The Blank Pony

The air was unseasonably cold—although Blank would have had no impression of this, or even the faintest of inklings. Her body was degrading to the point where maintaining sensation was becoming less and less viable—and of course she had no sense of what the proper climate was meant to be on this long-abandoned colony world.

She struck the ground, her mechanical wings losing mass and evaporating into yellow-orange smoke as she folded them back to where they should have been. Her energy was running low. She wondered if there was a way to refill it without a total reconstruction.

She looked around.

“Observing that the fog-horse has been lost,” she mused, to herself, feeling as though that was somewhat unfortunate—until a sudden burst of magic flashed beside her. “GAH! Surprised!”

“Sorry!” gasped Misty, taking a step back. “Still learning to aim! It’s actually really good I didn’t end up inside you, we probably would have...” She frowned. “Yeah, better not to think about that. You’re right.”

Blank coughed and fell to her knees.

“My cardiac organs,” she gasped, putting a pale hoof to her neck—then her chest and, as her eyes widened. “Halt auxiliary process...where is it?!”

Blank forced herself to stand. “Hypothesizing that functionality must have been lost. This form is collapsing at a higher progressive than anticipated. We must hurry, Fog-Horse.”

“If you’re sick—”

“Not ‘sick’. Expiring. Failed body. Yes? No?” She looked around. “Fog. Is this land owned by you?”

“No. Not that I know of, anyway.” Misty pointed. “Maretime Bay is that way.”

Blank nodded—and her body illuminated with plates of metal, forming her an extensive set of armor. A separate set of parts floated, then assembled suddenly into a weapon.

“Then, onward!”

She began to run.

“WAIT!”

Blank stopped. “Why?”

“You can’t go into town dressed like that!”

Blank believed this was an absurd assertion. “Inquiry: what if it bites?”

Misty groaned. Internally, her near-constant anxiety was beginning to tug deep in her mind. For the simple fact that she, and her alone, was caught in an unfortunate position: Blank was probably—but not necessary—loyal to Opaline. Meaning that she might well betray Misty’s secret double life of affection and friendship to her evil adopted pseudo-mother. In an ideal world, she would have been able to keep Blank back at the castle—but she doubted that anyone in town would be able to handle whatever was lurking there on their own otherwise. Meaning she was forced to walk a narrow and dangerous path, metaphorically and possibly literally.

Blank stopped. She seemed to stare at nothing, for a moment. As if thinking.

“Fog-Horse,” she said, at at last. “Admission: I am afraid. So very afraid.”

This sentiment was so unexpected that it left Misty initially unable to respond.

“You...are?”

Blank looked back at her, her head turning slowly to reveal a set of empty eyes on the verge of tears. “Acknowledging the sentiment is inappropriate. Identifying a lack of extant resources to maintain. I was lost on impact. But...still, the sentiment persists. Determinant cause is myself. Remediation indeterminate. I...am so afraid.”

Misty sighed. She had made her decision.

“Blank,” she said. “You can’t tell Opaline this, okay?”

“This what?”

“I have friends here. In Maretime Bay.”

“Contacts?”

Misty shook her head. “You said ponies where you’re from value friendship, right?”

“Such is the paramount of civilization.” Blank paused, the tears welling in her eyes. “Realization: I cannot recall my friends. They are gone from me. Forever. I am...so alone.”

“Not all of them,” protested Misty. “You still have me.”

“You?”

Misty nodded. “And there’s lots of ponies that can help you.”

Blank stared at her, then nodded, and wiped away her tears. “Acknowledging communication with gratitude.”

“Opaline is...mean. She’s not a good friend. Not to me, or you, or anypony. And she’s not very popular in the town. So...”

“Acknowledging comprehension. The goals of the Tall-Horse represent mutually beneficial concurrence but do not extend. Expounding desire to...I want to...help. Ponies here.” She paused. “Corollary requirement stated...negate. But we need her help.”

Misty nodded. “I know.”

Hitch led the way through the fog at a trot. His heart was racing, both from the exertion of running but also the fear. The fog was growing thicker, and it had started to drizzle. His hooves splashed on the ground and in the mud as he ran, the others behind him—and he was afraid. Afraid that at any moment, he would see it emerge from the fog. Or rather, that he would not see it. Not at first. Its shape so alien and strange that he would not recognize it until he nearly bumped into it. Until he once again touched that cold, strange flesh, like he had on the beach. And then it would take him—and the front of their formation would be left open.

Despite this fear, he was compelled to go first—to lead the way and to protect his friends. He was the sheriff, after all, and even though he was afraid that role required bravery. Zipp, being the most agile and fastest of the group, had been placed in the rear to guard from behind and to prevent her from sprinting ahead. Pipp was above, never straying far from Izzy, who had only partially recovered from the earlier attack. The directed light of her horn was capable of lighting the way, but it did not penetrate too far through the fog—and the beam would sometimes nervously jerk around, facing trees or mailboxes or the occasional passing pony.

The fog was weirdly silent. Hitch could hear his hooves in the mud, hear the sound of his breathing, of Izzy’s occasional squeaks at the odd tree branch or street sigh—but there were no animals. No bird songs, no muttering of winged rats or bunnicorns, no sound at all. Only the distant roar of the choppy ocean.

Then he saw it. The beam of the Brighthouse, extending upward through the fog, casting its multicolored luminescent glow.

“Come on!” he called back. “We’re almost there!”

“Hitch,” wheezed Izzy. “My cardio is turning into a cardi-no, and I’m getting queasy...and not in the good way.”

“We’re almost there,” said Pipp, descending slightly.

“The Brighthouse has a protective shield dome,” added Zipp, tightening the formation. “We’ll be safe there!”

They climbed the hill toward their shared space, passing the community garden that Sunny had spent so much effort building. It looked amazing, even in the rain—rain that would no doubt be good for the vegetables as they made their final push toward the fall harvest. A few were even flowering, the yellows and reds of their blooms oddly washed out in the dim gray light of the overcast day.

Izzy’s beam cut through the fog, and Hitch cried out when it landed on a pony. The surprise quickly receded, though, when he recognized a familiar red coat.

“Sprout!” he called, almost shouting at the stallion standing amongst the blossoming melon plants. Sprout stared back, his eyes wide and an unnerving smile plastered on his face. “You need to go home, right now! We have an evolving situation!”

Sprout did not move, apart from his neck slowly turning as he watched the ponies go—still smiling, his facial expression unchanging. Hitch was forced to dismiss it, to let him go back to growing his melons. He did not have time to argue, and it was already apparent that whatever was chasing them was not interested in most ponies. Sprout would be fine and, if not, he was quite adept at fleeing.

The four of them burst through the door, Zipp immediately rushing to lock it and bar it—although in theory the magic of the Brighthouse should have made it almost totally impenetrable to any manner of evil forces. Supposedly, at least.

“We made it,” groaned Pipp, collapsing onto the floor in exhaustion. “Oh wow that was intense. Is it wrong I’m kind of exhilarated?"

“I’m actually feeling a little better, too,” said Izzy, bouncing slightly to test out her hooves. “I never liked fog, it’s super spooky. But Misty’s probably enjoying it. She’s named after it, after all. I'm pretty sure she owns it.” She looked around. “Why is is it dark in here?”

Hitch and Zipp both turned and found that there was an almost total lack of light in the Brighthouse—a highly unsettling and highly ironic state.

Out of the darkness, something leaped forward and grabbed Hitch. He momentarily screamed like a little filly—only to realize that it was not, in fact, a tiny monster but, in fact, a tiny dragon.

“Sparky!” he said, hugging the dragon. “You’re safe! I was so worried!”

The small dragon began to babble incoherently and pointed into the darkness. Zipp, seeing this, landed and reached for the lightswitch.

When she flipped it and the main room of the Brighthouse became illuminated, it became apparent what Sparky was so concerned with. The other ponies stared in silence.

The furniture had been moved and separated—and something had been put in its place. A combination of spare electronics, wire, cables, and fragments of appliances. All of it had been assembled over a mark on the floor, a vast star drawn in various dark shades of ink and annotated with unintelligible symbols. At the center, standing on a podium and linked to all the scavenged wire that Sunny could have acquired, sat the black skull—and around it, every television she could get had been pulled forward. They were displaying rapidly shifting yellow text and complicated symbols based on circles and stars, barely perceptible against the black glass of the aging cathode-ray tubes. They changed and jittered, jumping and occasionally reverting to static—and where sometimes punctuated by strange, low sounds or something almost like distant screaming.

Sunny stood in the center of it all, staring at them. She had not moved since they had come in, and she had not seemed to have noticed them at all.

“S...sunny?” asked Zipp, approaching slowly.

Sunny turned slowly and, for a moment, the pupils of her eyes seemed to glow with a strange blue light—but then she blinked, and it was gone. “Zipp? Oh. You’re back. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“We did,” said Pipp, “and it was super scary, but...um...”

“What?”

The ponies all gestured toward the machine. Sunny, who seemed somewhat dazed, looked toward it.

“Oh,” she said, seeming surprised. “Oh wow, I guess I’ve been busy. Kind of lost track of time.” She shook her head. “Sorry, Izzy, I borrowed some of your tools without asking. I tried to call, but service has been spotty recently.”

Zipp approached the machines, examining them carefully. “What is all this? These aren’t the scanning tools I was using.”

“No. I mean, I don’t think they are.”

“You don’t know what this is? Even though you built it?”

Sunny shrugged. “I woke up from a nap feeling really refreshed so I thought I’d work on this while you were out.” She tapped the skull directly on it’s forehead. “I figured out that this isn’t a statue. Not in a decorative sense, anyway. It’s some sort of record. Like...a really freaky memory card.”

“Memory?” Zipp looked up to the screens. “A record? A record of what?”

“No idea,” said Sunny. “I mean, I think I figured out that it can be connected to machines, but I have no idea what any of that means.”

“And the um...floor?” asked Pipp.

Sunny looked down and frowned. “Dang it, I’m going to be mopping forever. But yeah, I think that’s it’s language, maybe? No idea where it came from, but it looks nice, doesn't it?”

Izzy approached her. “Sunny,” she said, “you know I love you. Like a sister, but, like, the attractive kind. And I’m usually cheerful and all, but I have had such a day and I am not in the mood for this right now. I’m not okay. Are you?”

Sunny blinked. “I’m sorry, Izzy, I had no idea. I’m absolutely fine. I feel great, even. Hey, come on,” she said, trotting toward the kitchen. “Let’s get you dried off and get some muffins into you. Then we can talk it out and discuss solutions, or not on that last part if you just want to vent. The rest of you too, you’re all wet. Praise be unto the One True Princess.”

“Um...what?”

“I said you’re all wet.”

“No,” said Pipp. “The um...other part?”

Sunny paused. “The muffins! Sure. I think I have some leftover raspbmatoes. Would that be a sweet muffin or a savory one?” She paused, then laughed to herself. “Why not both?”

The other ponies looked at each other—and then at the skull. None of them liked it, so they ignored it. They followed Sunny to the kitchen.