Drill Bit stood dumbfounded, his mouth agape and the weight of his mind dragging him down.

The owl had perched itself on the edge of the rooftop and was glancing all around, its features obscured by the bright light of the moon, illuminating not just the city streets but also the white specks of snow falling from the sky, further blurring his view.

But it was there, right in front of him on a perch held high for all to see.

“It’s the evening though!” Drill tried to reason with himself. “Maybe I have nothing to worry about? It was during the day that it was bad luck, right? It’s not like a black cat...Right?”

As much as he tried to assure himself, one wouldn’t have to look very hard to see the apprehension in his posture. Still as a statue, unsure what to do, what does one do when you're being haunted by supernatural forces?

Call animal control?

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the street, briefly forcing Drill to shield his eyes from the oncoming snow. When he turned back to view the owl he found it was no longer there.

It was also then that he’d found the street…oddly quiet.

There wasn’t a soul in sight, such a thing was a rarity within the city given how condensed everything was. But here he was, standing in the middle of an empty road as a cloud blurred the moon’s light.

Slowly, he made his way towards the front entrance and entered the building, navigating through tight hallways and past dozens of other doors.

Every step he could hear his own breaths, louder than any boiler or restless child in the building. His heart thumping in his chest as if the organ was where his brain should’ve been, and each step felt heavy and drawn out.

“It’ll be fine, I’ll just go to bed and deal with whatever fate has for me in the morning. And hopefully, something worse doesn’t happen in the meantime.”

He sluggishly reached his apartment and fumbled around with the keys before unlocking the door.

But when it did open his jaw, for the second time that night, felt fit to crash into the ground just like his keys, as standing there inside his room waiting for him was a pony in a red and black uniform smugly staring at him.

It was everything he feared and worse, he thought it wouldn’t happen or at least take longer, yet he now stood paralysed with fear as the guard took a step towards him.

“Drill Bit?” He asked, as then two more guards walked out a pair of nearby doors flanking him, blocking off the hallways and with it, any chance of escape.

“We’d like you to come with us.”

This is not how Drill imagined spending the night.

First he’d been talked down to by the colt he’d saved, then when he tried making things better he’d been arrested. Now he was approaching one of the most infamous buildings in the entire city.

Before him stood a monolithic, towering structure on the very edge of town. Easily the single biggest in the city that wasn’t the Generator, with exterior walls several times his height lined with barbed wire and watched over by guard towers.

Speaking of which, the guards had confiscated the petition as evidence, likely to be turned into kinderling after they were done with him. There was no trial or judge, they’d just taken him from his apartment and off the prison he went, with little more than the clothes on his back.

It’s funny, only a few days ago he hadn’t minded any of this, paid no mind to the patrols or the prison. A necessary evil in the face of destruction.

Now he was scared, scared of what awaited him inside that awful place, scared of who else they’d thrown in there and scared of what they’d do to him.

But most of all, scared of the ghosts that would come back to haunt him.

Surely they’d take pity on him, right? A forty two year old that was only trying to do the right thing.

It seemed only time would tell. Sweet Celestia how he missed the times when a pony could say whatever and the worst they get is a light scolding.

He was led through the gates under watch and stripped of his clothing, forced to face the bitter cold with only a coat of fur. After that it was off to the cells, thankfully the guards weren’t pushy with him, if anything they seemed as bothered by it as him.

Having to lockup an aging stallion for such obscene reasons would’ve annoyed anypony.

The main cell block was a huge square room lined wall to wall with cells, each one having solid walls and a steel door with the only window anywhere being a thin letterbox like cutout in the door. In the middle of the atrium was a tower that led to a circular room with several one-way windows, with sight of the whole area, a panopticon.

He turned to his escort with weary eyes. “How long will I be here?”

“Three days, two if you're lucky.” He responded, almost robotically.

“And my job? I was a forepony.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll probably get it back.”

Drill looked to him with concern. “Probably?”

The guard turned to him, looking equally as tired with bags under his eyes. “As I said, if you're lucky. Now please, no more questions.”

Drill grimaced, subtle panic sinking into his mind at the thought. “If I get replaced, will they treat the kids kindly? Oh buck…”

They soon arrived at his cell and with his head hung low, Drill entered.

It consisted of very little, there wasn’t a heater to keep him warm, the bed was just a wooden plank with a thin sheet strewn on held up by chains, the lightbulb above him was off leading to it being near pitch black, a bucket for…disposal and instead of a window to the outside world, a hoof drawn poster with a crude imitation of a sunny day outside had been put up.

“Seriously?”

“Hey look on the bright side, at least it’s clean.” The guard gestured towards the corner where the bucket lay, prompting a shudder from Drill Bit as the door was shut.

He paced around his cell, unable to see much bar what little light came through the letterbox in his door. Already he could feel the ambient cold creep into him as the unprotected concrete walls did little to insulate the room. In place of artificial warmth however, another fire began to burn, stoked by a singular thought.

“This isn’t right, how the BUCK did Iron’s get away with that law?”

It was small for now, but it was enough to take his mind off the creeping chill around him.

In the end he climbed up onto this poor excuse for a bed and laid down, unable to rest his head properly without a pillow, tossing his head from side to side in frustration.

It would take a while before his body finally gave in and allowed him to sleep, how much he wasn’t sure. But one thing was for certain: He’d never take his bed for granted again.

Drill Bit awoke to the sound of the morning foghorn and when he did it was with a shudder as his body began shaking violently, the cold had crept in during the night and his teeth chittered so much they could’ve cracked. He got up and nearly fell from his “bed,” exchanging the lukewarm plank for the bitter cold of the stone ground but just about caught himself, yet he still struggled to even stand.

“Get…Moving…need to…warm up.”

Drill paced around his room as best he could, his stiff joints and tired mind impeding his speed but eventually he got a decent pace going.

After around ten minutes the chitters and shakes lessened, no longer so powerful they threatened to throw him to the ground.

It was then he heard several loud bangs against his door, and below a hatch large enough for a cat, opened. A half empty bowl of thin, watery soup then slid inside on a tray. More likely meant for raising his body temperature then providing nutrition, but given his state Drill raised no objection.

Slowly, he knelt down, choosing to try slurping it up with his mouth instead of risking it with his shaky hooves, that and the last thing he wanted was to touch more of the cold ground. Also in the event it tasted awful, at least he could spit it out quickly.

Almost immediately, the near boiling hot bowl burned his mouth and throat worse than any cup of liquor, and a sudden gag saw him spit out his first mouthful coughing. After a moment to calm down he realised that was probably half of what little the bowl offered and he fought back a curse.

“This is obscene, I shouldn’t be here!”

Trying again, he tested it slowly and consumed its contents without further issue…outside of the less than stellar taste.

Still, it was barely enough to keep him satiated and as he continued pacing through his cell, he found the familiar pain of hunger set in. It was nothing he couldn’t deal with, but it compounded the other issues he was facing, and it would only get worse.

The first day saw Drill get introduced to his new routine, or lack thereof.

He spent most of his time inside his cell, absentmindedly thinking whilst trying to fight the cold and his boredom.

Who’s idea was it to place the captain of a company of guards in charge of the city? He was a leader of soldiers, not citizens. Wasn’t some noble or town mayor meant to succeed the administrator after the thing was built? Then again he wasn’t knowledgeable of the bigger picture, he’d only realised the Generator’s true purpose when the Great Storm came, much like everypony else.

He couldn’t argue the captain’s worth though, without him they would’ve all been put in collar and chain by the Diamond Dogs.

Doubly so for the Kirins that made it.

Still, covertly clamping down on freedom of speech like this? He understood times were tough and sacrifices had to be made, but by harmony they were still ponies weren’t they?

What happened to the Unity and Compassion that had helped form this nation many centuries ago?

This thought caused a quiet, boiling anger to slowly build within him, not the kind he’d have an outburst over but that of resentment.

He’d have to keep it to himself, he was smarter than to express himself here of all places, and so seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours as Drill circled his cell, occasionally taking breaks to rest his aching legs. When he heard another trio of knocks it nearly made him jump, when the door opened and he saw a pair of blank faced guards outside with one of them holding cuffs.

“Drill Bit? We need you to come with us.”

The stallion stared at them for several seconds, apprehensive at first but sensing little option he complied. Still chittering and shaking as they cuffed his front hooves.

He was led through the prison once more and saw very few other prisoners. One bound up pegasus here, a unicorn there, but it was nothing like the sprawling crowds of the streets.

Maybe everypony was still in their cells? Hopefully they were empty, it would’ve been nice to know New Canterlot didn’t have many criminals roaming its streets.

But he wasn’t a criminal, if anything he was an activist. That left him wondering how many of these ponies had gotten thrown in here for similar reasons?

It was a train of thought he put the brakes on as the guards passed through door after door and soon reached a secluded hallway, which led up to a single, ominous steel door.

“What is this place? What’s gonna happen to me?” He asked, dreading a number of possible answers.

Sadly, the guards didn’t reply, instead turning away refusing to make eye contact.

That alone set Drill on edge as they sped towards the door, and dread began building as one of the guards reached for the handle.

He briefly glanced at Drill Bit and spoke in a low, regretful tone. “Sorry about this…”

The guard’s words weren't lost on Drill as he turned to meet him, and he realised what he thought was the case when he arrived, they were taking pity on him.

With a horrible metal creak the door opened and he was presented with a ghastly sight. Inside, the room had dark stains across its walls with racks of different tools and a generous amount of rope. Chains hung from the ceiling and the putrid smell of blood wafted into his nose.

But most menacing of all was the pony inside, covered head to hoof in black and red garbs that hid his face and mane. To his side was a large studded baton with what looked like a Tesla battery below its pomel, indicative of the shocking treatment Drill was in for.

It was a torture chamber.

By Celestia, it was a torture chamber…

“P-please, you don’t have to do this…” Drill pleaded.

The garbed pony looked to him, it was difficult to see his eyes from under his cowl, but they were visible. Both guards behind him then pushed him inside and towards one of the ceiling chains, a magical aura enveloping a pile of rope from the racks.

“I’m afraid I do, you need to learn what awaits you should you think of returning here. Hopefully for your sake this is a lesson that won’t need to be repeated.”

Drill had both his front hooves tied up to the chain and with a yank from one of the guards, he was hoisted up into the air. He peered through between his front legs to view the torturer who twisted several dials on his baton.

“I already know enough, what happened to keeping things simple? This, this is overkill!”

The torturer approached with slow, heavy steps, each echoing through the room. “I’m sorry, but punishments need to mean something, we can’t lock up ponies for years and years anymore. It doesn’t accomplish anything.”

“Isn’t want you’re doing punishment enough?!” Drill spat, taking the torturer by surprise. “I’m freezing, I’m starving, there are ponies who might not know where I’ve gone and just a few days ago, I had to amputate a child’s wing to prevent him being eaten by a machine! And now I’m being beaten for trying to do what’s right?”

Drill’s voice practically echoed through the room, actually causing the guards to take a step back.

“I can understand punishment but this? This is barbaric!” He roared, the prior anger bellowing out into the room.

Everypony paused what they were doing, the guards held him in place as the ropes grinded against his fur and the torturer stared at him, baton in hoof.

A long moment of silence passed as the garbed pony hesitated, Drill staring at him in anger and trepidation.

“You know what?” He finally spoke, “It is, corporal? Take him back to his cell, I think he gets the message.”

An audible sigh of relief escaped Drill’s lungs as the guards let him down and unbound his hooves. They quickly righted him and moved to escort him out, but just before he left, he turned to the garbed pony watching him leave.

“Thank you.”

The torturer simply nodded as the door closed.

The rest of the day was rather uneventful, but given what constituted as an event within the prison, Drill was thankful for the quiet. That being said, being alone in his cell did get boring after a while, he could only walk so many circles before he ran out of other things to think about.

Things besides…that.

He didn’t want to think about that, those things he’d done.

They were in the past, and should stay in the past.

Occasionally he’d try peeking through the letterbox window in his door but the view provided very little, he could see the guard rail outside his cell and the base of the tower, and if he looked hard enough the doors to a couple of cells behind it, but little else.

Soon he was served another quarter ration and took care not to spill anything, it wasn’t nearly enough to quell his hunger or fight the cold, but it kept him alive.

The only indicators of time were the morning and evening foghorns from outside, followed by the muffled words of the announcer, likewise he only knew it was time for bed when the interior lights dimmed.

Getting to sleep was hard, worse than the night prior as then he at least had some excess body heat to work with. But like it would with all things, his stubborn body would eventually find rest…

Drill awoke with yet another shudder, the horrible cold worming its way through his body threatening to freeze his core. Biting his lip he forced himself upright and began pacing his room, he didn’t know how long he’d slept but it couldn’t have been any more than an hour or two.

Sleep had become the enemy, rest had become the enemy. No longer would his body accept such delightful unconsciousness when the threat to his life was so great.

And so with the adrenaline to match, he kept going, and going, and going until he felt ready to lay down, if only to perform the ritual all over again…

For two more days he starved, deprived of sleep, sustenance and sufficient warmth, all the while haunted by screams both young and old.

Irony was now he almost wanted to endure the torture he’d escaped. Least that would’ve been a new sensation as opposed to the crippling boredom and exhaustion that continued to eat away at him.

Was the cold within the room really that bad? Eventually he couldn’t feel his hooves though that could’ve been from just how much walking he’d done. Maybe the temperature had been fine tuned and it wouldn’t kill him?

He didn’t want to find out.

Either way the stallion pushed on with dogged determination, caught in this twilight between wakefulness and rest, with enough energy to move his body but not enough to focus on anything more then simple tasks. Honestly his body was basically on autopilot at this point, moving more due to muscle memory than anything.

He might’ve been spared direct torture, but his torment was great enough.

At last on the third day he collapsed into a heap on the ground, his body and mind revolting against him. The cold was brutally efficient at taking away more than he could recover and his stomach twisted into an unbearable knot.

“This is it,” he thought, “End of the line, all because of some stupid, bucking law…”

The world began to grow dark as exhaustion caught up with him all at once, unable to force himself to move, like his hooves had become solid chunks of metal. Only his breathing was audible as the curtains closed around his eyes.

Perhaps now, he could finally rest?

Author's Note

Without the resources to support lengthy prison sentences, the penal system of New Canterlot focuses much more on punishment over reform and makes the knowledge of such punishments public, to help dissuade anycreature from mischief.