Chapters Chapter 1 - The Rich Inner World
A restaurant. The clinking of cutlery, muffled griffon voices. A few ponies, who had come here for the exotic, were also enjoying the local dishes. The place is located in the southwestern part of Vanhoover, controlled mostly by griffons, particularly the Falcon family. If ponies are seen here, they are almost certainly wearing electric collars on their necks: with so many birds of prey around, free ponies feel more than just out of place—they feel like prey and don't enter these neighborhoods unless absolutely necessary.
The warm light of the chandeliers illuminated the richly decorated hall. The smell of roasted, boiled, baked, smoked meats wafted around. Differently cooked meat dishes are common and familiar to these predatory creatures. Less fresh vegetables, more juicy meat. For ponies, some dishes seem extreme—and not just because of the high price.
The steady hum of voices and the clinking of dishes was drowned in a shrill rumble, like the squeak of a broken vinyl record. All eyes turned toward the source of the noise. An orange earth pony in a black and white waiter's outfit raised his head and looked blankly at the mess he'd made: the shards of a plate were lying on the tiled floor, and a dish—the same dish that the local ponies didn't eat for moral reasons—was sprawled on the beige surface a little farther away.
"Rich Inner World." This dish consisted mostly of entrails—soft roasted liver, boiled spleen, smoked lungs and kidneys, intestines stuffed with meat—served with a blood-red sauce. Seated at a nearby table, an important-looking griffon looked at the spoiled dish with frustration. His attention slowly shifted to the frightened waiter. Under the frowning gaze, his heart beat even harder: the earth pony almost fainted; the whole world stopped for him. He froze, huddled on the floor, inwardly praying to all the deities and entities he knew that his insides would not serve as a substitute for the "Rich Inner World".
The visitors were silent. The background melody was drowned out for a second by the door swinging open sharply as a brown bird of prey in a white kitchen outfit with a hood burst into the hall. She ran toward the fallen waiter as fast as if she had used a teleportation spell. Her entire aura radiated violent anger: some in the hall even sympathized with the bungler.
"Holiday! For fuck's sake!" curved claws dug into the skin of his front leg. Out of anxiety, he didn't notice it. The high cost of the meal clouded Holiday's mind: his monthly salary wasn't even close. "Get up!"
When she addressed the griffon, it was as if she'd been replaced. Her anger was changed to worry and subservience in the blink of an eye as the chef apologized as if her life depended on it. The customer, with a paw on his beak and leaning on the table, watched her absently. He knew he would get a replacement.
"I sincerely apologize for this... careless bag of bones. I will bring you a new one. I'll call the cleaning staff..." her gaze stayed fixed on the gilded card on the table, gleaming in the chandelier light. It bore a stylized symbol: a pony skull with a crown. A symbol of high status. "Just please wait."
The griffon female dragged the guilty employee behind her, as slack as the said bag of bones. The last thing he wanted was to end up under the red sauce on the King's white plate. As soon as the chef and Holiday were out the door, a brown mare with a mop and a bucket came out with a discreet gait, her eyes downcast.
The high-flying bird lazily watched the thorough cleaning. The guest involuntarily caught a glimpse of the mare's neck and couldn't help but lick his beak.
What an appetizing neck, he thought. Too bad the slave collar didn't allow me to get a good look at it.
***
The kitchen was bustling with activity. Through the clamor and clinking of tools, the junior chefs were shouting, preparing the ingredients for the dishes. The workers preferred not to glare at the angry chef. She pressed Holiday against the refrigerator and hovered over him like a rock, spreading her front paws at his sides.
"What's wrong with you, huh?" the griffon growled harshly, glaring at the frightened, skinny stallion. His brown eyes stared absent-mindedly at the tiled floor and his ears flicked back. "You screwed up a dish for almost five thousand caps! I thought you wouldn't be dangling in the clouds knowing the value of the dish!"
Silence. He couldn't utter a word, frozen with fear: the beak looming over him could crack his skull or rip open his belly with a single blow.
The cup of patience was full, and the griffon struck the refrigerator in a rage, leaving a small dent in it and drawing the attention of the nearby cooks. In the next instant, she backed away annoyed, sighing loudly.
"Fuck!" She paced back and forth, swishing her tail angrily through the air. "Do you know how much hassle it is to get ingredients? Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Holiday's whole body trembled, but he obediently looked up. He could hardly make eye contact with his superior—she was about to throw him at a dish. The griffon, noticing the stallion's condition, struggled to control her anger, not out of sympathy, but just to keep him from fainting during the conversation. On the other hand, his subdued, frightened look gave her pleasure.
"I suspect what you're thinking." She cast a keen eye over his lean and weak body: the waiter's clothes didn't fit him, but hung like a hanger. "Your hide and bones aren't fit for this. I don't plan to make you a slave, though I have every right to do so for the damage you've done. To bother with you, fatten you up, and waste caps? No, thank you. You'll work it out yourself."
He obediently waited for the details. His boss's last words signaled a small chance to make things right. A chance to save his skin and not become a luxury dish for some wealthy griffon. However, if the griffon's words were to be believed, he was no good for that. It is not generosity but practicality that drives her.
"Given your situation, I won't demand the impossible. You have one year to pay back the five thousand caps. But until then, I don't want to see your hoof in my restaurant, got it?"
The earth pony nodded intensely, his brown eyes wide open.
"Does it have to be caps?" if his ragged, complaining voice had taken on a physical embodiment, it would have resembled a roadway after a bombing raid.
The griffon sighed mentally: his fear was so beautiful!
She raised her eyes to the ceiling, tapping her beak thoughtfully with the claw of her forepaw.
"Could be in the equivalent of gems. Or..." Holiday's back was ice-cold: the griffon's smile was colder than the refrigerator he was leaning against. "Bring me a reasonably well-fed pony. Not a junkie, a relatively healthy one. Willing to end his life. Convince him to give his body to me. On a voluntary basis, of course. I don't want any trouble with the law. Have him write a will, make a memory—in general, to keep the nose clean."
A sneer sounded in the voice of the boss: the reaction of the potential prey amused her. However, the method mentioned was indeed used for getting ingredients. There were other options, legitimate and not so legitimate, but when a pony disappeared, the police would start their investigation at her restaurant.
Holiday felt disgusted with himself when he realized he had seriously considered such a possibility. He didn't like this restaurant at all. Normally he would have despised it, but he had no choice—his absent-mindedness had earned him a reputation as a bungler among the pony establishments, and in a neighborhood populated by griffons, he had the opportunity to find work. All collarless Vanhoover citizens, including Holiday himself, did not come here of their own free will, unless it was to buy or test the Falcon family's top-of-the-line firearms.
The change of expression on the young waiter's face didn't escape the griffon, and she liked it—she guessed he was seriously considering her offer. Griffons rarely considered ponies as food, but this predator was just in the minority. She looked down at his orange neck and leaned in; the sharp tip of her massive yellow beak rubbed against it.
Holiday flinched but didn't dare squeak, petrified. His ears rang, a cold nausea came to his throat, and his knees weakened enough that he could have melted and sprawled on the floor.
He looked around pitifully. A lump of butter had fallen into the hot pan and was melting fast—the junior cooks, mostly female griffons, were minding their own business and stubbornly ignoring what their boss was doing.
The touch of the beak was painful, but not strong enough to split the skin. The tip rustled upward through the orange fur, breathing deeply the exhilarating scent of frightened prey. The lower part of the beak opened, as if eager to snatch a bite. Just one poor, but so appetizing bite!
After stroking his cheek, and then his temple, it dipped its beak under his ear, which was pressed down in helpless terror.
"So young..." the griffon whispered with a huff, who was twice his age. That sweet voice would have delighted any male, but Holiday's face was paler than snow. "Healthy. You smell good. Too bad you're too skinny."
The griffon reveled in his tense body. She loves to play with ponies, making them freeze in primal fear of a predator. She finds special pleasure in males. Perhaps that's the reason she agreed to hire him, though she sensed a catch: why would a pony take a job at a restaurant where he'd be served his own kin? She'd realized the extent of his daydreaming in the first week, but she hoped the expensive meal would make him more careful and cautious. She wanted to see a free pony carrying their kin to the plate. Slave waiters had a different attitude... The idea amused her. It was fascinating—until the precious inner world of a pony was smeared on the tile.
She would forever remember the features on Holiday's face when he found out what kind of dish he would be carrying. When he'd been poked in the face for his place in the food chain.
The memory made her body quiver, the brown feathers on her neck rise; in a voluptuous rush, the thin bird's tongue fluttered in his ear.
Holiday's glazed eyes opened wider, and his breath came in short gasps as a nasty, dangerous insect crawled into his vulnerable spot, wriggling and tickling. He could hardly suppress the urge to twitch and throw it off, realizing that doing so would only make things worse. The huge predator loomed over him, showing that it would not tolerate any attempt to escape. Tears of hopelessness came to her eyes.
The griffon stopped, feeling the growing tingle under her tail as the predatory thrill began to turn her on. She leaned back and took another look at the fired employee.
Maybe I shouldn't let him go. Those frightened eyes of hunted prey are so... tempting! Making him my slave now... Oh, no. Even for my entertainment, he's skinny, and he's not worth 5,000 caps yet. Let him work for it. If he doesn't, I'll settle for what I've got. The look of fear on his face makes me horny. That'll do it for a while.
Holiday almost stopped breathing when he saw the griffon's face: the change didn't bode well. It was as if his superior had rethought something and changed her plans for his body.
"If you don't manage to get five thousand caps back in a year..." she smiled predatorily, licking her beak faintly. "I'll find you. Don't think about running away, it'll be worse. Don't forget," she spread her massive brown wings slightly. "I'll find you from on high anywhere in the city."
The young stallion gasped as if a clawed paw had already closed around his throat. Fortunately, his imagination could not enter the real griffon's fantasies—otherwise nothing would have saved him from fainting.
The griffon took out his Vanhoover passport and made a note of who and what Holiday owed. Carelessly she tossed the little pocketbook, causing the stallion to jump up in fear.
"Leave the uniforms here. Now get out of here before I change my mind."
***
Holiday ran down the street as fast as he could, as if the bloodthirsty griffon were already chasing him. His eyes were blurry. He headed for the coast, hoping the cool, salty air would calm his panic. The clatter of the pony's hooves attracted the attention of griffons and slave ponies, but the passersby did not stop him, parting at the sight of his crying face.
The waterfront was not far from his former place of employment. Through his own sobs he soon heard the muffled sound of the surf, and after another block, he saw the dark blue water stretching to the horizon. The sun, moving slowly toward the Desert Ocean, played in its waves with red glints. The scenery broke through the fog of confusion and fright, chaining the mind to itself, longing for peace and support.
Slowing his pace, the stallion stopped at the cracked stone fence, standing up on his hind legs and throwing his front legs over the railing. Salty air hit his nose as he inhaled deeply. Relief swept over his body, his knees buckling—he hugged the railing like the close friend he needed. The cold of the stone didn't bother him: his cheap casual clothes protected him from it. A shrill wind fluttered his short dark orange mane.
The water below foamed, slapping against the algae-greened concrete foundation. One wave was strong enough for the spray to reach his orange face—the coolness offered serenity; his breathing evened out, allowing the stallion to sink into dreamy contemplation.
The sun was still high. There were approximately two hours before it would hide. Orange rays glistened on the water; the sky and clouds—thinning rapidly toward the horizon above the shore—took on darker hues. Nature seemed to be a bystander: it did not care what was going on in the arteries of the streets and the cavities of the houses. It simply existed and would continue to exist. No terrors or wars would destroy the beauty of the sunset; it could not be tarnished, spoiled, or blackened. It would remain pure and infallible, attractive and alluring. Holiday would like to dissolve into it, to become a part of it, to be free from the problems of everyday life. To be free from the chains of his miserable existence, from anxiety, pain, poverty... and that nasty griffon.
A pensive gaze wandered over the topography of the waves; over the horizon where the boundary between sky and ocean dissolved; over the foaming water caressing the foundations. The sound of the vast water drowned out the other sounds around him, allowing him to focus on the eternal beauty.
His gaze flickered to the side, and what he saw brought Holiday back down to earth. The remains of Vanhoover's pre-war harbors were bathed in golden light. About a hundred years ago, ships and boats were still rusting there, but with the labor of tens of thousands of slaves and the special abilities of unicorns, they had managed to dismantle and recycle what was left after the war. Now there are only a few dozen working boats and launches left in the city of three hundred thousand. Most of them are of the sailing principle: the energy problem does not allow spending precious gems and fuel on shipping. After all, the city has been living in isolation for about a hundred years. Unless intrepid tourists or travelers from the south, where the ruins of Hoofland, one of the twelve metropolises of Equestria, are located, can sail in. But there are few such visitors: the distance is too great, the scaremongering of Hoofland fanatics too plentiful.
The locals only have to go out into the Desert Ocean to fish or search for sunken pre-war ships. And also to interact with a huge island nearby. Green Island, or simply The Island, is favored by Vanhoover's griffons, who spend a lot of time hunting the local wildlife. Although a bridge connects Vanhoover to the island town, many ponies prefer to get there by boat.
Nearly two hundred years ago, Vanhoover was attempted to be attacked, but it was too far from the front: one of the megaspells exploded somewhere in the The Island mountains, so the town escaped heavy radiation contamination; the other fell far to the east of here, at the base of the northern mountains.
Holiday found himself scrolling aimlessly through a free school program in his head. His face creased, and he returned to contemplation. The blood-red disk was sinking toward the water. A feverish attack of nausea clenched his insides—the landscape around him took on hues that reminded him of the contents of extreme meals.
The remnants of the lunch sloshed into the ocean with a dull thud. Holiday coughed, spat the remains, and breathed heavily, feeling the hot tears on his cheeks again. He wiped them away, straightened up, blew his nose, and walked down the embankment.
A couple of griffons were having a lively discussion with their front paws over the railing.
"What a fool you are..." the female griffon said, gesturing vigorously with her front paws. "To bet on someone who's lost so many fights in a row before..."
"If he's lost that many, then he must have won in the near future," the male griffon replied.
"Statistical probabilities have never worked in regards to the Arena. It's all about skill... and internal bargaining over who loses a fight. Nothing more. Don't be so naive."
"Perhaps I should join in, too?"
"You?" the female griffon laughed. "You can't even beat me. Do you think you can do it?"
"Against a pony..."
"Oh, don't embarrass yourself. Fighting a pony is like fighting a griffon without claws or wings. No intrigue."
Holiday walked past, their voices lost in the sound of the surf. He stopped, looking thoughtfully at his right foreleg, thin and weak, and sighed hopelessly. He couldn't even fight furniture, he'd tripped over a nightstand and tried to retaliate, but he'd only gotten himself hurt worse.
In the Arena, there is no need to kill anyone—only to make the opponent surrender or lose consciousness. The close combat skills would give a chance to earn the necessary amount of money in duels. And it's really best not to count on bets, as fights—both between masters and slaves for the amusement of the crowd—are often bought. His math skills would be of no use there.
The bitter taste of vomit still lingered in his mouth. He went to the nearest store that sold purified water in glass bottles, rinsed his mouth, spit, and then began to drink. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but he continued to sit on the bench and stare after it, taking small sips of water.
Night was gradually descending on the rows of countless houses and establishments, but the street lights came on on on schedule. Holiday did not notice the lanterns turning on and the gradual appearance of lights in the windows of the nearest houses. His thoughts were somewhere far away again. He looked at the empty glass bottle.
I should turn it in and get a couple caps, he thought. It wouldn't go to waste.
He turned in the bottle and went to a cheap but at least normal-and-not-fucking-exotic restaurant, where he had a meal of fish, hay and grass salad and apple juice, to put it mildly. Vanhoover had much more to offer if there were caps, which Holiday barely had enough to make ends meet. The available caps would last him two weeks, maybe three.
Slave labor had practically rebuilt this city and its infrastructure in a hundred and fifty years. Holiday didn't realize that no other city in the Wasteland produced as many goods as Vanhoover alone had to offer. To him, that was a given, and right now all he cared about was better food. As many do. Only the wealthy portion of the population can eat both vegetables and meat from animals raised in the greenhouses and farms of the Waterfall, one of the five great families.
In Vanhoover, connections and status decide everything. Kings. Families. It's hard to get a job without them, especially in competition with the dutiful slaves who make up the majority. And yet some masters—they're called by the standard of every non-slave—find it easier to pay a wage to a hired laborer than to care for a slave, make sure they're healthy, provide more or less normal conditions, and hire separate staff to look after them.
Why Holiday with his position did not become a slave? Simple. No one wants to mess around with an untrained slave with the current needs of the city—especially such a scrawny wimp.
But things are not so bad, Holiday thought as he set the emptied juice glass back on the table. I have a place to try to mortgage, after all.
The music from the modest radio set on the table by the cash register was replaced by the energetic buddy voice of local DJ Oscar.
"How are you spending your evening, folks? I hope you're not lying down with an overdose behind a dumpster somewhere after a hard day's work. That's not what we live for, and there's always time to die. For example, today a careless mare was walking down the street and slipped on a pile of dog shit, breaking her neck. That's a shitty death, isn't it? Be vigilant and watch your hooves and paws. And now to the commercials. The Softhooves family chain of stores 'Dressed to the Nine" has started a spring sale...".
The orange stallion walked out of the restaurant and leisurely clattered home. Occasionally he would stop at some lamppost and stare at the yellow light as if looking for a way out in it.
He only has a year. And where would he look for a job that would allow him not only to survive, but to save enough caps to pay off his debt?
He ran through the options in his head, sometimes humiliating and disgusting, evaluating their potential. His ears twitched as he heard a noise nearby. The characteristic tantalizing clink of slot machines came from the casino across the street.
Gambling was and still is an integral part of any society. It offers the opportunity to get rich quick. As a charismatic swindler with an energetic and cheerful voice, he invites you to try your luck, trust it, give all of yourself, all of your savings for a chance to return everything in tenfold. And that chance could come at any moment. Even on the first try.
Holiday wasn't the type to fall for that nonsense. He understood the principle of probability all too well, not to mention the fact that in places like this, slot machines are often rigged to minimize the profit of the visitors. Sure, someone is allowed to pull off a score to give the illusion of opportunity—but in the end, the house always wins.
The singing of the machine reminded him of a project that had been abandoned a long time ago: the high cost of components and lack of knowledge had taken its toll. But now there was nothing to lose—Holiday decided to bet everything he had left on one number. Spin the roulette wheel, croupier.
"...gems are getting more expensive," the voice of a mare in a warm coat came out. "The city's needs are growing."
Through gaps in the immovable cloud layer, the midday sun selectively illuminated the streets of Vanhoover. Individual buildings or entire blocks, as well as the roadbeds and sidewalks of the main streets, were almost identical to their pre-war condition in terms of cleanliness and deterioration.
"Isn't there any way to increase the capacity of the dam?" the second mare asked.
The two mares sat on the bench and looked aimlessly at the masters and slaves walking along the street; neither paid any attention to the orange skinny Holiday, who walked in front of them with lowered head and drooping ears, captivated by thoughts like quicksand.
"If it were possible, the Waterfalls would have been done by now. Their dam has been running at full capacity for a long time. The gems are now trying to make up for the lack, thus the gradual rise in their prices."
The other mare unconsciously touched her chest with her front leg, where a gem stone rested beneath her warm sweater. Her gaze clouded over.
"It reminded me of," a mixture of bitterness and nostalgia sounded in her voice, "how I was played a very nasty prank on as a filly. Everyone laughed at me. I ran home in tears, unable to see anything, and tripped. When I looked around, I noticed something shiny under the wheelie garbage can. I first thought it was the shards of some bottle, but I pulled out the shiny thing anyway. It turned out to be a purple sapphire. Someone must have dropped it and not noticed."
"What a find," the first mare said with a touch of envy.
"Since then I always carry it with me as a piece of jewelry: when I feel bad, I can feel its pleasant weight. It makes me feel easier. Reminds me that after a fall, lying on the ground in tears, you can discover something valuable."
***
In Vanhoover, mortgaging property was not an easy task. Holiday's situation was a burden: he had no connections or powerful friends, and the sprawling entry on his passport was a blackened reminder of the one whose claws his freedom had fallen into.
On top of that, he's unemployed, and his apartment is squatted in a poor neighborhood, and it's unimpressive to say the least. Bank creditors have trained their five senses to recognize the depth of a client's wallet, the height of their social status, and the value of their possessions. Holiday was hardly surprised that six banks refused to give him a loan of five thousand caps. If he defaulted on the loan, the bank would have spent more time and effort selling the debtor's property than it was worth.
Almost no surprise—because Holiday had hoped for the Steelmane family bank. Their core business was technology maintenance and repair, and there were plenty of things in his apartment for their keen eye to pick up on. That leaves us with one last option—loan sharks. They have a more personalized approach, but they usually deal with small pledges.
Every Vanhoover family has loan sharks; some are independent. In making his choice, Holiday continued to seek his luck with the Steelmanes: only they could fully value his property. The rest of the families are in some way related to technology maintenance, but narrowly focused, directly related to their core business. The Falcons need quality workbenches and equipment to create weapons and ammunition; the Waterfalls—in addition to tools to maintain the hydroelectric dam—need devices to create artificial light and heat for countless greenhouses; the Meadows need medical equipment; the Softhooves need machines to create clothing, armor, and furniture.
None of the above was something Holiday was involved with.
After a couple days, he went out looking for someone who would be willing to consider his offer of three zeros. Often loan sharks of the Steelmanes turned out to be store owners and part-time repair workshops, where they sold home appliances and serviced them. Holiday was listened to until he announced the amount—after which the faces of the loan sharks reflected amazement, as if a fat cock had grown on his forehead.
The orange stallion's mood was sinking. The more rash and absolute was the next refusal, the more rapidly it sank. He was already thinking of lowering the amount to two thousand caps so he could buy weapons and flee the city—but where to flee to? The Steel Rangers would definitely not accept him, and the raiders in the ruins of Red Spark would kill, rape, and appropriate his goods—and it would be nice if it was in that order. He wouldn't survive outside the city walls.
With these grim thoughts, he crossed the threshold of the Endless Wire store, jingling the bell above the entrance. The sign beneath the copper-colored neon letters displayed an upside-down figure-eight of intertwined wires. The display cases and walls were full of spare parts, vacuum lamps, power supplies, coils, tools; cables and wires dangled like lurking snakes.
Muffled music came from the depths of the next room. There were no visitors. A crimson-milk-colored earth pony sat behind the counter, reading the local newspaper, but looked up when he heard the bell ring. He put the paper aside and waited patiently with a friendly look for a customer to approach; the customer, however, was not in a hurry, but was examining the merchandise with a confused but deliberate look.
"Is there anything I can offer you?" the seller asked when he decided that the customer had been silent for too long. The question made him jump up as if he had forgotten where he was.
"Oh, yes... I need something..." he mumbled quietly as he approached the counter. The salespony leaned forward and strained his ears: he got the impression that this pony was not a loud one. "I'd like to mortgage the apartment and its contents for a loan," he mumbled. That phrase had become mundane to him in two days."
The crimson-milk earth pony blinked in bewilderment, but a moment later he realized what the client needed. Steelmane's representatives were rarely treated as loan sharks.
"For how much?"
Holiday's heart thudded. Like the neighbor upstairs was hammering a bookshelf against the wall.
"Five thousand caps."
The pony's eyes bulged.
"Again?"
"Five. Thousand," Holiday repeated slowly. His mouth was dry.
The salespony drew in a breath and stared blankly downward. He exhaled a long breath, his lips curled into a ring and almost whistled.
"Ooooh... That kind of request usually goes to a bank. But if you've come to us, that means they've all refused you."
Holiday didn't have to nod. It was too obvious.
"Show me your passport."
The skinny orange pony reached anxiously with his teeth into his inside pocket, grabbed the document and held it out to the salespony. He caught it with his front hoof and placed it on the table, deftly flipping through the pages.
"I see now. You're almost a slave, but you've been given a chance to work a certain amount of caps for a year. However, the apartment did not interest the bankers. I suspect you need five thousand caps to do that?"
Holiday thought about it repeatedly, but decided to bet everything on his project. Otherwise he'd be without a steady place to live. He can become a complete slave for life, but the property does not pass to the master, but to the heirs—if there are none, to the city. He will lose the apartment anyway. Only investing in the project would give him a chance to keep both his freedom and his home.
"No," Holiday replied after a brief pause, distracted by the beautiful melody from the next room. His mind clung to anything that would distract him from his raging emotions. "I need this to... fund a project of mine."
"Like what? You need resources? Tools?"
"I also need to fill knowledge gaps."
"The development will not only bridge the debt and interest, but also allow you to buy back your freedom in less than a year? What is it?"
"It... directly related to the entertainment industry," Holiday stammered, feeling a growing unease: no one had yet asked what the caps were for.
"Trade secret, basically," the salespony smiled oddly, then looked at the customer with another absentminded look. "That, by the way, is an ahead answer to my nascent question as to why such a thing would not interest our Family. We're not getting into the entertainment field. This is the lawn where the Softhooves and the Meadows graze and bark at each other like two bitter dogs."
Holiday hadn't thought of it that way, but memorized it for upcoming questioning. Technically, he wasn't lying. The project was indeed designed for the entertainment field, but for cheating. All the more reason not to engage with the loan sharks of the Meadows and the Softhooves, no matter how wealthy they were.
"We don't have anywhere to put the caps yet anyway..." the pony muttered, glancing questioningly at the skinny orange stallion. The client wasn't the type to run off with the caps at the first opportunity. Physically weak, with a hunted look—he couldn't survive in the Wastelands, and he couldn't hide here. And he's already in the crosshairs. If there's anything worth five grand in his apartment, why not? We could give the lad a chance.
The stallion behind the counter was in an extraordinary state of complacency and inner harmony with the world, like Fluttershy in a scenic forest among the chirping birds. His wife gave him a magical, unforgettable morning with her tongue, providing him with a friendly spirit and faith in the integrity of ponies—especially those who are willing to show talent and prove their worth. Helping in the rise from dirt to princes can pay off: bonding with a successful master can't be valued in caps.
Holiday had no idea what luck had fallen to his lot. He showed up in the right place at the right time.
The salespony closed the passport and moved it to the edge of the counter. The document owner grasped it with his teeth and looked up with a glimmer of hope.
"Go through that door. Tell my wife to look over your request. You don't have to knock."
His heart jumped joyously in his chest. He smiled and almost dropped the passport from his mouth: he had never been so close to his goal. With his head held high, he strode to the door and pushed it open; the last fragments of the tune came to his ears.
The windowless room, illuminated by the white light of a chandelier, is equipped for repairing various things. The walls from floor to ceiling were decorated with shelves and stands: wrenches, screwdrivers, saws, cutters, sharpening machines, measuring devices, batteries, jars with grease filled their surface. Equipment for working with enchanted items was available: diagrams, pentagrams, runes, spark batteries, crystals, and gems.
Steel dressers littered with parts and electronic components that peeked shyly out of ajar drawers. Numbered wooden crates were arranged on shelves, with radios, kettles, lamps, irons, telephones, wall clocks, TVs, and so on sticking out of them. Particularly large ones, like refrigerators and washing machines, stood in a row with papers with numbers taped to the case, like military officers with medals on parade.
The air smelled of chemical mixtures. The soft, smoky odor of rosin, familiar to Holiday, emanated from the desk where the unicorn sat with her head lowered. Her milk-colored fur and light purple mane were tied into a bun so her hair wouldn't get in the way of her work. Thick-rimmed glasses glittered on her nose. She was the same age as the vendor—about thirty-five.
Her horn shimmered with a chilly silver light, and a thick pencil-shaped soldering iron floated in the cloud of magic, emitting a trickle of smoke. Its sharp end was stinging under the magnifying glass an electronic circuit with small vacuum lamps and tiny crystals no bigger than a pimple or a mole. The circuit was inside the case on a belt.
An electric slave collar.
On the edges of the table were jars and boxes with short wires of different colors and tiny components. A screwdriver and a knife lay nearby.
The unicorn manipulated the soldering iron's stinger with passion and filigree precision. Holiday was fascinated by her movements: the way a small foal watches a radio-controlled car in motion, having no idea that it is controlled by a remote control. He himself knew how to use his mouth to operate a soldering iron, but it looked mesmerizing from the side.
As soon as the song from the radio on the nearest shelf died down completely, it was replaced by the familiar voice of DJ Oscar. On this broadcast, he seemed pensive, but not without his usual cheerful notes.
"At the time of the recording I never imagined that the owner of this lovely voice would be the head of the Softhooves family. It's a good thing, though, that my attempts to chase Eileen's gorgeous red tail in our recording studio were unsuccessful. Now I feel like fate has spared me. No, don't get me wrong: she's still gorgeous, as many of my listeners will agree, but you think harder. It's a nightmare to be the special pony for the head of the biggest family in the city, with a lot of rivalry for power. Safer and less stressful would be in the jaws of a manticore. The constant stress would turn my mane and tail gray prematurely. Of course, some are willing to sacrifice that to be with a beautiful mare, but... personally, I want to live a quiet life," DJ laughed loud enough to catch the milky unicorn's attention. A silver glow wrapped around one of the wheels, and Oscar's voice faded to almost a whisper.
The unicorn looked at her client through the thick glasses.
"Sit down, and then we'll talk," she pointed to a stool near her desk. She carefully placed the soldering iron on the edge of a flat jar of rosin. "Need something fixed?"
"I'm getting a loan."
"For how much?"
"Five thousand caps," Holiday replied. The repairpony's look whipped at his heart. Hope left his body like steam after a bath.
Before she could answer, the stallion's voice came from the hall.
"We'll give him a chance, sweetheart," he said. "Provided his possessions can be valued at the appointed amount."
"Are you serious?" she muttered, not believing her ears.
There was a clatter of hooves, and the stallion showed himself in the doorway.
"Why not? We haven't had a loan in a long time, and we have extra caps on our account."
The mare's face could be photographed and put in the encyclopedia of emotions with the caption 'The Standard of Skepticism'. She instantly realized that the orange stallion's freedom was probably out of his hooves, which was why the bank didn't dare take the case; also that he didn't have a job and lived in a neighborhood where street lighting was often absent due to stolen bulbs.
This is a waste of time! The poor beggar's goods would hardly be worth two thousand caps—and in the hours it would take to travel and look around, several orders could be fulfilled.
The crimson-milk stallion smiled softly and warmly, and her heart gave a traitorous twitch; a warm wave ran through her whole body as she felt her hooves soften like chocolate in the heat of summer.
She closed her eyelids and shook her head vigorously.
"No," she said with a struggle, and pressed her lips so tightly together that she couldn't pull them apart with tongs.
"Come on," he urged with the same warm and irresistible smile.
"Stop it," she begged, biting her lip and trying not to look at him.
"Come on, let's give it a try. He has his own little dream. Let's see what happens."
"No."
"It's not like we haven't decided anything yet. Look at what he's got, please."
She opened her eyes, looking at her special pony. At his marvelously possessive lips, the touch of which made her body go limp unable to resist—nor was she able to resist the smile playing on those lips.
That was the reason, by the way, why he was behind the counter: a smile like that would make a customer's desire to bargain abruptly disappear.
Holiday sat there with the feeling that he did not belong here. In fear of moving or making a sound, he clenched his jaws so tightly that the passport in his teeth nearly split in two.
"Okay," it was as if she'd thrown up a white flag above her. "I'll take a look."
The stallion nodded gratefully and disappeared. The milk-colored unicorn exhaled doomedly, raising her face to the ceiling. The white light of the chandelier fully illuminated her face.
The horn glowed. In the cloud of silver magic, a wooden tablet and a pencil appeared. The latter rustled across the paper, and the unicorn used telekinesis to roughly pull the document from Holiday's teeth, opened it, and copied the info. She flipped through it, shook her head when she noticed the griffon's entry, and handed it back.
"Since you're unemployed," she stated with a cold demanding face, "you should have no trouble meeting me at seven in the morning. I'm not going to set aside any other time," Holiday nodded hastily. "Fine. Tell me the address."
"3 Luxury Street, apartment 17."
"Luxury..." the unicorn said, almost snorting.
***
The dense layer of clouds had hidden the morning from the western part of the Wastelands for nearly two hundred years now. This beauty was available only to those who lived on the eastern shore of Equestria, and so Luxury Street, like every other street in the city of three hundred thousand, was drowning in a lazy, sullen grayness at this time of day. Red brick houses stood silently on either side of the street, covered in ugly—and sometimes highly cultured—graffiti and flyers. Entrances were littered with burned cans, tattered and worn furniture, and cheap beer bottles; a cool breeze made wrappers and old newspapers swirl and rustle on the sidewalk.
Not all the houses had working electricity, heating and water supply. Some of these things often broke down, and repairs had to wait weeks or months: the whole house collected funds for repairs, but some of the residents lacked the caps—or the willingness to part with them. Many of them went outside with similarly unfortunate residents to socialize, exchanging news and rumors—and, most importantly, to get drunk on songs and guitar music. One of these residents, a swamp-colored earth pony, was alone on an old couch, lying on her stomach in a provocative pose and resting her cheek on the seat. Luckily, she was completely wrapped in warm clothes, her pale yellow tail swaying in the wind. Her front leg dangled off the edge of the couch, as if the pony had reached for a bottle of beer but fallen asleep in the process. Drool stretched from her opened mouth.
The skinny orange stallion standing at the living room window on the fifth floor watched her with a detached look. Holiday couldn't sleep well all night. He walked around the apartment and evaluated the furniture, each time giving a different number, but the conclusion was the same: the necessary amount of caps was not reached even by optimistic calculations.
His front hooves rubbed against each other nervously, and every surface seemed uncomfortable, prickly and hard.
He was fortunate to live in a house where communications were disrupted fairly infrequently. He hardly ever got to walk down his street, so he rarely crossed paths with his neighbors—and he had no idea who they were.
With his side vision, Holiday saw movement. A dark figure in unassuming clothing turned from a neighboring street onto Luxury Street. He had already mistaken the pony for a local, but soon recognized the white fur and the light purple tail swaying behind her. His heart thudded in his chest again, like a downstairs neighbor flooded by you.
He took a few deep inhales and exhales and ran up to the entrance, nearly tripping over the threshold of the living room. The wait dragged on forever and was finally cut short by a neat knock on the door. He opened it frantically - the face of the mare, frozen with her front leg raised, was in surprise.
She wore a light brown coat, and a lovely knitted hat covered her head.
"Morning," she said, coming to her senses, and Holiday sidled up with a nod, inviting her into the apartment.
Shoes thudded on the worn carpet in the hallway. The door clicked softly as the landlord closed it.
It didn't creak, the unicorn noted to herself. It was still solid, though shabby: there was no way to kick it open with hind legs.
"Fifth floor. High," she added aloud, taking off her shoes and hat. She tucked the latter into the inside pocket of her coat, and the mouth holder of the plasma pistol gleamed in the reddish light of the lamp. Its position was perfect for quick grabbing either by mouth or telekinesis. A light purple mane fell loosely over her shoulders. "At least not all the annoying drunks will get here. Not enough strength."
"Yeah..." was all Holiday could squeeze out of himself. A chill ran through his body. "So?"
"Let me get a good look around. Don't rush it."
She hadn't used expensive perfume so as not to attract the attention of passersby in a neighborhood like this, and though the apartment smelled bearable, she wanted some freshness. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out a bright green leaf and popped it into her mouth; the minty flavor tickled Holiday's nose.
The unicorn, relieved by the minty flavor, made her way to the living room, moving closer to the window to assess the scenery. The walls in the living room were in relative order, the wallpaper was still in good shape, the window panes were intact and wiped clean, and the simple chandelier was in good condition. The guest saw her reflection in the dark screen of the television on a low table in the corner. Her horn glowed; scanning magic probed the equipment from within.
"Not a bad TV, with a receiver for cassettes," she remarked, pulling out a clipboard from under her light brown coat, where she penciled in the approximate amount: four hundred caps.
Mint was a relaxant for a reason—even the smell of it made Holiday calm and distracted by bright memories, and the company of the milk unicorn seemed so cozy and familiar that he could hardly resist the urge to hug her and cry over five years' worth of problems. His mother often chewed mint, especially in this living room where she spent most of her free time. It was her favorite place, which she fanatically guarded like a small temple or shrine. It was kept exceptionally clean and orderly—even after her mother's death due to cancer, Holiday had tried to maintain it for five years. It was unclear whether it was out of respect for what his mother had valued, or out of a desire to preserve the memory of a time when he had not been alone.
He watched the unicorn idly as she walked around the room with her glowing horn, filling out a paper in silence. She liked the chandelier and estimated it at one hundred and fifty caps. The folding yellow-brown sofa on which Holiday had slept until he moved into the bedroom, and the armchair, one hundred caps. Carpet covered the entire floor, but the guest did not like it, nor did the individual tables and dressers receive her attention.
The mare approached a two-tiered shelf, with books on top and movie tapes below. Mother and Holiday had reviewed and read them almost to bits. The guest flipped through a couple of prewar books, chewing on another mint leaf.
Hmm. 'At the Gorges of Madness', 'The Call of Nightmare Moon', and 'The Shadow Over Innhoof'. Not many fans of reading horror, there are enough of them in the Wastelands as it is. Horror isn't the only one, though. 'The Adventures of Daring Doo', 'The Lost Crystal Empire', 'How I Became a Wonderbolt', 'The Lustful Odyssey of Princess Molestia'. Different genres and authors. What they could get, they read, they didn't have to choose, as it seems. The books weren't particularly rare.
The unicorn's gaze ran over the cassettes as the silver magic checked their gut.
Alicorn 2: Judgment Day, The Lord of the Horseshoes, A Clockwork Tangerine, Gone with the Pegasi, Hoof Runner, Pirates of the Sapphire Sea: The Curse of the Striped Shell, and the rest of the old stuff popular before the war... It's the same situation with books. What was there, they watched. Even though they're not in bad condition.
All books and cassettes in case of what can be pushed wholesale for fifty caps. It could have been worse.
The unicorn turned to look at Holiday and realized from the man's hazy gaze that he was somewhere very far away. She rolled her eyes irritably and after a tactful 'ahem', causing him to come to his senses abruptly, she announced, "I'm done in this room."
"Bedroom," the stallion muttered absent-mindedly and turned around. The evaluator moved behind him.
The door to the small bedroom swung open and the unicorn in a light brown coat stepped through it. Judging by the sour expression on her face, she was hardly impressed with anything in here, and she struggled to suppress the urge to sigh noisily. The last thing she wanted to do was evaluate the furniture. She reserved her last hope for the kitchen, where, classically, appliances always idled.
The double bed was seventy caps. The shabby closet, from which Holiday had long ago sold all of her mother's clothes for some two hundred, was valued at a measly thirty caps. The mirror on the dresser is solid and unscratched. One hundred caps. The tasteless chandelier, fifty caps.
The slight scent of mint kept Holiday wandering mentally through his past like a traveler who had lost his purpose in life and wandered pointlessly from one place to another. His mother, however, had been a traveler in her personal life: she'd had a lot of interested stallions—and sometimes mares—but none of them had stayed long enough for various reasons. She worked as a waitress, so someone was bound to look at her. Holiday never knew his father.
The guest, having finished her inspection, didn't even try to bring Holiday back down to earth—she just walked on by, which brought him out of his nostalgic stupor. He followed her.
The bathroom came next: sink, toilet, shower, mirror, a simple light bulb on a wire. It all added up to two hundred caps.
"Now we're talking," the unicorn cheered, flicking a switch in the kitchen. The space basked in warm yellow light. Holiday stayed in the passageway. She approached the thing that held her attention, seduced her, the way a bottle of luxury liquor attracts a boozer.
The kitchen area had been partially converted into a workshop. Shelves hung from the walls above the dining table, littered with tools, books and magazines about fixing things, parts, components and wires. She was especially fascinated by the latter. Most of all, she liked to feel the wires wrapped tightly around her body, digging into her fur and skin...
But there was no need to go into those details.
Hope, like a flower sprouting through the asphalt, rose in Holiday's soul: the appraiser's horn shimmered, a cloud of silver magic gently touching the contents of the shelves. She looked like a filly in a toy store.
No doubt many of the tools were worn, bent in some places, but they were functioning properly, thanks to Holiday's care, cleaning and oiling. Vacuum lamps, wiring, coils, power supplies, spark batteries—far from new, and yet... Many would consider his stuff to be useless trash when they looked at the shelves—his mother had felt the same way—but in the eyes of someone like the unicorn at the Endless Wire store, it was nothing short of a treasure. A space for imagination, for creativity, for inventing all sorts of things and gadgets. A technological sandbox.
His mother wouldn't let him turn the living room into a work area, and the bedroom was too small, so Holiday compromised with her. Even after mother's death, he didn't dare move his workspace into her sanctuary. His collection had accumulated over the years. Some he bought when he had a few extra caps in his wallet, some he found on the street, some his mother's guests brought. Especially one of her boyfriends: he gave the then-young colt a lot of things, taught him some tricks. Holiday liked him best, but he liked to hang around the Wastelands looking for something interesting, and one day he simply disappeared from their lives. Abruptly and suddenly.
The unicorn, meanwhile, was eagerly filling out a sheet of paper on a clipboard. It cost a few caps each, sometimes a couple dozen, but the prices of some of the components and tools totaled up to about a thousand caps.
"Husband said you're good with technology," she concluded, taking another look at the books and magazines. "I can see you're a self-taught amateur."
Holiday nodded. The unicorn continued her inspection of the kitchen. The second elephant in the room was the refrigerator, which she immediately scanned with magic.
"A working refrigerator. In good condition. You keep it that way yourself?"
"I try."
I wouldn't mind having a fridge like that in my house. Five hundred caps.
She scribbled her pencil on the paper and reluctantly ran her eyes over the modest and unassuming kitchen furniture. Everything combined, along with the chandelier, cost two hundred caps. The gas stove was about a hundred, the gas cylinder to it—the same amount. A good electric kettle—fifty caps. A separate item she noted centralized heating, cast-iron radiators in all three rooms: one hundred caps.
The unicorn shook her head disapprovingly, making Holiday's heart sink into his hind hooves. She sat down at his desk, hiding the names and numbers from the potential borrower's eyes; she didn't tell him the exact total price of the property, so that if he accepted the caps as collateral, he wouldn't be tempted to sell it to someone else at that price. If she would agree. Three thousand two hundred and fifty caps.
"That works out to a little more than half the amount you asked for," the unicorn swallowed a mint leaf and popped a new one into her mouth.
The skinny stallion stepped to the table on shaky legs and sat crushed on his rump as if a sack of apples had fallen to the ground. His ears drooped like wet clothes hanging on a rope.
"The apartment?"
The guest's gaze froze and her eyes widened. She'd obviously forgotten to add the apartment to the equation—but it had slipped her mind for a reason.
"The neighborhood is hostile. I'm surprised you have what you have. I don't need it. I'll symbolically throw in a notional five hundred caps, but the overall temperature of the body won't change. All I'm interested in here is the TV, the refrigerator, and the contents of these shelves," she nodded at the wall. "Maybe reduce the amount by a third?"
Three thousand seven hundred and fifty.
There was a long pause. Holiday stared silently at the desk where he had spent countless hours as a colt. After his mother's death, he'd had to find work, so the time he spent at it had decreased markedly. Daydreaming attracted problems: he never stayed at the same job for more than a couple months. He'd had his eye on the components for a long time. He had priced them on the assumption that he would have to eat something without a source of income. It's all been calculated.
The unicorn assessed the risks associated with the orange stallion's behavior. Her horn glowed with a silver light as she pulled a pre-war magazine 'Gems for Dummies' from one of the shelves at random. The theme of the issue was 'Enchanting Technology with Earth Ponies: How, What, and Why'. She leafed through it aimlessly to pass the time—and to refresh her memory, since she knew it all that way. When she reached the last page, she returned the magazine to its place and saw that Holiday was deep in thought.
She lifted her left foot, pulled back her sleeve, and glanced at her watch.
If he didn't answer, I'd take that as a rejection and leave. A pony with a past like that was best not to be associated with at all. Not because he's dangerous—he's the most harmless pony I've ever met.
Yesterday, she'd found out about that griffon. The memory made her legs feel angry again, and she wanted to stand up and kick some wall, her jaw clenched with tension. She hated the thought of eating pony meat. Yes, griffons were a completely different species, not a subspecies like the pegasi that could be found in small numbers in the city—and yet...
Griffons make up a tiny fraction of the city's population. So why does Prince let them eat ponies? Why should we let them treat the ponies around them like cattle?
Fortunately, Holiday was once again too far away to see the unicorn's face: like a brightly colored bar sign, it read, "I'll fuckin' kill you!"
To calm herself, she stood up and walked around the kitchen. Her breathing evened out, the tension in the muscles of her legs melting away like smoke. She stopped and focused on her sensations. Complete silence: no clock ticking, except for the refrigerator purring softly in the corner. The yellow light of the chandelier cast a shadow directly below her. Holiday doesn't even move.
And why is he so spineless? Why so pathetic? Why couldn't he fight back against those fucking griffons? Stand up for the ponies' dignity! Stop them from enjoying our weakness.
The fact that the vast majority of Vanhoover's population are pony slaves didn't bother her. It's part of life and a feature of the city's ideology, tied to responsibility that must be earned. After all, there are griffon slaves, but they are exceptionally rare.
Hypocrisy prickled her heart: she herself did not want to get involved with another Family. She wasn't afraid of griffons, and she didn't seek confrontation between the Families, but she couldn't stand by either. She needed to teach those bloodthirsty assholes a lesson in their own game.
Maybe something would work out for this deadbeat... I think it was his physique that kept the griffon from killing him. It was also possible that he had been given a year not only to repay his debt, but also to mock the pony—to make him marinate in worries and nightmares.
The milky unicorn looked at the stallion carefully: at the unkempt short brown mane, the thin face, the grim look. Yes, she felt sorry for him, but not for five thousand caps.
He's not the type to try to scam. Right now, he probably thinks he's destined to die. To be food for the nasty griffons. Where else is she gonna find about a thousand caps? What could he possibly have of value here?
The unicorn would certainly like to agree—but this isn't a charity. In the event of failure, she needs to recoup the loss. She focused her magic on the apartment, hoping to uncover something else. Perhaps some secret safe under the carpet that Holiday himself wasn't aware of.
The gray eyes opened wide. Was she seeing things, or was magic playing tricks on her? She concentrated hard again, but she was sure she was right: there was another treasure within the walls of the apartment. One that only she could fully recognize.
This place is wired to perfection. In such a poor neighborhood and such a treasure trove. It's in amazing condition. In case of need, it can be carefully dismantled and used for other purposes. Or magically recycle it for something else. Precious material! It's enough to bring the sum of five thousand caps—and more, if I put my mind to it.
With a shadow of a smile on her lips, she sat back down at the desk and made a separate note on the sheet. She decided not to notify the stallion of this fact. She decided to play it differently: light manipulation, not fraud.
Quickly writing in ink on two sheets of paper an identical list of valuables—without specifying the amount and without mentioning the wiring—she made a few bureaucratic formalities: who owed how much to whom and for how long. She took out her checkbook, tore off a piece of paper, and wrote in the amount. She shoved two sheets of paper under Holiday's nose, where she had time to sign her name, as if he would sit like a statue of Discord at the entrance to Canterlot's labyrinth. On one of the sheets was a check for five thousand caps, pressed down by her hoof: don't rush to pick it up until you've signed.
The orange stallion looked up perplexed, his brown eyes looking as if cigarette smoke had been poured into them.
"I decided to give you a chance after all," she said with a genuine smile. Her husband's smile was as far away as the moon, and only the naive could trust it, but the young stallion was too stunned and helpless to suspect anything. "Here's a check for five thousand caps."
A question lodged in Holiday's throat. He was afraid to ask it out loud for fear of spooking his luck. Better to sign it and not say too much.
"Why?" she anticipated his question. He froze as if under the magical gaze of a cockatrice that turned him to stone. "It's simple. I don't like it when sentient beings eat ponies. It doesn't matter if it's justified by nature or not. If you pay off a griffon, so much the better."
The unicorn didn't care if Holiday used the caps for his project—or if he'd pay it right off and couldn't pay off this debt. She wouldn't give the griffon another chance to gloat over the pony. Will outplay her own game. But neither does he need to know what treasure she's found for herself within these walls.
Before Holiday, before his mother, there were indeed rich ponies living here.
"And another thing. You basically don't own these things and the apartment anymore until you pay back the ten thousand caps you owe, understand? It's not worth that amount, but I've decided to give you a chance."
Let him be filled with gratitude. Maybe it would even inspire him a little, lifting his spirits and encouraging him to go after his dreams.
And it worked. It was hard to imagine a fate worse than being turned into a griffon toy—except to be taken to the Meadows for experiments (that's just a rumor, though, which it was advisable not to speak of).
He quickly signed in the right places. The unicorn took one of the copies with his signature and left a note in his passport about the pledge of the apartment with the property. She smugly popped a mint leaf into her mouth and left the apartment, closing the door softly behind her. Holiday didn't even see her guest out, but she didn't care—she was eager to get out of the neighborhood as soon as possible.
Holiday's legs didn't obey him: his whole body weakened with relief. The scent of mint still lingered in the air. He pulled the check up to his chest and suddenly burst into tears, his face pressed against the rough work surface. His heart was overflowing with joy; for the first time in a long time, he was smiling.
Exhausted from the night's restlessness, he fell asleep at his desk.
An imposing gray-colored building with huge, sleek columns along the facade, between which perfectly cleaned windows reflect the glare of sunlight through the veil of clouds. Not a hint of cracking or decay. Wide stone steps lead up to the central entrance, and a motley group of ponies walk up and down them. Their heads are occupied with science, to eventually become someone in this city, to benefit all the inhabitants and drive progress—that is the responsibility. At least in understanding the ideology of this city.
The orange stallion in the warm coat walked up the steps with a jubilant smile on his lips, tapping his shoes deafeningly, and with each step he passed, that smile grew wider and wider, as if he were climbing a pedestal for a reward. He didn't look under his hooves, but he didn't stumble—to the surprise of the hypothetical observer who had heard of him. Holiday's shining eyes were fixed on the row of stone letters above the columns 'VANHOOVER POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTE LIBRARY'.
He used to just come here in his spare time and indulge in daydreams that he would discover the treasures stored in this building. The library had been one of the main sites of the institute, rebuilt in the early decades of slavery's flourishing, some sixty to eighty years after the apocalypse. It was used to recreate not only the exterior but also the interior. It became a knowledge acquisition center for the discoveries Vanhoover needed—especially in matters of energy consumption. The city was more in need of minds than slave labor. With the current progress, slaves lived long, unresisting and submissive lives, but progress will not be achieved with merely educated slaves. It takes passion, it takes ambition, it takes an understanding of tasks and goals.
Holiday was unlucky enough to be born from a poor no-name waitress, so he couldn't afford access to a tutorial program with professors by becoming a student, nor could he afford to pay for a pass to go to the library to study on his own. Now he had the caps to pay for both.
He swung open the double massive doors and entered the magnificent hall with white walls and marble floor. His hoofsteps echoed as he stepped toward the receptionist. A light green earth pony with a smile on her lips watched him approach her desk, a wooden round table in the center of which she sat in a chair with wheels. Soft music poured out of a nearby radio: quiet melodies, a muffled, lulling voice. A song about how the right tune and the right words would calm any beast.
"What can I do for you?" she asked. Delicate makeup, lined eyelashes, the subtle scent of perfume—all of which Holiday usually didn't pay attention to, as he did now.
"I... for a library pass," he said, holding back his excitement. He armed himself with several calibers of pencils, weighty notebooks, sandwich provisions, and, most importantly, a fierce determination to start storming the books today.
"Take your pick," she shoved a cardboard pamphlet at him.
The little booklet contained the standard library rules of attendance: keep yourself clean, no yelling, no running, no smoking, no sex, no dirtying books, no taking them outside the library room. No eating while reading—there are special areas in the library for that. Just below is the list of passes: daily—fifty caps, monthly—five hundred caps, annual—one and a half thousand.
Students of the institute visit the library free of charge. Holiday didn't see the point of going into a major with an emphasis on higher mathematics. First, he didn't need all the knowledge in this area, he only needs specific sections. Second, after tuition, he would have no money left for food, not to mention the tools and components he still had to buy.
"Monthly," the orange stallion said. In the morning, he was struggling to get his brown mane to look presentable. "Starting today."
After the unicorn had left yesterday, he had slept until evening and then headed to the bank with the check: he had transferred some of the funds into his bank account and withdrew the rest as caps for small expenses. Before going to bed, he mentally replayed his plan once more. First in line was a visit to the library.
"Okay. In whose name do we sign up?"
"Holiday," he said, holding out his passport.
"That's not necessary," she replied. With a sense of awkwardness, he returned the passport to the inside pocket of his coat.
The music on the radio was replaced by the voice of a company favorite, DJ Oscar. He had deliberately kept his voice low so as not to traumatize the listeners, who had tuned their ears to a gentle and soporific performance. It was like a father telling a child a bedtime story—even though it was only morning.
"Everything obeys the rhythm... I couldn't have said it better. I love Sweetie Belle and her song 'On the Notes of the World'. I had a favorite space rocket toy as a kid before I got my cutie mark, with a picture of Princess Luna. And a friend of mine, for some reason, launched it out an open window. I thanked my friend with a punch in the face and then ran outside to look for the toy. I huffed and puffed as I looked for it. From an open window on the first floor, this same song was playing; I became an unwilling listener. And then the magic happened. I calmed down. Even when I found my toy with its 'tail' broken off, I was not angry. I carefully picked it up and went home. My dear friend, I know you're listening to this. Sweetie Belle's song saved you. If it hadn't been for her, I would have strangled you with my tail," these words were followed by Oscar's gushing laughter. "And now our sponsor today...".
Holiday paid no attention to the voice from the radio, closely following the actions of the receptionist. Finally she gave him a bracelet with the number '13' on it.
"Don't lose it," she explained. "No need to show it to anyone. All windows and doors are equipped with an alarm spell and will react to a passerby's lack of a bracelet."
The orange stallion nodded and headed for knowledge. Joy overtook him: he was ready to fly like DJ's toy rocket through the window.
The intellectual journey had begun.
***
For a month, every day from morning to evening, he was surrounded by books like a fortress, surrounded by the aroma of fresh printing ink and the tart smell of old issues. Most of the time was spent on identifying the information he needed for the project. He left bookmarks and leafed through the rest of the books. By the end of the day, he had a stack of books with bookmarks, which he used to methodically and quickly fill his notebooks.
Ever since his foalhood, when one of his mother's suitors had helped him learn the wisdom of electronics, both simple and magical, a month-long stay in the library had been the best time of his life. He dived headfirst into the process, immersing himself in countless scientific texts related to math and working with crystals and gems. The whole world seemed to cease to exist for him; he even forgot about the threat of being eaten. His life literally consisted of the library, the road to the library, and sleep, where he walked through rooms and spaces whose walls were made of books and sheets of white paper covered with printed letters.
In three weeks he had managed, as he thought, to gather all the information he needed to realize his dream. The rest of the week was spent rechecking what he had read with the knowledge he had already accumulated.
On the last day, he returned the bracelet to the receptionist and walked out of the library, opening the doors. He was greeted by late evening; the sun had been hidden behind the horizon for hours. Street lamps and light from the windows of nearby houses kept the street with its wide sidewalks from remaining in darkness. There were ponies going to their homes or establishments, followed by slaves in electric collars, some were just sitting on a bench drinking alcohol, some were having a lively conversation near a lamppost. There was laughter coming from far away.
Holiday inhaled a full breath, savoring the cool northern air of late spring. His lips stretched in a satisfied smile, his body muscles relaxed, he didn't feel the slightest bit tired. It had gone just as he had envisioned. It was as if he had been holding his bladder in for a long time and now he had finally peed. Confidence burned in his heart.
He walked down the steps and turned toward his house, as usual, not paying much attention to anyone. The image of a rich full life loomed before his eyes, where he would no longer have to eat cheap food and save money on heating in the cold. At last he would begin to enjoy living, not surviving.
Two earth ponies, smoking cigarettes, stood near a lighted pole and discussed the day's work. The skinny orange stallion, immersed in his own dreams, walked between them and the building, whose spacious windows overlooked rows of chairs and recliners. The name of the establishment was the Top and Tail. Numerous masters seek help in grooming the mane and tail not only for themselves, but also for their slaves. Many slaves who do not work in the families' factories and plants are better looking than most Wastelanders elsewhere in post-war Equestria.
"What a magnificent mane she had," the yellow stallion with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth looked absent-mindedly at the building in front of him. "And the tail... my regards."
"Yeah, yeah," the gray mare pursed her lips irritably. "That's the tenth time I've heard you wish you could fuck her. Why don't we talk about something else? I'm sick of discussing clients," she leaned over to her raised leg: a cigarette lay on the bottom of her hoof. Putting her lips around it, the mare took a puff and exhaled: the lantern illuminated the cloud of smoke with a yellow glow.
"Why don't we go to a bar? Play some darts or cards?"
"So you can tell me about this," her voice took on a mocking tone of theatricality, "gorgeous, magnificent, sexy, enchanting, dark as the moonless summer sky over the ocean tail you'd love to get under?"
The stallion smiled, gripping the cigarette more tightly around his lips, inhaled, relaxed his lips slightly, and let out a bountiful cloud of smoke.
"I promise I won't."
"I believe you. I already do. Look at me and see that I do."
He glanced at her gray face and suppressed a chuckle to keep from dropping his cigarette—the scowling unyielding face of a pony who'd been promised by a junkie to stop using drugs in exchange for a couple dozen caps on loan. Definitely not on getting a new dose... no, not at all. How could you even think such a thing? Doubting the junkie's honesty and desire to kick the habit that was destroying their life?
The yellow stallion loved the way she was sarcastic, rude and snappy. She'd been holding back all day in front of unintelligent clients who often don't know how to take care of the hair on their heads and in their tails at all. That's why they go to beauty salons like this—but it's not uncommon for the cases to be so neglected that they piss off the workers. By evening she always had a pool of repressed emotions, not a bowl, and he helped her let off a little steam. Nobly taking the blow for himself? Maybe. But he did it largely because he was amused by exactly how she let the steam off.
He had no doubt that sooner or later she would kick him with such force that he would fly over the wall surrounding the city. Nor did he doubt that she enjoyed his company—otherwise she'd have been smoking alone long ago.
"I promise. I'll tell you about another customer I've had my eye on."
"Guess it's been a while since you got your ass kicked. I could kick you so hard you wouldn't be able to shit for a week."
He had to keep the laughter inside him again. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the gray earth pony with the cigarette on her hoof had relaxed even more, and the twitching of her cheeks and lips signaled that she was about to smile.
***
The orange stallion crossed the threshold of the tool store Under the Hammer as if he had opened the door to a fairy-tale kingdom. The gaze of his wide-open eyes vigorously ran along the shelves and showcases strewn with tools: hammers, adjustable wrenches, screwdrivers, scissors, pliers, soldering irons, welding machines, drills, saws, measuring devices glistened in the cold light of the lamps. Goosebumps ran down his back—along his spine from the back of his head to the tip of his brown tail. He almost wagged it like a dog at the sight of a treat.
The mare with the dark cherry-colored fur smiled demurely as she put aside her book about a young stallion who fell in love with a mare who could be his mother and watched her client. It amused her to see someone peering at tools with such an enthusiastic look.
"What can I do for you?" she asked that question to each customer. Each time it sounded friendly and casual, but the sight of a pony with his head spinning with excitement lifted her spirits and made her genuinely want to help this young customer.
Why young? I'm not that old! Ten years older than him. I'm not old. Just ten. Ten? Is that a lot or a little?
"I need devices and measuring tools for delicate work on microchips and circuit boards using gems, crystals, and enchantment."
"Hmm?" she snapped back. "Yes..." the mare approached the appropriate area. "Right here."
There I go, letting my issues kick in again. How many times can I do this, huh? Mental whining isn't going to help me sell. Get it together, wimp!
She was angry with herself. She had to push her feelings down so they wouldn't show on her face and the customer wouldn't take it personally. Fortunately, the young stallion was on a different mood and wasn't looking at her.
Holiday's eyes glowed like the neon signs of the lavish establishments on Mane Street. He was scrutinizing and specifying merchandise, groping and pondering what he needed. No doubt he'd made a rough list, but he might have overlooked something, and the available goods might point to something he might be missing. But at the same time it took a titanic effort not to buy too much by giving in to temptation.
He'd spent about an hour in the store, but the cherry salespony didn't care one bit. Holiday's passionate questioning distracted the mare from her worries about her age—though she had occasional thoughts. Like how the young stallion would react if she invited him over for a cup of chamomile tea and cookies. But she mentally found a deep hole to push such ideas into, and then covered them with a huge boulder to keep them from getting out and disturbing her again.
Holiday returned home with his bags full and a snack before heading to another store. On the way, snapping out of his musings on the project, he stopped and glanced down instinctively, lifting his front foot—he'd stepped on something unusual. On the cold dark gray sidewalk lay a round poker chip in gray and white. A translucent key symbol was engraved in the center on the white circle.
The orange stallion took a quick look around, but there was no one in the vicinity. His gaze locked onto a prominent gray and beige building with the same symbol on the sign. The Glass Key Casino.
He returned to the poker chip and stared at it for a long moment. An idea visited him like a brick falling on his head. The size is just right... And wouldn't arouse suspicion if they noticed. He bent down, grabbed the chip with his teeth and placed it on his hoof, looking at it thoughtfully.
Yes, it'll do, he thought.
The gray poker chip quickly found its place in his inside pocket.
Holiday reached a store called The Allure Crystal. Dim lights and dark colors highlighted the contents of the shelves: some items emitted a subtle glow or shimmer that beckoned and attracted the eye. Magical lenses, energy focusers, flow collectors, wave converters, scrolls with pentagrams and ornate runes, and a lot of other things Holiday didn't know about.
Earth ponies cannot feel and understand magic like unicorns, for whom direct interaction with magic is as natural and familiar as breathing: they perceive the world differently, feel and see it in their own way... Like dogs, whose sense of smell is ten times sharper than a pony's. A world of innumerable unique smells. A world with magic hovering around them. Holiday realized that this was the one thing he might have trouble with.
Behind the counter sat a unicorn with purple fur whose horn glowed with a cold white-blue light, an object the size of a casket dotted with runes and magical inscriptions floated in a cloud of magic. She was testing the stability of the magical energy contained within it. Calibrating it, so to speak.
The unicorn behind the counter knew what the customers looked like before they even approached the panes of her store. She didn't just work for the family as a Lackey or occupy the lower in the hierarchy position of a Soldier. She is a Captain. Only the family Counselor and blood relatives are above that title. She is from the Meadows family and has studied magic since she was a child—anatomy and medicine in particular. In addition to medicine and drugs, the Meadows valued magical power as such: a privileged part of the family were talented unicorns with a keen sense. All families traded in magic items, but the Meadows were the ones who had everything the others did and didn't. About a hundred and fifty years ago, they had rooted themselves in Vanhoover with a solid set of magical knowledge and devices gathered from decades of wandering the Equestrian Wasteland.
Without any emotion, she looked at Holiday, setting aside the strange box. The look from the semi-darkness made him shiver. It was as if she could see through him like glass—as if she had him like a toy to play with.
The orange stallion felt like he was being crucified on an operating table for gruesome experiments that would result in him growing a fifth leg, his eyes bulging painfully, his brain leaking out of his ears and his intestines on the outside. The most frightening rumors, like a round dance around an occult bonfire, revolved around this family.
The unicorn's ears perked up. She ignored his fear; more important was the fact that the client clearly had no idea of his surroundings. Naturally—he was an earth pony! She preferred working with those who knew magic, with whom she could have a word with, asking about their projects. After all, knowledge would never run out.
A wave of irritation swept over the mature mare's body: now there would be questioning, clarification, confusion at the answers given, leading to more questions. This is not why she works with clients, but in this business she has long and skillfully hidden her emotions behind a mask of indifference. It's natural and important for unicorns: spells require a cool head.
Holiday swallowed a lump in his throat, regretting the decision to enter this store. It seemed to him that not only the unicorn, but also the mysterious objects on the shelves were scanning his body, his soul, his thoughts and plans... But only here special scrolls and magical devices for readjusting and manipulating the properties of crystals are sold. He would gladly walk past the Meadows if he had the chance.
"I-I... n-need..." suddenly even to himself he began to stammer, a mystical chill gripping him.
The Captain Meadows, who owned several other similar stores, tried to give off a businesslike smile to hide her irritation—the money had to come in. It was hard to pull off, but it worked on the customer.
"A rune of stochastic processes and..." hesitated the stallion, trying to find the word. He took another quick glance at the list that was tucked away in his coat pocket. "A correlation enhancer."
A look of surprise flashed across the purple unicorn's face—just for a moment.
At least he knows what he needs. A rune of stochastic processes? That's the realm of probability theories. And the enhancer is used to transform chaotic systems and unknown variables into something... something else. It's all highly mathematical. Unusual...
She came to her senses when she realized her eyes were squinted, gazing intently into the anxious face of the orange skinny stallion.
"And what do you need this for?" she asked without any rebuke or distrust, showing the wizard's genuine interest.
The coldness in the stallion's body swelled to a piercing frost; he nearly shuddered like the glass in an old wood-framed window. Of course, this did not escape the curious pale blue eyes of the unicorn.
Wow, how he is shaking.
"Uh... experi... ments... I like math... I want to try something out."
Only a fool would believe what he says. He obviously has good thoughts, but doesn't want to give them away.
He's not the only one, though. She's had clients who were working on developing something new or trying to replicate lost knowledge, for example, creating memory orbs, something no one has been able to achieve to the same level yet. Pathetic crafts. They too were finding excuses not to tell how and what they were doing.
The purple unicorn with a composed look sighed wearily.
This one too... Alright. The things mentioned are used in many areas. I can only wonder in what way he will apply them. That's a shame. Fortunately, he can't be expected to ask stupid questions.
Her horn flashed with a white-blue light, and a cloud of magic of the same color appeared in two places in the store among the shelves and display cases. In an instant, they rose into the air and flew over Holiday's head to the counter: a scroll of special magic-enhanced paper and something that looked like a flashlight with 'plates' on both ends.
"All of this will cost a thousand and fifteen hundred caps," she concluded calmly.
The most expensive items on his list.
Holiday promptly wrote a check for the stated amount. The unicorn nodded, and the skinny stallion grabbed the 'flashlight' and the rune scroll with his teeth. Both items found shelter in the bowels of his cheap coat.
"Thank you," he nodded and left the store quickly on woozy legs. He found that his lungs had been squeezed all this time by something invisible and creepy. Only now was he able to inhale fully.
***
A bell jingled overhead as Holiday pushed open the carved wooden door with the elegant 'The Fashion-Forward' sign. The soft yellow light of the lamps reflected off the glass display cases, behind which the multicolored gems in the jewelry glittered attractively. The cozy, warm wood-colored interior was the exact opposite of the atmosphere of the creepy store he'd been in before.
A light brown stallion stood tensely behind the cash register. Touching him seemed like it might have caused a lethal electric shock. He listened to the unhappy red mare who wanted to pick up something for her crimson dress, but was met with only wave-offs.
"It's your duty," she stomped her front foot on the soft dark carpet as the door, jingling its bell again, closed behind Holiday. "You're supposed to be helping customers with choices!"
"I can't read other pony's minds," he sighed with poorly concealed irritation, looking somewhere off to the side in an attempt to maintain control. He felt that eye contact with the mare would provoke a barrage of rudeness and insults, and the consequences were hard to imagine. He really wanted to get out of this store as soon as possible, change this job, and have no more dealings with the Softhooves for any cover.
The day before, the owner—a mare—of the store had invited him to a party, promising him an interesting and fun time. There, being almost the only stallion available, he immediately became a whipping toy. Most of the mares in the family treated the stallions normally, but in each of their company there was a snake: it crawled out with a smug snide look, as if from a hole, and without fail poured venom on some stallion without a collar, using all available stereotypes and hackneyed jokes.
The Softhooves are the largest family, the richest—and the most intolerant of stallions. The only family of five that no stallion is allowed to be head of. Otherwise, there are no written restrictions on being in the family, but the risk of constant mockery and bullying is high. This goes back to the descendants of Stable 68, most of whom were stallions in subordination to mares—which later formed the Softhooves.
The light brown earth pony had time to regret a thousand times that he had accepted the invitation. His boss did not try to cut off the flow of insulting remarks at all, and even sometimes laughed along with everyone else. Because of this he had a fight with her, which strengthened his desire to quit at the first opportunity.
The salespony cautiously shifted his gaze to the mare's red neck—just above her crimson dress. He didn't risk looking at the face. Pressed ears kept his hearing safe from the customer's voice, which was like the scrape of a knife against glass. Sooner or later it would boil over like a kettle on the stove.
I wish you'd all go crazy in heat and there wasn't a phallus around!
"That's disgraceful! How could this... Ah, have a nice day, though," she swung her front foot aggressively away and turned sharply toward the exit. The salespony stared at her blankly.
Have a nice tailwind, bitch.
The skinny, thoughtful stallion stood in her way, looking at the contents of the shop windows. He was smaller than she was, so she easily passed him.
The bell jingled again. The light brown stallion let out a long sigh of relief, as if he'd been caught in the rain in the heat of summer. Never before had mares pissed him off as much as they had after yesterday.
He tried to bring himself to his senses and noticed another customer. Stallions rarely entered such stores, unless they were looking for gifts for their loved ones. His mood even lifted. Stallions often don't know much about jewelry, unless they're trying to get something not too expensive, but not too cheap either. They're the easiest to service.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked in a friendly tone. The question sounded soft, so Holiday's ears didn't even twitch at his voice. He was busy looking for the gems he wanted.
The light brown earth pony rolled his eyes and glanced at the list of things to do. Among them was changing price tags. The growing need for any kind of energy was affecting the cost of gems almost every week. Jewelry was rising in price.
He put the list in front of the counter and began to prepare pieces of paper with the new price tags. Holiday kept looking. And then he found them: tiny blue gems scattered along the length of a silver chain. Just the right size for the chips that would fit into the poker chip he'd found on the street. The gems would be enough to spare: it was easy to mess things up when working magic inside them.
However, the price... Five hundred and fifty caps, Holiday noted sadly to himself. Everything to do with gems got more expensive as the years went by.
"I've chosen," he called out awkwardly, summoning the busy salespony to his side. The stallion hadn't finished changing the price tags yet, but walked over to meet the customer's request, and was surprised to notice that he had changed the price tag on this item just a couple minutes ago.
Pressing his lips into a thin line, he cast a glance at the skinny young stallion. "Perfect timing on your choice." Holiday lowered his sinking gaze to the salespony's light brown neck in confusion, trying not to stomp around in embarrassment. The salespony from the failed party looked at the customer sympathetically.
He's clearly not the bling-wearing type. More likely, he wants to give someone a gift. He's calm, patient, not trying to insult—a breath of fresh air.
"Take it for five hundred," he concluded. Holiday's eyes opened abruptly like curtains in the morning.
"Really?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "Just a few minutes ago there was a price tag of that amount. From the looks of it, you knew what you wanted to to give to whoever," he raised his eyes to the ceiling, spinning his front hoof.
"T-thank you," Holiday muttered.
His heart jumped joyously in his chest. For a moment he suspected a trick, but the soft and condescending expression on the light brown earth pony's face dispelled his doubts. If they give it to him, take it.
Having rolled up the chain and hidden it in the depths of his pocket, he left the store and went on his way. He had a few more stops to make, but there were no more expensive things among the purchases, although they were also related to magic. No problems had arisen. The next day he set to work.
***
The warm light of the chandelier fell on the back and nape of the orange stallion sitting at his desk, holding a special soldering iron in his mouth, an enchanted one designed to embed gems into tiny circuit boards. Like the one embedded in the core of a gray-and-white poker chip. The rosin smoke was saturated with a magical shimmer from behind the blue gems and sweetly fragrant. The philigraphic movements of the head with its brown mane were barely noticeable. Such work requires a lot of patience and composure.
Nearby on the table among the many tools was an unfolded scroll with magical runes, glittering chip components and tiny blue sapphires. Notebooks scribbled during his visit to the library were filled with accurate notes. He'd glanced through them during his preparations, going over the nuances in his head, making sure he'd done everything right.
He set the soldering iron aside and placed the chip on the scroll with the rune of stochastic processes. Holding his breath, he watched how and in what sequence the magical symbols were illuminated. They flashed a little brighter, then their intensity decreased, then increased again. The blank, detached look in Holiday's brown eyes did not suggest anything good.
The symbols on the magic rune continued to run and dance like bubbling liquid on a frying pan. The skinny stallion's body shook, quivering in a coarse shudder. An impulse in his nervous system made him stand on all four legs, and a second impulse sent a call to his hind hooves to urgently kick something with all his might. He almost took out his anger on the refrigerator, which was estimated at five hundred lids, but at the last moment, coming to his senses, he ran to the bedroom and screamed exhaustedly—into his pillow so the neighbors wouldn't hear.
Too much emotion had built up in him lately, and he was suppressing it. It took time to let them out, releasing the tension from his entire body.
When his vocal cords ached from the strain, he walked out into the evening street—exhausted, like a squeezed lemon. He could no longer control himself. For almost two months he had been trying to get the thing to work, but the necessary sequence of symbols on the magic rune would not appear. At the first failures, he calmly took up another attempt, wondering where he had gone wrong in his calculations. Each time the approach, initial data and methods changed, but did not lead to the desired result. With each failure his confidence melted like snow in spring. Drip-drip-drip. It flowed into the sewer, where it was carried away by the impurities of merciless existence.
There were still nine months to go, but the caps were running out. If he didn't hurry, he would starve, and it would be harder to create on an empty stomach, and it would be harder to think rationally.
His hooves were leading him nowhere. The red rays of the summer sunset still illuminated the upper floors of the houses, but gradually this shining color went higher and higher, and the streets became darker. Soon the streetlights would turn on, and it would get brighter. Holiday moved toward the shore, where he could breathe in the salty cool scent of the Desert Ocean again, calm his nerves, and restore his creative flow. His head was occupied with the messy thoughts surrounding the project.
Why won't I succeed? Where have I made mistakes? Perhaps I've miscalculated? Or...
His ears twitched. Normally he didn't react to passersby, but the angry yell sounded too close.
"Stupid mutts," a mare muttered before he could see her: something small and barking entangled his skinny legs and tore toward him. He instantly lost his balance, flying face-first.
Instinctively turning his head, he didn't smash his face, but lightly scratched his cheek against the concrete surface. There was a barking sound. Holiday avoided the dogs that were trying to lick his lips; he rose quickly to his hooves, looking around, and spotted a low yellow-green mare with a short white mane and many leather reins stretched to her front legs. There was horror on her pale face.
Just as she was taking the dogs she hated out for a walk, imagining how she would smash their dumb, furry heads, suddenly one dog broke free and ran at the hooves of a passerby.
The dogs calmed down. They breathed loudly with their tongues out and occasionally sniffed at the stranger. Holiday could smell the distinctive odor from their mouths. He shook it off, glancing at the dazed mare, who looked like a teenager at first glance, but was not. She looked funny against the big dogs: it was unclear who was walking who.
"It's okay," Holiday broke the silence. "It's not the first time I've fallen."
He walked on down the street, rubbing his scraped cheek. He'd already forgotten where he was going, but he stopped outside a store. A triangular wooden sign painted in bright colors at the entrance read, "Ice Cream! Cool your head and make your tongue happy."
Realizing he should save the caps, he still couldn't control himself, so he went in and bought himself a popsicle on a wooden stick, but without the chocolate coating. It didn't take long to choose.
Holding the stick of greenish colored ice cream with his teeth, he walked out of the store and headed out to find a place with a good view to sit down and eat in private. His nose was tickled by the distinctive smell of mint.
Mint ice cream. Something new to him.
He stopped in front of an oblong building three stories high. High lattice fencing and guards at the entrance implied it was some kind of factory. At that moment the gate swung open, and a string of ponies with electric collars stepped slowly out of it.
Holiday had no desire to go anywhere. He had seen slaves being led out of the factories at the end of the day and escorted to special homes. Well and warmly dressed, healthy by the standards of the Wastelands, they were not oppressed by their situation. Thanks to local slave breeding and education centers called The School, Vanhoover slaves are happy to serve, happy not to be responsible for their lives. They are deprived of freedom, but they are taught from birth that freedom is dangerous. It must be earned.
The orange stallion clutched the wood between his front hooves and took a bite of ice cream. He licked first, slowly and with the full width of his tongue, carefully tasting the sweetness. The smell of mint sent him back into a happy—compared to now—time of sitting with his mother in the living room, reading together, discussing, watching movies. In two months he felt pleasure for the first time. He spent all his days at work, interrupted only for sleep and other basic needs.
Slaves continued to be housed in homes. Many of the houses near factories, plants, and other places where slave labor was used were owned entirely by families and were equipped to house slaves. A hundred years ago, Vanhoover's slaves could only dream of such a thing, but progress was being made, and working conditions were changing... to the point where it became unprofitable to keep slaves. Cheap slave labor, for the most part, has no place to put it. Prince, the head of the city, wastes no resources rebuilding other corners of the Wasteland, adding to the production capacity.
Holiday had never given much thought to the Prince's politics. All he knew was that he was difficult, if not impossible, to kill. An artificial being in the guise of a pony that had been discovered by the city's first and only Queen over a hundred years ago. Rumor had it that its appearance was modeled on a pre-war personality glimpsed in Canterlot—Blueblood or something like that.
The ice cream melted, and he began to take small bites. Still chewing measuredly, reveling in that soothing, homelike flavor. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. His whole consciousness fell into a blissful moment of serenity and peace. It was as if he had visited a sauna or climbed into a hot bath after a grueling day. Brains relaxed, pushed far into the background all the problems and worries. Only the pleasant sensations of coolness.
The ice cream was shrinking, disappearing piece by piece into Holiday's mouth. The slaves had already been taken away. The street was bathed in yellow lanterns. The masters and their slaves passed by, tapping their hooves and horseshoes, not noticing the thin stallion sitting on the bench. Only occasionally some of them glanced at his smile, as he looked like a colt asleep in bed, dreaming beautiful dreams. Such ponies felt a sting of envy.
The road to dreams is almost always difficult. It has many obstacles, the main one being yourself—your own expectations and emotions. Disappointment, anger, discouragement and tears will follow you all along the way, trying to throw you off it, give up on your dreams and just go with the flow. And even if you don't get anywhere—because not everything depends on your actions—you have to keep going: there is nothing else to do. It is better to pursue your dreams without success than to live without them. In the first case, you can calmly face death, realizing that you have done everything in your power. It is necessary to fight your own emotions. Not only for the sake of achieving your dream, but also for the sake of the years you have left.
Even if it's less than nine months. Giving in to anger will not only lower your chances of success, but it will also worsen your experience of life. Everyone deals with negative emotions in their own way. An effective way is to temporarily distract yourself with something else that feels good... or something tasty. Perhaps that's why there are so many destructive addictions? It's always worth being careful not to go to extremes.
The wooden stick is completely devoid of popsicles. Holiday held it aimlessly in his teeth with his eyes closed. His eyes snapped open abruptly and he nearly jumped up on the spot.
I've got it!
That phrase he almost said out loud. He jumped off the bench, afraid to lose the thought that had just occurred to him on the way. The popsicle stick was still clenched in his teeth as he panted home.
Author's Note
Sorry for the delay
The sun has already dropped below the horizon. Street lights illuminate the road for passers-by. Many citizens are going home or looking for a place to forget about their worries, relax and take a breath. Some prefer to spend time at home with their families, some crave the action in a bar or brothel, some go to the Arena to place bets, and some go to the casino to try to make a fortune—and end up spending more caps than they would have gotten.
The house always wins.
Holiday stood near the entrance to a gambling establishment called Lucky Chip. The mottled blue light of a neon sign in the shape of a chip with flashing stars around it reflected in the brown eyes of the skinny orange stallion. He stared at it, and couldn't take his eyes off, his heart pounding in his chest like a jackhammer. His front leg involuntarily touched the inside pocket of his jacket, where lay the thing he'd spent a lot of effort, time, and caps on. His own lucky chip. A last chance to escape the grip of not only poverty, but the predatory bird that would grip his body in less than nine months. His entire life is staked on one single chip.
Shaking his head, he pushed away the unsettling haunting and crossed the doorstep. A familiar voice sounded from a radio on the counter at the security desk inspecting visitors—Holiday had lost interest in it almost immediately because of his inspection.
The DJ's manner of speech always created an appealing aura. Like you could sit and chat with him for days on end, and he'd pull something teachable or uplifting out of his bag of life experiences.
"The song 'You Are My Strawberry' was first sung by Sapphire Shores before our bicentennial rulers clashed with the zebras. The meaning of the song is inspired by zebra culture. They considered strawberries to be one of the ultimate symbols of lewdness. I'll bet my tail that most of the brothels in their territory either had strawberries mentioned in their name or flaunted as a symbol. Why is that? Strawberries are delicious, and I've never met anyone who didn't like or enjoy them. The only ones who haven't tasted them are the ones we have plenty of. Not everyone can afford it. A friend of mine tried it for the first time... and it blew her mind. She spent all her savings on strawberries—the berries, not the lewd stuff. She was like a junkie. She gorged herself so much that she ruined her stomach, her health... and her life. Lack of self-control is a sign of irresponsibility, my dears. Don't forget that. And in related news, this issue's sponsor is the Softhooves' Paradise Pleasure porn studio..."
While the DJ was chatting, Holiday was being inspected for any weapons, explosives, and cutting objects. There's no telling what players can do in a fit of desperation; such precautions are not unreasonable.
Inspection is often done physically, without the use of telekinesis of magic-sensitive unicorns. Even if the latter senses his chip... Every other item contains some degree of magical activity—especially technology. Holiday's chip emits a very weak magic, which could be attributed to another object; moreover, the nature of this magic can only be determined by those who are familiar with it, and such ponies are few even among unicorns.
Still, Holiday's heart grew frosty when the guard felt something flat and round in his pocket. Her focused gaze changed for a moment, as if a bubble had risen from the depths of the water and rippled around it. But her face quickly softened.
One chip, she thought, continuing to examine it. Probably forgot to exchange it at the other casino, or it was his lucky chip.
"Move along," she said, looking somewhere to the side—fortunately for Holiday, on whose pale face there was a look of horror. He'd been prepared for the inspection, but hadn't expected to feel this way in the process.
The spacious blue-colored hall was illuminated by a cold white light. There was an unobtrusive scent of blueberries in the air, created by sprayers or by some specially enchanted devices. From everywhere came the characteristic clinking of slot machines with musical accompaniment, the rustle of rolling and bouncing roulette balls, the clatter of cards at the gambling tables. Between the sounds of the casino came the voices and noise of the visitors—indignant, angry, and distressed. Silence never came: a soothing melody played in the background. Smells and music, apparently, were supposed to soften the emotional storm.
The carpeting, a garish blue with white patterns, covered the floor, and Holiday's steps made no noise or distracted the players he passed at the machines. The machines mottled, flashed, jingled, and emitted a tantalizing melody, conspiratorially humming in one's ear a song of possible victory to any potential victim who dared to pass by them. Hard to resist. But the skinny stallion handled it effortlessly—he was too anxious to respond to such calls.
The slot machines were specially placed on the way to the place where the caps were exchanged for chips. An attempt to charm and show the visitor the possibility of easy profit in advance, to show how pleasant it was to at least try to sit at such a thing, pulling the lever and looking at the spinning reels. It's worth a try. To whet your appetite, fill your head with bright colors and imitation of the ringing of gold coins to make you think about the chips that you need to get urgently. And more of them, to increase the chances of success.
More than half of the machines were empty, giving players the choice to sit down at another machine if they had bad luck with the previous one. There was no technical difference between them, but intelligent beings—ironic as it may sound in this context—might get the impression that some machines were more lucky than others.
In front of Holiday, an irritated sea-colored mare jumped up from her seat. She decided to change machines by walking a little farther away. The orange earth pony continued forward without breaking visual contact with her. She yanked the lever, and the three reels in front of her face spun briskly; a second later, they stopped one by one, making addictive sounds. The last one produced three ripe red apples. The machine roared a congratulatory tune, and the mare cheered.
"Yes! I knew it!" she exclaimed softly, not noticing the stallion standing behind her shoulder.
Three apples on a single reel meant a double chip return. The lowest reward, but the most frequent.
Holiday reached the cash register. Behind a beautifully decorated grille in distinctive blue colors stood the cashier. She smiled sweetly and welcomingly, looking at Holiday expectantly, and he shook off his worries.
"Ten chips worth ten caps each."
After a moment, she slid him some light blue-colored chips. The gradation in this casino is uncomplicated: the darker the more expensive. The maximum value of a single chip is one hundred caps.
With his front leg he scooped up the received in the outer pocket of his jacket and went in search of a slot machine, near which there were no unnecessary eyes.
The guards are primarily interested in unicorns. Magical protection for all the machines would cost a disproportionate amount of money, and ever since Vanhoover's restoration, any attempts to create and sell items and spells that allow manipulation of winnings have been suppressed. Besides, it's impossible to completely eliminate the magical threat to casinos—so unicorns are watched quite closely.
Earth ponies hardly attract attention unless they sit at a gambling table: too clever visitors are able to guess what cards are left in the deck. Their behavior may stand out. Technically, they are not violating anything, but casinos are private property, the owners of which do not welcome such players.
The likelihood of an earth pony learning the principles of magic is quite low. There's no need to be alarmed, but caution is not unreasonable. Holiday knows that.
He found a corner with slot machines, but before him sat a gray stallion, who first of all started stroking the machine like a lover. He whispered something with a whisper, gently running his hoof over the lever, over the buttons, over the reels of symbols that winked as if the machine were responding to his flirtations.
Holiday watched him in bewilderment, glancing around without making any sudden movements and studying the reaction of the guards.
The guards paid no attention to the stallion—he's an earth pony, and it's also pretty standard practice for most players to believe that Lady Luck can somehow be seduced, beguiled, enamored, and attracted in other ways besides carrying talismans. Someone hums a song, someone dances, someone else conducts some other ritual. A superstitious belief that random events occur under non-random circumstances.
Holiday once read pre-war Ministry of Peace books on animal behavior. Test pigeons were left in a cage, given food at regular intervals. Over time, the pigeons began to repeat the actions they had accidentally performed just before the food appeared: one flapped the wing, the second walked in a circle, the third poked the beak in the corner, waiting for a reward. By the same principle, in fact, teach pets, treating them for the performance of any action. This is how a pattern of behavior is formed.
Avid gamblers are like these pigeons, which before the winning fall of symbols on the reels made some random action. Like this pony, seducing the slot machine to the envy of many mares and stallions. Perhaps he was drunk at the time and fondled the machine for a joke, and it roared a congratulatory tune and gave out a reward. Since then he has been trying to repeat all his actions in order to achieve the same result again. If the desired result does not occur—the ritual was reproduced incorrectly.
The funny thing is that in doing so, we proudly place ourselves above the animals. Ponies and other so-called superior races have built cities and huge ships, flown to the moon, created art... and even in the mass destruction of each other we have no equal. It's just an illusion: if look closely, we're still on the same level as ordinary animals. We're just more aware of the world around us. It's as if animals can see one star in the night sky, but we can see them all.
Holiday went in search of another hiding place. Scraps of knowledge related to manipulating visitors through interior arrangement surfaced in his mind. The library where he spent a month didn't have books like 'How Casinos Affect Players Through Furniture'—such publications had long ago been withdrawn from public access by the collusion of the Vanhoover families. The mentions do, however, slip into books on psychology.
Holiday couldn't look under his hooves for long with a pensive philosophical look. The white and blue patterned carpeting is painful to look at for a reason—it's done intentionally, so that players think less while lowering their gaze to the floor and don't get distracted by the tantalizing machines and gambling tables. It's easy to get lost in the spaces. A real maze—to make it longer to wander around the hall. There are no windows or wall clocks, which makes it difficult to orient yourself in time. Nearby there is a bar, and with fairly low prices.
Manipulation comes to absurd details. Everything in the Lucky Chip is smooth and sleek: in pre-war research they found that sharp and right angles encourage bold decisions—for example, to stop the game.
With these reflections, he finally found the right machine. They don't put them in places completely hidden from view—they must be viewed by the guards. However, Holiday was hiding not from them, but from other players, who could pay attention to his frequent winnings.
His rump rested on the padded chair, the slot machine standing in front of his eyes in impatience. Three rotating bluish reels occupied most of the surface: flat sections of them (with smooth corners!) were decorated with colorful symbols. They winked in anticipation, either all at once or one by one. Beneath them protruded a panel of buttons, a slot for accepting chips, and a section for rewards. If Holiday had been comfortable and not worried about anything, he would have thought of that experiment with the pigeons. As well as another manipulation: pleasingly tactile buttons and levers with all the appearance of encouraging you to touch and press them, like the bulging rounded forms of whores.
His heart thundered in his ears—he could measure his pulse by the beats. Under his skin he itched to turn and look around. With all his frail fortitude, he restrained himself. Players never turned around before the game started; that would be suspicious.
He swallowed the lump that had gathered in his throat—with an effort like swallowing a hedgehog. His front leg reached for his inside pocket, his heart beat faster, and he froze.
It's okay. Even if others are looking at me, I haven't done anything suspicious yet. Right? Right?
He tried to swallow his saliva again—his tongue felt like it was covered in sand like the aftermath of a storm—and picked up his chip with his hoof. He felt like he was surrounded: his opponents hadn't drawn their weapons yet, but they'd be ready to do so in a second if he twitched or tried anything stupid. There was a chance to rewind it all back, turn around and walk away...
The stallion's orange skinny leg quivered in a great big shudder, like the barrel of a machine gun in the act of firing. The sounds weakened, as if he were sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Holiday was running a fever, his forehead was covered with sweat, his eyes were darkening, his heart was preparing to leap out of his chest with guilty cries of, "I give up, I give up!".
What am I doing? Oh, what the hell am I doing?!
The image of the griffon digging her sharp claws into his skinny body flashed into his mind—pain pierced him with a bright bolt of lightning. The massive beak came down on his horrified face like a pickaxe, aiming for his eye.
Often in the past months the griffon had haunted him in nightmares. Sometimes he saw himself running through the streets of Vanhoover, and she pounced on him from above with a piercing predatory yell and carried him to her nest. In other dreams he lay on a wide plate as a dish of Rich Inner World served to a rich griffon with a symbol in the shape of a pony skull and a crown on his shoulder. In third dreams with a lusty angle, fear drew him as the griffon first plays with his cock: he feels the hardness and sharpness of her massive beak, which abruptly flaps at the moment of orgasm like steel pincers and bites it off.
The slot machine in front of him, as if tired of waiting, reminded itself with an idle melody.
The vivid image faded away. Only the winking reels remained before Holiday's eyes. He stared stupidly at the multicolored symbols of fruit, gems, sun and crescent moon. Emotions receded like a wave from the shore, and he suddenly realized that he had been sitting there all this time, holding his breath. The sounds returned: the stallion's ears reacted again to the indignant voices, the clinking of slot machines, the soft background melody.
He sucked in air noisily, noticing again the scent of blueberries. His front leg remained frozen in his inside pocket; he looked at it absently, as if it didn't belong to him.
There was no point in being afraid. The fate prepared by the griffon was far worse than the punishment for cheating.
That thought not only calmed his heart, but gave him back control of his body. The front leg showed itself again. He reached out further, cushioning the chip with his hoof so that it was on the inside. The cool surface felt a little ticklish.
The chip glistened slightly, reflecting the cold white light. To hide its affiliation with another casino and make it look like it was really his lucky charm, he had applied silver paint to it, adding black paint. Too much effort, caps and nerves have been invested in developing the content of the chip. No doubt for profit—but in a sense it was still technological creativity. Under the harsh regulation of such developments, he'd managed to pull it off... probably, pull it off.
He popped one chip into a special slot. The amount of chips could not exceed a hundred caps before the reels started. Holiday pulled the lever. The reels sprang to life and spun rapidly, emitting a soft, periodic tinkling sound as if gold coins were rolling over inside them.
The bluish reels slowed down. The first stopped at the image of a crescent moon in the black sky, the second showed the sun, and the third... nothing. It stopped between two symbols: a strawberry and three apples.
One step away from the smallest win.
Holiday looked at the bottom of his hoof, his silver chip nestled inside like a cushioned chair. His chest filled with blueberry-scented air as he took a deep breath, as if before a big jump.
Your turn...
The hoof with the chip pressed against the surface of the slot machine between the pleasantly touching buttons. Nothing happened—and it shouldn't have—but he could feel the chip touching the surface. It only affected the machine after physical contact. Magic spilled over the mechanism, interfering with any random processes relevant to the outcome of the spinning reels.
The second light blue chip disappeared into the slot. He reached with his other front leg for the lever, hesitated for a second, but yanked it nonetheless. The reels spun. Exactly the same as before.
That's right. There was no alarm, and there shouldn't be one, because there were different ways to influence the machines: magic, radiation, and other tricks. It's too expensive and unprofitable, it's hard to be safe from everything.
First reel stopped—sun. Second reel, the sun. Third reel... and before Holiday's brown eyes lit up with realization, his ears twitched with a congratulatory tune. The rarest of combinations. Three suns. A fifty-fold win.
The tune was no different from the sounds of other winnings, so drowned in the clinking and clamor. Holiday was overcome with glee. He stared at the three suns as if someone had given him a sudden but pleasant lick on a sensitive spot.
Five dark blue chips spilled out of the reward section. The largest in value. He looked at them and couldn't believe his own eyes.
Five hundred caps! Holy shit!
The muscles in his body seemed to remember their purpose: to move. Holiday fought the urge to scream loudly. He'd cheated—but he'd cheated well. He rejoiced not in his victory, but in the fact that he had managed to subdue Luck.
The realization of the unfairness of the win cooled him down and allowed him to curb the seething cauldron of emotions. Still, he couldn't help but smile. His smile grew wider as the five most expensive chips disappeared into his pocket.
He looked around cautiously, slowly turning his head to look for guards or other observers. No one approached him with an angry face and a baton in his teeth, no customers looked on with surprise or envy. No one noticed.
Folding the blue chips, he hid his own, the silver one, then placed the same hoof again on the panel between the buttons, thrust a third chip into the slot, and yanked the lever.
No winnings followed. He flushed another five chips for the sake of the view and returned to the cash register, where he laid out the five expensive chips and the two cheap ones he'd purchased earlier.
The turquoise earth pony's eyes widened. He had exchanged the chips no more than ten minutes ago, which meant that after a few tries, he had gotten the biggest combination. She certainly understood that such winnings were possible, but often customers would keep playing, hoping for more, until they found they'd blown their winnings. They didn't know how to stop—and this skinny stallion did. In such cases, the instructions were to persuade the player to return to the game.
"You're having a good day," she said kindly from behind the beautiful grate. A charming smile trained over years of customer service loomed on soft appealing lips. "Surely you're destined to win more. Don't you think so?" she asked, slowly flapping her eyelashes. With each word, the lusciousness in her voice sounded lustier, as if she had playfully put a collar on him and was slowly getting closer.
Holiday's head was filled with thoughts of the success of the experiment—otherwise he would surely melt at the sight of her voice and captivating blue eyes. Winning will definitely happen again, but the casino employees don't believe it. It was a tricky attempt to pull him into the abyss of gambling addiction.
He shook his head decisively.
"Why is that?" her voice trembled slightly. She leaned closer to the protective steel mesh; the delicate scent of her fruity perfume tickled his nose. "You made a quick buck. Lady Luck is definitely favoring you today. Don't miss your chance."
He smiled softly, shaking his head again. If he talked to her for too long, she would surely remember him. No doubt he had a plan prepared for how to remain inconspicuous—but that was for another time.
"I think," he spoke, "that Lady Luck doesn't make someone lucky all day long. If she does favor it, it's better to stop."
Horse apples! How stubborn he is... He's not one of those who can't stop. If I argue with him long enough, he's definitely not going to come back here and spend his caps in the long run. It won't work with him. Well...
She raked up the chips and wrote a check. Five hundred and twenty caps—not a large sum, but enough to make it easier to issue as a document.
Holiday took the slip of paper and left the casino. Only then did he feel completely relieved. His smile was as bright as any sign on Mane Street, as jubilant as if he had drank a bottle of cool water in the sweltering heat that had taken him hours to get to. Walking home, he almost danced. He grabbed Celestia's mane, felt the solid ground beneath his hooves. He felt the tangible possibility of not only paying off his debts, but of getting out of poverty. It was a warming thought: if he had been unclothed in the bitter cold, he would still be warm.
***
Beige and red tones dominated the luxurious interior, the subdued warm light falling on the countless dealers at the card tables, on the diverse players, on the guards in dark outfits with red colors. A soft, unobtrusive jazz tune came from everywhere, as elegant as everything around it. Even the slot machines enticed and held victims with a melodious chime. It exuded the sophistication of an aristocratic world where beauty and manners were considered the chief virtues.
Amidst all this expressive backdrop, among the players in expensive clothes, one lean orange stallion with a beige mane, sitting at a slot machine, stood out. He wore an inexpensive dark brown outfit that many found tasteless and lacking in aesthetics. His right leg was resting against the panel of the caps weaning machine with all ordinariness, but today it was under his hoof that was the trump card that would prevent the cunning machine from defeating him. His brown eyes fixed without enthusiasm on the three beige reels, on which each symbol resembled a work of art: detailed, filigreed, possessing depth.
Holiday lowered the lever, and the reels spun with that same melodic sound, stopping one by one. All three bore the same symbol. The same flower gleamed silver wherever it was appropriate. It was the symbol of Vanhoover's richest and most popular casino.
Crystal Lotus.
The orange stallion with the beige mane shuddered as if the chair beneath him was suddenly energized. His ears instinctively flattened against his head, his brown eyes running around in panic. For the first time in his memory, the slot machine erupted with a distinctive triumphant sound, drawing the attention of those around him. Three chips fell out of the slot—totaling one hundred and fifty thousand caps. Weakness seized his joints, and he struggled to stuff the silver chip into the outer pocket of his gaudy dark brown jacket. Just in time: a mare in a dark outfit with red inserts was approaching him at a decidedly fast pace.
Everything inside Holiday went cold. His face displayed a relief mixture of panic and amazement. His eyes blinked frequently, as if he'd been hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat and was frantically trying to comprehend what had happened. Not knowing what to do, he just stared at the chips.
The mare shortened her distance. Her blank stare was fixed on the three beige reels whose blinking reflected in the orange earth pony's eyes. The olive-colored mare shifted her gaze to the winner—seemingly stunned by the winning. Three crystal lotuses on a slot machine was considered an extremely rare event: no one had ever gotten that combination in her presence. Now she had the opportunity to appreciate the lucky player by awarding him a prize ticket to a concert that would start in less than an hour.
He's been lucky twice, the Softhooves mare thought. He won the prize on the day of the annual concert. Any more and he would have had to wait a whole year.
She tilted her head to her inside pocket, grasped the silver ticket with the lotus symbol, placed it on her front hoof and held it out to him. He stared at her in shock.
"Everyone who gets three crystal lotuses, regardless of the amount won, is rewarded. A ticket to the annual Eileen Softhooves concert, where new songs will be premiered."
Holiday finally came to his senses and the panicked confusion was replaced by shock. He nodded and slowly grasped the ticket with his teeth and put it in his pocket.
"I think," she added, "you're the last one for this period. The concert starts in forty-two minutes. It's unlikely anyone else will get three lotuses that day."
He nodded again, not knowing what to do or how to react. The olive-colored earth pony retreated to her former spot, from where quite a bit of the hall was visible. Holiday breathed a sigh of relief. All the nearby players were looking at him. Many who had thought his outfit tasteless were now staring at him with envy, like hungry wolves at a defenseless rabbit. Only the wealthiest and most powerful could afford tickets to this concert.
He had to radiate joy through his fear. He headed toward the box office, trying not to look like a cornered rat.
A lilac-colored earth pony in a red dress perked up at the sight of a customer she had just recently handed out chips to. She assumed he'd already spent it all and was coming back for more, his face cheerless and tense. The stallion in a cheap outfit tossed three gold-plated chips with a lotus symbol in the center onto the table under the protective steel mesh.
Her pink eyes stared at the table as if the chips weren't there at all, just the sound of something invisible banging against the wooden surface. A second later, the contacts in her brain finally connected, and everything fell into place like pins in a keyhole. A couple minutes ago, she'd heard someone in the hall get the combination of three lotuses.
Lucky boy. And just before the concert started.
She looked at the slightly lost orange stallion. Envy bit at her right buttock.
So lucky to get to see Eileen herself in concert?! You've got to be kidding me.
The earth pony behind the protective steel mesh raked up the chips with a detached look and wrote a check for fifteen hundred.
"Have a nice day."
Her smile looked too strained and unnatural. It was like the corners of her lips were caught on a hook with a steel chain being pulled by two of the strongest Hellhounds, nearly bursting with tension.
It didn't escape Holiday as he gripped the check with his teeth. He felt a little uncomfortable with the attention and stares he had no way of recognizing. This was his third time in this casino. The silver chip didn't always bring out the biggest combination—and even if it did, it didn't get much attention in other casinos.
From now on, it is better not to come here. Repeated three lotuses will seem suspicious, and changing the color of the mane and tail will not help.
He returned to the hall and looked first at the exit and then in the opposite direction: the double doors led to the concert hall. In a little more than half an hour the show would begin, where Eileen would introduce her new songs to the audience.
Holiday wasn't a music fan, but the opportunity to attend a show where only a select few and—literally—the lucky ones could enter was tempting. The sign on the door said that visitors would be let in after twenty minutes. To ease the wait, he walked to the stage where a mare in a loose dark red dress was twirling in a slow dance.
Places like this with dancers were everywhere in this casino. There was no vulgarity in their movements or appearance. The dancers complemented the beauty, aristocracy and grace of the place. Certainly the Softhooves family owned the largest number of Vanhoover brothels and a porn studio with memory orbs, but that didn't mean that they tended to put lust on display in each of their establishments. Unlike the Meadows family, who masterfully play on every instinct, desire and weakness of their customers at every opportunity.
Holiday and a few other players watched the yellow mare's movements from different seats. Her eyes remained closed, her long white mane swayed along with the bottom of her dress, and mentally she was somewhere far away, perhaps on the waves of existence from which she drew energy. Her whole body told everyone that it was free—no gravity pinning her to the ground prevented her from enjoying her every movement. All her muscles were warmed up to the limit, blood rushing through them, buzzing with the pleasurable tension. There's nothing better than spinning in a dance, feeling the essence of life—for movement is nothing less than the basis of being.
After fifteen minutes, the dancer was replaced by another mare in a dress of the same dark red color, but her movements stood out from her more professional counterpart. She wasn't an amateur, of course; she wouldn't have been hired without the proper skills, and yet even Holiday's inexperienced eye could see the difference, but it didn't matter to him. He continued to admire the graceful movements of the earth pony until it was time to go to the concert.
At the entrance he showed his ticket. He was let through, having assessed his appearance and odor and deemed them not too deplorable. In the spacious hall he was greeted by a fresh scent with a fleeting floral tinge, gilded chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, the walls were decorated in waves with hanging dark red cloths with side chandeliers peeking out between them. Entering ponies and griffons spoke in muffled voices, all behaving considerate and reserved.
A wide stage with a podium and microphone stretched from wall to wall, in front of it were several dozen round wooden tables covered with dark red tablecloths. Behind each are two or three chairs. On the shelves of a small bar in the corner were alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks; some treats were served there as well. Some of the visitors had gone there to order something before the show began.
Holiday didn't recognize anyone, which wasn't surprising. The most famous ponies, like Eileen or Prince, he'd seen mostly in newspapers or on posters. After waiting in line for about ten minutes, he got himself an ice cream—strawberry, since there was no mint, in a deep glass bowl—and then took his seat. His table was somewhere in the center. The softness of the chair pleased his skinny butt, and his beige-colored tail dangled from the seat. A bowl of slowly melting ice cream rested on the burgundy tablecloth.
The guests and members of the Softhooves family were seated, whispering to each other. After a while, a blue-colored unicorn with a glass of red wine approached Holiday, but he paid no attention to his neighbor, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. Generous slices of strawberries oozed syrup. The appetizing sight of them made his mouth water more than it would fit in a tablespoon, but Holiday waited for the show to begin.
What to do next?
It had been three months. He'd been going around all the casinos one by one, then changing his appearance and going in a new circle. At each casino, he made sure that his winnings did not exceed one thousand caps—with a few exceptions. With each visit to the casino he was convinced that no one cared about the earth pony behind a slot machine; besides, the amounts were insignificant and did not arouse suspicion. Now he was finishing the third circle on his visit to the Crystal Lotus.
But was it necessary to end it?
He had already collected the necessary amount for the griffon and for those from whom he had taken the loan against the security of the apartment. The amount in the bank account had passed fifteen thousand caps. As that number increased, the level of deference from the bank staff grew proportionately. The checks came from the casino, so no one doubted the source of the income: the customer was a calculating gambler at cards, Holiday told them. At cards, there's a better chance of winning.
Last week, he realized how many caps he had in his account. It was like a mountain had been lifted off his shoulders, and he was ready to soar into the heavens with the serene lightness that came over him. Death's breath no longer chilled the back of his neck. For the first time in a long time his heart was not wrapped in a film of anxiety, and there was still almost six months to go.
I could take my time. Collect more caps and close the debts. And then what? Should I keep gambling at casinos? Should I look for a job? What to do with my life?
Thoughts in his head, like the heads of a large company, were conferring on the future with an important look. The concert was only minutes away. The lights were dimmed, the audience quickly fell silent; their eyes turned to the stage. The microphone stand was in an island of light.
But almost everyone turned their faces to the side as she emerged from the next room. Her wavy red mane almost touched her shoulders, where a long dark dress with red patterns began to the point of absurdity. The hem stretched behind her across the dark carpet like ducklings following a mother duck. With her chin raised, she did not look at the hall or the audience; the solemn gaze of her violet eyes from beneath her eyelashes was lost somewhere on the stage. All attention was fixed upon her. Some of them were in awe, mostly the not-so-wealthy citizens of Vanhoover who had been fortunate enough to save enough caps to pay for a ticket. Some admired her dress and the outline of her trim figure concealed by it, and looked longingly at her attractive lips. Someone was envious of her beauty, sexiness and luxurious attire. Some waited demurely for the introduction. Holiday was experiencing a little bit of everything.
She looked like a queen.
There had only been one Queen in Vanhoover's history with a capital letter, Vermillion Rose. The head of the Softhooves family is obviously emulating her. She even resembles her; only the difference in coat color is noticeable. Both possessed a luxurious wavy red mane, attractive looks and charisma. However, the the Queen of the newly restored Vanhoover was not a singer. Eileen quickly gained popularity while still in her teens, and from premiering her new songs she promoted a popular, desirable, and expensive show.
Beautiful violet eyes turned to the filled hall, glittering with smugness: she had achieved such respect and admiration through her work, talent and looks. A faint smile lurked on her lips, imperceptible but perceptible, like a shadow on a moonlit night. Standing taller than anyone else on the stage at the microphone, she looked around the room haughtily to find a glimpse of anyone who might interest her. To assess who among the family or significant others had attended this year's performance. She also looked out for one pony and soon found her—she was the only one who dared to move around the hall at such an awe-inspiring moment. The smile on the unicorn's lips on stage grew a little wider.
"A beautiful fall evening," she spoke in a voice as soft as melted chocolate. So soft and inviting that you wanted to dive into it like a hot bath and soak for hours. "The cold weather is coming soon, but I hope my seven new songs will keep you warm this coming winter."
Holiday listened and didn't notice that another pony had arrived at the table as the third guest. A red unicorn with a black mane and occasional red curls; the hem of her modest dress did not reach the floor. But the unicorn sitting next to her, who was between Holiday and the newcomer, drew her attention with a welcoming smile, smelling her wonderful perfume. The guest smiled discreetly back with the sweetest expression he'd ever seen. He knew her—but she knew far more about him than he seemed to let others know about him. The unicorn looked at the lean orange stallion with some confusion. It was the first time she had seen him.
Apparently, she reassured herself, he was the lucky one who had gotten the three crystal lotuses.
To her surprise, he ignored her welcoming look, though she was definitely in his field of vision. She turned to Eileen, who was finishing her opening speech.
"I'll start with 'Luck Bound Us'," Eileen paused and nodded somewhere to the side.
Naturally, thought the red unicorn and grinned softly. This time my birthday present will go first. Thirty-three... That's a beautiful number.
Apart from Eileen, no one in this room knew about the black-haired mare's birthday, let alone that the song was a gift. No one is supposed to know—the birthday mare prefers to keep it a secret.
The melody began dramatically. Quiet and peaceful the song would not be—and that definitely pleased the red unicorn.
Among the casino's lights, the time slows,
We bet on luck, we bet on feelings.
Eyes twinkling, Luck's tail in hooves;
Fate has smiled on us in this game of love.
Those present listened, ears perked up; Holiday forgot about his ice cream. He had never heard a song performed live before. All thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind. His nature focused on absorbing those magical sounds.
The red unicorn knew Eileen's voice well, in all situations. The most pleasure she got from its sound was when it made her moan sweetly and languidly. There was nothing like it.
The gaze of light blue eyes slid around the room. By virtue of her profession, she subconsciously noticed details, particularly things that might be a threat to Eileen. Like an experienced chess player who looks at the board and notices dozens and hundreds of possible combinations.
An even more energetic refrain rang out.
Luck bound us together,
A winning tune played.
Our hearts on the cards,
The roulette creates our fate.
The unicorn continued to listen, assessing the situation with a calm, expressionless face. He spotted a couple—a gray earth pony with a white mane and a soft red pegasus with the same white mane.
Fans of all sorts of musical events.
Next, the birthday mare spotted the members of her family, mostly rich and respected, who are not looking for an opportunity to throw Eileen off her position. Mostly friends and family.
The wheel, spin like a love story.
Both in the casino, our night of dreams.
Your words are a prize, the two of us win,
The game of fate is so sweet, we are together.
As usual we were honored by the presence of several griffons, among them a Soldier of the Falcon family. The famous sand-colored griffon sat in the company of a massive earth pony. He looked a bit comical in his attire. Another high-flying bird was a dark gray pegasus with his mane brushed back. A favorite to take the place of the head of the Steelmane family, sitting surrounded by two mares.
Elite escorts, most likely. But he hadn't skimped on the ticket for them.
And many others. She didn't care about their status; she cared about their motives and their opportunities to make a mess or ruin the evening. Of course they wouldn't do that. Why would they? But the red unicorn couldn't help but evaluate and calculate the probabilities of any outcome. She didn't second-guess or worry: her mind remained cold.
Still, she relaxed a little, making sure that for once there were no representatives or close friends of the Meadows family in the room.
Eileen turned back to the chorus.
Luck bound us together,
A winning tune played.
Our hearts on the cards,
The roulette creates our fate.
Could that be a bad sign, though? If the Meadows are unwilling to appear with the rest of us at a public event, it could indicate a more hostile attitude than is noticeable in public. After all, we are successful entertainment competitors to them. We are careful about our image, unlike them.
The Meadows... No one really knows what they do in their basement. Drug and medicine development, research into magic and spells. and then there's the elusive Silent Ghost, who gets rid of anyone who pokes his nose into their business. Either by obvious murder or by faking an accident.
Despite the thoughts running around in her head, the unicorn continued to enjoy the music. It was, after all, a gift for her. The song, meanwhile, was nearing its finale.
In roulette's pockets, luck shines,
In the casino of love, we're all in luck.
A kiss is our prize. You're with me, that means,
We've hit the jackpot in this casino of love.
The birthday mare calmed down and focused on the magical flows. There was no strange and dangerous magic around, no one was going to blow up or set fire to it. But... she felt something barely discernible. Unpleasant. Like there was an annoying mosquito squeak in the complete silence. Dangerous magic like an energy-magic grenade would be as noticeable as a flashlight in a dark room.
She glanced around the hall once more, and then casually, discreetly turned to the audience behind her. Her attention was once again drawn to the skinny earth pony who still hadn't touched his ice cream. Her ears continued to follow the final chorus.
Luck bound us together,
A winning tune played.
Our hearts on the cards,
The roulette creates our fate.
Author's Note
The next chapter will be the last one
Only one pony was constantly looking away from the most beautiful Vanhoover mare, who was bathed in the spotlight and attention. Her face remained turned toward the stage, but her eyes looked away in a kind of thoughtfulness. Anyone in the audience would have been horrified by such a sacrilege: it was as if Princess Celestia had leaned over for a thank-you kiss, but the receiver was more interested in looking at the stained glass windows.
The red unicorn was watching the skinny orange stallion from the sidelines. Eileen Softhooves worked her way up the stairs. The hall erupted into applause and cheers, causing the unicorn to look away from Holiday and join the crowd. Holiday himself tapped his hooves against each other joyfully. Eileen watched the audience's reaction and the red unicorn in ecstasy, obviously pleased with the result. All this attention, applause, and emotion was satisfying to her ego and gave her an over-the-top pleasure, as if every part of her body was being turned into a sensitive zone and given a relaxing massage. She took a deep breath, savoring the moment like an expensive wine, memorizing every detail.
It was a firm conviction in Eileen's heart that she would not trade all these experiences for any riches.
The hall quieted down.
"One of my best works," Eileen said when there was complete silence. "I spent a lot of time on it, but it was worth it. And now my next song..."
The fascination that had enveloped Holiday was slowly releasing him. He remembered the ice cream and leaned over, taking a bite of strawberry with his lips. The sweet fireworks of flavor almost made him moan aloud with pleasure. For the first few moments, it felt like something fuzzy and ticklish was twirling in his mouth. He could hardly contain the urge to swallow it all at once, but even in that state he understood: the point of a treat was to savor and enjoy.
Delicious flavor!
He was a little oblivious to the vivid impressions after the song, focusing on the strawberry dessert. This did not escape the red unicorn's notice.
Perhaps the magical 'buzzing' is not coming from him, she thought, shifting her gaze to the blue unicorn sipping some wine from his glass. In any case, the magic is too weak to harm Eileen from a distance. I can barely feel her up close.
She had the calm demeanor of a skilled chess player, calculating possible moves and actions, but not forgetting that Eileen herself is no weaker or less sensitive to magic. She could stand up for herself.
The orange stallion licked himself lustily during the Softhooves' speech and continued to rub his nose in the ice cream like a dog sniffing another dog's ass. The blue unicorn listened to Eileen in awe and, as she guessed, mentally undressed her, fantasizing about getting his nose under her tail. Nothing particularly shameful or out of the ordinary—it was what half of Vanhoover dreamed of.
The birthday mare felt another magical 'buzz' in the hall—but she was able to determine its nature, making sure it carried no threat. And this...
What if it was some kind of jewelry whose magic was malfunctioning? I can't just randomly search guests just because I sensed some faint magical activity that I don't recognize. Excessive precautions will only serve to discourage, breed rumors and tension. Eileen might be suspected of paranoia, if her guards are bugging the guests about every little thing. Besides, I don't know who exactly it's coming from. Magic is everywhere, and there will always be something that is still of an unclear nature.
The red unicorn with a black mane was completely focused on the performance.
***
Middle of the day. Holiday washed the paint off his mane and tail with a special mixture. It was time to pay off his debts. There were still more than four months to go, but he wanted to get this matter settled soon and move on with his life in peace. They felt less like anchors and more like swimming in a pool with a bag full of rocks—not too disturbing, not dangerous, and could be dropped at any time. So why not do it now? Waiting would only make it worse.
With these thoughts he left his apartment on Luxury Street. Outside, winter was in full swing, as if it had come out for a country picnic, covering the world with a white cloth. Everything was covered in snow, even the old garbage in the corners. Tall houses and the crunch under his hooves accompanied him as he sank into contemplation of the life ahead. The cool air cleared his thoughts well.
What to do after paying off his debts? Continue playing casino games for the rest of his life? Or earn money for a full-fledged education to join one of the families? A regular job would be hard to come by, but this way I could at least find protection... in the Steelmane family, for example. My skills in any field could come in handy there. I'd have connections, even a career and a noble cause.
The two teenage stallions chatted excitedly with the music from the radio set on the open window of the first floor. The tune was wordless, upbeat and energetic. You could even dance to it, turn it on at a party or crowd-sourced event. Apparently the kids had decided to take a break from trying to bury each other in snowdrifts.
Holiday paid no attention to them, and they paid no attention to him. It was idyllic.
"...and what happened next?" one of them asked with glowing eyes.
"They lived happily ever after. That's all."
"Really? That's hard to believe."
"What did you expect? It's a fairy tale. Everything always ends well in a fairy tale."
"I wish I was in a fairy tale."
"So do I... But then again, the rich life gets boring fast."
"As if you know what it's like," the listener chuckled. The narrator sent a scornful glance in response, which intensified the former's laughter.
"Well, it's true... you have the same pleasures every day. It's like eating only sweets. Eventually you get nauseous, your stomach hurts. They say wealth makes some ponies crazy, do stupid things."
"Better a rich and boring life than a poor and unpredictable one. In a rich life you can at least find different ways to have fun... or who you can have fun with. By the way, is Sweetie Biscuit at home today, or is she helping her mother in the shop?"
Holiday was already far away. His ears had not heard the conversation, though he was not following it. He was pondering the luxurious life his imagination had painted. Where he would be recognized, where he had access to all sorts of life's goods and opportunities. A dreamy smile froze on his lips that nothing seemed to be able to peel off.
At this pace, the skinny orange stallion reached the store, seeing a familiar neon sign with an upside-down figure eight. 'Endless Wire'. Jingling the bell, he crossed the threshold and looked around. Everything was still the same: a variety of wires, wriggling, dangled from fixtures, some coiled. The customer in front of him had just finished his purchase and was leaving the store. Holiday tactfully and timely, as if a huge boulder had rolled on him, stepped aside with an indifferent look.
Behind the counter stood the crimson-milk stallion. This time his face in the cold white light of the ceiling lamps was much less friendly than last time. He always tried to keep a friendly face when he saw a customer, but even Holiday sensed something was wrong. He wasn't even recognized.
"What can I do for you?" the salespony asked, squeezing the phrase out with effort—as if he were opening an unyielding jar of canned pickles.
"I... want to pay off my loan."
The stallion's gaze gained clarity and realization, the shroud of irritation almost dissipating. He looked closely at the skinny orange stallion in the inexpensive coat and tried to remember who he was—but the image slipped away like soap in a bathtub. He quickly gave up, not wanting to exercise his meanderings for an unfamiliar pony now that those were consumed with the far more important task of making a list of all of his wife's sins and flaws.
"Go to the back room. You'll be welcomed there," he spat out the words with a kind of vibrating anger, as if the very thought of that room or who was in it pissed him off.
Holiday nodded and walked through, opening the door.
The white unicorn with the light purple mane tied in a bun at the back of her head was sitting at her desk, looking frustrated as she fixed the remote control of a green radio-controlled car that refused to be fixed.
Go to hell!
It's a mystery whether it was addressed to her husband or the remote control. Perhaps both at the same time. She would have been happy if all her problems had gathered in a dense bunch, and she would have stroked the huge sledgehammer with a sly grin, like a typical movie villain strokes his black cat, and with a single blow with the words "FUCK YEAH!" would have destroyed the bunch with such force as if a giant bomb had exploded.
The white, lifeless light of the chandelier cast shadows on the shelves with drawers of appliances and other things. Tools spread out on the table, bits of wires, electronics parts, and gems were lying here and there. The odor of rosin was still well perceptible in the air.
With a sour look, as if a slice of lemon had been marinating in her mouth for hours, she smiled at the client she noticed almost immediately.
"What can I do for you?" it sounded a little rude, but Holiday took no offense and paid it no mind. "Need something fixed or are we talking about a loan?"
"Yes, about the loan. I want to pay it off. My name is Holiday. I was here over six months ago."
"Wait a minute..." she spoke. Her horn flashed with a familiar silver light.
He remembered the mint scent that came from the unicorn.
A wooden clipboard with a list flew up to her face. After a couple seconds, her eyes stopped on the right name; she rummaged through the desk some more and pulled out a sheet listing valuable items.
"Found it. Loan for five thousand caps. The repayment amount is ten thousand. You still have four months to go."
"I already have the amount. Here," he said, pulling from his warm coat a bank check in the amount of ten thousand caps.
The milk-colored unicorn stared at it and then at Holiday. Memories rushed from her subconscious into her consciousness, disconcerting: all her angry thoughts froze at once, as if slapped. Paying back the loan was not unusual for her, but it was this loan that caused her the most emotion. It was the biggest one for her. Her husband... had convinced her to trust a dubious stranger who was legally captive to a griffon who liked to eat pony meat.
"Yes... Nice..." was all she said. The frustration and anger faded away like the echoes of a subsiding storm. As if in a trance, she took the check from the client and made a note on his passport that the debt had been repaid. "You got it, as I understand?" she asked softly, remembering some project of his.
"Yep. I've already gotten the benefit."
"It's wonderful when someone gets something to work out..." she stared at the check confusedly, strangely empty. Relief and joy mixed with guilt toward her husband. "You don't need anything else?"
Holiday shook his head.
"Well... that's it then."
He nodded and left the store. The unicorn sat at the table for a long time, looking lost. Her gaze fell on the remote control of the green machine, and—as if by magic—the pony realized why she couldn't fix it.
In less than a minute, the green toy car was spinning around the table, its tiny wheels spinning furiously, following the commands sent from the remote via radio waves. For the first time in the past twenty-six hours she smiled involuntarily, genuinely delighted by the shrill whirring of the little motor. The whole surrounding reality faded like a fading oil lamp, everything but the toy disappeared and ceased to make sense.
The muffled laughter of the foals and the amazed sighs of the foals who watched the first attempts of the white mare without a cutie mark to fix and make things sounded in her head. She was sitting on the steps of her parents' apartment building, and the foals surrounded her and squealed with excitement as they watched a white toy car with light purple stripes drive down the concrete steps and jump off them at speed. It's one thing to manipulate objects with telekinesis, where you can still feel them by 'touch', and quite another to do without magical assistance. All that serene laughter, the admiration for her skills...
The white unicorn blinked as she heard the toy fall off the table, and felt tears welling up. She brushed them away. Picked up the toy with her telekinesis and examined it again—but not because it might have broken from falling from such a height.
All of her current accomplishments in the family seemed mundane against that background. Material accumulation and the other goods of life were no longer such a pleasure; and in general, those times had brought her far more happiness than the present.
She felt like the stupidest pony ever when her gaze focused again on the bank check of ten thousand caps. An impressive sum—but far more importantly a return to what was now bringing her the most important happiness in her life.
The crimson-milk stallion's ears twitched when he heard the clatter of hooves behind him. He instinctively turned around and was about to defiantly turn away, but instead he stared at the white unicorn's face, her lips quivering. She had been through too much in the last few days and was exhausted.
His heart ached, it was filled with guilt. He should have been her support, he should have realized that the struggles in families were not easy, that there were many obstacles along the way that anyone could stumble over.
"You earned five thousand caps," she said quietly. He blinked in surprise, completely out of his thoughts and the nascent desire to smile and hug her.
"I don't get it."
"That stallion... you believed in him then. And now it's all paid off."
After a couple moments, what she said reached him, that same soft smile on his lips that made something tingle in her chest and her knees turn to melted chocolate. Her gray eyes glazed over, and his smile melted before her gaze—just as he turned fully toward her, opening his front legs for a hug. Wiggling, she reached him and hugged him, burying her nose in his neck and moistening his fur with hot, quiet tears.
***
Holiday's booted hooves crushed the snowflakes in the griffon neighborhood in slow motion. Mostly controlled by the Falcon family; the neighborhoods teemed with weapons and ammunition manufacturing facilities.
The orange stallion in the cheap coat jumped where he stood at the sudden rumble that came from somewhere in the depths of the building to his right. Before his brain realized that he was almost instantly on the opposite side of the road, his eyes saw a yellow illuminated sign above the front of the building with a stylized image of a revolver muzzle at the moment of firing, "Shooting Range"
Letting out a sigh of relief and removing his hoof from his chest where his heart drummed beneath him, Holiday returned to the sidewalk and walked on. He still shuddered with every gunshot.
The street is full of establishments that provide services for the sale and maintenance of weapons and ways to have fun with them—like shooting ranges where you can participate with the hope of winning a prize of an inexpensive gun or plush toy, or firing ranges where you can shoot and test sample weapons with various modifications for a small fee. The Falcons are constantly interacting with critters and mutants, so you can buy full stuffed animals and other decorations here, but the bulk of the goods go to Softhooves, who also produce clothing.
A distinctive feature of high-rise buildings in this neighborhood was the presence of open spacious balconies, through which the griffons living on the upper floors could quickly get to their homes or leave it. Everything is designed in a convenient way for landing.
Working in the restaurant where Rich Inner World was served impacted Holiday, even traumatized him. The whole environment had a kind of hostile power, sucked the confidence and composure out of him with the same efficiency that the pulpit does out of stage fright and public attention. Holiday felt naked, as if in a terrible dream, but not because of shame. His body felt as if he were being viewed not with mockery, contempt, or lust, but with a far more frightening undertone, as if the stares were a frost that gave him goosebumps. Hungry eyes judged the deliciousness of his body in the truest sense of the word.
His entire mind froze in paranoid anticipation, listening for every rustle, shadow, or movement—they reinforced the conviction that he was being watched by beak-licking predators, sizing up their prey and waiting for the right moment. He looked even smaller—all shrunken, hushed, trying to reduce his visibility, to turn into a small mouse. What urged him most strongly to flee as far away from here as possible were the shrill predatory cries from the nearby houses. Screams imbued with strength and power, as if to say, "I see you, meat. Se-e-e you!".
Highlighted to Holiday's ears was the sound of mighty feathered wings flapping, the airflow visible to his orange fur beneath his thick winter coat. The griffons flew over him, and the faint shadow of the clouds cast a faint shadow over Holiday—but to his frightened mind it was the embodiment of terror, as if the Darkness itself would pounce on him and drag him down into the abyss, forever depriving him of warmth and light.
Two female teenage griffons sat at the edge of the balcony on the fourth floor, their hind paws and tails hanging down. In their front paws they held revolvers, on which they focused their sparkling, short-circuit-like eyes of delight.
"Nice gun!" one of them uttered with emotion, looking at the paw of the second griffon clutching the pistol by the holder. "It's so long... let me feel it!"
Griffon weapons are often strikingly different from what ponies use. Their design allows them to be held in their paws rather than in their mouths or battle saddles.
The beak of the owner of the thicker and longer gun distorted into a smug grin.
"Yeah you've got a nice iron too," she added. The friends exchanged revolvers. The one who received the larger gun immediately began groping and stroking it, enjoying the coolness of the steel in her paw. The other turned the smaller revolver in her paws. "Yours is small, but it's better balanced, and it's nicer to hold."
Both of them casually took aim at the orange earth pony, who was walking, twitching constantly, as if he were wearing the scratchiest sweater his grandmother had sewn for the winter holidays. He didn't notice them: the griffons sat practically motionless.
The owner of the smaller revolver smirked: she had the idea to play a joke on him by shooting him under the hooves. The owner of the big gun had noticed her intentions. She wouldn't mind mocking the pony, but it was too much for her—she preferred to tease verbally.
"Don't even think about it," she said.
"Come on, it's only one shot."
"No," she said decisively.
"Is it because I want to fire your revolver?" she asked, still aiming at a point in front of Holiday's hooves.
"You aim no better than a drunken griffin in front of a toilet." The griffon with the large gun in her paws turned and opened her beak, but she was outpaced, realizing her potential request, "Also, given the way he twitches, he'll get shot at the wrong moment. My aim won't help here."
"Bummer," she sighed. They returned the revolvers to each other.
"If you'd shot a pony, you'd have a few months of teasing except at your cellmates. If you'd killed, months would have turned into years."
Holiday paced on. His subconscious mind caught a fleeting glimpse of the chimneys of the factories above the houses with their open balconies and the predators that landed there, like the claws of drowning griffons looking for salvation, but for betraying their ideals or revealing the secrets of the Falcon family, they could only expect a brick from those who had been commanded to drown them instead of a helping paw.
At some point, Holiday's brain gave the command to freeze and calm down a little: he was blinded by the bright yellow light from the sign, "The Griffon's Grip". He entered through the front entrance of the restaurant, and, afraid to look at the hall filled mostly with predatory birds, went straight to the receptionist's table, at which stood a young female griffon with a polite—because of the specifics of the job—expression on her face. The line of her beak stretched into a welcoming smile, which had a calming effect on Holiday.
Ponies in places like this didn't surprise the griffon administrator, but still, they were a rarity here. She eyed him with interest and couldn't help but notice the nervous pose of the skinny orange stallion as he stepped over the threshold.
Holiday couldn't remember if he'd seen her before when he worked here. He was generally bad at remembering names unless they were displayed somewhere visually in large letters, like store signs or billboards.
"I'd like to see the chief... I owe her a debt," he muttered and was surprised: his voice still shook like a washing machine on the rough basement floor. The receptionist cast a dubious glance at him, turning her head and trying to maintain etiquette, but unwittingly showed him the length of her beak, which made him uncomfortable. The curve of the beak line struck him as malevolent. "M-my name is Holiday. I worked here almost nine months ago."
A clawed paw reached for a notebook by the desk, opened it, and flipped through it. Holiday couldn't help but think of the strength and sharpness of those claws.
"Now... Uh-huh... Ah. Yes, I have a note left that Holiday may appear within the year. Then come in."
She waved her front paw, indicating the service door behind her. He didn't need to point. He remembered how to get there, but nodded gratefully and staggered toward the service quarters, feeling as if his knees were encased in quick-hardening concrete. He tried not to stare at the dining tables for fear of seeing pony guts there.
In the hallway, he went to the supervisor's door, lifted his leg, barely swallowing the accumulated lump of fear the size of a baseball, and knocked. After granting permission, he entered the office.
The interior was unremarkable except for the skins and stuffed animals and mutants from the Wasteland. Fortunately, there were no stuffed ponies here. A brown raptor sat at a desk. It set the paper aside, recognizing Holiday instantly.
He was scared by the fact that she remembered him well.
In less than a second, predatory eyes fairly flashed, studying his crouched, frightened, and submissive pose. More than anything else, she followed his open eyes, trying to get into his brain and read his thoughts. And was surprised to find that she had already been 'sitting' there for the last... nine months? She couldn't say for sure, but she remembered Holiday's fear when she'd pinned him to the refrigerator; his expression was much different now. Predators know every shade of fear in the eyes of their prey—the look of awe in Holiday's eyes. It was the look of someone who had literally seen a nightmare that would not leave him alone.
He wouldn't stop thinking about me, and the dreams... Oh, I wish I could see what his imagination was painting!
Her body rose, her mighty muscles moving. Holiday's rump sank helplessly to the carpet with the same speed. She stepped up to the skinny nightmare-intimidated stallion—quite close, just like that time. She looked down at him like a rabbit. Holding back the contents of his bladder abruptly became more difficult. He'd forgotten that his salvation lay in the inside pocket of his coat.
"Hello, bag of bones," she muttered quietly. A smug grin stretched across her beak like a client on a masseur's table. "I remember telling you not to come back here until you returned the caps or brought a well-fed pony..." She casually glanced at the open door, knowing no one was with him. "If there's no one there... then why did you leave the door open? Not polite."
She stepped around Holiday, closing the door. At least it wasn't locked. The orange earth pony was afraid to move.
"So... no well-fed pony," she muttered, standing in the same spot in front of him, her massive paw somehow resting on his head with love and care. Holiday summoned all his remaining willpower to keep from bowing in fear and falling flat on his stomach. At least she wasn't grasping at him like a falling old person grasping crutches. "So you brought the caps?"
He nodded, though it was hard to do so with a paw on his head.
"That's surprising. I didn't expect you to be able to do it. Also so fast."
The griffon was genuinely impressed. Her paw left his head and brown mane alone, like a dog losing interest in a toy. She stood in front of him, continuing to grin at the anxiety of her frightened prey.
He's got his caps ready, and yet he's afraid of me. What a fine specimen. I almost feel sorry I let myself let him go. I could play with him for a long time. His own nightmares did a good job, but I could have done better. I don't care if he's skinny... but that face!
Just as she was about to grin even wider at her own slightly horny fantasies, the orange stallion reached into his inside pocket with his face and pulled out the check. She disdainfully took it from her teeth, holding back a sigh of disappointment. Read the contents.
"Who did you rob? Admit it..." she cooed. He became uncomfortable. "Although... you don't have the guts for something like that." She allowed herself a mirthful chuckle. That laugh seemed far creepier than his subconscious had painted him in his dreams. "But any guts can be cooked on a platter."
Holiday shuddered with her ears down. The sight of it caused a moist heat to rush to the inside of her thighs. Her head spun, her breathing slightly quickened. She felt hot—but Holiday felt like he'd been thrown into a freezer.
She looked at the check again. She wasn't having money problems. As a Captain of the Falcon family, she'd invested all her savings and time into this business, where ponies were served as meat for the few griffons that would eat something like that. And she's among them. Even some ponies secretly come here to taste the forbidden food.
This kind of business attracts a lot of trouble with the law. They live by the rules of the ponies, which include many really powerful unicorns. Prince, the families, they're a force to be reckoned with.
Not everything pays off, and it's not always worth the effort—except to those who matter. For her, it did. Other things just didn't appeal to her, didn't give her the same emotions and sensations, even though they brought in a lot more caps. This restaurant was not her only source of income, but it was the least profitable, but she paid much more attention and care to it.
She looked into the victim's frightened brown eyes. Something inside her flared up. It burned with a bright flame. The beak was eager to dive into the blood! Her whole being urged her to sink her claws into his body right here and now, to turn into a huge wave that would crash down and swallow the orange earth pony standing by the shore.
He mentally didn't understand the reason why his heart was covered with burning ice, but his animal instincts told him that the griffon who was fixed and glaring at him was very, very bad!
The one thing that helped her enjoy this pleasure over the years was one extremely important thing. Which kept the sensations sharp and fresh.
I am not a slave to my own urges. They don't control me, I won't let them. I am free. Free!
She stared into his eyes, into that attractive frightened face. The ravenous fire inside her fueled her imagination, showing the exciting things she could do to him. What pleasure she could extract. The unthinkable temptation. The claws of her paws tensed, clawing into the carpet, but Holliday paid no attention.
No, I'm free! No... go away. Away! Unlike most masters, I don't submit to quick desires! I'm not like those weak-willed fools. Constant gratification of desires will lead to loss of taste and boredom. It's irresponsible and stupid. I don't want that!
She took a deep breath, feeling control return. Passion still raged, but at least it wasn't controlling her. Still, despite the uphill struggle, she was pleased with herself. She had stayed true to her principles. The self-control, the occasional denial of pleasure to herself only made it stronger.
"All right. Give me your passport and get out of here."
Holiday staggered away from the neighborhood with a lifeless and emaciated look, like a blind and deaf feral ghoul, paying no attention to the gunshots or the piercing predatory screams. Outside the neighborhood, the restraining rivets inside him were violently ripped out, and he burst into tears, drawing the attention of some passersby, who quickly lost interest in him.
***
Flakes of snow covered the streets of Vanhoover, falling lazily, swirling, on the bare noses of ponies as if a confectioner had sprinkled powdered sugar on the top of a cake. Holiday was not exempt from this fate, so when he crossed the threshold of the Gem Casino, he gave a doggy shake that every pony that entered did. A little farther away, a guard post was inspecting visitors for weapons and other dangerous items.
Light colors dominated the interior, the palette reminiscent of a hospital—everything seemed sterile and tidy, but if you looked closely...
The casino-hotel belonged to the Meadows family. It was the only gambling establishment they owned, but it was so profitable and popular that only the Crystal Lotus Casino, owned by the Softhooves, could compete with it. Holiday had been here many times before, but then he had been concerned only with debt and caution. Now he had the opportunity to gaze and appreciate the interior with peace of mind.
He was distracted from his thoughts about what to do next, such as where to put the caps and whether it was worth it at all. There was the smell of cleanliness, the clinking of slot machines and the muffled voices of players. On the way to the cash register, his gaze ran over the polished, light-colored interior, sparse on decorations, patterns, and the like. Everything was furnished in such a way as to draw attention solely to the few stylized posters and photos, like the revealing garments of the mare employees, highlighting their thighs, buttocks, and chest fur.
The theme of kinkiness united the black and white photos. The Softhooves brothels were known for their elegance, beauty, and passion, while the Meadows sold even harsher, animal sex with virtually no restraints, where any fantasy and desire could be realized for the appropriate fee. The pictures showed ponies and griffons of both sexes in various poses with their faces frozen in ecstasy in the context of the most common deviations from which... Softhooves employees turned their noses up at—too much pain, humiliation, and disgusting things, and in addition to the active use of various drugs. Because of that the Meadows sex workers were overwhelmingly slaves: one should be out of their mind to willingly work under such conditions and demands of clients.
Drugs were still more important for the Meadows, because pills, powders, weed and other potent drugs not only provided a wide range of trips into unknown colorful worlds of the subconscious, but also softened the feelings of slaves when clients did whatever they wanted with them. The pleasure of using drugs could not be attractively captured in photos—only dumb facial expressions, open mouths with dripping drool, and tongues hanging out as if after a lobotomy session. Stylized posters were used, where the riot of colors tried to convey the brightness and expressiveness of impressions. It was these posters that Holiday observed on the way.
He stared at the image of a mare—an earth pony—flying surrounded by huge flowers, planets, jewels, and other colorful objects.
No doubt, Holiday thought, standing up at the poster. The Meadows is the masters of such things, but if I try it once... I'll never get off. It's a way to diversify the luxurious life, though it's the easiest. You don't have to try and look for vivid impressions and sensations. The fun powder will do it for you.
Holiday looked at the nearest photo, where a stallion was fucking a mare with his organ and a strap-on, moving synchronously in both of her rear holes, and clamping a leash in his teeth, squeezing her neck. The mare rolled her eyes and opened her mouth for air. Both were clearly taking in something joyful, but the hardest thing to tell in photos like this is who is the client and who is the employee. It wasn't uncommon for clients to ask to be tortured, but the Softhooves didn't want to participate here either for fear of something going wrong. The Meadows had no problem with this. An abundance of medical equipment, drugs, and spells would rescue and cure overplayed clients or sex slaves. Not to mention cleanliness—no diseases, no unwanted pregnancies or other side effects.
The skinny orange stallion decided not to stare because of the risk of blood rush to his lower half and walked on. He knew full well that lust clouded the mind as much as alcohol. He'd come here to play, not to have fun. Though maybe he should distract himself this way. Taste some of this life? Taking drugs is unhealthy and unnatural, whereas the urge for sexual pleasure is inherent in nature.
At the entrance to the main hall he was greeted by several signs with black letters on a white background: 'Sex and drug use in the halls and hallways is FORBIDDEN!', 'All fun happens behind CLOSED DOORS only!', 'If you are suspected of being drugged, you will be KICKED OUT of the casino or forcibly taken to your room, if you have one'.
The most depraved casino, the benchmark of hypocrisy. It is ironic, because this is the essence of the Meadows family: on the outside they are so educated, practical, clean and neat, while behind closed doors there is not only debauchery and indulgence of unchanging animal desires, but also frightening experiments—it is necessary to test new drugs, spells and magical innovations on someone. No one outside of the Meadows elites is aware of their acceptable moral boundaries. They are associated with, but never spoken of loudly, whispering to each other in fear, a certain elusive assassin whose voice no one has heard. He's like a ghost. Silent Ghost.
This family is not to be messed with, Holiday thought, realizing that everything inside him went cold.
He turned away from looking at the signs and walked toward the cashier's office. Nearby were booths with workers issuing rooms, and nearby were catalogs with pictures of sex workers and lists of head-banging drugs with brief descriptions. You can order here or by phone from the room. You can also arrange whole floors for orgies here. Some people make them private, and some let strangers participate for a couple thousand caps. The order, of course, is watched over by a trained staff.
After receiving the chips, Holiday felt the need to dump the liquid. Blissful relief swept over his pelvis, the water in the toilet bowl stopped squelching, and then his ears twitched at the sounds from the next cubicle: rustling, muffled moans, and heavy sighs.
The phrase on the sign immediately popped into the orange stallion's mind: 'All fun happens behind CLOSED DOORS only!'. He quickly pressed the water drain and hurried out of the cubicle so he wouldn't have to think about the lewd sounds.
In the hall, it didn't escape Holiday's attention that some of the players were clearly tipsy or high on something, but they maintained a relatively good appearance and restrained demeanor. They weren't kicked out. The guards here were primarily focused on order, rather than on psychological state of the players.
After sitting at the slot machine and making a reasonable profit, Holiday felt a growing desire to try something like this for himself. He looked at the slaves who followed their masters. Sometimes the players were approached by charming casino workers in provocative outfits.
Need to try something like that too... But in a quieter environment. Someplace else. I don't like it here.
On his way to the cash register, one of the workers came up to him and whispered something in his ear, making him stop. He only saw her through his side vision, unable to turn around.
"Would you like to spend some time with me?" she asked with a huff in a voice filled with sexual energy. His back arched involuntarily, as if a pleasantly cool cream had been spilled on it, as the mare rubbed her rump against his cutie mark.
Blood, as if sensing the bubbling energy in her bouncy buttock, boiled and rushed to his lower abdomen. His entire body from neck to hooves was hidden under his clothes, and a lingering tightness was building in his lower abdomen. While the blood had not yet had time to fully recoil from his brain, he slipped out, walking forward with a quick step.
"No thanks," he muttered slurred, not turning around so her image wouldn't add to his arousal.
After exchanging the chips for a bank check, he promptly left the casino. The blood had returned to his head a little, but the unquenched thirst still refused to leave his body, like a drunk who'd clung to a doorway and been pushed out of a bar. Holiday wanted not just to satisfy it, but to do so to the point of nausea. He set a course for The School. There would be someone to warm up with this winter.
***
The School was a steel grid fenced neighborhood. It had been built around dozens of houses already after the apocalypse during the early rebuilding of Vanhoover. Here special physically healthy slaves gave birth to new slaves, specially trained staff raised them like cattle. They were raised, imposed a worldview of fear of freedom and the importance of serving others, their health was cared for, and they were taught the necessary skills depending on where they would be used—as labor in manufacturing or in private homes. The unwanted foals of careless masters, where they were raised to be slaves, were also brought in, but they were cheaper than those born from specially selected ponies, for obvious reasons—questionable quality goods due to a higher risk of congenital health problems.
Four of Vanhoover's five families contributed to the breeding and training process—the two hundred thousand slaves needed to maintain production and the economy of the entire city—in exchange for discounts when buying in bulk. They were the main customers, needing a labor force that was not particularly educated, but docile and obedient. The Waterfall family was most useful: they supplied scarce electricity, agricultural products, and water supplies. The Meadows were responsible for medical care, the Softhooves and the Stillmane provided household goods and their maintenance. Only the Falcon family was left overboard. Since there was little need for weapons for the guards, they paid full price for the slaves, but also supplied something unique and in high demand. The rest of the expenses, like salaries, were covered by the city's budget, which was replenished by the same Five Families and independent businesses: the Arena, the Radio Station, the Vanhoover Polytechnic Institute, the Kings' businesses, and any other little thing that managed not to fall under the control of a Family.
Holiday entered the spacious school building. He wandered through the corridors, following the signs, and reached one of the classrooms converted for visitors—here everyone was waiting for their turn. Separate halls were set up for representatives of each family for bulk purchases—or private purchases, but you had to be a Soldier-level member of the family, not just working for it like a Lackey.
Masters sat at school desks, leafing through catalogs with pictures of slaves and descriptions of their characteristics. They paid no attention to Holiday. The first thing he did was to take a number at the entrance, noticing a sign on the wall that read, "Don't appear in the office within a minute after the number is announced, you'll miss your turn." Just as he sat down at the desk, a soft voice from the speaker announced, "Number twenty-nine is being served."
Holiday got number forty-two. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a mare of a light orange hue rise from the desk, heading for the next room with a catalog. The others were concentrating their noses into their copies. Holiday joined them.
Color of coat, height, weight, build, sex, race, date of birth, price, and more were listed next to the pictures of the slaves. Almost all appeared to be younger than Holiday. Looking at the dozens of options, he studied the ones that visually appealed to him the most—they were mostly earth ponies like himself. And they were the cheapest: in the neighborhood of four thousand caps. Unicorns were the next most expensive, at six thousand caps. Pegasi cost ten thousand caps, and griffons were fifteen.
Looking at another photo, Holiday remembered that pegasi had not been in the city before, but about thirty years ago Vanhoover's forces had captured a Stable with them. Since then, they had been actively breeding them, trying to meet the demand. Mostly they were bought for personal use; often to produce winged foals. Thirty years later, pegasi are as common in the city as griffons, but are often found as slaves. Their numbers grow with each generation.
The most interesting case is that of the slave griffons. They are a quite proud species, and would not simply allow their kind to be used in the service of some ponies. Replenishment comes at the expense of nestlings from parents willing to pay off debts. The Falcon family themselves can forcibly sell those whose parents have fucked up the family in a special way to The School—this often includes irresponsibility, which is considered a basis for slavery. The adults are made into slaves and used to breed nestlings for their own use or to sell them to The School. A peculiar way to affect the proud griffons.
Holiday had mixed feelings at the sight of a female griffon as a slave. He considered buying one, but didn't have the right amount of caps. Besides, even as slaves, they were difficult to control. Why acquire one? Perhaps he longed for some form of revenge against his former boss and the entire griffon race. To get even.
But there were no such slaves listed in the catalog before Holiday's eyes. He turned his head and whispered to the nearest unicorn of a light blue hue, as if urging her to let him write down the answers to a test.
"Which hall sells pleasure slaves?" he asked. Her ears twitched and she looked at him without any emotion. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed number forty-six on her ticket. She'd gotten here later. Number thirty-five was being served now. "I'll give you my turn."
She smiled faintly and nodded.
Following the directions he received from the unicorn, he made his way to the correct room. It was much more crowded here, and there was a line even at the entrance to the waiting room. Line upon line.
The Softhooves should expand the staff for this, Holiday mentally angered.
He was afraid there might not be any candidates left in the catalogs, but after waiting in line, he took a number and sat down for a catalog. The Softhooves picked out attractive individuals at once, both mares and stallions, to suit every taste. There were as many mare buyers here as there were stallions.
Holiday didn't have to choose for a long time—the catalog was more than half empty. The unicorns were more expensive because they were trained with spells that could enhance the pleasure of the process. Holiday had to be satisfied with earth ponies. His choice was a gray-colored mare with a silver mane. Almost all candidates were seventeen or older—slaves were sold from sixteen, but the Softhooves actually booked them, and they spent one year in training.
As he waited for his turn in the office, the exhilarating feeling never left him: he was taking someone else's life under his own responsibility. A whole new experience. Previously, the others had always been in charge of him. Hurting slaves is considered bad form—but usually not because of sympathy for them, but because of the cost of slaves and the developed ideology of responsibility. Slaves are submissive and work to the best of their ability. If their health suffers for any reason, their master is bad. It's like a car owner who doesn't take care of his property, doesn't take care of it, and doesn't have it inspected. The days of senseless cruelty due to disobedient slaves were over—the brainwashing honed over decades had done its job.
The office welcomed him in. From the catalog they took the file of the slave he had chosen and returned it to the room for the rest of the waiting crowd. They drew up a few documents and asked him to come to another building tomorrow at the appointed time. Everything happened quickly—not even five minutes had passed. No unnecessary conversations. However, the clients themselves like to have a word with them, and Holiday's taciturnity was approved by the local staff.
Toward evening the next day, Holiday met his slave mare. The attractive light gray earth pony—wearing simple warm clothing and a collar—was sitting in one of the halls at one of the school desks. The mare in charge of the transfer took the document from Holiday and handed him the remote control for her electric collar. She had nothing else on her.
It was strange to him to see the enthusiasm in her dark red eyes: she was beaming with excitement, as if she were being led to an amusement park. Her whole worldview was centered around her master: a slave should help with whatever he or she needed, make life easier. In her case, it was also to provide pleasure, so that her master could go about more important and complicated things, doing more good for the city.
That's what they've been led to believe. That's usually how it works—the slaves help with the routine. But masters don't become more responsible or smarter. Often slaves are treated as pets or property, entertainment for the powerful—with varying degrees of sympathy. But slaves were not taught to question. Masters know best.
The skinny stallion felt awkward. He was fully aware of who he was now. He was still a nobody, and he didn't know if he could become someone and build a career in some family.
Holiday stood at the tall steel fence, looking into dark red eyes waiting patiently for instructions. A sparse snow was falling on her face and on her light gray nose. The wavy curls of her gray mane barely reached her shoulders. Her ears remained pointed at him.
But aren't slaves acquired to relieve the cares of everyday life? To make life easier for themselves to do meaningful things? He needs to fulfill his needs. At the moment, it's nauseating to the point of wanting to distract himself, to forget about his former life so he can pick up his mind with renewed energy.
"Let's go to Mane Street. I want to spend tonight at the Luxury Hotel."
"Will I be there with you, master?"
"Yes..."
He liked the way she called him. He felt a surge of self-importance, strength and confidence. At the same time, he couldn't help but wonder at her excitement and anticipation. An eerie thought flashed through his mind for a moment, and he involuntarily cast a long glance at the nearest School building.
How they've been brainwashed... They're either psychology masters or fucking hypnotists. Or maybe both.
On the way to the Luxury, he was going over the possibilities in his head, thinking about the responsibility he'd taken on. He was responsible for literally all of the slave's actions—this was due not so much to ideology, but to the position of the law. All the slave's actions automatically shifted to the master's shoulders in case the latter got it into his head to give instructions that violated the private boundaries of other masters or slaves: stealing, killing, fighting, and so on.
The beige interior of the Luxury was strikingly new and well-maintained. He had only seen something like it at the Crystal Lotus, but that hotel belonged, as far as he knew, to some King. The pictures on the wall told a brief history of the hotel: how the place had been improved over the decades, how cleanliness and order had been maintained. Even middle-income masters can't afford in their homes what the rooms and penthouses here have. This was the place to spend one's days if one wanted to live in luxury and comfort for a while.
He took a room for seven hundred caps, went upstairs to the thirteenth floor.
Holiday stepped into the room, eyeing the cleanliness and neatness of the wooden furniture, the beige walls, the elegant chandelier, the jukebox, the TV with a selection of pre-war movies. The room consisted of three spaces: living room, bedroom, and bathroom with toilet. Behind the glass doors was a balcony. Holiday stepped through and looked out at the view: the snow-covered roofs of countless houses spread out in all directions, the light of street lamps seeping between them. To the right, the sun was sinking over the watery horizon of the Desert Ocean. The sky in that place was mottled with orange colors. Wonderful.
The slave mare stood at the entrance, waiting for his instructions. Holiday kept forgetting that slaves did not make any decisions or take initiative unless it was allowed. Without their master's instructions, they could only follow him, largely because of the collar—if they fell too far behind their master, the collar would send a shock of electricity into their bodies.
"Help me undress," he said, walking over to her. He wanted to dip himself in the hot water. "And then undress yourself. You can help me wash."
"Yes, master."
As she took his coat, he couldn't help but feel the thrill of pleasure that she was following his every instruction without a hitch. Lustful thoughts banged against the walls of his mind more and more persistently, like passengers trapped in a sinking ship screaming, "Let us out!"
He filled the tub with hot water and immersed himself in it. A wave of bliss swept over his entire body; the blood rushed freely through him, reaching every corner. The slave girl appeared almost immediately. She soaped up a sponge and began to rub it on his skinny orange neck, his back, his legs—he lifted them one by one, placing them under her caring hooves. The water splashed and squelched, gently tickling his fur.
Slaves have an extremely low sense of disgust for unpleasant labor. They enjoy their service regardless of what it involves. Instruction from their master for them is accompanied by a burst of positive feelings in the brain.
Holiday loved the way the slave mare carried out his instructions. With every heartbeat a wave of excitement rose through his body, his thoughts filled with only one desire. The feeling of controlling the light gray mare was sweet, a little intoxicating. Now he understood better why so many were drawn to power.
The slave mare certainly saw Holiday's cock sticking out of the water, throbbing. Needless to say, she waited for the order with the burning eyes of a dog that wait for the fetch command while looking at a 'stick'.
"Go," he said, noticing the eagerness in her gaze, which only put heat into his already aroused body.
Without further ado, she put her skills to work. He cum quickly, not thinking to prolong the pleasure. He wanted to get rid of the tension as soon as possible, as if he had sneezed so many times, but had not been able to, and now the dissatisfaction was finally gone.
Next he helped the slave to wash herself as well, studying her body in the process. He hadn't been able to do that in his time: sex at work had happened a couple times, but only because the mares were in heat and were attracted to skinny and helpless ones like him. It happened quickly, in a matter of minutes. And here, the whole body was in his complete control. He couldn't help but seize the opportunity. The process of learning and power over another mare's body aroused him again, and the matter moved to the bedroom. And he indulged in pleasure: it was as if a beast had awakened in him, which could not be satiated until he was physically exhausted. The light gray earth pony didn't have time to show off some of her skills, but she didn't care, because her master was obviously satisfied.
Holiday ordered food for himself and his slave. The robot butler delivered everything on a table with wheels about ten minutes later. The dense dinner ended with a dessert of mint ice cream and a glass of red wine. He laid down on the couch, asking the slave mare to cover him with her body on top of his, they turned on the jukebox with an extensive selection of songs and just lay there.
The orange earth pony, covered like a blanket by the light gray mare whose curls tickled his fur, inhaled deeply, as if trying to savor these moments.
They took another bath, after which he let her drift off to sleep and went outside, exposing his naked fur to the cold wind. His whole body felt invigorated, steamed, breathing freely.
A glorious life. No wonder why everyone wants it, even if it's boring. It wouldn't be long before I was sick of it.
He crawled under the blanket with his slave and fell into a deep sleep.
***
The first thing Holiday felt was his inability to turn around properly—his whole body felt stiff and uncomfortable—but it quickly faded into the background. His sleepy eyes stared up at the ceiling, illuminated by the light of the early winter morning. He saw an elegant gilded pendant chandelier. A living room chandelier, not a bedroom chandelier.
He tried to open his mouth in confusion, but immediately found he couldn't move his lips. Panic rushed through his body with a deafening force, triggering every cell: he gathered himself to peel off the bandages that covered his mouth, but all his four legs wouldn't move—they too were restrained. He was completely naked, so the part of his consciousness not yet drowned in terror felt the ropes. He could turn his head slightly to the sides, but with effort, as his forehead and neck were also restrained by the ropes.
Turning his head to the left, by a dresser with a painting of a wooded snowy landscape, he saw a dark figure that looked like a pony. So dark, it was as if the morning light that struggled to break through the clouds refused to deal with it in any way. The figure, thick and indistinct, was losing clarity like a shaky movie film image. Total darkness—except for something white around the face.
The figure moved closer, as if waiting for the awakening and his reaction. Panic was joined by an animal horror at the unnaturalness of what he saw: he heard no sound of walking, no rustle of dark clothes, no breathing, as if some cloud or smoke were levitating over the red carpet, mimicking the movement of legs.
As the figure approached, Holiday's gut grew monstrously cold. His emotionally turbulent mind and breath fell silent in horror; with his heart beating loudly in his chest, he stared at the white face leaning toward him. Dark ears could be seen at its sides, and its head was covered by something black. The white mask lacked the outline of a mouth, and the dark abyss in the eyes merged with the eye sockets, as if they were portals through which horrors would pour out, engulfing everything around them, and reality trembled silently at the presence of a powerful otherworldly spirit, leaving no attempt to hold back the darkness that lurked in it.
This is all a horrible dream! No, it's not real. It makes no sound, it can't be real! It's not real!
Holiday's instincts kicked in, his brain sending commands to different parts of his body: he twitched, he mumbled, his eyes filled with tears, his bladder weakened. Separate signals conveyed to his overloaded subconscious that heat had formed between his hind legs. The figure, made even less distinct by the tears, did not recoil or move, exuding an aura of utter indifference. No deal: it would ignore him, like a black-robed executioner raising a broad axe blade into the air.
The pulsing figure disappeared from sight, and he felt himself being pushed toward the balcony. There was a quiet scraping of something on the floor—he was lying bound on a table on wheels. Under the pressure, the balcony doors swung outward, and the earth pony's naked, skinny body was blasted with the morning winter air. The tabletop is higher than the stone fence. Just enough of a push to send him flying downward.
A wave of terror rose inside Holiday with renewed vigor, hot tears running down the fur on his cheeks. The figure appeared silently in sight again. His thoughts were scattered—impossible to think about anything for even a second. His mind was torn into two camps: one that didn't believe what was happening, and the other that believed it and was trying to cling to any possibility of making it stop.
Some of the ropes loosened. He felt the opportunity to wriggle like a worm in hot sand, but it was as if the unknown masked pony had expected his victim to move. It was already at his side, standing on its hind legs, and swung its front leg without a sound: Holiday's weeping brown eyes did not catch the movement, but his whole chest and stomach exploded with a piercing pain of such intensity that he had no time to realize it and cry out, and a moment later it was gone, leaving a cold void. His body relaxed and collapsed like a punctured tire, and his brain gradually became quiet and calm, losing interest in what was happening. The cloud-covered gray sky darkened rapidly.
Not a second later, a wooden sign was thrown over Holiday's body, cut from neck to lower abdomen, and he was pushed down from the table. His fading consciousness was not concerned with the sensation of falling, but at the last moment before he was about to fall into eternal darkness, he felt his body come to an abrupt halt as the long rope around his neck tightened and his insides spilled out.
There was hardly anyone outside the Luxury Hotel at this hour. A couple of mares came out the front door to walk down Vanhoover's still relatively quiet main street when something fell from above with a wet smack. One mare flashed the thought that some dishonest guest had tossed the leftover food outside for fun. The other froze in surprise at what had fallen nearby and squealed, attracting the entire neighborhood. The whispering and clamor of passersby approaching the hotel increased.
On the sidewalk, on the stomped white snow, as if on a clean platter, lay someone's bloody internal organs: intestines, liver, spleen, kidneys... the whole set. Hot steam emanated from them, melting in the frosty air. Dark red blood continued to drip from above, soaking into the snow. The lively whispering intensified as passersby looked up, and someone squealed even louder: a body with a slit chest and belly swayed slightly on a rope, a wooden sign with large letters around its neck reading, "Cheater".
Within minutes, the whole neighborhood knew what had happened, and in the room where the crime had occurred, a white unicorn in an elegant dark suit appeared in a flash of blue light. His well-groomed golden mane rippled as he looked around sharply and warily, concentrating on his senses, trying to catch any sign of magic, but he saw only a faint source of magical energy.
He headed for the balcony. A shifting couch, with a tight rope tied to its leg, stood in the glass doorway, open to the outside. It stretched to the balcony, passed over the table on wheels and was lost behind the railing. The white unicorn jumped over the couch and looked down at the growing crowd of gawkers and the gutted corpse.
The couch could not support the weight of the victim and slid toward the balcony.
The unicorn returned to the room and his blue eyes flashed with anger.
Again... And again it fled.
The doorknob from the bedroom turned, but the door itself did not open, a chair propped up against it. Prince pushed back the furniture and telekinesis opened the door on himself. The confusion on the face of the gray earth pony with the electric collar was replaced by awe: Prince of Vanhoover himself stood before her! The pony immediately lowered her head. If there was anyone that slaves could obey besides their master, it was him. She answered the questions, but there was nothing of substance in her words. As Prince had guessed, she was sound asleep, and the Silent Ghost's actions remained silent and unnoticed until the moment of hanging.
The lock on the door of the suite had been picked. In the hallway, Prince saw the hotel employees approaching him. Their questioning was to no avail; the robots also noticed no suspicious activity, and the residents heard and saw nothing. The police, who arrived shortly afterward, began a search of the room, describing the circumstances of what had happened. Prince only added that he had moved the chair away from the door behind which the slave had been locked.
The white unicorn, along with the others, examined the documents and the few belongings of the victim, among which was an unusual silver chip. Only after touching it with his telekinesis, he finally realized where the strange magical 'buzzing' was coming from.
It seemed to be the reason for the showy murder. Undoubtedly, the clients wanted the whole city to know about it.
Prince took the chip for himself.
***
On one of Vanhoover's many radios turned on, Oscar's all-too-familiar buddy voice emerged after the end of the quiet morning tune.
"I suspect you've been waiting for this morning's newscast. In half an hour, the rumors have already spread all over the city. You bet: that's the point of a show murder. I've been forbidden to disclose the name of the victim and possible killer. I can only speak about the motives. They're quite... telling. A young stallion was brutally murdered and hanged with a sign on which was written a single word: cheater. Based on a brief biography, the victim was a regular casino player. Wasn't from a wealthy background. What am I thinking? Given the social status, the casino, the cheater sign, the expensive hotel room. someone at the casino suspected him of cheating."
DJ Oscor's speech was interrupted by an ironic chuckle.
"Cheating the casino..." he repeated thoughtfully. "Yeah, right. I don't know what the victim was thinking: gambled, lost caution because of the riches he received, was too dreamy or careless. It's up to you. Don't get me wrong, I'm not condoning murder. I hope the guilty party is found, although the victim has probably been to all the casinos. I'm just saying that we are always responsible for our actions, and punishment may come not only from the law enforcement agencies. Stay aware."
Author's Note
This is where Holiday's short life ends. Also, this is my first completed fanfic of more than one chapter. Yay. The idea for this story started back in the winter of 2020, and it started... with the ending. It was going to end as described here -- hanging with a gutted belly and Silent Ghost's involvement. In the Discord channel (https://discord.gg/2bNyPEpW8h ), perhaps I'll share more about how I worked on the story and why I got to its realization as much as four years later. Oh, I almost forgot. The hanging moment is a scene from one movie from the '00s. Can you guess what movie?)
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