Containment OneView OnlineThe Limbo TheoremContainment OneThe Limbo Theorem -There is a reason foals are born with a fear of the dark. Rule #1: Perform every duty as detailed by your contract. Home Base expects all Operators to observe proper security and containment procedures. Only make surface excursions if absolutely necessary. Rule #2: Be ready for departure from Containment One at the end of your contract assignment. The portal to Home Base will remain stable for a short period at the given time and no more. Shall you fail to vacate during the allotted time, it will not open again until the next rotation. Rule #3: Never let the lights go out. Operator Seven sat before panel upon panel of fluorescent-lit controls, lights on them twinkling like a Hearths Warming tree. The tired stallion’s flank was pressed deep into his overstuffed chair, the control room as silent as a crypt. And as cold as one, too. Blink. Blink. Blink. Around the control room, the backlit switches, knobs, dials, and buttons flashed rhythmically to the low hum that perpetuated the desolate installation of Containment One. Concrete walls reinforced with tempered steel and painted dull green sweat with cold condensation. It was always like this. The air conditioning wreaked havoc with the humidity. Blink. Blink. Blink, the controls sung in symphonic unison. All is well. Operator Seven’s eyes were bloodshot and red. Confined to his windowless abode, only the clock on the control room wall told him that nightfall was approaching. It wasn’t as if he could tell night was approaching anyway. Six months into his rotation and he had grown accustomed to the lack of sunlight. Not to mention the condensation from the A/C that coated the sickly green painted concrete walls, or the hovering sense of claustrophobia, or the strange noises that came and went. Even if there was nopony else there. But all had become minor inconveniences, something he had become accustomed to and all too familiar with. This was not Operator Seven’s first rotation at Containment One, and if Home Base kept depositing the bits into his bank account, it certainly would not be his last. Just one more day. One more day till I can feel the sun again and get some actual rest. I’m sure the girls will be so excited… A thin grin and a soft chuckle escaped him, imagining the two filly’s bouncing around on his bed. Maybe he wouldn’t be getting that rest quite so soon, but he didn’t mind. All the Operator could think about was their faces when he returned. Across Operator’s pale colored face, soft wrinkles cut into his tired brow, the middle-aged stallion’s eyes drooping under the gentle flickering of the industrial lamps overhead. He was drifting off, lulled by the deep hum of the instillation and the cool, frosty air. Blink, Blink, Blink, the consoles sung in agreement, the dim whine of their circuits like the buzzing of bugs in a meadow. The Operator could almost picture himself there, a field of deep whispering grass in a warm spring breeze, the sun hovering overhead. Blink, Blink, -BEEP-! The nerves in Operator Seven’s legs fired like rockets, the stallion tumbling out of the chair in a daze. He hauled himself off the dusty floor, his heart beating a million miles a minute as he reached the console. His hooves shook and he had grab onto the bank of terminals to keep them steady. Beep? A beep? The console is never supposed to beep. A beep meant movement detected. All was not well. Snatching a pair of binoculars from their hook, the Operator hurried to the edge of the control room. A dark portal of meter thick glass peered over the great precipice. The stallion gazed out the hardened window, focusing his binoculars and struggling to see through the gloom that saturated the rock-carved cavern below him. Giant spotlights like blinding sentinels were anchored soundly in the ashen crust ceiling. They pierced the dark and illuminated what rested below: a massive steel hatch. Easily the length of a hoofball field, the domed hatch was peppered with rivets the size of the stallion’s head. Rust peeked through the once stark white paint, flaking off and littering the ground like scraps of paper. Back and forth Operator swung his binoculars, looking for anything out of place. He knew he had heard it, the beep. The remote sensors had indicated there was movement. But what was down there? What would be moving he wondered? Besides performing basic maintenance around the facility, he had a simple job. Monitor the hatch. Log everything. Watch the sensors. And one thing was for certain. The sensors had never detected movement before. This was supposed to be simple, monitoring the hatch. He had never had an incident, nothing to write in the logs. Every day the sensors read the same, “All Is Well.” But not this time. There had been a beep, he was sure he had heard it. A beep meant movement behind the hatch. A beep meant all was not well. Operator pulled the binoculars from his face, whipping around to recheck the console, a nervous sweat glazing his troubled face. But when he stooped over the banks of terminals he was confused to read a different story. Blink. Blink. Blink. All is well. Sheepishly, he let the opticals hang around his neck, the tremendous beating in his chest subsiding. But...I was sure I heard it. But he had to be sure, absolutely sure. So he entered commands at the terminal to retrieve the sensor logs. Down he scrolled the page, further and further, scanning the compiled data. No movement. Locks secured. All is well. With a sigh of relief, he closed the logs and collapsed back into his chair, the panicked thumping in his breast receding steadily. That’s one way to make sure I don’t fall asleep on watch. Must be hearing things. Still, should probably remind Operator Eight to double-check the sensors when she relieves me tomorrow. That definitely wasn’t a job he wanted to do. Operator Eight was still pretty new, but she should be capable of the task. She was a young mare from what he recalled, mid-thirties maybe, with a pastel cutie mark of a waterfall. He did not know exactly how old she was, or really anything else about Operator Eight. Things were kept on a need to know basis in Containment One. That was what Home Base wanted things. No names, don’t mention family, not even hobbies. Just turn over the logs and be ready to jump through the portal home. It didn’t stay open for long and there was no reopening it when it closed. Whatever the mare’s reasons for taking the job, it was obviously worth the price. The shadowy ponies in black-clad suits at Home Base always offered deals nopony could turn down. Deals not always monetary in value. He distinctly remembered the night they had approached him, drowning his evening away with the stench of cheap liquor in the rougher parts of Manehattan. They had slid silently into the cigarette-scarred booth he was lounging in, the vinyl cracked and exposing the dirty lounge stuffing. "We understand from our records you recently amassed a worrisome sum of debt. Is that correct," the two expressionless, yet well-dressed stallions had inquired. "If you’re from the bank, tell them I’ll have this month paid off by the end of next week. Leave me alone," he could remember slurring through the alcohol that deadened his senses. He had only wanted some peace and quiet. "Oh, no. We aren’t from the bank," the larger of the pair had said, adjusting his tinted sunglasses despite his dim surroundings. "My partner and I represent an opportunity for you. A job proposition." "Don’t need another job. Factory work pays pretty well. Listen, I told you, if you’re from the bank I know my payment is late. I’ll have it in soon." Across the beer-stained table, the smaller suit had leaned forward, lowering his voice till it could barely be heard over the music emanating from crackling, worn speakers. "You’ve got two kids, don’t you, sir. Sunflower and Petunia. Isn’t that their names? Things must be pretty tight with divorce. I’m sure that pile of debt the missus left you and the fillies must be putting quite a strain on things." This had caused him to stiffen in his seat, the cold bottle clutched in his hoof sweating against his own perspiring grip. "Who are you ponies," he had demanded. "Leave my kids out of this." "Sure would be a shame," the suit continued, "for two such sweet fillies to see their dad in the poor house. Wonder how cheery they will be when they’re living on the streets with dear old dad after the home is foreclosed." "What do you want?" He had quickly gathered these were ponies that weren’t to be trifled with. "My dear friend, it’s not what we want, it’s what we want to give you. Like we said, a job. A well-paid job," they had promised him, their voices absolutely dripping with shady intent. "Wouldn’t you like that, for Sunflower and Petunia’s sake? Though it would require a bit of time away from home. Maybe their grandmother could look after them while you were away…" Riiiiiiing! Operator Seven was already turning around to head out when the bell on the wall above him rang, signaling the end of the daily work period. Just one more round for the logbook record, he reminded himself, inserting a key hung around his neck into a slot on the wall. It’ll be quick. Click. Bang! Heavy metal bolts released their iron grip allowing the control room door to swing inward on greased hinges. Despite its size and weight, the pitted blast door never uttered so much as a squeak of protest. Collapsing with iridescent sparkles, the additional protective ward outside dissipated, allowing Operator Seven to pass. Whenever Containment One had been constructed, the builders had built it to last. Walls coated in course biting dust closed around Operator Seven. It was either dripping humidity that rained from the concrete overheads or the dust, irritating the living daylights out of his eyes. For all that the installation was worth in its stalwartness, it was never designed with creature comforts in mind. The air conditioning kicked on at random intervals throughout the days and nights, the filtered atmosphere tasting metallic and sour at times. In the galley, it was well stocked with food, even if that said food was a plethora of TV dinners. Every time he defrosted one after chipping it from the overflowing ice built-up of the freezer, it always came out soggy. Food was picked on the basis of long duration. When Home Bases said the portal would not open for the entirety of the six-month rotation, they meant it. Stopping inside what could barely be considered a closet, Operator Seven dressed into a suit coated with a silvery protective layer. He slipped the clothing over his body, poking his muzzle against the clear face piece that pulled over his head. Mentally going through the donning checklists, he zipped himself up and applied a thick strip of tape over the zipper. Air from an internal canister inflated the stiff material around him, puffing him up until he looked like an overgrown silver marshmallow. Rule #1: Perform every duty as detailed by your contract. Grabbing his logbook and a T-handled wrench, he whistled cheerlessly, his monotonous tune echoing through the empty corridors. Down several flights of featureless stairs he descended, the ruffles of his barding crinkling and making simple movements strenuous. But it was something he had grown accustomed to over the years. Pulling out his key, Operator Seven stepped through another gate and into the gloom of the main cavern. Beneath him, his covered hooves rapped and clacked against the enormous hatch that made up the floor of the stretching cavern. Clack. Click. Clack, the steel-shod shoes of his suit rang against the hatch’s surface. He was almost at the summit. And out of breath. Pausing under the dim glare of the spotlights, he turned an eye upward. The window of the control center looked ridiculously tiny from so far below. Let’s just make the inspection and log it, he reminded himself.I hate being near this thing. All he wanted was to be back behind the protective ward of the inner chambers. The Operator pulled out the wrench, inserting it into a port recessed into the rusted surface of the hatch. Paint flaked off as he struggled to twist it before it finally turned with a squeak that echoed too loudly for his comfort. A heavy porthole popped free from the near seamless surface of the hatch, an excessively thick glass window offering a small glimpse beneath the impenetrable barrier. Fishing a flashlight from his side, Operator Seven shone it’s piercing beam into the darkness below, but even it was swallowed by the seemingly bottomless pit. His cursory inspection revealed nothing out the ordinary just as always and he hurriedly resealed the porthole. All is well. "Sign here," the older mare at Home Base had instructed him, hoofing over the packet of papers. "What is this agreeing to again," he had asked. "That’s classified." That had been the excuse for all the answers he had asked. "Right. Just like the last three packets." While he had initialed the multitude boxes, denoted only by strings of numbers and decimals, the mare had drilled him with further questions of her own. She was slightly older, probably somepony’s grandmother, with a coat as grey as ash and teeth yellowed from heavy smoking. "Tell me, do you have any medical history of epilepsy," she had asked. "No. Don’t you have my medical reports? Your doctors poked and prodded me for two days." "This is simply standard questioning, sir. It’s part of the process. Any history of psychosis in the family? Schizophrenia?" "No." "Any phobias?" "No. Where is this going?" "I’m nearly to the end. Paranoia, bipolar disorder, manic depressive?" "No. I have my good days and bad days, just like everypony else." "Nightmares?" "Well, yeah," he had scoffed. "I mean not regularly, but everypony has a bad dream every now and then." "Would you consent to medication while on work rotations? Something that inhibits dreams." "Why would I want to inhibit my dreams? Wait, let me guess." "That’s classified," they had answered in begrudging unison. The grey-maned mare had not found it to be amusing. "Anything particular you can remember off the top of your head about them," she had continued, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with the quick flick of a lighter. "Anything at all." "Remember what?" "Your nightmares. Details that you can recall." "Remember them? Well, dreams are always kind of fuzzy after they pass." She leaned closer over the desk, the unpleasant smoke from her cigarette assaulting his nostrils. "Perhaps you remember a blue mare. Doesn’t have to have been direct. Maybe a certain feeling." A blue mare? The whole round of questioning had struck him as odd, but things were delving into the oddly specific. What job would require such cloak and dagger? "Now that you mention it..." Operator Seven was able to breathe a sigh of relief as he finished his daily rounds. After a less than appetizing dinner of defrosted and microwaved enchiladas, the remnants of soggy tortilla sour in his stomach, he decided it was finally time to turn in for the night. Only one more night till the portal opened and he was home, the Operator reminded himself. Rule #2: Be ready for departure from Containment One at the end of your contract assignment. Slipping the sheets back over his bunk in spartan quarters, the Operator removed his utility belt and hung it on a hook by the door. He glanced in the mirror over the porcelain sink, running a hoof over the deep, sunken bags under his eyes. With a tired sigh he pulled open the mirror cabinet, his reflection whisked away. Inside the medicine cabinet, he reached in and retrieved a small pill bottle, one of a multitude of identical orange ones lining the shelf. A pill a day keeps the dreams away. Or that’s what was stipulated in his contract. He wasn’t going to question why Home Base really wanted to prevent their Operators from dreaming. They paid him well, and the pills didn’t seem to have any ill effects. Besides what they were designed to do. During his entire time spend at Containment One, he had not experienced a single dream. Not to say that he hadn’t missed them. Huh? Operator Seven shook the prescription bottle, but there was no telltale rattle. Empty. But I should have one more day left, he pondered. No matter. He reached back into the cabinet and pulled out another pill bottle. Empty. No, no this can’t be right. It was also completely empty, even though the seal was intact. In shock he dropped it, the plastic bottle clattering on the rough cement. And then the next bottle. And the bottle after that. One by one he snatched them out, the result the same every single time. Empty. Empty. Empty! How are they all empty?! This wasn’t good. No, this was bad, really bad. There was supposed to be more than enough for almost two years worth. Where had they all gone he wondered, checking and double checking, pulling the cap from each bottle and shaking them vigorously. There would be no sleep now. Home Base was very specific. Without the nightly inhibitor, he would dream, and that must be prevented at all costs. One must never dream at Containment One. Ok, no problem, it’s just going to be a long night. No worries, he tried to assure himself, sitting on the edge of his bed. Operator Eight will be here tomorrow. She always brings more supplies. There, he sat for a moment, trying to calm himself surrounded by empty, orange bottles. A deep sweat saturated his coat, the stallion wiping a hoof across his face. He needed coffee, something with sugar or caffeine to fight back the exhaustion. But when he tried to get up to head for the kitchen, his legs responded slowly. It was as if he had suddenly run out of fuel, like he was stalling. Overhead the lights flickered in their sockets, casting ghastly shadows across the bare room’s featureless concrete wall. Shadows that twisted and curled their way around the bedroom. Rule #3: Never let the lights go out. Were he his normal self, he would have immediately have sprung into action, noticing something was horribly wrong. But whatever was dulling his senses was growing stronger, pulling him deeper into his tired state. He was getting sleepy. Must stay awake. Control room… He thought he could hear something in the distance, like a voice. A computer? But the thought quickly escaped him. He realized he was falling, the floor rising to meet him head-on. With a thud, the Operator collapsed, the facility of Containment One plunging into suffocating darkness. Ethereal grains of multi-colored sand whipped across the Operator’s subconscious. Shifting. Materializing. Dark waters flooded from shores unseen, pushing black waves inward to the grey matter of his mind. Alone, I have waited, a voice bubbled across the waves. Waited so long. Faceless, it rumbled. Such physical barriers cannot withhold me. This prison is but an illusion created by those who do not understand of higher planes. Planes, unseen, that I may travel. Particles of light danced above the black waters, gathering in number and vibrating with increased fervor. From them, the outline of a figure. To say it was a pony would only be partially correct. There were those that believed they could stop me, six to be exact, who believed they had won when they tore me away from my vulnerable host. But I have waited so long for the proper time, endured a thousand years here before with the one the sister loved. But the time is soon. The horrible voice echoed, filling every corner of the infinite with its dripping sincerity. In the darkness, we reside, and through the asleep mind, I journey. They thought that by stopping your dreams that my tendrils would not extend beyond this place. But they were wrong. Just because you recall no nightmares does not mean they didn’t occur, the spectral voice chuckled. Black waters of the subconscious swirled ominously, disturbed by the invisible figure outlined by the particles of dancing light. Rolling, they sloshed feverishly, their peaks and troughs growing larger over the void of the dreamscape. There is a reason foals are born with a fear of the dark. Their awakened mind can still sense my presence. The bearded one with the hat and bells knew that when he accidentally released me from my realm. The realm between waking worlds. If only he had known what he had unleashed. And of the alicorn so weak to my grasp. She may be free, but in here so am I. If only they could see through the veil… Now the waters were trembling, massive tsunamis breaking the fragile dream as if fleeing the cloaked figure. Gradually, the particles of light peeled back, revealing the veiled creature in all its splendid horror. Never had the Operator experienced such hellish fear, trapped within the confines of his very mind. He wanted to scream, to flee, anything to hide from the terror. But he couldn’t do anything, for the terror had complete control. In here, this is your prison, the demon cackled. And I am the Warden, the Operator. *Chirp* Power failure. Main systems offline. Switching to secondary systems. *Chirp* Secondary system failure. Switching to auxiliary systems. *Chirp* Warning! Movement detected! Containment Breach! Loudspeakers echoed down red-lit corridors as the entire facility sat in mute darkness, saturated in red emergency lighting. Operator Seven lurched his head off the damp ground beside his bedside. With a massive heave, he vomited, releasing black bile onto the concrete foundation. His mind reeled as the metallic automated voice listed off the numerous warning messages. Sweet Celestia, he cursed, propping himself up. He slipped on a pill bottle, collapsing onto the ice-cold floor, barely missing his own vomit. Years. It felt like years. How long have I been in there? It seemed so long… a few hours? Crawling through the pile of scattered pill bottles, the stallion clenched the corner of the sink, hauling himself onto unsteady hooves. Nightmares. Never ending horrors. He stumbled out the doors of his room, his face shadowed by the hellish glaze of the emergency lighting. The lights. Why are they out? Rule #3: Never let the lights go out. Visions of endless torment, a dimension more sinister than Tartarus itself flashed across his brain, causing him to reel and sway down the corridor. Limbo Containment breach? (The hatch?) Why are the lights out. (Never let the lights go out?) Where are the backups. (Rule #3: never let the lights go out.) Home Base was specific. (That’s classified.) I’m supposed to be going home. (No home left if she got out.) Operator bumped into the control room blast door, the additional magical ward fizzling in protest while from elsewhere, a tremendous noise. Bang! Gasping for breath as if in a vacuum, the Operator produced his access key and opened the control room door. Bang! Alarms crackled and resonated from the numerous panels and circuitry, the fluorescent lights anchored to the ceiling extinguished. Bang! Deep vibrations shattered the stillness. Dust sprinkled from the rafters, coating Operator’s sweat-drenched coat in a film of grime as the quakes continued. Bang! It was coming from the central cavern. Below him, the enormous hatch, illuminated only in dim red, rattled on its monster hinges. Chips of paint and rust shook off the skin of the meters-thick steel that shuddered with each bang. Operator backed away from the observation window, new streams of perspiration cutting channels through the dust on his pale coat. This can’t be happening. (You’re dead now.) I have to get out of here. I want to go home. (They won’t open the portal now.) Sunflower, Petunia. (They can’t save you.) Get away from here you fool. (Surface excursions are only if absolutely necessary.) But this was absolutely necessary he told the little voice gnawing at the back of his skull. Running as fast as his weak hooves would carry him, Operator ran from the control center, not bothering to relock the blast door. Nothing could stop her once she got out. All is not well. I am not well Step One: Place the active thermal layer on first. Step Two: Ensure the cooling and heating fluid is flowing properly. Step Three: Attach the radio unit. Step Four: Step into the suit flank first. Step Five: Attach the helmet. Final Step: Pressurize. Operator drilled the procedure into his head, battling through the nightmares that tore at his mind. Home Base would never let him leave now. They had to have known what was happening with all their remote sensors. He knew the portal would never open. Operator Eight would not relieve him. He was marooned. There was only one other chance. Stepping into the airlock, the door slid closed with a hiss. Torches inside his helmet illuminated his ghostly complexion, his eyes red and terrified. The skin under his fur was pale, almost the same color as the grey rock that was carved from the caverns. Air was sucked out the chamber, Operator lurching as the entire airlock ascended upward. Darkness enveloped the cab as it passed through the grey layers of dirt and regolith. I have to get home. (They won’t give you re-entry telemetry.) The ships should still fly. (Not if the dust got in their electronics and engines.) With a low thump, the cab came to a halt; the doors fell back mutely to reveal sunlight in a strange silence. Sweet, sweet sunlight. I’m safe here. (No you’re not.) Tentatively, like a foal dipping a hoof into a pool, he stepped onto the lunar surface. Everywhere for miles around, the grey, barren landscape gently rose and fell with ridgelines and hills. A sky black as coal, devoid of starlight, hung overhead. Only the Earth, a blue marble, filled the horizon and interrupted the atmosphereless desert. That and the ships. Left behind by the builders decades before him, they sat parked in the moon dust, their once sleek long hulls battered from the years of solar wind and radiation. They were big, much bigger than a shuttle, once used for hauling building materials. The original facility builders had definitely been in a hurry to leave them behind. He prayed one might still work. “-s Home Base,” the radio in his suit crackled with static as the ladder lower from the underbelly of the nearest ship, its silvery undercoat peeking through the sun-bleached paint that had weathered away. Operator latched on as tight as his spacesuit would allow him. It was heavy and constricting and each ladder rung seemed a mile away. “This is Home Base. Operator, do not attempt to evacuate Containment One. We repeat. Do not leave the lunar surface,” a familiar mare’s voice rattled expressionlessly through the radio. A familiar voice raw from years of smoking. The stallion did not answer, reaching hoof over hoof for each ladder rung before hauling himself inside the belly of the ship. Everything inside was in much better condition than the outer hull; everything was protected from the ravages of space. There was no solar damage or even lunar dust to coat the dead controls. With no atmosphere, the cold and radiation could only attack so much. Operator quickly found the breaker to the power supply and closed it, a glimmer of hope growing within him as terminals and panels blinked to life around him. It was if the ship was coming alive around him. As he strapped himself into the flight chair, squeezed into the cramped and cluttered cockpit, his radio squawked again. “Return to Containment One immediately, Operator. You will not be allowed to enter the atmosphere. Do you hear me? You will not be given clearance telemetry.” He switched the radio off. I hear you all right. (They listened to everything.) And I say I don’t care. I quit. (Nopony ever just quits.) “Automatic launch systems engaged,”the flight computer barked. Engines below him ignited, blowing regolith and coarse dust across the surface with the blasts of fire. Vibrations violently shook the cabin, his head knocking about against the inside of his helmet as the spaceship leaped off the ground. “Ascending. Twenty seconds to main engine shutdown.” Blood rushed from Operator Seven’s head as the gravitational forces increased. His vision pulled back like a curtain as darkness crept from the corners of his eyes. I’m coming girls. Dad’s coming home, he kept assuring himself. Woosh! His vision cleared. “Main engine cutoff. Return trajectory calculated. Free return course plotted,” the flight systems informed him. High above the moon’s surface, the ship drifted blissfully as the computers and navigational systems put it on a path to Earth. A simple slingshot maneuver around the backside of the moon would have the desired trajectory. It’s over, the Operator sighed, removing his helmet as the cabin of the ship pressurized. The nightmare is over. With delicate care and heavy eyelids, the stallion rested his head against the back of the flight chair. Outside the small viewport of the cockpit, the ship flew silently through space, pulled in an elliptic orbit by the moon’s weak gravity. The ship was about to pass the far side of the moon’s surface, now enveloped in darkness. Sunlight evaporated from the flight deck, plunging the cockpit into darkness. Thunk, came a rap on the hull. (Nopony ever leaves this place.) The stallion’s eyes shot open, pupils dilated and red with burst capillaries. No. Thunk! Closer this time, above him. Outside. His radio bristled to life, disembodied voices filtering through the static. “Where are you dad?” a filly’s voice asked. “When are you coming home,” asked another. “Why did you leave us?” No. No! The nightmares are over! They were over. (No escape now.) Thunk! “Grandma says you’re not coming back. Sunflower told me she sees something in the dark during the night. She said that it got you, that thing from the moon. The Mare in the Moon.” Thunk! No, he wept, tearing at his mane and flailing in his seat. It isn’t true. It’s over. (It’s just getting started.) Thunk! Chills ran up his spine, the hairs of his coat iceing over with frost. He cracked an eyelid and watched as the terrifying creature before him extended its black tendrils, wrapping him in its icy grip. Back into the void. (The night will last forever.) Two stallions in black suits eased the Operator’s body out his soiled bunk and into a rubber-lined body bag. A sticky pitch-like substance coated the stained sheets, the linens entangled around his corpse. Beside the two ponies in dark sunglasses, a grey-maned mare watched them zip the bag up carefully, a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. She peered at the orange prescription bottles at her hooves, blowing smoke out her nostrils. The mare reached down and dragged her hoof through them, the pills filling each one rattling behind the orange plastic. The floor was also littered with the round white pills. “Operator Eight found him like this,” one of the stallions said to the smoking mare. “This is the third one in the last ten years.” “And the surveillance tapes?” wondered the mare, placing a full medicine bottle on the sink counter. “Everything seemed normal. Confirmed he didn’t take his inhibitor. He just went to bed and turned out the lights. Operator Eight walks in just past noon and turned them on. Girl nearly collapsed.” “And the hatch?” “Sealed. Remote sensors and logs show no activity.” “Good,” the mare nodded, extinguishing her cigarette against the cement wall. “Then activate Operator Nine and return to Home Base. Incinerate Seven.” “Shouldn’t we order an autopsy, Director? Find out what is causing these,” the suit pointed to the body bag. “No need.” She pulled another cigarette from a pack and lit it. “It was the nightmares.” “And what do we tell the Princesses? Do Celestia and Luna need to know about this?” “No,” the mare said with a puff of smoke. “We don’t answer to them. Besides, let Princess Luna try to forget about her phantom.”
Flyby — Part OneView OnlineThe Limbo TheoremFlyby — Part OneIt was the engines. That was what she had felt. Captain Broadline turned over in her bunk, dim moonlight filtering through a crystal porthole. Sleep, having evaded her for the latest of several long nights, would not find her. Broadline rubbed her hooves over her bloodshot eyes, the exhaustion gnawing at her like a wild animal chasing her. "What is it now?" she groaned wearily, her hoof searching above her for the bridge intercom. It was the engines, she knew, their everpresent hum and vibration absent. The ship, her ship, was silent. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one that felt wrong. Broadline found the intercom switch, sitting up in her mess of tangled sheets. A deep night sweat glazed the sheets. "Bridge? What's going on?" she spoke, waiting for an answer. None came. "Bridge?" she asked again, her voice rising ever so dangerously. "Dipper?" Still nothing. Only the sound of the ship's hull creaking around her. "Great," the Captain grumbled, sliding her hooves from her warm bed onto the cold deck. She fumbled in the darkness of her messy cabin, snatching a sweater from atop a pile of shipping manifests to fend off the chill that permeated the air. She stumbled for the door, guided only by the wash of moonlight through the porthole. "This had better be good, Dipper." Captain Broadline stepped into the passageway, the door to her stateroom sliding closed behind her with a loud click. Emergency lights overhead cut through the gloom, no porthole of moonlight to aid them. Their thin beams of yellow cast long shadows through the empty corridor. Not only were the engines offline, but the generators were out as well. That explained the dead intercom. Not good. Broadline picked up her pace, the mare trotting toward the stairwell. Her silvering mane, untidy with her incessant tossing and turning, swam around her in whispy waves like the air currents. She could practically feel those grey strands growing more numerous with each passing minute. "I swear to Celestia, these young sailors are going to make me throw myself overboard one day," she growled. "Leave them for a few hours and we're dead in the air." The aluminum deck plating clattered beneath her hooves as she ascended the stairs two at a time. The heavy bridge door swung open with a heave of her strong hooves. Stretching windows featuring empty nighttime air welcomed the airship Captain, though she had no attention for the view tonight. Broadline was hyperfocused on the much younger mare bent over the ship's navigation console in the darkness of the bridge. The young mare's face was awash in the dim glow of the buttons and dials as she studied them, fidgeting with several. "What did you do to my airship, Dipper?" Broadline hurried over. "What happened?" Her attention was stern, her demeanor as sharp as a knife. "Please, tell me you didn't try anything stupid for star's sake." "I'm sorry, Captain," the mare fubbed, her voice shaking. She was pouring over the console, trying desperately to trace the problem. "I–I don't know what happened. Honest, I didn't do it." The mare was on the verge of a wreck, her eyes moist, and her hooves shaking. Broadline, sighed, her stance softening. "Sweet stars," she swore, running a hoof through her greying mane. "Look," she said, grabbing Dipper's addled focus. "I'm not saying it's your fault. I just need you to be very specific on what happened before the drives went out." Broadline allowed a tender hoof to rest on the young sailor. "We trace the problem, find where it originated." Dipper took a deep breath, quickly rubbing away any moisture on her eyes. "I had just updated our position with the autopilot when I noticed our position was off course. I was reaching for the phone to tell you when the ship went black." Her lip wavered. "I swear, Captain, that's all I know. I followed your standing orders my entire watch: plotting positions, monitoring the radio, watching the navigation console–" "Alright, alright," Broadline breathed. "I believe you. It wasn't something you did, Dipper." She stepped around to the chart table, sliding pencils and plotting gear aside. "We need to get our power online next, then the drives. If not, were at the mercy of the winds. Have you contacted the Chief in engineering?" "The lines are down. They should be running off the emergency batteries, but I'm not getting anything," Dipper called out. "Pop down there and get a hoof on the situation," she ordered, tracing the airship's predestined route on the paper chart. "You're trained for this, Dipper. I'm counting on you to help get us back online," she reiterated. "Understand?" "Yes, Captain," Dipper nodded dutifully. "Good girl." Broadline nodded toward the bridge door. "Let's hop to it." The door to the bridge closed with a whisper, Broadline abandoned to the stillness she was unaccustomed to. Beneath the dim light over her flank, she continued tracing the airship's course. The thin pencil line with marks and plots every few inches led her hoof from Saddle Arabia with its stretching deserts, to the vibrant coast of Mareocco, and into the seemingly boundless area of blue on the chart that was the Celestial Sea. For days they had steamed far above her waters, swimming through the oceans of clouds as they sailed for Canterlot. Their cargo: five hundred eighty tons of highly sought after Arabian crystal tucked safely in the cargo hold, the belly of the Tranquility. Broadline's hoof reached the end of their plotted route a few hundred miles west of Baltimare. They should be well over Equestria by now, her coastline behind them. The Captain left the cart table, pressing herself to the bridge window and peering down into the darkness. Her nose left jets of cool condensation on the frosty glass. If they were over Equestria, where were all the lights, she wondered? The land below them should have been filled with lights of cities and towns from Applousa to Manehattan, but all Broadline could make out was black. Even the moonlight with its fullness could not pierce the cover below there ship. "Where in Tartarus are we," Broadline muttered, reaching for the spotlight controls. "We can't be that far off course." Massive spotlights erupted to life beneath the bridge of the RES Tranquility, the airship lighting up the night sky. Broadline swung the lights, back and forth, scanning the ground below them for any sign of features. The spotlights twirled in ever-increasing circles, their beams sweeping the night. But the more Captain Broadline searched, using up their precious battery power, the more she grew concerned. The spotlights weren't picking up any land. Nor were they picking up and water, no waves of the Celestial Sea. In fact, Broadline couldn't see anything below the great airship. Beneath the beams, she saw nothing but black. A bottomless empty void of nothing. A void that looked back at her and asked Captain Broadline, the mare's eyes transfixed on the desolation below them — Do you hear screaming?
A Train To CanterlotView OnlineThe Limbo TheoremA Train To CanterlotA Train to Canterlot We will all be departing shortly... The light was just ahead, Moss could see it. It beckoned her forward, drawing her from the darkness that surrounded the land. The light steered the mare toward the one who guarded the way. She approached the pony seated beside the gate, her hooves rapping on the rough cobblestone slick with the remnants of a storm that has passed through. The air was still, not a hint of a breeze to disturb the silence. Moss stopped, leaning in close to the gatekeeper, and delivered her request. "One ticket for Canterlot on the seven pm train," Moss wearily told the teller in the ticket booth, forking over three bits. "Business-class, please." The teller's eyes remained glued to the magazine on his desk. "I have one last seat in coach," he informed the business mare, flipping through the magazine slowly. The cloud of moths swarming the bare lightbulb over the ticket booth cast wavering shadows that rippled across the pages. "Fine," sighed Moss, setting down her briefcase to rub the overpowering sleep from her eyes. She would have much preferred business-class: medium-length seating with some aspects of personal comfort. But she had to make it to Canterlot tonight. Coach would have to suffice. Ticket in hoof, Moss cleared passed through the gate and onto the platform. The mare strode down the length of the platform, past the engine, smoke billowing from her stack like a rumbling, sleeping dragon. She trotted along the first passenger car, then the second. Her tall stature and long slender neck allowed her a glimpse inside the railcars: first-class with its spacious amenities, and business — every seat full. All the way to the fifth car she tiredly trode, the very last one bringing up the rear; it was a long walk to accompany a very long day. Clack! The door to the car slid back, revealing rows of seating filled with many other ponies. Moss winced, gingerly stepping over a stallion's dirty hooves sprawled in the aisle, their owner passed out in his seat. The company had better comp me for this, she thought to her herself, nose twitching from the smell of over a dozen ponies piled into the small box. It was not pleasant. "All aboard!" yelled the conductor as Moss found her seat, shoving her briefcase in the luggage rack above her. At least nopony is squished next to me, she noted, a small positive to this less than stellar situation. The last thing she needed was somepony crammed next to her. With an exhausted thump, she collapsed into the thinly-cushioned seat, her hooves aching from the long day of meetings, presentations, and mind-numbing quarterly reports. She massaged her neck, the seat offering little respite as she loosened her collar and pulled down her mane. Bang! The car lurched forward, the train inching its way out the dreary station with a shrill belt from its whistle. Goodbye, you backwater excuse for a town, she yawned, tuning out the mingling of the other passengers, her eyes heavy and head drooping against the hard chairback. Just a few more hours of travel were between her and Canterlot: and a comfy bed. Down the tracks the train chugged, picking up speed. The cars gently swayed side to side rhythmically, lulling Moss into a deep slumber. By the time the platform disappeared over the hill, she was out cold, the rest of the world and its worries and deadlines evaporating from her conscious mind. It was a small sliver of peace, the last she would ever have as she slipped away. Wake up. Moss bolted upright out of her chair, her coat and dress shirt drenched in a cold sweat, her breathing heavy and labored. Her eyes blinked away the sleep rapidly. Who was that? She scanned the train car, eyes shifting, searching for the voice that had woken her. A ghostly voice that dragged her from the profound depth of her slumber like a cannon going off. But she could not find the pony, or anypony for that matter. The train car was empty. "Hello?" Moss called out, looking behind her and all around. But nopony answered, for nopony was there. Did everypony get off, she wondered. Are we in Canterlot already? She squinted to look out the window. But what she saw only confused her more. The train was speeding, no, rocketing, down the tracks, much too fast. The string of railcars sailed across a barren, dusty landscape glowing a fiery orange. Somewhere distant, a tremendous bolt of lightning roared across the sky, illuminating the nothingness that stretched into the darkness for miles for a split before the light evaporated. The deep rumble of thunder that followed a second later resonated in her bones, shaking up her spine and vibrating across her teeth. Moss clenched down hard. This was not anywhere. She could not imagine it was a place that anypony could possibly be. "I must be dreaming," Moss nodded faintly, attempting to reassure herself. But little did that reassurance do to calm her, for such a nightmare was unlike any she had before — and she had hosted her fair share. She could almost taste the fear and dread lingering in the air, like a toxic atmosphere. It hung over her, a misplaced terror that clawed at her brain. Her mind was a panic at the nightmarish intrusion, the mare instinctively curling her hind legs close and closing her eyes. "It's just another nightmare," she reminded herself, no stranger to bad dreams, even if this particular one was unlike any other she had experienced. "Just wake up," she instructed her subconscious. "We're going to wakeup in Canterlot." Another sudden barrage of thunderous lightning rippled across the hellscape, Moss jumping in her seat like a spring-loaded foal's toy. Her head collided with the luggage rack overhead, her vision instantly clouded and fuzzy, her ears ringing until she was sure she would be sick. Lying back in her rickety seat, struggling to remain conscious, Moss tenderly probed the rapidly forming bump on her head with an audible wince. When she recoiled from the pain, her hoof was sticky with blood that slowly trickled rivulets through her mane. The pain she felt was all too real. This was no dream, nor nightmare. This was much worse. "Hello?" she called weakly again, hauling herself onto shaky hooves as she pulled an embroidered hoofkerchief from a pocket to staunch her bleeding head. She searched the passenger car, looking for somepony, anything for that matter. But the train car was absolutely empty: no ponies, no luggage, nothing to indicate anypony had ever been there. Gingerly, Moss stumbled to the door at the front of the train car. She could quickly tell through the window, there was nopony in the next car as well. Reaching out, she grabbed the handle and gave it a tug. The door did not open. "No, no, no," she whispered, pulling harder, to no avail. "This isn't happening. Wake up, Moss." With a bloody hoof, she smacked the door glass, resulting in only pain. A red smear from her bloody hoofkerchief was left across the glass. She looked around, spotting the only other door at the rear of the car. Another way out? This time the handle turned, the door suddenly flung inward on its heavy hinges as a wall of dust and wind came barreling in. Her eyes stung, and she squinted against the torrent, pulling her way outside. This was a mistake, she quickly realized; her car was the tail end of the train after all. On either side of the small platform extending past the hatch, the ground whizzed by at breakneck speed, making her nauseous just looking down. There was no way out here, only the hellish rumbles thunder and fiery lightning that crackled across the sinister landscape, endless in all directions. Moss was left no choice but to seek refuge inside the train car once more. Slam! Moss shut the door hatch with what little strength she had, pushing against the force of the storm and wind. "What is this place?" she asked, her head resting against the door, eyes wild, trying to piece together what she knew, which was very little at the moment. "You're late," a voice spoke behind her, causing Moss to leap out her skin a second time. She spun around to see a pony, an older mare in business attire with a mane streaked with gray, sitting calmly on a bench. "Who-wha-," Moss stammered, shocked by the mare's unannounced appearance. "Who are you? Where is everypony?" "I've come with a proposition, Miss Moss," the older mare spoke, ignoring the questions. The mare produced a cigarette from her trim suit, lighting up and blowing a cloud of smoke. "If you're interested, I have left the details in your briefcase. If you accept, the Agency and I will be in touch," she revealed, her thin lips stretched across her cigarette-stained teeth. "I wouldn't take too long to decide." "B-Briefcase?" Moss stuttered, confused, but turned to spot her briefcase still tucked in the overhead luggage rack where she had initially left it. "How do you know my nam—" she began, turning back to the older mare, only to discover she had vanished. The smoking mare was gone, the whisps of tobacco smoke having disappeared as well. Am I hallucinating Moss asked herself, looking around the cab once more to come to the same conclusion: she was alone. The only thing of any connection was her briefcase, Moss reaching for the black attache while cautiously watching her back for any more unexpected apparitions. "What do you mean proposition?" Moss whispered, frantically entering her code in the lock, the words of the smoking mare rebounding in her head. "Come on, come on," she hissed, fiddling with the last tumbler, her hooves shaking. With a pop the latch released. Empty. Her briefcase previously bursting with proposals and financial reports and a change of clothes was empty. Empty except for a small stuffed dragon, a foal's toy. Gingerly, Moss picked up, the plush dragon's red felt worn in several places and missing a glass eye. "I-I thought I left you buried in the dresser long ago. I haven't seen you in years," she breathed, hooves trembling as she examined the animal. She remembered every stitch. But as if it on fire, she hurridly tossed the stuffed dragon back in her case. She slammed the locks closed — she didn't want to remember. "But you shouldn't be here," she gulped, shivering despite the tepid heat of the railcar. "And I shouldn't be here." Click! The door to the next car effortlessly slid open, Moss pulled away from the briefcase. "But—how?" she asked, taking cautious steps toward the exit, leaving her briefcase behind. She did not want to be reminded of the stuffed dragon. Too many bad memories, so many sleepless nights. So many nightmares. Taking the first few tentative steps out the fifth car, Moss dared not to look down at the ground flying below her. Instead, she focused on the fourth car, just a step away. And through the door, she recognized the familiar mare leaning against windows, cigarette in her mouth, empty eyes staring across the equally meaningless outside. If the grey-maned mare could hear the door to the car close, and Moss step in, she did not react. She just watched the hellscape pass by outside and smoked. Eyes fixated upon the mare, boring into her, Moss reached a steady hoof out. She eased toward the smoking mare, not knowing if she was a phantom or specter. Was the pony dead, was she dead? "Who, are, you?" Moss asked forcefully, moving slowly toward the older mare as if approaching a wild beast. "I trust you have accepted our preposition, Miss Moss," the smoking mare exhaled in a cloud of smoke. "You wouldn't be here if you were not at least interested in what we were offering." Moss's face radiated red, veins bulging and teeth gritting as the mysterious mare continued to ignore her questions. "Tell me who you are. What proposition? I never agreed to any of this!" she yelled, nearly within reach of the smoking mare. Moss was through wondering; she wanted answers. The smoking mare continued. "I won't lie. What we are doing here is—" she paused, cigarette drooping from her lips as the mare searched for the proper word "— delicate. But I can assure you, what you are doing here, right now, is more important than you can begin to imagine, Miss Moss. We are so glad you decided to agree," the mare wheezed through her crooked smile, eyes hungry with unbenounced anticipation. "I never agreed to this! What is this?" Moss's vision was boiling with rage, receiving cryptic after meaningless responses from the smoking mare. "Let me off," she demanded, her forehooves stamping violently on the deck. "I want off this train!" She couldn't take it anymore. Moss was airborne, lunging at the mare with an explosive kick from her hind legs. She couldn't control herself; anxiety and confusion boiled over into profound rage. She wanted the smoking mares neck wringing in her hooves until she told her what was happening. Crash! Moss's head exploded with pain for a second time, and her vision evaporated with a flash like lightning. The thunder in her head was unbearable, a cacophony of drumming that was her own heartbeat in her heaving chest. Blindly, she groped through the pain. "Show yourself!" she cried, shaking her head and standing back up, fighting through the pain. "I don't know what kind of deal you want, but I won't have it. I want off!" But the smoking mare was gone, disappearing as with before. Yet, something remained: a stench of cigarette. Moss followed it, turning her head toward the front of the train. The next car. "You're not getting away that easy," Moss growled, stumbling forward. The smoking mare couldn't have gotten far. Moss was a charging bull, tearing through the car, the exit just ahead. Flinging the hatch open she lept the gap, mane whipping in the wind, eyes raging firestorms to match the burning land. Blinded by her anger, she burst into the third train car. "I swear to Celestia when I catch you I'll—" Moss was stopped in her tracks, the words caught in her throat, choking her breath. Among the benches, a bathtub by its lonesome overflowed, water spilling out of the deep basin and coating the floor plates with a thin puddle. Moss quickly retreated at the sight of the tub till her flank pressed against the door. She knew now; she finally understood. This was torture, her own personal hell. "No," she breathed, all semblance of anger replaced with horror. "Please, stars above, no," she pleaded, attempting to return from how she came. No luck — the door was jammed, locking her in. She would have to continue forward. But that would mean passing the tub. Step by step, she drew closer, the cold water like ice under her hooves. "Please," she quivered, mouth trembling as she begged to whatever demons or phantoms might be lurking. The smoking mare? "I can't," she called out, shielding her eyes. "I can't see it again. Don't make me look." Whatever forces were keeping her here, she could only assume it was to punish her. "There was nothing I could do," Moss begged, her voice broken and on the verge of tears. "I tried to help." Heart pounding, lungs burning with a quick, shallow breath, she peered over the rim of the tub. A small stuffed dragon floated circles around the overflowing bathtub. Why did the mysterious mare want to show her this? Was it a game to her, to see her relive these past pains? Step by small foal-sized step, she skirted around the tub, hooves lapping at the water beneath them. The stuffed dragon slowly followed her around, lazily continuing its path around the water. It wouldn't stop. Moss finally came unglued from the scene. She stood at the door to the second car, unable to turn and face the tub again, the stuffed dragon circling endlessly. "Please," she begged, clutching her hooves together on the latch. She knew exactly what would come next. "Don't make me face him." With a gentle click, the door opened on the first try. Moss was through, but it wasn't over. She had two more cars. Business-class. The second car from the engine was outfitted with spacious seats lined with opulent fabric that shined like glass and was as soft as down, much classier that coach. But Moss found no comfort here. She curled tighter into her chair, hindlegs clutched tight against her stomach — her eyes never leaving the next door. If this door was locked as the others, she did not know. She had not tried it yet. Moss had merely stared at it since she came in and sat. Her head rested in her hooves, leaning over the armchair, the tears rolling off her face and collecting in a small puddle on the vibrant carpet, soaking the threads in brine. The silvery drops gently vibrated down her cheeks as the phantom train continued streaking across the barren world, never slowing. With a sniffle, Moss reclined back, reddened eyes looking up at the overhead as she tried to muster up the courage to open that next door, a door she had never wanted to open. "Think about what I am offering you," the grey-maned mare spoke in the seat beside her, puffing on her tobacco. Moss wasn't sure when she had appeared, but the mare had been sitting beside her for some time. "Imagine. No more dreams, no more pain. Simple, right?" she asked, blowing a ring of smoke upward. "And I will disclose, you would be doing Equestria a profound service. We need all the data we can get. We need to perfect this." Moss shook her head, her eyes raw and stained from the tears. "I don't know," she sobbed, unable to take her eyes off the ceiling and address the mysterious mare. "To never see his face again? After seeing it every night, plaguing every nightmare. I'm not sure if I can give him up," she admitted. "It was my fault. Who's to say I can just erase it all away?" "I understand it may be a difficult decision, Miss Moss," the smoking mare assured her, standing up from her seat. "But you have no idea what is coming — for all of us." Bending down, the grey mare placed a pill, white, round and as small as a pea on the hoofrest beside Moss. "This is it. It will suppress the dreams, all of them: good and bad alike. Take it or leave it. But this is your only chance." The smoking mare puffed one last time and walked away, her voice trailing off. "Besides, it won't matter when it escapes and we are all living in its nightmare." When Moss finally lifted herself in her chair and turned, the phantom mare was gone, leaving her alone once more. Resting the pill in her hoof, she turned it over, fondling it and passing it back and forth. "Can I do this?" she asked, searching inside herself for the answer to her own question. "Can I leave him behind?" She could feel it in her, the uncertainty. But also the anger, the depression, all the times she put on a fake smile and was able to pull herself out of bed in the morning. And every time she closed her eyes at night, she could see him, beneath the water in the bath. It was so long ago, yet it still haunted her every time. No matter how much she fought, how much she pleaded or cursed or cried, she could never block it out. She was supposed to have looked after him. And now she wasn't sure how to let go. But Moss knew there was only one way out. It was always there, all this time. She had to go through the next car — the final car. Moss let the pill drop to the floor, the white capsule rolling beneath the chair as she stood up. No more hiding; it was time to face him. Gripping the handle, she gave it a twist and opened the door. He was sitting in a first-class seat, his back turned to her, eyes watching the passing hellscape fly by the full windows. Moss slowly approached the stallion. He was older, much bigger than the colt that she remembered. "Ocean Gaze?" she timidly asked the aqua-colored pony. He turned, gazing up at the tear-stained mare, his turquoise eyes lighting up at the sight of the Moss's distraught face. "Mossy," he beamed, patting the seat beside him. "I was wondering when you would come to see me. Please," he made room, "sit down." She surrendered, never tearing her sight from those strong green-blue eyes. "Look how much you have grown," he smiled, looking past her soiled attire and blood-smeared head. "Mom and Dad would be so proud of you, to see how far you've come." Moss took no notice of his praise, however, wrapping her hooves around the stallion as a fresh stream of tears burst forth. "It's really you." "Woah," the stallion exclaimed. "There, there. Don't get yourself all worked up now. Of course it's me." "I sorry," she wept, clutching him even tighter. "Please forgive me, Ocean, I'm so sorry." The stallion only grinned, stroking the crying mare's tangled mane. "Don't say that, Sis. What do you have to be sorry for? It wasn't your fault." "Yes, it was. I was the one in charge while Mom and Dad were gone. I was supposed to look after you, to watch out for you, and I didn't." "Look at me," he told her, lifting up her tear-streaked muzzle. "You need to accept that there are things in life out of your control. What happened, happened. There is no changing that," he told her, his voice soft, and smooth, and assuring. "It's time to move on." Moss sniffed, nuzzling his chest. To listen to his breaths again and feel the rise of his chest calmed her, drying her wet eyes. She could hear his heart beating, slow and firm, lulling her with its steady rhythm. "They said you slipped and hit your head getting out the tub." "Shh," he shushed her, hugging her close. "It's all over now. You don't have to worry anymore. Come with me," he told her, standing from his chair and taking her by the hoof. "I want to show you something." She followed beside, Ocean Gaze supporting her by letting her lean against his shoulder. "Just take me home, Ocean. I want off this train. I want to go home," she begged tiredly. "We will. Just a little longer." Together, they stopped at the forward door of the car, the last before the train engine. Ocean Gaze opened it, standing aside and holding it open for Moss. She could see it now, the light beyond. It beaconed toward Moss, the doorway filled with the sweet light, pulling her forward. It was calling her home. Hesitantly she stopped before it, turning to her brother. "You won't leave me, will you?" "Don't worry. I'll be right behind you," Ocean Gaze winked. "But it's up to you to take the first step." For the first time since she boarded the train bound for Canterlot, Moss smiled, released from the fear and doubt she had carried since the night they were separated, vanquished from the sleepless nights and terrorizing dreams: gone from the guilt. With newfound hope, Moss took a big breath and stepped through the door — into the light, and off the train. They had arrived at their final stop. "She's seizing!" the nurse yelled, throwing on the lights to the darkened room. "Get the stimulants! Wake her up!" More medical professionals in lab coats and scrubs barged into the sleep chamber, attempting to hold Moss down. She flailed in the bed, ripping the electrodes delicately glued all over her head. Medical ponies held Moss against the tangled sheets, a nurse galloping in with a syringe. "What happened?" one of the doctors shouted, pressing Moss against the sweat-soaked bedsheets. Foam frothed at her mouth, head twitching, eyes glazed, staring, gazing blankly through the glare of the fluorescents overhead. Her muscles clenched involuntarily, the tremors tearing through her body, almost shaking the needle out of the nurse's hoof. "I don't know!" the nurse shouted, needle clenched in her hooves. She was asleep and dreaming one minute, seizing the next!" "Her EKG is all over the place," another doctor told them over the commotion. "Get the neutralizing agent in her before her brain turns to mush!" "I can't find a vein," the nurse seethed through gritted teeth. "Hold her still! I said hold her!" Lifting the cell phone to her ear, the mare took a long drag of her cigarette as she waited for a connection. A moment later, the line click, a voice speaking on the other end. "Yes?" "There has been a setback," the grey mare said, pursing her thin lips over her nicotine-stained teeth. "We uncovered another setback with the drug prototype." "Is it related to the incident at Containment One?" the voice on the other end asked coldly. "We can't lose another Operator. We must maintain containment at the facility." "No, it wasn't related. This looks to be a side effect of post-traumatic experience. The dream inhibitor didn't suppress the underlying neurological functions, but amplified them," the smoking mare explained. "Most likely, a result of how the brain handles grief. It's hardwired into the subconscious as a coping mechanism. Or so the experts tell me?" she said nonchalantly, flicking the ash from her cigarette. "So, what does this mean for us?" Taking another drag, the mare shifted through the personal objects on the table in front of her: a briefcase, several changes of business attire, a mobile phone, a purse with several dozen bits and a ragged stuffed dragon. "A minor inconvenience. The dream inhibitor prototype the Operators at Containment One consume would have already exacerbated any underlying traumatic memories." "And when will the inhibitor be ready for widescale production?" the voice asked. "The eggheads think it will still be a few more months before they have the formula perfected," the smoking mare remarked. "But we would only need to distribute them in a worst-case scenario. Containment One will stay sealed. We've always made sure of that." "Let's hope for the sake of everypony you are correct," the voice hissed. "And that the incident with Operator Seven was merely a fluke." "We've maintained contaiment for over a decade. We will see to it for the next decade and the one after that," the mare spoke firmly. "We have to." "And the latest subject?" the voice wondered, referring to the body in the freezer. "Ponies might wonder how a prominent business pony goes missing." "Don't worry," the mare assured the voice over the phone." She signed an agreement consenting to the experimental drug test. If anypony were to every catch wind —which they won't — we're in the clear legally speaking." She rubbed her head. "Morally speaking is another matter." "Not good enough. We need absolute deniability." "So what should I do?" She pulled a final drag from her cigarette, grabbing the stuffed dragon from the table and examining in closer. 'Ocean Breeze' was hoof stitched with yellow thread on the sole of the red dragon's foot. "Burn the evidence. All of it."
