The Receiver
Prologue: The Day After
[***]
As I perceived the light around me, burning through my lids, I groaned. My eyes sent a sore and relentless pain to my forehead, as if the nerves themselves had been hot wires driven into the sockets. I could even feel my horn, tingling and sore.
I rolled. I stubbed that horn on the edge of my bed, and the flicker of pain caused my eyes to go wide. I found I was cheek deep in rug, looking at the wall through the ground clearance the bed actually had.
I hadn't been sleeping in it. Wondering how I had ever gotten drunk enough, I realized I couldn't place ever having actually being drunk. I must have been, though, with what I was feeling through my ringing ears and dry mouth.
I stood. I looked around. The world was as quiet as a graveyard, soothing only in how my oversensitive ears could hear the wind outside. The fact there was none, had me immediately unnerved. I wanted to think it was the hangover, but...
I looked about my room. It was large and circular, covered in thick ivory rug. Tall, elliptical windows that showed only a blue and cloudless sky. The bed was indistinct, white silk laced with patterns only vaguely familiar. A yellow, shimmering dot, surrounded by zig-zagging points. It was splayed across the sheets almost in ceremonial quality, and had not been disturbed by my rest on the floor.
The remainder of the room was a pale violet. It had flowing, repeating patterns, a lighter violet that curled like stylized ivy within the wall itself. Wondering how such a thing could even be made, I realized that a stripe of literal gold seemed to hold it down. The rug pressed up against it like the cresting froth of a drink within a mug. The tall door was of a polished maple, It's knobs, edges, and keyhole trimmed in silver.
The only other thing was a nightstand. On the wall, there was a large, wooden ring that I knew should have held a panel of glass. A mirror. Instead, it had been removed – I had no idea where it had gone.
Upon it's polished top, there rested a set of very odd things. I recognized them at a glance, but could not directly name them. I knew they were important, but for the life of me could not gather why.
One was a small box. It was made of wood, and painted violet. There was a black hole on it, covered in shallow and fuzzy cloth I couldn't name. It had a latch on one side, and a glass window toward it's contents. It was empty. A recording device.
Beside it, there was a small, dull crystal. Perfectly shaped and flat, it was about an inch thick and had four points that reminded me of a diamond shape. It was glowing a faint gold.
Another was a book, which was on the opposite side of the recorder. It had a white cover. On it's face, there was the view of a disassembled device. I recognized the picture as an “exploded view.” Sections of it hovered in view, lines pointing out parts of it to name them. It's title was plain, mass produced, and stoic. Model 1911a.
The last object I had an ignorant scorn and fear of. It was silver, and a long rectangle. At one end there was an elaborate, clockwork disc upon the textured handle. The central screw spun a solid webwork over it's gears, wrapping around another tiny crystal that glowed violet. The other end had a mouth. Sectioned off down the length, I could recall names for every component, even those I could not see. Slide. Firing pin. Hammer. Safety. The disc, I knew, was the trigger. A tiny puzzle, one to which I knew the answer for just as much as my own heartbeat.
Afraid of it initially, I stepped back. I looked around again, before I approached the door. I was brought to pause. I sat back on my haunches.
How was I supposed to open it?
Utterly lost, I glanced at my violet hooves. I stared at the knob for several seconds. Minutes, even. I gathered enough bravery to fumble with it.
I clenched at it with my forehooves. Pinching it between them, I tried to turn it. I slipped off no less than seven times, the smooth surface foiling me at every effort.
I used my mouth. Clenching it between my teeth, the strength of my jaw I thought would be enough to open it. After several tries (and drying it off from my own saliva), I reached success. I pulled it open.
It led to another door just like mine, the portal embedded in a wall just like that of the room. I stepped forward, clacking my hooves on the pristine granite surface. I looked back, and forth. It was a hallway, perpendicular to where I had been staying.
It seemed endless. It ended in an a curved glare, the archway having no door. Only light existed beyond.
The wall that stretched to my left was filled with tall windows. Columns, patterned with the repeating shapes of rearing ponies in gold and silver, separated them in a mathematical perfection of architecture. Light poured within, shadows creeping across them in what I knew were clouds merely blocking out the sun.
To my right, the hall extended into darkness. Doors upon doors, just like my own, were on both sides. I could see nothing else besides unlit torches and a devouring black.
Nothing.
I heard nothing. I could see only what was in front of me. There was no clopping of hooves, no voices. Just a chilling, silent emptiness.
I looked back and forth. I called out. “Hello?”
My voice merely echoed. “Hello? Is anypony there?” I waited.
I went to the door opposite mine. I opened it, the same ignorant and stupid way I had before. Hadn't there been a better way?
Inside, it was a simulacrum of my room. I took stock in everything, trying my best to notice some detail. Some glaring difference.
The only thing I could find was that the sheets were not so well kept. As if somepony had been sleeping inside them, and never tended to them once they had gotten up. Other than that, it was all utterly plain. The same nightstand was there, and again, without a mirror.
I tried the next room. I absorbed all I could, and still, found nothing strange. Other than the sheets, and the complete lack of any really reflective surfaces.
I tried room after room, eventually stopping before the hall grew so black I could not see. Not a single pony was in any of them, but the signs of their life inside were apparent. The sheets, some food, the occasional books and luggage.
I turned around, trotting down the hall. I looked at the flecks of gold in the granite while I walked. The hollow sound of my hooves ricocheted, and turned tinny in my ears.
Was I alone in a place like this? How?
When I returned to my room, I took another glance. Saddlebags rested upon the pillow. Violet, though otherwise featureless, I had mistaken them in my waking daze for the pillows themselves. I could only assume they were mine. When I examined them, they were also very empty.
I shuffled through the only drawer. There was nothing inside, save for a small bottle. The corked flask had ten tiny white pills inside. I could only believe that they were mine, too.
I looked at the recorder. Brushing my hoof against it, I pressed upon the window it had. It clicked and opened, and inside, I saw a shape. Four points, precisely carved in a diamond shape. Just like the small crystal beside it.
I balanced it on one hoof. The open hood aimed at the desk, I bit my lower lip. That crystal didn't exactly appear durable. I held my breath as I slid it inside with my other hoof, hoping I wouldn't scratch it along the way. In it went, fitting nicely inside the hole within the device. I closed the hood.
I was met with static. Then the sound of a humming, wonderful choir of soprano voices, whispering a hymn though the room. It was weak, and as I listened, found my sore brain was cooling, and growing quickly numb. I could hear something beyond it. It was another voice.
Cool and collected. Superb enunciation. Flowing and deliberate control of her wording. I recognized it as mine.
“If you are hearing this message, you must take a moment to absorb your surroundings. If you have properly prepared, your kit will contain everything you require for your continued existence. It should have the following.
One: This recorder. Two crystal batteries for it's operation.
Two: One manual for the use of a model 1911a “horn gun” and custom trigger.
Three: One model 1911a “horn gun” with custom trigger.
Four: One bottle of alchemical pills, containing approximately six doses. If you are listening to this tape, it means there are likely only five doses inside. Do not take these pills, unless you have listened to the instructional crystal and are aware of their effects.
Five: A set of six double sided recording crystals, including the one to which you are listening to.”
The recording stopped, and the glowing crystal's shine weakened. I shook my head. What kind of prank was this? Why would I pull it on myself, of all ponies?
I looked to the nightstand. Everything was accounted for... Well, mostly everything. The crystal I had was the only one. At least it had a second side.
I popped the hood, and tilted it to place the crystal in my hoof. I had to figure out how to get it back inside, on it's belly- that proved tricky, but doable. I placed it half off of the nightstand, and gently tapped it's edge while holding the recorder below the crystal. It flipped, and I exhaled before jostling it down into the cavity to lock it in place.
“This crystal is an instructional video. Do not attempt to perform any of the activities inside without first listening to the entire tape. Doing so could endanger your survival.
Levitation. The event by which an object is suspended or manipulated, without actual physical contact. This is a basic form of magic, and since it's power is purely individual to your spirit, you should be safe to exercise without fear. It may, even, be necessary.”
Levitation? Of course! I knew there was a better way then my stupid hooves! Why hadn't the very idea come up to me before?
“To perform levitation, you must recognize that every object in the world has it's own aura. It is connected to your soul, so those of a serious or brutal temperament may actually find it difficult to control with precision.”
Yeah, yeah. Get on with it already!
“To levitate an object, you must first understand that you must be connected with it on some level. It does not have to be intense, merely enough for that object alone. When you see the object, you can wrap it in an extension of your spirit. Feel it as yours for the time you wish to manipulate it, and you will find it bends to your whim.”
I looked to the book. Square, flat, light. Easy. I squinted at it, and felt pain lurch through my horn. It burned my eyes and skull.
“The trick is that you must maintain the consistency of your levitation. Otherwise the object you are using will droop and sway.”
Keep it up, I told myself. Just, keep it up...
The book started to glow. The cover opened, pages hovering individually in the air. It started to lift by one of it's corners.
“It must encompass the entire object, for an accurate lift. To do this, you must at least imagine every detail you will be manipulating.”
The back cover. The pages. The front cover. I snapped it shut, and it lingered inches above the nightstand. Success, and with only basic instruction!
Though, in hearing my own voice, I had to wonder if I had ever actually been bad at it.
“From there you can apply more precise push or pull, at specific points on the object. Remember that in your levitation, the object is almost without gravity- you are only limited by the size of the object, and if the size of a field you can project can reasonably encompass that object. The field may be as small as you wish, but the number and size is proportional to your capacity and practice.”
I could open the book. I could flip chunks of pages. In moments, I found single pages were not so terribly difficult if I used the corners. I closed it, spun it, and bent it.
“With it's use, however, there is a danger. If you put too much strength into a field there are magical beings which can use your effort to track you. These beings will not always be friendly, and if you are listening to this, they are most likely not.”
I dropped the book.
“As is likely to be the case, the situation that they wish to kill you will be far more prevalent.”
My breath, hard and cold, froze in my throat. It dropped to my chest, and I had to swallow in order to be able to exhale. Kill me? I thought. Why?
“Make careful, precise use of levitation, and you will be able to utilize the lock on your defense tool. The 1911a 'horn gun.”
The recorder stopped. It winked out again. I closed my eyes.
What a crock. This was all just something a friend was doing. What's her name. Yeah.
But, the gun...
I could see it. “Feel” it's curves and weight. I knew every part of that gun, physically, and yet it held no markings that defined it beyond what it was. It was a part of me, that I had learned so deeply it could never leave my singed brain.
I wrapped it in another field. I didn't dare try as hard. To my surprise, I discovered it was actually easier when I wasn't focusing with such strength behind it.
I turned it. It was maintained well, and I could smell the oil when I brought it close. When I went to look at the tape, I found that I was pointing the mouth toward the ceiling. I realized that it was a practiced position, one I didn't even have to acknowledge in order for it to occur.
Where in Tartarus had I learned that? If I could levitate, why would I even need it?
I knew what I had to do with it to finish my check. The magazine release. I pressed it, and made another small field to catch it as it slid from the gun. Hovering it in front of me, the gaps within the magazine were eclipsed by brass. Seven rounds, one empty space at the bottom. I slid it back inside and it locked with a satisfying click.
I turned the weapon on it's side. Applying a gentle pinch to either side of it's back, another to the slide lock, I pulled it gently back. Inside there was a single, fat bullet, gleaming and fresh. I let it snap closed, gulping the round.
The hammer. I pulled it back, and it clicked. I could see the primer, the firing pin ready to stab it.
The trigger. That tiny disc, filled with gears and springs. Oh four five one. I tapped tiny divots within the gun with my levitation, and heard a clack.
The weapon was armed, and full. It was also very real.
I turned to the saddlebags. Putting the gun down, I diverted the field to them and hovered the set to me. These, too, I knew all too well. It was only a moment of pulled cloth and clinking snaps before it was on. Though, while I took to wearing them, I saw something.
There should have been something where I was looking. Something that had also been a part of me, so engrained that only death could remove it. The image of what it was could only flash through my mind, as if through the blur of a dingy window.
Cutie marks, I remembered. Mares were supposed to have those, right? I was supposed to have one, right?
I took to busying myself with the meager belongings. The recorder, the book, the pills. I found that a small pair of cloth rings, linked by steel, was on my right side strap. A holster.
With a shuffle, in the gun went. The handle stuck upwards, the magazine aimed at the ceiling. I realized something; I put a field around the hammer, holding it, and pulled the trigger.
Click. I let the hammer back down, oh-so-gently.
I trotted back outside, looking both ways. “Hello?” I called again. “Hello? Anypony?” I waited. “Anypony at all?” I scanned the room one last time. With no reason to stay, and many to start looking around, I left.
As I walked through the sunlit hall, I looked out the windows. The further along I got, the more I saw. Bulbs on top of towers, empty windows, and topped with needles. The towers seemed to extend along the mountains for miles. Courtyards were stacked atop one another, down far, far below, with circular and apparently symbolic murals that tried to impart on my the idea of a stylized sun. Small balcony's which jutted from windows were half-circular, and had marble railings covered in carved, golden ivy vines.
With all the doors that lead to it, with the sun so high in the sky, I realized there was an absence. Not just the lack of sound I'd noticed earlier.
The sky was barren. Not a bird, not a pegasus. Only the bright and brilliant sun.
The courtyards were lifeless. Not a cart, not a unicorn. Only the structures and decorations. Not a single, solitary pony.
The glare before me dissolved into the view of an open air staircase. I bit my tongue in my mouth, and looked back through the hall one last time. Pulling my weapon into a field, I cocked the hammer.
Holding it ready, peering down the sights on it's spine, I crept into the derelict streets and bereft skies of a place I would learn was once called Canterlot.
[***]
