Lucky

by your_waifu

Rating: mature
Tags: Gore, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Adventure, Dark, Alternate Universe
Length: 11048

In an alternate universe something has gone wrong. At the very center of the story is the pony Clover "Lucky" Fields. Assassin, hired gun, and bastard. From the slums of Manehatton to the haunted corners of Ponyville - and everywhere in between - Clover leaves a trail of blood, bits, and gunpowder on his quest to understand who he really is and what happened to the world.

Published 2011-08-20 08:54:31 UTC
Last updated 2011-08-20 10:06:29 UTC

Lucky - Act I Prologue + Chapter 1.1 and 1.2

ACT I – Something Is Magic

Prologue

The story is over. My luck has run out. I’m about to die. I have a great view of the pristine forests and lakes and mountains of Equysium and for once in my life I find it a little nice to look at. The sun is disappearing behind the horizon, painting the sky warm shades. It’s acting on its own, unaffected by terrestrial beings. I’m dying, and I think it’s about time. I’m a tired old bastard.

Both princesses’ are dead, turned to dust by age, and for now the monsters have left our sad existence. For the first time we have no leash to the cosmos.

This is a better place to die than a gutter in Manehatton.

But, ‘estia damn it, I could really use a drink.

The others have left. Left to mourn their dead, to institutionalize their insane. Left to calm the chaos in Equestria and spread the word of the new rules. I’m not sad to see them go. They remind me of what I’m not. They had every right to despise me and they did. But they also forgave me. They left me to die in peace.

Friendship is magic.

But it wasn’t always this way.

I could kill myself. Shoot myself in the head. My gun is right beside me, tossed there by the stallion whose family I slaughtered. But I want the disease tearing through my blood to finish me off. I don’t want it to escape.

I would have liked to apologize to my mother. Tell her I’m sorry for blaming her. Tell her I’m sorry for killing her. But I know what’s beyond here. I’ve been there. And it is not for us.

Black blood begins dripping from my eyes. My vision starts to darken.

Chapter I – “Friendship is Magic?”

1.1

I wake up half way through the story, my head pounding and the room spinning. Through the open window I hear a pegasus fly past my apartment, their velocity shaking the window frame. The late day sun spills color into my bedroom, the light shredded by the blinds, casting strips of stale yellow across my bed. I swear at the princess for the interruption. Even in the wake of an alcoholic haze, I can smell the city. Manure and sweat and copper. The story of the Horseshoe, Manehatton’s outer ring of despondency and depravity.

It had been a bad night. After days without a contract the faces returned. Without the rush that came with using my talent my mind is left open to remember everything and the ghosts break through and haunt. It’s not guilt or regret bringing them back but something outside my own emotions. Like looking into glass and seeing the reflection of another behind you. At some point the only thing I can do is run away with a bottle and hope I get called soon. Or use my talent for free. I don’t do that. Usually.

With a small bit of effort my cautious mind cuts through the confusion. I dig my hoof under my pillow and sigh in relief at what I find. My Sleipnir 10mm is where is should be. I’m glad I’m not unprofessional enough to pass out unarmed. I pick it up; feeling the invisible tension as it magically connects to my hoof. It always feels like a small vacuum pulling at the muscles at the end of my leg. An electric charge swarming around my hoof. A beam of light catches the barrel, but it doesn’t do much to make the grey weapon any brighter. I release the magazine. Eight rounds. I placed the magazine on the bed beside me and pull back the slide. It’s empty. There is no gunpowder residue, no smell. It hasn’t been fired. I never loaded the chamber. Stupid. I slide the magazine back in then put the pistol in my mouth. I crawl off the bed, dropping my forelegs on the wood floor first to test my stamina, and then I slide off the bed so I’m standing on all fours. I take a few steps and my legs feel like rubber. I groan. My head is shouting at me, my brain bouncing off my skull. My stomach is twisted and dragging itself up my throat.

I leave my bedroom into the rest of my apartment, a combined kitchen and sitting room. A low table, a pile of hay and a patchwork Government Issue TV on an upside down milk crate make up my only furniture. The TV has been left on without sound. A reporter wordlessly recapped a hoofball game. There is a wooden bowl in the sink. On the counter, pushed into the corner, is a pile of brown leather tack, custom made by a friend of mine, and my old jean jacket, tailored for a quadruped and worn for concealment. The walls are peeling eggshell white plaster on rotting hardwood. The door to the bathroom is on the way to the exit. That is one of the few perks about living in Manehatton: indoor plumbing. The sewers in places like Richmount are overflowing into the streets, while Canterlot has some magic system for dealing with waste I don’t understand. That’s life in Equestria. There is disparate technology across the country. I drop my pistol on the table next to an empty bottle of St. Petalsburg camomile vodka and a curved brim shotglass sitting on a warn copy of A Ponies’ History of Equestria (banned in this country; I smuggled in mine while returning from a job in Brushels). Entering the kitchen, I climb onto the counter with my forehooves and open the top cabinet where I keep my liquor.

It’s empty.

Fuck.

I root around the other cabinets, shoving boxes of cereal and canned petals around, until I find what I’m looking for. A bottle of Bute. Equine painkillers. Enough of this should kill the headache, if not the nausea. I grab the bottle and unscrew the lid and tilt my head back to let the pills pour down my throat. It’s empty. It’s empty. I spit it to the ground.

“For fuck’s sake,” I whisper. I’m frustrated. I’m annoyed. I need to control my emotions. I need to . . . no, not that. Not yet. I have to try. Or she’ll return. Her cutie mark would appear first in the crowd then her blank eyes, her life traded for a talent.

My head feels like a workhorse mistook it for a tree. I find the bathroom. The electric bulb had burnt out months ago and I never replaced it. I leave the door open for light. I look at myself in the mirror. I look like shit, old and used and dying. Dark circles under my eyes. My mane is dripping off my head. Do I usually look like this? I’m not young anymore, but I’m still fit, stronger and more dangerous than almost anypony in the world. I assumed the faces and the memories were symptoms of CMFIS. If it’s affecting my physical appearance, then it’s getting worse. I should reconsider my decision to-

My throat seizes. I start coughing. Painful, deep rasps resonating from my lungs, eating at my stomach, each heavy breath another nail pounded into my skull. My hind legs fold under my stomach, one front leg on the floor, the other covering my mouth, hurling dry gasps into my hoof. It lasts forever. When it finally stops my head is spinning. The bathroom is a blur. I grab the rim of the sink and pull myself up. The world swirls for a second then I regain control. In the mirror I’ve ages five years. I look at my hoof and it’s covered in blood. These sudden attacks started a year and a half ago and keep getting worse. I’m not sure what it means.

I look back at the mirror and it’s her. The foal. Her eyes say nothing but at the same time everything. About her. About me. The one face that reminds me it’s personal. It’s always personal. She earned her cutie mark the same way I did.

Suddenly I think of my father. Of how he died. Of how I wanted to kill him but didn’t.

I look away from the mirror.

I wash off the blood in the sink, watching the red swirl down the drain. I take myself back into the main room, my gait slow and stuttering. I fall onto the hay and let my head collapse with the table. I close my eyes and root around until my hoof finds my gun. I feel the electric connection, the spark of familiarity with its metal frame. It’s a small link to my world.

There is a noise. Three quiet beeps in succession. A pause, then three more. It continues this way. I lift my head, alert and aware in a swift moment. It’s my magic surveillance system telling me somepony has placed a message in one of my dropboxes around the city. A scroll I keep tapped to the fridge will have the location printed on it. I can see the soft magic glow of the letters writing themselves from here. I smile. This is what I need. Somepony wants somepony else dead.

Finally.

1.2

I was born into this world in a torrent of blood and tortured screams, myself silent as death, my mane and coat tones of grey and my steel blue eyes swirling with shadows. Or so my mother tells me. When I left her womb for the bright tragedy of the living world she felt pain like she had never felt before. She described it as if a dragon had stuck a claw in her cunt and tore through her gut. Her words, not mine. The eleven months I floated in her womb she felt nothing. This was the first time I caused her pain, but as she often reminded me, it was not the last.

The day I was born the sun remained an extra twelve minutes in the sky. Most ponies didn’t notice it. Most.

Manehatton is alive with the dead wandering the city, continuing its decay with the apathetic hunger of the disadvantaged. I lived in the middle of Market Square, one of the few neutral burrows in the Shoe. On a map it resembles a crescent moon crushed against the drawn border of the Towers. The borders retreat and invade when a new store opens or closes. The neutral burrows are not always free of fighting. They are more like the no man’s land between the rival trenches in the endless war between the city’s criminal organizations. The streets and skies are full of ponies and more exotic creatures hunting for the necessities they need to live and more. I’m forced to push through a moving crowd to make progress. Insistent stand operators attempt to sell me their niche products, while behind them I catch the crowd’s reflection in the barred windows of the larger stores. They are all potential targets. I don’t let myself forget that. Not anymore.

I leave my apartment feeling almost better. My head still resisted being aware with pulsing aggression but my mind is alert and thinking. I consider buying something for the hangover but think better of it. I’ll walk the headache off. I feel the familiar weight of my work tack assuring me I was armed. My pistol is hitched to my left front hoof, hidden under my sleeve, a firing wire running from the trigger through the arm of my jacket and attached to my collar, out of sight but in easy reach of my mouth. I have a similar strap on my right hoof holding a blade I could release in case I needed to fight close quarters. Stitched on the inside left of my jacket are several pockets made to hold extra magazines. This is my basic loadout. I feel naked without it, as much as a pony can feel naked. I’ve been caught in a fight against armed ponies without a weapon before. I don’t enjoy being overwhelmed.

Through the conversations and haggling and clinking bits I attempt to listen to the world. It’s difficult when I’m not in the moment. I don’t get much information. The wind is struggling to weave through the crowed. A lot of unicorn levitation. Pigeons argue over trash. That’s about it. A half dozen blocks down from my apartment I duck into a small alley. Nopony in the crowd notices. I blend in. Just another background character in the city’s confusion. I make sure to sense for an ambush, to check the air for the lingering presence of hidden threats. The walls on either side of me are high and the path is narrow. There are few ponies who know the locations of my dropboxes. They are either clients, ex-clients, or the perceptive. Any of them could have a reason to try their luck at killing me. Most know better. It’s been tried before. That’s how I earned my nickname.

One day somepony will find a way to get rid of me. That is as inevitable as the sun rising.

Half way down the alley is a large composter. Its wooden frame is decomposing faster than its contents and its wire mesh covering is cut and bending in all directions. The dirt and hay on the stone ground have been recently disturbed. I shoulder the box to the side. It moves with ease. Behind it is a square metal wall safe with a one way slot made to place something inside. I have fifteen of these hidden around Manehatton: twelve in the Shoe and three is the Towers. They were designed by an associate of mine, the same pony who designs my tack and imports and sells me weapons. I call him a friend, but for his sake instead of mine I usually avoid that distinction explicitly.

I retrieve a key from my pocket and unlock the door. Then I screw in the number combination. The door pulls open. Inside is a single dirt-covered scrap of paper. On it is written the address in the north most corner of the docks, in a burrow named “Little Sirius.” I grunt with recognition. They are frequent clients, but they would never be my first choice out of all the groups in Manehatton to work with. They’re unpleasant.

I crumble the note between by hooves and stuffed it in my pocket along with the key to the safe, and then I head back to the street. I scan the skies for a cab and wave one over. A poorly aged griffon pulling a half carriage flies down and parks in front of me. Half his feathers are missing and the rest are pale and greying. A deep scar runs the right side of his face, from his eye to the tip of his beak.

“Hop in, boss,” he says. His voice is old but strong. Griffons keep their lion’s grit even among the weakest of their tribe. I jump into the back of the carriage.

“Thank you.”

“Where’re you heading?”

“Corner of Stoneclamp and Mound, right at the north-east corner of the city.”

“Stoneclamp and – you sure?” He turns to look at me. “That’s right in the middle of Canine turf. They’re not going to serve up a royal banquet for no pony.”

“I’m sure. I have a business appointment.”

“Alright, you’re the boss, hoss. Hold on. There’s no back on this thing, so take off is a bitch.” He crouches, spreads his wings, and then leaps into the air, his strong back carrying the carriage and me with ease. As soon as we reached the right altitude he plays with a clockwork taximeter attached to his wrist.

“I’ll take you over the docks,” he says. “It’ll give you something to look at besides stone and concrete, and we’ll avoid most of the late afternoon sky traffic.”

We leave the dense commerce section for the industrial sprawl of the harbour. We fly by giant cranes lifting cargo off wooden sailboats. Pegasi scatter around the cables, shouting instructions to the unicorns on the ground moving the heavy crates with magic. Mazes of shipping containers stacked three high surround railroad tracks leading south-east, carrying imports to Detrot, New Llamrei, Fillydelphia and beyond. The Damsiric Ocean stretches itself thin, ships drifting on viridian waves and old sea eroded refuse. I’ve sank more than one body in that dense pool. More food for the sea ponies.

Further up the coast I can see the sun-blackened silhouette of the Statue of Friendship rising out of the water on a pedestal made of expensive marble. A gift from Maresille in celebration of the three hundredth anniversary of Equestrian harmonification. It used to be a tourist attraction until the tourism industry was murdered. Now it sits sadly on its little island, malnourished and cracking. This would have been the first image of Equestria my parents saw after a dangerous voyage over the Damsiric. A broken symbol of friendship and harmony.

My birth scroll says I was born in the town of Kelpie, a farming town on the northern edge of the Coltic Island, but I never felt an affinity for my native land. Only a year after I’d been born my parents brought me on a boat and we crossed the ocean to Manehatton, probably landing not too far from here. Placing a body of water between us and the Island was good enough for them. They were fleeing the war with Reinshire; my father had been drafted, and instead of fighting for his country he choose to scurry away to a life of poverty in a foreign city. I don’t believe in nationalism or pointless selflessness, but the bitter irony of a pony that would later raise his hoof to his foal so many times running from conflict never escaped me. I would be an adult when I visited the Island again. The green hills and prairies did nothing to stir my heart.

My parents named me Clover Fields. Or, my mother named me. Blackwood, my father, (who insisted from the moment I started speaking that I call him by his given name), wasn’t at the hospital that night. He was drunk at a pub across town. He nearly dropped me the first time he held me. Oat whiskey on his breath, he said to my mum, “Ugly wee shite, innie? What’d you name ‘em?”

He laughed when he heard it. My name was a small joke between them.

My mother’s name was Poppy Fields. Her special talent was gardening; a single red poppy dotted her flank. I was named after a small green weed that grew across the island. To the annoyance of my mum they swarmed in battalions in her garden, creating more work and headache for the mare. Like most pony names mine became prophetic. One bloody afternoon in my mother’s ill kept garden, three four leaf clovers appeared on my flank. That was when I was really born. Not in a small hospital in the north, but in the slums of Manehatton. The reality of Equestria lives in ponies like me. I am its face, its diplomat, and my actions represent its interest. It is a land of forgotten heresies of sanity hidden in the backstreets and forests. And everywhere I look for the monsters under the top layer I see the faces. I can’t reach them but they stare at me. Stuttering beside me behind walls I can’t move. Sometimes I feel the walls cracking and then-

“Isn’t that a damn shame?”

My thoughts are cut off. The griffon is speaking to me.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“It’s a shame, isn’t it? The monument, I mean. The city just lets it sit out there taking on rust. I remember when it used to mean something.”

“You must be older than you look. It’s been like this my entire life.”

“I’ve been around. I arrived just as the gangs took over New Manehatton and the crooks took over the Old, before the New was name the Horeshoe and the Old was named the Towers. Must have been close to a century ago. I’m living on griffon time, I suppose. Name’s Valtiel, by the way.”

“Lucky.” I respond.

“You ponies always have odd names. No offense.”

“None taken. It’s a nickname.”

“And a stone cold character like you needs one of those, huh? Again, no offense. You just look the type to earn a name like that.”

“I earned it by being good at my job. I rarely miss a shot and ponies have a hard time killing me. Eventually everypony just started calling it luck. In the Shoe, saying my name like that is condemning something to die.” The griffon says nothing in response.

“Figuratively speaking,” I add.

“Oh, of course. I just figured a hardcore colt like you…” His sentence drifts away. Silence. I feel like killing it.

“Valtiel, how did you get that scar on your face?” was the first question I could think of.

“This thing?” He seems nervous talking to me now. Intimidated, like he realized who is really in his cab, but I wanted to have a conversation. “Got it being mugged years ago.”

“I can’t believe a street foal would be stupid enough to try and rob a griffon.”

“It wasn’t a cub. He was an addict with a knife, strung out on speakleaf. I’m a cab driver, not a warrior. I’m just an old bird. He got a good swipe at me before I took him down.” He pauses a moment. “That’s the reason I left the Kingdom. It was all the fighting. If you’re not part of the warrior class you get no respect. So I left. It’s easy to leave the Griffon Kingdom, but not so easy to get back in.

“I didn’t stay in Seadle because I didn’t want to live with a bunch of muddy hippogriffs.”

“And of course you couldn’t afford a pass into the C.S.” I say.

“That’s right. So I came here. To the big city. Yeah, I saved enough bits years ago to be able to move to a small sky town but by that point I had friends in the Perch, you know? What would be the point?

“But what really bothers me is that once I got here, I learned that it is exactly the same as my homeland. Except instead of honour and respect, if you can fight here, you get to live.

“I didn’t understand how Equestria – the country of the sky goddess – could be so violent.

“I was told this was the place of magic.”

Lucky - Act I - Chapter 1.3

1.3

The griffon Valtiel lands us at the intersection of two dirt roads. We kick up a cloud of dust and leave a strange trail in our wake. Valtiel turns around to look at me.

“Stoneclamp and Mound, friend,” he says. “And in decent time too, if I may say so.” I find it strange that he can find pride in something so simple. But then again, his doesn’t have a specific skill in life. He could do anything he wanted and it wouldn’t affect him. A part of me envies him.

“Would you be willing to wait for me while I go inside? I’ll need a ride after my meeting.”

“I suppose. I’ll just keep the meter running. Try not to be two long. This place always gives me the creeps.”

“I shouldn’t be too long,” I say, jumping off the carriage. I start down Mound Street, but stop and turn back to Valtiel. “Don’t make any sudden or violent movements,” I tell him.

“This isn’t my first visit here. I know the drill. I’ll be here when you return, alive and well.” I nod and continue on. The streets of Little Sirius are empty. Other than the griffon I don’t see a single living creature in any direction. The windows and most of the doors on the squat wooden buildings tracing the roads are boarded with construction wood, destroyed furniture, sheet metal, or whatever material must have been on hand at the time. There is an overpowering aroma of soil coming from everything.

I can feel eyes watching me from all sides. One wrong move, one hostile action like I warned the cab driver and I’ll take a bullet in the eye. My earth pony senses would be too slow to avoid it. A second of awareness when the air is pushed aside, sound waves are projected, a spark is ignited, and then just the ether. I hope the soldiers were told I was coming.

This section of town used to be an old sea weed farming village before it was absorbed by the metropolis centuries ago. The buildings still stand, reluctantly, despite the abuse given by time as well as the current residents, a minor crime family informally known as the Diamond Dogs, a species of two footed canines originally from the north western country of Sirius. They are not made for Equestrian city life. The settlements in Sirius are dug underground, tunnels and caves are their replacement for streets and buildings. The Siriusah capital Cave Canum is dug out of the largest mountain on the Equysium continent. They live in mud and their own filth, eating the small animals that they share space with. Their influence is minimal; they have Little Sirius, but any attempt to expand is halted by the stronger organizations, usually one of the Six Ficilyan families or the Stable mob. The underboss in charge of Manehatton is named Vizsla, a Vetcouver veteran and a frequent client. His jobs typically involve helping him obtain his gangs’ namesake quirk: precious stones. I don’t understand it myself and a reason was never given for the obsession, but I don’t argue against simple work.

I arrive at my destination. It’s another rotting building like the rest, ignorable except for the unbarred door and the two words scrawled above it. A word in Siriusah and below that the same word in New Equestrian. ‘Hole’. The door has no handle and I push it open with my nose. The place was probably a shop at some point, but all that remains of its old appearance is an aging counter and a few broken display cases. The only light in the room comes from a cracked decorative porcelain lamp in the far corner, jury rigged to run on batteries. At the far wall is a thick metal door, guarded by a lone Diamond Dog sitting on a wooden stool, staring at the ground half asleep, his fedora covering his eyes. When he hears my hooves clop against the hardwood floor he bolts up, adjusts his hat and grabs a machine gun leaning against the wall. He points it at me and I stop. Old drum magazine design with a trigger designed for hands. A sapphire embedded in the handle. A relic from him homeland.

“Stop there, hooves,” he says, his guttural accent deep. “If you have business say it, otherwise you better turn around and leave.” He must be new. I tell him who I am and that I have an appointment. His ashen skin pales more and he lowers his weapon. “Apologies. I wasn’t told what you looked like. I don’t think they expected you this soon. One moment.” He digs into the pocket of his suit vest with one of his long arms and produced a key. Sticking out of the wall beside the door is a wire ending in a funnel, which he grabs and shouts into. “Mother, the boss’ pony visitor is here. I’m letting him in.” Then he unlocked the door and swings it open.

“Welcome to the Hole.”

Judging from the size of the room behind the thick door it could have been a supply closet at some point, but like the rest of the building it has been completely gutted. Somepony has carved a crude hole in the back wall, large enough for a tall biped to walk through, leading into a dirt tunnel that drops down at a steep angle. The first sign of the real Little Sirius. Weak florescent lights hang from the ceiling, flickering without rhythm and swinging on their wires without any wind or other source explaining the momentum. As I start the decent the door behind me slams shut.

I watch my footing as I walk the decline. The soil is packed smooth from decades of use and if I slip I’m tumbling down the entire passageway. I can’t see the end and, like every time I travel to the Hole, the minutes start to feel longer. The weight of the ground above becomes heaver as I put more distance between me and the surface. The air feels thin. Many of the lights are burnt out or smashed, often in long rows, and I’m forced to walk forward in the dark, watching ahead for the next oasis of light as it gets closer.

In the dark, something with many legs the size of a large cat drops onto my back and I grind my teeth in surprise. It makes a noise like a gurgling hiss and then crawls off me and skitters away before I can get a look at it. Knowing the things that live underneath Equestria, I’m not sure I want to know which bedtime horror story it resembled.

Then without any warning the tunnel ends. I’m in front of another handle-less door. There are no markings indicating what’s behind it. I push it open and the miasmic atmosphere of the Hole hits me like a shot to the lungs.

Little Sirius is filthy, dirt turned to mud by water leaks, collapses in the construction that remain unfixed, waste left in corners, animal bodies half devoured, trash from the surface thrown everywhere. But the Hole is somehow worse, the criminals abandoning any Equestrian ideas kept by the normal immigrant population. The walls, floor and ceiling are packed dirt reinforced with wooden arches and beams. Ancient speakers stutter big band jazz from every corner. The sound cracks and disappears into walls of static in a more predictable rhythm than the music. A song ends, and a DJ begins speaking.

“That was Bitchdancer and the Blank Flanks . . . . . track “Froggie Bottom Boogie.” I’m DJ Cornucopia and . . . . . . . EQ 93.3 coming at you straight from the Portrait. We’re bringing you all . . . . . . new hits from the ‘Shoe. The stuck up snobs in the Towers might have more bits but . . . . .more hits. And speaking of . . . . . and the vinyl’s still warm on this one, baby.” Another song starts playing. A wooden stage protrudes from the left wall. On it a Siriusah girl poll dances to the radio, completely nude. Her improvised rhythms are awkward and skill-less, like a puppet on strings being sped up and sped down. I’ve been to many strip clubs across North Equysium, sometimes on business and sometimes just to go, and I’ve seen dancers of every species who have settled here, including other Siriusah, and the girls at the Hole are unquestionable the ugliest. How you get beat by the massive gyrations of a cow in lingerie I do not know. A group of Siriusah sit at a table near the stage but they seem uninterested in the girl. Instead they are huddled over the table whispering among themselves. I recognize most of them as Diamond Dog foot soldiers. Opposite the stage is the bar, which is tended by the same senile old dog that has tended the bar every time I visited the club. Exits from the floor are dug out of the dirt wall on all sides, leading deeper into the village. Only one has a door.

As I enter the club the group of Siriusah all turn to look at me, then return to their conversation. One of them, a very young mongrel I don’t recognize, stares at me longer than I like, and when he turns back to the group he points at me and says something. From his movements I can tell that he’s drunk. I ignore it. New pups asking questions. An equine is a rare sight in Little Sirius.

I find the bar. Vizsla likes to keep his associates waiting. It makes him seem busier than he is and it, so he believes, adds a degree of mystery and suspense to his business. It’s a waste of my time, but I don’t worry about it. He has me on the club V.I.P. list, an act of pointless charity to appear wealthy and prosperous. Inclusion on this list means I can indulge in the Hole’s attractions for no cost. This includes the girls, which wouldn’t happen if you put a gun to my head, and the drinks, which I took full advantage of.

The only seats at the bar are thin, high stools made for tall animals with arms, not equines, so I push one aside and prop myself up on my forelegs. The bartender acknowledges me with a nod.

“Do you want something, pony?” He asks, not unfriendly but with the strange cautiousness and stiff language of somepony not used to talking to other species. Of course this old hound and I have spoken every time I’ve been invited to the Hole. But he wouldn’t remember that. I don’t know how he remembers the right way to mix drinks.

“Jaktorów Oatmeal Stout,” I say. I’m not drinking the sewer water they call whiskey. Jaktorów is a brewery run by the master Auroch beer makers in the steppes to the south east. Real intimidating bastards, tough in a fight, and they know how to make a good beer. There is a moment of confusion while I explain to the bartender, again, that I’m on the list. Then I take my drink and sit down, holding the bottle in my mouth and tilting my head back.

There is nothing arcane about canines. Absolutely no magic to help get a sense of my surroundings. Down here there is no wind and the air is lying dead around me. The soil has little to say except the subtle movement of the creatures tunnelling through it and the soft, distant vibrations of outside movement. The critters themselves are indifferent, lacking the interaction with equines the birds, lesser mammals and other above ground animals have. Underground away from pony magic I’m out of my element. Vizsla knows this and in the past has used this to his advantage.

At the dog’s table the drunken pup pushes himself away from his group, his chair digging up dirt and knocking up a small cloud of dust. He stands up, swaying back and forth for a moment. His friends look at each other and shrug. He walks towards me.

“Hey!” he slurs. “I think you’re in the wrong club.” The stripper stops dancing. One of his friends stands up.

“Max wait, you don’t know who-“

“I don’t need to know who the hell he is! All I know is that there is a pony where he shouldn’t be.” He’s right in front of me now. I can smell his rancid meat-eating breath as he looks down at me. I say nothing, just meet his gaze and wait for him to either sit down or do something stupid.

The song on the radio shifts to a skipping piano solo.

“It’s just like your kind to show up where you’re not wanted.” He kneels down so our heads are level. “What’s wrong, swayback? Is your ‘special talent,’” - he spits out those two words like they were basilisk venom - “not speaking?” He pokes my cutie mark with a nailed finger. Touching a pony you don’t know’s cutie mark is not a good idea.

“Touch me again,” I say, “and you’ll find out what my talent really is. Sit Down.”

We stare at each other for a moment. I can tell he’s not going to back down. He wants a fight. I can see in his drink-hazed eyes a deep-routed hatred for my kind. Maybe I’m the first pony to get on his bad side since he moved to Equestria.

He looks at me and he sees something small.

A mistake larger species only make once.

He laughs, the noise sounding like wood dragging on stone. Then he starts ranting about border conflicts and missionaries and other things from the past but I’m not paying attention. Neither is he. I pick up my beer and take a long swig from it. It’s a shame to waste it. Then I swing the bottle in an upward arch, hitting the bottom of his nose and shattering the bottle, splashing glass and booze and blood everywhere. He staggers back, blood dripping from his snout and from small cuts on his face, his eyes wide with surprise. I stand on all fours and spit glass to the floor. I twist around and attempt to buck him before he recovers; he is quicker than I anticipate and dodges back. He has solders reflexes, green or not. The blow to the head might have sobered him up. He takes a folding hunting knife from his pocket, the blade half a foot long and wicked. I return the gesture by releasing the blade on my hoof.

Behind him, two other new faces at the table stand up as if to attempt to help their friend, but they’re shoved back into their seats by the others, who shake their heads.

The pup snarls, blood staining his sharp canine teeth. I’m balancing on three legs, a practiced stance I was taught years ago, and I hold my fourth leg in front of me ready to block or parry his move.

And the rush sinks in, into my nerves, my brain; my body alive with electric currents. A week of feeling like death disappears and there is only the thrill and the profound gratification that comes with using ones special talent. Nothing matches this feeling. Not drugs, not liquor, not sex. I can’t help but smile.

He sees my small grin and hesitates for a second. But only a second, and then he makes a downward swing, aiming at my neck. A good choice for attacking a pony. Not bad. I rear up and catch his knife with mine. Steel sparks. He loses footing as I send his blow to the side. I drop back down and slash at his exposed chest. He sees this and only barely manages to block me, but in the process further unbalances himself. He’s leaning over as he tries to right himself and I see an opportunity. I grab his vest with my teeth and pull him forward. He doesn’t expect this and he falls, his head cracking against the edge of the bar. The sound of skull meeting wood is sick and satisfying.

It is over. He is down. He’s holding his bleeding scalp with both hands and moaning in pain. I feel great. Alive. Adrenalin and magic flowing through my body. I feel like an addict getting his first fix after weeks of withdraws. I feel like I just fucked the sexiest, dirtiest mare in Equestria. I feel like every single moment before this was pointless.

I feel like killing him. But I won’t. Instead, I kick one of his arms away from his face. I step on his elbow with one hoof and slide my knife under his thumb with the other. He tries to protest, digging at the hoof holding him down and moaning “no, please, don’t.” I lean in closer and say, “we have an old saying in Equestria. What’s the best thing about having thumbs?”

Rhetorical question. I pull my leg back, slicing upwards and the sharp blade cuts through furred skin and muscle and bone. He screams and in his thick Siriusah accent it sounds like garbled wails in a strong wind. I step off him, retracting my blade as he clutches his thumbless hand to his chest. He cries like he’s never lost a fight before. Maybe he hasn’t.

The high starts to wear off. Soon it’ll be gone completely. I wonder what the point of what I just did was. The question seems far too abstract to answer appropriately right now.

“The best part of having thumbs is that they can be removed,” a deep, female Siriusah voice says. “Is that the saying, Clover Fields?” Standing in the frame of the only exit with a door is a giant Diamond Dog, at least two feet taller than anything else in the room, her arms as long as my body, her face an intense, attractive collie shape, her fur a darker shade then the others and completely covered with gem-shaped tattoos and words written in Siriusah. She is completely nude, her tattooed breasts appearing sexless on her chest. She kneels beside the pup.

“M-mother Bitch. It hurts...”

“Shh,” she whispers. She says something to the pup in Siriusah. It might be words of comfort or a prayer. I can’t tell. She sits him up and cradles him in one arm, scratching him behind the ear with the other. This calms him.

“During the Missionary War we would remove the horns and wings of POWs before sending them back home. We had a difficult time understanding what made you Earth Ponies unique. Eventually we learned to cripple the senses. We would remove the eyes, ears and tongue. Then we would burn the skin just enough to kill the nerves. Do not get overconfident, killer. We all have our weaknesses. Is that not right, little puppy?”

The kid whimpers.

“I am disappointed, Max. You were chosen out of many to serve Guokthauh from within foreign lands, and this is how you behave?” That name, Go-kuth-ah - or however she pronounced it - sparks a sudden interest in me. It feels like I’ve heard it before, long ago. Maybe at the bookstore...? “You let your feelings towards your family cloud your judgement and you mocked a very important guest.”

She stands up and her kind gaze shifts to the stunned solders at the table.

“You boys. Take this one and give him to the ferals.”

The pup stiffens, his tail folding between his legs. “No, please, anything but that! Mother! You can’t! I promise to behave! Please-“

Two dogs from the table take his arms and drag him screaming through the open door, and the rest follow, all of them wearing grim looks. The pleas for mercy are cut off as the door closes.

“I wasn’t going to kill him,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“He will not die. He will change and he will learn. But he will not die,” she says, looking at the closed door as if she could see whatever was taking place behind it and it made her sad. She looks at me.

“We are glad you came so soon, Clover. Come. Viszla is waiting.”

I follow her through the door. It leads into a wide hallway, branching off into numerous other paths, some blocked with a door or an iron gate, some open. There is no trace of the other dogs or the screaming pup.

Mother Bitch leads me through a twisting path down the tunnels. I know we take a different route every time I’m in this small part of the burrow. I’m not sure if it’s to confuse me or just the aimless sprawl of the giant dogs’ mental compass. Mother Bitch is Viszla’s second in command. She organizes and leads the solders in the field and is the face of the group outside the tunnels. The Diamond Dogs share a deep maternal connection with her that they could never find in Viszla. Mother Bitch isn’t her birth name but a symbol of endearment given to her by her troops. I don’t know anypony who knows her real name. If Mother didn’t follow Viszla with absolute loyalty, neither would the rest of the dogs. She keeps them spirited. And in a fight she motivates them. Because nothing is more inspirational than having a snarling, salivating seven foot monster charge ahead of you in battle. I’ve seen her sink her three inch fangs into the throat of warrior-class griffons and tear through the gut of an Abada without missing a beat.

And there are few things as intense as watching that same animal charge at you with death in her glowing eyes, the situational comradery shared between you completely evaporated.

“I apologize on behalf of my pet. He does not care for your kind.”

“I caught that. He’s too young for his parents to have died in the missionary wars. He wouldn’t even have been born. Were his grandparents killed by ponies?”

“No Clover, worse. They were indoctrinated into the cult of the sky. Until he disowned himself and took the initiation to re-enter the common pack, his family name was a public disgraced. He never forgave them or pony kind. His loyalty to us is unwavering. But he is still weak, as you saw.”

We pass a row of iron barred prison cells. Several emaciated Siriusah are chained to the walls. In the last cell is a pony chained by his neck. He was a unicorn, once, but his horn has been snapped off. His cutie mark has been burnt off and his mane and tail are just thin, straw like strands. He sees me and stands up, his body completely wasted away.

“Hey. Hey! You’re another pony! Please, you have to help me. I didn’t do anything. I want to see my family. They keep me alive just to-”

His weak voice falters then stops as we pass by. Then I remember.

“You mentioned something called Gokutha. What were you talking about?” She grins and laughs, like I just told a joke.

“Guokthauh,” she corrects, “is the elder god of the underearth. He is the deity we Siriusah are bound to. He is older than the dirt and rocks. He thrashes endlessly in the deepest pits of Mt. Scoria. His roots dig into the ancient stone and traveling under the ground across Equysium. He is always hungry and he is indifferent to all. He is our leash to this world. To him, we are all unworthy of even a single passing thought. We all serve him.”

“He doesn’t sound like a very pleasant god.”

“He is not supposed to be! He invokes fear and worthlessness in all who come close to him. Unlike you ponies we do not dress our god in pretty dresses and jewellery as if she were on display.”

“Maybe you should. You have to do something with all the gems you collect.”

She grins again, all teeth and gums. The expression is unsettling, like she wants me to know there is a meaning in it I don’t understand.

“We’re here,” she says.

She opens a door and a wave of freezing air avalanches out of the room. I enter and my breath becomes visible. The floor is ice. Skinned dog carcases hang from meat hooks along the side walls of the room, collecting in the back in a disorganized maze of flesh that disappears into thick cold fog. I’ve never found out how far back this room goes. I can’t tell if the bodies are feral or Siriusah. At the edge of the dry sting in my nostrils I can faintly smell old flesh and blood. Paintings are nailed to the walls between the hanging bodies, their glass frames fogged and frozen. Each depicts a scene of extreme violence or perversion.

As I enter, I’m flanked by two guards, both of them cradling the same Sirius made barrel magazine machine guns as the guard on the surface. The cold doesn’t appear to affect them. In front of me, just before the labyrinthian throng of carrion, is Viszla’s desk, a cracked antique, the only thing keeping it together is the ice frozen to it.

Viszla sits behind the desk, his fat lips chewing on a slab of bloody meat. He’s short and wide with a face like a stunned labrador. Unlike most of his kind who only wear a few items of clothing for convenience, he is wearing a full, pale grey suit, which looks like it’s never have been washed. A pair of too-small oval glasses squeeze the top of his nose. One of his eyes has been removed - through injury or choice I don’t know - and replaced by a large, polished ruby. Chained to the desk beside him shivers a feral golden retriever. The thing is malnourished and sick, its frost-coated fur lacking the golden lustre of its species.

Both dogs look at me, the same primal curiosity in their eyes. Viszla drops his food and stands up.

“Ah, Lucky. My favourite killer-for-hire! Please, please, make yourself comfortable.” Between the cold, the morbid décor and the sad eyes of his pet he knows this is imposable. But he asks anyway. It’s part of the theatrics. His accent is much less pronounced than other Siriusah immigrants, but occasionally important syllables are accented with an arching, droned out growl. Every point he made is expressed through huge, dramatic gestures. His entire presentation was artificially manufactured into the conduct of a stage actor.

If Mother Bitch is both the brain and the brawl of the Diamond Dogs, then Viszla is the passionate madness that kept operations on course. He treats the Manehatton gangland like a game, one he knows he can’t win but that he plays anyway, and his lieutenants never question what he says.

I sit down in front of the desk, the floor freezing my rump but I try to ignore it. At the same time Viszla moves away from his seat and wonders to one of his paintings. He wipes the fog from as much of it as he can and stares at it. It’s a romanticist depiction a deer faun being raped by a Pegasus while a unicorn slit its throat with a knife held by magic.

“I’m surprised you asked me here so soon, Viszla,” I say, “considering what took place last week.”

He waves my statement away. “Water under the topsoil. I am not a stranger to the life of a freelancer. Loyalties come and loyalties go once the pay has been deposited. You are only the shining sword one wields to strike a blow. We both know the unwritten rule of our business partnership: if we, the Diamond Dogs, come across you, the assassin, uninvited, we will shoot at you. There is no such thing as the personal. And if I may be openly truthful, Buddy was a poor lieutenant. I doubt he proved a challenge for the greatest killer Equestria has ever known.” He turns from the painting to look at me. “How is old Don Risata these days?” When he asks a question he always drops his head and stares over the rims of his glasses as if he wants the answer to enter his warped mind already blurred. The golden retriever sits up and begins salivating while staring at the half eaten chunk of meat on Viszla’s desk. “I haven’t had the pleasure of working with his family directly since I had his sister and brother-in-law killed in Vetcouver.” He doesn’t let me respond. “And how is his nephew? Pierce, is it? Lovely name. You and him are friends, hmm?”

“Yeah. He’s doing well. Does work for uncle down south in a little town called Ponyville.” I know that the quicker I push through Viszla’s manure the quicker we will get down to business. But it annoys me. I know what he’s doing. He’s digging, prying, trying to find an angle to get an effect. Right now, I’m his audience and he’s a prop comic digging through a box of props. Except he’s not trying to make me laugh.

“Ponyville . . . I know the place. I hear it has the most stunning ambiance.” He laughs, and then quickly changes the subject. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to be friends with the great Lucky Fields. Historically, your friends have the unfortunate habit of kicking the bucket. Your legendary good fortune must only apply to you. At this rate even old age will fail to put you down and you will live forever, while everyone you know turns to rot.” He laughs again. The retriever has its nose on the edge of the table, sniffing the food left unattended.

Viszla strolls to another painting. A cow is being skinned alive and milked at the same time by a chaotic, vicious machine.

“We should get to why I’m here,” I try, hoping the slight push will be enough to move the meeting forward. Anymore pressure and I risk shifting the conversation into an even less appealing direction. He doesn’t allow it.

“It’s always business with you,” he laments, then sighs, while at the same time he runs a claw down the painting he’s looking at. “I love this artist. She hails from Moscolt. Only the dogged independence of the Saddle Union could provide Equysium with such unbridled, nihilistic lust. I believe her mastery over the art of death may rival your own.”

“Death isn’t an art,” I say, a little too defensive for my taste. “It’s a meaningless process. It’s a tool. It’s a state of being. But it is not an art. Art is pointless and indulgent. Death serves a purpose.” While I spoke, Viszla had returned to the desk. The feral dog was just about to steal the steak when his master grabs it first. He holds it out of reach and the dog whined, realizing it had been cheated out of a meal. It stares at the meat sadly.

“Do you really think so?” Viszla says. He clutches the retreater’s metal collar and places the steak on the floor in front of it. The dog tries to pull from his master’s grasp, but it is too weak. “You don’t think there is an emotional expression within the act of murder?” He says as he leans down on one knee beside the dog. He begins to pat its head, calling it a good boy. “How you perform the act. Blades, bullets, poison, magic, teeth or claws . . . the tools of a craftsdog.” He let’s go of the feral’s collar and the animal pounces on the meal, devouring it in it carnivorous jaw. The same teeth Viszla shows when he smiles. “The brief expression of life as blood sprays and flows.” He takes a large bowie knife from a sheath on his belt. “Such raw emotion.” In one quick, casual motion he reaches around the dog and slices its neck from the bottom of the jaw to behind its ears. It dies instantly, blood pouring from its massive wound, staining its golden fur crimson. “And finally, the pièce de résistance. The corpse. A vision of pure aesthetic beauty. A sculpture of blood and fur. Gorgeous.”

Viszla stands, whipping blood drops from his glasses with the end of his jacket. He stabs the knife into the desk, cracking the ice and splashing blood onto its surface. He sits, replaces his glasses, clasps his hands together over the surface of the desk and looks at me over the frames of his lenses.

“You don’t look like you approve,” he says. He was right. I’m surprised to find that his pointless slaughter of the animal has left an involuntary sneer on my maw. I quickly neutralized my expression. Viszla laughs, finding insane humour in my disgust. Or he saw me attempting to hide my emotion. This is the game he plays. He tried to force me out of my selective stoicism. He wants to break the badass.

“Does the cold blooded Lucky have a soft spot for the lower pedigree? Only moments ago you violently amputated a young solder’s thumb, and yet a mindless creature dies and you react with disgust. Oh, it’s not your fault. Brute empathy is a weakness inherent to your species. You would rather befriend a bunny rabbit then eat one.” He suddenly frowns and dips his head even lower. The room’s light shadows his one eye and reflects on the gem that replaced the other. He leans over the table, closer to me. He almost whispers what he says next. “But maybe it’s not the animal itself. Maybe it’s the innocence of the poor creature. It was so helpless and so dependent on me to care for it. Rather not unlike a child.”

I rear up and lean forward to meet Viszla’s face. He grins, realizing that he finally hit a nerve. I don’t care.

“Viszla,” I say, my voice betraying slight anger and annoyance. “If you don’t stop wasting my time I’m going to leave. And then you’ll have to find somepony else to get you whatever bucking gemstone you want today.” A petty, thin thing to say, but threatening the thing he cares about most seems like the easiest way to attack him. But then I lean in closer and whisper into his ear with as much restrained venom as I can manage. “And if you even allude to that foal again, I will kill you.”

I hear the guards behind me shift. I had forgotten about them. Viszla and I are glued over the desk by the invisible tension, like lovers about to kiss, neither of us looking each other in the eyes but we let the echo of the words drip to the ground and speak the connection for us. I know he’s enjoying the mood, but he pulls away first, raising his long clawed hands in surrender.

“We wouldn’t want that,” he says as I retreat as well. “You leaving, that is. This is a very, very important task I have for you.” He opens a drawer and takes out a handful of scrap paper and photographs paper-clipped together. He tosses it onto the desk and I turn it around and study it while he continues to talk. “Here. This is the gentlecolt I require dead. His name is Marquise Cut, a jewel dealer visiting Equestria from Maresille.”

I look at the photographs. He is a thin built, pearl white unicorn. Dishevelled mane and tail in tones of grey. His cutie mark is, appropriately, a marquise cut diamond. In the most in focus picture he is looking backwards, almost directly at the photographer, a captured look of wild paranoia in his eyes. I wonder if dealing diamonds is usually a dangerous trade, or if he knows somepony is out to get him?

“He is currently in Cloudsdale negotiating the sale of an extremely rare gem called the ‘Bloodstone of Neigth’ to a private collector. The gem isn’t with him, obviously, but is on the ground in the care of his employees, set to be traded for the agreed amount upon the signal that the deal has been made, or to be returned to Maresille upon confirmation of his death. The later is, of course, why I called you.”

“How is a unicorn staying in Cloudsdale? All flight magic has a time limit. If he tried to sleep he would risk falling right through the city.”

“He’s staying with the buyer, who happens to be very well off. Much of his mansion is built out of mares’ tails. He often entertains guests from Manehatton and Canterlot.”

That’s a convenient explanation, if anything. Mares’ Tails is a thin, iron-like material made from weaving cirrus clouds together and solidifying them with unicorn magic. It’s a cloud that non-Fpegasi can stand on. The problem is, it requires a huge amount of skill and time to make and only a handful of ponies develop the talent, and only a tiny amount of those ponies end up mastering the skill. It’s also very expensive to make. The production cost usually outweighs its usefulness. The Chartless Skies Provencal building is built out of the stuff. So it the Aero-Hydro Magic research facility in Pelagicton. There are small paths build from it in downtown Cloudsdale – for the tourists who want to visit the historical society or the shopping district but can’t afford a spell. I’ve never heard of a private building being made out of it, let alone an entire mansion. I skimmed the scribbled notes Veszla had handed me for the name of the buyer and thinned my gaze in recognition when I found it. Rosso Chrysanthemum Sr.

“Were you planning on telling me that the buyer happens to be the father of the current head of the Fedeltà family?”

“I was just about to! The mansion is his retirement home. It must be lucrative working on the Canterlot Councel’s payroll. Cut has been nagotiating with Rosso Sinior for weeks now. It is infuriating. He refuses to leave the mansion and it is imposable to get inside. It is too well guarded, even for you. Look, I’ve writen all this down for you.” He points at the scribbles on the paper, which I ignore.

“It takes weeks to negotiate the sale of a jewel?”

“It does when the jewel you are selling is the damned Bloodstone of Neigth! I want Cut dead before that deal is finalized.”

“Of course,” I say. “You didn’t invite me here just to tell me this pony can’t be touched. What else do I need to know?”

“This. Last week Rosso Junior’s foal earned his cutie mark. Something to do with arguing, I don’t know. Anyway, the day after tommorow his loving granpappy is throwing him a cutecaeñera. The party is to be held at night on the mansions open sky ballroom, or as we call it, the largest part of the roof. According to Coltsa Nostra rules, if a guest does not attend the party he is committing an unforgivable faux pas. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I do. He’ll be on the roof all night, completely exposed to the world.”

“Exactly! I have no idea how to actually get to him, though. Which is why I called you. If anyone can find a way to murder this pony, it’s you.”

That’s true. A plan is already forming in my head. The location and time hurt my options and presented an interesting number of unique obstacles. Still, what I’m thinking is simple. Simple, but difficult. I’m just going to shoot him. With luck I won’t even be seen.

“This can be done.” I say. “My normal fee applies. Forty thousand bits, twenty upfront and twenty when I confirm the kill.” Veszla takes a small velvet bag from his pocket and drops it in front of me. It hits the table with the distinct clank of bits. I open the bag and count twenty dark purple unicornium coins, each worth one-thousand bits and each baring Celesia’s smiling face on one side, and a tiny sketch of the Canterlot palace on the other. I nod to show that everything is in order, and then add, “because this job is complicated I’m also going to ask for a thousand bits for supplies and transportation. Is this exceptable?” He takes a single coin from his jacket and places it beside the bag. I place the lone bit in the bag and drop the entire thing into my own jacket pocket.

“Then we have a deal?” Viszla asks, offering his hand to shake.

“Deal,” I say, letting Viszla clasp my hoof and we shake. “Marquise Cut is as good as dead.”

“Most excellent! Yet again our continued business partnership proves mutually beneficial. I expect only perfect results from you, Lucky.”

“I haven’t betrayed a client’s trust yet.” A lie. “I’ll let myself out.” I go to leave, my thought on the job, the logistics behind the shot I would need to take, the preparation I would need to do. Then right as I touch the door Viszla speaks again. He wants the last word.

“You wonder why we collect precious stones. Don’t speak, I know you do. All your kind does. They hold no value to you other than being objects of exquisite beauty. You decorate yourselves in them, put them on display.” I turn around and look at him. He has removed the ruby from his skull and is holding it like a fragile egg. The black void in his face stares at me. “We Siriusah have magic, different from your own and that you would never understand. We believe each gemstone holds the spirit of a creature who died during the Great Loss. The magical fires that nearly destroyed this world disintegrated almost all living things and crystallized the ash into these stones. The more stunning the stone, the stronger the fate of the creature it once was.”

“So you collect them?” I ask. He laughs, like a condescending pat on the head.

“Indeed. What else use is there for them? The Bloodstone of Neigth is rumoured to hold the spirit of Anemone, the legendary half pony, half Abada general who conquered much of the southern deserts. I hear you’re a history buff, Lucky. Is this true?”

“I’ve read some books.”

“Then you know how impressive a claim that is. Imagine, holding the life of one of the greatest killers of all time! Interestingly, another myth is that the purpose dragons horde gems is to keep the spirits safe, and they eat them when their spirit is ready to leave this world. We have other uses for them. This is our magic. We alone in the world can manipulate that energy. Just like the dog, this gem is mine. I can do anything I want with it. Their being remains inside, swirling, a basic form of life relying on me to take care of it. This connection and dominance I have over the once living – that, Clover Fields, is magic.”