I Am the End of All Your Dreams
“I looked ahead, and everything was dead. I guess that I am, too.”
Marilyn Manson
They say the Devil took my wing and led me down the path to all the violence in the world.
Which, of course, is some dumb, superstitious shit.
But at the same time, it’s an effective image, so I don’t really go out of my way to contradict the belief.
Oddly enough, though, this is what I’m thinking about as I stagger down the pleasant, brightly-lit hallway to Room 35. I’m drunk, like, really fucking drunk, which, in retrospect, probably isn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made, but oh well. What’s done is done, right? Ooh, look, the carpet is red.
Having reached the door of the room in question, a modest wooden affair – ha, Rarity, is that you? – upon which is nailed a brass number 35, recently polished, I knock insistently, rubbing blearily at my eyes as I do so. Fuck, am I tired.
“Yes?” comes the muffled reply, drowsy. “Who is it?”
“Room service,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to suppress something that sounds to be a cross between a hiccup and a snicker. Like, if the two had a foal. A really fucked-up foal with a speech impediment. Wait, hold on, doesn’t that make me that foal? Nice one, Dash, real good.
“Is this some kind of joke?” the voice demands incredulously. “It’s two in the morning! I didn’t order room service!”
I snort to myself, continue knocking, louder. “Come on,” I slur. “Come on. Open the door. Let’s just get this over with. I can get back to being shit-faced, you can get back to being dead.”
“If... if you don’t leave now, I’m going to report this incident to the police!”
“You’re funny,” I laugh. “You’re a funny pony, you know that? I’m funny, too. Wanna hear a joke?”
I eagerly wait, but there is no response.
“Life insurance,” I tell the pony, then burst out laughing, clumsily falling onto my butt in the process.
“A-all right, that’s it,” says the voice, quavering violently. “I don’t care who you are, but you’re going to be spending the night at the police station for harassment, m-miss.”
Getting to my hooves, lurching, I blink, shake my head, then throw myself against the door.
Thud!
The pony inside Room 35 utters a shocked cry.
But no dice.
Sighing, I try again.
Thud!
Another cry.
Celestiadammit, I usually get this in one go! I’m Rainbow Dash, for fuck’s sake! The one and only! And the best!
All right, one more time.
Crash!
There we are, but oh what the f–!
I find myself lying face-down on the floor, romancing the stale, dusty carpet with my spinning head. My body currently weighs about a million kilograms, but I force myself up once more, groaning. My target, some businesspony or other, is cowering against the back wall, staring at me, appears just about ready to piss himself.
Suddenly, my stomach heaves, my throat tenses, and I vomit, the reek of alcohol filling the room. My eyes watering, I look down at the mess I’ve made. Shit, this is not going well at all. I look back at my target, still frozen like an exceptionally lifelike effigy, right down to the sweat trickling down the sides of his terrified face.
Coughing, spitting, my throat and mouth fiery with stomach acid, I reach into my coat, pull out the hammer, a tough steel beast with a rubber grip. Clamping it in my teeth, I teeter over to the businesspony, who, by this point, has shut his eyes tightly, quietly sobbing to himself. He knows exactly what’s coming, knows he can’t stop it.
But then I vomit a second time, dropping the hammer, foul liquid slopping onto the floor, all over my front. Moaning, I fall forward, pushing my forehead into the carpet, face scrunched up, puke dribbling down my chin like hot, dirty bathwater. From out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my target slowly making his way past me and in the direction of the door, careful, so very careful.
Not careful enough, buddy.
In one swift, flowing motion, pure instinct, I pick up my hammer and swing it at his head.
Which splits like ripe fruit.
The pony falls.
And then I am upon him.
I break the fucker right open, blow after blow after blow.
When I’m satisfied he’s not getting up again, his head little more than senseless pieces on the floor, I sit back against the bed, panting, dizzy. You idiot, Rainbow Dash, I think to myself. You stupid fucking moron. You’ve really done it now. You’ve really let it come to this. Fuck you.
I sigh, push my unruly, polychrome mane out of my face. There’s a flyer or a menu or something sitting on the bedside drawer, and I absentmindedly swipe it toward me. Looking at the front, my eyes struggle to focus on the text. Wait, the Royale Hotel? I frown, then grope around in my pocket for the piece of paper my employer gave me. Studying the elegant scrawl, my eyes widen. This is the wrong hotel.
Frantically, I scramble over to the corpse, frisk him for identification. Eventually, my hooves locate a business card. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, this is super bad. He’s not the pony I was supposed to take out.
“Dammit,” I breathe. “Ah fuck.” That’s when I see them. The young couple standing frozen in the doorway.
The air is like water, a delicate but firmly surging stream. If you fight it, you drown. But if you follow it, feel its currents and become one with them, the air will always guide you to where you want to be.
Today, I am alone, but I don’t feel alone. Today, the breeze is the only friend I need, my constant companion, tickling my feathers as I ride it through the clouds, fluffy at the edges, then pleasantly damp at the centre. It’s a warm day, and I couldn’t have asked for better weather, nor made it so myself.
I close my eyes and allow myself to sink into pure sensation, feeling the stupid, lazy grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. Sightless, I can’t quite comprehend how great both the temperature and the air-streams are now, so balanced, so perfect. It would be a crime for a pegasus not to go for a fly today.
Suddenly, with one mighty flap of my wings, I propel myself straight up, spinning, whirling. I feel the sun on my face, hot and lovely, a physical glow, and I laugh, delighted.
But then I open my eyes.
And it’s right there.
So bright.
White heat.
I can’t see a thing.
I panic.
I lose control.
I plummet.
But I usually wake up before I hit the ground.
Usually.
They say the Devil took my wing and led me down the path to all the violence in the world.
That’s what I was thinking about that night. The night I made the biggest mistake of my entire career. The night I killed three ponies, none of which I was supposed to. I was relocated to another city following this, of course, but it was never really the same after that. I mean, that’s not to say I, I don’t know, became any worse at what I do; I just didn’t really enjoy it as much anymore. Especially after reading in the paper that one of the ponies I took down was recently pregnant. Shit, I guess that means I technically killed four ponies, none of which I was supposed to. That hit me harder than I cared to admit.
But that was nearly ten years ago.
I’m not even sure why I’m thinking about it right now.
I enter the small, dingy supermarket, big, furry moths following me inside through the open door. There must be something wrong with the lights again because everything looks green, like, this legitimately repulsive yellow-green. Making my way down the far-right aisle toward the backroom, I wrinkle my nose at the smell of something I can’t quite identify, something manufactured.
Cherub is waiting for me, as usual, lounging on his grimy, no doubt secondhoof couch, surrounded by boxes of various products, battered and haphazardly arranged. He’s an earth pony, greasy mane and bloodshot eyes, salt and pepper beard, a little overweight, classic drug addict. About as far from angelic as a pony can get. But he’s good at what he does. Reliable. He’s the best middlepony this side of Equestria.
“Hey!” Cherub greets me with a lopsided grin. “Wings, how are you?”
Oh yeah, and he calls me “Wings.” It’s literally the dumbest nickname ever, but I let him call me that because he’s one of the few ponies I don’t actually hate. Plus, with a nickname like Cherub, you kind of feel obliged to let the guy call you something similarly stupid in return or else, from an illogical standpoint, you’d be the arsehole. Sometimes I wonder whether Cherub came up with that fucking nickname himself just to hold over ponies’ heads like some sort of twisted moral high ground.
“Not bad,” I reply gruffly. “You got the money?”
Cherub gives me a look. “When do I not?” He rummages around, pulls out an unsealed envelope, tosses it over to me. I open it, carefully count the notes, then toss Cherub’s cut back to him, tucking the envelope into my saddlebag.
“So,” Cherub says with a grin, “retirement, huh? Wow. The great Rainbow Dash throwing in the towel at last.”
“Not like I have a choice,” I answer defensively, battling to conceal my embarrassment. “Body’s not what it... what it once was.”
Cherub feigns surprise. “What’s this? Acceptance? Fuck me, who are you and what have you done with my favourite contract killer?”
I flash him a small smile, grim. “I contract killed her.”
Cherub roars with laughter, smacks the couch with his hoof. “You’re a funny pony, Wings! A funny fucking pony!”
I smirk. This guy. Love him. “So, who am I seeing about this final contract?” I ask, once Cherub has sufficiently calmed.
Cherub nods slowly to himself, lights a cigarette. “Uh… go see, uh… fuck, what was the new handler’s name again? With the fucking office off of 15th?”
“Screech?”
“Screech, yeah, that’s him.”
I nod, turning to leave. “See you around, Cherub.”
“Take care, Wings,” Cherub responds distractedly. “Feel free to come by any time to chat or… talk or… whatever.”
“Will do.”
It’s a storage unit. Little more than a tiny garage, olive-green roller door, grubby. We’ve had our eye on it for a while now, but when we finally break it open following the arrests, we know with a frightening certainty that we fucked up. We fucked up bad.
“Police!” I bellow, once the door is open, sweeping the space with the beam of my torch, sweat oozing down my forehead. “If anypony is holed up in here, better make yourself known pronto!”
My colleague, a unicorn named Switchblade, turns on the light. We all recoil. There is a pile of bodies lying before us on the cold concrete floor, recently killed by the looks of it, glassy eyes, dried blood everywhere. Mares, stallions, foals, elderly ponies. Earth ponies. All heaped atop one another unceremoniously, like they’re dirty laundry. Too many to count. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever witnessed.
“Fuck!” I hear somepony shout.
Somepony else, probably well-meaning but fainthearted Gentle Soul, runs outside, says goodbye to that burger he had for lunch.
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache, shutting my eyes, trying not to do something unprofessional. “Those poor earth ponies...”
“R-Rainbow,” I hear Switchblade whisper shakily, barely audible.
I swallow, turn to look at him. “Yeah?”
Switchblade’s gaze is firmly fixed on the wall to his right, trembling. “They’re… they’re not earth ponies, Rainbow,” he murmurs. “They’re pegasi. All of them. Their wings have been removed.”
Screech’s office looks like a hospital ward, everything dull, lifeless, clinical. A glass desk, nothing on it but a clock and some paper and pens. A shelf with some photographs directly behind. Late afternoon sunlight spills languidly in from the window to the right, and there’s a pot plant sitting in the corner, looking a little undernourished. It’s bizarre.
I’ve only met the pony once or twice. He’s tall, neither young nor old, receding mane, prematurely lined face. Just another earth pony. Screech is called Screech because he’s literally the most emotionless-sounding motherfucker to crawl out of a womb, probably never even cried as a foal, let alone raised his voice at anypony.
“So,” Screech intones, “retirement, huh? Wow. The great Rainbow Dash throwing in the towel at last.”
I raise an eyebrow. Déjà vu.
“Allow me to congratulate you,” Screech continues impassively, “your service has been invaluable to us, and though we’ll obviously be sad to see you go, know that you have the business’ total approval regarding your decision.”
“Wasn’t exactly mine,” I mutter, more to myself than to Screech.
Screech nods, nonetheless, appearing to understand. “Still, you and I both know that you’ve made the right call here. You’re too old to be a contract killer.”
“I am not old,” I shoot back, scowling, indignant. “I’m just… not as young as I used to be!”
Screech gives me a look that seems to say, “does it really matter?”
I roll my eyes, shrug. “So, who’s it gonna be?”
Screech slides open a drawer, selects a small stack of pages enclosed in a manila folder, slides it over the desk toward me. I open it, study the contents.
“He’s a politician,” Screech tells me. “There’s absolutely nothing special about him. Our client – a competitor – just wants him out of the way. That’s the whole story.” A pause. “Think you can handle it, Rainbow?”
I glare at Screech. “You fucking kidding me?”
Screech doesn’t even blink. “When it’s done, go and hang out someplace for an hour before heading home. Your final payment will be waiting for you when you return. Plus, of course, your retirement fund.”
“Thanks,” I say, nodding, putting away the folder.
“Oh, and Rainbow Dash?”
I turn questioningly.
“There’s been talk of a serial murderer,” Screech informs me. “He kills seemingly random ponies, so the authorities have as yet been unable to track him down. Be careful out there, all right?”
“Will do.”
I am walking down an alleyway, gloomy, like a huge, horizontal throat. It always begins with one pony. He suddenly bursts out of the shadow to my left, the flash of a knife, never quite sure whether he’s a unicorn, a pegasus, or an earth pony. Regardless, I sidestep, knock the fucker out cold with a single blow to the head. But then more come, disconnecting themselves from the persistent dark, shedding the shadow like dead skin, a wave of pointless, stupid violence. I fight them, simultaneously asking them what they want, but they just continue battering me, brutalising me until I collapse, crash to the ground.
Once I’m down, helpless, all the fear, all the confusion just fades, and as I am torn apart, torn to pieces, I begin to feel distinctly relieved.
When I get home to my small apartment, it’s already dark. On the way back from Screech’s office, I dropped by a hardware store and bought myself a new hammer, a last hammer. I like hammers, prefer them. They leave very little evidence, are excellent in close quarters, and they seem to scare the living shit out of everypony.
I decide to shower before dinner.
Pressing my hooves against the cold tile, I sigh, closing my eyes as I feel the hot water trickling over my shoulders, through my feathers, down the gentle curve of my back, comforting.
I decide to masturbate.
Leaving one hoof where it is, circling with the other, I quickly bring myself to the threshold.
As I come, I utter an embarrassingly high-pitched sound, then impulsively smash my head into the wall.
I black out for a split second.
Basking in the afterglow, I pant softly, my bleeding head resting against the cracked tile, watching as my blood slides away from me, dripping sluggishly to join the water at my hooves, circles the drain.
The cut on my head is nothing serious, and after toweling off, aimlessly staring at my reflection for a bit, I head over to the kitchen, where I promptly discover that I have literally nothing to eat. I groan. This means that I’m going to have to either get takeaway or dine-in someplace. Both options will require leaving my apartment.
Reluctantly leaving my apartment, I make my way to Rice Up, a small family restaurant just down the street. I hate dining-in, so I order takeaway. I am told by the artificially friendly cashier to wait for twelve-to-fifteen minutes. Awkwardly standing around, staring at my hooves, I try to block out the brightness of the lurid red lights hanging from the ceiling, the sound of ponies eating and talking away. But I can see everything. I can hear everything. By the time my dinner arrives, I am on the verge of a panic attack, so I all but throw the cashier my money, tell her to keep the change, and get the hell out of there.
The bed is almost comfortable, the sheets soft and white, and the pillows so fluffy you could practically drown in them. But it’s all too clean. Too… immaculate. Not a strand of hair, not a crumb of sleep dust, not an embarrassing but oddly satisfying stain from the night you and your lover went all out and came so hard you both lost consciousness. There simply isn’t a trace of familiarity or homeliness to be found here. But did I really expect any different? Then again, I don’t think I could ever have expected this.
I turn my head to the left and see Twilight, sitting on a chair beside me, slack-faced, a distant look in her eyes. I vaguely wonder how long she’s been sitting there like that, lifeless. It could have been mere seconds, but it also could have been a lifetime or two.
Eventually, Twilight blinks, inhales through her nose, meets my gaze. “Rainbow,” she says, sounding worn-out, “how are you feeling?”
That’s a good question. How am I feeling? I take a moment to think on this. My whole body is aching, somewhat dulled by the painkillers, admittedly, but I still feel like I’ve been hit and run over by a kilometre-wide train. My lower body, in particular, is killing me, and I just want to sleep forever. Oh, and then, of course, there’s that.
“How do you think I’m feeling?” I murmur, looking away.
“Rainbow, I–” Twilight begins, but I cut her off.
“Twilight, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you can say that will make me feel any better.”
In the stifling, electric silence, I hear Twilight swallow painfully.
“Where are the others?” I ask her after a few aeon-long moments have elapsed.
Twilight sniffles, hurriedly attempts to cover it up. “Uh… they’ll be along shortly.”
“That’s… good. I guess.”
Twilight tries again. “Rainbow, please, I–”
“No,” I interrupt, turning back to look at her miserable, empty face, “you don’t get to do this. You’re not allowed. I already told you: there is nothing you can say to justify this, to make it okay.”
“I know,” Twilight begs me, wretched, “I know, but–”
“Our foal was born dead, Twilight,” I tell her hollowly, tell her what she already knows. “Our foal that you brought into this world with magic was born dead, and you did nothing to stop it.”
“Rainbow, I’m an Alicorn,” the Princess pleads, trying to place her hoof atop mine. I don’t let her. “I’m not a god.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a difference.”
“These things, they… they happen for a reason, Rainbow Dash,” Twilight tells me, the tears bleeding down her face. “A-and it’s not my place to decide what to… what to correct!”
“You’re a murderer,” I whisper. “A killer.”
Twilight closes her eyes, re-opens them when she’s looking at something that isn’t me. “We both are.”
I wake to damp, sweat-soaked sheets and blistering light spewing in through the gap in the curtains. Today’s the day. The last day of my life as I know it. Tomorrow, a new chapter begins, although I fear it’s a little late in the hour for that.
After spending a few semiconscious minutes smushing my face into the pillow and groaning, I flounder my way out of bed, head on down to the kitchen for a breakfast I do not feel like eating. Rice Up leftovers from last night. I cram that shit as fast as I can, put on my coat, grab the hammer, out the door.
The apartment where my target is staying the night is twenty minutes away, but I jog, make it in fifteen, even stopping to buy hot chips on the way, which I view as something of a personal victory in light of how old everypony has been telling me I am lately. As always, I’m quite early, five hours in this instance, and I find a nice, inconspicuous fire escape for me to use as a stakeout point. Leaning my head back, I gaze up at the sky. When I started out, it was bright and sunny, river-blue and not a cloud to speak of, but now, an ominous mountain range, black and heavy, has swept into view. Rain seems likely.
I guess I must have nodded off, because the next thing I know, there’s some demented homeless pony standing below me, bellowing some religious jargon at the top of his filthy lungs.
“They will descend!” the pony shouts, writhing around with his eyes cast skyward. “On Judgement Day, they will descend and burn all that has grown in their absence! Burn it! The Old Gods! Even in their slumber, even in their imprisonment, they dream of our destruction! Priests and warriors! Their nightmare eyes see all, and their talons of madness reach everything! These are things older than life and death! Older than time! Older than the universe itself!”
Blinking groggily, I lean over the railing and call down to him. “Hey!”
The homeless pony stops and looks at me, eyes wide, manic. “Greetings, pony of the fire escape,” he says somewhat breathlessly. “Pray tell where the flames from which you fly are?”
For a moment, I am speechless. “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask him. “What’s with all the yelling, guy?”
“Ponies must know!” he tells me excitedly, like what he’s saying actually means something. “Ponies must be warned! Please understand, I am not attempting to save lives, no, but rather enlighten them so that when the day comes, great Judgement, their souls may be extinguished in a… in a dignified manner.”
I sigh, rubbing at my eyes. I look to my right, pick up the half-empty bag of cold chips, hold it up for the homeless pony to see. “Look, if I give you these chips, will you please fuck off and do your preaching somewhere else?”
The pony nods, I throw him the chips, and he scurries away, clutching his prize. I guess religion really does pay, I think, snorting to myself as I settle back into my spot. Still a couple more hours to go. It begins to rain. Well, one thing’s for sure: I’m not letting myself fall asleep again. Nope. No fucking way.
I am collecting rocks. Scooping them up, clutching them to my chest, shoving them into my saddlebag. All shapes, all sizes, the heavier the better. This is possibly the most important task I have ever undertaken. Pinkie Pie’s family would be proud. Well, I reckon they would, anyway. You can never really be sure what those ponies are thinking.
There is dirt all over my hooves, all over my face, but I don’t care. All I care about is collecting as many rocks as will fit into my saddlebag. I continue my labour, sweat slipping down from my maneline, splashing into the dirt, heavy breathing. Faster, faster, faster, faster, Celestiadammit, Rainbow Dash!
I am flying, and the temperature is so balanced, so perfect, and the air-streams are so balanced, so perfect, and I am so happy, so at peace with everything.
But then I open my eyes.
And it’s right there.
So bright.
White heat.
I can’t see a thing.
I panic.
I lose control.
I plummet.
I hit the water.
I black out for a split second.
Then pain, so much pain.
I can’t breathe.
I try swimming upward, to air, to safety, to salvation, but something is holding me down, holding me back.
My saddlebag.
It’s full of rocks, so many.
I try undoing it, but it won’t budge, fastened to my body with thick rope.
I should know; I tied it myself.
My eyes snap open. The rain has stopped, and it’s gotten dark. Streetlamps like glowing, skeletal claws, and black, geometric beehive buildings reflect in the large puddles dotting the road, the sidewalk, and it’s like the city is falling away, falling into itself. Or something. For a moment, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but then it all comes back to me, and I curse. How does this shit keep happening? Clambering down from the fire escape, I wince as my back protests. Jeez, if my body is going to insist on falling asleep, the least it could do would be to do it in a vaguely comfortable position!
Crossing the near-abandoned street, I hurry into the apartment building. Inside, I am greeted by a friendly, if somehow Gothic, interior design, dimmed lanterns, red drapes, intricately-sculpted wooden furniture, arched doorways. I head straight for the stairs, follow them up to the seventh storey.
Having reached said floor, I’m really quite puffed, but waste not a single second, whipping out my trusty skeleton key and unlocking the door to Room 54. Pushing it open as quietly as I possibly can, I step inside, pulling out my hammer as I do so. The room is dark, and though it appears to be one of the more expensive suites, it still strikes me as being mind-numbingly bland.
Emerging from the slight corridor comprising the apartment entrance and making sure to shut the door as silently as I opened it, I do a quick reconnaissance of the place. Directly ahead of me are the living and dining areas and the kitchen, all customarily merged into one, and to my left is where the master bedroom and the bathroom are situated. I nod to myself, satisfied. The photos in the file were on point.
Turning my attention back to the bedroom, I creep up to the door, my heart pounding, despite myself. Hammer in mouth, I can hear a soft grunting being emitted from inside, and I smirk, shake my head. That’s amusing. Unbeknownst to him, my target’s final act will be jerking himself off. This promises to be good. Let’s see if he can bust a nut before I bust his head.
I count down from ten, just to give him a sporting chance, then turn the knob.
He’s not jerking himself off.
He’s fucking an under-aged pegasus filly.
Our eyes meet, and he freezes.
The little filly has her eyes shut tight, face scrunched up with discomfort.
I look down at the filly.
I look up at my target.
“Wait,” the pony says, frightened, “wait. Just wait a minute. W-wait.”
I run at him, pushing the filly away, and cave in his eye socket.
A spray of crimson.
The pony falls onto his side, concussed, coughing, blinking rapidly with the eye that isn’t pulp.
I hit him again, in the same place.
Then I do it again and again and again until there’s more hole than face, more blood than bedding.
And he’s very fucking dead.
Gasping for breath, covered in gore, I turn to look at the little pegasus, lying beside the corpse and staring at me uncomprehendingly with those big, magenta eyes. Some of the politician pony’s blood has gotten on her, and I frantically use the edge of the blanket to wipe it off as best I can, irrationally believing that she’s hurt, that it was me that did it. I want it all gone, but some of the blood is coagulating in her mane, in her coat, and I resist the urge to just take her into the bathroom right here and right now and give her a bath. A quick toweling with tap water will have to do.
“H-hi,” I say to the little one kindly, trying to regulate my breathing, if only for her sake. “Hi there. My name’s Rainbow. I’m gonna get you out of here, and you’ll never have to come back or ever do something like this ever again. How does that sound? That sound awesome or what?”
The filly doesn’t reply, so I set about picking up the hammer and shoving both it and my coat into the trash, then removing the bag. I gently lead the little one into the bathroom, clean us both up, dedicating more time to her, even though I’m the one who probably requires the most attention insofar as blood is concerned.
Once this is done, I lay myself down on the carpet, on my stomach. “Get on my back,” I tell the little pegasus, looking behind me, flashing her an expression I hope to be passable as a reassuring smile. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of this place.”
The filly eventually complies, and I stand, wobbling slightly, grimacing into the trash bag clasped between my teeth. Sweet Celestia, I really am too old for this shit. But feeling the little one’s soft face pressing into my neck, her small forelegs hugging me, the weight is almost worth it. Almost.
Poking my head out into the hallway, I look both ways as if crossing a road, then stealthily leave the room. The first thing I do is locate a rubbish cart and dispose of the trash bag. Having accomplished this, I sigh, turn my head slightly to address my little friend. “Hey,” I murmur, enjoying the tickle of her warm breath against my neck, “looks like we’re in the clear. But we should still keep moving. I’ve gotta wait for an hour or so before I can head home and get paid, so if it’s okay with you, we can just chill in that park across the street until then.” I think for a second. “Hey, by the way, what should I be calling you, little filly? You got a name?”
As I more or less expected by this point, the filly remains silent.
“Hey, it’s all good,” I tell her casually. “That’s cool. You’re incognito, I get that. All right, let’s hit the park!”
We enter the stairwell, but as we begin our long concrete descent, I perceive that my back has begun to hurt considerably from carrying the little pegasus around. In fact, I’m not feeling too good right now, in general. My head is pounding, and my vision is swimming. Fatigue has begun to set in, and if I don’t do something real fast, I’m gonna collapse.
“So, I’m more than happy to give you a piggyback all the way to the park,” I say, fighting to conceal the strain that has crept into my voice, “but how’s about we give Auntie Rainbow Dash a little break before attempting any more of these here stairs, yeah?”
Everything suddenly slows down.
The lights flicker.
Actually, maybe it’s my eyes.
Either way, a single lapse, a single second of blackness constitutes a year in the dark.
An earsplitting exhalation.
World blurring, slanting.
Bodily separation.
I watch as Rainbow Dash’s eyes roll to white, and she falls forward, tumbles headfirst down the stairs.
They’re not quite my friends, I know. Not yet. I want them to be, though, and I think they do, too, but the commitment, the… loyalty isn’t there as yet. But they’re willing to amend that, and so am I. Everypony is assembled before me, a gathering of friends-soon-to-be, watching me avidly, expectantly.
“Okay, everypony,” I say, clapping my hooves together, “let’s get started!”
My first friend-soon-to-be is a handsome young stallion with a floppy fringe, dreamy pastel blue eyes.
“You first,” I chirp, mussing his mane affectionately and bringing him forward, away from the others, who look on proudly. “Don’t be shy!”
We face each other.
“All right,” I tell him, “just hold still.”
My first friend-soon-to-be lets me roll him onto his stomach. He lies there, waiting eagerly but patiently.
“Stay right there.”
From my workbench, I pick up my trusty “corrector”, as I like to call it.
“Won’t be a sec,” I hum as I initiate the young stallion.
There.
I have a new friend.
And he’s delighted.
I gently move my new friend to one side, then smile over at the others.
“So,” I beam, “who wants to be next?”
When everypony has been initiated, I just can’t stop smiling.
It’s so wonderful.
I have so many new friends.
Everypony lies down together, a big old pile of friendship.
And I join them, right at the top.
I nuzzle my nearest friend, a pretty pony with a great mane, an even better personality.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, a contented smile. “It’s all right. It’s not the end. You guys don’t need wings to fly.”
I wake to the sound of my name being called, starting out very quiet, hushed, then gradually louder.
“Rainbow Dash,” says the voice. “Rainbow Dash, wake up.”
I sit up with a grimace that hurts my face. I’ve taken quite a battering, but I think I’m all right. When I gingerly press my hoof against my forehead, it comes back red.
“Are you okay?” the little pegasus asks me, concerned but, to my immense relief, apparently unharmed.
I wink at her. “Always. You know, for a moment there, you had me thinking you were a mute!”
My small friend looks down, smiles at her hooves bashfully, shakes her head.
“So,” I say, groaning as I get myself up, using the wall for support, “does that mean you’re ready to tell me your name?”
The little filly shakes her head again.
“Okay,” I laugh. “Okay, be that way! Also, looks like you’re on your own, kid.” The little one looks worried, so I hastily continue. “I mean, in terms of the ride, that is. I don’t think I’d survive another session of you on my back.”
And so, my little friend and I leave the apartment building and head over to the park. It’s quite late, so the place is totally empty, which is fine by me. The moon and the stars are out, and the streetlamps have been lit, and by both artificial and natural light, the little pegasus and I follow the pathway and find ourselves a wooden bench to sit on.
I look over at the filly, and she doesn’t seem to be able to get comfy. “You all right?” I ask her, frowning.
She immediately stops wriggling, nods attentively.
“Okay, so, here’s what I’m thinking,” I say, “tonight, you can stay the night with me, but tomorrow morning, we’re gonna have to go find your parents. I can even give you some money to…” I stop, quickly look at her. “You… you do have parents, don’t you?”
“Rainbow Dash?” the little one inquires, her eyes large and grave-looking.
“Uh huh?”
“You know my name, don’t you? You know who I am.”
I blink a few times, clear my throat awkwardly. “I mean… yeah, I guess. S-sure.”
“Who am I?” the filly asks solemnly.
I am silent for a time, avoiding looking at the little blue pegasus with the rainbow mane sitting beside me. Eventually, I regain the power of speech. “You’re, uh… you’re me, right?”
She nods.
I swallow. “Yeah, see, I…” I shake my head, clear my throat once again, “I don’t really… I don’t really understand what’s going on here. Right now. Here. Um…”
“That’s okay,” young Rainbow Dash tells me, sympathetic. “Take your time.”
The two of us sit there in silence for a while. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, I find, but it is an ambiguous one. I look up at the night sky, at the stars for want of something to do, and I’m suddenly all too aware of the distance, the great divide, the void that exists between myself and everything else, everything above me, everything around me. I’m not a star. I am the sky. Empty, forever, and undefined.
“I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying. “I’m sorry for… me. For this.” I wave my hoof around indistinctly. “This isn’t what was supposed to… to happen. To be. We had so many dreams, didn’t we? So many aspirations. Too many to count. Certainly too many to actually, you know, a-accomplish.” I look over at young Rainbow. “But I accomplished exactly none of them. Not one Celestiadamn thing.”
“Hey,” says young Rainbow, places her little hoof on my foreleg, “it isn’t your fault. We don’t choose these things, you know. And we all have dreams. Most of us just have to… open our eyes at some point.”
I give her a shaky smile, lean back. “To, uh… to tell you the truth, I’ve been… having trouble remembering things lately. Actually, no, that’s… that’s not quite right. I’ve been remembering a lot of things just fine. I’m just… not really sure which of those things actually happened. My dreams and my memories and... thoughts and fantasies, they’ve all become one now. The same. And for that I’m… I’m so sorry. Truly sorry. Because... I’ll never be able to apologise to you for the right thing. For the real thing.”
I reach out for young Rainbow, trying to touch her, to lay my hoof on her shoulder, my own shoulder, but the closer I reach, the further she appears to be. I close my eyes. I’m not Rainbow Dash anymore, I know that. I haven’t been for a long time now.
“I think you’ve always known the truth,” young Rainbow tells me tenderly, sadly. “You just haven’t allowed yourself to accept it. You don’t know how.”
I open my eyes.
“You’re already retired,” young Rainbow whispers gently. “You’ve been retired for nearly two years now. But you don’t know what retirement means. I guess I really am still in there somewhere. Rainbow Dash. All that’s left. We never did know how to give up, did we?”
I nod numbly, run my trembling hoof slowly over my imperfection.
I’m not even half a pegasus any longer.
They say the Devil took my wing and led me down the path to all the violence in the world.
But it wasn’t my wing.
And this isn’t her world.
Author's Note
Once again, special thanks go to the one and only OnionPie, both for proofreading and for not explicitly saying that my work is some pretentious postmodern bullshit. I would also like to thank, uh... that other... guy for... doing many important things... as well... too. Christ, I really should get out more.
