wondering what exactly that was supposed to mean.

“Hey, lads! A new pony!” shouted somepony with a booming, deep voice. Teeth dug into my shoulder and I shouted in surprise as they dragged me toward the light.

Three stallions stared down at me; unlike me, they wore no clothes at all, and all of them had scars.

One was gray with a red mane and a flank picture of a rusty sword and a flag; he seemed to be the leader. “And it’s another pretty colt. Look at the little lace and those sweet purple eyes.” His voice made it clear this wasn’t a compliment.

“I want to dig those eyes out with a spoon and keep them in a jar forever,” said a light blue stallion in a slithery voice; the picture on his flank was a sunburst pattern made of a dozen knives. He grabbed my chin and forced me to face him and I screamed and shut my eyes again; all of them laughed.

“Good, then I won’t have to look at them,” said a more jittery voice. “Sweet Celestia; they’re as violet as the B-witchers’.”

“Sh-sh, they’ll heeeeeeeear you,” a fourth voice said. “Witches be craaaaazy.” Then he abruptly dropped the creepy sing-song voice and broke into a wild cackle.

“Look at this jacket.” The hoof under my chin moved, and several hooves started petting my forelegs and sides. One of them touched my tender, broken foreleg and I yelped and opened my eyes again. Fortunately the pony who’d done that must have been the jittery one, because he yelped too and leapt backwards. I stared at him. Unlike the other horses, he had fluffy appendages at his sides. After staring at them long enough, I remembered they were wings. He could fly. Ponies could fly. My mind felt blown.

“St-stop looking at me!” the pony cried. “Those eeeeeyes!”

“Such a pretty colt must have a pretty name,” the large pony with the flag cutie mark said, turning me to face him. “Can you talk, pretty colt?”

“Y-yes,” I said. “But I don’t know my name.”

“Playing dumb only gets you in trouble, pretty colt.” The flag pony sneered.

“No, really.” I felt panicked. “I w-woke up in a forest and I can’t remember anything before the past few hours, really! I don’t know anything! Please don’t hurt me!”

Wild laughter attracted my attention; a shaggy-coated yellow pony with a spiky black mane stood a little away from the main group. He had a cutie mark of two dog-like animals whose names escaped me for now. He grinned at me, his eyes sparkling. “Well then, you’ll just have to stay Pretty Colt. How’s that sound?”

Something died a little inside of me. “No objections…” I muttered resignedly.

“Good,” the flag pony said. “I’m Baron Bandit and don’t you forget it. You’re going to be here a long time, Pretty Colt, so let’s start you off with the rules.” He barked at the jittery pegasus, “Fleetwing!”

“Yes sir!?” he squawked.

“Go drag Tree Trace over here or show Pretty Colt how to make buttons yourself,” Baron Bandit said. As Fleetwing sped off, Baron returned his attention to me. “Rule one, I’m top dog. I’m the boss; I call the shots. Rule two, no-”

And then a loud bell clanged from somewhere overhead. Baron Bandit’s face morphed briefly into one of terror. “Fleetwing! Forget that! Places!”

The four ponies scattered. Now that they weren’t blocking my field of view I could get a better glimpse of my surroundings.

The room we were in seemed like a natural cave of red and mud-grey stone with a few lanterns burning along the walls and hanging from the ceiling. The cave was split in half by a row of faintly glowing orange bars, so tightly packed that we couldn’t get to the other side. Both halves had the same work benches in the center, though our side only had four workbenches and the other half had dozens. Both sides also had a shelf filled with multicolored threads and a box of strange, tiny wooden disks. The half we were cut off from also had some mundane-looking things like a washing and drying machine, some flour sacks, and vegetables and herbs hanging from the roof to dry.

The other half had a staircase leading up out of sight. Our side sadly had nothing like that; instead a few small rooms extended off the main room and seemed to be small bedrooms. The small chamber I’d first fallen into was one of these.

The four other ponies took their seats at the workbenches and started wrapping thread around the tiny disks. Once they’d done so I noticed a fifth pony with them. He was mint green with a chocolate brown and white mane; the picture on his flank was a strange diagram. There were two circles, one blue and one pink, on the top; a fork of lines connected those two dots to two more pairs of dots; these two pairs were connected by two more forks to four total pairs of colored dots. But that wasn’t the most interesting part about him. The most interesting part was that he had a horn on his forehead.

This must be Tree Trace, I thought. I took one step towards him when my attention was interrupted by pounding hoofbeats, coming from the stairs.

“Oh Celestia, they’re here,” the pegasus squeaked.

All the other ponies looked on edge. Even the Baron seemed to be making a noticeable effort to stay calm.

Oh great, I thought. A gang of even more muscular ponies is coming!?

From the multitude of hoofbeats it sounded like there were more ponies than I’d ever met before in my very short memory. At least the bars would keep them from attacking us…

Then a filly stepped into view down the stairs, a piece of rope in her mouth. She looked a few years younger than the mare in Russel’s camp, but this filly was much more slender and pretty. She was tan with a black star on her forehead, with a midnight blue mane and piercing violet eyes. She wore a simple black dress with a stiff lace collar. Her cutie mark was a five pointed star.

As she entered the room, she pulled the rope, and a train of foals and fillies also trotted in, holding the rope in their mouths to keep in line. None were nearly as old as the filly leading them, except one stallion near the middle of the rope who looked to be about the same age. Many of these children had nothing on their flanks; all were wearing solemn black garb. Holding the tail end of the rope was a filly identical to the one in front, right down to the stars on her forehead and flank. The two or three dozen children wound all around the desks like a single snake.

I glanced at the staircase to see if anypony else was coming down, then looked over my shoulder at the other adults. They all were bent over their desks, quietly weaving string around the tiny wooden disks, avoiding eye contact. Where was the thing that they were scared of?

Then the children started singing:

“A young gentlestallion in two coats of red
“Built a magic machine that made buttons from bread
“So he stole from the baker and stole from the mill
“He had mountains of buttons but wanted more still,
“Till he’d made enough buttons for this starving town
“To button themselves in their funeral shrouds!”

They danced over the rope they’d dropped in a pile near the desks, with the older twin fillies clapping and leading the smaller children in a nonsense chorus of ‘Hey-diddle-heys.’ The twins were the only ponies smiling, but their violet eyes looked glassy and dead.

I looked back and forth between the strange children and the adults. I had no frame of reference, but I had a dreadful feeling that this was not normal child behavior, and I was wondering how best to ask for a clue.

The song ended and the foals sat neatly at their own workbenches. The twins remained standing.

“Who wants Hyote today?” one twin asked.

A few foals raised their hooves.

“Flower Crown; you shared your milk yesterday. You deserve a doll today.” One of the twins walked over to a small chest and fetched out a small plush pony. It was yellow with a spiky black mane. The violet-eyed girl tossed the doll to one of the fillies. “Now, who wants Fleetwing?”

I stared. Wasn’t that the name of one of the prisoners?

“Wagon Wheel.” One of the twins tossed a pony doll with wings and the same colors as Fleetwing to one of the colts. “Give that feather duster what he deserves.”

Fleetwing whimpered audibly behind me. I stared back and forth between them.

This was triggering no memory at all.

The twins passed out two more dolls, matching Baron Bandit and the creepy pony who’d wanted to cut my eyes out. Then they took out a doll with a small crystal horn on its forehead.

“Who’s the quickest with a needle today?” one twin asked.

The oldest colt and a few other colts stood up, wielding tiny pointed bits of metal.

At his workbench, Tree Trace stopped his work and bent his head, gritted his teeth, and braced his hooves against the table.

“Knock him out,” one twin said, holding out the mint-green doll.

The colts lined up. A small colt with a bandana around his head drove his needle into the chest of the doll, switching rapidly between the back and front.

Tree Trace gasped sharply, jerking back and forth, sometimes arching his back.

The next colt took his turn, stabbing one leg completely through and wiggling the needle.

Tree Trace pulled his leg close to his side and cried out. Tears were in his eyes, though he was clearly fighting them.

“St-stop it!” I shouted, running over to the bars. “Stop it, you’re hurting him! What is wrong with all of you!?”

Every child stared at me. While each expression was first one of surprise, many soon shifted to something cruel.

And suddenly it registered with me.

Tree Trace was less masculine than the others, he was the only one wearing (formerly) nice clothes, he was the only one with a horn, and though it was hard to divine an accent from a few shouts, his voice sounded different from any other voice I’d heard that day. In fact, it sounded a lot like my accent.

Tree Trace was being targeted because he was different.

Different in the same way as me.

Author's Note

Some authors, when they go silent for weeks, it means they've lost interest in the story.

When I go silent for weeks it's usually because I couldn't find the energy to upload what I've written...