XXII - The Author

XXIII - The Reader

One year.

One entire year.

Of waiting.

Of lurking.

Stubbornly banging heads against walls to resist a relentless, insatiable curiosity.

Was it patience that kept him?

Anger? Fear?

Perhaps he merely forgot, like everyone else.

He was holding back, ensuring the time was right.

And now, it was time.

It begins.

No.... now it ends.

It was time for some goddamn answers.

XVI - The Tower

On an unnamed street in an unnamed district in the Southern Sprawl of Manehatten, sat an unnamed hill. Rumors had been spread about the hill itself by the children of the impoverished neighborhoods nearby.

"It contains the ghosts of the cities founders!" screamed an urchin to another.

"No, it contains the demons that lurk under the city. They wait for ponies to fall asleep, then take over their minds!"

They spoke for hours each day, making up stories about the hill to try and scare those who had recently joined the ranks of those who lost it all. The small group of a dozen or so clustered near a dead tree, long since wilted as the wealth (and charity) had shifted towards the city's center. To stock markets, factories, and businesses not quite big enough to threaten the others.

A crunch of leaves startled the youngest, and he turned, looking back at a tall, thin stallion who looked to be not quite the monster from their stories. He didn't smile, and he didn't raise his voice, but he did speak.

"No. It holds an unspeakable evil, who feeds on the words of little fillies and colts who tell tales about the hill."

The group turned, and watched with interest as he continued. One in the back shivered a little as a crisp breeze broke the silence between lines.

"And then, it waits for the little ones to come back the next day..." he took a step forward, eyes widening a little. He paused.

"...a-and he eats th-them?" One questioned, abruptly. He looked almost... unimpressed. Scared, yes, but still a note of disappointment in his demeanor.

He turned, and didn't speak this time, instead waiting for a moment. They looked back at him, curious, fearful, but unwavering in their stubborn interest.

"No." He simply stated. "He calls out for one of his assistants. Someone tall, always wearing a nice suit." They eyed his tie with a sudden need to run. "And then HE EATS THEM!"

He punctuated the final phrase with a cackle, and the group echoed with an even larger one. They scattered, running in seemingly random directions leaving him alone with a single remaining one, slightly older than the others, but only just.

This one was smiling.

"That was a good story." she said, turning away.

Blank Page stayed at the tree for a moment, muttering to himself. "No... it really wasn't. Foals these days are getting too smart, noticing the predictability of our stories. One day, they'll just look to reality for their entertainment. Then where will we be?" He watched as she left, then continued up the path. Onto an unnamed street in an unnamed district in the Southern Sprawl of Manehatten, towards an unnamed hill. Rumors had been spread about the hill itself by the children of the impoverished neighborhoods nearby.

These rumors, in turn, pale in comparison to the speculation spread by every-pony else about the building that sat atop this hill.

Speculation so dense, twisted, and toxic that calling it the "Manehatten Rehabilitation Hospice" doesn't carry enough weight. They all call it an "asylum" now, despite the city officials denying that distinction. It was a monument to the insecurities politicians and affluent families have for their roots, their voting bases, and anything that might blot their otherwise spotless record of superiority over the rest of the word. A gilded cage crafted to house the less than innocent, but more than guilty. It hides all those lurking in-between the thin grey line that splits the criminally insane from the scandalously deviant.

Because the easiest way to keep your prey ensnared, of course, is to create a trap they don't want to leave.

As Blank Page walked towards it's immense double doors, he knew full well the circumstances allowing his arrival, and potentially preventing his departure. He winded through his thought process every second, willing his hooves to halt in place, but they wouldn't. He tried to close his eyes, but they were jammed shut, unable to spare himself from the massive iron sign above the door. With his last thought before entering, he repeated the phrase he had learned from the paper's discussion of this cursed place. The motto whispered across tables and through alleyways during the night. The scary story that keeps even the working mare up at night as she dreams of a full table for her family.

Manehatten Asylum is where the rich and famous go to die.

X – Wheel of Fortune

...3rd floor... ...3rd floor...?

The door had been left ajar for him, as was expected.

The door knob was half-turned, and there were claw marks along the door jamb, where the hinges had been bent. The door splintered inward. It looked as though someone had been here. The gilded letters above the door were pristine, untouched. Not all of them were there, however.

T E O ICE O D OR SP T S CO

Everything in the building was coated in a thin layer of dust, and a tattered mess of old police tape scattered the hallways. The entire block had been sold off as "stigmatized property," and was overdue for an appraisal. By 6 weeks.

He calmly pushed the door inward, looking around the room. Vases were shattered, the window has broken, desk overturned, books strewn about. All of this was ignored, as he moved over to the windowsill. As instructed, he lifted it slowly… listening for the tell…

Click… click… click… snap! Nine.

He moved over to the second one. The pane had shattered a long time ago.

Click… snap. Fourteen.

And the last one, rusted shut. It didn't budge. He tired again, pushing upward as hard as he could, swearing under his breath.

Footsteps... in the hallway.

He turned, squinting and watching the door with an assassin's focus, maintaining a protective stance at the window.

Silence.

He tried again, and it shrieked, slamming upward and filling the building with the echos of something that shouldn't be there. The building groaned for a moment in return, the foundation resettling. The entire floor beckoned the intruder to leave.

Click… click… snap. Three.

The hatch underneath the carpet slid open with a solid thunk.

0 – The Fool

“I’m sorry, do you have an appointment? Can I have your name?”

Blank Page shook himself out of his stupor. Someone had walked by the desk in a coat and hat. They seemed eerily familiar. Had he seen them in a dream? A photograph? During the...

"Sir? Your name? Please?"

He turned, not missing a beat, unaware he had even been daydreaming.

“Uh, Blank Page.” The orderly gave a raised eyebrow. He froze, perhaps his name carried a different kind of weight now. Even though it had been... what... 11 months? A year? No one forgot. Forgiveness? Maybe, but not forgetfulness. He stared at the orderly for almost too long. He felt the cold buckles of the straight-jacket already.

“Uh, I apologize. My name is November.” He had almost forgotten that little detail. A costly mistake.

Yet, the orderly’s grim demeanor vanished, and she gave a sly smile. “Oh, of course. You’re here to see him, correct?” He nodded, after a moment. This was tough, after walking through that door. What was left of his credibility, and his dignity, were hanging delicately in the balance.

In other words, not much was at stake insofar.

She perused through a clipboard, slowly. They exchanged annoyed glances at each other, as she purposely took her time. She wanted to sink the dagger just a little further. It would hit bone soon. She wasn't quite cruel, wasn't quite kind, and wasn't very subtle in her attempts. He did his best to ignore them.

She tapped her hoof on a nondescript slice of data. “Room 17-D, he’s been waiting for you.” He winced, not fully sure what that was supposed to mean. A careful step forward, and then another. He ignored the rooms as he passed them; following close behind the orderly. What lied within each cell would boggle his mind to the point he just might stay locked in each room, a little misshapen slab of himself trapped behind each door. Up stairs, past windows, a left turn, right, left left, right right right.

He had read somewhere that the architects had purposely designed this place to be as confusing as possible, using impossible geometries in the blueprints, and painting the walls so they merged together at corners so one could easily be list. Perhaps the staff purposely led visitors in circles so they couldn't find their way back out without help. Perhaps some of the visitors weren't supposed to.

He slapped, snout-first into the door as the orderly laughed. His thoughts dissolved as anger sparked in his heart. For just a moment before everything went cold and dull again. He hadn't felt something like that in so long, it felt... nice. It was...

...warm.

For just a moment. A fireplace in a cold home left on for guests who would soon snuff it out themselves.

He turned to the orderly and smiled. A real smile. One that convinced the orderly that there was a chance, however slight, that everything would work out at the end. However dim, there was a light.

There were no parting words, they didn't need them. The unspoken rules of this forsaken place had been etched in his mind already. The staff didn't tell you what to do, because they were the last to know. Visitors were responsible to figure it out themselves.

Even still, through research into the seedy underbelly that was the underground market for information, he had learned of a few, "guidelines" that should be followed when talking to him.

1.) Don't use their full name.

2.) Don't ask questions beginning with "Why did you...?" or "How could you...?"

3.) Don't make any sudden moves, and don't shine a bright light. If the windows are closed, leave them. If open, close them.

4.) Don't mention anything involving the fictional works dated from 1004 to 1007.

5.) Always say "please" and "thank you."

6.) DO NOT maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time.

7.) Listen for the ticking of the clock. If it's more or less accurate, turn away and leave the room. Otherwise, continue speaking.

8.)If you break any of the above rules, AND/OR any of the facility guidelines for visitation procedures, turn around, count to ten, apologize, and leave immediately.

9.)Finally, DO NOT BRING ANY FOOD OR DRINK IN THE ROOM. They were especially adamant about this one.

Blank Page took a long deep breath, did his half-hearted prayers in the name of those he betrayed, and opened the door. Upon which, his eyes met with the sight that no amount of rules could have prepared him for.

XXI – The World

Everyone knows exactly how today goes.

A frigid autumnal spell had overtaken Canterlot.

It was the type of chill breeze that failed to welcome in the new season. It didn't lazily drift from corner to corner, caressing leaves as the fluttered to the ground. It didn't kiss the cheek of passersby as they milled about the city to prepare for the winter. No, this... this was the kind of weather that gutted a city, sliced it into neat sections of mania, and then drowned the whole thing.

The kind of weather fit for a funeral.

The inclement conditions had laced the entire block with a sense of melancholy, as the date that no one wanted to remember had again struck the city. With no sense of patience, or caution, the calendar had once more brought forth today. Time waited for no one, as the citizens had now come to morbidly realize. In a single visceral hour, any passion, joy, and wonder had been drained from every square mile, as parties became vigils, laughs became weeping screams, and walks became slow marches.

An entire city, drained of color, as every watch, clock, hourglass, and timepiece in the city was reverently stopped at the given time, set underneath a soft white cloth, and left alone for the day. The clock towers across the districts were

The Day That Shouldn't Exist.

Once again, October 7th was here.

First, across the nation, newspapers, magazines, radio shows, and every form of media imaginable carved at each other to show remorse. Each one did their best to out-shine the others in respect that was supposed to be wordless. Moments of silence became moments of cacophony. Advertisements rang out from every page, every station, and every salesman shrewd enough to eschew whatever common decency they had left.

The country was feeding on itself again.

Then, those who where left sat in their homes, looking at the wall, wondering if this was the year where everything fell apart. Where the darkness underneath their hooves finally reached out and devoured them, bringing an end to the quiet madness no one could drown out.

The country was gorging on itself again.

There were several more towards the center of this issue, now as far apart from each other as could be, that risked an outward glance at the leftovers scattered about. None dared exit. 5 heads reared out windows for just a moment, and all but one quickly shrank back inside. One, however, looked at the sky, at the grey clouds, and screamed.

The country was feasting on itself again.

Finally, every city did their rites. Anything to stave off the fear. Anything to distract, while selfishly convincing oneself they cared enough to stop. To think. To learn. All at once, Pyres where risen, then fell. Song were sung, then forgotten. And, of course, names were spoken, then left unsaid.

The country was starving itself now.

A gathering, a funeral service, a slow march to her final resting place, anything they could do to halt the advance of the guilt that anyone could and probably would feel. Just like the last year, the day was over before anyone really had the chance to find peace. The lasting scar had scabbed over, been scratched and rent apart, then left to improperly heal.

Just like last year, nightfall. Nightfall, and a fresh wave of ignorance over the population, had arrived at last. They could forget, again, what had occurred.

They could ignore the fact that the society they had put everything they loved into, was in the slow act of crumbling around them. Until debris had collapsed on top of them, that is.

This doesn’t matter.

It really doesn’t.

This, as one could probably guess, is not the point of today.

Because, it was a lie. No one knew how today went. There was something that only one single soul knew about today. The defining factor that made it different from today. The cause to this effect.

The reason that Equestria was falling apart.

I - The Magician

The grandfather clock in the corner of the room chimed, right on time, the second hand never missing a beat. A coffee, a glass of wine, and a large bagel sat in the middle of the desk. And, for almost a minute, they hadn't broken eye contact.

Something was wrong. But... not in the right way. There was something... off about the way things were off. A crookedness to the crookedness. Expectations that were simultaneously disregard and exceeded.

Because, as far as Blank Page could tell, the one in front of him was slowly dipping a small section of cake into his coffee, and staring at him with a look that didn't read correctly. Everything about his actions thus far, his countenance, his gestures, even his tie were off, but not enough. This was the kind of thing that everyday ponies who just weren't quite ready for a meeting had done, thousands of times before.

As far as Blank Page could tell, Dr. Split Second was perfectly sane.

And this scared him more than anything else. How on earth could he be-

"Well, are you going to take a seat?"

Blank Page continued to stare. The look they shared was the one two shared when neither could tell who belonged where in this situation. Blank Page briefly wondered who really belonged in here.

"Take a seat." he said, with force.

This actually confirmed Page's suspicions. That was not the kind of force a patient used when they wanted something and didn't know how else to get it but to grow angry. This was the kind of force ponies use when they need something, and know exactly how to get it.

Now his fear had manifested as full-blown terror. His hooves shook, and his eyes darted around the room, watching for cameras, wondering if his entire life up to this point had been a sick joke.

Split Second put a hoof on his forehead, placing the food down on the table, and taking a deep breath. "Blank, I thought you were better than this. Sit. Down."

He did. Wordlessly.

Split Second looked up, and they shared another glance. He turned back to his food. "Let's start with something simple, eh?"

Blank nodded.

Split Second shook his head. "You can't do this. We have to talk, that's... that's how this has to work. If you don't ask me questions, if I don't answer them, and if I can't tell you..." he stopped, coughing and covering his mouth with a napkin, taking another deep breath.

"How on earth am I supposed to do any good?"

Blank nodded again, taking a deep breath. "H-how did you....?" he stopped, feeling it was enough.

Split Second nodded back, speaking slowly, as if he expected notes to be taken. "How did I do... all this?" He gestured around him. "How did I fake insanity and hide away from the rest of the world? Took the last shreds of my dignity and ran them through a paper shredder? How I escaped the accusations?"

"How I pulled of the greatest disappearing act of the century?"

Before Blank could idly nod his head, Second continued. "Allow me to, partially, answer that question, with a question." He stood up, and walked over, slowly, one step at a time, to an empty bookshelf.

"When did I go insane? Before? Or after I wrote that book?"

Blank remained still for a moment, charging some internal battery of thought as he scrambled to wonder what the hell that question even meant.

Second had brought him here. Why the game? Why the silly questions? Why this whole mess instead of just... just answering....

Then it clicked... and he smiled. Fine, Second. Let's play the game. Now that I know the rules.

XIII - Death

Twilight had been buried in a public graveyard, next to her grandmother. She, like anyone with a timeless sense of humility, wanted to be remembered not for being connected to royalty. Not for her actions as the "element of harmony." Not for her career, or even for her deeds; as a normal pony, with faults, memories, wants, needs, emotions, and mistakes.

Just like everypony else…

Even her epitaph was blank.

The crinkle of the leaves underneath the calm steps of the graveyard’s only living resident was the only sound left. Nature was silent, no hums from the groundskeeper, and certainly no lively shouts from the bar three blocks over. It was quiet.

Still, almost…

This one stopped exactly three feet from Twilight’s solid gravestone, and leaned down, leaving a single red rose, and then turned, quickly, out of sight almost as fast as it had come. Uncaring, as suddenly, the sound of an owl’s call echoed from the distance. All was now right again, as the world slept, unaware anything was wrong in the first place.

At last... the night slowly faded into the twilight of the final day the mystery would remain uncovered.

V - The Heirophant

"Having asked that... here... in these circumstances. I think you've answered your own question." Page sheepishly retorted. Split Second raised an eyebrow.

"Because, I think you're the sanest person alive for being in here."

Split Second was surprised. Or, confused, perhaps a mixture of both. "Why do you think I'm here?"

Blank Page was silent, now. Not for lack of an answer, for lack of a way to phrase the answer. As it comes up often enough in his line of work, understanding something doesn't necessarily make it easier to describe. He lowered his hooves from his face, and stared straight ahead, talking slowly, allowing his instincts to catch up.

"You've locked yourself away, right? Clearly, with all this pomp and circumstance, you did this to yourself, right? Your, editing staff..."

He gestured to the door.

"...are playing along, right? This is all just a media stunt, for-"

Split Second deadpanned. "Come now, you think you can just get me to give you the answers by faking ignorance? Try harder. You do know the answer, you just... you just can't quite articulate it."

Blank shook his head. "Fine, clearly something... something important is happening. Something big, but I can't..." Blank remained still.

"You're... afraid."

Split nodded.

"You're afraid of...." he paused. "It can happen to anyone, that's why you're scared. If you really did believe you were safe... you wouldn't be here, right?"

Split nodded again.

"So... what happened?"

"In this great and sprawling universe, one can tell maybe what has happened, or who was involved, or when, but rarely all at once. It’s just, how information tends to stay compartmentalized, weather by nature, or by force. However, these walls, these… unspoken rules as to what pieces of knowledge go where, they can be broken."

"What do you mean?"

Split Second laughed.

"Think long and hard about everything that's happened. Really, truly think about it. Pay attention to the dark corners of the world."

Blank Page didn't waver in his confusion.

"So... all this... there isn't really an answer at all? Is this... is this all a waste of time?"

"Well... perhaps the universe just... has a hiccup sometimes. There's... there's a lot of hubbub about very little. When we finally step back and look at the whole picture, we realize that... life isn't a story book with a moral at the end. There isn't a wrap-up, or a where-are-they-now segment that will just spell out what we want to know. Even all the brute force and work we put in can't make it so."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Second sighed.

"If I gave you a... a... a detective novel, right? And I explained everything without giving you anything to stew on yourself, wouldn't you think that was a poorly written book?"

"Depends on the book."

"No, listen. You're not listening. Everything you've been doing, everything you've been up to, all the work, all the time, the effort, the enemies and friends you made, the bonds you broke and forged, the head-scratching moments, all of it....

...ALL OF IT. Do you understand?!"

"It... it leads to nothing?"

"Even now, in these four cold walls, hear, talking to me. You solved my puzzles, you came here... and... what now? The big, resounding conclusions you made." Second stopped.

"You know I'm afraid, but... none of us, no one, knows what I'm scared of."

Split Second and Blank Page looked at each other for almost an hour, realizing the ending they had just stumbled on.

The sum total of everything that had been worked toward, the strife, the nightmares, the letters, the codes, the books, the graves, and even the all the wonderful answers... all left it...

"Who killed Twilight Sparkle?"

Author's Note

-DATA CORRUPTED-

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