In the cold cell, the air was damp, and the stone walls seemed to press inward. Bistrena clutched the coffee the MP had brought her, grateful for the warmth in her hooves but irritated by how the steam seemed to swirl and twist unnaturally before her eyes. It was another trick of her mind—another aftershock from that damned mnemonic spell.

The bedroll and heater made the space less prison-like, but her head throbbed with the force of her thoughts. Fragmented images flitted through her mind: a sunny day during her childhood, laughter echoing from a face she couldn’t place, and a sharp scream that didn’t seem to belong to her memory at all. Or did it?

Her head throbbed, her vision tilted, and she felt like the ground was rushing away from her like water. Her vision thrashed blue, and she heard a strange, strident, and tumultuous echo that made her feel as if she was in the middle of a bustling city and not a dead quiet cell. Her gasping breaths were the only noise—artefacts leftover from the spell and whatever was in that syringe.

She ground her hooves against her temples, willing the spinning to stop. A pang of nausea surged through her, and she swallowed hard, eyes clenched, to suppress it.

The MP reappeared at the bars, his shadow slicing through the dim light. He noticed her wince as she shifted. "Still feeling it, huh?"

Bistrena nodded weakly. "I’d think clearer if I had a concussion instead."

He grimaced. "That bad, huh? Well, the worst of it should pass in a few hours. If it doesn’t..." He hesitated, then shrugged. "I'll see if I can sneak some meds past the brass. They don't want us helping too much, but you look like shit."

“Thanks,” she said gratingly.

The heater hummed quietly, filling the cell with a growing warmth, but Bistrena couldn’t shake the icy tendrils of doubt and exhaustion that gripped her. She had to rest, to recover, but even closing her eyes felt risky. Like she'd be pulled under kicking and thrashing if she dared. The agent had warned that paranoid delusion was to be expected. Routine, she’d said. Bistrena wasn’t buying it. Trusting a clandestine crown agency to have her best interests at heart felt like trusting a blade not to cut.

Every so often, her mind would warp and separate. As if some vile demon had stuck its claws in and torn her brain in two like splitting a clementine, and a memory slithered out to haul her consciousness back into the dream world.

She was six again. The air was fresh, the sun blazing in a way it never did in Baltimare. She could smell the grasses, hear the hum of insects and the occasional lowing of distant cattle. Her brother, Cinereus, had been showing off, daring her to race across the uneven field behind their grandparents’ farm. His laughter echoed in her ears—a sharp, clear note of joy she’d forgotten until now.

She didn’t even see him trip, but the sound was unmistakable. A crack, followed by the most horrifying scream she’d ever heard.

“C-Cinny?” she called, her voice trembling as she skidded to a halt, her hooves slipping in the grass.

He was sprawled in a shallow ditch, his back leg bent at a sickening angle. Blood slicked the ground around him, dark against the green. She stared at the jagged white edge of bone protruding from his skin, and the world seemed to tilt around her.

He screamed again, his face scrunched and flushed purple, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Help me! Bistrena, help!”

But she couldn’t move. Her legs locked up as terror gripped her. There was no one around—no parents, no grandparents, just her and her brother and the realization that she had no idea what to do.

“Bi! It hurts! Do something!” Cinny shrieked, and the sound drilled into her skull, leaving a permanent scar.

She remembered now, how she had screamed back at him to stop crying, to stop yelling, to stop making her feel so useless. She’d tried to pull him up, but the moment her hooves touched him, he let out another scream, and she let go, horrified.

“Don’t die!” she’d cried, her own tears streaming now. “Don’t die, Cinny! Please, I’m sorry!”

And then she had run. Not to get help, not at first. She’d just run, fleeing the sound of his sobs, the sight of his blood, the crushing guilt of her helplessness. She hadn’t remembered that part before—not until now.

The memory faded, and she found herself curled in the corner of the cell, her forelegs wrapped tightly around her middle. She was trembling violently, her coffee spilt across the floor, the sharp smell cutting through the damp air.

The MP appeared at the bars, his voice startling her. “Hey, you okay in there?”

She blinked at him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, she wasn’t sure where she was. The warmth of the heater and the soft blanket nearby seemed foreign, like relics from another world.

He tilted his head, frowning. “You’re sweating like crazy. Need me to get the doctor? You’re not gonna keel over, are you?”

“No,” she croaked, her voice barely audible. “I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t fine at all. The memory of Cinereus’s screams still echoed in her head, and the accusing implication of it pressed down on her chest, suffocating her. She hadn’t thought about that day in years, had buried it so deep she’d almost convinced herself it had never happened. But the spell had dredged it up, ripping open old wounds and leaving her raw.

She pressed her face into the blanket, inhaling its neutral scent, and forced herself to breathe. In and out. Slow. Steady. She wasn’t six anymore. Cinereus had survived—her grandparents had found him in time. But the memory of his broken leg, of her failure, had somehow been left behind, buried like a boobytrap in her mind, until now.

Bistrena stared at the spilt coffee pooling on the floor and clenched her teeth. Fear flooded her like a dam breaking, what if the spell hadn’t just examined her memories? What if it had planted something?

Her head throbbed in warning, the last coherent thought she managed before blacking out was the memory of the needle—the sharp prick as Agent Ashveil had injected her with the memory-summoning concoction. It was still in her, running its course, festering like a poison.

Time had no meaning anymore. It stretched and compressed, playing tricks on her mind as Bistrena lay sprawled on the thin bedroll. The damp walls of the cell seemed to close in, their solidity wavering, as if the very room were alive and breathing. Her memories blurred together, a relentless, punishing cycle of pain and helplessness.

She remembered the interrogation, every agonizing detail. The agent, her horn glowing with calm intent, had leaned in close, her voice a cold whisper. “This won’t take long.”

The needle’s sting had barely registered before the magic hit her like a hammer, the mnemonic spell ripping through her mind. It dragged her back to the shower block, the bitter scent of bleach and dampness filling her nose as though no time had passed.

Corporal Blackguard strode in. His lecherous gaze twisted her stomach as he cornered her against the wall, his hooves nearing. She remembered the panic, the helpless fury as she fought back, rearing up and slamming her head into his muzzle. Blood spattered, and he snarled like a wounded animal. She was on the ground, helpless to stop it, as his legs closed around her neck, crushing her windpipe, her vision dimmed and her body went slack.

She awoke belly-down to the sickening sound of him moving into position behind her. The weight of him pinned her down, his breath hot and rancid as he muttered obscenities. His grip was defiling, and her struggles only seemed to push him.

Then came the scream—her scream, high-pitched and desperate. Lockstep appeared. Her voice cut through the trauma, laced with fury. “I fucking warned you!”

Bistrena blinked through her fear and saw Lockstep, her horn glowing like a beacon of justice. Blackguard rose into the air, his body flailing helplessly, “Wait, it’s not what you think!” He managed to blurt out the excuse pathetically before she slammed him against the wall. Once. Twice. The tile cracked on the third blow, and the sound of his body breaking was unmistakable. Blood painted the tiles, and when Lockstep let him fall, he didn’t move again.

The cell rushed back into focus, and Bistrena clutched her stomach, bile rising in her throat. She groaned, wiping at her face, only to find her hoof smeared with blood. Hers, or his? The uncertain thought twisted her insides.

She was six again, but not in the field with Cinereus. No, she was under the old stone bridge. Blackguard was there, but he didn’t belong, reeking of cheap booze and cologne, his drunken leer sending a chill down her spine. His slurred words—good filly, such a good filly—burned like acid in her ears. Her legs trembled as he dragged her beneath the arch, his hooves rough and invasive, roaming places they had no right to.

Her mind screamed in protest—this wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. But the sensations were vivid, visceral. She kicked and writhed, but his weight was unbearable, holding her down just as it had in the shower block, his cruel laughter drowning out her pleas. She was powerless, a small, terrified filly caught in a nightmare she couldn’t escape.

And then, just as suddenly, she was back in the cell. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she gasped for air, her body drenched in cold sweat. The smell of the bridge still clung to her nostrils, mingling with the damp, musty air around her.

But the spell wasn’t done. Cinereus appeared next to her, his small, trembling form lying on the ground as their grandfather worked furiously to splint his broken leg. His cries were softer now, pitiful whimpers that made Bistrena’s heartache. The neighbour’s voice was calm but grave as he warned of blood poisoning and oxygen bubbles in the artery. The smell of antiseptic vodka mingled with the memory of Blackguard’s cologne, creating a sickening blend that turned her stomach.

A flicker of reality intruded: the MP standing at the cell door again, concern etched on his face.

“Hey,” he called, his voice distant and distorted. “Are you okay? Do you need another coffee… or maybe a doctor?”

She tried to answer, but her body betrayed her. Her stomach twisted violently, and she barely had time to roll to the side before she vomited, the contents of her stomach splattering across the floor in a grotesque spray of brown bile. The acrid taste lingered in her throat as her head swam, her vision blurring at the edges.

The cell dissolved again. She was back in the shower block, the mnemonic spell dragging her through the memory again with cruel precision. Different this time, no, she thought desperately, please don’t do this again, I don’t want to do it again! Her own voice shrieked, filling her head like having an airhorn go off in your eardrums and she lost her voice.

Blackguard had her pinned, the cold tile grinding against her back as his forelegs pressed down hard on her throat. His rancid breath filled her nostrils, and she clawed uselessly at his grip, gasping for air, her vision tunnelling.

Then the door slammed open. Lockstep was there, and in the next instant, Blackguard was ripped off her. She didn’t just attack—she destroyed him. Lockstep’s magic flared, and he was hurled against the wall with a force that cracked stone. Again and again, she slammed him, the wet sound of breaking bones echoing in the room. His ribs caved, blood-spattered, and his head lolled to the side, one eye burst and leaking. By the time Lockstep stopped, Blackguard was a broken, lifeless heap on the floor.

The memory faded, but its aftershocks left her trembling once again on the floor of the cell. Her vision dimmed, the world spiralling out of focus. The MP’s voice came again, distant and muffled, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her body felt like it was sinking, heavy and unresponsive. Her vision blurred, the memory clawing at her again. It wouldn’t let go.

She wasn’t six anymore. She wasn’t in the shower block. But she wasn’t in the cell, either. She was lost, adrift in a sea of broken moments, the spell dragging her deeper into its grasp.

When Bistrena awoke, the world was a blinding sheet of white. Her eyelids fluttered, squinting against the harsh glare cutting through her skull. She flinched as a sharp pain lanced across her temple, and instinctively raised a hoof to her nose. Sticky, drying blood clung to her fur. Her throat was raw, her stomach a hollow pit.

“Good,” came a voice, brittle with age and no patience. “You’re up. Hold still.”

A mare loomed over her, wiry and angular, wrapped in a white lab coat that hung loosely from her gaunt frame. Her coat was pale cream, her mane pulled into a loose knot streaked with iron-grey. A stethoscope dangled from her neck, clinking softly against the ID badge clipped to her pocket. In her hoof was a tiny flashlight, the source of the merciless beam piercing Bistrena’s skull.

“Pupil response normal,” the mare muttered, snapping the flashlight off. Her piercing blue eyes flicked over Bistrena, sharp and clinical as if cataloguing the damage.

Bistrena groaned, her voice cracked and hoarse. “Where…?”

“Clinic,” the mare said curtly. “DSA can’t exactly parade you into a public hospital. Wouldn’t want anypony asking questions, would we?”

Bistrena’s gaze darted around the room, trying to piece together her surroundings. It was small and sterile, walls painted the lifeless grey of state compliance. The corners were bare but for a single metal cabinet bolted to the floor and a rolling tray of instruments beside the narrow cot she lay on. The air reeked of antiseptic.

Behind the mare, the MP stood at attention, his expression unreadable. He shifted uneasily as the mare glanced at him.

“Well, she’s conscious,” the mare said with a pointed arch of her brow. “You’re dismissed, son.”

The MP hesitated, his eyes flitting between Bistrena and the doctor. “She’s to stay in the cell,” he said, his voice firm but uncertain. “Orders from the top.”

The mare’s mouth curled into a thin, withering smile. “And now I’m ordering you out. This is doctor-patient care. I have the final say here. Unless you’re dying to explain to the Special Branch why you think DSA protocol trumps medical ethics?”

The MP blanched, his confidence visibly crumbling. “Y-yes, ma’am.” With a stiff nod, he turned and retreated from the open doorway.

“Good riddance,” the mare muttered under her breath. She turned her attention back to Bistrena, her tone softening by a fraction. “Now, let’s have a look at you.”

As she worked, her movements were brisk but precise, her hooves deftly cleaning the blood from Bistrena’s face and checking for injuries. Her voice was steady, but there was a hard edge beneath her words, a bitterness worn into the grooves of her years.

“The effects of the spell are fading,” the mare said, dabbing a cold compress against Bistrena’s temple. “You’ll be sore for a while. And the serum they used—” she sniffed disdainfully, “—cheap, poorly refined garbage, if you ask me—will take another few hours to fully metabolize. You’re lucky you’re still upright.”

Bistrena managed a weak, bitter laugh. “Feels more like sideways.”

“Count yourself fortunate. Ponies far stronger than you have been reduced to babbling wrecks by that combination. Once upon a time, the process was humane—rest, gentle coaxing, and therapy to ease the mind open. These days?” She snorted, the sound filled with contempt. “These days, they kick down the doors and smash through your head. Drag the memories out, screaming, whether they’re ready to come or not.”

Bistrena winced, the description too painfully apt. “And if they find something they don’t like?”

The mare’s expression darkened, her voice dropping to a grim whisper. “If they decide you’re hiding something? Or worse, if you remember the wrong thing?” She let out a hollow, humourless laugh. “Congratulations. You’ve just signed your own death warrant. No trial, no appeal. Just a dark train ride north, where you’ll dig until your hooves crack and the frost takes you. Or maybe they won’t bother with that much effort, maybe you'd end up in a shallow, nameless grave." She shrugged like it didn't make a difference. "No matter. Either way, you wouldn't be coming back.”

As if summoned by the doctor’s rebuke, Agent Veilguard appeared in the doorway, her imposing frame filling it completely. Her tailored coat was neatly pressed, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal sinewy forelimbs that resembled tree trunks. This unicorn mare was a contradiction—elegant and refined, yet built like she could wrestle an ox into submission. Her presence was as suffocating as the cell Bistrena had woken up in.

“How is she, doctor?” Veilguard’s voice was smooth and rich, like silken honey, but her tone carried an undercurrent of menace.

The doctor didn’t even flinch at the agent’s sudden entrance, her back turned as she scribbled on a clipboard. “Alive,” she replied curtly. “Hasn’t lost her mind yet, no thanks to you.” She turned, the clipboard held firmly in her magic as she met Veilguard’s gaze without fear. “My Hippocratic Oath compels me to remind you that your methods are intrusive and harmful. If you want anything genuinely useful out of these ponies, you’d do better with a more subtle approach.”

Veilguard cocked her head, her curiosity piqued. “Only guilty consciences break,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Her gaze shifted to Bistrena, who was watching the exchange from the cot with growing apprehension. “Come on, Bistrena,” Veilguard said smoothly, her voice suddenly lighter, almost playful. “We’re not complete barbarians. We’ll even feed you.”

Bistrena swung her legs off the cot and attempted to stand, but her limbs betrayed her, wobbling under her weight. She staggered toward the doorframe, using it to steady herself before she almost collapsed entirely. Veilguard, looming beside her, made no move to assist.

Bistrena glanced back at the doctor, who had already turned her attention back to her charts. “Thanks, doc,” Bistrena muttered dryly, “you’ve given me a lot to think about in my free time.”

The doctor stiffened at that. She turned her head, her eyes narrowing as they appraised Bistrena sceptically. “Thoughts aren’t free,” she said evenly, “and neither is your time.” Then she returned to her work without another word.

Bistrena pushed herself upright and followed Agent Veilguard, her steps unsteady but gaining confidence with each step. They moved down a dimly lit corridor, the stark fluorescent lights overhead flickering intermittently. The air grew cooler as they descended into a stone stairwell, the walls rough and unpolished, remnants of the fort’s original construction.

Bistrena trailed Veilguard into what looked like a cavernous platform, its design at odds with the rest of the structure. The space was expansive, with stone archways framing the platform edges and the faint scent of rust and oil lingering in the air.

Her ears flicked forward at a distant rumble, a faint tremor that grew steadily louder. The sound of rushing steam filled the chamber, and a moment later, an old pony carriage clattered into view, rolling to a stop with a hiss of pressure valves.

The vehicle was boxy and open-topped, with benches lining its walls. Painted a faded yellow, it looked like it had seen better days, it's chipped paint and scuffed metal speaking to years of wear. Bistrena’s nose wrinkled at the oily smoke curling from its underside.

A pony conductor, perched in a small cabin at the front, operated the levers with practised precision. The carriage felt out of place, like a relic from a bygone era, but its functionality was undeniable.

“Where are we?” Bistrena asked, her voice strained but curious as she stepped closer to the strange transport.

Veilguard glanced at her, then back to the carriage. “Still in the fort,” she replied. “This train line was used back when the fort had cannons. It moved ammunition from storage to the guns, back before electricity and modern logistics.” She gestured to the much more recent carriage. “Now it’s a glorified shuttle. This one moves personnel to and from the old storage site.”

Bistrena raised an eyebrow at that, sensing there was more to the story. “And what’s at the storage site now?”

Veilguard hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words. “The Unicorn Defense Squadron,” she said finally, her voice carrying a faint note of pride. “One of the units responsible for keeping Baltimare’s skies secure.”

Bistrena stared at the carriage again, her unease growing. Whatever was waiting at the other end of the line, she knew it wouldn’t be good.

The train’s wheels screeched and groaned as they rolled through the dark tunnel. Every jolt of the tracks rattled Bistrena’s bones, the rough journey leaving her clutching the edge of her seat. Steam hissed from the undercarriage, mingling with the deafening grind of metal against metal. The acrid smell of oil and smoke clung to her nostrils.

Her mind wandered as she stared at the tunnel walls flashing by. Was this the storage site the agent had mentioned? Perhaps. Or perhaps one of the countless tunnels had branched off earlier, leading her to the interrogation room or her cell. In her dazed state, it was impossible to say. All she knew was that wherever she’d been, it hadn’t been far.

The train screeched to a halt, and Agent Veilguard rose without a word, stepping off the carriage onto another platform. Bistrena followed her lead, her legs stiff and unsteady from the journey. The air was cooler here, damp and heavy with the faint scent of mildew. Veilguard led her up a spiral stone stairwell that seemed to stretch endlessly upward.

Finally, they emerged into a corridor that felt as if it had been forgotten by time. The walls were a dull, chipped olive green, streaked with stains that no one had bothered to clean. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed unevenly, casting a sickly, flickering glow.

Veilguard guided her into a medium-sized cafeteria. The room was empty, the stainless steel countertops gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. Refrigerators lined one wall, their hum blending into the background noise. A single coffee machine sat on the counter, a relic of simpler times.

Without a word, Veilguard turned and left, her hoofsteps echoing down the corridor. Bistrena stood in the quiet space, her stomach growling. She rifled through one of the refrigerators and found a container of reheatable stew. The coffee machine spat out a thick, almost tar-like brew that she drank, grimacing at the bitterness but grateful for the jolt of energy.

She had barely finished a few spoonfuls of the lukewarm stew when the cafeteria door creaked open. Bistrena looked up, startled, as Corporal Lockstep entered.

At first, Bistrena barely recognized her. Without her uniform, Lockstep looked almost... ordinary. Her mane, usually tied in a strict ponytail, hung loose around her face. Her eyes, typically sharp and calm, carried a distant, haunted look. Her coat seemed duller, paler, as if she’d been drained of something vital.

Lockstep moved mechanically, grabbing a tray, coffee, and a bowl of soup before sitting at the same table. Only then did she seem to notice Bistrena. Her eyes widened, and she froze, her expression a mixture of shock and confusion.

“Recruit?” she whispered, her voice shaky, as though she were seeing a ghost. She leaned closer, her tone sharpening into a harsh hiss. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think they’d drag you in—I’m the one who killed him!”

Bistrena blinked, her mind reeling. “What did they do to you?” she asked quietly, her voice heavy with concern.

Lockstep’s hooves trembled as she held her mug. “They questioned me,” she said flatly. “Deep dive. They saw everything—memories I didn’t even know I still had. My uncle. The day I...” Her voice cracked, but she swallowed hard and pressed on. “The day I killed him. Being homeless. Running away from home. Over and over. It was like living it all again. They pulled it apart, picked through it.” Her voice faltered, and her gaze dropped to the table.

Bistrena reached out, placing her hoof gently over Lockstep’s. The mare flinched but didn’t pull away. “Be strong,” Bistrena said softly, her eyes locking onto Lockstep’s. “At least we’re not alone, right?”

Lockstep’s eyes widened at that. The words seemed to snap her out of her despair, drawing her focus back to the moment. She looked at Bistrena, her haunted expression giving way to something more grounded. Her hoof tightened around Bistrena’s, and they shared a moment of unspoken understanding.

"It's good to see you," Bistrena offered genuinely.

Lockstep's eyes started to mist, and she shook her head, "You have no idea."

Bistrena hadn’t felt this before, not like this. It was strange, this connection—almost like staring into a mirror, seeing the other half of herself. Odd, wasn’t that how she was supposed to feel about Current? But she never had.

Lockstep’s grip firmed, anchoring them both in the moment. Whatever hell they were trapped in, they weren’t alone anymore.

Author's Note

Hellow viewers, not much to say here. Enjoying where this is going, hopefully. Like and comment. Tell me any thoughts, good or bad.