Chapters The waiters and waitresses must have thought I was an anomaly. Every day at the same time, I came in, sat down in the same table, and randomly picked something new off the menu. Every day, I loved it. Every day, I was cheery and tipped lavishly. Every day, I looked like I had crawled out of the sewers. And every day, once I had enjoyed whatever random crap I had ordered this time, I would sit at the table and suddenly look gravely concerned and suddenly didn’t want to talk about it. Doing this once wouldn’t be shocking, but six days in a row? That was unusual.
That was what struck me when one of the waiters came up to me and asked what I was smiling about. Normally, by this time, I was quite dour. “I’m sorry, I was just, thinking about a joke I heard when I was a filly.” I sheepishly explained.
“There’s no need to apologize for being happy, ma’am.” The waiter politely said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what was the joke?”
I tried to remember the exact wording, but I had heard this all the way back in elementary school. “Boreas gave the griffons intelligence so that they could know evil.” I began cautiously. “Arcturius gave the griffons war so that they could know doom. Eyr gave the griffons bodies so that they could know pain. Maar gave the griffons death so that they could know that it wouldn’t last forever. Why do they revere the trinity, but hate Maar?”
The waiter frowned. “That’s rather grim, isn’t it? Why do they hate Maar?”
I tried to give him my friendliest grin. “Because everyone knows you can’t cheat death!”
He grimaced, and then against his wishes he smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t repeat that to other customers. Is there anything you would like? More water? A second dessert?“
“Oh, was this a dessert?”
He looked down at the remains of the cake-like meal I had finished some fifteen minutes ago. “Yes.”
“Well, I guess it was awfully sweet…” I chuckled nervously. “But no thank you, I’m fine. Oh, there’s one thing, although I don’t expect you to know the answer. You know the Hellknights, right?”
“How could I not?” He answered dryly.
“How do you join them?”
He looked around, wrapped in thought. “I always assumed they came to you, rather than the other way around. At the very least, I never traveled in those circles. Why do you want to join them now, of all times? The city was just liberated. You could join the Royal Army quite easily.”
“I don’t know. It just feels like they’re right for me.” I said as wistfully as I could manage. “Thank you for your time, and please, don’t let me take up any more of it.” He bowed slightly and walked away. I returned to my thoughts. I had a rather horrifying possibility in my head, and that sense you get when you know you’re about to make a mistake.
The rest of my thinking was mostly uninterrupted. There was one incident where a waitress tripped and fell a few tables away, and another where a trio of drunken Equestrian soldiers barged in and had to be shooed out (not uncommon these days), but besides that I did my mental calculations in peace.
I paid for my food and left once I had had my fill of luxury. This was not an excessively fancy restaurant, but it had been so long since I could justify the expense that I took it for everything it was worth. Even if it had been the most high-quality of places, the view of pleasant Tall Tale was spoiled by the building across the street being little more than a skeleton of brick walls around a pile of rubble. Hardly a week ago, the Royal Army had driven the changeling invaders from the city, and the rancid stench of death still hung faintly in the air. Both the capture and the liberation exacted a toll on the city itself, both of a similar character, and if I only looked I could see that many of the ruins sat atop tombs where the residents had piled into basement shelters and been unable to come out. Despite this, everypony was far happier about the new battle than the old one, and the celebrations still continued in some parts of the city.
I pulled a shawl over myself to guard against the numbing air of the winter night, although really it was an oversized poncho I had taken off of a dead soldier, and made my way back to the hotel I was staying at. Occasionally, the revelry was loud enough for me to hear it, although in a few more days it would probably be over and normal life would have resumed, or something like normal life. I wondered where I would go to next. My work demanded I be near the frontlines, but as much as I wanted continued victories, I didn’t know enough about the war situation to honestly tell whether Equestria would keep pushing north or if it wouldn’t or if it would be pushed back to the south soon enough. I heard something and saw the three drunken soldiers had run into me, and were catching up.
“Hey, girly!” One of them shouted energetically. “What’sa cute little thing like you doing in a dump like that?”
Under better circumstances, I would have adored the compliment. My unhealthy lifestyle had left me with some obvious issues that a simple shower couldn’t fix. My mane was often tangled and knotted, and my pale purple fur was discolored in many places. The skin underneath was as pallid as a corpse. My clothes were mostly ill-fitting and mismatched, too. I did not want to be the object of affection for three boozers, though, especially if they were all bigger than me.
I sped up without looking back, hoping they would get the hint. They called after me. Then they began to run after me. Their inebriation counteracted their superior fitness enough that I could just barely outrun them, but I thought I recognized one of them, a tan-brown earth stallion who I knew very well. It was an illusion, and the distraction had caused me to stop and my heart sank as I realized the error. One grabbed at my poncho and ripped it off. I ducked into a nearby alleyway and they followed me. One tackled me and I barely squirmed free, but the second got me from the side and forced me into a wall. By the time I was back on my hooves, they had surrounded me. Two earth stallions and a pegasus mare, all so drunken that their intestines must have been medically sterile. I could barely outrun them, but I absolutely could not out-fight them.
“Lookit this!” The stallion in the front barked. “We’ve been fighting for weeks now, and this is the thanks we get? We’ve been dying for you worthless civilians!” I was backed up against a wall. As a unicorn, I couldn’t fly, and I had neither the power nor the presence of mind to teleport or use any other spell that would get me out of here, save for a few very bad options. There was one trick I had, though, one which had been up my sleeve when I entered the alley but was now on its own. The other stallion was hanging back, swaying unsteadily on his hooves, so wasted on cheap hooch that he wouldn’t notice my scheme.
”You ever see what the changelings do to our guys out there? You ever see what they do to those they take alive? We’ve been putting everything on the line for you!” The stallion in the front roared. Neither he nor his companion noticed their third friend kicking a back leg instinctively as he was bitten by a rat. “And now we try to have a little fun, and it’s all, ‘oh this is a fancy restaurant! This is a nice establishment! We don’t want dirty soldiers here!’ Well, we oughta teach you damn civvies some respect!”
“Yeah!” His marefriend shouted, jamming a hoof into my chest roughly and knocking me to the ground. “We’ll show you how you ought to treat your heroes!”
“Hey, Bailey!” The lead stallion called. Even through the haze of ethanol and indignation, he could see something was wrong with his comrade, who had a thin string of drool hanging from the side of one mouth, and a glazed look in his eye, among other issues. “What the hell, Bailey? Did you crap yourself?”
The stallion named Bailey launched himself at the pegasus, biting into her wing with more strength than even an earth pony should have been able to muster. She screamed and started kicking and jumping furiously to get out of his grasp. Her friend threw himself against the rampaging stallion, striking him with hooves and his body to try and get him off of the pegasus as he too yelled in confusion. Bailey extracted himself from the pegasus and next sunk his teeth into the remaining stallion’s neck before pulling him to the ground.
The pegasus tried to escape, but her flight was abortive and she simply tripped and fell. She stood up and tried again, this time with even less impressive results. She kept attempting to get to her hooves and failing until, shaky and unsettled, she managed. She looked at me as the other two soldiers scrabbled up and did the same, the unnamed stallion ignoring the blood running from his neck into his uniform. “Wh.. What do… What… do you want… Mistress?” The mare asked.
I stooped down and let the zombified rat crawl back up my leg and into my oversized shirt. Did I have any use for them? No, they were evidence. If ponies could tell they died of zombification, a ponyhunt would begin and it wouldn’t be long until I was captured and forced to give up my studies, or burnt at the stake depending on who found me first. “First, give me all the bits you have on you,” I demanded. The standing corpses hesitantly reached into their pockets, pulling out coins and bills from their wallets and offering them to me graciously. “Thank you. Now, I want you all to tear each other apart. And if one of you is still standing afterwards, eviscerate yourself, too.” I ordered the zombies. They nodded, and the alley was once again filled with the sounds of fighting as they tore into each other, their muscles animated by magic and their primitive minds unable to worry about overexerting their bodies and ripping themselves apart from the inside.
On the streets, I grabbed my shawl and kept on walking.
My name is Festercast. I was 27 years old in early 1012, and I am a dark magician. A necromancer, to be exact. Typically, what draws ponies to dark magic is the allure of power, and while this is sort of true for me, there are some caveats that have helped and hindered me on my journey to unlocking the secret to immortality. For a necromancer, it might seem obvious that the path to eternal life can be found in lichdom, but it’s a bit more complicated. I don’t want to live forever, or, well, that’s not my ultimate goal. What I want is the ability to bring someone else back from the dead.
I grew up in Whinnyapolis. I went to the nicest public school in the city, which should tell you about my family’s wealth. My early life would have been typical for an only child had it not been for my attitude. Nothing ever felt like it mattered. I didn’t know why it was important that I be well-prepared for my life, since it seemed like it was just a big slog which ended in a funeral. Despite this, I assumed my parents knew best, and I kept mostly out of trouble and in good academic standing.
In school, I sometimes studied and I sometimes got B’s. Some other foals studied harder than me for worse grades, and some didn’t study at all and got straight A’s, but I was just going through the motions. While I wasn’t dead-last when it came to sports, it was only the fact that I got along well with other ponies that saved me from ever being the final pick when the teams were decided. Everyone treated art class as a second recess, a time to have fun and express yourself, and I excelled at this because I engaged with the projects the teacher gave us rather than starting impromptu hoofball games whenever she was busy. The artistic students confirmed my suspicions that what I produced was not really top-level material, but the teacher appreciated that I tried at all. I had many acquaintances, but looking back, that’s all they were. Even if they felt otherwise about me, they were never my friends, merely entertaining ways to pass the time.
My first year in high school, the death-march that was life finally revealed what the end goal was. I met another student named Graham Cracker. We talked, then we talked some more, then we started stealing moments outside of school to talk more, then we hugged, and kissed, and we did things that the sappiest romance novel wouldn’t dare show. I was more than happy. I knew what it was supposed to be like, the sensations which filled the other kids that made them get up in the morning and not idly wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to simply stop breathing now. From the sounds of things, I completed him as much as he completed me. Soon, we were inseparable.
He provided me with an endless supply of sweets, some normal and others experimental, and even the most horrid ones I tried with absolute relish. I was quite a late bloomer in the cutie mark department, and I went out often to try different things to see where my talent was, and he was there to help me brush myself off if it got kinetic. Anything you can imagine, we did it together. When I ran from the math teacher for putting a tack on his seat, Graham was there. When Graham broke his leg while helping his little brother put up a treehouse, I was there. When I, who had never broken a bone, was freaking out over whether he was in any danger or not, Graham was there. When Graham tried to get out of the hospital bed and fell so hard he re-broke the bone, I was there.
I later found out that, when the bone broke again, marrow seeped into his bloodstream and his heart, killing him. After nearly a year together, I had stood there, smile on my face, and watched him die, not even knowing that’s what I was doing. I couldn’t have helped him. I couldn’t have saved him. All I could have done was been more comforting during what turned out to be his last moments alive, and I didn’t do that. I stood there, and I watched.
After the funeral, I went into my room and didn’t come out for three months. The period isn’t a coherent narrative in my head, just a chaotic jumble of pain and misery. I hardly ate or drank, and when I did, whatever I had taken in soon left my body in crushing waves of sadness and tears. I was inconsolable, and I was immobile. By the time I could be coaxed out again, I had become emaciated. The malaise and hopelessness was back and stronger than ever before. I knew my destiny, and it was suffering.
A skull crying tears of blood had appeared on my flank.
For years, I hated my parents for disowning me and kicking me out of the house as soon as they saw it. I was a fool then. Now, I know that they probably should have killed me on the spot.
The dark arts are a pathway to abilities which are considered “evil” for a reason. The nature of dark magic is such that it attracts the worst in pony-kind, and then it amplifies their bad impulses to be worse still. Just using dark magic takes a tax on your soul, many of the most useful things you can do with it are things that only a psychopath could see no issue with, and to top it off, the fastest route to power and knowledge involves coercing and tricking others into going along with your scheme. There are layers of ways it tries to make you a bastard.
The truth is, those three soldiers? I didn’t have to kill them. There were plenty of tricks I could have used to get around them. But then there would have been living witnesses to my dark magic. If I thought it was acceptable, I could escape, turn myself in as a dark mage, and be sent to a rehabilitation center of some description. I would be forced to give up my quest, but I would be alive and frankly I would probably be better-fed than I have been. But I don’t want to give up my quest, it’s the only thing giving my life meaning, so I killed three ponies to protect my secret and didn’t feel an ounce of sorrow.
I should mention that I’m the nicest dark magician I’ve ever heard of, and I have read about a lot of dark magicians. The problem with dark magic should be pretty obvious.
And I can’t bring back Graham, too. His spirit has already passed on, and his remains are so rotted away that I can’t even raise a hollow simulacra from the material parts of his consciousness. I’m doing all this on the off-chance I meet someone who revives those feelings in me so that I can spare them from death. It’s the only way I can think of to keep going, because if I can’t experience happiness without the all-consuming terror that I might randomly lose it all once again, then that’s not true happiness. And if that one period of true happiness is all I will ever be allowed to have, then I might as well admit that everything afterwards has been and will be a waste and end it now. It’s certainly seemed like a good idea after a few nights on the streets, trying to sleep on a park bench and not sure if I’m shivering from hunger, the rain, or some new illness, and also not knowing when I’ll next be able to get away from any of that. Yet that one period, less than a year total… if I could experience it again, even for only a day, it would all have been worth it.
I make my way through an abandoned dry-cleaner’s. One of my black arts is the ability to sense death, and I know there are a number of bodies underneath this building. The back half of the structure has collapsed, and I find a hatch to a basement under a few layers of bricks. I climb down the ladder and find myself in a pungent hole once more. There are four corpses down here, two large and two small, surrounded by empty cans that once held preserved fruits and vegetables. The smallest body is the only one which doesn’t have bite marks on it. All of them are little more than strips of leather-like flesh barely attached to the structure of aged bones. They’ve been sealed down here ever since the bugs took Tall Tale a year ago.
I find which of the boxes held their jewelry and other valuables, brought down here to keep it from being lost in the bombing raid or stolen by soldiers or looters, and dump it all into a pocket of my oversized pants. I had to run a lot of energy through my thralls to make the zombification happen so quickly, and I used a lot of physical strength to clear the rubble blocking the hatch, so I’m in no mood to play with these bodies. And besides, it’s late.
I pawn the jewelry at a shop on the brand-new seedy side of town and consider my chores for the day complete.
I drag myself across the city, into the elevator and up to the hotel room that is registered in my current pseudonym. Black magic of any sort is extremely illegal, and I change identities every time I enter a new town to avoid being caught. It doesn’t always work, I found out the hard way that every morgue in the country has a file on me so they know to call the police if I show up asking for a job again, but it’s enough that I can live between the lines. With my most dire crimes being self-defense cases where I was overzealous, I’ve avoided a nation-wide mare-hunt that would get me for sure. This room is my reward. Two beds, a small bathroom, a smaller closet, a desk, carpets and regular cleaning. To the common pony, it’s nice enough to spend a week in. It’s downright opulent compared to my normal living standards. I plan to be here for at least a few months.
A zombified rat crawls out from the sleeve of my shirt as I collapse down at the desk. I named it ‘Deadmouse’ after its impeccable music taste. It looks at me, imitating the mannerisms of the rodent it once was. Its hairs are starting to get thin. I need to dispose of it and find a new one. Perfumes strong enough to cover the dead rat smell cannot be found on a whim, at least not on my budget. I’m already behind thanks to my eating and tipping habits. I must stop going to that restaurant. Or really any restaurant. I’ve celebrated with everypony else, now I have to get back to work.
Hopefully the Military Police have calmed down their search for lost changeling soldiers who were left behind in the liberation. I do not need more oversight from the authorities.
The obvious next step for me is to try and make up my spent money by going and getting more. That shelter was the last one I know about where I can get in without arousing suspicion, and getting jewelry from the expedition is rare, usually I just get corpses, or another pile of rubble. Getting a job is not out of the question, but it would take up a lot of time, and odds are that if I spend too much time outside I will get press-ganged into a salvage crew clearing rubble. There are a limited number of ways to get paid and do my research into mortality at the same time, and remember, every morgue and funeral home already knows me. So that leaves my current source of income.
Between my activities of the day and my surprise encounter, I am exhausted. I do what I can to scrawl out a map for tomorrow’s adventure, and then I take a shower, crawl into bed, and rest. It feels so nice to be indoors.
I don’t know whose bike it was, but now it’s mine. It’s not built for off-roading through the forests around Tall Tale and I feel it. The device itself is durable enough to manage it about as well now as it did three months ago. The bigger issue is my eye. Singular. My right eye can see just fine, but my left eye is blind. For the moment, I have traded away sight in that eye for the ability to see death. I have it covered in a bandage to make it look like it’s an injury since having one normal eye and one pale one would draw attention, especially if I’m spotted by the same person with both eyes perfectly fine later. It might not be an elegant solution, but it works, especially these days since bombs and shells often hit everything except their target. I’m rarely the only injured bystander in the room.
My left eye sees a haze, and I slow down, barely avoiding a tree. The earth here is more freshly-churned than elsewhere, and the underbrush has been displaced. I lie down and meditate. There are around four or five bodies in a shallow grave right here. Across my back is my staff, and I let my energy flow through it. The remaining energy inside the dead mingles with the tendrils I send out, and as I wrap my essence around the right puffs of theirs, they greedily inhale life. The staff draws some of it from the world around me, but its biggest role is to keep me from getting overdrawn accidentally. After a quarter of an hour or so, my mind drifts back to the mundane world. With a thought, the earth wriggles and writhes, and five decayed corpses pull themselves up. They all wear Equestrian uniforms. I explain to them what I want, and they start by offering me all the money in their wallets. Four hundred bits is more than enough for me to survive for a week, unless inflation goes wild again. They don’t have anything else useful for me.
I don’t know who buried them like this. In war, time is always a luxury. Both sides would like to properly dispose of the dead, but it is often a privilege to bury your own, and neither side wants to give up that privilege for the enemy. Most often, they stick all the remains in shallow, communal holes next to where they died to keep them from stinking up the place or spreading disease. What’s lucky for me is that ponies do not like looting the dead, and even if they take everything useful, they can rarely bring themselves to take personal effects without a reason. So they leave the wallets and purses behind. The changelings are similar, only instead of not wanting to disrespect the dead, they have nothing to spend bits on.
With that out of the way, I can focus on my current research. Bodies are complex mechanisms, and when the immaterial aspects get involved, they become incomprehensible. Yet by poking and prodding them, you can learn patterns that underlay them, and what those patters might mean for you. This is one of those areas where the best way forwards is to take advantage of everyone around you. There are an incredible number of different bodily fluids and you’ll need to know how all of them react to dark coercion before you can start summoning simulacras rather than simple zombies or skeletons. The highest levels of dark excellence require you to experiment on creatures with souls, so if playing with stomach bile was too enjoyable, be ready to do it to someone who’s still alive and screaming. I’m guessing that it’s that, and the need for secrecy, that are the reason dark cults have few ex-members.
I feel around the insides of each of the undead standing before me, letting my sense of magic find what it wishes and making mental maps of everything that could possibly be the way the soul exited the body. These soldiers died recently enough that the trail should still be visible, but there are so many pathways and I don’t know what most of them are. I brought a notebook with me and I fill it with diagrams of each area, marking not only the leyline burns, the vitae circulars, and the thought-channels, but also ‘Mystery Residue A’, ‘Mystery Residue B’, ‘Mystery Residue C’, ‘Strange Pockmarks A’, and other unknown patterns. All of these ponies were killed by shrapnel, and I am lucky that shrapnel doesn’t kill everyone in the same way, and that there are other ways ponies die in war. Before this conflict started, I was quite overstudied in the effects of drug habits and diseases on the pony form, simply because that’s who I had access to.
After some time, I have the zombies crawl back into their grave and re-cover them. I will think about what I learned later. I have some theories about technical details of what these different diagrams mean. I pedal back to town. I feel like I have learned very little. My work is primarily concerned with the movement of souls, and there’s only so much you can learn from looking at the very-alive and the very-dead.
On the way, I hit up a small library whose owners went into hiding during the changeling occupation. The windows are boarded up because they haven’t replaced the glass yet, but it has a decent selection of books for what it is. I ask the librarian for “true crime novels about dark magicians,” and she obliges. For ponies who find celebrity gossip too palatable, true crime is their vice. Thank Celestia for them, and for the true devotees who are addicted to the mystery and depravity of the dark artists. As someone on the other end of the pen, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to engross themselves in my world, but so be it. They mean I can do scholarly research in peace.
Tall Tale has a long history of petty blood magicians and rumors of cabals. Of course, respectable authors don’t want to teach the reader the secrets of attaining evil power, and their works are written accordingly, while the more sensationalist ones will take any rumor and hearsay at face value and publish it. Both confound me in different ways. I check out a few books that might have useful information.
I take a ride by the local “river” to let the day start winding down. One of the advantages of being a homeless vagrant is that you set your own hours and timetables, and I don’t like my research stressing me out with deadlines, so I can take time to enjoy scenery like this. Well, “enjoy” is the wrong word. The creek that runs through Tall Tale is not large, but it was infamous for how many bodies the mafia used to dump into it. After decades of gangster activity, I counted a dozen corpses. After the battle for the city, it was closer to 30. After running the place for only a month, the changelings had gotten the number up to over 200, most of whom were avid patriots, outspoken harmonists, and suspected stay-behind agents. I admire their dedication, but not their results, and I’m talking about the victims as much as the perpetrators when I say that. The ones who survived were vicious monsters like the Hellknights whose true character wasn’t known to anyone until they took up arms to fight the invader. The creek reminds me how being distant and hard-hearted isn’t always a bad thing.
Also, I always suspected that the mountain of corpses in the local water supply was responsible for the cholera outbreak that ponies and changelings both got to experience. It’s a lesson in unexpected consequences, too.
By that point it is getting to the evening, and the cheese-sandwich-and-other-cheese-sandwich breakfast I made has run its course. I stop off at the Wee Baguette and engross myself in another dish I can’t pronounce and overtip yet again. Cursing my lack of self-control, I go to my hotel room. At least this time I didn’t tell an ethnic joke to the waiter of a fine dining establishment.
In the lobby, I am stopped by a well-groomed earth pony. I blink once. I blink twice. It’s Graham. I blink a third time. It’s not Graham. “Excuse me, miss. Are you Pernicious Poison?” He asks politely.
“Yes,” I reply, trying to hide my nervousness. Ponies rarely look for me without being law enforcement. I have no regular contacts, no permanent residence, and officially I don’t even exist. Yet here is someone. And if he is a cop, I will soon be cursing myself again for not thinking of a less disconcerting pseudonym. I knew at the time it was a bad idea, I just couldn’t think of anything better and figured I wouldn’t be stuck with it for over a year.
“I have a business proposition for you. Is it okay if we talk somewhere private?” He asks confidentially. My heart rises back from the depths. Either he doesn’t actually know me, or he is an incredible moron. He’s far safer where he is than anywhere I could possibly take him because here there’s witnesses. I nod and show him the key to my hotel room.
He made himself comfortable on my bed. “I hear you want to join the Hellknights.” He starts, looking at me. I check around, making sure I put all my incriminating notes away before leaving that morning. To the untrained eye, I did.
I realize that he was waiting on me to say something. “Yes.” He keeps staring at me, and motions for me to keep going. I recall what lie I’ve been using to explain it. “I think that my talents would possibly be better suited for them than for the- Equestria’s- the Royal Army.” I get out, stumbling over my words.
He looks at the ground and I can’t tell if he’s upset or just disappointed. “I want you to join the Hellknights, too.” He says clearly.
“Okay.”
He stares at me. Then he sighs. He pulls a badge from his back pocket. “Agent Sea-Eye Hay, SMILE.” He barks. “As you might know, the Hellknights been growing in popularity ever since the bugs took Tall Tale. Back then, eviscerating anyone who got in their way was permitted, but not commendable. Now that we’ve retaken the city, it’s a problem. They won’t lay down their arms or join the Royal Army. They won’t apologize for the nasty things they did. Now they’re getting worse. Yesterday, MP’s were hot on the heels of three of our soldiers who had had too much to drink and were causing a scene, and when they found them, the trio was in pieces in a dark alley, and still warm. Miss, that’s not three changelings or three ponies who were probably collaborators, that’s three Equestrian infantry they just killed. That’s a declaration. And worst of all, the desk-jockeys have started throwing the phrase ‘similar to dark magic rituals’ in their reports. Suddenly, my bosses want to know what’s going on inside the Hellknights and it’s a real problem that the last two agents we sent got sniffed out and booted instantly.” He leaned closer towards her. “So I’m asking you. Do you want to serve your country? Because there’s a gang of lawless terrorists running around and now they’re Equestria’s problem.”
“You want me to… help you deal with your own allies?” I hesitantly ask.
He shrugs. “Well, we don’t know if we have to dismantle them. If possible, we’d like to get them in line and keep them around for in case they’re needed again. But if we can’t…” He slides a hoof across his neck. “The war is no excuse for bad behavior.”
I note that his organization felt otherwise when Tall Tale was owned by the enemy.
Yet his idea holds some merit. The truth is, I’ve been following the Hellknights not out of patriotism, but because their extreme results do indeed look a lot like the aftermath of experimenting with the dark arts. In this field, mutilated bodies are part of a balanced research project. And since Tall Tale has been plagued with theories about secret magical cults, I’ve been wondering if they were real, and this is them finally revealing themselves, and doing so for the good of their country. I’ve often wished that I could convince someone in the military to let me use my powers for Equestria, not to simply use the war as an endless source of cadavers and hiding spots. Is that their plan? Has this war brought out the best in pony-kind’s worst offering?
Can I finally find a group to teach me so that I don’t have to do everything myself?
“Of course, I know I’m asking a lot of you on short notice. I’m willing to give you a few bits to make it a bit more worth your time. But we do need this done sharpish.”
“...How many bits?”
“How many do you want?” He asked.
I could be funny and ask for a massive amount, but I decided not to waste both of our times. “Fifty per day.” I offered.
He cocked his head at me. “If that’s what you want, then by all means. Do we have a deal?”
“I guess we do.” I held out my hoof, and we shook on it. Poor bastard didn’t know I would have settled for twenty-five.
I already know that the three soldiers he was complaining about were the ones I killed. It shouldn’t be hard to guess why I didn’t mention that. Honestly, if I had, and he had been inexplicably calm about it, it wouldn’t have changed much. The Hellknights had done just about everything short of it by that point.
On the inside, changelings and ponies are not the same. I'm not being metaphorical, their organs are entirely different colors and shapes. I don’t know that because I was tearing them open, either, the changelings are immune to nearly all of my dark magic and so starting a fight with them was a very very very bad idea. Technically they don’t even have souls, although this seems to produce no difference in behavior between them and their red-blooded counterparts. It was the Hellknights who loved to let everyone see their newest victories who showed me these factoids. Finding the remains of their friends in the town square, tortured to death and hacked to pieces, did not endear us to the changelings, and their violent reprisals didn’t endear them to us. As the small victories racked up, the Hellknights became ever bolder and the changelings became ever angrier. Eventually either the bugs would be pushed back by the army for the losses sustained or the town would be destroyed, both of which were good for the war effort, if not necessarily for us. That’s the kind of strategy which makes a normal pony sick just to imagine it, and yet comes easily to a committed dark magician.
My key into the Hellknights was a part-time scoundrel and part-time grocery store checkout clerk. Years of shoddy construction had left the less economically-privileged quarter of town also less bomb-proof, and the impoverished were packed into the remaining buildings like soldiers in a mass grave. I had been glad to be homeless so that I didn’t have to deal with it, and then even more glad to afford a hotel room. Once I had found the stallion in question, I thought of the best way to approach the topic.
“Excuse me, I believe you have something I’ve been looking for.” I said to the gruff, weathered pegasus in the mildewed hall as he made his way home from work the day after my meeting with Mr. Hay.
“I don’t have your money, but if you want drugs, you can pay like everyone else, and then I will have your money.” He grunted, pushing past me. But I’ve talked to these kinds before. It’s like talking to the rich and the middle-class, except being more educated in your tone makes you less respected instead of more. Many of the Equestrian poor are proud of their poverty, but it’s a harmless sort of pride. They aren’t skipping school or anything. They say the hard work makes them tougher. The opposite is true, the lack of hard work makes them bearable. Equestria’s social safety net is big enough that no one has to live on the streets if they don’t want to, and thus, no one has to get into any truly bad habits. It’s just that what it would take to be on the receiving end of those social programs is a price I’m not willing to pay.
On the streets, the real streets, there are two kinds of ponies. Felons on the run, and those too mentally-ill to function in a bureaucracy. That’s what it takes to be truly impoverished. Neither one is nice. I have been in a lot of self-defense situations. Really, I myself am a rare breed by being halfway in between the two groups. You occasionally see ponies in between two different states of home-ness, but they’re transient.
A few weeks as a hobo makes many sympathetic to the cause, however. Finding a house to stay at was rarely difficult when I needed it, the problem was that after the first few hours the residents would realize, no matter what you did, that they couldn’t help you and the government can. Except I’m not a normal pony, so that’s not true for me. Once they started talking about that, I had only a little time left before they expected me to leave, and if I didn’t leave with a smile on their face, I would leave with a grimace on their face instead. There was little difference.
Ironically, in Equestria, the social programs are so advanced that the margins of society are small to the point of being unlivable. If you’re too destitute for even free housing, you’re living trashcan-to-trashcan until you get stabbed by a drug addict who should be on pills for schizophrenia but is actually on pills for bipolar disorder. Sorry.
But for now, all of that is irrelevant to me. I’m in a rare position where I have money. Also the social programs all got defunded to pay for tanks.
What is relevant is knowing that no matter how small the numbers get or how criminal the entrepreneurs are, every pony is interested in their business. “Actually it’s membership to a certain exclusive club. Word on the street is you can get the right kind of pony in, and they like that about you.”
He stops, concerned. “Maybe I can. What kind of club is it, and who’s asking?”
“They call it ‘V’ for ‘Very Angry Patriots’. It seems like my kind of group, as someone who is a very angry patriot.” I said, trying to be cool and possibly not succeeding.
“’Very Angry Patriots’, huh?” He rubbed his chin performatively. “Yeah, I know who you’re talking about. But what the hay makes you think they want you?”
“I love their work. Like that ‘performance’ in the town square, or the ‘show’ down main avenue. I love it so much I want to contribute.” I referred to the various places where the bodies of occupation soldiers had been found, with an eye towards the ones where they were in as many pieces as possible.
The pegasus looked me up and down. “And why not join the Royal Army if you hate the bugs so much?”
“They wouldn’t let me do the things I want to do.” I flatly explain before I realize how screwed-up I sound. It’s technically true, but it gets the wrong idea across. Well, for this group, it might be the right idea, but still.
“Alright.” The pegasus admits defeat with a look of concern on his face. “You seem like their kind of mare. Nothing to gain. Nothing to lose. I’ll let them know about you. What’s your name?”
“Pernicious Poison. When should I hear back from them?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll come to you.”
I told my not-so-secret-agent friend about the meeting. He moved to another room in the same hotel, so it was not hard to find time to talk in private. Mr. Hay said to trust they would come. They had for the previous agents.
It certainly took them a while. I went out to the Wee Baguette to celebrate my new job. “How much are you making?” The waiter asked.
“Fifty bits per day.” I beamed.
“That’s less than minimum wage,” He said.
“But it’s more than I made before.” I pointed out. I even got dessert intentionally this time.
The day after the meeting, I went about my normal routine. I got very little research done for reasons unrelated to my new job. When I came back, I asked the doorman if there were any messages for me. He said no.
The only noteworthy thing was what happened when I went to the grocery store. I was tired of having two cheese sandwiches for breakfast every day, and wanted to get some other food. When I arrived, there was a commotion in progress. A changeling soldier had abandoned his uniform and tried to blend in with the civilian population, but after days of not eating meat, he passed out from hunger in the middle of the store and dropped his disguise. I got to help another pony keep an angry mob at bay until the military police arrived to drag the poor thing to some prisoner camp somewhere. I was nearly struck multiple times, but the civilian helpers blocked off the group with our bodies, keeping them from being able to clearly see the object of their hatred, forcing them to watch as it left them and they couldn’t do anything without trampling their fellow ponies. There was so much fury in that crowd that the few of us who were keeping everyone back probably made the difference between law and lynching. Even if it hates me, the law has helped me more than wanton murder ever has.
Then I went back to my room and had a tasty PB+J sandwich.
The day after that , I stopped by the store to get some crackers so that I could branch out even more and not just eat sandwiches all the time. Then I went to do research.
As I was investigating the newest freshly-dug grave deep in the woods, I heard a voice behind me. “What are you doing?” It asked. I turned, and it was an Equestrian soldier, but not a living one, it was one of the ones I had just raised from the dead.
“I am finding out who was buried here.” I lied to the revenant.
“You need to give me a proper burial.” He demanded. “It’s the least you all can do for me after dragging from my home and sending me to be slaughtered by the machine guns.”
“I can send for a priest once I’m done.” I offered.
“You can send for a priest right now.” He forcefully stated. “Actually, what the buck are you doing?”
I looked at his body, which was standing upright and offering his wallet to me. “Nothing.” I said.
The revenant put his hoof to his mouth and whistled. The other five bodies in the grave had their own revenants appear besides the first one, all angry. The forest roared with a mighty tearing noise as they pulled a tree from the ground to throw it at me. It splintered as it landed hard against the ground. I was already running. I got on my bike and pedaled away as fast as possible. I was not equipped to deal with revenants.
I pulled the shards of wood out of me as I explained to a priest what happened. Leaving out some details, of course.
This exercise really hit home what had had me concerned for the past month or so. When I first made my way to the front lines, my research advanced in leaps and bounds. It was slowing down again. This was a problem, since I was hardly closer to my specific end goal of being able to pull a soul back into its body. I’d been at this for well over a decade. If I didn’t get tutelage, it was looking increasingly possible that I could die of old age before achieving what I wanted. I had thought about becoming a lich so that I could be unbounded by time, but preliminary research showed that it required a lot of the same knowledge as the initial objective anyways. Plus, when you’re a lich, you open yourself up to other ponies messing with your phylactery. It’s important that you get that right and you only get one shot. That’s why you have smartasses like Sombra, who hid his in the interstice because then only another dark magician could reach it, and then every time he got defeated his body was reformed in the interstice and was stuck there until someone pulled him out or he had managed to scrape together enough power to force his way out. I wouldn’t make that mistake, but that is far from the only way it can go wrong.
So, if lichdom isn’t the way to the end, what is? I really need the Hellknights to come through on this one. It’s terrifying to wonder if you’ll never have anything to look forwards to ever again.
When I returned to the hotel, there was someone a distance away from the front door, staring at it worriedly. “What’s wrong, sir?” I asked.
I must have startled him. He took a second to breathe and his nerve back before he said, “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh. Well, I probably can’t help you, but good luck.” I replied.
Then something happened, and I’m currently in the trunk of a moving car with a headache and a bag over my head, so I guess this is the Hellknights getting into contact with me.
Taking stock of my situation, it’s not as bad as it first seems. I still have Deadmouse on me. It’s a new one I picked up yesterday since the old one was getting pretty musty, but that won’t matter. I try to look into the realm of the spirits to see how many are in the car, and discover that I have a magic suppressor ring on my horn. I’ve got a small spool of magical thread for just such a situation, since this isn’t the first time I’ve been restrained in the back of a moving vehicle, only the first time it hasn’t been legal. The mouse grabs the thread from my pocket and wraps it around my horn through the grooves, bypassing the suppressor. It could hold a normal unicorn, but since Deadmouse already my thrall, controlling it is a matter of the spirit rather than magical expression and the ring can be circumvented.
Before I start sensing death again, I consider that my kidnappers were laying in ambush for me. They know both of my eyes work because they saw me with both working. I can’t give up one to do it, I have to use something else. If they’ve bound me this tight and dragged me out this far, they probably don’t think it’s off the table that they’ll get rough with me, so I give up most of my sense of pain for a while instead.
I normally don’t like doing that. It might seem wonderful to be able to turn off pain, and it is at first, but one time I was running from the law and broke my leg while my pain was nullified. I only realized I had broken it after I had already escaped. The running had made the damage far, far worse, and if I had used it much more it might have fallen off entirely. I couldn’t walk for six months until I found the power to heal it. During that time, I began to wonder if I had done something similar by turning off my rage, my sadness, my despair, and all the other uncomfortable emotions, and I let those return, too. Then I looked back at what I had been doing while unable to feel negatively and realized I was becoming a monster that no one worth knowing could ever love. There was a reason why I was able to sell them for power, rather than being forced to buy their absence. I was only lucky that caution made me sell them temporarily, rather than permanently.
Remember what I said about dark magic having layers of ways to make you a bad creature?
Pain dulled and senses expanded, I look around. There are four others in the car. Hardly any death is around us, except for one or two large clusters. After a few minutes, I can see a long line of dead bodies far below us. So we’re over the river.
It was for nothing. As soon as we’re at our destination, they pull me out of the car and tear the bag from my head. I barely have time to put the thread away before I see the open sky again. We’re at a lumber mill, a very old one, miles into the woods. None of my captors are hiding their face. That’s a big problem. It means they don’t expect me to tell anyone who they are, probably because I’m dead. But this is supposed to be an evil cult, I should have expected to either pass their test or die.
They pull me into the basement of the lumber mill and tie me to a chair. The leader is a red unicorn. He almost seems younger than me, and sits across from me like this is the thirteenth time he’s had this conversation. “Care to explain yourself?” He demands.
“I want to join the Hellknights. It’s not complicated.” I say.
“It’s not that.” He calmly explains. “It’s that the last two agents SMILE sent were told that we didn’t want them. Now here’s a third. I think the message isn’t getting across like it should be. Who’s your handler? We want to talk with him.” Behind the unicorn, an earth pony flips a switch on a battery.
The unicorn tears my shirt open and takes two sets of clips which are wired to the large battery before touching them to my body. I can tell that it hurts quite a lot, but the pain is mostly dulled and I can grit my teeth and bear it. “I don’t have a handler. I’m here because I want to be.” I force out through the spasms and twitches.
So this is the test. I don’t know of any spell that lets a unicorn turn off their own pain, but a necromancer will pretty quickly stumble across it. Either you must have some skill already, or really, REALLY want to join. Traditionally, the latter group is given a taste of power to make them work hard, and then ground into test material. And there’s at least one body in the yard out back.
The unicorn across from me replies, “I don’t believe you,” and puts the electrodes against my body again. My comparative lack of reaction seems confuses him.
“That’s your problem, not mine.” I say. He puts the electrodes away and picks up a hammer from a toolkit. “Try not to break anything, it will be hard for me to work with you if I’m stuck in a hospital.”
The unicorn grimaces and brings the hammer down on one of my legs. It hurts, but I barely show it. “You’re taking this awfully well.” He comments.
“Just showing my dedication to the cause. Pain isn’t for me. It’s for them . I’m sure you understand.” I spent a long time thinking of that line and I wanted to use it. I knew the audience would like it. Really, I don’t have any particular grievance with the changelings as a race. Even though they’re ruining my beautiful country, their evils are hardly worse than what ponies do when they’ve been raised poorly. Hell, I’ve said that my parents didn’t go far enough when they kicked me to the curb, but I feel that way for reasons of practicality. Ethically, it was a morally reprehensible and terminally hypocritical act, and the only reason I don’t hate them for it is because anyone else would have done about the same. Why hate a creature for being normal?
The unicorn decides to bring out the big guns. His hammer goes back in its case and a can of gasoline in the corner glows bright red and lifts itself to him. He pulls a rag from the cap and kicks my chair over, my head impacting against the solid ground hard enough to daze me. Right before the wet towel goes over my face, I realize that physical pain is the only thing I shut off, and fear remains.
It’s not the scalding acid that sends me into a fit. It’s the sensation of drowning. Even without feeling the pain, my body knows that I’m breathing liquid instead of air. Adrenaline flows and the specter of death feels like it has finally come for me. Every ounce of willpower I have is going towards simply remembering that this can’t actually kill me, even if every fiber of my being is telling me that I need to do whatever it takes to stop filling my lungs with fluids before I suffocate in my own body. I thrash about, straining my muscles to their fullest, but my bonds are built for a much stronger pony than I. After what felt like a small eternity, the rag comes off. “Still feeling the dedication?” The unicorn asks.
They must have been expecting me to also have turned off things like fear. I can’t let them think I’m sub-par by revealing I kept that impulse. “Did I stutter?” I force myself to say.
The rag goes on again and the terror returns. A thought occurs to me that, if I can’t speak quickly enough, they may notice I’ve only got some of the abilities they think a new acolyte needs to make the cut. Then it won’t matter how much I’ve kept myself together. I will become another reject, another corpse in a shallow hole in the yard. My concentration fails me and go into a blind panic. There is no more plan, no more thinking, just me repeating to myself, over and over again, that I have to get out of here!
The next time the rag comes off, I don’t have the presence of mind to say anything. I’m a blubbering mess shouting incoherencies. “This is more what I was expecting out of you.” The unicorn says. I have just enough time to realize I must assert myself, then the rag goes back on and my mind is once again sent into abject terror.
At some point, a thought occurred to me. How can I spend this much time around corpses and be this terrified of death? It was a thought that stopped seeming poignant as soon as I grasped it, and it was quickly washed away in a new dose of gasoline and mortal fright regardless.
Coughing and sputtering, I’m brought vertical again. The smell of gasoline has seeped into my mind, and I’m still screaming even if by now my throat is hoarse. The unicorn says something, but I don’t hear it. He gets in my face and says it louder. Then he yells it louder once again. I can tell there are words, but not what they are. I hope I correctly guess what he’s talking about even though I barely recognize that he’s talking at all. “Yes, I still want to join!” I fail to shout. I take a moment to try and steady myself. “Yes, I still want to join!” I once again exclaim, this time calmly enough for it to be made out. My heartbeat is slowing to a non-fatal level now that I’m not in danger anymore, and the ability to act consciously is slowly returning.
“You’ve got guts, little lady.” The unicorn said. “But that’s not how you join the ranks of the elite.”
“WHAT ARE YOU, THE CELESTIA-DAMNED RAINBOW FACTORY?!” I yelled. It took a lot of self-control to not curse him out for the suffering he had caused me personally, and to keep my anger relevant to his interests. “YOU NEARLY GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK! THEN WHAT WOULD YOU DO? GO OUT AND WASTE EVEN MORE OF YOUR OWN TIME BURYING ME?”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry, but… what the hell? I got the point when you brought out the hammer!” I continued, panting.
The unicorn smirked. “The suffering builds character.”
“No! Your target audience is ponies who won’t care! That’s all you need to know!”
“It’s torture. It doesn’t end when you stop being comfortable with it.”
I looked him in the eyes. “Are you here to make ponies suffer, or are you here to accomplish something? If this is just a pain engine, I don’t need to be here and neither do you!”
The unicorn thinks about it. “Well, its possible that I wanted a bit more assurance than I needed. But it pays to be cautious. Are you willing to overlook that?”
Hardly in a mood to be polite and reeking of fuel, I barked, “I already said I still want to become a Hellknight.”
The unicorn nodded. The ropes around my body and limbs fell away. “Welcome to the Order, knight. Call me Prince.” I wasn’t in the mood to get out of the chair and see what state I was in. When he held out his hoof for me, I let him come to me to shake on it, but instead he pulled me up, sending bolts of pain that I can feel even though the self-inflicted numbness. “I’m surprised you can stand after that.” He chuckled.
“So am I. Just call me ‘Poison’, if that’s okay.”
“Fine by me, Poison. Just understand one thing. None of this happened. You weren’t here, you fell down the stairs or something, and you aren’t one of us. I don’t care how much pressure you’re under. I’ll show you our methods a bit later. For now, go home and think about how much better Equestria will be once we’ve had our way with it.” He smiled softly. “And for the record, the gasoline-boarding has caught VOPS operatives before. They handle it like a champ. No one else does.”
“Is that so?” I ask, trying to show interest to get my sense of place back.
“Oh, yes. Now, if you’re going to be with us, I think I should mention what exactly our goal is.” I take the cue, or the excuse, to sit back down. My aching body relishes the stillness. The unicorn begins to pace the room, his companions taking up positions around him. “The Hellknights were formed over a century ago as a rather different organization. Our founding fathers believed that Celestia was hiding something from us, a spark of true divinity that we were not ready for. They knew their beliefs were heretical and outright illegal by many definitions, but they pushed forwards, grasping for the secrets of the sun. They believe that she has only ever shown a fraction of her true power, and that, by being her strongest warriors, we can convince her to release herself upon our enemies. Convince her that we are ready to look upon her holy light in its full glory.”
“I can see it.” I encouraged.
Prince put his hooves on the rests of the chair. “You might see it, but you don’t understand it. When we fight the invader, we are not just fighting the changelings. We are fighting to create a new Equestria, one ruled by the true goddess of ponykind. One where no one will ever dare to touch us, one where we will be the clear masters of all we survey, one where we will rule the continent if not the world for ever and a day! The cowards of Equestria who fear the sun’s true might are just as much the enemy as the invader, the heathen, and the communist! We may have removed the bugs from this land, but the enemy is still all around us! Do you understand what we must do? What will be asked of you?”
This was dramatic, but it was not terribly surprising. You couldn’t say out loud that you were a dark cabal, you had to wrap it up in some mythos where you were just as Equestrian as everyone else but held some unpopular belief that made you separate. It was only the inner circle who would know the truth: That the future did not hold any vestige of the current order. The myth of the group being ancient was also common to add mystery, although this particular band might actually be decades old if the rumors were anything to go by. “I accept my duties,” I respond with grim determination, knowing full well that they’re mostly going to be taking advantage of me.
Yet, in between the lines of what he has said, I notice things that the common pony can’t even dream of. The heretical beliefs he mentioned sound quite similar to something I have seen with my own two eyes. To hear these ponies build a plan to grow it, I see the future. Visions of monuments and tempests, of a new harmony that even has room for ponies like me, yet in a nation that is stronger than any that has ever existed, and probably any that ever will. Even if I become more fuel for the fire, their goal, at least the one they tell me, is worthy enough that I would perish for it.
“...And then they gave me the initiation pledge and a time and address.” I explain to my handler.
His hooves were covering his face in grave shame. “I’m so sorry.” He mumbles. My version left out plenty of things that a normal pony wouldn’t have found out about. As far as he knows, I experienced every ounce of pain they inflicted on me while scared and confused.
“Don’t be. It wasn’t that bad.” I say.
“Last two agents had the same routine. They figured they were burned. You were right, the fact that the bad guys weren’t wearing masks anymore probably meant they intended to kill you.” His pulled a hoof through his short mane. “Celestia, I nearly killed you.”
I sit besides him to try and calm him down. “Hey. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it. Just keep the checks coming.”
“Yeah, I guess I can’t waste this opportunity. Miss, I’m really sorry.”
“No, seriously, it’s fine. I survived. And really I probably would have done it without you goading me if only I knew how.”
He sits there, worried sick. “What has Equestria come to? I’m not supposed to be sending random ponies to torture chambers.”
If I were a him I would be more concerned about the fact that a major city was beset by, at best, a band of radical religious fanatics, and at worst a mature dark conspiracy planning to take over the country. But I suppose that’s what makes me the evil one.
The next two weeks were spent learning the tools of the partisan trade. I wasn’t part of the inner circle, but I was much closer than the average member. Most of our allies were ponies who barely even took orders from the group. I collected dead drops of information from our observers on the streets, of money from our benefactors, and of material from some of our more specialist contractors. Once, I went out to hire one of those contractors for something. Under the changelings, the criminal underworld exploded, and we purchased weapons from gun-runners and drugs from suppliers, the latter for resale by other agents and the former for our own operations.
It was only natural. Plenty of evil mage cabals have existed behind gangs in order to draw in acolytes and cash, both for the benefit of the commanders. Well, as a political organization, we needed the bureaucracy to manage donations and labor from volunteers, and from there it wasn’t hard to engage in normal “unofficial entrepreneurship” alongside. So for most of the “insiders", the ones who went to the meetings and heard how the organization was going to be moving forwards, the majority of our time was spent keeping the cashflows open.
Hoof Prince was the local leader and the only pony who knew the full extent of our operations in this part of town. Only our part of town. Yet he still had the contact information for at least fifty of our comrades, who were managed by him and the five others in our cell. Prince himself was related to one of the region’s old noble families that still had much of their wealth, and supposedly a devout Solarist. There were two more unicorns, one here for revenge and the other for reasons he didn’t want to talk about. The pegasus was also here for “religious and patriotic reasons”, and the earth pony, well, she said she was a patriot, but she probably just liked hurting creatures and thought our group would let her get away with it. I wondered how she felt about the fact that, in a city which was more than 50% earth pony, most of our band were unicorns, but I didn’t ask.
Most of us had an anti-social streak. Of course we did. Most of our number survived the purges because we had been hiding our true character since before the changelings showed up. Plus, the defining trait of dark cabals is that most of the members are power-hungry above all else.
We knew little about the other cells, except that we sometimes interacted with them distantly. There was at least one cell which specialized in intimidation, and I was told that we called them to deal with especially sticky “outsiders”. Rumor was that there was another which specialized in assassination, and another which had infiltrated the Royal Army garrison. A few of the objects I acquired came from the towns around Tall Tale, so I supposed the Hellknights’ reach extended beyond just this one city.
Even as one of their front-line fighters, very little of my time was spent on their business. I did the same thing as I mostly did, except I occasionally swung by an address a bit out of my way to pick up a package that had been left for the group, or I went to the drug store that the pegasus owned and we all discussed political matters in the basement. That was our meeting place, and we were not to acknowledge that we all knew each other anywhere except in that building. We always acted alone unless given specific orders not to.
I’m guessing that only the bosses of the Hellknights (the “high priests” in the jargon) worked for the organizations full-time, if even them. It was only partly for lack of things to do. We are partisans, after all, not soldiers. We don’t get paid for what we do, we do it “because it’s right”, so we still have to go to work to pay our bills. Really, it would be rather suspicious if we suddenly quit our jobs and never got new ones because we were spending all of our time fighting the invaders behind the scenes. I don’t have a real job, and I’m not sure how you would describe what I do for a living, but it seems like it would be odd to ask for a day off from work so that you could go out with your friends to kill someone and mutilate their body.
Today, on my way to find new holes in the ground to play with, I’m stopping off at a boat enthusiast’s club on the riverside. I have to use the restroom, or so I will tell anyone who asks. Really, at the end of that hall where ponies rarely go, hidden on the underside of a stored chair, there’s a small box containing a list of patrol routes and schedules and whatever else the informant thought he saw.
No one even asks as I make my way to the back. Seeing all the model ships and paintings of sailboats makes me wish I could try a boat ride at some point. I would probably have to get better at swimming, though.
There’s someone waiting for me at the drop point, a well-dressed unicorn I’ve never seen before. “Ah, you must have been sent by our mutual friends, right?” He asks.
“Maybe I was.” I reply annoyedly. “What’s it to you?”
“I have just what you need,” he explains, flashing the box I’m looking for.
I scowl at him. “I wasn’t supposed to need your help finding it. You shouldn’t be here.”
He pulls a device from under his coat and a bolt of magic strikes me dead-center. I fall over, my muscles weakly flexing entirely out of my control. The unicorn quickly grabs me and pulls me into a nearby office with a friend I hadn’t seen. I cannot even move my eyes, and I can tell they are doing something to me while I’m incapacitated, but I can’t tell what. Just as I start being able to feel what’s going on again, I’m moving, and I finally get control of my body back when ice-cold water shocks it into action.
I’ve been thrown into the river.
My rear legs are cuffed together, and the chain between them has another chain attached to it with a rock at the other end. I am naked, but at least they didn’t put a magic restraining ring on. I softly land against the bottom of the river, freezing cold causing my blood to pump with enough force I can hear it over the rushing of the creek. Everything is in so much pain I can barely think, but my mind is still sprinting as fast as it can to find what ways there are to get out of this and whether or not I am actually capable of it.
If I had spent a lot more time underwater, I could probably, maybe, slip the rock from its chain before I ran out of air and drowned, and from there I could simply swim out, but I haven’t swam in years and I wasn’t great at it then either. That’s a no-go.
If I had enough magical power, I could teleport, but again, I couldn’t do that when I was at the height of my skill with light magic, I have fallen far since then, and this environment would especially challenging.
And I don’t have time to do a worthwhile dark magic ritual because those take tens of minutes and I have one.
...
I’m going to die. I should have figured this would happen, I really should have. I had it all, income, time, no cops trying to arrest me, a bed, and even hope that I could find a mentor to teach me to do what I had always wanted. Everything was going right for the first time in years. Now it’s all over.
Through the brown haze, a familiar figure steps as if unimpeded by the water or the sticky riverbed. Not you. Please, not you.
Come on, don’t think about things that way. Graham pleads disappointedly. I get the sense that he’s about my age, but he looks exactly like he did when we were together. That’s how this normally goes.
How I look at the present situation doesn’t really matter. Optimism won’t let me do things I normally couldn’t, and I must admit, the last decade has been a rather wretched existence.
It’s not that. It’s giving up so easily. You were stronger than you thought, even before you buried yourself in black magic. Fessy, I want to see you happy. I want to see you succeed. Please, for me, don’t just lay down and die. The apparition gets close to me and puts a hoof to my face tenderly. The creeping numbness is briefly pushed back by the warmth in that one spot.
I could never say no, could I? A brief shift in the underwater current runs over my fur, and the vision is gone. Once again, I am alone.
I haven’t done much experimenting with rapidly-cast dark magic. It seems like I would have to trade away a lot of bodily functions to get even a small effect on short notice. It would go easier if I had time, or material, or my equipment, or really anything besides myself. With just a few seconds and my own body, nothing will happen unless the dead body in question is very close.
…but there are a lot of corpses down here.
I start parceling out what I can use and what I can’t. My back legs are bound, so I don’t need those, and I trade away their use for the next few minutes for some magical energy. Same for my ears, one eye, my tongue, the muscles that control my tail, every emotion, anything else not immediately useful. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to MAYBE do something.
I release all of the power I can to raise the dead. Two zombies pull themselves from the muck and walk to me. Two. TWO . I decide to send a strongly-worded letter to whatever controls the fate of creatures like me once I meet them in the afterlife, which, thanks to them, will probably be around one minute from now. One stands on top of the other’s back and they pull me up on top of them. I curse my hasty decision, since this river is not terribly deep and I could get my head out of the water if only I stood on my hind legs, which are currently numb and lifeless because I thought I wouldn’t need them.
I’ve been here hardly a minute and my lungs are already burning, but now I’m standing on top of two zombies. I order them to jump, and catch a slight breath as I break the surface for a fraction of a second. The one on top of the other catches me as I sink back down. I have had an idea.
They jump again, and this time I’m facing in another direction. Once again, all I see is the steep retaining wall keeping the river from getting too close to the town. It’s not tall, but twenty centimeters above the water is a long distance to a pony that can barely reach two. The top zombie misses me as I float down through the current, and I have to wait for them to reach me and help pull me back up. My energy is disappearing into the near-frozen canal so quickly I can feel it. One more time, I briefly get above the waterline and see it – a small pier with a ramp for cases such as mine. I order the zombies to drag me in that direction, and they slowly march me through the ethereal clouds of silt that our steps kick up.
We reach the ramp and barely make it up against the rushing water. I drag myself with my front hooves fully out of the freezing liquid and back onto street-level. At this time of day, most ponies are at work, but I order my zombies to go back to being dead at the bottom of the river anyways just in case. A thousand icy daggers pierce my skin from every direction as I crawl along the ground, feeling the winter wind chilling the already-cold droplets against my body and leaving a trail of wetness across the street. Much more of this and my face will freeze off. I see something useful – a dumpster filled with cardboard just besides a shop. If I’m lucky, it’s flammables all the way down. I make my way to it and give up everything I have left that isn’t an internal organ or related to finding warmth, all to cast a heat spell that sets the contents of the metal box alight. I curl up besides it, having no perception of sound, nor of sight, nor of smell, nor of anything except warmth and cold, and let the waves of fire wash over me.
The first thing to come back is my emotions. As always happens when that damned hallucination intrudes on my fatalism, I am faced with waves upon waves of bitter memories about that golden time when we were together. If I could move, I would be writhing in agony as my brain plays a looping story about how I had it all and lost it. I wish I could end it, but it consumes every part of my mind. There is no escape. There is only waiting for the torture to end.
After a bit of time, my bodily functions start to return. I had no sight, but then I saw nothing but black, then a blurry impression of something that didn’t seem like it belonged back here. I can hear the fire dying down besides me, smell the ashes, feel the scratchiness of the jacket against myself, even against my hind legs.
The jacket? I am draped in a heavy black overcoat, but I’ve never owned such a thing. There is talking. A policemare is stooping in front of the wall I’ve been propped up against, and a working-class stallion stands besides here. Did they see anything? She looks into my eyes with deep concern. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
“I…” Looking around, it’s just these two. “I was so cold…”
“I imagine, you were shivering like mad when I found you, even under that jacket. You ought to thank Blur here, he probably saved your life.” She admitted. “You’re probably over the worst of it now, at least. Think you’re strong enough to explain what happened?”
My mind rushes to try and recall the past events without saying anything incriminating or bizarre. “I fell into the river. It was freezing. I managed to get myself out, but the only thing I could think of was warming up, so I guess I lit a fire and passed out.”
The policemare looks around cautiously. “I suppose that we can’t blame you for some light arson if you were worried you might die otherwise. You might have been right. Did you get rid of your clothes to keep from being weighed down or something? It’s too chilly out to go around naked, even without being sopping wet.”
“Maybe, I’m not quite sure what happened.” I partially lie. Even if the terror has indeed caused much of the details to smudge into each other, I know exactly what happened for that part.
“Hmm. And are you sure you fell into the river?” She asks. I realize that I’m probably still bound and weighted, and there’s no reason why they wouldn’t have noticed. Yup, I just moved my leg and heard the chain. Uh oh.
“...No.” I say.
It turns out that, if you were the intended victim of a murder case, the police really, really, really want to talk to you about it. They’re even willing to haul you down to the station and force you to give up what happened. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience, at least. They believed that whoever had done this to me hadn’t done it because I’d done something wrong, but rather, because I’d done something right. I tried to be polite and not seem like the kind of pony who deserved to be thrown in the river. I don’t believe that about myself, but it’s easy to make the wrong impression if you aren’t careful. In the end, they had a doctor look me over and make sure I was okay (I would make a full recovery quickly), gave me some spare clothes they had lying around, and then left me in a holding cell with some magazines.
They weren’t happy about my unwillingness to give details, but for the first time, I got to use some knowledge of dealing with police bureaucracy and asked for a lawyer. He was confused by my request, but he did do it. Until this all sorted itself out, I was stuck in that cell. I used the time to go over my theories as to what happened. My guess was that I got attacked by changeling infiltrators. That would explain why they needed my clothes. Every other theory couldn’t fit in that little detail. It also explained how they got a stunner like that that I’d never heard of before, and why they had to throw me in the river. If they didn’t care whether others knew I was dead or not, they could have just slit my throat and ran. But they didn’t.
The problem was that I was carrying a reasonable amount of things which would only make sense for a dark magician to carry. Changelings and dark magic are like seahorses and sloths, so if I was lucky they wouldn’t guess the dead rat and the wand of “summon heart attack” were evil artifacts. After a year in Tall Tale, the fact that I couldn’t touch those damn bugs with any of my spells was finally working for me rather than against me.
It’s ironic. Surrounded by creatures who were armed and immune to my tricks and had license to kill for any infraction (real or imagined), I still felt safer than I did in Baltimare. Hell, I felt safer in both places than I did now. In the last two weeks, I’ve been assaulted three times by three different groups. That’s a personal record.
The moral of the story is that Baltimare sucks and living there should be a substitute for prison time.
Early the next day, Mr. Hay explained to the nice policemares and stallions that the case was out of their hooves and apologized for the inconvenience, but assured them that they had done the right thing and helped Equestria. They thought it was neat how they had gotten involved in some secret-squirrel business. I was taken back to my room, and Mr. Hay purchased some new clothes and a new bicycle. Both were better than what I had had before, and more expensive, but I didn’t mention that. I explained to him what really happened and what my theories were.
He agreed with my interpretation. Apparently the changelings had left behind a few presents for us. Not every one that was still in the city was “missing in action”. He, of course, had no idea how many there were or what their end goal was. Then he left me. I took the rest of that day off, resting in bed and thinking about my notes as the last of the hypothermia left my body.
The next day, I went to the drug store for the meeting. I’d been given a small revolver to defend myself. I knew I was going to use it when I tied up my new bicycle right next to my old one. I levitated it in front of me in the way I’d seen Equestrian soldiers do it, but I didn’t actually know how to aim, all I understood was that I could pull the trigger and if that didn’t work I could cock the hammer and pull it again.
I made my way in and crept down the stairs, thinking about possible ways to deal with the situation. I heard Prince giving a speech about Equestria’s proudest moments. As I lowered myself into the rank basement, I came up behind a duplicate of myself, dressed how I had been two days ago when I got jumped. Prince caught sight of me and stopped talking, and the rest of the cell turned to look at me. Well, I couldn’t look weak in front of my fellow acolytes. I looked behind myself and caught sight of me, and I put my gun to my head and pulled the trigger. The duplicate fell out of the chair with a dull thud, the blood turning from red to green as the disguise burned away to reveal a changeling.
Once I had explained what happened, the others congratulated my survival and my kill, they each shared their thoughts on the matter, and then the meeting adjourned for the day. I hope they didn’t notice my shaking. It might seem strange with my life story, but I’d never been so close to a gunshot. I didn’t expect how aggressive the gun’s kick would be, or how strong the gunpowder would smell, or how loud the sound was. What’s more, I’d never killed someone like that. The first time I killed in self-defense, I was shaking then, too, but that was mostly stress. Emotionally, I had been fine with it since I was alive and they weren’t and that was the important part. Now, I was constantly having to force back the thoughts of how I could have avoided it, how I could have made it so that no one had to die. Even understanding that the changeling would have tried to kill me again if he/she knew I was still alive, my spirit was bound to the sense that I had just committed a murder.
Yet there was no way around it, was there? If I had forced the changeling to leave, then he/she would have tried to kill me later, if the Hellknights didn’t think of me as some sort of sympathizer and get me first. If I just got the changeling to surrender, the Hellknights would have killed it instead, and they would not have been so painless as a bullet to the head. If I had simply ran away, the changeling would have reported on the activity of the Hellknights until either getting them all killed or being found out and once again being tortured to death for it. No matter how I thought of to avoid the issue, a serious look at my idea showed there was no way out of it. My brain showed me, in gory, excruciating detail, every drop of blood and fragment of chitin that had come from the hole in the changeling’s head, every curve in the pool of ichor that formed around it, and I could only try and convince myself that I had had no choice, and that it wasn’t really my fault, I was just the one pulling the trigger. If I was going to believe things that weren’t true, couldn’t they at least be comforting lies?
Prince found me around the back of the store, curled into my retrieved clothes as the green blood froze in the fabric, staring at the grass as it browned in the winter cold. “First time?” He asked. I nodded. “It’s disappointing, but even if many of our comrades have no compunctions about violence, I would rather we err on the side of caution.” He sat down besides me. “Even if they’re as different from us as ants are from mice, how we feel about inflicting suffering on the changelings often reflects how we would feel about inflicting suffering on ponies. Right now, monsters and heroes are only separated by a laurel wreath. Don’t feel guilty about still having your soul.”
I forced a smile. “I’m surprised to hear that from you.”
He smiled back. “It’s a real concern. It gets to the heart of our organization, and the fundamental contradiction that the common pony will hopefully one day grasp. Poison…” He asked, looking at me. “What is Equestria to you?”
“Well, it’s this country, isn’t it?”
“No.” He nodded. “If you have a borough of Griffonians in Canterlot and they follow Griffonian laws and don’t work with the Equestrian authorities, are they still part of Equestria? If you have a borough of Equestrians in Griffenheim doing the same thing in reverse, are they part of Equestria? Is Princess Celestia Equestria? Is it her will? If she starts hanging anyone who believes in the magic of friendship, sells the government to the changelings, molests Princess Flurry Heart, is she still Equestria? This is a serious question.”
“Well… I don’t really know.” I admit. In my current state, I’m not in the mood for this question, which eluded a simple answer and might elude a complex one as well.
He pats me on the shoulder. “How about you figure it out? I’ll give you a hint. There are right answers and wrong answers, but there is no right answer. Many creatures have tried to find what nationhood means, because it’s clearly a real thing, but it’s up to us as individuals to know what our nation means to us specifically. I have something to do tomorrow that I would like some help on, if you’re available. I’ll explain why this is especially important for creatures like you and me.”
“I was getting worried.” The waiter admitted. “Maybe I still am. You’ve ordered something specific.”
“I am not in the mood for experimenting today. Sorry.” I say, poking at my food. I’m also not as engrossed as usual. To him, that’s probably the more noticeable part and he’s just being polite. “I was in jail yesterday. A simple misunderstanding, but still no fun.”
“It must have been quite a stressful experience.”
I tried to smile. “Yeah. Have you ever felt like you made a big mistake, but no matter how you try, you can’t think of how you could have avoided it? Like, a massive mistake. The kind that, in better days, would come with years in prison.”
“I am afraid not, madam. I have not lived an exciting life, and I’ve always tried to keep my head down.” The waiter admits. “Most ponies I’ve seen who had more ambition wound up like you, and what else they got was never worth it.”
“I wish I lived a dull life.” I admitted.
He bowed and stepped away. “These days, most Equestrians do.”
As I look out the window of the sedan, I wonder if riding in a car is like sailing on a boat. I’ve ridden in a car before. Not often, it’s something of a luxury experience and I try to enjoy it, but this isn’t my first time. Outside, buildings with walls pockmarked with bullet holes fill the view, and windowmakers march through the streets with smiles on their faces. The debris of burnt vehicles and shattered bricks are mostly cleared up by now, and the city seems tangibly healthier for it.
I’m carrying my gun, but I also have my black artifacts back. The changeling who was in my clothes didn’t know what to make of them and didn’t touch them. He even left Deadmouse in its pouch.
My black artifacts are mostly unimpressive as far as such things go. A wand that causes one heart attack and then has to be recharged (I only think it works since I’ve never tried it against a sapient creature), plus a few reagents and materials for useful rituals. I could make terrifying magical devices that summon armies, except that requires a level of power that can only be attained by consuming souls. Time, energy, temporary disuse of my body parts, even permanent disuse of my body parts, all of that paled in comparison to wielding even a single soul. Since I don’t have other people’s souls to spare, I’m stuck making low-energy objects that are still useful.
“What happened to your eye?” Prince asks from the driver’s seat. It’s his car, and I don’t have a driver’s license anyways. He’s referring to the strip of cloth I’m wearing as an eyepatch.
“Turns out banana peels really are that slippery.” I reply as casually as possible. Once again, I gave up use of one of my eyes, this time so that I wouldn’t be caught unawares by a changeling again .
Prince opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but decides not to. In his mind, he switches gears. “Did you think about what I asked yesterday?”
I did. “To me, Equestria is an idea, a dream. It’s a place where, if everypony only knew the real me, they would know there’s no reason I should be living on the streets. In other countries, they decide what kinds of creature should be excluded from society and either dispose of them or force them to get in line, but Equestria is the only country that tries to find a place for everyone. Being too rich or too poor or too furry or too feathered or too apolitical or too radical, these things would get you banned from other lands, but not here. Here, anyone who needs help can find it.”
“A noble goal.” Prince commented. “The others would take issue with some parts of that, but that’s besides the point. If that is Equestria to you, do you still love it?”
“I do.”
“Enough to die for it?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to kill for it?”
I hesitate, but I’ve already shown my answer through my actions. “...Yes.”
Prince’s voice becomes absolutely solemn. “Do you love Equestria enough to lock yourself outside of it, watching everyone else bask in the utopia that you helped create but can never enjoy?”
“In a sense, I already have.” I sadly mutter.
“And most importantly, do you love Equestria enough that, to advance the Equestrian dream, you would be bigoted, and intolerant, and ruthless, and hypocritical, and cruel, and manipulative, and every other sin you know of? Would you do everything you hate, become everything you hate, for Equestria?”
I pause. I turn the words over in my head. “I don’t know.” I honestly answer.
In front of us, a long column of heavy tanks is driving slowly down the road, stopping us in our tracks. Dozens of Equestrian soldiers sit on the back of each as they trundle along. Prince uses the opportunity to take his eyes off the road to look at me. “Figure it out.” He turns the car onto a side road. “You are about to cross a precipice. Until now, you have been doing basic actions. Our enemies already know how we operate on that level. You can leave the Hellknights. If you want to stay, though, you must accept that your will no longer factors into your life. Anything you have, you will be expected to give up if Equestria demands it. Every member of our organization is faced with a choice between our nation’s future and our selves, but know this; NO ONE CAN SERVE TWO MASTERS. Not me, not you, not even the Princesses. You must, I repeat, must commit to either living a happy life or to the cause. You must know which you would choose and, if it ever comes to it, make that choice decisively and without hesitation. Otherwise, we, and your happiness, will both have no use for you.”
The car pulls into the parking lot of a church. It’s on the outskirts of town, a respectable building yet more function than form, likely having been built when Tall Tale was far smaller and simply being maintained until this very day. Icons of the sun and moon sit above the doors, and simple patters of stained glass adorn the otherwise drab walls. The area is silent, save for the rustling of the wind, and the ever-so-faint rumble of distant artillery.
“Well?” He asks as he walks to the church’s front door. “What will it be?”
“To me, happiness is mostly a hypothetical. It’s not much of a choice when you put it that way.”
“Then you still have to keep it in mind, because it might not stay as it is.” He motions towards the inside, and I enter as he opens the doors for me. I suppose that I was making my choice. The church’s main room is also the front, and we pass empty rows of benches for the congregants to sit in.
The environment makes me mildly uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the holy atmosphere being rejected by the darkness in my heart. Maybe it’s just that I’ve never been one for religion, and the new setting has me unbalanced. I was always scared that a priest would be more likely to run me through with a stake than simply kick me out if they found out about my secret, and normal ponies would let me into their house often enough that I never had to risk it. “Do you really mean that?” I ask Prince.
He looks around the building with something I’ve never seen on another pony’s face. Is it reverence, or is he just trying to suppress the same hesitation that is washing over me? “Poison, I don’t know enough about you to say, but you don’t seem bad. I’m sure you could find something that makes you happy, truly happy, if you just knew where to look.”
“But where to look is the question.” I admit.
He doesn’t respond. “Hey! Priest! We’re here to discuss the terms of our contract!” He yells. His voice echoes against the vaulted ceiling. I see the imprint of a living soul through one of the walls in the back where the more administrative and mundane rooms must be. I point to them. “We know you’re in there!” Prince yells, louder and angrier. I would join in, but there’s something else I see back there, something I haven’t seen since Canterlot.
An old yellow unicorn comes out, walking slowly with the aid of a cane, head held low. “Yes, what can I do for you?” He asks coldly.
Prince stands tall, looking down his nose at the elder. “You agreed to help our group by spreading the message of our revolution and by giving a portion of your tithes to us. For the past few weeks, you have done neither. How do you explain that?”
“Tall Tale is liberated. We are free once more. Now that the changelings are gone, why are you and your band still fighting?” The priest asks.
“Because they will return, and in force, and they will continue to win battles until Equestria is destroyed. Our mission is not done yet.” Prince explains calmly.
“Do you know that for sure?” The priest questions rhetorically. “The Princesses have devoted their full attention to the issue. It must be resolved soon.”
“I do know it for sure, and I do know that it will take the strength of our whole nation to win. That includes you. Do you think that sitting here, playing as a cheerleader is the most you can do?” Prince hits the priest in the chest with his hoof. I stand to the side, doing my best to be intimidating rather than simply awkward. The fact that I still look kind of homeless probably isn’t helping unless this old stallion is scared of the poor, which… well, it’s not common, but I’ve seen it before.
As the priest continues to try and convince my comrade to let up and my comrade stalwartly refuses, I decide to satisfy my curiosity while they’re distracted. Creeping into the backrooms, far less decorative and imposing than the main chapel, my unease becomes ever stronger. There was a box in the main office, the center of the discomforting force. I opened it up hesitantly. Inside was just a piece of cloth, radiating disdain for my existence.
I press against the assault of malice and touch it.
The smell of ash wrapped her into its grating embrace. The summer sun touched the tips of the strands of her mane and her fur, leaving it black. Burning flesh permeated the air so thickly that she felt as if she could touch it. There was no noise but for the rushing of wind feeding the flames, barely audible over the inequine screams from a thousand thousand throats. Her eyes only showed her a scorching white. In all this, she felt like she was on a pleasant walk in the park.
Something brushed against her hoof. A black creature was boiling beneath her white body. It was reaching for her, its skin bubbling and its eyes melting from its skull as a horrible shriek came from its mouth. She suddenly realized that the strange, monstrous thing was begging for mercy.
The sun flared one last time before it shrank back and the delightfully cool winds returned. She was surrounded by piles of strange, dark goo. There was nothing else as far as she could see, except for rolling black hills that had once been green, and a banner held high in one of her hooves.
Her stomach churned as the sense of pride in her gambit was ablated away by the reality of what she had done.
In front of me, I’m holding an orange banner, that kind of rectangular-pentagon shape that probably has some five-syllable name, emblazoned with a red and yellow sun and a red border. It still radiates disdain for me, and in my hooves I feel as if it’s heavy in a way that a scale can’t measure, but now I know what it is. The entirety of the Canterlot Castle is made of the same stuff.
I run back into the main room. Prince had taken the priest’s collar in his magic and is shaking him vigorously. “Sir! Can we keep this thing? Please, sir? Please?” I ask excitedly as I hold up the tattered, ancient banner. Holy artifacts are powerful for reasons both magical and moral to normal ponies, and to desecrate them, to liquidate them into dark energy, is one of the most potent things a dark magician can do that doesn’t involve killing.
The priest’s eyes boggle, and Prince sees the reaction. “Care to explain what that is, you doddering fool?”
“Thats- you can’t have that! That belongs to Tall Tale! Princess Celestia herself gave it to this town!” The priest sputters.
“Then I’m sure they will be happy to get it back once the crisis has passed.” Prince lets go of the old stallion with such force that he falls hard to the ground. My instinct is to help him up, but I’m not here for his benefit. I’m here for ours. I force back the pity as I wrap up the ancient banner, easily 900 years old and still kept intact by the power vested in it, and put it in my coat. Prince glares down at the elder. “And if our allies do not meet their obligations, I am also sure that Tall Tale would be very disappointed to lose it permanently.”
“You… you call yourself Solarists!?” The priest screams as he tries to pick himself up from the floor.
“Yeah.” Prince nods as we leave. “Do you?”
We start the car and start cruising away. I stare at the powerful cloth, even as it starts to singe my hooves to hold it. The pain is nothing compared to the power this will give us.
Prince looks at it once we’re on the road. “So what is that?”
“It’s a banner once taken to war by Princess Celestia herself. Sixth Northern Crusade, if I’m not mistaken.” I guess from the vision. I feel like it was from around the area then known as Coldfront and now known as Vraks. Of the many Northern Crusades fought before the army started taking the Northwestern Line instead, the first two weren’t against changelings, the Third Crusade didn’t have Princess Celestia there in the flesh, and winning a battle certainly doesn’t seem like an event from the Forth or Fifth Crusades.
“Damn… Just.. Damn. I thought the changelings had taken it.” Prince admits. “It went missing not long after they stormed the town.”
“...And it seems that our friend there thought that the situation was too unstable for it to be brought out again.” I finish. “Wonder if he was hiding it from us.”
Prince sighs, still astonished by our good fortune. “It’s very possible. We’ve got to report that to the higher-ups. It might make some other things click into place. And Mrs. Poison… Thanks for choosing our side. It warms my heart whenever someone joins us for the right reasons.”
“You what?” Mr. Hay asks, his jaw dropping in disbelief.
I repeat myself. My story pins the idea to steal the banner on Prince. Everyone knows that holy artifacts are valuable for different reasons to different ponies... specifically, that black magic doesn’t need the artifact to be lawfully obtained and other magic does, so the theft of such items is always heavily scrutinized. “So while we were at the church, I found a banner blessed-”
He waves his hoof. “Yes, I heard you the first time. I’m just shocked that they would be so brazen as to actually do it. We’ve got a real band of winners on our hooves. I admire that you can talk to them without wanting to jump out of your skin and flee.”
“Oh, they’re not so bad,” I reply as I start eating a bag of peanuts I took from one of his desk drawers while he wasn’t looking. They are so salty I almost regret the free food… almost. “At least, some of them aren’t.”
“It’s not just you. They’re active all over town, and beyond it too. The boogerheads at the agency can’t make manes or tails of their end goal. Be honest, Poison. Are they dark magicians, or not?”
“I’m not convinced,” I lie. “They haven’t tried to attract me with promises of power or influence, which is how those groups normally work. But I must admit the evidence is compelling.” It is, in fact, a poor lie. There is virtually no reason for Solarists to steal a Solarist artifact to keep it locked away for themselves.
“I’m not either, but both options concern me.” He admits as he looks out the window at the town. “I think I’m going to have to call in the big guns to clean up this mess.”
Nostrae Vitae, Nostrae Mortis
“1-2-3 steps to the royal throne… Raise your flag, march on – fight...” I sing to myself quietly as I stand watch besides the door. There’s a canopy above, keeping the snow from falling and dusting my poncho. I heard this song once, some years ago in an obscure bar as it was played by a band I have never heard of before or since, and I didn’t catch most of the lyrics, but I still recall the music just fine. The next few lines I sing are nonsense words that sound about right because someone was talking loudly when I heard this section. “Wars and swords, tears and blood...” I would give a lot of my material possessions to hear the song one more time, to hear it properly. But I doubt I will ever get the opportunity.
“Hey! Good day to make a mess, isn’t it?” An orange pegasus cries as she spots me waiting. She’s wearing a heavy coat to let her march through the snowfall without issue, and somehow hers is as beaten and dirty as mine.
“I suppose so.” I reply. Her name is Grew Some, and I don’t like her. She’s loud and boorish, but the part I can’t stand is that, as a Hellknight, her sadistic streak shines as bright as day and I suspect she’s still hiding its depths then. She, however, has lived in this city all her life and has a lot of strange friends in strange places.
She practically bounces up to me. “Come on, P, don’t hide it. I know you don’t mind killing. Remember when you popped that bug in the head? Cold-blooded! You should have gone for the leg, though, let me- I mean us, heh, enjoy him.” She slaps me on the shoulder in a way that’s supposed to come off as friendly.
“This is my job.” I reply.
“We aren’t paying you,” She contests. “And how’s that quote go? ‘If you’re good at something you shouldn’t do it for free’, or something? Just saying, you need to loosen up, learn to enjoy yourself. I doubt we’ll be able to play like we used to once Twilight gets here.” She loudly knocks on the metal backdoor besides me. “Hey! We’ve got a delivery of headlight fluid for you!” She cries.
The door opens after a few seconds and a grim pony annoyedly shushes her from inside. She rolls her eyes and walks down the stairs. I follow behind.
The basement is lively and smells like burnt tar. Whips of smoke roll across the ceiling after rising from the tips of cheap cigarettes. At the far end, a drug dealer sits at a table, negotiating with another pony over a small bag of powder. Most ponies who sit at tables are playing cards. Scantily-clad mares and stallions, some quite egregiously so, travel from table to table with bottles of alcohol and more.
“Ah, my dear Some!” A greasy stallion calls out as I guardedly observe the room. He comes up and does a complex hoofshake with my comrade. “Is this your new co-star? I hope so, she looks like the right type.”
Some steps in. “No, this is a business partner. EQUESTRIAN business. I need her to be… in one piece. And besides…” She turns to me. “P, this is our best friend today. He’s a small-time movie director with a specialty in, let’s just call it ‘the intersection of sex and fear’. Don’t mind his advances, he’s always stuck looking for new actors and actresses to play the role of the victim. They don’t often come back for the sequel, you see, and he can’t just blame the bugs anymore. I might be the only actress of his to be in so many of his movies.” She laughs to herself, then leans in conspiratorially. “You ought to support this local artist, you know… especially if you have a ‘special relationship with death’. I think you’d find his work very interesting.”
I cock my head at her.
“What? Thought I wouldn’t notice, girl?” The last word rolls off her tongue in an excessively friendly manner.
“No, I thought that was obvious.”
She steps back. “To you, maybe.” The greasy stallion grabs her hoof. “Now, if you don’t mind, me and my boy toy are going to go hear what’s going on. We’ll track you down when we’re done, so just entertain yourself until then. Toodles~!” She waves as he pulls her away.
I wonder if this underground club is so active because it will have to tone way the hell down once Twilight and her guards arrive. I think they can’t come soon enough.
Yes indeed, Princess Twilight Sparkle is coming with the 3rd Royal Guards Battalion to help sort out the dispute with the Hellknights one way or another. She will be arriving in one week. Normally, a paragon of divine power like a Princess would be a concern for a dark magician, but I’ve actually met Twilight before (long story), and I hope that I can use that to convince her to at least try and integrate black magic into the army. It doesn’t need to be an everypony thing, but my soul-sense can pick out changeling infiltrators from a distance with certainty, and can find any pony grave site nearby. Even if most of my abilities are either arguably useless or definitely useless against changelings, or are gross, those two are a big deal and could do a lot of good, and there are a few other nasty surprises I can whip out depending on how much I’m allowed to do.
Ideally, the entirety of the Hellknights would be integrated somewhat, and a way would be found for us to pursue the dark arts in peace without being driven mad by lust for power.
I sit down at one of the tables. “Mind if I watch?” I ask the other patrons.
“Sorry, but we would really prefer that you be a playing customer if you’re going to take up space on our fine chairs.” The dealer grumbles, lying about the quality of the seating here. “If you don’t have money… how about the clothes on your back?” He asks, smirking. “You could get a better price from me than you could just selling them, and you’d get to keep them too. You could have your cake and eat it… if you win, of course.”
I think. “Would you accept a pet? I brought by rodent friend, Deadmouse.”
“...Yeah, my son would like a new animal to play with. I’ll wager a hundred bits against your rat.” He agrees and slides over a few cards. A hundred bits is two day’s pay for me, or one day’s pay for a waiter in a dive bar. Really, I just want to sit down.
The game is blackjack, which I barely understand the rules of. I lose the first round. A mare wearing so little that I wonder how she stays warm appears behind me. “How’s it going, hun?” She asks. “I’ve got an idea for how you can spend your winnings…” She continues in her most seductive voice.
A stallion comes up on my other side in the same manner. “For how much she’s playing for, she can get either of us… or both. How does that sound?” He whispers into my ear. I wave them away. I have a lifetime’s worth of memories with Graham to entertain myself with if I am ever in such a mood. It really is a lifetime’s worth, too, and he always had new ideas for things to try, and they were always so wonderful… I catch myself before I start drooling and the prostitutes take it as a sign to keep bothering me.
As soon as I push away the happy times, the depressing thought that usually follows comes right on schedule. In retrospect, much of our birth control regimen was used incorrectly. The fact I never got pregnant in all our youthful adventures often makes me wonder if I’m sterile. That would be a shame, I think kids are nice and I often dreamt of how it would be to raise a child alongside my beloved. It’s also possible it was him who was lacking, and it’s possible it was simple fate. Who can tell now?
The grimace must have shown, because the hookers leave me then.
I proceed to win the second round, then lose every round afterwards. Of the five other gamblers, they haven’t even moved by the time I go bust, I lost that quickly. “Alright, lady, cough up the little one.” The dealer demands.
I magically reach into my pocket and drop a dead rat on the table. Everyone else recoils. “Here’s Deadmouse. I’m sad to see him go. Take good care of him.” I say as I walk away before they can complain.
Grew Some catches me wandering the bar. She walks up to me and hands me a note. “There’s a grey unicorn who lives here. Thought it would be real funny to tell the bugs what he knew about us and about the Royal Army’s fighting positions. The goons say he’s going to get just a little more info before heading home, then he’s going to pack up his things and skip town around midnight. You’re going to deal with him before he gets away. Make it bloody.” She barks, far less bubbly than before.
“I didn’t realize you were my boss.” I retort.
“I’m not, but I made an executive decision. There’s two of these pricks, and I want the other one for myself.” She states.
On the way to my room, I pick up a map and check the address she gave me. It’s a distance away, but I can make it a few hours by bike. Maybe I can borrow a car to speed it up? Probably not, I can’t drive and I wouldn’t want to get anyone else involved in such an illegal act.
I get into my room and start thinking about how I want to tackle this. I could go now and lay in ambush for him. I could leave some undead there with orders to kill him when he arrives and then go back to their graves. Then I wouldn’t even need to be there for it. I realize that I can use the opportunity to try out some kinds of undead that I’ve never actually used before. I crawl out of the comfort of the bed and check my notes in the desk. My notebooks are gone in the top drawer, and in the side drawers too. The black artifacts I left at home are also missing. All of my dark arts material has vanished. In its place is a note.
“To the unicorn who calls herself ‘Pernicious Poison’
By now you have noticed that we took the liberty of relieving you of your evil works. They are illegal to own, you know. Right now, we are considering giving them to a certain SMILE agent who is currently hunting a group of supposed dark magicians, too, just to make sure that this crisis is brought to an end. We are sure that he will prosecute and inquisite against such beings with all the resources he has, and with maximum prejudice. It would be so embarassing for the agency to discover it was paying off an evil necromancer, it’s the only way they can atone.
We can be convinced to change our minds, though. Come to the address listed on the other side by 10:00 PM and we will discuss your relationship with a certain group of partisans and come to a mutually-beneficial agreement. If you do not come, or if you do and then you refuse to work with us, we will do what we have to for the good of the country and the suppression of evil magic. We are sure you will understand that this evidence puts us in a sensitive position.
Sincerely, certain patriots”
My jaw drops. I check the address and rush back to my map. It’s about as far away as the deserter is, but in nearly the opposite direction. I take a deep breath. There must by a solution to this.
By now it’s the afternoon. If I ride like the wind, I can go to either place in three hours, then get to the other place in four. That will give me just enough time to reach both… assuming I do absolutely nothing, just get there and turn around. Summoning a burning skull will take at least an hour without my staff, and I will want to be long gone by the time the target arrives. And how long will the changelings want to talk to me? Is it even the changelings? Who else could think it's a good idea to blackmail a necromancer in a warzone?
They can’t be drawing me out to kill me. They could simply give this stuff to Hay and do 90% of the goal with 10% the effort. At least there’s that.
And going to talk to them isn’t a problem since after a week everyone will know I’m a necromancer anyways. All I need to do is stall and then it won’t matter.
The loss of my dark magic notes isn’t truly great either. A few years ago, I won a large amount of prize money in a computer science contest. That was actually how I met Twilight Sparkle the first time, and it was a very nasty surprise to find her as one of the judges, but she got over her prejudices and admitted that, yes, technically the brain-in-a-jar computer was the first entrant to meet the requirements without breaking any rules. And that’s why that competition was first won anonymously and now has rules against using body parts in the computers, and why I ran away from Canterlot with the police hot on my hooves and a briefcase full of bits.
A large portion of the money went to a lifetime’s ownership of a safety deposit box in the griffon city of Weter. Every time I fill up a notebook, I copy it by hoof and mail the copy to be stored there. Yes, I haven’t had the opportunity to mail my work in a long time, and yes this war is the most productive I’ve ever been, but it’s still only a year and I can retread much of the old ground fairly quickly. The objects are also cheap, most of the difficulty in making them was figuring out how.
That does remind me, though – in case I lost these, I expose every Deadmouse to the notes when I create it so it can sniff them out later. I could summon some undead and have the rodent lead them to the material in question to recover them, then take some more to deal with the traitor. Except I just gambled the newest Deadmouse away and don’t have anything to give to the new one to attune its nose to what I need.
Can I only pick one side? If I refuse the changeling’s demands, I’ll be run out of town within the week. That’s very bad. If I don’t deal with the traitor, then the Hellknights might never know… might… but if they do, that will be even worse. I shudder as the image pops into my mind of myself, disembowled and displayed in the park. That plan is a no-go.
So if I can get to both places at once, I’ll be fine, but if not, I might die.
Deadmouse pops into my head again and I realize that that idea is not bad. That does let me solve both problems at once. And even if I have to be there in the flesh to deal with the bugs, I don’t need the same thing to deal with the traitor. A plan forms in my head. The details work themselves out even as I break into a run out of the hotel.
I bolt into a grocery store, past the greeter, in between two ponies having a conversation about the impending royal visit, and go straight for two aisles in particular. I don’t care who sees me as I tear a pack of marker pens off the shelf, then run for the spice aisle and take a few specific bottles. An attendant tries to ask me what I’m doing but I shoulder them out of the way and keep running. I hop back on my bike outside as they watch me in confusion and pedal away.
I can’t hear, smell, or taste right now. I gave those up for the next few hours so that I could have the sense of death without losing binocular vision. I’m in too much of a hurry to be unable to see where I’m going. It’s quick and dirty, but I need speed. Even my new plan to get out of this isn’t foolproof.
I spot two small spirit-lights underneath a dumpster a few houses away and hop off by bike once more. They try to hide from me. It seems like a waste, but my last artifact expends the weeks of energy I gave it so long ago to, within seconds, give a heart attack to a rat. Its companion feels the evil that the spell left behind and tries to scamper, but I grab it in my normal magic and, hesitating for only a second, stomp on its head, letting the death flow through me and into the rat that’s still intact. It crawls out from under the dumpster and scampers up my sleeve as quickly as possible. I wipe the blood off on a discarded newspaper as best as I can and go back onto my journey.
Whenever I come to a straightaway, I pull out markers from the pack and draw a roundabout set of directions on my map of Tall Tale. Once that is done, I start writing down street names on my sleeve.
Exactly as I remembered, there’s a mass grave here. I’ve been riding for nearly two hours and reach my goal. This is how I’m going to make it.
I sprinkle the spices around in geometric patterns and sit in the middle of the pentagram I’ve drawn. The knowledge of the world recedes as I open myself up to my own soul. As fast as I can, I reach under the dirt with my spirit, wrapping around the remains. For this, I need either more material or more time to raise zombies. There’s another compromise to be made.
Nearly an hour passes without me noticing, I’m so entranced by the work of the ritual that everything passes into the background. Skeletal hooves punch through the ground and pull out Equestrian soldiers who have had their flesh melted off by the forceful injection of life.
The books describe skeletons as “smart”, but that’s not the whole story. Zombies are as smart as their Mistress is. Skeletons are hasty, imperfect summons that have residue from the surrounding world in their false spirits. They have the wrong kind of agency. In this case, “smart” doesn’t mean “clever”, it means “mouthy”. I am reminded why I don’t normally use them when one steps forward, his ragged uniform standing strong and his rusty rifle still hanging at his side, and barks “WHADDYA WANT?”
I hand him the map with the path drawn on it. My markings, if I’m correct, will lead them to their target’s house with as little time as possible spent in populated areas where they are likely to be seen. “You need to go to the address marked at the bottom. Take this path and try not to be spotted, but if you aren’t in danger of that, run as fast as you can. There should be a grey unicorn here. If he’s not there, wait for him. Once you find him, tear him into pieces, then trace your steps back to get here so you can be re-buried. Any questions?”
“Nya, yeah I gotta question for yah.” The skeleton steps forward. “Who made you the boss lady?”
“Me, when I raised you and decided not to put you back in the ground for annoying me. I don’t care what you do as long as you follow my instructions. I’m in a hurry, so if that simple set of steps is too much for you, you’ll just have to figure it out yourself!” I shout.
The skeletons all look at each other quickly. Another one pipes up. “Hmm, yeah, we’ll do it.” They salute in unison and run off, hooves pounding. As soon as they’re off, I hop on my bike and get going in my own direction.
My path takes me through a series of rural plantation houses, the kind which are elegant and overrated rather than run-down and overrated. This is country club country.
As I bike, I skid to a stop and look. The directions on my sleeve are running from the fabric rubbing against itself, and they weren’t particularly great when I first wrote them either, and since I don’t have a watch I can only ride like the wind and hope that the times I slow down to make sure I’m going the right way aren’t adding up. Yet I’m willing to lose a few seconds to make sure I see what I see.
It’s the evening of winter and the sun is going down. A short distance from the road, there is a fenced-in court. Two figures in heavy coats are swinging around racquets as the ball they’re playing with bounces against a stucco wall on the far end with pronounced cracks. One of them, unless I am sorely mistaken, is Prince.
He notices me staring. I see his face like I have every week for nearly two months. It’s him. He motions with his eyes that I should get moving. We aren’t in a meeting, so we don’t know each other. I turn and keep riding.
So that’s the kind of creature who plays racquetball.
The number on the townhouse’s mailbox matches the one I have written down. I do my best to put up my bike and take a second to breath without it being obvious how strained I am. It feels as if ice-cold needles are running down my nose and into my throat as I inhale the cold night air. I’m sweating from the exertion like I’m shaking from the wind chill.
I knock on the front door. A cheerful stallion lets me into the living room where his friends are waiting for me. He looks so boring, his mane style uninspired and his clothes generic, every part of his body eerily close to the median. Supposedly, creatures who are excessively dull are the ones changelings prefer to imitate. If your eyes glaze over just by looking at them, you’ll be hard-pressed to notice what they’re doing without a reason to give it a second glance. Or so the story goes. I figured it was security theater, but maybe it was true. His companions are all as plain as he is in different ways, and I notice that they’re all wearing clothes with ample room to hide firearms.
Once the warmth of the inside washes over me, I open the conversation. “I believe you have some things which belong to me.”
“You don’t want to hear our proposition first?” The one who opened the door asks confidently.
I look into his eyes. “No.”
He shrugs and reaches into an end table, pulling out all the books I had lost. The rest of the missing items are “hidden” behind the couch, not even covered by a blanket. I didn’t expect the VOPS to recruit from theater schools.
I take a few of the items, a wand here or a notebook there, and flip through them. They’re mine alright. I even put my hoof on them to make sure they feel right, and certainly not to let the newest member of the Deadmouse line get a sniff from just up my sleeve. “Hm. And I suppose you aren’t going to give this back?”
The disguised changeling takes my notebooks back from me and puts them onto the table. A smile creeps onto his face, and an unbearable smugness becomes the sole feature I can pay attention to. “Nope. You’re ours now. One day, we’ll need you, and you would do best to remember what can happen to you if you turn us down.”
“Just because you have my things doesn’t mean I’m your pet.” I retort.
He sits down and kicks his legs up. “You know, I was thinking. You’ve changed identities at least a dozen times by now, right? Do you even remember them all? That SMILE retard might not be harsh enough on you. Arsenic in the coffee, so dull. I bet I could start bringing up all the unsolved cases of the past few years, have an angry mob on you in minutes. Justice, traditional-style. Think about it – would you enjoy being mercilessly beaten and hanged for the entertainment of a crowd of ponies as much as I would enjoy watching it happen?”
One of the others in the room smiled dumbly as if he was transported back to a happier time. The third one seems unimpressed. “I suppose you have a point. I will need my notes to work my art, you know.” I complain.
“Guess you’ll just have to do things like a normal pony for a while.” My newest friend smirks. “Actually, there is one thing you could do for us at this time...”
I stare up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I’ve been too shaken up by the day’s events, the horror of which only settled in recently. It’s not like I betrayed the Hellknights in any meaningful way. I told the bug everything I knew about the composition of our specific cell. He already knew that. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have asked. His goal was most likely to see whether I was going to trick him or not.
Something else is what terrifies me. He knew what our cell looked like. He also knew my daily routine so that his buddies could waylay me. In retrospect, I should have moved after the ambush, but that’s besides the point. He also knew when I joined, and when his fellow agent failed to infiltrate and failed to kill me, he knew that too. He’s getting up-to-date information on our internal affairs.
My report to Mr. Hay left out a hell of a lot of details. I hope he doesn’t get mad when he finds out.
Celestia, why did I get involved in any of this? Could it possibly be worth it? Whether I’m in a fine restaurant or in the hotel bed, I am surrounded by comforts so overwhelmingly pleasant that it’s uncanny, and yet all signs point to me having made a terrible mistake, one which will end very poorly for me. I’ll be thirty soon enough, and the most likely way I’m going to celebrate is by mouldering in a shallow grave after being tortured to death, having never experienced days as precious as those few so long ago.
The good news is that this charade doesn’t have to last much longer.
Nostrae Status, Nostrae Sortis
My concerns were answered the next day when, groggy and sleepless, I pulled myself into the next meeting of the Hellknights and saw Grew Some stroking the mane of one of the other members. It was one of the unicorns, but his head was no longer attached to his body, and his eyes had been gouged out. She was explaining the situation to Prince, making our fearless leader visibly uncomfortable as she played with the remains. So that was how they were watching me.
I didn’t see what happened to the traitor I was sent to deal with. Prince did. He was surprised that I could rend him into so many small pieces. Apparently I didn’t look like I had the physical strength, and I was fine letting him think that it was me and not my skeletons who got the kill. I guess they just went mad on that guy.
The changelings did not look too closely at my notes. It’s not surprising, there were well over a thousand pages of chickenscratch there, and none of it was useful to them outside of dealing with me. To be fair, I hadn’t tested how well a zombified rat’s nose worked, either, since it had never come up, but usually their senses are perfectly fine. It’s a magical simulacra of how it used to be, after all.
Anyways, they jammed my stuff in a box and hid it in a building that had been abandoned for too much damage. I had Deadmouse sniff it out a few days after I lost it, and was back to normal business research-wise. It was a good attempt on their part, and it probably would have worked if I was a typical pony, but things work different for me.
Mr. Hay helped me settle into a new suite. It wasn’t difficult, I can carry everything I own. The new place wasn’t as nice in terms of going to places I wanted to go to, but it was no less enjoyable to be there.
All told, the crisis had passed as quickly as it came, and hadn’t made a big impact besides stressing me out for a while.
There was something else that was discussed at that meeting. After it adjourned, Prince pulled me aside and started asking me how I would feel about being his assistant. We had been discussing ideology for a long while now, and I supposed this was the moment he would start letting me into the inner circle. The dark arts are not for the faint-hearted or the sadistic, it takes calculation in everything to make it far, and that ruled out most of the others.
I agreed, naturally.
The first step was to introduce me to one or multiple of the heads of the conspiracy. That would let them know that, if Prince was indisposed and I answered the phone, they shouldn’t send a kill-team over. Talking to a boss would also let me get a better idea of where exactly this was all going so I could learn why we were doing exactly what we were doing and what I should consider if I ever was in the position to be giving the orders. Right now, we were simply trying to get stronger, and that meant expanding recruitment and income, but one day we would have a lot more. For example, if the mayor of Tall Tale condemns us but supports all of our agendas, she may turn out to have been one of our agents in disguise, and we wouldn’t want to take our fury out on other members. Even if she isn’t one of ours, our (official) goal does not require us to still exist for us to achieve victory, and so we should let her do what she wants and support our cause even if it’s detrimental to us specifically.
That’s one of the qualities they were looking for. They wanted leaders who could think in terms of our ideas vs. their ideas rather than our group vs. their group. Our cause was not ourselves, and the way ideas grow is very different from the way factions grow. Or so the story went. I figured it was just PR for the especially nosy observers. Most dark magic cabals don’t even exist for the inner circle, just one pony in it and everyone else are their thralls whether they know it or not, so I doubted our cause really worked like that.
When I told Mr. Hay about this, he had an idea.
The Hellknights loved to do their most important business a distance away from civilization, mostly so they could conveniently get rid of anyone who took issue with it. You’d think that being in a far-away, isolated locale, surrounded by armed radicals, would give a creature a reason to NOT voice their concerns, but most Equestrians live peaceful lives and struggle to comprehend that other creatures might not mind killing. It’s a problem of plenty, but it is still something that causes a lot of issues, we are headstrong about the innate goodness of creatures. Many foreigners do not realize this, and if they know it exists, they get the reason wrong.
Back during the occupation days, I once saw a stallion walk up to a changeling soldier to argue that the latter should desert, listing off all the many perceived sins the changeling was committing just by being here and the potential downsides of staying. The changeling didn’t recognize those acts as morally wrong, but did recognize the argument as a kind of partisan activity, and shot the stallion. The stallion’s wife proceeded to accuse the changeling of murder and assault him, and was then also shot. The whole exchange took under a minute. I’ve never seen any creature look so baffled as that changeling did when he looked at the two corpses and processed what happened.
Unlike last time I had been dragged this far out, I was being brought to a small manor to handle business and was allowed to see where I was going. It was in a once-forested area that had been cleared over the centuries and was now a flat plains with a few strips of trees separating the large plots of land. “You ought to get a car for yourself.” Prince idly said. “It would make it easier for you to go places. Don’t you travel a lot?”
“It’s more like migrating.” I respond as I look at the bespoke houses we occasionally pass.
“It would still be helpful.” He comments. “Since we’re almost there, I’d like to mention that our bosses are… a higher caliber than the common pony, lets say. Put on your best manners.”
I sigh to cover up my nervousness. “I’ll do my best, but I haven’t exactly been taking classes in etiquette.”
The winter is cold and the once-green hills were white with snow and ice. Occasionally, the grass in its brown torpor poked through and left a dark spot in the pale sheet. The elegant and vibrant paint of the house was the only spot of color under the gray sky.
We were let in by a servant in a Prench maid outfit, an attractive getup that I had never once seen in real life before. I had also scarcely seen so many shiny objects in such a small space. An elderly orange unicorn in an excessively well-fit suit was staring at us from the banister above. He made his way down the stairs slowly, eying us up. I saw the posters of the previous heads of the family and recognized him as a member of a line of local nobility that could, at least in theory, trace its roots back to the warlord eras, back before the Princesses united the nation. He looked as if he had been there to see it himself, with his gaunt, hawkish features that left his skin as tight as my own but without the years of unhealthy lifestyle rotting away just beneath the surface.
“So you are the good Mrs. Poison.” His voice boomed with dignity and disdain in equal measure.
“Duke.” I curtsy. I don’t know much about etiquette, but I hope this is what I’m supposed to be doing.
“I see you’ve studied.” The Duke commented. I forgot his name, but I could cover that up. “Raise your head. I would like to talk with you.” He creakily walks to a sitting room off to the side, where bookshelves reach the ceiling and there is already pipe tobacco for guests. Me and Prince follow him and sit in the sofa across from his chair. “You needn’t worry, there is no one else here to listen in on us.” He forcefully stated.
“What about the maidservant who let us in?” I ask.
“She is deaf. For one of such noble birth, it is an indignity to be without at least one servant, and my age makes it a practical concern as well.” He explains. “So, you are the new lieutenant of your cell. Prince has spoken highly of you, and his recommendation is another serious compliment. He has a good eye for ponies. Avengers and maniacs have their place, but our future is in ponies who will do what is necessary, always, no matter their own feelings.”
“I do my best.”
“If I may ask...” The hawk-like figure leans down to squint at me. “What set you on this path? I can see that you have spent much of your life in poverty. Such ponies rarely understand the big picture. They do their duty by joining the Royal Army and think nothing more of it.”
“I believe there are things I can learn as part of your organization that I cannot elsewhere.” I reply, cautiously measuring my words. “Here, I can help my country and discover more about the things which make me special as I use it for the benefit of the nation.”
He stares grimly. “A worthwhile answer. I shall tell you what we will do, what we must do. Our organization does not exist to save Equestria from the changelings. We exist to save Equestria from itself. Have you ever wondered if the Nightmare was a facet of Luna’s personality that was unique to her?”
My eyes go wide.
Some years ago, when I was in Canterlot, one of the last things I did was sneak onto the Castle grounds. I didn’t expect to do anything, but if I got close enough to the right wall, I could satisfy my curiousity. Sure enough, I managed to catch a glance of Princess Celestia’s soul. It was massive, easily the size of four normal souls wrapped into one. It also had a dim spot. I’ve only seen a spot like that in one other place – my own soul has one.
It’s a painful memory because, although in that moment I suddenly felt like divinity was not so far away, I have never been able to repeat this story. I’ve tried, but as I attempt to explain the meaning of it, whoever I’m telling it to always, without fail, becomes irrationally angry at me. Yet I’ve always wondered if letting that dark spot take over was how Luna transformed into the Nightmare. The black arts change creatures in a myriad of different ways, and although the Nightmare wasn’t raising the dead or anything else I do, necromancy is not the only branch. Her sudden burst of power could be explained by instead using the black arts to transform others into magic for herself. Why would the Nightmare care about such petty things as casualties if every lost soul moved her one step closer to being able to shatter the sky itself? It’s an interesting theory, one which I can’t prove without talking to Princess Celestia, yet here it sounds like it’s coming back.
“I have.” I reply as all those remembered thoughts flash through my brain.
“My order believes that Princess Celestia is capable of the same transformation. This new being is known to us as ‘Daybreaker’. We believe that, if pushed, she would unleash the power within her for the good of Equestria and of equanity. We also believe that this is necessary. Do not believe the newspapers, the war is not going in our favor. The Third Corps was amputated by the counter-offensive to liberate Tall Tale. While we scrabble for volunteers, the changelings are choosing whoever they want from their population to fill the ranks. We struggle to convert tractor factories into tank factories. Their queen simply demands it, and a new complex, even grander and more labyrinthine than the last, appears to spew out weapons by the trainload. It’s the one thing I will give to their culture, they have the right attitude about authority, and that gap is being wielded effectively against us. We must have a leader who is willing to do what it takes to win, who fears no dissenters or pacifists or defeatists. Only then will our security be reassured.”
Well, I’m not sure I like his program, but I can’t fault his determination. I’m too deep in to mention that, though. He continues talking.
“Princess Celestia does not want to face her own potential.” He looks down, disappointed. I understand how she feels. “And that means that we must coerce her into it. We plan to agree to lay down our arms, but creatures like you and cells like yours will be the vanguard of the new order. One hoof will fight the changeling invader, the other will be them. Both help the country in different ways. Know that you will be Equestria’s enemy as the doctor with his bitter medicine is the enemy of the sick child. Anything to force Princess Celestia to do what she must.”
I find that I’ve been strangely enraptured by his words, even though I don’t like them. I nod as I process his idea. I suppose I should have expected something like this would happen. A cushy desk job isn’t the kind of thing I get.
The Duke explained to me the finer points of our ideals. It mostly followed from what he had said before, and was not hard to understand. He also gave an extensive history of how the Hellknights had determined that Daybreaker existed, which I pretended to be interested in.
Shortly, he dismissed Prince, claiming to want ‘my opinion on a certain topic’. I was concerned, but I had ways to deal with it if he had decided to do anything impolite. It would be a real shame if it came to that, though, I would probably have to skip town.
“You’ve lived under the changelings. Everypony who has finds themselves with a different answer to this question. What makes the enemy tick?” He asked.
“What do you mean?”
He pauses to select the right words. “The bugs are soulless. They kill. They don’t feel guilt or empathy, and they don’t feel fear until the death comes to them. What made them this way? Why are they like this?”
I lean back. “No, I’m pretty sure they feel guilt.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“Ponies scarcely show it either, but if you know what to look for, it’s there.” I say, remembering the hollow look I’ve seen on soldiers of both nations. “They tell themselves it’s the right thing to do and try to forget it. Or, they repeat to themselves what they’ve been told by their society. That’s nothing special.”
“Ponies do not. We are creatures of strong morals. It is what sets us above the lesser races, that we cannot simply be told to turn off our virtue. We demand just leaders and refuse to toil under any other kind, at least, we do if we have not been tainted by degenerates and heathens.” He retorts as he brings a tobacco pipe to his lips.
I remember my parents. “We do. It’s just that multiple Equestrians in a room will almost certainly be unanimous on which other creatures are not really like ourselves. Murderers. Psychopaths. Traitors. Ponies do not help them and this is virtuous because they aren’t like us, not truly. Yet they were born from a mother and a father, they had a childhood, they have hopes and dreams and tastes and personalities. The only difference between a murderer and a pony is one second spent squeezing the trigger, and suddenly everything else doesn’t matter. Race, nation, ideology, religion, family line, moral code, criminal history, mental issues, clothing style, fur color, eye color, the reasons change but the act is the same. If the line between being a real pony and something lesser can be as thin as a single second to us and no one questions it, why it so shocking that an entire lifetime of being different is a reason for the changelings to view us as lesser creatures?”
He puffs on his pipe. The tobacco glows faintly orange. “An unusually… tolerant viewpoint for one of us.”
I shrug. “I’ve lived here all my life and it’s a part of what Equestria means to me. Maybe it’s where our ideal of harmony is forced to compromise with reality, but it’s pointless to make an ethical argument over where exactly that compromise should lie.”
“Tell me, is Equestria as beautiful from below as it is from above?” He asks pensively.
“Exactly as much.”
He stares out the window at the snow that has begun to fall outside. “You will make a good leader.”
“Thank you, Duke.”
“I suppose that concludes our business here.” He comments as he stands up creakily from the chair.
I stand up to follow him. “Not quite. I would like to discuss the matter of Princess Twilight Sparkle’s visit briefly.”
“What about it?”
“The Princess has suggested that the meeting be held privately in the mayor’s palace. She feels that that would acknowledge our service to the nation and raise our organization’s prestige as an encouragement to come to the negotiating table.” I explain, using almost the exact words I was given.
“An interesting theory, but we have heard of no such offer.”
“You have now.”
He looks at me. “Pray tell, where did you hear about this?”
“My SMILE handler passed the message to me so that I could give it to you.” I say stoically.
“Your SMILE handler.” He flatly stared at me.
“Yes.”
“Tell me, how much was it worth to betray the cause?”
“Fifty bits a day.”
His face scrunched up. “That’s less than minimum wage. Are you retarded?”
“Maybe. I should have asked for more.” I admit. “The truth is, I wanted to join before they brought me on, and they were willing to help me. Don’t worry, what he heard was not exactly an accurate description of events.”
He looked at me like a priest would look at the stripper that had burst out from his birthday cake. “I won’t lie that many of our members have strange journeys, but you are the creature I would least expect to see here.”
“Did I mention that I met Princess Twilight Sparkle once while scamming the government?”
If I was unusually lucky, I would be the link between the Hellknights and the Royal Army. We would see.
A few days had passed since my meeting with the Duke, who turned out to be named Duke Aurora Herald of [insert thirty-two microscopic principalities], and besides a few more pickups and negotiations with minor outsider agents, I was just waiting for the meeting and trying not to do anything that would make me look any less decayed than I already did.
The Royal Guards marched into town in their full regalia, trumpets blaring and locals cheering from the sidewalks. Twilight Sparkle had some photo operations, the Royal Guards looked tough while standing around the government buildings, it was a whole production. The ponies of Tall Tale were clearly happy to have such heroic, bold, almost mythical troops standing around rather than the usual Royal Infantry who were mostly just annoying and known for losing battles.
The day after, I left my hotel to go to the meeting. I met many of the Hellknights upper echelon inside. They had tried to get as many of the other insiders involved as possible to look like it was a real army, but I guessed that maybe three-quarters of our fillies and gentlecolts were present in the crowd that barely spilled out the front doors.
It was a nice change of pace to go from one manor to another. The mayor’s palace was a century-old symbol of how casually Equestria could flaunt its wealth, with stone pillars and perfect symmetry of the stone statues on the roof and on the stairs to the front. It was no cathedral, but it was almost in between one and a regular house, a reminder that the nation’s bureaucracy was closer to the Princess’s divinity than normal businesses were.
The meeting was going to start in a few minutes. There was chatting in the main lobby, awkward milling about as the Hellknights and the Royal Guards both tried to look official while also being somewhat nervous and somewhat bored. To distract themselves, our comrades, who were less-disciplined, were chatting with each other as the guards stood straight in ceremonial positions.
I went to Prince. He was in a room just off to the side, staring out the window at the frozen river. We were deep in the throes of winter by now. I was happy that I couldn’t be thrown into the water again, but sad that the zombies were blocked off from me by a layer of ice. I solemnly told him, “It might be kind of pathetic, but for the first time in some years, I feel like I’m a part of something. Let’s hope there’s a bright future in this.”
“We don’t decide what kinds of creatures we find ourselves relating to.” He said. “If it works, it works.”
I decide to ask some personal questions, since there’s a chance I’ll never see him again, and I do like him. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long were you out on your own before you found the Hellknights?”
He stares off into the distance idly. “I’ve been living as an adult since I graduated secondary school. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t mean living on your own. I mean doing, you know…”
He cocks his head at me. “I’m never had a marefriend, so more or less the same. Is that what you mean? I’m sorry, but I don’t want to get involved with someone I have authority over.”
“No, I mean, how long had you been studying the, uh, arts that are not entirely socially acceptable?”
His face contorts. “The what?”
I pull his ear down to my mouth. “Dark magic, you moron.” I let his head go straight back up. “How long have you been studying that?”
“I’ve never touched the stuff. Why did you think I would ever do such a thing?” He hisses.
A bolt of embarrassment strikes me for both of our sakes. “By Celestia…” I mutter. I walk away, feeling like a fool. I never even considered that a group like this might not even need the allure of power to get ponies to join and commit themselves to it. They had politics for that. They could do their work in peace and never even be questioned about why this pony went missing or why that one turned up mutilated. It was brilliant.
There really was a bond between me and the Hellknights – we were both the true winners of the war.
I found the Duke chatting with his fellow high-risers as they tried to look like just a few more members. Even if ultimately the true purpose of this organization may or may not be the rehabilitation of the black arts, I want to suggest we put ourselves out there.
“Good Duke,” I begin when there’s a break in his convorsation.
“Mrs. Poison.” He nods to me.
“I think that dark magic could be of great use to the war effort.” I say. “And that, if we were to deploy it against our enemies, we could be looked upon very fondly by the government for the aid we provided.”
“That’s not very funny.” He says.
“I’m not joking. We can accomplish something here, I am sure of it.” I say.
He stares at me. “Mrs. Poison, I am not sure you know what you are playing with. The dark arts are simply evil. There is nothing more to it. Anyone who has dabbled in them really ought to be put to death on the spot to prevent them from causing further harm. If we accept such types into our cause, we have already lost.”
I pause. “I understand, Duke.” I say before leaving. As soon as he’s distracted, I start to power-walk into the deeper portions of the building, where a hint of utilitarianism began to appear amongst the décor. I have thoughts on my mind, and they are not large but they are quite heavy. Once I was out of sight, I slumped into a corner. What was once a sharp pain of embarrassment at having said the wrong thing has become a tidal wave. I was so stupid. So, so, so unbelievably painfully stupid. It was a miracle I hadn’t forgotten to breathe. I curl into a ball and curse myself and my own incompetence, yet I can’t find any reason how I should have known their true colors.
Where had it all gone so wrong?
I had bet it all on an organization only to discover they wanted nothing to do with me. I couldn’t escape, and I couldn’t stay. Could my hunger for power have waited to be my undoing until after I had at least gotten a taste of it? Oh, Celestia, what was I going to do?
And what about the sadism, the disembowelments, the talk about ‘doing what is necessary’? What was all of that for? How could they justify any of that to themselves without their minds being warped by evil forces? What the hell was wrong with these ponies?
Someone walks up to me. “Ah, there you are!” A feminine, elegant voice says as I continue to bury my face in my limbs. It’s a remarkably familiar voice considering that I had only ever met the owner once, some years ago.
I look up at the regal, massive form of Princess Twilight Sparkle. She holds out a hoof and helps me upright. I stare at her, torn between an instinctual desire to prostrate myself before such a divine creature and my continued annoyance at the direction of my life. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a hint of terror that she’ll be mad about my antics so long ago. She’s so much taller than I am, and her wings make her seem larger still. The disparity between her beauty and mine is palpable. “Hello, Princess.” I say dully.
“You know, Fester, it would be a lot easier to find you if you were less subtle.” She comments. “What’s wrong?”
“I sold my soul to the worst creatures I’ve ever known.” I answer.
“Oh, those guys? Yeah, I was surprised to find you hanging out with that crowd. You didn’t seem like the type.” Her smile is so disarming, but she has no hard feelings towards me, so it’s not her I’m worried about. “You wouldn’t believe the face I made when I heard about our mare on the inside, though. If I didn’t have business here, I might have swung by just to say ‘hi’ anyways!”
“Thanks.” I mutter in a state of half-confusion, half-disdain for everything.
She drapes a wing over me. “Well, since it really is you, I guess I should share my idea with you. After you left, I tracked down your family. I heard about what happened. I’m sure it doesn’t mean much coming from me, but I’m sorry. I cannot imagine what it must have been like, and the same with your life afterwards. As long as I’m here you can talk about whatever you want. But Fester, this whole quest to learn necromancy, this is not a productive way of dealing with it.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” I bitterly spit out.
“Festercast, what you need is help.” I’m about to mention that that’s why I got involved in all this to begin with, but she continues. “Mental help. I have every therapist and mental institution in the country cataloged, and I’m sure at least one of my top suggestions for your personality will fit. You’ve definitely earned it for this service to Equestria you’ve done.”
I stare into her eyes. “Princess Twilight, I was waterboarded. With gasoline. It’s like normal waterboarding, except it feels like your insides are covered in acid while it’s happening. I didn’t go through that for a therapist which I could have asked for at any time.”
“You’ve stayed sane, so you have to understand that you’ve been playing with dangerous forces. How do you know that the dark magic isn’t what makes you scared to get help? And grief and loneliness both drive ponies to do things they normally wouldn’t and overlook things they’d normally see. How do you know you’ve been thinking straight this whole time? You’re a good pony. You deserve a good life. Please, do me a favor and consider it.” She begs me. Yet she does not seem like she’s desperate, rather like it’s me who’s on the edge. It must be a skill of the Princesses. Yet that’s how it is, isn’t it?
I can’t help but admit that my situation looks hopeless. Maybe it’s time to lay down and die. “I will,” I agree.
“Thank you.” She smiles once again. I never even noticed that she had taken on a more serious look. “I’d like to stay and catch up, but I have a meeting to attend. Wish me luck!”
“I can’t. Don’t trust these guys. They plan to continue their own goals regardless of what they agree to with you.” I tell her. “Make sure you ask for enforceable guarantees.”
“I’m sure they’re not all bad.” She says as she walks off.
I stayed in those backrooms for the next hour or so. It felt weird to consider giving up black magic. I wondered what would replace it in my life. If I put it down, what would even be left of me? It was my everything. Yet it wasn’t making me happy, and it wasn’t getting me any closer to my goals. Then again, nothing had. I had simply stumbled into happiness, and then just as simply stumbled out of it. Maybe I was just chasing a dream. Maybe there was nothing more to it than some complex that drove me to try and escape the sorrows rather than accept them as they are. I still wasn’t sure if a life that contained such engrossing sadness was worth living at all. Maybe the skull that cried blood was not a sign of the dark arts, but of a life where I would cry and cry and cry until it killed me.
At one point, Mr. Hay walked by on his way to a cigarette break. He paused as he looked at me playing with Deadmouse, and then he turned and went another way. He didn’t seem like a bad creature, but once again, I was just a scrap of paper blowing on the wind, existing to be thrown out at the earliest convenience by any pony who’s bones contained an extra dose of civic duty.
Then I got bored and started wandering. I hadn’t made up my mind, but sitting in the same place was dull. I settled in a small office sequestered from the rest of the building. I sat in the chair, kicked my legs up on the desk, and pretended I was someone important.
If I had to determine whether or not my whole adult life so far had been a waste, I wanted to at least feel good doing it.
After some time, Twilight came out, muttering to herself and pacing around the desk in front of me. “Hey.” I say.
“Oh. Hi.” She replies distractedly. Then she goes back to muttering to herself.
“What happened?”
“We called a break. Why aren’t they willing to work with us?” She asks hypothetically.
I lean back in the chair. “Because they suck. Let me guess, you tried to get them to agree to real oversight and they suddenly got cold hooves?”
“Yes! Exactly! All of a sudden, they went from cooperative to antagonistic! Fester, if you’re right about them, I’ve come at this with the entire wrong angle! Oh, why did they send me to deal with this?” She whined.
“Probably because it’s low-stakes.”
“Low-stakes? LOW-STAKES?” She cries. “Do you have any idea how many ponies can die if we don’t get this worked out?”
“Half as many ponies die every hour this war continues.” I reply. I put my rear hooves back on the floor and start rifling through the drawers.
Twilight pauses and stares at me. The gears in her mind are turning. “Dear Celestia, you’re right.”
I find a bag of pretzels and stuff it into a pocket. “Yeah, so don’t worry. No matter how badly you mess this up, it’s a drop in the bucket. Equestria will be fine.” I see a box of cigars and briefly consider trying out this whole ‘smoking’ thing for myself, but I don’t have a lighter.
Twilight brightens up, then becomes overcast once more. “Is that what Equestria has come to? Dozens of ponies die and no one even notices?”
“Yes.”
“Can you please act like this is a tragedy?”
“Twilight, if it was dozens of me dying, no one would have noticed that even before the war.”
“We’re working on that!” She yells before catching herself. “Sorry. I’m a bit agitated, but I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. Are you still thinking about my offer?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Thanks. Really. You’re not the first pony to get stuck in a bad situation by their emotional state. Not all of them would consider my offer at all.”
I lean all the way back and stare at the ceiling. The straining of my muscles as they are stretched to the limit reminds me that I am capable of feeling. “I don’t know what to do next, Twilight. I just don’t.”
Twilight tries to smile comfortingly at me. “Well, there’s always a way out.” She cringes. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I meant that you can always ask for help. I think I have to get back now, but thanks for hearing me out.”
“No problem. And Twilight-” She turns back to look at me as she walks away. “Thanks for the offer.”
Maybe it was simply habit, but I took all the spare food and change from the building to take my mind off of events. There was surprisingly little in either category, I wasn’t surprised that the snacks were in the sealed-off meeting room but I would have expected there to be more coins between the couch cushions. I thought that rich and powerful ponies came here to talk to the mayor. Or maybe they were rich and powerful because they were good at not losing spare change?
I hear gunfire. I pull myself from the chair I’m looking under and hear thundering hooves. After a few shots, it’s over, and two royal guards run down the corridor past me, shaking the ground with each armored step. I follow them. We soon find ourselves in the negotiation room, where one of the golden guards is propped against the wall, having a bullet hole in his leg played with by one of the others with a bag with a red cross on it. Two ponies in civilian clothes lie on the ground in a growing pool of blood that the carpet isn’t soaking up. One is writhing around. The other isn’t.
Twilight Sparkle is pacing in a tight circle, breathing into a paper bag as her pet dragon Spike and a few more guards try and convince her to calm down. I stare at each pony I see in turn, hoping for answers, but everyone is busy with something, even if it’s just with looking busy for anyone watching. Another shot goes off a floor below. “What’s going on?” I ask no one in particular. I feel like I’ve gotten wrapped up in something stupidly dangerous once again, a feeling that I should not know well enough to recognize.
Mr. Hay comes from behind a golden form from a crowd of other probable SMILE personnel. “Hey, witch. Can you go and remind your violent blockhead friends that they can’t win a fight against Equestria?” He barks at me.
I look around the room. There is a pony dying on the floor. The guard is receiving medical attention. No one is doing anything else because they don’t want to go around the Princess, who is currently having a panic attack. And my former boss is being rude to me rather than taking initiative. Something clicks in my head. I pull my staff from my back and tap it on the ground before forcing my way through the guards around Twilight. I grab her by the withers and stare into her eyes. “What happened?” I forcefully bark directly at her.
“Well- I- They-” Her guards step in to drag me away, but Twilight manages to stutter out something that sounds kind of like an order to leave me be.
“TAKE A DEEP BREATH.” I demand, and she immediately falls in line. “Now, tell me one word at a time, what happened?”
“They… they said we weren’t negotiating in good faith. They said they were going to leave and never come back if we didn’t start making proper concessions. We told them that was silly and they started moving for the door and I ordered the guards to lock it and the shooting started and oh sweet Celestia what have I done-”
I pull my hoof back and slap her across the face. The guards step closer to me, their armor clanking in unison. She stares at me dumbly. “And what are your staff going to do about it?”
“I don’t know!” She yells.
“They’ll do what you tell them, so what are you going to tell them?” I ask.
Her jaw drops. Her eyes are looking around frantically, but they’re glazed over. I’ve seen this exact face before. She’s deep in thought, trying and discarding half-baked ideas in rapid sequence, and she probably won’t have an answer when she gives up minutes from now. “Say something!” I demand. “Anything! If your companions are worth a damn, they can make it work, but they need a direction!”
Tears start to well up in her eyes. “I don’t kno-o-ow!” She cries. A few more gunshots ring out from other parts of the building. I shake her with as much force as I can. She has to do something before the guards make an executive decision and kick me out, or else it will mean war with the Hellknights. I told her that wasn’t a bad outcome in the grand scale of things, but it will still leave AT LEAST a hundred bodies, and no one needs that, not even me, who prefers the fighting to happen away from where she is currently living.
One of our guards bursts in through the far doors. “Princess! They’ve barricaded themselves on the ground level and chased away the plainclothes guards! We’re trapped up here!”
“You do it! If you think you can order ponies to die, you do it!” Twilight babbles.
I stare at her. I certainly had ideas about what the best way forwards was, but this… this simplifies things. I do know what’s going on, or I think I do, and the current situation needs to be brought to an end soon or else we’ll all have a big mess on our hooves. My estimate of the bodycount could be way off if the Hellknights decide to attack before Twilight is done panicking… off by a few digits. “Say that loud enough for everyone to hear it, Princess, and I will have this all worked out with no loose ends.”
Twilight swallows nervously as she tries to stop hyperventilating for a few seconds. “Everypony! Festercast here is in charge, because I am cuh… c-currently unable to perform my duti-duties!” She shouts. “Do what she says, I trust her t-to resolve this!”
I look around the room. “You all heard her! Do what I say as I say it!” I point to Spike, who’s looking up at me with more than a little fear. A plan has formed in my head, a fantasy that has suddenly gained the power to become reality. “You, send a message to Princess Celestia! We need it to be a hot summer’s day here, and fast!” I turn around and point to the guard medic. “And you, what’s the condition of those injured over there?”
“One is dead, the other is going to die any minute now.” He says stoically but quickly without taking his eyes off of his patient. This is as good for me as it is disappointing.
“Why is he still alive?”
“Uhh…” The medic checks the dying pony.
“Nevermind.” I wave him away. I grab two inkpots from the table and motion to a group of guards. “You three! Move this to the side!” As they do it, I draw a large triangle on the ground with the ink and stand on one of the corners. Deadmouse comes out from my sleeve and takes the other vial, drawing circles around the triangle and symbols in between the circles as best as the little thing can. “You! Move the dying one to that point! Mr. Hay… to the other corner, and trust me.”
Mr. Hay, normally so collected, looks unsteady and unsure. “That’s not easy, you know.”
“Princess Twilight gave me the go-ahead. You trust her, right?”
He cautiously does what I told him. The room is already noticeably warmer. The room has no windows, being in the center of the building, but the halls outside are lighter now that the clouds are being melted by the heat.
I meditate. There are voices cheering beneath us. “They’re saying the sun smiles upon them,” A guard comments quietly. It doesn’t take long before I hear the sound of thunder. Not thunder – ice cracking.
It’s time.
My soul reaches out and smothers the dying pony. His essence, his very being is drawn into me. I am suddenly faced with more power than I’ve ever felt. I reach out, sensing the dead. What was once a major investment of time and energy is now trivial, and I see every body within a few hundred meters.
But I need more. I do the same again, pulling Hay’s soul from his body. At first he doesn’t resist, but once he realized what’s going on he tries to keep himself together with an instinctual fury, but I have the experience and raw energy to force it from him anyways. He is so much more visceral than the half-dead Hellknight was, and the sheer strength inside of me becomes overwhelming. I had no idea any pony could achieve this. I feel like I could wrestle the sun from Celestia if only I knew the right spell.
But that’s not what I’m here to do. I tap my staff against the floor. Across vast stretches of empty air, my will exerts itself over the long-dead. A hollow, terrifying voice fills my mind, a chorus of the damned shouting its demands – and it demands my orders. Mistress, what shall we do? Cry at least a dozen tortured souls.
I shall tell you what to do – you must drag yourself from the river and through the melting ice. Surround this building. Kill anyone outside with a gun, then send a few in to start clearing the inside, as well.
And what shall we do with them?
I demand more of the walking dead for my personal army. I will help you convert the living. Besides that…
I smile to myself. Such ability, such strength, such influence, it’s intoxicating. It’s the closest I’ve ever felt, before or afterwards, to those precious days with Graham.
Just go crazy. Crazy, and mad.
Yes, mistress...
I keep an ear open as the vague notion of sight and sound comes to me from my minions. I cannot tell which one I’m seeing it from, or even if there’s only one set of eyes, but my loyal zombies are shambling as fast as they can. They begin to be shot at by the Hellknights on the ground floor. The partisans do not know to aim for the head, or if they do, they are not great marksponies. Most of my zombies get close to the windows, nipping at anyone close to the edge. A few break in through the front door and into the grand entryway and fall upon those who remain there, one after the other. I can hear the fighting with my own ears, the shooting and the screaming as throats are ripped open and flesh is torn away one chunk at a time. A few of the rebels see the carnage and attempt to escape, but the zombies await them outside as well. I pump my energy through the link I hold with my undead, and within seconds the enemy fallen rise again to keep up the spree.
I taste blood in my mouth. It tastes delicious. Yet I must learn. I spit, and a glob of red coats the ground beneath me. I don’t feel like I bit my tongue. Is that how strong my connection to my zombies is now? Or is the passion making me overexert myself?
The chaos beneath intensifies as the number of zombies under my command exceeds twenty, then thirty. The Hellknights are mostly in a panic now, trapping themselves in rooms which are bashed open to retrieve the delicious flesh inside. Some of the zombies have had their magical tendons severed and their magical bones broken by bullets and rifle butts, but they drag themselves along the floor if they have to, anything to keep following my orders. As long as their imitation brain is intact, they aren’t done yet. The screaming is without end.
Immediately beneath us, I hear someone crying. He is begging Celestia for help. I make sure to send a few zombies his way. A bullet comes up through the floor in front of me. The zombies don’t see anyone alive in the room. I smile.
Why stop with just these Hellknights? If these pathetic “soldiers” around me, Equestria’s finest, are so easily paralyzed, maybe dealing with some undead would convince Equestria to train its warriors right. And if I had an undead Alicorn in my company, no one would ever dare question me on ANYTHING. I would instantly become one of the most renowned necromancers in history. Who knows what I could do with her? With just a bit of poking around inside of her, I might become a power unto myself. Maybe siding with the changelings would be just fine, it’s not like they could ignore me then.
No, that’s not really what I want. It’s fun to imagine, though. This must be what Queen Chrysalis feels like all the time.
The others in the room are glaring at me with a mixture of fear and terror. Many are pointing their weapons at me. It’s nice. I’ve finally done something to warrant such a base, animalistic reaction. I wonder which ones are trying to study me, to figure out some way to get an edge if I turn on them, and which ones have given up understanding my power and simply hope that I’m not immune to bullets yet. If I understood lichdom, maybe I could give them a show, but I don’t, so I’ll just have to behave.
I frown. How interesting that I thought of what power I could gain before what power I would gain. Is this why so many of my kind fall due to ill-conceived betrayals? This much dark magic really is playing with my brain. I look at Twilight and imagine fear in her eyes as she is torn limb from limb, viscera and gore coating the ground in chunks, as I laugh at her for thinking such a coward could patronize me. I doubt it would make me happy. The novelty of having strength has worn off and all that I am left with is petty displays of dominance over creatures I have insignificant issues with. How depressing. Oh, well. The dark arts were only ever a means to an end for me.
The screaming had stopped. So had the shooting. None of my zombies could sense any life that wasn’t covered in a layer of metal. I let my attention return fully to the world around me. To my left is a dead body riddled with bullet holes. To my right is Mr. Hay, sitting in a crumpled heap, completely still. The room is silent and everyone is staring.
“Alright, everypony. Problem solved.” I said into the dead air. “You can get back to your normal business. Those zealots won’t bother us anymore.” I don’t think I want to hang around all these Royal Guards after committing a massacre, and I leave the room as calmly-yet-quickly as I can.
The spiral staircase to the ground level has the walking dead all around the outside. They salute me as I step down. I have very little of that tremendous magical power left over, but I want to make a strong exit, even if it’s just for my own entertainment. The zombies are Hellknights, through and through, in their mostly-civilian clothing with the occasional piece of military kit. All of them have some injury, but giant red stains around their neck are the most common, sometimes with a massive indent where the entire bite was ripped away. A few were quite different. One or two had come from the river, and were little more than tattered strips of barnacles and discolored flesh hanging from weathered skeletons.
Twilight catches up to me, trying to avoid touching the dead bodies. This staircase was not designed to leave plenty of room for ponies coming and going at the same time, and is quite cramped. Sometimes I forget that my relationship with the dead is so unbelievably different from others, that most ponies do not simply dislike corpses but are absolutely terrified of them.
“Festercast,” She asks hesitantly. “What did you do?”
“What do you think? I killed them all.”
“Why?”
I stepped in a puddle of blood at some point, and I try to wipe it off on the stairs. “Because the Hellknights were a problem, and this was the easiest way to solve it before it turned into a colossal mess. And since your pathetic ass left me the only one in the room willing to take action, you got my kind of solution.”
“This isn’t what I wanted.”
“Don’t worry, they deserved it.” I reach the bottom of the stairs. The zombies have made a trail to the front door, and the row of saluting corpses is a near-solid wall all the way there. I caught sight of Prince, one of his legs chewed on to the bone, and stopped to look into his dead eyes. He was so clever, so wise, so willing to inflict any cruelty and feed any monster if it meant victory... “All of them did. And really, this was much easier than extracting them from their holes one at a time. The changelings couldn’t do it, you wouldn’t have stood a chance. Assuming they didn’t kill you just to irk Celestia, that is.”
“I thought you were better than this.” Twilight said, her voice on the edge of tears once again.
“The feeling is mutual.” I reply. Outside, the sun is blindingly bright as it reflects the melting snow. “Twilight, no offense, but I’ve spent a lot more time making hard choices than you. The fact is, I think I have this all wrapped up in a bow, and when you tell Princess Celestia about this, she’ll probably agree. Do you think national leaders age so quickly because their work is easy on the conscience?”
She snaps out of her stupor and puts her hoof down audibly. “This isn’t an issue of responsibility, Festercast. You murdered dozens of ponies.”
“You should be thanking me. I’m a rogue agent. When I kill dozens of ponies, that’s my crime, not yours. Your precious hooves get to stay clean.” I say. I reach the grand swinging doors, zombies bleeding on the floor as they stand to either side in perfect ranks, hooves held to heads in a salute that no drill officer could find a speck of fault with. I pause and turn to make my final statement. “Seriously, though, I would recommend you not get involved in this sort of business. Now that you’ve seen what comes with the position, you see what kind of horrors you can unleash by mishandling things. Those wings might have convinced you you’re an authority figure, but there’s more to it. Pride, duty, passion, whatever made you think you should be here, those things can blind ponies to what they’re truly able and unable to do. Ask yourself why you’re here and what you expect you can use the position for.” I pat her on the shoulders as condescendingly as possible. “You’re a good pony. You don’t deserve to be remembered as a bother to the ponies who actually went out accomplished things. Do me a favor and consider it.”
She stares at me dully as I walk out. The snow has turned to slush and the icicles are melting. It’s the start of a new day. Equestria can go to hell. If they lose, it will be because cowards like her ran it. The newspapers assure me that, if the changelings win, I will have no shortages of bodies to experiment with.
FREAK HEATWAVE LEAVES ROADS ICED
That’s how my adventure was recorded in the news. Apparently, the Princesses didn’t want it to get out that they accidentally paid off an evil necromancer to murder anti-changeling partisans for not showing sufficient deference. I wonder why.
Princess Celestia might not always make good decisions, but she understands one thing: Sometimes you survive a bear attack by being faster than your friends, but no one ever survived a bear attack by standing still.
“Your check... ma’am...”
I put the newspaper down. The waitress has noticed that this is unusual for me, even though she never served me before. Or maybe she noticed that I’m reading last week’s news. Or maybe she hasn’t noticed anything at all. She’s pretty distracted. “What happened to the waiter who’s normally here?” I ask.
“It was the last air raid. He was out walking his dog and he… didn’t make it.” She explains sadly.
“Were you close?”
“I think, now that he’s gone, that he was my best friend.”
I look down. Now I’m sad, too. Without him, it won’t be the same. I’m sick, as if I’m only just now noticing that I hate far too much. “I’m surprised you came to work. I’m not sure I would have been able to get out of bed.” I suggest.
Behind her, a group of changeling officers enter the room, chittering loudly to each other. A tear rolls down her cheek as she tries to ignore it. “I… I don’t know. It just feels like it’s better to be here.”
“Whatever works, I suppose. It’s not like you can go back.” I say. I pull out every mark I have and put the banknotes on the table. I'm almost certainly overpaying, but I don’t think she can handle me rubbing it in asking how much my food costed in the invader’s currency. Either way, this place is depressing now, I’m not coming back. “I can tell you one thing from experience. Either accept that it is what it is, or don’t. There is no compromise, only a delay.”
My antics had had a measurable strategic effect. When Celestia stopped going out of her way to make the sun shine on Tall Tale, the melted snow refroze, covering the entire city in a slick layer of ice that made it unsafe to drive with any real speed. At least a hundred car accidents occurred in the next few days. Many involved the Equestrian Royal Army, who didn’t know the roads were all frozen over at first. In one case, an entire truckload of soldiers was turned into casualties when they hit a turn too hard and the vehicle wrapped itself around a lightpole. In another, a tank didn’t brake fast enough and fell into the river. Smashing through the ice and hitting the silt knocked all the crew unconscious, and by the time they woke up, the compartment was filled with water and the lights had been short-circuited. Or maybe they all got concussions and drowned before they ever came to. I can’t say for sure either way, I wasn’t willing to get close enough to find out, even knowing consciously that the ice could probably hold my weight.
The changelings, who were used to being screwed by the weather at our behest, adapted much better. They plowed a half-track through an antique store, but that was all I ever found out about. Their reconquest of the town was otherwise quite swift.
There was a new wave of bombers, of shellings, of street battles and of hiding in shelters. I saw a group of infantry ponies get turned into red chunks by a panzer with a heavy machine gun, and a hospital collapse into rubble. I saw other things, too, but those are the ones that had been replayed in my dreams the most. By now, I had mostly figured out how to avoid the chaos, though, and it was relatively uneventful. There was a new set of destroyed buildings, the streets were just a little less populated, and another few dozen bodies were dumped in the river, but all that was old news to me.
As the explosions thudded overhead, causing the other ponies in the bomb shelter to shudder and recoil, I had decided to take a more active role in my experiments. I felt that I wasn’t going to get much further by simply dissecting the long-dead. I wanted to see the process of death up close.
By now, I know how the changelings think when it comes to disposing of those they didn’t want. I adore their regularity and their love of their own manuals. They've figured out that the creek can only have so many sets of remains in it before the water became undrinkable, so they have started taking civilians they don’t like and shooting them in batches in the woods. After making them dig their own pit, since why do that yourself when you have the free labor right there? It's not like the victims will complain.
They try to hide what they’re doing, of course, behind some basic subtlety. Can’t have every pony knowing exactly how many of their neighbors were killed after that last raid. But with my special eye, I could see that the truck passing in front of me on the way out of town had a number of ponies sitting in the covered bed, and there were a limited number of reasons that could be.
I got on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could to follow it.
The truck easily got ahead of me, but I could guess about where it was headed. I caught sight of the soon-to-be-deceased on a trail off the main road through this section of the woods, and put up my bike somewhere with a bit of concealment to get closer on-hoof. After some minutes of crawling through the underbrush, I could see them with my normal eyes. There were a half-dozen or so, using their hooves to dig a hole in a tiny clearing under the guard of three changelings. I watched them from behind a bush, hoping I wouldn’t have another fit when I saw those lives all get snuffed out. My fling with ultimate necromantic power hadn’t made me better-suited to being so close to violence.
Right as the ponies were all forced to stoop down for easy execution, something impacted my head and left me stunned. After I blinked a few times, I had been dragged out, and I was now being thrown at the hooves of the officer in charge. My heart nearly stopped. Coming all this way to die in such a pointless way wouldn’t be shocking for me, but that didn’t mean it was what I wanted.
The officer had his pistol out and he stuck it right up to my forehead. I stared up at him, hoping my terror didn’t show. He and a changeling behind me traded words in their chittering language, and he stared back down at me. “Well, well, well. What do we have here? Tell me, miss, do you know what you have stumbled upon?”
I didn’t think playing dumb would help since I clearly went out of my way to be here, or was astronomically unlucky. “An execution?”
“Exactly.” He says. “Interesting that you’re here watching it. Tell me, do you have a good excuse for this?”
I didn’t. And yet, in a way, I did. “Bits.” I explain hesitantly. “I want their bits.”
He cocks his head and looks me up and down. “What good will bits do you?” He asks.
“None of you changelings take the bits when you search bodies for useful items. I take them afterwards. When you are in charge, I’m a scavenger, but I was that way before you came… but when Equestria comes back…” I smile weakly. “I live like a princess.”
The changeling officer took a second to process it, then laughed. He babbled to his comrades, and a few of them laughed, too. “You are such a strange case!” He turned back to me, taking the gun from my head. “Listen,” he continued, smiling. The victims had caught on something was happening and snapped out of their tears and grim determination to stare daggers at me. “I am willing to help you in this worthy cause of feeding the hungry. We’ll clean up these rabble-rousers, then we’ll let you take whatever you want from them, as long as you help us bury the bodies and promise to not tell anyone about this.”
I couldn’t believe it. “I can most certainly do that, but I have to ask… why?”
He looks to the side, remembering worse days. “You probably don’t recognize me, but I owe a debt. If it weren’t for you, I may very well be hanging from a tree right now. And if it weren’t for that debt, I would have no hesitation about doing the same to you, since you’ve really stuck your nose in something you shouldn’t have. But what kind of creature would I be if I could repay you and didn’t?”
“Wait, was that you in that grocery store?” I asked, recalling my miniature adventure protecting a changeling soldier from an angry mob.
“Indeed. My army found me in an Equestrian prison and put me back in uniform.” He explained. “So… want to make some money?” He nodded to the side, and one of his soldiers took a submachine gun and started putting bursts into the backs of the prisoner’s heads, going down the row and kicking each one into the pit afterwards.
When all was said and done, we waved goodbye to each other and went out separate ways.
