Friendship Needs Magic

Patch knew he'd done well in finding an emerald, but he knew it wasn't enough to please his overseer, who refused to nod, smile or approve of anything anypony did unless they were a member of 13 – which, of course, happened to be his own subfamily. Nonetheless, Patch was proud of himself. An emerald was rare these days: he'd only seen six or seven since the last season. His smile faded a little. Bad numbers meant bad reviews. And bad reviews meant a harder life. Still, he would have contributed an emerald to the family, and the family would acknowledge it with smiles, good wishes, gratitude and an extra spoon of cocoa in his flask. His parents would be proud, and more than anything else that made him smile again. '55 will make Capricorn proud' – indeed, he was proud to be rising to the words. He placed the gem carefully into his basket, retrieved his pick and continued to chip away at the vein, doubting (but hoping) he'd unearth a second.

'Show me,' said the overseer an hour later, stooping to enter Patch's tunnel.

'Seven amethysts. Two opals. A lot of good ore. And an emerald.'

The overseer shoved his square face close to the basket as though he didn't believe him. 'Hmph,' he grunted, pleased in spite of himself. 'Food's ready. Five minutes to finish up.'

'Right,' said Patch keenly, nodding. 'Thanks.' His politeness fell on deaf ears. The overseer kicked up gravel as he turned and exited the tunnel.

The walk to the mouth of the mine was normally long and slow, but Patch knew a few shortcuts. Standard-ore tunnels, so rarely in use on account of their near-emptiness, formed something of an uncharted warren and were fantastic for a quiet skive if you had the stomach for it. Patch, on a good day, used to meet up with friends and, when craving some real excitement, search for and avoid patrols with them. It was easy to get lost, however, and since Eye-Eye's disappearance several seasons ago, the pastime had fallen severely out of fashion. Patch retained quite a bit of knowledge about the tunnels, though, and they remained a great way to skip the queues. So, instead of following the rest of his shift to the base tunnel, he detoured, wriggling into a narrow shaft too small for an adult to follow him through. It spat him out into complete darkness; he knew this route led to a grate near the fore tunnels, where shifts black and purple worked. He'd join the queues there and eat earlier. That way he could catch up with whomever he managed to meet on the surface.

He frowned, scraping through the dark. There weren't many ponies he considered friends these days. It was very hard to keep in touch with anypony since the gem tunnels had opened. They were good for the family. They were very bad for interaction with said family. That, he thought, was one of the key flaws in the system: if family was so important, why couldn't he enjoy it more? Why couldn't they live as though they actually belonged to the same, big, caring family? The subunits were getting smaller and smaller. Soon subfamilies would have sub-subfamilies, the rate at which the population was growing. With a jolt, he remembered that there was a programme inspection after piecetime. That sort of thing was very hard to forget for most ponies, but since Patch didn't yet have a cutie mark – and still had four seasons in which to get one – he was practically immune. In fact, he realised it was, in a way, good news. He would be able to catch up with friends: the other two blank-flanks in Capricorn. He smiled. What were they, then? A sub-sub-subfamily?

He reached the grate and bent his face nearer to the rusting metal. The tunnel below, dim yet visible, was vacant. Slowly and carefully, he sat atop the grate, holding back the worst of his weight via his forelegs, against the walls. The weakened bolts scraped the stone and, suddenly, the grate swung open, his hindlegs left dangling in the air. He dropped down softly, stretched and jostled the bolts back into place. Satisfied, he climbed the empty tunnel, the chatter of those in the queues growing louder as he ran. Ironically, a familiar voice was most prominent.

'– was doing it like you told! And got a good load of ore! What the buck more d'you expect?'

'You'll mind your language in my shift, you little ass!' spat what Patch presumed, quite safely, was Red Nose's overseer. 'And you'll finish off the vein when you get back, whether it takes you till the end of the night or beyond! Finish up and join the damn queue.'

'Oi,' hissed Patch. The light from Red Nose's lantern as he raised it made his eyes water.

'Well bucking well! You're still going through there? I'd be crapping myself in case I got stuck.'

'You've got a fair few pounds on me though, don't you?'

'Relaxed muscle,' said Red Nose, slapping his paunch. Patch believed it. Red Nose was strong enough to break up boulders with his kick on a good day. Most days were not his good days. Today seemed no exception.

'Hurry up,' said Patch. 'I went through that to eat early, not to end up at the back with you.'

'Need to get my basket.'

'You haven't emptied it yet?!'

'You as well? Holy Celestia, I'm only a pony! What's happened to patience in this bloody place? Where'd that element go missing, eh?'

'Hurry it up!'

'Give us a second!'

The heavy thud of mostly rocky ore being dumped into carts was punctuated by the crack of it rolling off and falling down onto the tracks.

'Shit.'

Patch sighed.

'You're just on time to watch me finish my dessert!' Bright looked cheerful, but in a sort of sneering way, as though having sat on the table before them was an achievement of which to be jealous. Still, inspection day had its uses. For one thing, it had ensured that subfamilies were sticking to themselves, exchanging kind words and memories, blessings and farewells in advance just in case. Bright, Red Nose and Patch, each of them blank-flanks, therefore found themselves sitting alone together at a small table near the centre of the community garden, shrouded in tall, green leaves, shaded from the hot sun and pumped pleasantly giddy with fresh, full, oxygenated air, the sort you never experienced down the mine and grew to miss sorely. Bright was digging into his apple pie, whose accompanying custard looked far less lumpy than his or Red Nose's. Potatoes, beans and heaped hay. Bland, unappetising – yet Patch was hungry enough to eat a gallon of the stuff. Red Nose had already stuffed his mouth with the hay, his frown shifting as he chewed.

'Stupid carts,' he managed through the mouthful.

'He had some trouble emptying his basket,' said Patch flatly, licking up his beans. 'I stayed behind to help.'

'You were in the same shift? That's rare! I didn't know we were trusting blank-flanks to work together these days.'

'These days. You know I found an emerald?'

'What? No… you're kidding me on.'

'You found an emerald?' spluttered Red Nose through his hay. 'Bucking 'ell! Where's the justice?'

'Different shifts,' said Patch. 'I tried skipping the queue. Waste of time though, I'd have got here sooner if I'd just stayed behind.'

'Oh, look, Red, I've found the justice,' said Bright, smirking. 'I'm glad you were held up. Cheats get no meat.'

'What, so you're a carnivore now?' said Patch.

'Stupid saying, I know,' replied Bright, taking a scoop of custard and pulling a face of faux-enjoyment. 'Mm… isn't that just lovely.'

'Flavour today?'

'Sour socks,' spat Red Nose, having dipped his tongue into his own portion. 'Urgh, that's outright vile! You can keep that,' he said, scooping up a spoonful and standing to drop it into Bright's tray.

'Oi!' said Bright, dragging it wide as the custard fell. 'And you can clean that!'

'Holy shit, man, can't anyone take a bucking joke these days?'

'These days…' repeated Patch again.

'Huh?' said Red Nose.

'Nothing. Just something I've been thinking about,' said Patch.

'What, you've been thinking about "these days"?' said Bright, wiping the custard from the tabletop with his handkerchief, a luxury Patch could never bother with and wondered why anypony would.

'Yeah. I sort of found it a bit funny how we're a trio now and all, and it's just… you know, how it's all getting smaller and whatnot.'

'What's "all getting smaller"?'

'Just the units and everything. Shifts, groups, subgroups, on and on.'

Red Nose groaned. 'Look, can't we talk about something else? I'm sick of all this shit in normal time let alone spare time!'

'The subtlety of a blunt knife, you ignoramus,' said Bright. 'Can't you see he was going to make a point?'

'Politics, politics, politics, holy shit, what more can you say?' said Red Nose. 'Who came up with the damn stuff.'

'Certainly not a pony like you, that's for sure.'

'Hey. Don't be a dick,' Patch said. Bright impatiently waved an apology.

'So? What's the epiphany?' he asked.

'I don't know. Just fed up, I guess.'

'What with? Since when? Haven't heard you saying this before. What's wrong?'

'Is this twenty questions?'

'Well, if you're going to be all sulky, I think you should have a very good reason,' said Bright, folding his forelegs. 'You in particular, considering your parents.'

'Oh, you just had to bring them up, didn't you?'

'Since it's relevant to the point, yes. I know a lot of ponies who'd say you're being ungrateful.'

'Heck, even I'd agree there,' said Red Nose, who was listening after all. 'What's the idea? You're bucking royalty compared to me and Bright! Well, to me anyway. Bright's got the "old" subfamily, so he's treated with some respect at least. You won't be getting any shoutings down the mine, you lucky twat.'

'Oh, so that's what happened down there,' said Bright, his smirk returning. 'You got shouted at.'

'Ooh, look how smart you are,' scoffed Red Nose. 'Did you deduce that all by yourself?'

'Sarcasm's the lowest form of wit, they say. I'm so glad to see that the ponies who make use of it fit the bill.'

'You bucking little –!'

'Twilight bucking Sparkle, we're supposed to be calling ourselves family, but we just argue about who's got the bigger horn. And then just drift apart. I'm just fed up with the lie.'

'And what lie is that?' Patch knew he'd touched a nerve. Bright wasn't going to let it pass, so he sighed and pulled himself ready for a painful ideological argument. Why even bother? He shrugged. Habit, if anything.

'Oh, you know, Bright. Do I need to say it?'

'Since you're clearly so upset about something, yes. Indulge me.'

'We're supposed to be "safe", but we're not, are we? When was the last time you even spoke to your actual family when it wasn't in a shift or a piecetime?'

'At home, in habitation,' said Bright coldly. 'All the time.'

Red Nose snorted. 'There you bucking go, you lucky shit. "Old" family privileges. I don't see any of my lot for weeks at a time, stuck down the southern rooms with the rest of 113. My brothers are up in your place, Patch. And never on my shift either. Not even in the same mine half the season, for buck's sake. You lucky shits.'

'If you're a substandard worker, you earn substandard rewards,' said Bright, shrugging.

'Right, I've actually had enough of you today,' said Red Nose, pushing himself off the table.

'Wait, come on, don't go. We're the only three left here. Let's… let's not fall out like this, OK?' Patch said, pushing down his temper, which for one reason or another had nearly flared. Perhaps he was under stress. Well, of course he was. They all were. All the time.

'If you were more grateful, I'd oblige,' said Bright. 'You've still not made your point, and I'm getting fed up too.'

'You know the point. What sort of safety is that, where you can't even see your own family when you want to? Because if you do, you're just hurting them, really. You've never broken curfew. You know what happens?'

'Of course. You lose your subfamily their bonus.'

'And you think that's fair?'

'Of course it's fair. You make bad choices, you reap bad consequences. That's on you and everypony else suffers for it. And that way you don't do it again. That way, everypony learns, survives, thrives.'

'Oh, sure, Bright, it sounds really fair when you put it so bipolar. Is it right for us to just take it is what I'm getting at.'

'What's the solution, then? What's going to happen if we all start mingling around whenever we please? Is that what you want, firstly? Because if that's what you want, and let's say we get it, who's down the mines, hmm? Who's bringing the bread to the table for the family? How the hell do you expect the family to eat if it doesn't want to grow the crop?'

'Leave out the patronising metaphors, Bright, I'm not four.'

'Answer the question.'

'I'd say you're just making it worse by narrow-mindedly filtering every solution through the system. What about tweaking the system? Or at least scrutinising it? I mean, come on, it's not even trying to be subtle about becoming permanent.'

'Sure. Sure. That'll work,' said Bright.

'Sarcasm's the lowest form of wit, you little bucker,' chimed in Red Nose, grinning, his mouth stained with bean sauce. Patch felt a jolt of sharp, unexpected laughter, and Bright's eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed with sour defeat.

'I can tell you were proud of that one,' said Bright.

'Yeah, that's bucking right,' replied Red Nose while Patch recovered. 'Bucking take it.'

'All I'm saying is,' continued Patch, 'who's to say that you can't change it? I'm not even going all out, before you try and stick that on me. I'm fine with keeping in line with the reforms. It's just that we don't have to live like robots is all I'm saying. And wouldn't it be nice if we could grow our own food instead. We've got the garden. We worked hard for that. If we can plant these, we can plant some real potatoes. Who says life's got to be spent down a mine looking for gemstones?'

'Ponies who know a lot more than me and you, who have sacrificed more and who care about giving to ponies that need help. Who aren't selfish. Ponies like your parents. And I don't like that you get to benefit off them when you're speaking crap like this. There's more deserving sorts than you, I'd say.'

'Well, thanks, Bright, that's made me feel so much better about it all. And don't bring up sarcasm, Red, it's a dead joke now.'

Red Nose rolled his eyes and closed his mouth.

'You're forgetting that in pre-reform Canterlot, ponies were dying like flies. The system's kept us alive and is keeping us that way in the same way it saved them.'

'Sure, it saved them, sure, but it didn't offer anything more to them than their lives.'

'And that's not enough?'

'No! Not if you're going to try to live! You aren't telling me you want to spend the rest of your time down the tunnels?'

'No, and I won't have to come the next season,' said Bright stiffly, his chin rising as he flexed his flank. 'One more season without my mark and I'll be removed from the family, and not removed like they'll be doing it today.'

'And you know that how? And these bucking euphemisms, by the way, when you actually stop and think about it, the shit we have... it's pretty shit.'

'So you're anti-removal now?'

'Yes, I'm bucking anti-removal now,' muttered Patch bitterly. 'I'd have thought that was obvious.'

'So am I,' grunted Red Nose, who was no doubt struggling to keep up, though this issue was one simple enough for him to comprehend. 'They got my uncle, remember. Bullshit.'

'Necessary,' said Bright. 'We can't expand forever. The other families come first too.'

'And ours doesn't?'

'It does, as first as the others. They all have the programme too.'

'And how do you know that, Bright? When was the last time you heard from the outside world when it wasn't through some bullshit you heard off an Elder down in habitation?'

'Oh, buck off, Patch, you are ungrateful. Eat your bucking food and be glad you're safe today.'

'I heard some things about blank flanks being removed, you know,' said Red Nose with uncharacteristic softness. 'There's been talk about the stuff going on with it, you know.'

'And where did you hear this, then?' chipped in Bright. 'Some bullshit down in habitation like Patch says, hmm?'

'As a matter of fact, no. From a subfamily member. Being a 113 has its uses; half of us have come from other groups and programmes. Late bloomers get taken somewhere else and they work them differently. That's what I heard. And in weird ways.'

'Of course they work in weird ways, you idiot,' said Bright. 'They've got no cutie mark yet; they get processed until they do, and it's a bloody great opportunity to boot. This isn't news! Haven't you ever read the literature? There's a lot of it in habitation. I'm keeping my hooves crossed I don't bloom till they've removed me.'

'Why?' asked Patch.

'Because of the opportunity, didn't you listen? You get put through all these amazing challenges and facilities in search of a destiny. All sorts. Science, technology, reading, thinking, writing, speaking – not stuff you get down here, that's for sure. And if you get lucky with the mark, you get lucky with the work and then the rewards… man, the rewards…'

'And what are they like? Is that in the literature?'

'No, that's left up to the imagination.'

'So how do you know you get anything better than what we do?'

'Because someponies have to run the system, and that takes more out of them, and that means they get more given back to them.'

'And that's what you want to do, is it, become a programmer?'

'Not a programmer especially. Anything official will do. I really, really hope I can hold on for one more season. I'd hate to see a gem on my ass…'

'Well, I've got four to go,' said Patch, looking at his own flank. 'I don't know what I want. Beyond a bit more bloody freedom like I said.'

'Gratitude, Patch.'

'Yeah, yeah.'

'Bucking hell,' said Red Nose, 'but I've had enough of both of you. Let's give it a break.'

Bright and Patch looked at each other. 'Sure,' they said together.

The bells sounded. Piecetime was over. Had been over for a while. Nopony had returned to the mines, however. All were grouped together in straight lines, huddled tightly, as though afraid that, should they venture too far apart, they would be snatched away. Patch supposed that was more or less the function of the exercise. Only thing was that the snatching happened blatantly, procedurally and slowly. Never any rush. But it always happened.

The programmer they had drawn this season was perhaps the ugliest pony Patch had ever seen, and he'd seen disfigurements aplenty as a consequence of work in the mine. This pony wasn't damaged, however, in any physical way – not obviously. In fact, he seemed reasonably healthy and well-groomed, in both cases more so than the ranks in front of him. And yet his eyes were unpleasantly small and sharp, like black pin pricks on a massive white canvass (for his pale, unstained coat reflected the sunlight). His limbs seemed a hoof too long for his square-shaped torso, so he walked oddly too, and his mouth was wide, pulled back, slanted. His posture and face. Doglike. Really, though, it was his eyes that were the worst. Windows to the soul, wasn't it? This pony looked exactly like what he represented.

'Rock-status,' he grated into the megaphone, held by an Elder who was attempting to smile, though his brow was creased with worry. 'Elderly. To the first tunnel.'

The mutterings, the hugs, the goodbyes, the stifled sobs – they began and ended routinely. Once a group of forty or so ponies had detached from the lines and waddled to the mines, the programmer spoke again.

'Rock-status,' he heaved. 'Capricorn 76/5, Capricorn 30/51, Capricorn 16/9, Capricorn 44/4, Capricorn 97/12, Capricorn 90/18. To the second tunnel.'

Six highly unfortunate individuals, each of whom repeated the ritual and walked slowly after the Rock-status Elderly.

'Rock-status,' growled the programmer. 'Lawbreaking. To the exits.'

Ten ponies, chained, patrolled directly to the removal vehicles. Bright, thought Patch, had a point. The system kept crime on the low. Safety had its prices.

'Rock-status. Objection. To the second tunnel.'

Another small group.

'Rock-status. Sickness. To the third tunnel.'

Two ponies.

'Non-status. Capricorn 02/19. Capricorn 55/3. Capricorn 113/5. To the fourth tunnel. Inspection begins now. Capricorn family dismissed.'

Patch's eye spasmed unpleasantly. Three ponies. Capricorn 02/19, 55/3 and 113/5.

Bright, Patch and Red Nose. He turned on the spot instinctively, paused, then realised that he was searching for his parents.

Hundreds of eyes blinked back at him.

The waiting was the worst part of it all. When would he see them? When would he wander in, and most importantly, which of them would he choose? Patch felt numb. He was waiting for the feelings to dawn on him, for the realisation of the fix he might be in to sink in. But nothing. All he felt was cold and a little shakier than usual. Beyond that, nothing.

None of them had spoken. It was as though each was a different pony than the one who had argued at lunch. The tunnel was short and dark, and in it they had taken up a position of some sort of badly formed triangle, outlining the walls and corners, with a space in the centre for the programmer. He'd been what felt like hours. Patch knew he was inspecting the other callouts. He tried not to think about what was going to happen when he got there. One of them at the very least was going to be removed.

But which one? It could be him. And so what if it was, he thought? Now that it came to it, there was no pressing survival instinct. No jolt of blood-surging alarm or furious energy. He just felt… tired, really. The longer he tried to analyse his feelings and his situation, the more resigned and lethargic he felt. Which almost made him feel happy. He was facing his potential end with… dignity? After all, it wasn't as though he'd never considered it. This was soon, but he'd always thought about it, as everypony in the family had, the day on which it would be his turn to be removed. Ponies did not die of old age very much anymore. That made him frown. It was nonetheless comparatively unfair for him to be removed so early on in life. And yet that was one of his fast-emerging beliefs. Living without living... wasn't. It wasn't much of a life at all. And so did it really matter then, when he stopped? When his non-life stopped?

'This is it,' said Bright. The first of them to break the silence. He tried to add something but presumably couldn't. Patch half-expected to hear some sort of half-baked accusation that it was his fault or Red's. But Bright seemed as listless as he was. Red Nose was frowning, but he was – to Patch's surprise – keeping quiet, not angry. Impending removal, he thought almost wildly, had the strangest effect. For the first time, he felt a tiny hint of fear. He hadn't said goodbye to his parents. Then he felt an equally small, slow warmth travel downwards from somewhere near the top of his brain. His parents wouldn't let this happen, and the system owed them. He lifted a hoof absent-mindedly and saw that it was steady. The situation had not hit his emotions as he'd thought it would. It was as though all three of them were in a state of suspended animation, awaiting the press of the button that would release them from the apparatus and return them to Equestria as ponies, not walking meat. He smiled wryly. What was the difference these days? These days…

The programmer entered the tunnel alone. It was rare to see an official without his entourage. Then again, what risk was he facing, really, from three blank-flanks in a Capricorn mine? He surveyed each of them briefly, scribbled something short on a pad he was carrying (perhaps a time or the date), shuffled through some papers.

'The programme now includes Non-status ponies; however, we're up by two, so we'll be removing only one of you today. Justify your remaining in Capricorn,' he said without looking up. He did so when nopony answered him. 'One at a time.'

The three of them shared a glance. Bright recovered faster than either Patch or Red Nose and began to speak, his voice, though faint at first, growing stronger.

'I have one more season before I'm removed for processing, sir,' he said, showing his flank. 'I'm well-read on Luster's reforms, sir. I've consulted the literature more than… more than these two ponies.' He looked at Patch as though he expected to be challenged. Patch said nothing. The programmer made a note.

'Anything else?' he prompted.

'I'm… I'm a good worker. I find gems frequently. I'm efficient and eager to learn. I've written small commentaries on the reforms as well, sir. In my spare time. I'm all for the system. I'm from Capricorn 02, as you know, sir.'

'Verified,' said the programmer, flicking through his lists. 'Very well. You?'

Patch gulped. 'I'm White Patch,' he said hoarsely, and he cleared his throat. 'That's what I'm known as in my subfamily. I've had good success in the mine. Today I found an emerald. The first in my shift, and we're working in the lower tunnels, so it's a lot of hard work that I've been able to keep up with.'

And it hit him so suddenly that he swayed on the spot. He might never see his parents again. He might never work the mines again. Might never touch them or a thing again. He might never taste the bad food and the good food that came once in a blue moon. He might never see, touch, taste, smell, sense. He might never hear a voice. He'd never know what it was like to live. He'd stop knowing. He'd cease to think. He'd go, and where would he go? Was there someplace afterwards? And what if there wasn't? There were so many things he could have done. He hadn't liked the sound of more than half of them, but now all of them – any of them – they seemed eminently desirable. He would never experience anything ever again if he was chosen. And that had been all he'd said in his defence? He didn't have anything else worth living for? Anything else to justify himself, to reach what heart the pony in front of him had left? He opened his mouth to say all of it, but the programmer was already talking.

'White Patch, Capricorn 55/3. Capricorn 55. Ah.' He smiled, his wide mouth widening further, as though he were leering, not smiling at all. 'Your parents are Diamond-status, I see. You haven't got your mark yet? You have… four seasons left. I wouldn't worry. Once you get it, provided your performances remain the same, your status will be changed from Non-status to Diamond-status.' He gave a very obvious tick, the pen scratching the paper with irksome firmness. 'Your subfamily has been a reliable supporter of the system. We reward loyalty. 113/5. Justify your remaining in Capricorn.'

Giddy realisation that he was safe, as he had thought he would be earlier in the day, flooded his brain and sent him swaying more strongly than the previous surge of emotion. He was so flushed with adrenaline that he very easily pushed aside the moral chafing telling him that one of his friends was going to leave Capricorn with the programmer and never return while he lived on as a Diamond-status pony.

Red Nose's face was a picture of fear. He looked from Patch to Bright, then to the programmer, consulting his papers.

'I'm strong,' stammered Red Nose. 'I can crack boulders. I can mine ore well.'

'Inefficient. Lazy,' murmured the programmer, apparently to himself. He did not look up. 'You two,' he added, waving his hoof at Bright and Red Nose as though they were deciding which of them would lay a table for breakfast. 'Justify your remaining in Capricorn.'

Bright did not waste any more time. 'I'm loyal to the system too, sir. Let me prove it to you. Ask me anything. About the history, about the programmes. I'm willing to be removed for the blank-flank programme at a moment's notice. I want to be of help to Canterlot.'

'Hey, wait, hold on, I'm needed here! There's… nopony else can lift, can pick up the… the carts, you know, that are hard to get up on the tracks… the carts... and the –'

'You read the literature, do you?' The programmer looked Bright up and down. 'Capricorn 02. Very well, I'd like to see the two of you demonstrate an opinion on the first reforms in Canterlot.'

'The reforms were necessary to save lives then but also now, the future at the time,' began Bright eagerly. 'Luster's government initiated a reevaluation of Canterlot once the constitution was amended, justified considering the circumstances, in which ponies were starving and dying. Without the programmes and the system, our species would either have ended or been subjugated by the griffons. I know that there are schools of moral absolutism to which some ponies –' He glanced quickly at Patch. '– subscribe, but I have believed in the system since foalhood. I know we owe it our lives. And I'm willing to be removed in whatever way the programme requires. It's just that I believe I have more to offer even merely as a mine worker than my counterparts, and I don't think it is in the interest of the programme to remove a willing participant at this stage, especially considering my Non-status.'

'113/5?'

'I'm… I can do a lot of good work in the mines! More than Bright ever can! He's not as big as me!'

'You're less efficient than he is, and you've caused trouble for overseers in the past,' read the programmer. 'An opinion on the reforms?'

'I've never looked into them before, but that doesn't mean I can't be –'

'Your family member has made some very good points,' droned the programmer, scratching a line across the page, across what Patch was certain was Red Nose's name. 'We'll add you to the exits.'

And just like that it was decided. Patch looked at Red Nose, at his rigid-tense, horror-stricken face. What the buck was he supposed to say to him? What could he say that would make it better? What did it matter anyway? The programmer was already turning to leave, and presumably, should Red Nose put up a fight, he'd return with horsepower.

For Red Nose, it had clearly sunk in.

'That's it, huh?' he said, his voice thick as soup, his jaw twitching rather than moving truly as he pushed out the words. Something about his voice, perhaps the inhibitionlessness of the final hour, made the programmer stop in his tracks and turn. A last request? A curse on his grandchildren? Who could say what made him turn, but he did to face his latest victim.

'You're just going to expect me to take that? To bucking… just bucking go with you and that's just, just oh-so fine for… just like that, eh? You...'

And with the fervour and adrenaline of the victor who had just crossed the finish line before his rival, Bright's composure snapped. His passion, which had already scored him points, could not be reigned in. He rounded on Red Nose, his family member, his fellow blank-flank, most of all his friend, and erupted.

'Oh, the system is good! It knows who is worthy of reward and who isn't!' The look he shared with the programmer told Patch that this was a coined passage, not impassioned spontaneity on Bright's part. But the game was over. There was no need to rub it in. Red Nose was gone. He and Bright would stay. It was already over. So why was Bright still talking?

Red Nose had reached a state of rage. His temper, always spiky, burst as quickly and proportionately as Bright's ideological screeching. He shrieked abuse at Bright, and Bright merely smirked and preached, elated that he was still there. That he would stay alive for another season at least…

The programmer had seen enough and turned to leave again, no doubt to bring into the tunnel the ponies that would drag Red Nose, screaming and swearing, to the exits with the rest of the day's unfortunates.

And Patch couldn't place why he was still standing there and not… reacting, or feeling, or doing something. He blinked, realising that there was something warm on his face.

'Get that seen to, by the way,' coughed the programmer, the dust of the shaft as foreign to him as the literature was to Patch. Patch wasn't sure what he was referencing. His snout?

He realised he was bleeding. He blinked at the blood on his hoof, bright and hot. He looked up at the programmer, completely bemused. He was shocked to see the half-formed, twisted features of sympathy on the face of his would-be tormentor.

'I've seen worse, believe me,' he said quietly to Patch as the argument raged in the background, Bright's voice squeaking higher and higher with excitement as he preached, no doubt certain his loyalty was to be rewarded, as had been stated so clearly by the programmer to Patch.

'You're just a bucking clown!' Red Nose was half-shouting, half-crying. He brandished his hoof at Bright, who was laughing, his face gleeful, his eyes manic, alight with fire of absolute rightness. He didn't see what Patch could see, couldn't realise what he had realised, couldn't feel the final, painful jolt of the stomach, the last emotion Patch, in his whole life, would remember feeling. He would only feel the impact of what was to come. Quite literally.

The hoof crunched into his face. It actually crunched. The teeth in Bright's snout were broken and embedding themselves into the flesh at the perfect angle, corresponding to the swing. He didn't cry out, which was perhaps the worst thing – the fact that there was no other sound beyond the impact of the blow, no acknowledgement that a life had gone or a pony had repented. No idea whether Bright regretted his behaviour, or hated Red Nose or even forgave him. Everything he was just went in one instant. His neck clicked sideways, his body following, and he flew into the air with the force that Red Nose had always promised he possessed. The side of his head, somewhere near his eye, smacked against the wall of the tunnel, then dragged itself downwards as everything slumped simultaneously.

What was left? A shell? And Patch wasn't sure whether it was his or Bright's. Or Red Nose's.

Laughter. Inappropriate. Hot and harsh. Cackling, like a wicked witch from a fairy tale. Patch turned, his mouth trembling. He was so cold. His teeth were chattering. It wasn't his nose. It was his lips. The blood had come from his lips. He'd bitten them and drawn blood. Strange. Why couldn't he feel it?

The programmer wiped his eyes, shaking too, but for different reasons entirely. Red Nose didn't speak. Neither did Patch. Centuries passed, surely. Patch did not know these ponies, these strangers. He knew Bright, of course, but he was gone now. The game was over. Patch and Red Nose had won. Or lost. The same thing.

'And that,' wheezed the programmer, tears of mirth sliding from the emptiness in his horrible eyes, 'that is precisely how we started. Ahah hah…' He chuckled weakly, spluttering. 'That is… quite something, my lad. Hah heh. Heh heh heh! Quite something. Well, off you go, then. There's work to be getting on with.'

Patch didn't move as he exited the tunnel with Red Nose. He didn't speak as he talked with him. He didn't hear Red Nose's response, his justification, his regret. He didn't hear his mother's pride when he found his third emerald later that month. He didn't perceive his father's laugh when he reached Diamond-status. Or even register the name of the child he had, so he was perpetually told, conceived.

No, indeed, he didn't move, speak, hear, perceive or perform any sort of verb ever again. He was still there, in that tunnel, in the dusty old shaft, in perpetual darkness. He'd never left. Next to Bright, whose face was eaten and filled with maggots. They were complete equals now. From that moment, when the latter's head had burst at the end of Red Nose's worn metal shoe, still baubled with blood, neither of them had ever lived again.