Dreamcatcher

Chapter One:

[Insert Chapter Name]

The skyline of neon dreams couldn’t drown out the static of the sky above the party. All these rich fucks with their wine glasses, cybernetic implants, and blinders to block out the grim of average city life only eighty stories below. They’re lucky the masks prevented me from seeing that smug look, because that red carpet of theirs could use another coat.

“Sir, would you like a glass?”

I stopped leaning on the balcony’s railing just in time to have the waiter’s tray practically shoved into my tux. “Thanks but I don’t drink.”

The pony shrugged and walked off, mostly holding back a scowl of disgust behind their white mask. The world in front of me pulsed out in a bright orange grid as a cell line connected in my eye’s heads-up display.

“Making friends, Smokey?” A voice buzzed in my ear.

“Hexie, I will zip tie your computer shut. Just tell me where the target is.”

“Alright... alright,” Hexadecimal groaned. “Cornicle said they’d be wearing a black and gold half mask tonight.”

“Half mask? Like in Phantom?”

“Wait… you watch musicals?”

“Hexie...” I growled a little.

“Okay!”

How could such a small pony be so annoying sometimes? It is a contract but I hate suits. Plus I was missing an episode of Top Gear at home.

Detrot parties had a sort of… smell versus other megacities. It wasn’t the shitty food on the long serving tables. Not the cigarette smoke, nor alcohol on muzzles and beaks. It wasn’t the gold and ivory pillars holding up the roof. It was something deeper, in whatever flesh these caricatures had left in their polyester shells.

It smelled like the fear of evil people.

Fear of filth like me crashing the party. Fear of others, just as wealthy and fearful, tricking them into giving away all their status. The only thing anyone seemed to care about. Who could blame them? We’re here to pay rent with blood money. Because what’s more scary than a landlord?

I walked through the sliding glass door, heading back inside where most of the guests were gambling away with money they didn’t have in poker, roulette, and slots. Maybe another time I could swindle these fucks out of their money in poker. Another time.

A massive chandelier, made of crystal that was probably imported from the Empire for more than a whole block of housing here, eliminated all trickery and shadows… except for me and her. Hexadecimal stood at the top of a velvet staircase, shifting around the fabric of the slinky red dress she had. Her mane, for once, was worn down over a mascara eye. It must have been natural curly, because I don’t think we own a curling iron. Still, it was weird to see her natural blonde again.

“You found ‘em?” I fixed my tie.

Hexie shook her head before pressing her hoof into her ear. “No, wait! I have—“

“Put your hoof down.”

“But I—“

“Hexie.” I cut off her protest.

She rolled her eyes. “This is why you do the groundwork, choom.”

“No slang, remember? Ha… Well, I hope you’re ready for a crash course,” I smirked as the target started climbing the steps towards her. The pony couldn’t take their eyes off Hexie. “I think they like the dress.”

Target sauntered next to Hexadecimal, turned their head to the side to look her up and down. “You’re quite the exquisite young lady.”

“T-thank you.” Hexadecimal had trouble faking the words.

They raised a hoof to caress her face from check down to the chin. She tried her best not to shudder. “How about we get to know each other a little… better?”

“Lead them to the bathroom,” I spoke as I started trotting there myself. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Sweet Melody knows it was my plan.”

Tilted my head as a mare stepped out of the bathroom, putting her mask back on, before rejoining the party. I didn’t let the door close before entering. Luckily, it seemed completely empty but to be sure, I pushed open every bathroom stall. No bodies, but I’d rather my brain erased some of what I saw. I picked a stall, making sure the mirrors faced my ugly mug, and squeezed in.

So this was what the top one-percent could pay for a public bathroom? There wasn’t even a bidet, and my apartment had one! Holy shit, these hosts were cheap.

I ripped off my mask putting it on the little jacket hook on the door before levitating a compacted suppressed pistol from my crimson mane. It wasn’t shortly after a flicked off my safety that the door to the bathroom slid open.

“Here? Okay.” The target’s voice echoed off the tiles and in my ear.

A bang and the cracking of glass told me where they were. I peeked through the gap in the door to watch them push Hexie onto the sink, spidering the mirror. As they approached, I opened the stall door slowly. I enjoyed every little expression in that rich fuck’s exposed face as he saw my reflection in the mirror. Lust and joy to not fear, but overflowing anguish. It wasn’t everyday you got to meet a kirin, let alone die to one.

Hexie smirked at him as I squeezed the trigger until…

BEEP BEEP BEEP

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

“Huh?” My beak hurt, I guess the keyboard wasn’t a great place to sleep. I felt around my desk, knocking over things until I turned off my phone’s alarm.

Did I at least write something?

The blue light of the laptop screen hurt my eyes. I could only squint to read what was on the document program:

The skyline of neon dreams couldn’t drown out the static of the sky above |

The cursor blinked as I stared at the words. I needed to write. The document has been sitting here like this for the past week… Maybe I need more coffee? That would make the pain in my eyes go away at least. Less pain equals less annoyance and more time to think. Think, damn it! I don’t even have a chapter name! Shit, CyberPone has been nothing but fading pulses in the back of my brain. Maybe it’s just pointless? Who knows anymore, because I sure don’t. I can’t even begin. All those ideas and papers for what? A blank screen with an incomplete sentence. What a great trade.

BEEP BEE—

“Shut up.”

BEEP BEep beep …

I tossed that fucking phone across the room, denting the wall before landing on my bed. Well great, another thing to pay for because my phone just couldn’t help but mock me again. I’m up already! What more do you want! Just let me write, okay?!

But it didn’t stop. I pushed my chair away with my wings and finally looked at the cracked screen:

Reminder:

Lunch with Pencil Pusher

“That was…” I squinted. “Fift— Shit!”

I practically leaped into my bathroom and turned on the water, grabbing clawfuls to wash the bags out from under my eyes. The feathers would dry on the flight there… I hope. I slicked back my crest and looked into the mirror.

I looked like a wet chicken. No amount of tricks off the internet was gonna fix that. I stopped halfway through throwing myself out the door of the small studio apartment. I couldn’t leave the water running in the sink again, my landlord would kill me. I switched it off, grabbed my knitted cap and jacket, and raced down the complex into the chilly air of Manehattan.

Yup. Nothing quite like the overpowering smell of sea salt and body spray as you head down the streets. I flew over commuters, families, and homeless folks, which of course meant that most were artists with extreme debt to some art “school” in Canterlot or some city in Coltifornia. Shaking their tin mug hoping somepony will support their dream.

I almost missed the little corner diner, envying those souls’ wills. I grabbed a nearby lamppost to spin me into a stop on the sidewalk. Of course it was stylish, if by stylish you mean eating dust on the ground. Pencil Pusher was staring at me through the window, I could just feel it. He continued doing that as I dusted myself off and walked through the entrance to his window booth.

If the definition of a background character had an example picture, it would be my friend. He was nothing more than varying shades of gray. Bland, boring, walking, breathing gray.

Pencil Pusher sat in silence, unflinching, with his half-full cup of coffee. At first it was fast and thin, but slowly twisted into something more palpable and heavy. The unicorn picked up his phone with his magic to look at the time. He snickered, “Wow. You almost beat your personal record.”

“How many refills you have this time?”

The waitress passing by quickly topped off his coffee. “Eleven.”

“You heard her.”

“Don’t you think that’s bad for your blood sugar?” I snickered.

Pencil Pusher gave a small toast before taking a sip. “Well that's a problem for future me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, ‘two-hours-from-now-you’ when you’re glued to the toilet like flies on shit.”

He laughed. “It's important shit then! Well…mmm… okay, if you care so much about my drinking habits then let’s make a deal.”

“Oh great, the programmer is gonna give me an ‘if-then’ statement.” I playfully fained terror, throwing my head back. “Someone save me!”

“Funny,” Shaking his head, Pencil Pusher opened his phone to an app before sliding it over to me. Luna’s cutie mark was at the top of screen, I could only assume that copyright cost a shitton of bits, followed by data from a single user: me. “Now I could assume that you just forgot to press the single button every time you went to sleep and every time you woke up, but let’s be honest with each other.”

“Greer, if you sleep more than…” He grabbed his phone, glancing at the screen for a few seconds, before leaning back with a long sigh. “Six hours a week. I’ll stop drinking coffee. Sounds like a fair deal? It does to me.”

“B-but,” I stumbled over my words. “I got important shit to write.”

“Yeah? And when’s the last time you finis— you know what? Scratch that. When was the last time you wrote more than a sentence?”

I shook my head. “Stopping’s not gonna get me closer to that applewood magic than that salt shaker is to it!”

“And staring at a blinking cursor on a screen will?”

“Fuck you.” I hated that shit eating grin he always gave when he knew he had me in a corner. Pencil Pusher downed the rest of his cup before raising it in the air for the waiter to see.

“Sorry bud, but the only ones who get to fuck me are the IRS, Silk Ivory, and Amb—“

“I don’t wanna to hear about your sex life. About how ‘oh I’m fucked! I put the wrong thing in my W9!’” I groaned so hard that I think the blood vessels in my eyes finally popped.

“Well, you need to get a life or start mellowing out with some leaves.” He emphasized the last word with his eyebrows and chuckle. I didn’t find it funny.

“Drugs are a fucking hello kitty bandage to a bullet wound.”

“Yeah, they are. So stop being a little bitch or you're damn well gonna get a Hello Kitty bandage.”

“Can you please be serious?” I groaned, dragging a claw down my face.

“I am. You brought up the Hello Kitty thing!”

“Dude, please. I’m almost thirty! Twilight and her friends saved Equestria – and the world for that matter – way before that! QT was twenty eight when he had his first film hit. What have I done? Thirty in two days, still stocking shelves and not a single finished project to my name. I’m wasting borrowed time and I don’t even know if anyone will even read it.”

I don’t think he really understood, but he's a pony. How could he understand what it was like to be in my hat? Surrounded by strangers that don’t look or act like you? Your family and friends, a whole country away. There’s no way he knew how ponies treated you differently, some subtle with their assumptions and stereotyping in a weird attempt to get fictitious good boy points or something, while others are extremely blatant. I guarantee none of them think I write, or even could write something poetic. No, I had to have arrived for a blue collar job like construction or policing. That’s all griffons do, right? It’s as disgusting as sifting through the clearance food bin at Haymart.

Pencil Pusher’s new, much more stoic expression made me soften mine, if only a little. “Shit, and you think I'm somebody because you see the work I do? Have you seen how barren my portfolio is? Zero working programs. Fucking null. Nada. So what? So, what if you’re not some grand hero or a famous filmmaker? Who cares if you work at the same small store since you were twenty? Art is about creation, not money or fame.”

“That’s the funny contradiction, an artist is loved and dies by an audience, but you’ll probably tell me to just write for myself. That they’ll just come with time. But how the hell is that supposed to beat the teams of larger creators and companies who ultimately pander to their readers with the same gray sludge? It doesn’t. Unless I have money or sell my soul to a company, the chances are slim.” I shrugged.

“I know you won’t sell out. From the passages you send me to analysis and edit, you want to actually say something. Be… avant-garde? I'm pretty sure that’s the word. And that’s good.”

“Pencil, I can only hope for so long before I’m like them.” I gestured outside the window.

“What, forgettable? Friends aren’t forgettable, dumbass. Also we have a word for them: they’re acquaintances. So don’t hope. Act. Also, sorry to switch on you, but have you met with that indie publisher I sent you yet?”

“I can barely remember ninety percent of my ‘friends’ from high school.” I muttered under my breath so he wouldn’t hear the first part. “Oh yeah, that’s tomorrow.”

“Good, then please don’t be late… and also brush your tee— er… beak. Aaa… whatever. I can just tell you had kirin take-out yesterday and probably everyday before that. I know your spending habits.”

I closed my mouth and nodded as he laughed. That’s a little embarrassing, even for me. He gave a loud, long, and exaggerated sigh at the blush heating up my cheeks. “I’m worried, Greer. What if—“

“Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal.” I cut in but he just talked over me.

“What if you finish with this story? Doesn’t matter if it’s successful or a failure. What then?”

I tried to play off the question but he wasn’t having it. “I don’t know… maybe I’ll buy a boat or something with the cash? Live life out on the ocean.”

“Celestia dammit! You’re not listening!” He slammed his hooves on the coffee catching the glares of other patrons. “Sorry. Sorry. But your first fucking thought in the middle of this depressive episode is to buy a boat to get away from people?! Real telling.”

“What? So you're gonna tell me to not think because ‘emotions bad’ for the thousandth time?”

“Oh no, I’m not saying you're wrong for being sad. I’m literally sad all the time. That’s why I drink coffee,” Pencil took a sip before continuing. “But the thing you have to understand is that beating yourself up isn't helping you.”

“I’m just facing reality.”

“That’s not reality. Please get that through your fucking skull.” Knocked on his temples.

“What am I good for then?”

“Don’t ask that question.”

“Why not? Not like there are any other questions currently.” I snickered.

“It’s a toxic tool for you to continue self deprecating. Do you want to explain that part too?” He swore under his breath. “Why do you care so much about the possible opinions of readers?”

“Like I said before it’s the great contradiction—“

“Shut,” He clopped his hooves together for effect. “I don’t want the technical college bullshit. I want your real personal reason.”

My real personal reason… huh? I guess I had to answer, since Pencil Pusher looked like he was ready to pounce across the table, bated breath with pinprick pupils visible and all, to strangle me. But how do I put into words that subconscious feeling of dread every time I touch a keyboard? Such a strong mixture of heart racing desire for recognition and dread of the comments. I guess they’re the same thing in the end, right? In that case…

“I just… I just wanna leave the world better than I found it. I mean, how can you move an audience if no one reads your words? You got a fancy retort for that one?” My attempt at a chuckle was filled with chokes and skips as it was my turn for bated breath.

After a brief pause that felt like forever, he finally took a nice long breath and lowered his tone. “No, but you can’t just retreat back inside that room again.”

“I have to sleep somew—“

“Your head.” He corrected my thoughts.

“Oh,” I rolled my eyes and got up. “This talk again. Look if we’re gonna keep going round and round here. I’m just gonna go home. I got shit to write.”

He gave a tiny nod. “I’ll have to call you tomorrow to ask how the meeting went. Same time on Friday?”

I didn’t even nod to acknowledge what he said. I just turned around and started to leave but a tug of Pencil Pusher’s magic stopped me. He got up from the table himself to wrap a scarf around his neck, after leaving a few bits for the all cups of coffee he ordered, and sighed. “Let me walk with you, at least to the bus stop up the block. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“Okay.”

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

I locked my apartment door before hanging up my coat and hat. My laptop just stared at me like it was studying my defects. The fan whine was sickly laughter to me. That screen transports you onto a stage where you’re the sole actor. It’s invisible chains that keep you in the prison of spotlights. The audience? The warden. Every movement taken... Every word spoken... Every breath… critiqued and criticized.

I want to be there. I couldn’t explain why. It’s a self destructive addiction to create more and more and more until you decompose back into carbon and blow away. Then the warden would find someone else to love. To hate. To break down into pieces to be studied like a mechanical watch. A never ending, never ending, never ending show.

Just for them.

I can see them. Sitting on my bed, watching through the dark void of space: my webcam. They’ll study the thousands of crumpled up paper balls of ideas that leak onto the floor from my brain. Secrets I’m too afraid of ever letting anyone see. I’m lost, so I go on autopilot. Procrastinate until I'm no longer even a footnote and broke…n.

My body may be in my chair reading, surfing the internet for a spark of inspiration to continue writing but my mind is gone.

I’m in a world of my creation with no walls. A void of complete slate, silent white. It’s where I can be Afterburner. I could be a hero or a villain. A random stranger watching the world end rain down past the skyscraper's window where I wasted too much time at a job I hated. I could be anything, everything. More than… me.

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

A normal world doesn’t have me. Half pony, half zebra. I’m a freak to them, but I don’t care. I care that they have my brother in a case for testing.

It probably was a normal museum before all the eggheads and guards took it over. Hell, I may have even stolen from it in another lifetime. But now I needed to steal my little brother back.

If only it was easy to get inside, I slipped through a side vent that was just my size. But with the look of the guard ponies by the entrance, I could have walked in with a lab coat with no problems.

“Come on gal, clock’s ticking.” My earpiece buzzed.

I kicked out the duct’s cover and dropped into a closet with shelves of various clean items and equipment. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’m just on time.”

I pulled out a silver pocket watch as the door opened. The mare froze in shock. I use the moment to smack her across the jaw with it, knocking her out cold before she even hit the floor. The janitor’s overall were a little uncomfortable tight, especially across my plot.

“Aeon, did you—“

I cut off the voice in my ear. “Of course, a master thief doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Sure… but you do.”

I dusted off the mare’s blue hoofball hat and put on. “Name on— actually don’t.”

“Did you finally realize I’m right?” The voice snickered.

I giggled into my hoof. “Nope. I just don’t care!”

“Ouch, that hurt. Maybe I should accidentally trip the alarm for payback.”

“Don’t worry, Ice. I’d give you up in a heartbeat in interrogation. Love ya.” I turned off the earpiece and pushed one of the cleaning carts into the hallways. The cover was perfect. Everypony was staying clear of the mare smelling of bleach and aerosol. Even my lungs were burning from all of the bottles and wipes on the cart.

After a few turns, a puking guard, and a patrol trying to catch a stray cat that was making a mess in one of the art display rooms, I reached the main exhibit. The device inside blocked out all moonlight in the sky so flood lamps were used everywhere to see. Screens attached to the massive machine were spitting out numbers faster than the scientists could realistically analyze. I tried not to snicker too loudly as they would scrolled back to record something only to have the line of data lost in the blink of an eye.

Then I saw my brother. The little zony was strapped to the center of the circular device. My heart began slamming against my chest as eggheads approached him with a tray of filled syringes. I shouldn’t have leaped at them, but I already stomped one of the lab coat’s face into the floor, denting the machine as I bucked the other one with my back hooves. There was hollering and galloping as I started to unstrap him.

But he gave me a weird look. He was just dumbfounded at me being there. The zony leaned forward as much as the head strap would allow and whispered three simple words. “I wanted this.”

The world went black before I could process his decision.

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

I smiled at the screen. “Perfect.”

Everyone loves a twist, but was that a little… Too dark? Maybe it should be her father in the machine? Or a friend? I’ve never been good at gauging these sorts of things.

I glanced at the time on my laptop: 1:30am.

Couldn’t ask Pencil Pusher, he’s either asleep or drunk. Actually it was probably both. So what do you do? Something inside still fluttered at these words. They felt hollow. I don't know why.

So I slammed my delete key and got rid of the whole document. There was a better story I had. Everyone loves a sequel, right?

… Why the fuck would I think that? For one: I needed to have a story first. Second: sequels are rarely ever as good as the first. So, what to write? A start? An ending? Something political to rally people? Gray sludge to appease the corporations and the sheep to them? Write what?

WHAT?!

Would any of it even matter?!

It felt like all I could do was punch my desk until my talons hurt.

“Fuck!”

There were cracked head fanfictions about the Princess of Friendship more popular than any little stupid idea I could think of. Especially the horny ones… Holy shit those things are sick. But folks read them.

Why?!

Twenty-nine years of my life spent doing this same song and dance, one more go. Honestly, I wasn’t hoping anymore to change the world. My brain’s subconscious lied to my best friend because it’s yet to get the memo that we’ve already given up. That we’re just doing all this ‘writing’ out of habit.

Fuck, the ocean was right at the door and all I could do was quietly comprehend the coming tsunami.