The Fog In The Mind's Eye

by Estee

Rating: teen
Tags: Applejack, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 9070

Which is more frightening: to always perceive what truly exists, or to forever behold what you wished to see?

She just wants to get home. Explaining the group's actions during that last mission took hours longer than it should and now that the palace has finally been fully briefed, all Applejack has to do is make her way to the capital's central train station. Enter the Grand Gymkhana, catch the last westbound of the night and eventually, she'll be in Ponyville. Back on the Acres. Surely she can manage that much, even when stumbling through an empty city while half-lost within a thick winter fog. But the mists are making edges blur, and it's becoming so hard to perceive what truly is.

And then she finds somepony who can no longer truly see the world at all.

Tonight, Applejack is the enemy. And there can be no peace with those who already lost the inner war.

(A standalone, no-prior-reading-required part of the Triptych Continuum, which has its own TVTropes page and FIMFiction group. New members and trope edits welcome.)

Now with author Patreon, SubscribeStar, and Ko-Fi pages.

Published 2023-08-09 00:00:04 UTC
Last updated 2023-08-09 00:00:04 UTC

Nonadherence

It was the sort of fog which blurred the edges of reality, not so much softening edges as masking the boundaries between what was and what should never have been. A thick, swirling grey obscured so much of the capital on that chill early winter night, and perhaps the color of the mist was what created the strongest lie. There was something in the mind of the lone traveler which insisted that the hue needed to be closer to blue or aquamarine or even black, because it was easy for a river to become flush with flowing midnight. All that was needed was for soil to become suspended within the mad rush, and then anypony could take a dip within liquid darkness. Something she was arguably already managing in the course of a simple trot, but...

The air was saturated, and longed to spread that state. All the farmer had for protection against the chill was a simple scarf: beautifully hued and lovingly crafted, but... basic. (She'd spent far too much time trying to make one particular friend understand that for certain goals, the simplest means could still be the best.) And after but a little time within the fog, the fabric had become damp. Shortly after that, it had offered its generous services as a protective repository for the chill, and that state had quickly spread out to her fur. The hat was dripping from the brim: an intermittent localized rainfall, half of which further obscured her vision while the rest tried to go into her snout. And the cold...

As she understood it -- perhaps not perfectly, and one of her other friends could be exactly the wrong mare to ask -- fog had a fairly variable set of conditions. It liked early morning and deep night the best, but didn't have too much of an objection to afternoon. The temperature usually had to be above freezing, but... not always. It was possible to be within a fog composed of supercooled water droplets, just barely suspended within the air. Looking for a place to condense. And in the capital...

Was it above freezing? Perhaps the air was, if only by a smidgen or so. But the stone of the streets stole heat from her hooves, and the farmer imagined that the loss of a single crucial degree might cause all of the moisture in the atmosphere to lightlessly flash into a thin, treacherous layer of ice. And when the fog was so thick...

Reality, when it came to the small portion she could attempt to trust, had been compressed into a tiny, semi-mobile half-sphere. This was the radius in which she could truly make out the fine details of the capital and on an empty night within the city, where she seemed to be the only pony left on the streets, that mostly meant cold stone. Streets, the edges of buildings as she rounded corners and hoped they were the right ones, because...

It was Canterlot, at an hour which she suspected was somewhere within the rough vicinity of the lie which was generally known as 'one in the morning'. The dead of night, with everypony else chased inside by fog and chill. Canterlot, not Ponyville... and she didn't know the capital. Not on the same level on which she understood her home, when just about every turn could be made without conscious input from the mind: the legs knew where to go. And she could find her home train station on instinct alone, even if she was rushing to catch the last one out. But in the capital...

The mist thwarted sight, seemed to absorb sound. It blurred the world. And she would look ahead to what she'd been hoping was her next turn, something dark and looming and edged along the boundaries created by the unnatural ichor-weeping fusion between stone and bark would seem to advance from the billows and everything within her would strain against the need to stop, spin, plant, kick --

-- another hoofstep forward, one which required a battle against herself to take. And then she would find herself wondering just what Tartarus-freed fool of a pony had decided to put a statue there.

Perhaps it would even remain a statue after she passed it, whispered her imagination. Perhaps...

She had been talking about monsters for hours, before venturing out into the fog. It could make somepony see them everywhere -- if they were determined to look. For those who'd decided they had to find one, there would always be a monster.

But you had to be sure. You had to know. You couldn't just attack if you didn't...

And still, the fog blurred.

There were a few side effects inherent to Applejack's life. For starters, after spending a few years with a sister who had somehow thought the Crusade was a good idea, she had become intimately familiar with Ponyville's chief of police. The exact hours the mare worked, where she lived, just how much making the same apology speech over and over could wear you out, and the inherent pointlessness of sending an atonement basket at least once per moon. Not that the unicorn ever seemed to indulge, but the farmer was hoping that the rest of the precinct appreciated the pastries.

And she wasn't fully familiar with Canterlot, not even after so much time... but the palace? Ask her about the exact route which had to be taken through winding halls and far too many statuary-hosting alcoves in order to reach the office for what was apparently some sort of internal intelligence collection agency. She would rattle off precise directions, and do so while trying not to mutter about that one stupid stone griffon. The one which moved, and therefore got to disembowel the same fallen opponent over and over and...

(It had apparently been a gift from Protocera's government. Griffons had an interesting sense of humor, and Applejack was patiently waiting for the moment when she found any of it to be funny.)

She'd been to that office a few too many times, because the Bearers went on missions and after they finally got home, somepony had to record the results. And when there was any doubt as exactly what had happened -- all too often, that was when they called in Applejack. Generally during the Lunar shift. And she would be questioned for hours or rather, there would be a lot of minor variations on the same inquiries. Most of them would end with what she considered to be a rather insulting 'Are you sure?'

Applejack had thought about wearing her necklace to such inquiries, if only to let her answer with a simple tap of forehoof upon jewel. And yet...

She bore Honesty, and it meant she wouldn't lie about what she'd seen. It didn't mean she'd seen the right things. There was a good chance she hadn't been looking in the proper direction at the time. And she had no magical instinct for uncovering the truth in what she observed.

This occasionally seemed unfair. Any great magical gifts possessed by the jewels were exclusively experienced by the enemy. There was nothing offered up to those who bore them -- or at least, none of the mares had ever recognized such. But to be in a situation made up of lies (which described so much of the world) and immediately spot the core...

Except that she couldn't.

(Sometimes she wished...)

There had been a number of questions about that last mission and Applejack, in early winter, had a little more freedom to travel. The Acres were asleep, and the frozen call for her endless duties to resume would thaw out its decibels in spring. So she'd taken the train into the capital, trotted along the familiar-and-nauseating trail to those offices, and added 'too many questions' to the list of things she bore. And in winter, the Lunar shift started early -- but it had still taken hours, far too many hours, she'd missed dinner and the chance to tuck her little sister into bed, the fog had closed in exactly as dictated by the Weather Bureau's schedule and now she was on the verge of missing the last train out.

Of course, she had the option to simply walk home. She was an earth pony, and the distance between the capital and town amounted to a single gallop. Additionally, when it came to the mountain itself, Applejack would be going downhill. So it was just a matter of commitment and...

...hours.

Hours to trot home, doing so in the fog and chill on a night when the schedule mirrored what was taking place in the wild. (For that matter, it was an exact reflection for what was happening in Ponyville: capital and town often shared the same Bureau schedule -- although the town tended to be galloping slightly behind.) And even when she was in the protected corridor used by the train, it would be hours with the wild zone on both sides. Listening to creatures endlessly test themselves against magical barriers, because it had been a few years and surely the things had to break eventually.

It was easier to stumble through the cold streets, even when she could see so very little. Hoping to find a sign pointing out the way to the train station, while knowing that she would have to be almost on top of it before recognizing it as a sign at all. And she wanted to come across a pony, any native who could offer directions, but...

...fog and chill. There were times when she saw patches of glow against the mist: lit windows, or streetlights battling to carve out a safe place within a blurring reality. Canterlot had a significant Lunar shift -- but it was damp, cold, and almost impossible to see beyond a body length or so. Nopony would trot in this unless they absolutely had to. Applejack imagined that flying would be worse, although the most reliably lunatic of her friends likely would have treated the conditions as an additional level of challenge.

Regardless, the farmer's ears rotated. Strained for the sound of passing wings and hooves, because there had to be those who had no choice but to move within the night. Police officers, private couriers, those whose Lunar shifts included a lunch break and who just had to eat outside...

...nothing.

Streets narrowed. She stepped carefully, because the stone might steal away that last crucial degree and create ice beneath her hooves. Fog thickened and in doing so, pressed down on fur and hat and mare.

She was almost certain that she wasn't lost.

...she could always just trot home. Her family would worry, because doing so would put her back at the Acres far too close to Sun-raising for anypony's liking and there was no way to let them know what she'd decided-- but if she missed the last train out, she had the options to either sit in the station for hours while doing nothing or trot home.

(She never really thought about going back to the palace and asking to claim a bed for the night. It would have felt like imposing.)

She should have trotted...

She wasn't lost.

The central station, the hub of the entire rail network... it loomed in the fog, and initially did so in a fashion so similar to a hydra's bulk that the farmer found her instincts searching for anything which hind hooves could launch. But then still-rotating ears found the ticking of the ornate clock mounted over the northern entrance, and looking up spotted hints of shadow which suggested the rotating tines.

Green eyes squinted. Her mind compared the half-guessed results to a memory of the rail schedule.

...thirteen minutes. Plenty of time.

She pushed the double-doors open.

Some of the fog followed her in. Those tendrils quickly dissipated, with the last ones snatching at her tail.

Warmth slowly began to seep into her tight muscles. Light didn't quite return to normal: the Lunar shift kept the interior illumination a little dimmer than the Solar, perhaps to better allow the false stars of the Grand Gymkhana's ceiling constellations to properly twinkle. But she could see all the way up to the replication for the Barding Of The Ancients if she wished. Except that...

...she was trotting through the great marble corridors under that dimmed lie of starlight, and her hooves echoed oddly.

No. They echoed properly, and did so because there were no other sounds to interfere. She was in the Gymkhana and from all evidence, might have been the only pony there. The little shops were closed, every newsstand had shut down for the night, and she couldn't hear security moving about...

Perhaps there would have been a pony at the ticket office. But she'd paid for roundtrip, and the return stub was safely tucked within the hat's inner band. She was hoping it was still mostly dry.

The silenced cries of vendors set up vacuum within her ears as she passed shuttered carts. Voiceless signs indicated the proper path. Little splashes of water from hat brim and fur provided temporary sonic companions, and now she was trying not to slip in her own tiny puddles. It got especially treacherous on the down ramp.

And then she found her platform.

Locating madness could have been seen as more or less incidental, but... insanity had to be somewhere.

And the lunacy had simply been doing what so many did within the Gymkhana.

It had been waiting for somepony to arrive.

She was glad for the company.

Applejack knew it was a silly thing, to feel that small surge of relief when she spotted the other pony on the platform. But it was a chill, foggy night, and -- some of that was trying to get inside. Necessity of design meant the far end of the platform's tunnel was exposed to the outside air. Tendrils of fog wound their way in at the gaping mouth, met a waiting weave of pegasus magic and were forced to disperse. It was the same effect which kept the Gymkhana's interior warmer than the outside air, aided by some rather desperate heating vents. But it didn't prevent her from being able to look at the rest of the world. The blurring of lines and borders.

When it came to the platform itself... Ponyville was the first stop on the central westbound line. There weren't a lot of passengers who got off in her town, but there were plenty who came through. It meant the launch point needed an appropriate amount of space for passengers. There were multiple padded benches, trash baskets for discarded newspapers, a scant number of shadowed areas created by the overhangs where pegasi kept their cleaning equipment, and posters glued to green-tiled walls -- at least, for the portion which existed prior to the start of the shaped tunnel curve.

During the Solar shift, even in winter, it might be possible to spot over a hundred ponies waiting to board the most scantly-used of the daylight trains. More during the commuting hours. But this was the last train out, and... there was just one stallion on the platform. Waiting.

It was silly to feel that little surge of relief, and she knew it. She was a Bearer. She had spent years in fighting monsters, and that made it so easy for her mind to bring them back within the fog. But she was also a pony, a part of the herd, and... it was nice to have company.

He glanced at her, from about twenty body lengths away. The direct notice might have lasted for a second or less, and it still gave her enough time to notice that his eyes were oddly colorless. The iris almost faded into the sclera, and it gave him the look of somepony whose vision worked entirely through the small pupils. Regarding the world through pinholes.

The unicorn's body went visibly tight, and she decided that the sound of her hoofsteps had lightly startled him. He'd thought himself to be waiting alone: a natural presumption, especially at this hour. He might have been there by himself for some time, and -- it wasn't just fog which could close in. Solitude could wrap the body, become almost suffocating.

She gave him a polite, reassuring nod. He went back to looking at the low-cut gap in the platform, and did so from a position which was less than a body length from the edge. The chasm built for the rails, currently occupied by shadow.

Applejack checked the nearest clock. It had taken her some time to navigate the empty station, but...

...still seven minutes left. And having the stallion there was proof that the train hadn't somehow left early.

She made her way down the platform, and found her attention caught by the posters. The majority were advertisements for Saratoga Way productions, and Applejack did appreciate a good night out at the theater. It was an activity she generally indulged in with carefully-selected company. That one lunatic friend had taken to kicking popcorn at cinema screens during any disliked scene, and didn't quite understand that live performers tended to notice such levels of criticism. The fact that catcalls could actually be heard also had yet to fully sink in.

The farmer brought her path closer to the wall, which also prevented her from dripping in the general vicinity of the stallion's hooves. She began to move along the row of advertisements, taking careful note of any review excerpts printed along the lower edges. They all tried to make the shows sound like the most desirable things imaginable, and did so while armored on left and right with defensive ellipses. The ones located within the wording were presumed to be on offense.

(There was a hint of movement at the left edge of her vision. Just the barest suggestion, and the part of her which was waiting for monsters to come out of the fog went tense. She fought it back.)

She would have to check the library and find the original reviews. Quote mining was its own form of lie --

-- four hooves came crashing down into marble, and a new set of echoes began to rebound about the tunnel. Setting up the backbeat for the song of madness.

"Are you lost?"

It had been a rather remarkable effort, really, and all the more so for apparently having been fully casual. Most ponies couldn't come anywhere near that close to simulating a Diamond Dog's bark.

She quickly turned her head to the left --

-- it had been a jump. The stallion had launched himself into the air while trying to push his body into a half-rotation. It had let him come down while facing the wall -- but he hadn't landed all that well. His body was recovering from a too-far lean, and the left hind knee didn't look quite right.

Neither did the eyes.

...it was the color, or the lack thereof. Nopony could help the way their eyes looked.

"Naw," she immediately reassured him. "Ah'm on the right platform. But thank y'kindly for askin'." She was a native who was on her way home -- although, much like the designer, speaking aloud occasionally found ponies launching a followup to ask where she was a native of.

"You're sure you're not lost," the stallion pushed out from between clenched teeth.

"Positive," Applejack said. "Jus' waitin' for the train --"

"-- because you were all the way down there," he hissed. "You could have waited there. And then you diverted. You came in behind me. Like you're trying to follow."

The rational part of her mind tried to evaluate what was happening and found itself unsuitable to the task. It was like having light trying to understand the inner nature of shadow. The only way to fully comprehend the matter from the inside was through being extinguished.

"Ah was jus' considerin' the posters," she carefully told him. "Always on the lookout for a good play --"

"-- or," the unicorn cut her off, "like you're getting in position to attack."

She wanted to blink. She didn't. A temporary cutoff of vision didn't feel like a good idea.

Instead, she began to look him over. Trying to figure out exactly what was there --

"-- don't look at me!"

"...sorry?" was the best her inadvertent Fluttershy imitation could do.

He reared up. The bad knee buckled slightly, and both forehooves quickly slammed into the floor. "Did I SAY you could look at me? Don't you DARE --"

But she was still looking. She had very little choice.

He was perhaps a decade older than she and, when factoring that knee out, in surprisingly good shape for a unicorn. The build was close to that of an earth pony adolescent -- but a unicorn with matching musculature would always come short of that strength. The fur... there was something a little too greyish about it, and that condition existed in a state of brindle. Multiple shades of grey, mixed with white strands and what she thought might be some grey-tinged green. It was a state which spread out to the mane. And when she looked towards the short-cut tail --

-- there was something on his back, close to the dock. A double-roll of material: two tightly-wound spirals. She kept her gaze moving, heading for --

-- the stallion's body shook. It did so in anger, as rage further contracted the pupils. It also did so as a way of setting the spirals off.

Twin spools of thick grey weighted fabric parted with an overloud click of disengaging magnets, unrolled themselves and draped over the hips --

-- his mark.

He'd just hidden his mark.

She'd been looking him over, trying to see exactly what she was dealing with, and his first reaction had been to hide the one detail of his being which could never be changed. The surest identifier. Not only that: he'd been wearing something intended to do exactly that on a moment's notice...

He spoke again, and nearly all of the volume had dropped away. Pressed into the floor by the weight of fury.

"Don't look at me."

She was considering his horn now, and doing so as the fur along her hackles fought to raise itself against the weight of water, along with the increasing mass of atmosphere and insanity. The horn wasn't particularly long, and the tip was fairly blunt. She'd seen horns which were considerably more suited for doing damage (and something in her thanked Pokey for always being so careful about how he moved). And this stallion didn't have the running room to get up speed for a real charge.

Physically... even with a pegasus, it would have mostly been a matter of moving first. Making the initial contact before the target could get too far off the ground. A unicorn at short range was more than outmatched for raw power and at the instant the corona flared, a hoof could be slammed into the horn. And she would have to induce backlash in a hurry, because with unicorns...

Any horn. Any pony. Potentially, any spell.
You could never be sure.
But if she moved quickly...
...moving first...

...she couldn't move first.

She couldn't.

So she spoke.

Softly, "Ah didn't mean t' startle you --"

"-- I don't know what makes you think you can just keep looking at me," he snarled, and the right forehoof scraped against the floor. "Are you waiting for me to turn away? So you can line up for the attack?"

Applejack took a slow breath. Kept her volume low, and forced her body to remain still.

"Ah don't know what you're so afraid of."

Most of it worked. Her tail still got off the hard lash.

His lips pulled back from his teeth, and the scraping forehoof transitioned into another slam.

"I've never been afraid of ANYTHING!"

She briefly wondered if the words could be treated as a lie, and did so while trying not to stare into the tiny pupils. (She couldn't lose eye contact. Couldn't afford to give up a constant tracking of his actions.) Perhaps it was true on technicality. 'Anything' was a word which implied the singular.

"You're lookin' for a fight," she half-whispered. "Lookin' so hard that eventually, you're gonna find one --"

He seemed to ignore this.

"NEVER afraid! Not from ponies, not from anything! I wasn't afraid when that minotaur attacked, and she gored me!"

Almost automatically, "Ah'm sorry."

The part of her which didn't want to be dealing with any of it automatically, internally clarified.

Ah'm sorry you lived.

But... doctors, potions, and science could do a lot, but... for an actual goring, she would have expected to see some degree of lasting scars. A warping to the fur, reflective of twisted flesh beneath. Unless he'd been hit on the backside or belly --

"You don't have any reason to be here," the stallion snarled. "Nothing which isn't trying to get behind me, to attack or steal or --"

"-- Ah'm waitin' for the train," she forced herself to say. "Same as you."

She didn't have to wait for the train.
There was the option to just... leave. Exit the platform, go back up the ramp, and trot into the fog. Eventually, she would find the road which led down the mountain. Trot back through chill and damp and the echoing roars of frustrated monsters, all of which were starting to feel so much better than continuing to deal with... this.

One kick.
One slam.
Take him off his hooves before he can react. Get a foreleg over his horn. Then keep kickin'.

But it would mean striking first.

"Are you really?" was another hiss.

"Ah could take mah ticket out," she failed to reason with him. "It'll take a second, though." Her right foreleg started to come up. "Gotta get mah hat off --"

"-- and what else is in there?" he nearly roared, and ledge-mounted cleaning supplies shook. "Hoofblade? Rope for my neck? Or was it going to be the scarf? What were you going to do, once you were BEHIND ME?"

The rising limb froze.

No.
Reason ain't gonna work.
Jus'...
...jus' what?

She didn't know.

She'd faced down monsters. Menaces of all kinds. Fought for her life, while fully understanding that she could lose. Because she had friends, but... death was an old companion. One which liked to remind her that it could drop by at any time, and had every intention of eventually completing the family set.

The farmer had found herself balanced on the edge so many times, with salvation on one side and the void lurking at the other. And none of those waking nightmares had ever made her limbs feel so heavy, her tail so weighted, and just so utterly, horribly, unstoppably...

...sad.

Applejack had faced down monsters.
And with the stallion... she backed away, as those dark pupils refused to leave her face. Felt her hooves half-slide over what was now too-cold flooring (and not even her own ground, she was in the capital and too far from home), while never completely taking her eyes off the horn.

Two body lengths back: enough to create some distance while building up her own charging space. And then she stopped.

"Waitin' for the train," she quietly told him.

"The hat hides your face. What have you got to HIDE?"

"Same as you," she softly added. "Jus' -- waitin'."

And she didn't move.

He did. The stallion began to pace about. And he ranted at the air, telling it about the fights he'd been in and the things he'd survived. It all came out in rather general terms, perhaps because he never stayed with any previous attempt long enough to reach any true details. But he'd never started anything. They had all come after HIM. All targeted HIM. Because they knew he wasn't afraid, and they thought they could be the ones to CHANGE THAT. Every last one of them, coming up from BEHIND...

Every so often, his head would snap around. Checked her position, made sure she hadn't moved. She hadn't.

He wasn't a Ponyville native. She would have known. Not that Applejack was familiar with every one of the thousands who lived there, but... with this particular stallion, she would have remembered.

(A stallion who hid his mark...)

Westbound. He was waiting on the westbound platform, and she was sure he didn't live in Ponyville. It was possible that he was visiting a --
-- a --
-- she felt the thought stall out --
-- visiting somepony there, but... the odds were good that she would get off the train first.

It was even possible that he didn't have a ticket. He might have been within the Gymkhana because... it was a place to be. Somewhere he could look for a fight, or search for --

-- it was only a couple of minutes now. And if he did get on, then all she had to do was wait for the conductor and explain that there was a potential problem on the train. If she was very lucky, she might even get somepony who knew her. Who would trust.

Or she could kick him.

Ah can't --
-- not first --

Applejack believed in self-defense. She also understood that certain segments of the law frowned on the idea of making it preemptive. Staying out of a trial as the prosecuted party meant she had to be the second to strike.

But there were no witnesses. Nopony who could testify on her behalf.

Her own testimony would, of course, be fully honest. She'd said that a few times from the witness stand, usually during minor civil cases and on her sister's behalf. She had to provide the truth, and tended to become irritated when the opposing attorney invariably decided not to believe her.

-- never a police officer around when y'need --

He was still declaiming his strength to the world, and perhaps the fog listened. It would have provided something else to blur.

But then she heard the train approaching.

The metal reflected small flashes into her eyes as it slowed. The steamstack vented, which did the platform's humidity no favors. A mare's head poked itself through a small open window at the lead car, and violet eyes took a quick count before the face pulled back.

The window closed. The doors opened. And the stallion looked at her.

A certain automatic, base, and completely unconsidered degree of politeness slipped out of Applejack's mouth.

"After you," she offered. After all, he'd clearly been on the platform first, and she didn't want to see how he reacted to any perceived cutting in line. Additionally, she really didn't want to get him behind --

-- every muscle in his body went tight in the same instant. Pupils went to pinpricks. And she realized that she'd just offered the lead position to a stallion who was terrified of having her get behind him.

"Get on the train," he hissed. "That's why you said you were here, wasn't it? What you wanted me to believe, the whole reason for your sneaking around? Just get. on. the. train."

She did.

To wit, she moved two cars down while never entirely taking her attention off him, and got on there.

It took a minute before her body could pretend to fully settle onto the bench and even then, she wasn't able to assume the half-curl which absorbed most of the vibrations produced by travel. She wanted every limb to have the potential for full mobility at all times.

Her ticket was extracted, and then the hat went on again.

The train began to shift. Fog went by the windows, and then vanished as the cars began to enter the carefully-curving switchback tunnels which led down the mountain.

She just had to wait for the conductor. Pass over the ticket first, to prove her presence was legitimate. And then she could explain the situation. Offer warning, and...

...maybe the conductor would remain in the car with her. There was no way to put anypony off the train before reaching Ponyville and she really didn't want that to happen, but to have reinforcements --

-- somepony had to look out for the conductor. How many ponies were on the train staff? Could they guard each other?

Ah should've left the platform. Found an officer somewhere, then jus' trotted home.
Ah should --

Her car -- she had it to herself, so it was effectively hers -- cleared the last tunnel. Emerged into fog so thick that Moon's barely-discernible light turned the windows into a reflecting pool, effectively doubling the blurring of the world while turning the train into the last truly real thing. And Applejack tried to stare out anyway, doing so while considering that the color of the mist should have been blue or aquamarine or even black. Any hue which water could assume, because being within the fog felt so much like drowning.

She heard a door open: the one closer to the engine. Hooves were coming down the aisle. Her teeth nipped at the ticket, and then she pushed herself up --

-- the stallion looked at her. Tiny pupils just... looked.

Then he climbed onto a bench. One three rows behind her own.

And every time she risked a check, he was still there.

Still looking.

The fog flowed by, because at least it had that much in common with water. The world was down to the train car, the bench, and... the stallion.

He'd been quiet. Just... watching her. Constantly. He didn't rant when he caught her checking on him. He hadn't said a word. And she was waiting for that first burst of sparkling light, she didn't have any way to directly counter him, there was no way to tell how strong his corona was or whether she would be able to push her way out of a bubble or what a spell might do, the magic could reach her before she could move and he was just... silent.

And the conductor hadn't come.
They were over halfway to Ponyville now.
(They had to be. She was hoping...)
And the conductor hadn't...

Oh, she could work that out. A head count had been taken from the window. Two passengers, and two only for the last train out. So as far as Applejack could determine, the conductor was either being extremely lazy or incredibly nice.

Because with only a pair of tickets to collect, the actual inspection could be done at any time. And -- well, why not give the final westbound riders of the shift some degree of break? If anypony was getting off at the first stop and the ticket wasn't collected, then it was still good for a future trip. Two rides for the price of one.

All things considered, it was rather generous.

Ah could go find the conductor.

Which would mean passing the stallion. Giving him the chance to get behind her. And she could strike second, but... the thing about acting in self-defense was that you were giving the other pony a chance at a single free strike.

Any horn. Any pony. Potentially, any spell.
You could never be sure.
And she was watching for corona light. Something which hadn't come.
Yet.

...she wanted to open a window. Give herself one more out, because she was fairly sure that earth pony durability would be enough to bring her through a tumble along the ground at the side of the tracks. But she hadn't placed herself on one of the benches which adjoined the oversized glass specimens: that which made up the emergency exits. That would mean pushing herself through any opening, or knocking out the current window entirely. Something which took time, and her attention wouldn't be on the stallion...

But then she could trot home.

(She should have just left the Gymkhana and trotted home.)

Her body was drying out, at least. Warming up. But none of that heat seemed to be working its way past her skin.

Ah should try for the conductor.
Go for him first. Maybe they'll understand, if Ah tell them 'bout how he talked. Everythin' he said, an' --
-- how Ah feel...
...how mah fur don't seem to sit right, mah skin's too tight, tail keeps lashin', mah heart won't slow down an'...
...Ah've faced down monsters. Over and over.
Why is this different?

Because with the monsters, there had been a constant risk of loss and death and with some of them, things even worse... but at least she'd been able to fight.

This was a pony.

And then she felt sad again, without knowing why.

The sea of night air flowed by. Hope drowned.

She had very nearly decided to make a lunging attempt to reach the conductor when the train finally began to slow.

First stop: Ponyville. Her only stop. And when she got off the train, she would be moving through fog which seemed to have thickened somewhat since leaving the capital -- but she would be on her own ground. Applejack could get home on instinct.

She got off the bench. Her limbs felt oddly stiff, and her dock ached. Her tail had been lashing for just about the entire journey, and she seemed to have very little ability to make it stop.

Her choices were to back down the aisle towards the far door, or walk past the stallion to reach the near one. A surge of defiance, combined with the knowledge that any hint of light at that juncture meant she would be right on top of him, turned it into the latter.

Nothing happened.

She passed him. Got the door open, stepped into the exit which awaited her between the cars. A hind leg started to nudge the door shut behind her, because it was a level of barrier for the corona to initially deal with.

And then she heard him get up.

She was on the Ponyville westbound platform. Back on her own ground.

So was he.

Tiny pupils lost within colorless irises, shrunken by something far worse than mere malice, focused on her. Then the fog swirled in, blurred his outlines as the mist met its natural partner, did its best to offer security and concealment.

The stallion nearly vanished. She could have almost been alone on the platform, under obscured Moon in the dead of night, with all of Ponyville huddled away from fog and chill.

But he was still there.

On a very real level, she was surrounded by thousands of ponies. By friends and family and companions and those who would have done anything they could to help. Acting on her behalf in an instant, without question or thought.

And yet...

The farmer stood on the blurring platform, as sight and sound and reality broke down around her. And she tried to remember if she'd ever felt so alone.

Can't strike first.
...
...can't.
A hundred fantasies were mostly dismissed. The majority left behind a thin smear of blood.
Ponies would believe me here. That Ah didn't have a choice. That Ah felt...
...he's...
(She told herself that she had no true reason to feel that way. To be on the verge of tears, and none of them would have been for herself.)
But any trial is gonna be in the capital.

Deep under Moon, lost in fog and chill, on a winter's night when nearly everything living had retreated to safety. Everything except her.

Her and him.

Applejack, alone.

Alone, on her own ground.

The mare began to move.

She knew his exact position. It was easy to track him with hearing both outer and inner, now that they were off the platform.

(His gait wasn't all that steady. That hind knee wasn't doing well.)

Additionally, he kept doing her the courtesy of telling her.

He wasn't ranting now. There had been no shouts. His voice was pitched for her, and her alone.

"I thought I'd follow you for a while."

She didn't answer. There was no need, and exactly as much point. She just trotted steadily on. Letting instinct guide the path.

"See how you liked it," he added -- then, almost thoughtfully, "It doesn't feel good, does it? Like you could almost be afraid. So maybe you wouldn't do it to anypony else."

Rope loops bindin' mah mane an' tail.
No way to get 'em off in time.
Get chewed out for a week if it's the scarf.
...not the way t' finish this. Keep trottin'.

Would she have even seen him, if she'd looked back? His coat practically blended into the mists. Perhaps that was why he'd come out on this of all nights. But he'd been at the Gymkhana's westbound platform, under the lights...

She wondered how much he could see. There wasn't a lot of light around: streetlamps here and there, plus a few patches of glow which represented windows -- but those were faint. Nightlights in nurseries, most likely. Reassurance for the youngest, who had yet to learn that the dark alone should never bring fear. Only what lurked within it.

But then, some monsters walked under Sun.

If a newcomer to the town was trying to perceive it through the fog... thin patches of light, and that was just about it. Walls were invisible. Fences had their edges blur. Tree branches took on the aspects of reaching tentacles. There was a mobile patch of reality centered on each traveler and within it...

You could look at what truly was. Or you could perceive whatever you'd wished to see.

"Are you going home?" the stallion asked, and it was almost a normal tone. Coming from anypony else, it might have been peaceful.

No. It would have been her most natural instinct, and it had been overridden. She was strongest at the core of her own ground, but -- it meant showing him where she lived. And she had a little sister.

There were some things the young shouldn't see. And times when the young should never be seen.

It was her town, the place where she'd spent nearly all of her life. She could travel across it blindfolded, and now she was moving on a different level of instinct.

"To think about your lesson?" he added. "Or maybe it hasn't sunk in yet."

Did he even recognize it as a residential neighborhood? Was that why he was keeping himself relatively quiet? Or perhaps the calm was a lie he told himself. Building a rickety bridge across the river of terror, but the actual path was just as underwater as they were and

stop feeling sad

she turned, inner hearing focused on his position. She was hoping he would stop and plant himself before trying a spell. Bracing. Most unicorns did.

Going down a narrow corridor now: a passageway between opposing fences. There were no lights here, and very little room to move.

The fog swirled. Reality shifted, and there was a hanging gallows on her left. Somewhere to display whatever would be left of her --

-- no.
Tree. Solid one. There's gonna be another about two body lengths away. Got a network of rope between 'em, hangin' low enough to where a pony can still climb in without havin' their weight sink the whole mess t' the ground.

The farmer had never really seen the point of hammocks.

"Maybe the lesson," the stallion's soft, steady, almost reasonable voice considered, "needs to be POUNDED IN --"

"Yeah," Applejack agreed. "You're absolutely right."

She stopped walking.

Then she spun, planted, and kicked.

Anypony would have heard it, had they been awake. Perhaps some of those who had been lost in Luna's realm found themselves rudely jolted back to reality, because the noise produced by fracture had a music all its own. And an earth pony kicking out at full strength, with all of that power directed toward a nearby, fully-unaware target, was going to break something.

The racket crashed through the fog. A few of the smaller pieces flew off into invisibility. Applejack dropped back to all fours, and looked towards what had formerly been the path behind her.

She'd stopped moving in order to kick. The other party hadn't. It had allowed him to enter the thin bubble of her cleared reality. And the tiny pupils stared -- but not at her.

"Why?" he demanded in confusion and something which would have been denied. "Why would you break the fence --"

Every light in the house on the left went ablaze at the same moment. This was joined by several extra glowing devices which had been mounted on the walls outside, and the combined strength of all the lumens drove a portion of the fog back.

Applejack didn't move. The stallion, perhaps, could not have. And a mare whose profession and mark alike dictated a need to wake up very quickly just about rammed her own front door open.

It was easy to see the new mare under all of the lights, because they offered up one of the very few times when it was possible to see her under Moon at all. The devices blazed, and they created a very angry, furiously-searching shadow-blotch of a unicorn. One who was looking for a target.

"COME OUT RIGHT NOW!" the new mare roared. "I want to see the idiot who decided to commit vandalism and completely forgot the chief of police was on the other side of this fence --"

The stallion, eyes wide and pupils almost shrunken to nothing, immediately began to turn. Ready to race into the fog --

"Miranda! He's been followin' me since the train station, since Canterlot!" Applejack screamed. "Ah need help --"

The stallion bolted. Vanished into the mist.

The unicorn mare on the porch didn't hesitate. Didn't pause, ask questions, or do anything which would have wasted time, because she knew that the words had been the truth.

Her horn ignited, and a burst of green-grey shot into the fog.

The farmer was now in Miranda's office. There were times when the police chief went home, but the office never really closed. Like the mare who occupied the space, it was forever waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

It was a rather plain space. There were no pictures. You got a desk, quills, inkwell, and too many files. The Crusaders had once claimed a dedicated cabinet. She'd never found a single atonement basket within the office.

Applejack had all of it memorized, and so got to not-appreciate the total lack of changes for an hour before Miranda came in.

"He's in a cell," was the first thing the unicorn mare said, and those words arrived from behind Applejack.

Don't jump...

The dark-furred unicorn wearily moved around the desk. Claimed the waiting bench, and tired eyes looked at Applejack.

"He'll stay there until sometime this afternoon," Miranda Rights added.

"Bail?" Applejack quietly guessed.

The next words just barely made it across the space between them. Drifting on currents of invisible mist and exhaustion.

"Removed to Canterlot for psychiatric reevaluation."

Neither mare moved for a few seconds.

"So he's done this before," Applejack finally said.

"He's... been here twice," Miranda slowly replied. "Following others, all of whom he now insists followed him first. Who were going to hurt him. Attack first. I'm guessing the numbers are higher for Canterlot."

She had to know. "Has he hurt anypony?"

A little too softly, "The best answer I can give you -- and the worst -- is 'Not yet'. Not that anypony knows of. He... wants to frighten, Applejack. Frighten everypony and everyone so badly that they'll never come near him. But he hasn't tried to fight. Not yet. And when you yelled, with what you yelled... I took a guess on who it was." Green-grey eyes closed, reopened. "I wasn't exactly happy about being right."

"Why jus' scare?" the farmer asked. "Why not cast or kick?"

"Because," the weary officer answered, "he would be fighting a monster."

Applejack's entire body went tight.

"That's what he's always told me, when this happens," Miranda's exhaustion added. "That it would be a pony against a monster. And when that happens, the pony loses. So he tries to use fear... for now. There's at least two police departments waiting for the night when that breaks. He's always looking for monsters, Applejack. And when you're always looking... you'll always find them. It's just that..." This time, the dark head dipped. "...he doesn't remember how to look for anything else."

They were both silent for a while.

"Reevaluation," Applejack finally said.

"Yes."

"What happens after that?"

"If it's the same as the last few times?" Miranda offered. "There won't be charges, because nopony was hurt." More softly, "Yet... But he'll be judged as temporarily incompetent. Referred for medical treatment. They'll give him potions and pills, because they know what the condition is and how to treat it."

The farmer blinked.

"The doctors can cure this."

"No," the dark mare corrected, and did so with a tired shake of her head. "Treatment only. It has to continue for the rest of his life. But it's effective. It always has been." With a soft sigh, "I... came across him in Canterlot once, when the treatment had reached the point where it was all working again. He -- thanked me..."

"So what happens?" she forced herself to ask. "It stops workin' after a while? He builds up a resistance, an' then --"

"-- he feels better. He's judged to be capable of making his own decisions, without supervision. Running his own life. Which obviously means that he's thinking clearly. That he's fine -- with the exception of the stomach cramps and bouts of blurred vision, because the treatment has a few nasty side effects. So eventually, he starts telling himself something else. A decision which a lot of sane ponies make every day."

"...what?"

"That he doesn't need medicine."

They talked for a while after that.

Miranda felt that Applejack had acted properly by not attacking first -- but then said that there was such a thing as 'egregious provocation'. Advised the farmer to ask Rarity for the full details, because the designer kept trying to use the term as a defense and presumably had it memorized. And... that there were times when waiting to move second might mean never being able to move again.

"How can y'tell? When t' strike first, an' when to wait?"

"If you have a law enforcement mark," the police chief quietly said, "there's a few scant times when you can make the decision on instinct. And then you have to explain that to the jury. For the rest of them... if you work it out, as a perfect formula? Let me know. Do you want me to walk you home?"

"No. Ah've got the path, an' y'need sleep."

"So do you."

"Ah'll come by tomorrow. T' fix your fence --"

"-- don't."

"At least let me pay --"

"-- don't."

The echoes faded after a while.

"Not tomorrow," Miranda finally relented. "Not for a day or two. Just get some rest."

The farmer took a breath.

"D'you think he'll try t' --"

"-- no. It's never been the same sapient twice. He sees you as a monster, Applejack. The only one who can see that. He's lost. And with me... I'm one of the monsters who keeps beating him. But warn your family. Just in case. And do that in the morning, because he's in a cell. Do you need the restroom before you go?"

"Used one in the palace before Ah left --"

"-- so you can dry your face."

"Ain't much point. Not with the fog outside --"

"-- and blow out your snout."

"Why would Ah need t' --"

"-- you've been crying for the last five minutes."

Applejack blinked, and more tears were forced into her fur.

"I wasn't sure you'd noticed," Miranda quietly said. "It... speaks well of you. That you feel sad for him. A lot of ponies --"

"An' you," the farmer considered from the heart of shock, "can jus' sit there without reactin' at'tall --"

"Do you want to know," the officer sadly asked, "about another aspect of a law enforcement mark?"

Applejack waited. Finally nodded.

"It all waits," the dark mare wearily told her, "until I go off-shift. Your family has probably been wondering where you are for hours, Applejack. Go home."

There was still fog outside, and it would probably linger until well past dawn because the local weather coordinator wasn't exactly known for getting the schedule fulfilled on time. It meant that true vision was just about impossible, and it was easy to see monsters lurking in the mists. For those who truly searched, there would always be monsters everywhere. And you could fight a monster, if you had the daring (and perhaps the stupidity), but if you didn't know...

Applejack made it home, and did so because she was on her own ground. She could steer on instinct: her legs knew where to go.

She woke up each member of her family for just long enough to let them know she was safe, tucked the youngest back in, dried herself off and then, because it was winter and there was very little to do after Sun was raised, went to bed with plans to sleep in.

But she couldn't fall asleep.

You could fight a monster, if you were brave (or moronic) enough. For some, that battle had an initial requirement of recognizing that the monster was even there. But if you carried your monster within, and would do so for the rest of your life...

How do you win?

She didn't know. And so she didn't sleep. She simply stared out the window, pausing every so often to wipe away the tear tracks. And she continued to do so until Sun was raised, and a blur of airborne cyan allowed the bubble of longed-for sanity to expand until it pretended to cover the world.