The screeching of a motor wakes you.

Lifting your head, you rub ash from your eyes. Beneath you is a chair, in front of you stands a wooden table that your head claimed as a pillow. Your bones, neck and back, hurt from sleeping in this uncomfortable position.

The faint smell of ash and ethanol reaches your nostrils.

A piece of paper presents itself atop the table. In an instinctive reaction you reach and read it.

“You are you. This is your home. You are alone. You are new here.

Café at Victory Square. 17:30. Cutie mark of an eye on a globe.”

You are you. Good to know. Though, you don’t know if it ever happens to be not the case.

It doesn’t.

The slowly dissipating fog in your thoughts thwart your attempts to cognize. You turn to less philosophical questions. Listening to and observing your surroundings, the distant voices above you, the tumultuous happenings of a city outside, your almost clean apartment, you see that this paper tells the truth.

You are alone. No family, friend, foe, nor roommate inhabits with you this small space you call home.

Who would forget something like that? Well, it’s you, of course. You did forget.

No, wait it wasn’t you, exactly. It was your past you. It was this duplicitous past version of yourself that scrambled your memories. And looking on the table, the instruments of this act become apparent – many empty bottles, an empty, heart-shaped bottle and an also empty, pill bottle. All are unlabeled. Bootleg, moonshine.

An assertion: you are an alcoholic, drug-addicted creature. But for an alcohol-dependent and drug-addicted creature you have a too bare, too clean room. Therefore, you are indeed new here, you recently moved in here and haven’t had the opportunity to trash your flat.

You look down. A small, wet circle covers the chair pillow you are sitting on – you peed yourself. A magnifying glass following a red string is stamped on your flank.

Cutie marks: No one really knows what cutie marks are. Opinions vary from meaningless tattoos to destiny defining symbols. Either way, all agree that they appear during a certain meaningful event in life.

You open a desk drawer. It squeaks as you open it, and the lifeblood of an office, paper and pens, show themselves. Taking a pen, you write ‘hello’on the paper. Directly comparing the two writing styles you conclude that you did write it. But the letters of the you-are-you-paper are squigglier. On the paper are small water droplet marks that soaked into the paper.

You knew you were going to be an amnesiac. At least, he/you could have been a bit more informative!

An assumption can be made from the little evidence.

The Rainy Day: It can’t be happening. Clearly, it was a misunderstanding, nothing bad, you’ll simply talk it out. It will return as it once was. Calm down, it will be all right, sit down, and take a drink, flood out your worries.

They did it. They were clearly at fault. Everything bad that happened to him, They were at fault, They caused him to drink. Or did he drink before the breakup? That doesn’t matter. It was Them why he’s feeling so bad now.

Okay, okay. Maybe he exaggerated. How about a compromise?! It doesn’t have to be perfect; he can convince Them, if he has the right words to say in the right order in the right tone, They have to take him back. If only They would take his calls.

Why bother? It won’t matter in the end either way. No matter who They are, he is going to leave Them in the past; for there is nothing more than sadness to be achieved in this unvisitable place. He hates Them. He loves Them. He has forgotten Their name. That’s what they deserve. Burn it all. He took a perfect day for it, the weather itself is downtrodden and pours, take a bender. Burn it. Take a hike, never come back to Their turf. Burn it. Take the memorabilia, the photos, the letters with empty promises. Burn it. Take that, whatever that is, a stranger gave it to you. It must be fun.

Forget the sad attempts to recover his life. The resumé? The notes? He knows he won’t listen to himself. But he still did it, just in case.

Your sudden lesson on why speedballing is bad aside, these things must have been good. Magical even. You feel like the next gust of wind could top you over and like you could carry the world’s weight.

Some really good stuff.

Opening another drawer, you see deeds finely put in it: residence of this flat, a passport, a membership card, a certificate of vaccination, and an identity card.

You take a closer look at it.

Citizenship of the Socialist Stalliongradian Republic
Surname: Thread
Given Name: Lost
Middle name: Red

Date of Birth: 05.12.990

Eye color: Brown
Race: Earth Pony

Residence: 5555 Stalliongrad City Like-Sketch Street 4d

That does help you a little bit … maybe? Still, you try to remember.

What does this even mean?

“Eye color: Brown” and “Date of Birth: 05.05.990”. At least you’re not completely hopeless. Your brain hasn’t been scrambled enough to forget such basic concepts as dates and color. Residence and names, too, are not unheard-of things. “Lost Red Thread” seems a bit too ironic for your tastes. You, after all, do feel lost. But you don’t have to hunt down your own name, you count it as a small blessing.

You read the upper words again.

In the deep labyrinth of the mind something new happens, you meet knowledge. Old pathways reconnect, electrical signals get send, and return with promising tidbits.

Stalliongrad: A place where the crimson flowed in rivers and is now waving it in the wind. It is a place where the desperate became idealists, who reviewed the world anew. They saw the injustices of their fellows, their suffering and hunger. While they, who themselves weren’t better off, watched the wealth of the well-to-do and believe that the wealth of one created the poverty of the other. With a struggle they declared they will suffer no master, no parasite, above them and no servant under them. Their fellows became comrades. Their exploiters fled south.
The experiment is in its cradle – much is still to be decided.

You shake your head. In any case, you have some encyclopedic knowledge. Its usefulness is eluding you, for now.

On the ID is a photo of you. Or you think it’s you. You look grim. Are you that unfun? You hope not.

It is likelier that you aren’t allowed to smile in ID photos.

Looking back at the words. You see ‘Earth pony’… Earth pony? Earth pony!?

…

Nope, it barely rings a bell. You look at your bright green hooves. Apparently, you are one.

Looking into the drawer once again you see a sticky note on a small pile of stapled papers. The sticky note reads, Do, eventually! On closer inspection, the paper stack is a resumé.

It is filled with surface level descriptions of your life. And it is uninteresting.

Two years in the royal guard was your first job. Why you joined or left or what the guard even is stay unknown. Otherwise, you were in places that don’t mean anything to you anymore, doing jobs that appear like useless, soul-grinding office work.

You put the card and resumé back into the drawer.

You stand up from the chair. On your fours, you trot towards a window and open it. You guessed right, it rained. The sun shines now and is drying the wet streets. Observing from a high floor you can see cranes in the distance, gray walls opposite to you, an apartment covered in propaganda posters that are too far away to discern, the street, it must be Like-Sketch Street, beneath you is relatively busy, a tramway goes through it, and creatures that also must be ponies, basing it on your ID card, walk through it. Some fly.

Simply looking out of the window is overstimulating.

The cold creeps in; you close it.

Walking back to your table, you take the bottle again. You stare at the drug containers. No emotion is invoked, no desire, and no memory. Blood rushes with fresh oxygen from your lungs to your brain. Synapses work.

You think harder.

The neurons give their best.

But nothing. The bottles will not share their stories.

You throw them into the bin, alongside the ash.

Your table seems utilitarian and evidently fireproof. At least your chair has a pillow, that you need to wash now, meaning you aren’t a complete cheapskate. These small things tell their own stories.

Or maybe *were* because you don’t know how harsh that memory-suicide came to be. Can a personality reset? You aren’t sure.

The need of a good cleaning makes itself clear. Not only for the room but also for yourself. Smelling yourself, you smell of ash and … you don’t even know. It reeks like a cocktail of bodily fluids and chemicals. Your nose screams at you in agony. Your eyes tear.

The apartment is small, it’s enough for you. You wander through the small space like a lost puppy. There is a bathroom next to your bedroom. The bed is a pitiful thing. Making a quick detour to the nightstand, interested in what might be in it, you open it.

There is a small bag. In there are coins. Not many coins.

Do they do something? Why would you collect coins?

On them things like “1 Bit”, “2 Bit”, and “5 Bit” are written.

…

Oh, it’s money. Wait, what does money do?

…

Your brain doesn’t answer. You only have the slight feeling that it’s important and that you need more of it. How would you even get more? Ah, yes, a job. Do you even have one?

You don’t have one. That would be explained by the resumé. Why else would you need one?

So, not only are you an alcoholic, amnesiac drug-addict, you are an unemployed, alcoholic, amnesiac drug-addict.

Despite the deluge of bad news; at least, you are not homeless.

Unemployment and homelessness: By the degree of the worker’s republic peace, bread, and roses are no longer privileges but rights. They take their promises very seriously. In fact, they take it so seriously that unemployment and homelessness are illegal – to a degree. Everyone is guaranteed housing as blocky and gray as it may be. It is at the very least sturdy. Work on the other hoof is not only guaranteed but required. With exceptions of the elderly – pensions are ensured and high –, the sick, those attending education, and the young. Discounting them, unemployment is at an official 1 percent. If you don’t find yourself in those categories, you should find employment. Otherwise, when you do not find one in a span of a month, the might of the state will get involved.
You are very lucky, most singles live in kommunalkas, communal housing, or flatshares. How you achieved this lays in the past.

Thanks, brain.

Sadly, you still haven’t gotten the answer to what money actually does. But you might as well give yourself the mission of finding a job to stop your criminal unemployment.

But that is a quest for the future you. Now, you will shower. You enter the bathroom. It is as basic as the rest of your apartment. White tiles. A shower. A faucet.

With a glance into your mirror a realization comes forth. The picture of you is a fable, a lie. Your bright, yellow mane is unkempt – messier than you find reasonable. The nose – at least you think it is one – is pulsing red.

Perhaps you hit your nose against a door, or you could have fallen. Or maybe the alcohol is still running through your system.

You dare not to touch it.

Your eyes. They are the most redeeming quality of your face – even that is not saying much. Surrounded by eyebags, that give you the likeness of a creature that hasn’t left their cave in years, and blood vessel, makes you nice-yellow eyes only presentable at a distance.

It is not going to get better if you stand there. You enter the shower.

You see a shampoo bottle that is *creatively* labeled “Shampoo” with its sensible warnings beneath the label.

You turn on the water. Heeding the warnings, you do not rub the shampoo into your eyes and despite its good smell you don’t eat it. Foam and bubbles form on your fur. The stink dissolves.

The water is warm. You take a small sip of the water and wash away the taste of yesterday. Then you take more and more. You haven’t drunk water for who knows long.

Should you even be drinking this water?

Stalliongradian water: It is drinkable, but it doesn’t taste good. At least not as good as the water the center of the princesses’ Equestria.

Princess? Equestria?

…

Sure hippocampus, go at your own pace.

You soak in the peacefulness of a calming shower.

And once you are starting to drift off, you get stirred back to the realm of the aware. A knock and a knock and a knock.

This could be important! You rush out of the shower, almost taking the curtain with you. With many successful attempts of not slipping, you eventually reach the door.

You take the handle.

You open it.

“Good day, sir, we would like toooooo…” She stares at you. She and her partner are wearing thick uniforms with rank insignia on their shoulders, with equally fluffy ushankas that both have red stars on them. Their appearance manifest authority over you and any creature that might stand in their way. You realize, to your detriment, they are creatures you don’t want to say ‘no’ to.

The one talking to you seems to have a higher rank. She seems flustered. Why? Do you also need to wear something? “Ahem. Sorry for interrupting your shower.” Oh! It’s because you’re wet. “I am Snowy Days, this is Hoax. We are here to investigate and would like to ask you some questions.”

Her partner, a winged pony with a stern expression on her, sniffs the air, “did something burn down?” she murmers.

Water is dripping from you. You look like you melted with your fur fully drenched. You smile. “Hi, officers. Yeah, sure. I don’t think I can help much. What is it about?”

“We are investigating a murder.” The leading mare with a horn protruding from her forehead says. “Did you happen to hear or notice anything yesternight.”

HOLY CRAP! Did your past self kill some creature? “I – uhm – you know, I was uhm. I was in my apartment all day, yesterday. Sorting out, you know, personal problems.”

“Don’t worry, sir, the victim died through magical means. Unless you are hiding some magical capabilities, you are not going to be a suspect.”

You nod.

“Was there nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“May I see your documentation.”

You nod with the same smile, it is a habitual smile, you realize. You don’t know if you are even allowed to say no. In your slightly rattled mind, you go through your apartment, dripping water everywhere. You take the whole pile of ID-stuff out of your drawer and hoof it to her.

The state’s might is upon your porch, don’t keep them waiting.

“Your ID would have been enough, mister … Thread. Now, why is your apartment smelling like a fire ravaged in there.”

“Ah, I was making stew. And well, you know how it is, I accidentally had a rag on the stove.”

She glances at the pile finely folded out with her magic. At the membership card she stops and gives a slight smile “I understand, tovarish.” She gives you your papers back. A notebook flies out of her pocket, she crosses out what is presumably you address and notes something on the side. “That is all, thank you for your time.”

Tovarish: In the times of the pre-industrial, the times of yore. The three tribes weren’t a unified group as they are now. Even the three tribes themselves were split, split, and split again in groups and sub-groups. This assortment of groups was marked with a diversity of languages.
The languages are dead now, a victim of unity. Only one prevailed. But remnants survive in the dialects. Tovarish is such a dialectical word. She called you comrade.

The membership-card. You didn’t look at it that closely. But now it seems important. You open it.

Stalliongrad Communist Party

What the buck is a communist?

“Wait, I have some questions.”

The two halt.

Stop, before you ask something stupid, you shouldn’t say something that could get you in trouble, and this whole ‘communist’ thing feels mighty controversial. Don’t ask that.

“What are you?”

The two look at each other confusedly. Snowy Days answers “We are police officer. We enforce laws.”

“Oh, good to know. That would have been my next question. No, I mean what are you?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Maybe? I am just asking what you are.”

“I am a unicorn?” a moment passes. “Are you trying to be racist?”

“No, no, no. I mean, ok, you are a unicorn, officer. What does that mean?”

“That I am – that I can do magic.”

“Is that all?”

“I think so?” She glances to Hoax as if to find an answer from her to your inane questions.

“So, if you were to suddenly stop being a unicorn, you would no longer be able to do the levitation stuff, is that really all? No deeper significance?”

“I would lose some conveniences. I guess, it wouldn’t affect me that much, I wouldn’t really care. But it is not something I think about much.” She shrugs “I know myself as me, not a unicorn.”

“And you? Hoax, was it? You are a …”

“Pegasus.” You can hear annoyance dripping from this word.

“What does being a pegasus mean to you? Would you want to be something else?”

“No, flying helps with my work. It’s easier to catch someone that way.”

“Only because of work? Isn’t there more to life?”

“It is enough for me.”

Now Snowy intervenes, she smirks. “Really, sergeant Hoax? There is more to life than work. Do you even have a private life or family? We have been working together for months. You never tell me about it.”

There is a certain look in Snowy’s eyes as she looks at Hoax. Worry, perhaps?

Hoax defends herself, “this is wholly unprofessional, lieutenant. I don’t see how that helps with our case.”

“Of course, it could. We live in a world where everything interacts with everything. EVERYTHING is connected.” You say, “why shouldn’t your personal life have connections with this?”

It is possible that everything conflicts with everything, that everything in the world is in constant motion, and in a way that it somehow connects these two things. But the probability that her personal life is somehow connected, logically, to a random case is small.

Do you even know what you are saying?

“Be it as it may, there is currently a corpse outside, that isn’t getting any better.” Says Hoax, “this is ridiculous. We still have work to do.”

“You’re right.” Snowy’s smile dissipates. She gives you quick look. “Goodbye, sir.”

“Wait, I still have one small question.” They turn back to you.

“Yes?”

“Uhm. Could I see the corpse?”

“If you don’t enter the perimeter, we won’t stop you. But,” she eyes you, weirded out by your odd inquiry,“ you should maybe dry yourself first. It’s cold outside.”

You nod and close the door. A puddle has formed beneath you. You move towards where one would reasonably have a towel.

Author's Note

I’d also like to thank Marx and Engels for inspiring me to make a My Little Pony fanfiction.