Wicked Bliss

From then on Rainbow Dash had a couch to sleep on. The Master had brought it downstairs to the room he’d been holding her in. He decided he’d leave the table and chairs in there too. They ended up as her meal spot, where he’d sit with her as she ate, making sure she ate everything, that she had enough to drink, that she commented on the taste of his cooking or the sweetness of his homemade tea. She wasn’t tied up anymore, but she wasn’t allowed out of the room either. He didn’t let her take walks in the house or go to the toilet as she had before, upstairs. But the mop bucket had been replaced with two large plastic storage boxes filled with generous portions of cat litter. He’d even marked them with felt tip, ‘1’ for number ones, ‘2’ for number twos. He would come to see her before her allocated bedtime, eight o’clock, when he would administer her primary dose and tidy up her plates and take out the boxes for cleaning. Then he’d return at half-past nine, double-check that in the midst of her initial high she was acceptably arranged on the couch, return the boxes clean and fresh, and fill up a pair of plastic bottles for her to drink in the morning. He’d visit in the mornings between eight and nine just as she was waking up from her induced rest and the wellbeing phase had kicked in. This was when she was at her most acute, and he would use the time to ask her if she had any wants or wishes for the day, a certain book (no newspapers), a certain meal, a certain item for amusement provided she could not use it to harm either him or herself.

The routine went on for well over a week before the Master broke it. He entered one day, sighing, with egg-and-cress sandwiches for their lunch. He’d decided to eat his own meal with her today. He tugged out his chair, the one nearest the door, and swept the stack of crustless sandwiches onto the centre of the table where the flowers had stood initially. He took one without ceremony and bit into it, chewing with a grimace as though the flavour was off. Rainbow Dash picked one from the plate with the timid dignity that had since become her habit and nibbled at it quietly.

‘How’s your day been?’ he asked her, swallowing and grabbing another sandwich. He always asked this question once or twice, afternoon and evening. She rarely answered with more than a shrug, but he didn’t mind. It seemed to gratify him that she had so little to say. Today was no different, the dull pushing of the shoulders as she ate in silence. ‘Well, mine’s been shit,’ he grumbled. He sighed and laid his half-eaten sandwich back onto the plate. He snickered. ‘I walked out of work today.’

It was the first time he’d acknowledged his outer life in her presence. The idea that this pony, who had kidnapped her, beaten her, drugged and tortured her, had an ordinary life outside the house might normally have repulsed Rainbow Dash, but if it did, you couldn’t see a sign of it, just another shrug. He snorted.

‘My job’s on the verge of dying, I think. I’m fed up; I really am. It’s the boredom,’ he mused. ‘So much boredom.’

She was wary at the words. Boredom implied that he would soon turn to his favourite source of amusement. Sure enough he was watching her through those bored almond eyes, angry and pitiless. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, nodding his head as though to encourage himself, ‘that it’s high time I had some real fun. It’s like I said: we must do what we want to do, must act on what we do feel. And you could help me. Give me a second.’

He left the room, door open as though he trusted her not to be foolish enough to get up. When he returned, he had a notebook. He sat and beckoned her. She leaned forward to see.

‘Look.’

It was a hoof-drawn map of streets in Canterlot. He’d put little ‘X’s on the page, which according to his key meant vantage points from which to spy on ponies in their houses. ‘You know what I want to do?’ he said. ‘I want to hit Canterlot and have some fun. I’ve got some special things I need made, and I don’t have the time to do everything. I’m going to bring you some material and some sewing stuff, and I want you to stitch this together.’ He flicked through the book and showed her a page of scribbled specifications and a poor drawing of a black uniform. She looked at him. He sniggered.

‘Criminals are stupid,’ he said. ‘They buy things they need. But if you buy something and then use it, what do they do? They check the records, and they see who bought what, and then they tie you to it. What’s the solution then if you need something to go out in? Well, you make it yourself using bits and pieces that they cannot link back to you. For example a pair of curtains for the legs. A black shirt repurposed into a hood. And the same goes for anything major that you use in a crime. Break a window with a rock not a hammer or a crowbar. If a pony sees or impedes you, give them nothing that they can use against you. Hammers can be tracked. Rocks belong everywhere.’

‘You used a cattle prod and gag on the filly and me,’ muttered Rainbow Dash. Her voice had returned, but with how seldom she used it, it was easy to forget. The Master snorted and nodded.

‘An exception to every rule. But the cattle prod’s been mine for years; no one knows I have it, and I didn’t buy it in the first place. And the gag? I found it in a skip. Although the knife is mine—but again the rule of time. It’s been in this house for years. And the most important thing of course was that no pony saw me.’

‘The filly did.’

He looked momentarily angry. ‘Yes, well. You’re at fault for that. Anyway what could she tell them? That I have dark fur? I’m a nameless, faceless nopony to the world out there. But you’re right of course. Showing anything is a risk. That’s why I need this.’ He tapped the page showing his design for a cowl and uniform.

‘Why?’ she asked, puzzled, looking at him almost with concern. He looked both amused and bemused. It had been a long time since Rainbow Dash had asked a question let alone so directly.

‘Because I’m bored, that’s why,’ he said stubbornly, ‘and this is fun. I’ve been meaning to do something like this for a long time.’

‘Something like?’

‘A spree,’ he said, stretching the word as though savouring the thought. ‘I’ve already been thinking about how to go about it, but it’s early days. There’s nothing like a break-in, let me tell you. When I was a colt, I used to squat in ponies’ gardens. They had no idea I was there, and that feeling …’ He shuddered happily. ‘I want some more of that,’ he said with a grin.

‘So you’ve been like this for a long time,’ murmured Rainbow Dash.

‘My dear little Rainbow Dash, you’re starting to sound quite philosophical! Have you been thinking about me?’

Rainbow Dash paused, breathing slowly. ‘A bit,’ she said.

‘I’m flattered.’

‘Most ponies play games and hang out together,’ she muttered. ‘They don’t get their kicks hiding in gardens. What do you think made you like that?’

The sudden boldness of her questions was too sharp a contrast for the Master to accept her at face value. He smiled, eyes narrower than sincerity, but answered her question all the same. ‘The world makes us who we are.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Lots of things. Mistreatment. We all have a sad story.’

‘Tell me.’

‘No,’ he said, smiling sweetly yet dangerously back at her. Rainbow Dash did not back down.

‘Why not?’ she asked perfectly calmly. ‘Afraid?’ she added. His eyes flashed, and his smile grew.

‘Why would I be afraid?’

Rainbow Dash shrugged. ‘Why would you be? What am I going to do?’ she said almost with a smile of her own to accompany her tone of sad resignation. He was tickled by that, a real smile stretching over his face.

‘This is you trying to make sense of it,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘You’re here, but you want to know why. I can understand that. We always have to know why, don’t we. We always have to feel that there’s a purpose bigger than ourselves, larger than the depressing, soul-crushing fear that the world’s just a big, shit arena of chances.’

‘Who mistreated you?’

‘Huh. My peers. My parents.’

‘How?’

He shrugged. ‘They dismissed me.’

‘How?’

‘By letting me know I wasn’t good enough, right enough, that I didn’t meet the expectations forged beside my name. I wanted to do something, and it was never the right thing or the done thing or the wanted thing.’

‘You aren’t really telling me how you were mistreated.’

The Master snorted. ‘And why would I? What purpose would it serve?’

‘I want to know whether you really were mistreated or if you’re really just bonkers.’

‘Then let me disappoint you,’ he snapped, leaning back in his chair and folding his hooves. ‘You can sit there and pretend to be all tight-lipped and in control, but it’s by my mercy alone that you are even allowed to open your mouth to ask me these questions. Rub me the wrong way, and it’s back to the old method, where you couldn’t even piss without crying.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, you aren’t. You despise me. You think I’m fooled? You think I don’t know that you only put up with me out of fear? You’re entertaining, Miss Dash, but the act is wearing thin. I permit this only out of mild amusement from watching you struggle, so don’t think for a second that I wouldn’t put you down if you continue playing games with me.’

‘So you don’t like it when ponies play games with you.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said the Master bitterly.

An odd flicker of rage and disgust ran across Rainbow Dash’s face just for a moment, but her voice was steady when she spoke. ‘I would have thought that would have given you empathy.’

‘Empathy?’ he sneered. ‘What use is empathy to me? A foolish barrier, a shield for the weak to cower behind.’

‘I have empathy.’

‘Then you’re stupid.’

‘I’d have empathy for you.’

He barked with mirthless, angry laugher. ‘Hah! How could you?’

‘After what you did to me, I’ve never had more empathy for ponies who’ve suffered in my life,’ said Rainbow Dash, and it was clear that there was no act amidst the words. Rather than assuage the Master, this seemed to make him more disconcerted than ever. He was trying to sneer, but her words appeared to have reached him rather deeply.

‘Huh. Well, good for you then, little miss perfect,’ he spat. It was as though he was shocked that she could say something like that after having been so ill-treated. It was as though she were souring a moment of victory he’d been banking on.

‘In my experience,’ said Rainbow Dash meekly, ‘it’s when you’re left alone that it gets hard to feel good about ponies. You feel abandoned—even if the isolation is self-imposed.’

‘Spare me your theories,’ he said, but he was struggling to keep the emotion from his voice.

‘You need to speak to the ponies you care about,’ she told him slowly. ‘They can help you.’

‘Well, I don’t care about any ponies.’

‘You’ve got no one?’

‘I care about no one.’

‘You’ve got me.’

His eyes flicked to hers. His folded legs looked as though he were wrapping himself up against the cold. He rallied quickly enough, snickering with laugher. ‘What makes you think I care about you?’

‘I thought you said you were looking after me,’ said Rainbow Dash, and she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. He noticed because he gave a sniff and said nothing for a moment. Then he narrowed his eyes, watching Rainbow Dash as though her indignation had infuriated him.

‘I’m not a fool,’ he growled. ‘Finish what you’re going to eat.’

That was when she struck, as he reached for his half-eaten sandwich. He’d trusted her not to move, but he’d made his first misjudgement. In the short time it had taken him to return with the notebook, Rainbow Dash had plucked up the courage to stumble over to the landing. The trolley was still there, tucked to the wall beside the stopper. She’d moved as quickly as she could have, desperate to be back in her chair by the time he returned so as not to arouse suspicion, so she’d had to snatch the first thing, which happened to have been the rolling pin. Throughout their discussion she’d sat on top of it in her chair, diverting attention from it by leading them through her questions. Perhaps she’d realised that the Master, although clearly not as in control of her as he wished to believe, wasn’t going to present any blatant opportunities for escape, and that had prompted her to strike at the half-chance, wielding the rolling pin and bringing it down onto his head similar to how he’d hit her with the bat. His face crashed into the desk beside the plate of sandwiches, and he groaned and rubbed his head. She didn’t let him recover, hitting him again and again over the head with the pin. None of the blows were especially heavy, but the frantic combination of them was enough to reduce him, grovelling, to the floor, and when she finally finished, panting and staggering, he was as incapacitated as she could make him, jerking around on the ground.

The effort it had taken, the energy it had cost her, became clear when she dropped the pin and fell to her knees, gasping for breath. But she couldn’t delay; the Master’s eyes were already flickering, consciousness returning to the now-bloodied face. She fumbled him over and raked through the compartments in his belt, searching desperately for the one in which he kept his keys. She found them and ripped them out and for good measure detached the cattle prod, which he habitually kept hanging on his belt, a favourite utensil never far from reach. With the two things in her hooves she staggered, panting, to the stairs.

‘Come on, wings,’ she coughed to herself, unsheathing them and preparing to fly for the first time since the capture. The Master had not actually addressed her wings; they had remained unmolested and were in good enough condition despite their lack of use to take her airborne. What wasn’t in condition was the rest of her, all the little muscles she normally took for granted that guided and stabilised her flight. Her first attempt did more harm than good, crashing into the wall halfway up with a squawk and sliding back down to the landing on her injured stomach. With tears in her eyes, which were nonetheless creased with new determination, she flew again. This time she made it over the lip, landing on her chest once more, but she’d made it to the ground floor and was now only a few metres from the big old door, the last obstacle to her freedom. She staggered to her hooves like a drunk and fell forward, up and down, all the way to the door. She rattled the handle, eyes darting back to the landing every few seconds as though expecting with horrible anticipation the sight of his furious figure any moment now. She stuffed the first key into the lock. It was too small. She jammed in the second; it fit but wouldn’t turn. The lock was one of those old-fashioned ones that you could see the light through, outdated and considered unsafe. But Rainbow Dash didn’t have anything to pick it with, and she didn’t know how to anyway. She rammed the third key in, whimpering. It wouldn’t turn. The Master did not keep the key to the main door in his belt.

She threw herself at the bigger of the two windows, but you could see in her face that she knew it was pointless. The window looked as though it hadn’t opened in years, and it was small and high-up enough that she with her injuries would take too long to climb through it if she could even break it open in the first place. She cast her eyes around the room, looking for something to do just that with. She grabbed the now-empty vase he’d stored the flowers in and threw it in desperation. It hit the metal cross with a crash and smashed into little pieces.

‘You little shit!’

She span around. Her worst fear had come true, the Master, staggering to the top of the stairs, furious, the rolling pin she’d hit him with in his hoof. She backed into the door, sticking the cattle prod out in front of her like a sword, igniting the tip. The Master watched it warily. He flicked his eyes between the windows and door. He knew there was nowhere for either of them to run. It was a standoff, him against her. The winner took the house.

‘Never keep your eggs in one basket!’ he snarled at her. ‘Very wise advice! Now be sensible and put it down. I’ll be merciful.’

He came at her from an angle, using the sofa as cover to avoid the tip of the cattle prod. She came forward, jabbing, and then retreated, and he retreated and then came forward again. He raised the rolling pin then threw it hard right at her face. She ducked, and it hit the door, and then he was on her, jumping, victory painted in his eyes. Rainbow Dash yelled with anguish and jabbed for all she was worth. The cattle prod caught him in the chest, and his eyes bulged, and his breath was knocked from him, and he fell back onto the floor with a yelp. She tried to seize the chance, tried to shock him unconscious, but the prod was meant for pain, and all it did in the end was put distance between him and her as he scrabbled to get away from the merciless current. He was panting and cursing, rubbing at singe marks in his own fur, spitting out bloody phlegm from his mouth where she’d hit him earlier. Rainbow Dash had recovered the rolling pin. She’d abandoned the keys by the door; they were no use to her. With the prod she’d corner him; with the pin she’d hit him. The Master watched her advance and retreated to the second staircase. His lip curled slightly as he quickly climbed the steps, knowing she’d struggle to catch him on the first floor.

‘Now what?’ he called down to her. ‘You’ve bought time, is all. You’ve made it so much worse for yourself. The severer the crime, the harsher the punishment! You should have learned that by now.’

She didn’t let it get to her, advancing very slowly and carefully up the stairs, using the wall for support, staring at him, warning him silently, making sure that if he tried to rush her, to push her down and overpower her, he’d eat a mouthful of electricity before he got near. The traces of a smile were slipping fast from his face. The prod’s advantage was such that without a weapon he would lose control of the floor should she reach it. He made up his mind and entered the bathroom. The broken toilet seat took a couple of kicks and tugs to come loose. Rainbow Dash, realising what he was doing, slowed. He emerged, seat in hoof, one pony halfway up the staircase, the other at the top. With his new reach he was equal to her except now he had the high ground. Rainbow Dash glared at him with undisguised hatred. That seemed to encourage him, eyes filled with rage, on his slow, purposeful descent. Every other step he took was coupled with a swing of the toilet seat, which would collide with the jab of the cattle prod. He clenched his jaw as he tried to take her by surprise, tried to catch it right so that the stick was pulled from her hoof by the weight. But Rainbow Dash was clutching it tightly, fully aware that it was her only real weapon right now. It was a bizarre fencing match, the electric stick versus the ceramic ring. He backed her down the stairs with it. He was relaxing a little, convinced it would only be a matter of time.

‘All that chatter about empathy,’ he spat, ‘and yet look at you now. What better way for you to learn,’ he said, eyes flashing, ‘that might … makes … right!’ he grunted, swinging the seat round, trying to knock her hooves to the wall. She dodged the last swing and jabbed through the gap, catching him in the side, and he squealed and kicked out, stumbling. She leapt at the chance, bringing the rolling pin down on his head, but in the shift to regain his balance he caught it with the base of the seat, swinging the other way, and growling with anger, now facing her exposed inside, he lashed out with a hoof to her knee, which buckled. She hadn’t been expecting her leg to cave so easily, and it was with a look of shock evolving quickly into fear that Rainbow Dash fell down the last few steps. He didn’t squander the advantage, ripping the prod out of her hoof, kicking her again and again so that she would drop the pin. She was trying to scramble away, trying to pick up the prod, but he still had the toilet seat, and he brought it down like a club across her chest. She was knocked into the wall. He gave a ‘Hah!’ of triumph as she slumped. It was as though all her fight had vanished in the blink of an eye. Tears were forming in her eyes once again, pain combined with the bitter unfairness of yet another foiled attempt for freedom crushing her heart, so recently inflated by hopes of escape.

He snatched up the prod and jabbed her with it. She cried, pulled away, raised her hooves. ‘Get up,’ he hissed at her, jabbing her again in a vengeful fury. He jabbed her twice more to get the message across, and she raised her hooves again in surrender. He recovered his keys and jabbed her viciously to the stairs in a shambles and walked down with her, walked into her so that she tripped and fell forward face first. She crashed into the trolley. Wrenches and knives rattled, but before she could think to grab anything, he’d grabbed her, lifted her by the mane, lifted her off her hooves, and thrown her back into the room, where all she had for company was the table, the chairs, the makeshift litter trays, the sandwiches, the bed frame, and the desk top. He slammed shut the door and locked it and moved the trolley into position against the door, where he had been leaving it in case Rainbow Dash somehow managed to escape, in which case the trolley would tip over and make noise to alert him. He stood there, glaring at the metal as though he could see the pony behind it.

‘You’re a tougher nut than I gave you credit for,’ he hissed, a grin returning to his face, ‘but there are still things we haven’t tried!’ He picked up the fallen spanners, tossed them onto the trays, and walked up the stairs, rubbing his head and muttering curses.

When he returned, two days later, it was to a room without the light on. Once he flicked the switch, his eyes narrowed. The tables and chairs hadn’t moved. The sandwiches were untouched; the boxes were unused. On the floor by the threshold a heap was touching his hooves, and he jolted and stepped backward, alarmed.

‘What th—?’

‘Potion …’ croaked the heap. ‘Potion …’

He knelt down beside the heap, presented it with the double-mug of water he’d denied Rainbow Dash for two days. He held it to its lips.

‘Potion …’ the heap croaked again, ignoring the water, poking feebly at his hooves. ‘Potion …’

‘Drink,’ he commanded, looking at it with disgust, at the piss-stained outline, the shit-daubed fur, wrinkling his snout. The heap kept nudging him gently.

‘Potion … potion …’

With a look of mingled shock, disgust, and fear, the Master reached into his belt, emerging with the shot. The heap rustled like a nest, prodding faster and harder. He gave it what it wanted, stood, watched it lapse into stillness, then sniffed and recovered the plate of old sandwiches, backed out of the room, and closed the door behind him.