The World Turned Upside Down

The sack comes off, and before I have a chance to blink and let my eyes adjust, I’m given a hard shove from behind and stagger forward, eventually stumbling over and landing on my shoulder, rolling onto my back as I groan and hiss. The pain is warm in contrast to the cool of the air.

I’m in a dark cell. It’s unusually spacious, as far as my knowledge of such things go — maybe four metres wide, three deep, two high — and all the walls bar one are made from rock and scarred with claw marks. There are no murals here, no inset gems, and the source of light comes from one of those luminous crystals dangling outside. Its ambient glow silhouettes the iron bars of my cage, as well as the figure that stands in the open doorway.

Ziggy handed me off to another dog when we entered what I’m now convinced is the dungeon. Their exchange was brief and whispered, but from what I could glean, this one’s female. And now I can see her, she certainly looks different compared to Duke and his brothers: half their height, lankier physique, shoulders less broad. She has a different head too; more pit bull and less boxer.

Whether that’s the appearance for all other females here, I can’t say, but just because she’s smaller doesn’t mean I can take her. Not when I’m still bound and not when she’s armoured like the other two. And even then, claws and teeth beat fists hands down. One blow to the head and I’m out. Amber proved that clear as day.

The guard approaches, bludgeon in hand — or paw, or whatever I’m supposed to call them — and never breaks eye contact with me. Not hostile, but cautiously confident.

I sit up, thinking I should back away, only to realise how pointless that would be. Instead, I watch on in mute terror, mouth shut, brows upturned, breathing through my nose like I’ve run a marathon.

She grabs me by the shoulder rolls me on my stomach, not aggressively, but hard enough to say that we’re not friends. Nothing personal, just business as usual.

I can respect that. Heck, after feeling Ziggy’s steely claws, hers are like a tender caress. But a whimper escapes me as I’m lain on the floor, fearing what comes next.

Her paw goes from my shoulder to the bindings, and by tugging at a single loop, the rope comes loose and my hands fall free. “Thirty minutes,” she says close to my ear in a gruff, but nevertheless matter-of-fact tone of voice. “Talk by then, or she goes next.”

I glance from her shadowy image to the ground, and then back to her. And then I nod.

She nods in turn, then stands on two legs again and heads for the door.

After a moment’s hesitation for fear of a club to the leg, and a moment of clarity where I realise I’m being let go, I prop myself on my elbows and twist around to watch her once more. This time, however, there’s no anxiety. Shock, perhaps? My nerves still getting used to the myriad new sights, sounds, smells, and dangers in the past… however long it’s been since I woke up? Or maybe it’s curiosity.

She shuts the iron gate behind her, latches it and locks it with a key, which she stows on a cord hung round her neck. “Thirty minutes,” she repeats, looking directly at me again. “Don’t waste it.”

Maybe it’s just the sheer strangeness of being treated with decency — relatively speaking, of course; the first impressions weren’t exactly flattering. Or am I being unfair again? How many people could possibly enjoy making the lives of their captives miserable, even if it’s in their job description? Am I dealing with the exception or the norm?

…Or is there something more to this?

She holds my gaze a little while longer, measuring me and making sure I get the message, then turns to her left and starts walking down the hall.

“Chitin?”

She halts, then peers at me from an angle with an eyebrow slightly raised. “Changeling?”

I hesitate, but slowly nod.

She shakes her head. “No. Elsewhere.”

At least she has the courtesy to answer.

She leans closer to the bars, and although it’s difficult to see in the shadows and the contrast of a crystal glowing from behind, I’m fairly certain a hint of sympathy shines through. “Don’t waste it, Adam. For both your sakes.”

There’s my name again, and for some reason, it feels off when a stranger says it, as if it’s something they shouldn’t know. But at the same time, it’s a lot better and far less demeaning than being called ‘human’ every other sentence.

“Thirty minutes,” she says once more, then blinks and walks off, leaving only the soft sound of paws on stone in her wake. Even then, they fade the further she goes, until all that’s left is the slow, quiet breath of the underground.

I still don’t like that — how easily I’d be crushed, if only a crack would spread — and now that I’m left to my own devices, the small confines of my cell only exacerbates the fear. It’s constricting. So, I put my mind to work on the task at hand.

I turn back around and plant my palms on the floor, holding my upper body up, squinting and searching the darkness for a sign. “Amber?”

The only response I’m given is the immediate echo of my voice.

I hope they haven’t lied and locked me in with some rabid beast. The last thing I need is another enemy in this hornets’ nest, much less another cockatrice. It would certainly explain the claw marks.

Blinking a few times and shaking my head, just in case I still have any fuzziness left over, I squint harder, trying as much as I can to block out the light from behind and focus on what’s bouncing back. No use. I need to either wait and let my eyes adjust or explore by touch. But I wouldn’t have to if she’d just reply, and unless they’ve done something to her, she wouldn’t hesitate with at least making a snide remark.

I’m not sure which is worse: knowing or not knowing.

And then I see it: a very, very faint blot of orange in the far corner on the right. It could be an illusion, but everything I thought I’d seen so far has turned out to be correct, so I’m not really at liberty to argue with myself.

I crawl toward the splotch of orange in the gloom.

A flitter of movement, and two little rings of blue I hadn’t already noticed vanish.

I freeze, my suspicions confirmed, giving her some room to move if that’s what she wants. But when nothing further comes, I crease my brows and resume crawling, slower and warier than before. “Amber?”

Still nothing. Even as I approach and features become clearer in their vague way as they do in the dark, I’m offered no answer.

Orange fur, hair and feathers are defined from grey rock by faint veil of black shadow. She sits on her rump, tail between her legs and the large, voluminous bundle of hair hugged close to the chest. The other foreleg cradles her head, apparently grabbing her mane at the scalp and holding fast. Her ears are pinned back, her eyes are squeezed shut, and her teeth chatter behind closed lips, which are teetering on the brink of blubbering.

“Amber?” I scurry the last metre and sit in front of her with my good leg folded, the other laid out straight. “Amber, what’s wrong?

Again, no answer, though I’m sure I see her wings twitch.

“Please, talk to me.” I lean closer, peering up at her. “Are you okay?”

Her feathers tense up, and I hear a stifled noise come from her throat.

The thought strikes me that maybe she can’t speak, and that sends icy water down my back. “Did they hurt you?”

At last, a response. But instead of her voice, a long, pained whimper takes its place, and she pulls her head lower, angling away from me as both her wings unfurl and try as best they can to shield her from sight. And there she stays, sitting, quivering, whimpering, wordlessly pleading for me to leave her be. And it breaks my heart to see her like this; if there’s one thing Amber’s not supposed to be, it’s vulnerable.

Once upon a time, many days ago, I would’ve wanted nothing more than to see her at her weakest. No more. She can be as mean as she wants, and I’ll hate her for it, but it beats seeing someone so… resilient, I suppose, become a nervous wreck. Every obstacle is challenge to her, and the way she overcomes them is by getting mad.

This isn’t the Amber I know. But no one — no actor, no changeling, no natural talent or lifelong dedication — can ever cry the same as someone else. And that’s how I know these tears are hers.

“It’s no use.”

I blink, then look to my right, beyond the bars, across the hall to the cell on the other side, where figure lies slumped against the cage with his back to us. Another pony, by the looks of it, with a blue coat and white mane and tail — it’s hard to get specific when there are two walls obstructing my view and the light dyes everything a shade of gold.

“Trust me, I’ve tried. Not a peep.” He has a Russian, or at least East European accent, and sounds oddly chipper despite the circumstances. “Crying’s a first, though, and it’s good to finally know her name.”

I glance back to Amber, or what little of herself she lets me see, and after taking a moment to weigh up my options, I decide to let her be. Whatever’s wrong with her, my presence doesn’t appear to be helping. Maybe she just needs to get used to me. Again. More curious than frustrating, but bothersome all the same.

“I take it you must be a friend of hers, Mister…?”

“Adam Mackenna,” I answer, crawling over to the iron bars again.

The pony’s ears perk up, and there’s a short pause. “That’s a strange one.”

I sigh and lean against the wall. “I’ll be hearing that a lot, won’t I?”

“Depends where you’re headed, I guess.” He shrugs. “If you weren’t locked in here, that is. It’s just rare to hear a name like that in mainland Equestria.”

“I’m not from mainland Equestria.”

“Ah, a tourist!” He spreads his forelegs out wide, gesturing to the cell. “Welcome! I sure hope the locals haven’t been any trouble.”

Needle-teeth, midnight hair, and an orange hoof aimed for my jaw come to mind, as well as an imposter, and three pairs of glowing eyes. “No more than usual.”

“Ha! That’s rich. And funny — funny’s good too."

A small, subdued smile sneaks through, which quickly disappears when I remember one of the locals is in this prison with me.

“So, we’re persons of interest to all the wrong people.” He turns his head to peer at me from the corner of his eye. “What did you do to…”

I hold his gaze.

His silence stretches on as he shifts in place to gain a better view, eyes wide, lips parted, ears attentive. He examines me up and down, fascinated. “A strange one indeed.”

“Is that bad?”

He shakes his head. “Just means I haven’t seen the whole world yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You travel a lot?”

He smiles. “Part of the job description.”

I pause expectantly.

“My name’s Razzmatazz.” He sits up and faces me. “I’m what you’d call a self-employed courier: I get things from A to B in my airship.”

“You’re a pilot?”

“An aeronaut,” he corrects with a smirk. “Sounds better.”

I gently nod. “Well then, what’s an aeronaut doing in here?”

His smile falls, and he turns his head and pokes an ear through a gap, aiming it down the hall, no doubt measuring how far away the guard is.

I try having a look myself, but find no luck.

“Let’s save that story for later.” Razzmatazz returns to me. “What say we skedaddle?”

I blink, stunned. I honestly hadn’t even fantasised about escaping, much less consider it. I mean, of course I don’t want to stay here, but the only thoughts I’d ever really given any credit to were the ones involving me and literally anywhere else — they didn’t involve making those thoughts a reality. That gets my hopes up over nothing, and nothing can be done if I don’t ground myself in the here and now.

But what would I hope to achieve, anyway? What good can I do for Amber as things stand? Tell her everything will be fine and lie? I only have thirty minutes to comfort her before they drag her off, all because I’m too selfish and cowardly to risk severing the only known chance I have for my life going back to normal. How am I supposed to explain that, and to her of all people? How deep will that betrayal cut?

There’s only one option left — one way forward where I won’t have to live with the guilt of whatever Duke and his pack have planned for her, and where I can still stay true to Selene. And that, I realise, is what Razzmatazz is offering.

I need to find a way to shorten that down.

“How?” I quietly, desperately ask.

He grins. “Are you a good actor?”

“What?” My brows crease. “Why?”

“Because that’s the plan: we’re putting on a little show.”

I blink again. “We?”

He glances away, ears lowering sheepishly. “Well, when I say we, I mean you and your friend over there. Trust me, if we were all in the same cell, I wouldn’t hesitate to join, but the only way this can work is if it seems we’re a danger to each other. We can’t do that if we’re apart like this.”

“…You want to stage a fight?”

“Yes, exactly! Shouting, yelling, screaming, insults! Loud and proud! And when the guard comes to break it up, we… you two pounce her, get the keys, get me out, and we run off into the sunset!”

My confidence — or what little of it remains — suddenly vanishes; I’ve seen this stunt pulled a hundred times in so, so many films and TV shows. Does that mean it wouldn’t work? No, maybe not. But I wouldn’t hedge my bet on a tactic I’ve seen portrayed so often in fiction. “How long have you thought about this?”

“Three days. That’s how long I think I’ve been here, at least. But believe me, if there were another way — which there isn’t — I’d tell you. I know it’s a stretch, I know it’s risky, but it’s all we have. And when we get out of here, I promise you, we’ll be snugger than a bug in a rug.”

“…The last time someone promised the impossible… I found myself here.”

“But I’m not promising the impossible: I’m promising an outcome.”

Not much difference, technically speaking, but I guess it’s what my nerves needed to hear, because as much as I doubt myself, I nod.

“Righty-bitey. Now, can Amber play along?”

I hesitate, but nod again.

“Goodie-goodie! I’d shake your hand, but…” He taps the bars. “If there’s one thing dogs do well, it’s smithing. No rinky-dink metalwork when they’re on the job.”

Despite his sunny disposition, the enthusiasm isn’t rubbing off on me, and the idea of asking Amber to be… that again… is daunting. Scary. Because this wouldn’t be some simple favour— this’d be… a whole lot more. As far as I’m concerned, on par with Selene’s debt to me.

“So, are you ready?”

I hesitate once more, wondering first how to snap Amber out of whatever funk she’s in, and second, how to convince her to join us. Neither task sounds easy or pleasant. But eventually, as I have with every other tough decision I’ve been faced with, I go with the flow and nod.

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Razzmatazz backs away. “Here’s to hoping things go well, yeah?”

Yet again, I nod. Sometimes, I feel that’s all I’m good for anymore: bowing my head and saying yes. It’s like I’m not my own person, as if I’m not in charge of what I do. Running on autopilot. The route has been set, and any deviation is just begging for failure. Everyone knows better than I do, knows more than I do, and hold more cards than I do.

I’m a pawn being played, and I can’t tell by whom.

But still, I obey; I stand up, look, pause, breathe, and then slowly, quietly, cautiously approach the huddled form in the corner. And the fact she doesn’t appear to have moved an inch since I left… only makes me feel worse. She doesn’t want this, I don’t want this, and yet I close the distance.

Does that make me a bad person, or am I doing what any rational being would?

…Is everyone else as horrible as me?

Yes or no, both answers are awful.

But I need to do this. I have to. I must.

I sit down in front of her.

Her shivering has stopped, and she makes no sound, wings still hiding herself from view.

“Amber…”

A faint twitch of the ear and some ruffled feathers, but nothing more. She’s receptive, at least. Anything less and I think I’d have lost her for good.

“Amber, I know you can hear me.”

She breathes through her nose, and her breathing becomes slightly heavier. More fearful.

“We need to—”

“I told them.”

I freeze.

She didn’t mean…

No, of course not. If she did, why would they question me?

…But that’s not the only thing, is it?

Her voice…

It came as a broken whisper. Mumbled. Weak. Like a fading ember caught in a breeze; she burned brightly once, but no longer. And this change, this… stark contrast is giving me as much pause as any shout or slap of hers ever could.

“…Told them what?”

Silence. For a long while, there’s silence. And then a hint of movement — softly, slowly, secretly, a wing pulls its feathered veil aside. Her eyelids are open less than halfway, and the eyes themselves are staring at the floor, too nervous to even risk a glimpse of me. “Your name,” she breathes. “I told them your name.”

I say nothing, unsure of what to say, if anything. It sounds rather trivial, but if it means this much to her, it has to count for something. I don’t feel comfortable asking her directly, in case I come across as dismissive, so I simply watch and wait, and hope she doesn’t take my silence as a bad sign.

“They took me,” she continues, as feeble as before, but at least she’s still talking. “I was scared. And when they asked me questions, I panicked. I told them your name. I…”

I remain quiet, painful as it is to watch.

She takes a sharp breath in and out… and another… and another… and then slowly meets my gaze. Her eyes are wide, her brows upturned, and mouth and snout twisted in a grief-stricken grimace. “I sold you out,” she whimpers, on the brink of actual tears. “You. Of all the ponies in the world, you. I said nothing about Selene, I said nothing about the mission, I said nothing about anything… just Vanhoover and you.”

I sigh, deflating somewhat. “Amber…”

“What kind of pony does that? Who sells out the only… decent pony they’ve met in years, as soon as the going gets tough?” She shakes her head. “That’s not what good ponies do.”

“Amber, please—”

“No!” she snaps, stomping the hoof that used to grab her mane, but it’s a meek, feeble attempt. “Don’t deny it, and don’t you dare forgive me. I don’t deserve it. I never have, I never will. I just…”

Part of me wants to give her a firm shake, not because I don’t care, but because I don’t know how much time we have left. But the rest of me — the majority of me — can’t help sitting and listening.

Amber looks away. “You don’t deserve me,” she murmurs, voice cracking. “You’re better than me in every way and all I do is spit in your face. I’m bitter, I’m miserable, I’m just plain disgusting, and it’s not fair on you to think I can change.”

“Amber…”

“You’re better off leaving me here.”

My eyes widen. “No.” I shuffle closer. “I’m not doing that.”

She shakes her head again. “I’m not worth the effort.”

“You are to me.”

“But why?” She meets my gaze again, desperate and confused. “Why give me a chance, after the way I treated you? What’ve I done to make you care so much?”

I don’t reply. I don’t have an answer. Not really.

“Why, Adam?”

Instead, I offer the only solace I can. I reach out my hand and gently place it on her shoulder.

She looks down at it, and then back to me.

I don’t smile. That would be insincere. What I do instead is look into her eyes, however faint the sapphire circles are in such low light, and simply wonder, “Why not?”

Her face falls from sadness to recognition. She knows I’ve said those words before. Cheap and uninspired, perhaps, but that doesn’t make them any less true, and I’m running out of ways to say the same thing twice.

“So, we good?”

She remains quite still and silent.

“Amber?”

And then something changes.

Her brows crease; a frown forms.

Her mouth shuts; her lips curl into a snarl.

Her eyes narrow; her gaze hardens like cold steel.

This is a look I know all too well.

“Rule Four,” Amber grumbles.

I blink in confusion. “What?”

“Rule Four.” She brings a foreleg to my hand and glares at me dangerously. “Get your stinking hoof off me, you piece of LIVING TRASH!”

I recoil and back away.

“If there’s one thing I expect you to know by now, it’s that you don’t break the Rules! How many times have I told you?! How many teeth do I have to chip before you finally get the memo?! Don’t ever touch me!”

“But you—”

“But nothing!” She stomps as she stands, wings hanging open, eyes loaded with venom. “You know — you know — what the Rules are, and yet you keep pushing me! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you actually want me to change, which’d make you a liar as well as an idiot!”

I frown. “Where the hell is all this coming from?”

“It’s coming from me, Amber Dart, after living with you for the past sixteen days, and having to leave the house I built behind, all because you can’t — you won’t — say no!”

I slap my forehead. “Oh, for crying out loud, we’re still on this?”

She stomps again. “OF COURSE WE’RE STILL ON THIS! You know why? Because I’m a petty, vindictive little cuss, and you stepped on the wrong tail.”

“But I never meant to.”

“So what?! The damage is done and I have to live with it!”

“So do I!”

“You’re not the victim!”

“Yes, I am! Both of us are!”

“Because you agreed to this, and look where we are now!”

I baulk. “You think I saw this coming?! That I could’ve done something to stop this?!”

“You could’ve.”

I pause, scowling in exasperated disbelief, then shake my head. “No,” I growl through clenched teeth, backing up half a step and pointing at her. “I’m not giving up on going home.”

“Why not?! What makes your home more special than mine, dingus?! Why do you want to go back so badly?!”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A FAMILY, OR WHAT’S LEFT OF ONE — I HAVE SOMETHING TO GO BACK TO!”

Amber doesn’t react, but she doesn’t reply either.

“What do you have? Some dirt hut in the middle of nowhere. No friends, no loved ones, no obligations of any kind — just you, yourself, your toxic attitude, and a hundred acres of nothing. That’s all you have.”

Her eyes widen, and her expression falls from anger to genuine hurt. “How dare you,” she croaks, almost breathlessly.

“How dare I?”

“How dare you!”

“Hey,” a third voice interrupts.

I look to my right.

The guard’s come back, brandishing the bludgeon as she watches on from the outside. She appears more concerned than annoyed. Probably heard more than she wanted to. “Both of you, stop.”

I open my mouth to respond, but a sharp jab to the abdomen shuts me up and I stumble back a few steps.

“How dare you compare your life to mine and say yours is worth more!” Amber returns her hoof to the floor and marches on, her eyes now awash with outrage and anguish. “That’s not nice! That’s not what good ponies do!”

“Guys, please.”

I recover my balance and nurse the point of contact, sneering down at her. “Well then, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a pony.”

“You’re a better pony than me!”

“Oh, wow, what an achievement.” I give a slow clap. “Stellar effort on my part, huh?”

She rears up and places a forehoof on my collar, the other wound up for a punch.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” the guard exclaims, “let’s all calm down, please!”

At full height on two legs, Amber’s only slightly taller than me by a thumb, ears notwithstanding. Her expression’s desperate, pleading, but altogether furious, even with tears in her eyes. “You’d better snap out of it right now,” she orders, a tremble in her voice, “or I swear…”

“Or what?” I scoff, not believing her for an instant. “You’re going to hit me again?”

Her hoof connects with my temple.

I stagger off to the right and collapse.

Sights and sounds are muted and blurred. There’s the clang of metal, I think, and the clop of hooves on stone. A voice in the background, frantic and muffled. Another that’s closer, crisp and clear. “You don’t get to act like that!” it bawls, betrayed. “I can, you can’t! That’s not who you are!”

I blink and try to orient myself.

“You’re better than me.” An orange shadow hovers over me, standing on three legs, a fourth prodding my shoulder. “You don’t insult, you don’t punch or kick, and you don’t lash out. You’re the good guy. And if it takes a hoof to the face to make sure you don’t forget that, then so be it.”

A metal door opens. A second form appears. A dog in armour, armed with a club.

“Amber,” I call out absently. “Amber, wait.”

“What, you want a second?” The fourth leg rises. “Fine by me.”

“No, wait!” I try sitting up and pointing behind her. Try and fail. “There’s—”

A paw lands on her shoulders.

In a flash, she’s up on two legs again, wings flinging open, and whips around. Her forehoof already pulled back, now swings for the guard’s jaw, and in the split second she has where she realises what’s happening, her eyes are filled with shock and panic. But then the hoof reaches its target, and there’s a hard, meaty whack as the guard’s head bows with the blow, and she’s swept clear off her feet, spins around in the air, and falls to the ground.

Stillness. The rattle of metal echoes and fades the longer the pause continues, but the heavy breathing remains. Panting. A heaving chest is the only movement I see.

Amber stands with a hunch, watching the unconscious form of the guard, making sure she’s down for the count. One foreleg hangs lower than the other. When enough time has passed, she brings the hoof up and inspects it. “Great,” she grouses, wringing it through the bend of her other leg, “got slobber all over me.”

I stare on in silence, wide-eyed and speechless.

She regards the guard for a few seconds more, still huffing through her nose, and then looks back to me. Her ears lower, but only slightly, though her brows are already furrowed and her eyes display a lingering tension. Unresolved conflict. Something to do with me.

I continue to stare.

She stares back. And then she takes a step closer, still on her hindlegs, and offers a hoof.

I hesitate, glancing from her to the hoof and back to her. My lips part as if to mutter some half-baked question, but the faint shimmer in her eyes silences me. Tears, but no sadness. Not really. Not quite.

I accept the offer and grab her ankle.

With a quiet, laboured groan, she helps me to my feet, at the same time falling onto all fours and folding her wings. And as I dust myself off, she turns away and sniffs, rubbing a foreleg against her snout.

“You okay?” I ask automatically.

She meets my gaze with a frown and holds it.

I’m not dissuaded, even though I get the feeling I really should be.

Amber blinks, and then looks away again. “Think about yourself for once,” she murmurs, ears lowering a little further.

“Amber, please. Are you okay?”

She doesn’t reply. Not immediately. “We’ll talk later,” she says in a noncommittal tone, then trots over to the guard and rolls her over for the key. “You took five minutes to wake up last time, maybe less. A girl this big can’t be far behind.”

I pause, then slowly nod in understanding.

“We’re getting out of here, and we’re doing it together.” She gives me a pointed glance over her shoulder as she removes the key from the guard’s belt. “No more fighting, no more anything. Just you and me.”

I pause again, caught up in her words and just how… strange it is to hear this from her.

In fact, the last time she spoke out of character…

But no. It wouldn’t make sense. That wasn’t their plan, and they’d have nothing to gain by pulling a bait and switch, and they wouldn’t risk me escaping just to get some information. This is her and this is real, and we’re really doing this. I can’t allow doubt to cloud my sense of judgement.

I nod once more, then glance to the other cage. “What about him?”

She follows my gaze, and, after a pause of her own, walks for the open door, key in hoof.

Cautiously, I follow her.

She continues across the hall — a spacious six paces wide — with a heaviness in her step. Regret, perhaps. Maybe guilt, on some level. I know I’m feeling both right now. But I can’t tell her state of mind when I’m looking at the back of her head. And the closer she draws to Razzmatazz’s cell, the more uncertain I become. The more worry I feel. The more piercing the latest pain in my forehead becomes.

Razzmatazz sits on his haunches with wide eyes and attentive ears, watching with mouth open as he tries to form a response, and ultimately fails. He leans back as his forehooves scrape against the floor, as if trying to retreat, and yet knowing there’s simply no escape. Not so much scared as he’s… unsettled.

I don’t blame him. We make an awkward duo.

Amber stops at the cell and stares, her muzzle a hair’s length from the bars. “How do we get out of here?” she questions calmly, but firmly.

He doesn’t react for a moment, then blinks in confusion and narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Either you’re an earth pony or a changeling spy. In any case, you know the way out.” She puts her brows against the metal and adds a growl to her voice. “How do we get out?”

“A spy?” he echoes with a breathless chuckle. “Me? Why would I spy on you?”

“You tell me, friend. It just seems awfully convenient to find the right pony in the right place at the right time. And time’s wasting.”

I glance over to the guard.

No movement yet.

“I’m not a spy.”

“I don’t care what you are. You’re telling us where to go and you’re telling it now.”

“Amber,” I whisper.

She pauses yet again, still staring at him, then takes her brows off the bars and peers up at me with a frown.

“We’re not leaving him behind.”

There’s a pang in her eyes, though her expression doesn’t change. Realisation. And with it, a hint of shame. “We can’t trust him,” she mutters, barely moving her lips. She means it as a statement, but the tone is imploring; she wants me to back her up on this.

“Then what’re you doing asking for directions?”

She lowers her gaze as well as her ears, the shame now making itself evident.

“Trust has to start somewhere, Amber. We don’t have time to argue about this.”

“I’m not arguing, I’m just…”

I wait for her to finish, but when no answer comes, I look up and lean toward the cell. “Do you know the way out of here?”

Razzmatazz glances from me to her and back to me, and then nods shakily. “I believe so, yes.”

I nod in turn, then return to Amber.

She hasn’t moved, but she now wears a pensive, if apprehensive mask, mulling over our brief exchange. Part of her doesn’t want it to be so simple, but she can’t deny our window’s shrinking. So, she gives Razzmatazz a hard stare, rolls her jaw in thought, and then strolls over to the door and unlocks it, never breaking eye contact.

He doesn’t move for a moment, stunned, but then hops to his hooves and trots toward the open entrance, sharing a wary, anxious look between us.

“If you double-cross us,” Amber warns, stopping him with a hoof aimed directly for his throat, “so help me, you’ll wind up the same as Moxie over there.”

He nods vigorously. “Okie-doke.”

“Good.” She returns her hoof to the ground. “Now, where’s our stuff?”

“Storage room, end of the hall.” He glances to his left, our right. “They took my things too.”

“Then lead on.”

He nods again, walking out of the cell, but stops midstride when something catches his eye.

At the same time, now I see him in the open, I notice two very obvious differences between him and Amber, besides the colours and the unmistakable fact one’s male and the other’s not. The first is a lack of wings — he’s a completely normal, not too fantastical pony.

The second is the stylised image of an eagle in flight, tattooed upon his flanks.

He’s looking for something similar on Amber, and finding nothing. And seems equal parts disturbed and curious for it.

“Where’s your—”

“Lead. On.”

I frown at her behind her back, cautious and ready to intervene, yet intrigued.

Razzmatazz shuts his mouth and gulps, then looks away, nods once more, and turns and heads down the hall at a canter, Amber sharp on his heels, and me jogging with a limp not far behind.
Just when I think I’m beginning to figure out what it is that makes her tick, another layer reveals itself. Such is the mystery of Amber Dart the Private.