My alarm rang at half past seven. I got up. My head was throbbing and my neck ached. Seems I’d slept in an awkward position and bent it out of shape. I stretched, grimacing as my muscles twisted and turned out of their knots. I plunged myself into the shower, only then remembering my scheduled meeting with Dish Panner. I planted my back to the wall, trying to figure out what I should be preparing for. A friendly chat? No. A heart to heart? Maybe. Getting revenge for Elsie and trying to kill me off while she has a chance? Unlikely, but possible. Whatever it was, I felt a deep sense of dread. But I felt an even worse fate might await me if I were to ignore her entirely. I dried myself off, waited for the clock to near eight, and set off.

Upon reaching the third floor I came across a series of rough gashes in the wood paneling. Chunks of mahogany were scattered like bark chips. A few tools – crowbars, hammers, and such – lay abandoned. The escape efforts appeared to have been in vain, as only one of the many holes led to anything resembling a tunnel, which appeared to be even more narrow than the one we discovered yesterday. Even Button might struggle to pass through.

A fleeting memory flashed by from the night before. Mesmer and Reph had jutted their heads through the door of the dining room. I don’t remember if any words were spoken, but the two left almost immediately. If I were to guess – which was all I could offer – I expect neither of them were all too pleased with our apparent laziness and uncaring attitude in such dire times. But if that were the case, I would’ve expected an abrasive grilling from Mesmer. Even if he’d vowed to give me some space, and was accepting of my own idleness, I couldn’t imagine that the sight of five of us wasting the evening away while he toiled and struggled to save us was anything other than infuriating. So why then, didn’t he explode with anger? I was sure I would have remembered something like that.

I shrugged, making a mental note to speak with Mesmer on the matter when I had the chance. I rounded the hallway to the locker room entrance, staring down the beastly machine gun before heading inside. Once past the swinging doors I checked my surroundings cautiously. Nothing but the sound of rippling water and my own hoof-steps against the ceramic tiles. My mind flitted back to Pinkie’s lifeless corpse and I shook the thought away, much as I’d done setting hoof in the second-floor hallway leading to the rec room. The fact that all evidence of murder had vanished into thin air was somehow more unsettling than the sight of blood and flesh.

I walked onwards, keeping an eye on the corner room, anticipating a monstrous figure to burst forth from the darkness and swallow me whole as I died screaming.

“Greyscale?”

I leapt at the voice. My ‘attacker’ had been hiding in plain sight all along. Dish Panner peered at me from the female locker room, looking me up and down with a meticulous, fear-stricken expression. Then she met my gaze and forced a pained smile. “I thought maybe you’d have picked something up from the hallway to use as a weapon.”

“Why would I do that?” I asked, taking an instinctive step back, reminded of the threat of entering her space. If I was pulled into the locker room against my will and shot to pieces, would that count as murder, I wondered? “I have no reason to attack you.”

“Self-defense can be a reason,” Dish Panner continued. She pushed open the saloon-style doors and approached with delicate, deliberate steps, planting each hoof completely flat on the ground. Her breathing was sharp and shallow. It was as if she were stepping carefully over a field of broken glass, terrified that she might trip and fall.

“Are you hurt?” I asked, wondering for a moment if she’d taken a tumble after the previous night’s drink-fest.

“I’m fine,” she said flatly. “Now, I have something I want to show you. This is going to be incredibly embarrassing for me, and you have to promise me now that you won’t tell another soul.”

“I promise,” I replied.

“I was already forced to reveal this once before,” Dish Panner said with a frown, “and I’m still not happy about it. But I want you to be the only other. Please, let us head to the storeroom.”

I obliged, and still Dish Panner walked on with a troubling gait, as if an anvil rested on her back. I opened the door to the storeroom and hit the light switch. And again. Nothing. Same as last time. “It’s really dark in here,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Yes,” Dish Panner said. “I don’t want anyone else to see this.”

I stopped in my tracks, a chill winding its way across my chest. “Um, are you sure about this?”

“I’m begging you to trust me on this one,” Dish Panner replied. Her lips were quivering and her eyes watering. “I really want to show you.”

I was on the brink of running for my life, but still moved along like a puppet, opening the door and walking into the void. I took to the opposite wall, keeping a close eye on my companion, who crept inside and began to slide the door shut.

“Wait!” I cried out.

“Shh!” Dish Panner chided. “I’m not going to close it off completely. Can you still see me?”

With the door just barely ajar, a shaft of light trickled in. Dish Panner moved further into the room, at the edge of becoming pitch-black, casting her in a pale moonlight. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but I could make out her form.

“Alright,” Dish Panner said. “Now, I know I’ve asked you to make a lot of promises to me, but I want you to make just one more. When I show you, don’t scream or anything like that. I really mean it. It’ll hurt my feelings if you do.”

I made the final promise, my heart still pounding in my ears.

“Thank you. I truly mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

With near surgical precision, Dish Panner began to remove her gown. Each movement was slow and methodical. It wasn’t a seductive striptease, nor was it a swift, efficient removal of clothing, but a tense display of painstaking gestures, held to perfection. I was somewhat mesmerized, pulled in so much by sheer curiosity that at first, I didn’t even notice the knife she’d been hiding. I was too busy watching the velvety fabric drift across her torso like waves in the ocean.

I saw its subtle glint and my stomach sank like a rock. It was a trap. I had fallen for it. I was about to be gutted like a salmon in the maw of a grizzly bear. I awaited Dish Panner’s sudden lunge forward, visualizing her silhouette streaking across the storeroom with unfathomable speed. I was about to flee, every bone in my body coiled like a spring. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to die!

Dish Panner looked at me intently, barely moving a muscle. She turned her attention towards the knife, dipping her head and gazing across its blade. My mind blinked back into reality and I remembered her words. Don’t make a noise. That’s what she’d said. She wasn’t making any attempt to conceal the knife. Despite the dim lighting, there appeared to be a concerted effort to making sure I knew what she was carrying. She raised her eyes and shook her head slowly and cautiously, bringing a hoof to her lips to signal silence. I couldn’t help but panic. I had no clue what was going on.

“Greyscale,” Dish Panner whispered. “Look at me.”

I did. Peering through the darkness, I saw the trembling visage of a tearful mare, not breaking her gaze for a second. It was an image of pure desperation, of someone begging to an almighty power beyond all existence and knowledge, a plea for divine intervention. I became so absorbed by the emotional turmoil that I began to well up myself. I saw a broken pony at the end of her rope.

Dish Panner pushed the blunt edge of the blade into her mouth, keeping her eyes trained on mine. She gestured to the knife and once again shook her head ever so slightly. She bent down, the rest of her gown slipping from her flank like a theatre curtain. When she rose back up, the knife was gone. Only it wasn’t. It had been buried within the sea of swimming floats. She looked towards that spot and once again motioned for silence. I was dumbfounded.

“You’re one of only few to see my true self,” Dish Panner said shakily. “I’ve struggled to form relationships. Most stallions simply can’t deal with it. Intimacy is… difficult.”

Nothing made sense. I heard her words but couldn’t rationalize them. There was a knife right there. A knife!

“I’m showing this to you because I trust you.” Dish Panner began walking towards me. I tensed up, solid as a rock. Then our faces were mere inches from one another. As I gazed into her sad, sunken eyes, my fear began to dissipate. I felt it, instinctively in my heart, that she posed no threat whatsoever. If anything, I was a greater threat to her. The knife – as I was beginning figure out – served a different purpose. Dish Panner turned to one side, cradled in dim light. I’d been keeping eye contact the entire time, but she gestured for me to inspect her naked body. What I saw almost made me gasp.

Scars. Though some were covered by her sandy coat, unmistakable lines and gashes were plastered across her back. Tiny nicks dotted the area below her shoulders. Long slits lay beside her stomach and ribs. Most horrific of all were two patches of mangled flesh below her shoulder blades, pits surrounded by bloated, messy scar tissue that even her fur was incapable of thriving on.

“You can touch them,” Dish Panner said in a hushed voice. “I don’t want you to doubt, even for a second, that my scars are real. Please.”

I hesitated, hovering my foreleg over her body. Despite being insisted upon, it still felt obscenely rude to stroke a mare’s back. I lowered my hoof, planting it on the nest of scars. Dish Panner winced a little, but held firm. I at once felt a bubbling sorrow as I traced a weaving path down her spine, feeling bumps and dips, gazing over this monochrome patchwork of hair and skin. It was too dark to make out the long-since-healed wounds in all their discolored, horrific glory, but it was enough to grasp just how much Dish Panner’s form had been mutilated. This was what she had to live with. This was why she insisted on wearing that gown. I couldn’t relate. A tear trickled down my cheek.

“You’re probably wondering how it happened,” Dish Panner said, planting her flank on the floor and hanging her head morosely. “It was many years ago. I was only nineteen at the time. I’d graduated culinary school three years prior. An early start at just sixteen, I know, but I was ravenous to get into the industry and had pulled every string possible to make it happen, thanks in great part to my parents’ influence. They were extremely supportive and didn’t hold me back even for a second.

“Anyway, I took various jobs in the food industry after that. It wasn’t long before I was a fairly well-regarded chef. Not famous on a national level, but at least in certain circles. It wasn’t easy being a young filly in such positions, and there were some who tried taking advantage of me. I think those early experiences took their toll, and I became more volatile, always assuming the worst in others. My love for cooking was tainted by the actions of perverted stallions. I’m afraid to admit I held a grudge against the male sex in its entirety for a portion of my life.

“While I adored cooking – and I still do – my true passion was in discovering the best there was to offer. I became infuriated by clueless owners and delusional chefs, and sought out the most renowned restaurants in the world, using my rather unique status as a selling point to make those dreams happen. I dined on the finest cuisine this side of the hemisphere, sharing my experiences in interviews and articles in various publications, delving deep into each menu, offering my own knowledge and gaining that of others in return. It was a revelation. I had found the path to joy.

“In time, I looked to expand my horizons. After some of my published reviews began to circulate, several of my choice restaurants saw an influx of diners, many of whom saw my works as a blessing. As such, chefs, establishment owners and the like saw me as an opportunity for success. I would make a living doing what I loved, they would be granted the gift of more customers, and those customers would share in the wonderful experiences I so passionately described. Everyone was a winner. At least, that was the idea.

“Many think I deliberately set out to discredit chefs from the get-go, holding them to impossible standards out of sheer malice and relishing their demise. But that’s not how things went at all. With so many offers thrown my way at once, I saw it as an opportunity to step outside my comfort zone. I went into it all with an open mind, hoping for the best. What I got were doddery old fools and naïve simpletons who thought their third-rate grass clippings were worthy of praise. I was faced with a choice; should I lie and pass out good reviews to any place capable of steaming a cabbage, or should I be honest, offering constructive criticism on how best to improve their work? I took the latter approach, of course. As you can expect, some didn’t take too lightly to what I had to say.

“I can remember all the excuses they came up with. I was lying just to stir controversy. I was being paid off by someone else to discredit them. I didn’t know anything about food. I could never be satisfied. There are foals starving in the world. I was just a money-grubbing whore. Oh yes, I heard it all, and I had to take it on the chin, even if my criticisms were barely moderate. They begged me not to write my reviews, threatened me over them. I was growing weary of it all. I would always assume the worst and judge others accordingly. I had burrowed myself into a cycle, and still I was called upon by even more chefs determined to prove that they had what it took to impress me. Some did. Many didn’t. Yet the calls kept on coming.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this. I’m here to tell you about my scars, aren’t I? Well, you see…” Dish Panner took a deep breath, shifting closer to me. “There was one restaurant that made good on their threats. I was attacked.”

I gulped instinctively, feeling the chill from Dish Panner’s words resonate within me. “They did that to you… over a bad food review?”

She nodded, beginning to tremble. “Corazon del Sol.”

My breath caught in my throat. Warm blood shot to my face. “Th-that’s…”

“I’ll never forget the name,” Dish Panner continued. “It was a family-run business owned by a stallion named Pegaso Dueno, a burly Caballian. His two sons were the head chef and sous chef while his two daughters worked as waitresses, with a few other staff filling in the gaps. His wife had passed away not long before I’d gone to visit, though I didn’t realize at the time. Not that it would’ve made a difference, if I’m honest. They were struggling financially and had pinned their hopes on me to help them. I didn’t hold back. I was honest. I tore their lackluster pumpkin fritters and their watery, tasteless gazpacho to smithereens. They were beyond furious. It was just another day.

“I left the premises that evening. It was dark. It was raining. I found shelter under a nearby marquee and waited it out, flipping through magazines while I waited for the rain to die down. I remember that faint pitter-patter, absolute tranquility, the calm before the storm. I didn’t even hear them sneaking up on me. Before I could react, I was pulled aside and kicked in the throat. I could hardly breathe, let alone call for help. That was when I saw them – the owner and one of his sons – and was dragged into an alleyway. I could hardly believe what was happening.

“I pleaded forgiveness from them. I was sobbing, cradling my head in my hooves and begging for them to let me go. But just as I had refused those same requests from them, they too refused mine. Dueno tied a rag around my head, binding my mouth. I tried to break free by force, but Dueno struck me in the ribs. I fell to the ground in agony, but the worst was yet to come. I saw the son with these knives, and…”

Dish Panner clenched her teeth and began breathing erratically. When her voice came to, it was tainted with unmistakable anguish. “You know the worst thing? They didn’t even speak a word. They didn’t taunt me or insult me. They didn’t even congratulate each other as they did it. Th-they just… hacked away at me in silence. My screams were muffled, and my head was held under Dueno’s hoof, almost crushed by it. I couldn’t move, and they kept flaying, and stabbing, and peeling away my flesh, all in complete fucking silence!”

My body moved on its own and I wrapped my hooves around the mare’s quivering frame, feeling her bony chest rise and fall against my own. I was crying with her, enveloped by her horrific tale.

“It was hell,” Dish Panner whispered. “That’s the only way I can describe it – hell. The pain was simply unbearable. I was so certain I was going to die, but they were clever about it, you see. They didn’t stab my vital organs or sever any main arteries. That would’ve been too quick. They just chopped me up and left me to die. I lay there in the freezing rain, on the edge of consciousness, just waiting for death as blood pooled around me. It was by some sheer stroke of luck that a passerby found me, and I was rushed to the hospital.

“I never did tell anyone the truth. I’d seen what evil could do, and I was too afraid to contest with it ever again. I told everyone I was attacked by a mugger.” She chuckled meekly. “Some of my dissenters said it was self-inflicted, and I’d made the whole thing up as a publicity stunt. Can you believe that?”

“That’s horrible,” I replied, tightening my grip. “How did you cope?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I couldn’t even accept it as real, and I could wake up from the nightmare at any moment. I spent a week in hospital, doped up on drugs while the surgeons did what they could with skin grafts. I had this ridiculous notion that an all-powerful wizard would wrap me in light and heal all my wounds. I suppose such things are just a myth.”

“What happened next?” I asked, withdrawing my embrace. “Even after that, you still went back to being a food critic?”

“I didn’t really have any excuse. As far as anyone else knew, I had just been unlucky. My parents didn’t even try to dissuade me from it either. No matter where I travelled, there was always a danger, so I was just as safe touring the neighbourhood as I was sailing to the four corners. In a way, I wish they’d been more overprotective and selfish.

“A few months was all it took before I was back in the wild. I never did have another experience like that ever again. As for Corazon del Sol, I learned they’d gone bankrupt less than a year after my attack. I think one of the sons got arrested for stealing, but I didn’t read into it any further than that. I don’t know if that’s justice or… whatever it might be.

“I got on with my life, but from then on I wore long-sleeved gowns and dresses wherever I went. I took every precaution to make sure no-one could see what I really looked like. Even today, I see myself in the mirror and feel disgusted. When it came to meeting stallions, I was beyond terrified. I broke off many relationships out of fear. Only two ever saw me naked, and each time I felt a great weight being slung over our shoulders. Each love-making session was tainted by my uncontrollable anxiety, and from them I could feel – what’s the word? – trepidation? As if by arguing with me or being even slightly dispassionate, I would assume it was because they couldn’t stand my body. It wasn’t the case at all; I knew I could be stubborn and abrasive and miserable sometimes. I never once accused either of them of being shallow. But I was also a pretty bad communicator, and intimacy was always a struggle. It’s no surprise I left those hopes behind and focused myself on my career.”

Dish Panner let out an exasperated sigh. “It truly was a saving grace that whoever put me in here had the decency to provide me with clothes. They did the same for Maribelle and Shetland, rest his soul. I wonder why. Maybe they thought our clothes were as much a part of us as anything else. Must be why Shetland got to keep his badge. Or maybe they brought us here as we were at the time, clothes and all. But then it seems strange that I’ve got so many copies of the same gown.” She shook her head. “I can’t even make sense of it. Can you?”

I shook my head also. There were still so many mysteries yet left unsolved.

“Well.” Dish Panner picked up her gown. “Thank you for your time. I hope you understand the significance of this conversation. I’m trusting you not to tell anyone about it, or I’ll completely lose faith in you.”

“I won’t,” I replied confidently. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you.” She began to slowly redress herself. “I knew you’d understand.”

Thankfully, I did. Everything had clicked into place not long after Dish Panner had begun telling me her story. This had been a performance. Not just from her, but from me as well. Showing me her scars, sharing her tragic backstory… even if it was all true, even if she had revealed herself to me as a sign of trust, what mattered most was what had been left unsaid.

The knife.

I could see it all play out before me: Dish Panner’s masterplan. She couldn’t come and tell me outright or Monobunny would pick up our voices with ease and immediately be in the know. This plan was between her and I and nobody else on Equus.

She’d brought a knife back with her the day before, even announced it to the rest of the group. Unbeknownst to us all, she’d snuck it back to her room, probably tucked it away in a safe place. This much, all those watching via the cameras would have seen, and as far as they knew, that was where the knife still resided. What Dish Panner must have done in the sanctity of her room, the lights snuffed out, was hide the knife flat against her belly before coming to meet me, keeping it inside her clothing, ensuring that even the cameras would be fooled.

Next, she brought me to the only room in the building where the lights are always out, the one place she could remove the knife and hide it in a new location, out of the camera’s view. But to do that, she would need to undress herself. Not only that, but the hiding place needed to be somewhere that I could not only reach, but would seem innocuous. Coming alone would rouse suspicion, and meeting me here just for the sake of it would be nonsensical. What she needed was a veritable excuse that would allow her to do everything all at once. That was the purpose of telling me her story.

I had solved the first two trials. Now, Dish Panner was relying on me to do something even greater, something that Elsie had tried and failed to do.

I had been tasked with discovering the identity of the spy. If they were being lured into a trap, Monobunny would tell them through their earpiece and prevent it from happening. And so, they needed to be lulled into a false sense of security, taken somewhere that couldn’t possibly pose a threat. Killing them would be suicide, of course. That wasn’t the point. Dish Panner’s story was the other clue. My job was to slice them up. In complete silence, of course. And then, maybe, after hours of torture, they could be convinced to kill themselves for the rest of us. Then, we could finally be safe.

And I was the only one capable of doing it.

Author's Note

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