Siren Song

Chapters

Siren Song, Part 1
Siren Song, Part 2
Green Apple
Golden Palm
Berry Punch
Doctor Stable
White Wash
Zephyr
Echo
Silverhoof
Rarity
Quick March
Epiphany, Part 1
Epiphany, Part 2
Generosity
Letters from the Deep

Siren Song, Part 1

I am somewhere between consciousness and dreaming, aware, but not awake. I experience the world, but I can no longer think, no longer act. There is a light above me, the moon, but there’s something wrong with it. The light ripples and sways, long shafts of silver growing dim. Strands from my mane float in my vision, moonlight turning purple to black. A bubble of air floats through them, moving up towards that silver point. I’m weightless, and numb. It’s not peaceful, not quite, but I no longer have any cares. I have not the will to so much as shut my eyes, but I don’t need to. It all goes dark.

For a moment, I am aware again. Something heavy drives into my gut, and I retch, though I don’t hear it. I taste salt. There is a pressure on my chest. Something sharp stabs into my flank, but I am too distant to the world to process what I feel as pain. Drifting as I am, I have no idea if this is all happening at once, or if I spend long periods unconscious between sensations. I feel like I am missing time, that things are happening to me only to be forgotten in the same moment, but I can no more experience disquiet than pain.

Something rough like cloth but hard like metal drags over my face, pulling my eyelids open. There is a foal in front of me, a unicorn with a white coat and the most unnatural red eyes. Red stains her tattered pink dress, like she’d been weeping blood, but the red is not tears—it fills every part of those eyes. Her horn is too long and comes to a sharp point instead of a rounded tip, like she was a princess. It is also the only part of her not flecked with red, so polished it almost gleams. There’s somepony with her, a brute of an earth pony. I can’t see him directly—he’s inside a brass diving suit with a heavy bubble helmet, studded with tiny windows. The helmet could fit a horn, but unicorns and pegasi don’t get that big. He’s the one holding my eyes open. The rough feeling is his suit pressing down under his hooves.

The foal is looking at me curiously, leaning in so close I can make out her irises. She does have them, even if I couldn't see them before. They’re a very slightly darker shade of red, visible only up close. She’s saying something to me; I can see her lips move, but I can’t hear anything, not even my own breathing. It’s like I’m watching a silent film reel of my own life—just pictures, no sound or feeling. She twists her head all the way around to her flanks to pick up something blue and shiny that she had tucked into her dress. She leans down to give it to me, careful not to gore me with that horn. She’s still leaning towards me when the stallion in the diving suit lets go of me, and my eyes shut.

The first impression that persists is weakness. Enough feeling returns to my legs for me to understand that I lack the strength to lift them. It should be unpleasant, even painful, but my mind seems as numb as my body. I possess awareness without thought—just feeling and existing.

My eyes open.

I am lying on my left side, and that part of my vision is filled entirely with white stone. There is a puddle on the floor around me, and I can see one of my forelegs and hooves just at the edge of my vision. Most of my sight is occupied by a large metal bin, only faint slivers of the room beyond visible around its edges. I cannot see its top, but orange light shines down around me, flickering and dancing on the floor. My eyes shut.

Sound is the next sense to return, an indeterminate time later. I can hear the lap of ocean waves around me, the sound of a fire crackling above me. There is no feeling of heat though, and in the first embers of thought, that strikes me as strange. That thought occupies me for what must be hours. I notice the sound, think of the oddity, and then lose the thought like water through a sieve, only to repeat it all again.

Acuity comes with the chill. The fire’s energy dances across me, but my skin is left cold. I try to squirm and find I can’t move, and that fact sets off a dull kind of alarm. The pain that has patiently lurked in the back of my mind abruptly snaps to the front, and I start to violently shiver. Truth comes to me in a sudden surge of awareness—I’m so cold that I’ve gone numb. The fire feels chill because its heat is all that’s giving me sensation. I’m going to freeze. I’m going to freeze! I try to move, sit up, do anything, but my limbs feel like they’re trapped in tar. I need to move. I need to move or I’ll die.

“Fire below decks!” I was jolted out of bed by the shout from one of the crew, tumbling to the rough wooden floor in a pile of tangled legs. The impact drove a splinter into my foreleg, and I winced, but the sounds around me made me forget the sting. Muffled yelling came through the door—no, screaming. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, and the air itself was hot, but my cabin was still too dark to see. I scrambled to my hooves, preparing to feel my way to the door, when a flash of light outside the porthole got my attention.

My legs twitch, my breath comes in wheezes. Panic compels me to hyperventilate, but my body won’t respond. The shivering is so intense that it’s like I’m having a seizure, and a distinctive chattering becomes audible from my teeth. Bile rises in my throat, and I realize I can’t lift my head. I can’t even pull away as I’m violently ill, a puddle of vomit forming under me. A rank smell assaults my nose, and the world seems to spin.

We were at sea. The full moon illuminated nothing but black water, all the way to the horizon. Close to the ship, the silver light played off the tips of waves and madetheir rippling visible, but in the distance, the sea became a featureless plane of obsidianthat defied all perspective. There seemed to be nothing around us that could have caught my eye, but then, I saw it in the distance: a white flash that slowly panned to darkness. The turning beacon of a lighthouse! I stood on the tips of my hooves to see, but looked down when I heard the sound of splintering wood below me.

Agony courses through me. As Celestia is kind, so biology is cruel, and I regain full consciousness just in time to experience the torments that have awaited me. My body feels like I’m encased in ice, a cold that ceases to be a chill and becomes a stabbing pain. I shake like a leaf in the wind and realize that the side of me covered in cuts is now the side laying against the pool of sick. I realize I’m going into shock and clamp my teeth together, my breath coming in hisses.

There was a crash, a crack, the sound of breaking wood repeated in steady intervals. The sound echoed through the wood of my cabin wall where it was flush with the hull. A sharp crack of impact, then the sound of wood slowly splintering under the weight—a pattern that worked its way upwards. Somepony was scaling the side of the ship with climbing hooks! I pressed my face to the glass to try and peer at who it was, but the darkness prevented me from seeing them. Suddenly, something rose in the glass—the dark outline of a pony face, unnatural and distorted. The eyes were too far apart, the mouth too big and too wide, its features twisted and uneven. I tumbled away from the porthole and hit the floor. I didn’t even hear it when I started screaming.

I’m screaming again now, but it’s my heart that pounds in my ears. The steady thumping grows louder and louder until it drowns out all other sound, and I’m convinced my heart must be about to burst. Is this shock? Am I having a seizure? My legs, which a moment ago were shivering, suddenly go so stiff, my joints pop, and my eyes fly open, rolling upwards in my head. For a moment, I can see a high, flat ceiling, and then my eyes squeeze shut again.

“Siren!” a familiar voice called to me when I made it onto the deck. Quick Bit, one of the crew who kept me company during the long voyage. Smoke was pouring from the forward hatches, and orange flames licked up the sails. Light blinded me when I looked directly into the flames, and when I looked away, the deck was nothing but a dark pool of motion and noise, my vision full of bright blobs and afterimages. “Siren!” he called again, and I saw his outline barreling towards me at a dead gallop. He seemed to be trying to signal something to me as he screamed my name. I heard a low, feral growl behind me, and seawater dripped onto my neck. Fear froze me to the spot and, like it was all some horrible dream, I turned in time to see the climbing hook rise. It glinted in the moonlight, a glittering drop of seawater running along the inside of the blade.

Breath is coming too fast for me to get any air, and I’m becoming lightheaded. I try to rise, but it only makes me spasm more, my hooves uselessly scraping over the wet stone. My neck twists, forcing me to look at the ceiling, my face contorted with pain.

Quick Bit hit me before the hook did, hurling me backwards into the railing. His blood sprayed across me, and I heard the sickening crunch of metal slicing through flesh. The railing cracked with the force of my impact, and I tumbled towards the black water below.

I gasp down an involuntary, shuddering breath, the ceiling seeming to writhe.

I hit the water, so cold it was like daggers against my coat.

I can’t move.

I couldn’t swim.

Mercifully, it all goes dark.

Every part of me hurts when I awake, but it’s a good pain—like the soreness in your muscles after a long gallop. It’s the kind of pain that lets you know you are alive, not the kind that warns you that life may soon be ending. Joints ache and muscles burn, but my limbs move like they should when I stretch them. The air tastes like salt and bile, and my mouth feels like sandpaper, but I can breathe normally. My left side burns from where I’ve been lying in the puddle of stomach acid and worse, but my right side feels the heat of the fire, and I am warm. Celestia hates it when I thank her for things she had nothing to do with, but I thank her anyway. Thank her I’m alive and I’m warm.

There’s something over my eyelids, and after I remember what I’m lying in, I decide it might not be a good idea to open my eyes just yet. The thought should disgust me, but even if my body is warm, my thoughts still feel cold. The idea of lying in a pool of my own vomit elicits nothing more than a mild, dull concern that I might have damaged my eyes. I think I might still be in shock.

After a few false starts, I manage to sit up, rubbing at my eyes with a hoof. I can feel more now that I’m alert, or, alert-ish. It hurts, but I think that’s a good thing. When Cirrus Cloud snapped her wing, she stumbled around in a daze for a good five minutes before she started screaming. Better I hurt a little now than feel fine only to discover that my horn snapped off.

I fumble at my forehead with a hoof. Horn still there. Right.

There’s a strange, rhythmic pounding in the air, quiet, but omnipresent. It makes the floor tremble ever so faintly, and me as well. I have no means to tell the time, but it seems that pulse comes about once a second. The spacing of the beats is too regular for an earthquake or footfalls, but not regular enough to be machine, and I struggle to identify it.

There are other things I didn’t notice before. The air around me is warm, but it is also still and stagnant, and I can feel cold licking against my flanks where I am furthest from the flames. The room is chill, I realize. The air is just too stagnant to carry the fire’s heat away, and so a bubble of warmth has built up around me. I scrape my forelegs across my face and neck until I feel fairly clean, and finally, vigorously shake myself off. The motion makes my muscles groan in protest, but it feels good, and I open my eyes.

For a strange, fleeting second, I think I’m back in Canterlot. It’s the only place I’ve ever known with buildings this large, and the room around me is made from white stone reminiscent of the capital. I’m on a dock of some kind, a stone pier that juts out into the dark sea. The scale of it would boggle a lesser pony, but I take it all in stride. There was never any danger of my rolling off the pier in my sleep—it’s at least fifty paces across, maybe more, and so long that the largest ship in Celestia’s navy could dock here with room to spare. There are more as well, a half-dozen in front of me, and possibly more behind me, all made of white stone. Their sheer size is intimidating, as is the architecture. Each one is a perfect rectangle, with sharp edges and sharp corners, the bases capped in metal so the stone won’t be washed away by the lapping of the waves.

It’s that that snaps me out of my dissonance. No matter how familiar it may superficially seem, it’s obvious to as brilliant an architect as myself that Celestia would never build something that belligerent. The designer must have been angry when he created it.

It takes a few false starts before I can stand. I let out a grunt of pain, my joints popping as my legs shake under me, but I don’t seem to have suffered any serious harm. As I suspected, the bin next to me has been filled with wood and detritus and set aflame, and the fire gives me more light with which to assess the extent of my injuries. I don’t seem to be cut or bleeding. My light purple—not pink—coat is still stained by bits of sick, but not by blood, and other than some minor scrapes and puncture wounds, I appear unbroken. Twisting my head around, I take a moment to inspect the rest of my body. My cutie mark, a set of musical notes and a silver star, seems to be the only part of me that emerged without so much as a scratch, resting unblemished on my flank. My bright red—not pink—tail is waterlogged, but likewise appears no worse for wear, and a few flicks restore it to its usual stiff shape. One more quick pat of my head to confirm my horn is still there completes my self-inspection, and I allow myself to take a slow breath.

In a way, taking careful stock of myself has been calming. It is something I can do, to feel more in control and indulge my analytical side. Now that it’s done, though, I can feel panic starting to rise in me again. Quickly, I stumble over to the edge of the pier, focusing on the here and now to keep fear from overwhelming me. I’m covered in vomit and worse. I need to clean it off. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as I kneel by the edge of the stone, out of time with the slower beat of the building and its strange lights. I reach down to the water so I have something to wash the grime off with, bracing for how cold it will be.

My hoof bounces off the water.

Given the circumstances, it’s entirely reasonable that I leap back with what might otherwise be interpreted as a squeak of fear, scrambling away, back onto the stone. After a few moments, I bravely crawl back to the pier’s edge and reach my hoof down, more slowly this time. As it nears the water, I can feel a tingling in the air—like when I’ve shuffled my hooves on the carpet—and finally, my hoof meets an invisible barrier just above the surface of the waves. It’s like touching a taut sheet of fabric, except that it won’t yield no matter how much pressure I put on it. That tingling, static feeling rises and falls with the rhythm of the building and the pulsing of the lights. Strangely, this calms me again. It’s a puzzle I can sort through.

I think back to Celestia’s lessons on magic, wishing I’d paid more attention to the boring parts. After a few moments, I shut my eyes in concentration, and my horn comes alight with its usual fuchsia—not pink—glow. A faint beam shines down from my horn towards the water, and where it strikes, a shimmering barrier becomes visible, stretched over the water’s surface. The magic from my horn fades, and I sigh and relax.

“Okay,” I murmur to myself, and although I’m only whispering, the sound of my own voice is a shocking break from the stillness around me. “Big forcefield. Right. Probably to stop anypony from falling into the icy water.” The thought occurs to me that it must take a very gifted unicorn to keep up a barrier this large, and that even then, it probably requires regular re-castings. I rise from where I kneel, scraping more of the gunk out of my coat with a hoof. “Right. So. Somepony must keep this place up, and they probably know how I got here. So all I have to do is wait for them to come back.” I glance around the room, swallowing. “Right.”

Looking around the room doesn’t fill me with confidence in that theory.

I make the mistake of looking left first. That casts my gaze away from the pier and into the bulk of the room, the space that would be used to load and unload cargo. The room is an unadorned box on a massive scale, but it is far from empty. The tattered remains of a garish shanty-town stretch out before my eyes for hundreds of paces. Ruined tents stitched together from bright cloth, broken and abandoned crates, and piles of litter and refuse lie scattered everywhere on the once-gleaming white floor. I realize that the foul, salty smell in the air comes from the camp as much as the ocean, and my nose wrinkles. That little flash of disgust feels good though, a break from the chill. I think I’m waking up.

“Or, maybe they’re really good at forcefield spells and haven’t been back here in years.” My heartbeat is picking up again, and I shut my eyes, forcing myself to draw slow breaths. “It’s okay, Siren. Somepony still saved you. Princess Celestia will save you. You’ll be okay.” That doesn’t quiet my fears much. I don’t think I’m buying it, so I throw a little commanding kick into my tone. “Now, you’re going to open your eyes, you’re going to carefully look around the room for anything you missed, and then you’re going to deal with it like the intelligent and capable mare you are.” I let out a trembling breath, and draw it back in. That helped.

“Right!” My eyes open.

The camp will take a long time to explore, I’m sure, so I start by turning about completely to follow the pier out to sea. I stop barely two steps into the journey though, staring ahead as I try to figure out what’s in front of me. There’s a wall there as well, which puzzles me—the pier doesn't jut out to sea, but actually connects to another white stone wall. It seems like that wall must slide away to allow ships to enter, but I can’t see any mechanisms that would cause it to do so. It’s like the wharf is a box with slats in the bottom, placed over the ocean.

Less sure of myself, I turn back around. If I don’t move, do something, focus on some task, I’m going to panic again. I set my hooves in motion without thinking about where I’m going, and after a moment, decide I’m exploring the shanty-town.

As I move down the pier, my thoughtful side takes over, and I look more closely at the room around me. Glancing up, I can see that the ceiling completes the box I’m trapped in. It’s perfectly flat and featureless, save for the evenly spaced glowing strips that illuminate the chamber and pulse with that omnipresent pounding. The scale of the room so dwarfs the camp that the collection of improvised structures looks more like a fungus growing on a forest floor than anything substantive. In fact, I think that was the architect's intent. This place is big and made of white stone, but fundamentally, it couldn't be less like Canterlot. Canterlot’s architecture conceals the size of the city, using rounded corners and bright decorations to make one feel at home and welcomed. This room emphasizes its size—the unyielding nature of the stone and metal it was made from. Knowing that this room was meant to make me feel small and fragile doesn't lessen its success in doing so, but I do thank Celestia for teaching me enough to realize that fact.

Lost in thought, I almost don’t notice when I pass off the end of the pier and enter the squatter camp, the steady beat of my hooves on the stone unconsciously falling into time with the pulse of this room and its force barrier. It’s the smell that snaps me out of it. Of course, there is no scent of salt coming from the ocean, not with that barrier in place, but this camp more than makes up for it. Though it seems empty now, it was obviously once inhabited, and this chamber was not designed with sanitation in mind. The stench of decay, waste, and brine is overwhelming, and I have to shake my head to clear it. Water drips from the ceiling, forming puddles on the floor, and many of the cloth tents have become waterlogged homes for mildew and rot.

At first, I hurry through the camp—there doesn't seem to be much of interest here, and I’m sure breathing that air can’t be healthy—but I slow my pace when I see writing in the corner of my eye. There are signs scattered about the camp, nailed to sticks so that a unicorn can levitate them, or done up with cords for an earth pony. The writing on them is strangely regular, and that catches my attention more than the content. One of them reads, “Let it End! Let us Ascend!” and I squint in puzzlement that every ‘e’ is exactly the same as every other. No scribe is so steady, and I can’t imagine somepony taking the time to create all these signs with a printing press. Another sign reads, “We Aren't Your Property!” I levitate the two signs together to compare them, and find the writing between them identical.

There’s writing on the tents and floor as well. A brilliant emerald banner with “FREEDOM” stitched onto it in gold has been used to make a crude cover, and the dips in the cloth are now full of water. Under the cover, I can see the tattered remains of somepony’s bed, along with some broken china, a wrench, and a pile of trash. I lean forward to look more closely, before the smell from the bed forces me to lean back. I consider taking the wrench as well, but I have no saddlebags to carry it in.

There are more things to see in the camp, and given the size of it, it’s almost certain I’ll find something useful if I search long enough, but I find myself drawn to the far side. In the distance, a commanding set of stairs seems to rise out of the camp, towards a strange square door, made of steel and covered in markings of some variety. A statue has been carved into the wall above the door—it’s an earth pony stallion, connected to the wall at the waist, one hoof down, another raised, so that the stairwell passes underneath him towards the door. He’s handsome, and the sculptor made him look hard and resolute, but he seems to be faintly glaring down at the room, like that raised hoof might fall to crush anyone who tried to move past him.

The sculptor was very skilled—instead of becoming looming and dark, the statue plays with perspective the closer I draw to it. From a distance, he seemed to glare, his hoof ready to strike, but up close, his resolute anger softens, and he gestures me forward. I don’t really go for powerful, overbearing stallions, but I can see the appeal the sculptor was trying to engender, something that has all the traits of a protector, a warrior, and a coltfriend without really being any of them. Even walking under the statue feels diminishing, like I was a foal again.

The stairs are as scattered with debris as the rest of the room. Each step is at least three paces deep, and the height difference between steps is sharp enough that ascending this would be more like climbing an incline than using a stairwell. There’s writing on the steps though, stretched out over them so it's invisible to someone on the stairs, but from the base, golden characters are formed. “‘The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.’ With those words, Sine Rider laid the foundation of the first free city in the world.”

“Vision.”

There’s something carved into the steps, just below the last word—a sine wave and a pair of horseshoes. After a moment’s thought, I deduce that it must be “Sine Rider’s” cutie mark, since the statue connects to the wall before his flank. I start up the steps, since I can always turn around and go back to the docks to wait. The statue casts a deep shadow over the stairs, and I lose sight of the writing as I ascend.

The door at the top of the stairs is different from the rest of the room. It’s built on the same scale as the rest, but it distinctly doesn't fit the spartan, hard-edged aesthetic. It’s made of polished steel, dominated by a large gear in the center, to which many joined rods connect, going in all directions. A cap rests over the gear so only the gear’s teeth can be seen. The cap itself is decorated as well—stamped with the word “Securis,” and adorned with a clear gem embedded just below the writing.

You can’t grow up in Canterlot as one of those hillfillies who thinks watches are powered by magic, and Celestia has taught me enough about mechanical things that I at least recognize the mechanism of the door—the gear turns to remove the bolts, letting the door slide open. I also know enough about magic to recognize that that clear gem holds a telekinesis spell to handle the extreme weight of it all. None of that, though, tells me how to activate the spell and open the door.

First, I try the obvious, turning the gear with my own magic to see if the gem simply enhances manual opening. Nothing. Next, I try pushing on it with a hoof, knocking, and then finally bucking the door.

It occurs to me that steel is hard about the same time that I decide, for unrelated reasons, to curl up on the floor and whimper like a little filly. The shock of impact hits me so hard my eyes water, and every beat of my heart makes my ankles throb. I actually have to feel around to make sure my hooves aren’t cracked, but they aren't, and for all that it hurts, I have to laugh.

“Not your brightest moment, Siren,” I say to myself through the pain, gently flexing my rear legs as life flows back into them. It takes a few minutes of that before I can wipe the tears away and get back up, but no insights come to me in that time. I spend a few more fruitless minutes examining the door trying to divine some secret mechanism I hadn’t noticed before, but it comes for naught, and I shake my head and turn away. Time to take a different approach.

“Right, Siren. You’re the kind of pony who would build a room like this.” I gesture to the wharf spread out before me, deriving a surge of confidence from the sound of my own voice. Lots of ponies do that though—I sound very commanding, yet considerate and feminine. “How do you open your doors?” I reach a hoof up to my face, tapping my teeth in thought.

“Okay, I’m a stallion who builds statues of himself with pithy quotes below them. Really good statues. I’m compensating for something.” For a moment, I pause, as my mind flashes back to Celestia’s lessons on understanding ponies and art. The pony who made this room was an artist, I’m sure of it. No common pony could have made this space.

“No. The statue isn’t the center of attention, it’s just one part of the room making everypony in it feel overwhelmed. It’s not about my ego—I have a point to make, and that point is...” I tap my teeth again, eyes going to the floor.

“Who is going to stop me?” I turn back to face the door. “The door isn’t a who. What’s going to stop me?” The thick steel gleams in front of me, but I hardly see it. It’s just a mechanical convenience, and hardly relevant. “Fear of approaching the stairs at all? Fear of this room? Doubt? Giving up.” I look up at the door, drawing a deep breath.

“Open!” I shout, but nothing happens. “Activate!” I try, but again, nothing. “Lift! Unlock! Turn! Let me pass!” I wince when I realize my obvious mistake, completely missing the point of the piece. The door doesn't need to let me do anything. “Get out of my way!” I bellow, my voice echoing through the vast chamber.

Slowly, the gem lights, and as the gear starts to turn, a grin appears on my face. “Oh yes, Siren, you are good.” I grin, doing a little dance with my forehooves. “You’re gonna be back home safe in—” As the bolts slide out of position, and the door slowly lifts, something dashes out from under the door, rushing towards me. Adrenaline surges through me, and I shriek, scrambling away from the door and blindly beating at it with my hooves. I don’t recall shutting my eyes, but when I open them, the rat is giving me a very confused look just out of the reach of my hooves, and after a moment, it scrambles past me down the stairs.

Quietly, I lower myself back to all four hooves, and while I’m quite certain this room is abandoned, I look around to make sure nopony saw that. I clear my throat, and trot ahead through the opening door.

The space on the other side is just the inverse of the room behind me, designed to knock me off guard. A stubby, featureless corridor splits to a collection of claustrophobically small passageways, seemingly twisting off into a hundred different directions. None of them are labeled, and the plain white stone is adorned by nothing but the pulsing strips of light on the ceiling.

“This is redundant, you know,” I speak to the creator of the space as I pick a corridor at random and trot down it. They all go to the same place, I’m sure. “I get it. I’ve just gotten off the ship, there’s a press of ponies behind me. I have to go down one corridor, and I don’t have time to pick. The shock of the sudden change makes me feel uncertain. There are ponies yelling at me in confusion. You’re trying to make me feel helpless and indecisive.” Talking to myself conceals the slight tremor I feel when I pass out of sight of the main chamber, now enveloped entirely in a corridor that couldn't fit two ponies abreast. My hoof splashes into a pool of icy water, and I look up to see that the ceiling is dripping. I pick up the pace, but only because there’s no reason not to.

“No, better—you’re trying to make me feel ashamed that I’m helpless and indecisive. I’m wise to your game, ‘Rider.’ This corridor is going to lead somewhere beautiful. Then you’re going to show me that all the corridors go to the same place, and there’s going to be a little sign saying ‘Well aren't you stupid for making a big fuss out of picking.’” Ahead of me, the corridor twists and turns so that I can never see more than a few dozen paces ahead of myself. I keep waiting for the end, but all I can hear is the splash of my own hooves in the puddles, and the faint beat of the lights overhead.

“It’s a really obvious trick,” I assert, just to make myself clear. The passageway distorts sound, giving the false impression that my hoofbeats are coming faster. Cold water splashes against my undercarriage as I trot through a puddle, making my tail lash as I shiver.

“Very unsubtle. Just like a stallion.” I try not to be sexist, but I can’t think of anything else to say. The corridor continues to stretch and wind ahead of me. I pick up the pace to a canter.

“It’s a cheap trick, too!” I call out, my voice echoing up and down the pathway around me. “Big to small, distant to up-close. Shock is the most plebeian form of art. I bet the room on the other end is going to be really colorful too, just because you’ve had all this plain white stone.” The lighted strip above me is humming, but the beats seem to be coming faster than they were a moment ago. My ears fold back, and I can’t tell what direction I’m facing. The corridor weaves back and forth, but each twist is not quite the same angle as the one before it. Instinctively, I look over my shoulder to orient myself. Somewhere behind me, I hear water splash.

I break into a gallop.

“It’s just the ceiling dripping,” I say, as my hooves make a steady beat against the corridor. The walls whip past me, moving so fast I have to lean into the curves. “It’s just the ceiling dripping,” I repeat, the rhythm of the lights matched by the growing pounding in my ears. “It’s just the ceiling dripping. It’s just the ceiling dripping. It’s just the ceiling dripping!” I’m panting the words out, struggling for breath. Ice water splashes against my legs as I run through puddles, spraying my chest and belly and running down my tail. Rushing around another bend, I see a flash of bright blue in the distance. Another banner, like the one from the camp! As the tunnel straightens, I put on a burst of speed, and the exit appears as a dark square ahead of me. I almost leap the last few feet, sliding to a stop as I exit the tunnel mouth.

I’m on the lowest level of a promenade many stories tall. In front of me are vast windows that contain no glass, just the faint pounding of those force fields. Bright banners hang between each one, decorated with Sine Rider’s cutie mark and a collection of words like “FREEDOM” or “PLENTY.” Garish merchant stalls fill the space in front of me, containing a dizzying array of goods. It’s exactly what I predicted.

Except that it’s all horribly wrong.

There’s nothing outside the windows but a murky darkness, in which fish can sometimes faintly be seen. The realization that I’m underwater hits me like a physical blow, and my eyes go wide when I see that the walls between the windows are cracked, and have sprung leaks. The banners are tattered and moldy, the merchant stalls upturned, everything inside them rusted, rotted, or broken. The entire promenade is under a hoof’s depth of grimy, oily water, and graffiti covers everything. I see a dark red splatter against one wall, used to spell out “REVOLT” against the white stone. The splatter pattern on the wall is distinctive, and slowly, my eyes are drawn down to the floor below it. The remains of a mare are in the water there, hacked to pieces, and decayed.

She’s dead. She’s... I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here! The pounding in my ears drowns out all other sound, and my breath comes so fast I’m suddenly lightheaded. I try to run, but my legs tangle each other, and I fall down into the water. I don’t realize I’m screaming until I feel the water spray out around my mouth, and then I can hear it. I’m screaming and screaming and can’t stop. The taste of oil and far worse things floods my muzzle, and when a desperate breath sucks water down into my lungs, I start to choke. I know I’m flailing, but I’m helpless to stop as I try to do something, anything to get my head out of the water, spitting the grime back up as I retch. The difference in height between the passageway and the promenade doesn't even make it to my ankles, but I grab on like it was a liferaft, pulling myself out of that water and onto the hard stone with all of the desperation of a drowning mare.

“Oh no. Oh please no. I can’t be here. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. It can’t... this isn’t real. Please tell me it’s not real.” The fact that Quick Bit and the rest of the ship’s crew are dead suddenly surfaces from whatever crevice in my mind it was hiding in. I tell Celestia I’m sorry I ever left the palace, that I’m sorry I ran away. I curl into a ball and shiver. I promise I’ll never disobey her again if this can just all turn out to be some horrible dream and I can go home. I just want to go home. I just want to go home.

“Celestia can’t help you now, little filly.”

I look up like a frightened animal, scrambling to my hooves with a splash. My head turns left and right, wildly looking in every direction for the source of that voice and the dark chuckling that follows it. My ears scan back and forth, the sound echoing around the promenade. It’s deep, a stallion’s voice, and the echo makes it hard to tell where it came from. I can hear water splashing around his ankles, somewhere close.

“Boo!”

I shriek and scramble away in the water, and he laughs, mere paces behind me. He’s big, with a tan coat and filthy mane. For a moment, I think he’s a unicorn—but that’s not a horn on his head. It’s a jagged kitchen knife, stuck to a boxy metal hat with glue and wire. He’s the most powerfully ugly pony I’ve ever seen, eyes not on the same level, jaw misshapen and bulging. His lips don’t quite meet when he shuts his mouth, and his coat is stained by a line of black drool. Even through the terror, I feel the need to shun this hideous thing, disgust turning my head away and seizing my throat. His torso seems deformed as well, and a stunning collection of tattoos covers his body and chest. Flowers, gears, candles, bats, no two of them quite the same, all painted into his coat in exquisite detail.

“Oh, I saw that.” He advances, and when his hooves lift from the water, they glitter. I glance down at them, quick, then back to his face, but the movement is too sharp for me to see what it is. “Pretty unicorn like you too good for a workin’ pony?” He lifts his hoof out of the water for a moment so I can get a clear look at it. A roll of thick tape has been used to strap a collection of broken razor blades to his hoof, now long rusted by the water. I let out a faint gasp, and he grins at me with a mouth full of broken, yellow teeth. The thought of him... enjoying this makes my stomach churn, and I taste bile.

I force my breathing down. Having an object to focus on makes it easier to deal with. This is no different than Celestia’s tests; I just need to face it with a clear head. “Buck right I am,” I snap, trying to remember what’s in front of me—some ill-born thug, nothing more. I don’t think my voice is trembling, not too much, and I lash my tail for emphasis. “I’m Celestia’s personal student, so why don’t you back off before I make you eat that hat?” A soft magenta glow surrounds my horn, and I reach out with my magic to pluck the stabbing weapon off his head.

A moment later, the light around my horn fades, his hat unmoved. “I don’t think so, little filly.” He twists his leg around for a moment so I can see his shoulder, and one of the tattoos there sparkles. It shows an earth pony, surrounded by a skin-tight blue barrier, and he grins as my face falls. This shouldn't be possible. It isn’t possible. Earth ponies can’t do that! My horn flares as I reach out to rip the blades off his hoof, but the light fades, and nothing happens. I reach out with my magic to shove him away, nothing happens. I try to cast the only “combat” spell I know, a little magic bolt, and my horn splutters like a dying candle.

“Don’t worry,” he assures me, taking a step forward with my magic’s every failed attempt. “I couldn't hurt a pretty thing like you.” He’s so close now, I can smell his putrid breath, see those grimy yellow eyes. “Much.”

My horn shines again, grabbing the water around my ankles, and I all but shudder with relief when I feel it move. He has enough time to look down and squint to try to see what’s happening before I hurl a jet of the oily broth right into his degenerate face. I turn on the spot and blindly buck behind me. I don’t even know if I hit him, and my hinds no sooner hit the ground than I’m galloping.

Water sprays around me as I weave between crumbling stands and rotting fixtures, using my magic to throw anything I can see behind me to try and slow him down. It’s not working. I can hear him gaining, and my back goes tense in anticipation of that first blow. The water is cold, but the surge of adrenaline and effort makes me feel like I’m overheating. I drive the heat up into my horn, and it shines like it never has before, hurling the remains of a fruit stand behind me. I can’t look; I’m not sure if it worked. No blow comes to my back, but I can still hear him gaining.

There’s nowhere to hide. The tunnels all lead back to the same place, long corridors for him to run me down in. The debris around us is either too heavy for me to lift and throw or useless as a weapon. I throw everything my magic can grab, and I don’t even miss a step when I realize I’ve picked up a corpse and hurled it over my shoulder. I start to shudder at the thought, but I can’t stop. He’s right behind me!

Stairs flanked by banners rise up out of the water before me as we reach the end of the promenade. Some part of me takes bizarre satisfaction in noticing that another statue with a quote under it straddles the stairs, just like I predicted. A surge of energy rushes through me every time my wet hooves slip on the slick stone, and I’m certain I’m about to tumble back into that knife on his helmet. I can hear his hooves echoing on the stairs.

I leap over the last few steps, galloping ahead without looking where I’m going. I’m in a courtyard of some kind, tiles, dead trees, stores all around the edge. There’s a door ajar, straight ahead of me. I push it open with my magic, charging through and slamming it shut behind me. It occurs to me just how stupid it is to think I could hold a door shut against a determined earth pony, but I slide to a halt anyway, throwing myself back against the door. I can’t see a thing, and my hooves fumble blindly for a lock, a latch, anything. I brace for the crash of his hooves hitting the door.

Nothing. Not a sound.

He’s waiting for me to let my guard down so he can kick open the unbraced door.

I force myself to focus, to pay attention. I light my horn, enough to see by. There’s a lock, and I turn it. There’s a deadbolt—I close it too. I brace my rear hooves against the floor, and press my forehooves to the door like I’ve seen earth ponies do when they push heavy things. I squeeze my eyes shut, my body shaking with the tension, waiting for that shudder of impact.

Nothing. He’s waiting for something, and I won’t be able to hold up this effort much longer. I’m not the kind of pony who runs mareathons! My legs are already shaking. He’s going to hear me collapse, know I’m not holding the door, and kick it in. I can’t keep this up. I can’t.

“Please, no,” I whisper. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My legs are shaking—the strength in them is gone. I’m barely holding my own weight, much less the door, but I keep pressing until the muscles burn. I realize I didn’t check what was in this room before I locked myself inside. It could be full of thugs, monsters, worse. He’s not pounding on the door because there’s another way in. He’s not pounding on the door because he’s going to come up behind me any moment. I can hear sounds in the darkness around me: a door opening, hoof falls, things moving.

“I’m sorry, please don’t. I just want to go home. I just want to go home.” My legs buckle under me, and I slump to the floor. It feels like I’m shaking, but after a moment, I realize it’s sobbing. My face is already so wet that I can’t feel the tears. Do tears attract degenerate ponies? Is he listening to my sobbing, just waiting for the right moment? My back tenses as I curl into a ball. I can feel his hooves brushing over me. My horn touches the hard floor, and I can see the two of us facing each other. We’re two lovebirds, my horn scraping over that blade in a gesture of affection. I want to retch but I don’t know if I can.

I should never have left the palace. It’s not fair. I just want to go home.

I just want to go home.

Siren Song, Part 2

It’s raining outside, a real thunderstorm. The lightning frightens me, and my stupid pegasi friends just point and laugh. My little hooves clip and clop against the stone of the palace floors, as I hurry through the empty halls. Nopony is here but the guards—they’ve all gone home for the day—and the palace halls seem wide and empty. The statues glare down at me as I pass them, and every crash of lightning makes me move faster. Not too fast though; I’m not a little foal anymore.

The princess’s door looms up in front of me. It’s impossibly big, hard wood and steel, and it feels old. I’ve seen it in old palace pictures and drawings, and I know it’s the same door because there’s a scratch right down the middle. I never asked Celestia how the scratch got there, but it’s been there for centuries. I’m afraid to knock, like my hoof would break if I struck something that ancient. The lightning crashes, and my hooves are suddenly fused to the floor, unable to move or lift.

“Come in, Siren,” Celestia calls to me. I rear up onto my hind legs so I can reach the door handle, straining up onto the tips of my hooves and fumbling with it for a moment. I finally get the handle turned, awkwardly backing away on my rear legs until the door is open a crack. I drop back to all fours and nose the door open. I wish I was old enough to open it like the other unicorns.

Celestia is working, curled up on her bed in front of the fireplace. Her room is huge, but that’s just because it’s built for her size. There’s really not much in it—just a bed and a fireplace and a reading stand and some hangings on the walls with funny star designs. The hearth is the only light in the room, and it casts strange shadows, making the hangings seem distant, like they were real stars instead of just cloth. Glancing down, I see the pile of scrolls and correspondence by the bedside, and that she’s pulled up the reading stand. The fire is blazing and I can feel the heat even from the door, but she’s left the window open as well, so she can hear the rain and lightning. Sometimes, I forget that she’s part pegasus.

I think she sees me looking at the window, because she asks, “Do you like the sound of the storm, Siren?” when she knows that I don’t. I nod anyway, bravely, and I don’t even jump that much when she shuts the door behind me.

“Uh-huh,” I insist, and she totally believes me. She even smiles! “But, um. It makes my room really noisy, and I can’t sleep. Can I stay here with you?”

“Well, a growing foal needs her sleep. I suppose you’ll have to.” Lightning crashes as she raises a wing, and I dart forward towards her. Celestia is like the door if it were warm and nice—old and super giant. Even when I’m standing and she’s lying down, I barely come up to her shoulders. I know she hates it when the other foals and I run under her, and she double hates it when we use her as the last limbo pole in our super awesome obstacle course, but it’s still really cool. She puts her wing around me after I curl up against her, and it’s like being in a little, dark cave. She’s working, so she won’t talk much, but it’s okay. I press my hooves down into the blankets and nuzzle up against her, squeezing my eyes shut.

She’s not that much like the door after all. They’re both big, and old, but the door doesn't move. Celestia is always moving, little things like breathing or adjusting to get more comfortable. Her barrel rises and falls with every breath, and her wings shift and squeeze. My ears perk up, and I listen. Paper rustles, and I wonder what she’s working on. I press an ear to her side, and I can hear her breathing, the rush of air in and out. I can even hear her heartbeat—that regular thump, pulsing through her sides and the wings around me.

It’s still raining, though, and I can feel the drops landing on me. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, and put my hooves over my head. “Princess, the rain is blowing in the window. Can you shut it?” There’s no answer, and her wings press harder against me. Her heart seems louder, shaking her and me with every thump as her breath rasps. Icy water droplets sting when they hit my coat, and her wings do nothing to keep them out. “Princess, please?” She’s never ignored me when I sound that cute before, but she does now, not saying a word as her grip tightens.

“Princess, you’re hurting me!” The pressure against my sides is making it hard to breathe, and the water is chilling me to the bone. Her heart is pounding in my ears, making me shake with every beat. The bed shudders with every thump like the sound of her heart was coming up through the floor and rattling the castle around us. I struggle, but she’s so much stronger than me. “Princess, stop. Stop! Princess, please! Princess!”

I wake up.

I’m lying in a puddle of water, and my entire right side feels numb. My mouth tastes like salt and filth, and every muscle in my legs burns. I’m curled up so tight I know it would hurt just to uncurl, and so I don’t. I just breathe, my eyes pointlessly darting around the pitch-black room.

Am I okay? Did I imagine all of it?

Did he touch me?

My forehooves travel over my body slowly, feeling for every cut, every bruise, anything that wasn’t there before. There’s a cut on my side—is that new? Does my horn feel nicked? Scratched by a blade? Is that a hoofprint I feel on my back? What about my tail? I reach down to my tail.

It’s still tucked tight between my legs, curled up under me.

I shudder, my spine letting out a loud pop as I unfold. Water sloshes around me, and I lift my head out of it. My chest shakes, and I cough violently as I sit up, drops of water and filth ejected out of my lungs. It takes time for the coughing fit to end, and a shiver runs through me at the idea that all this water might be giving me pneumonia or worse. There’s nothing I can do about it now though, and once I’ve sat up, I let my horn come alight.

The first thing I see is the door, still locked. It doesn't take me long after that to realize I’m lying in a puddle of filthy brine-water, and I quickly rise, shaking myself off. My joints crack with the motion, and I afford myself a long, leisurely stretch. The sound that results makes me wince, but it feels so good I don’t care, and for the moment that cathartic shock runs through me, my face is stupidly blissful. It only lasts a moment though, and I shake my head, turning back to face the room.

I’m in some kind of lounge, though its function eludes me. I see a half-dozen booths of some kind, about twice the size of a pony, each one made of gleaming lacquered wood. There’s a thick carpet on the floor, the original sea-blue barely visible under the mold-green grime that covers it. Idyllic images of flowering fields and trees adorn the peeling wallpaper, and faint after-images are visible on the white stone behind them. I wince at a magenta flash, and I realize the light from my horn has bounced off a line of mirrors in the back. Directly to my right, there’s an attendant’s station—a little chair next to a countertop with a tray full of mints and a tip bowl. I can still hear the forcefields and light strips, but there are none of either here, and I spot the muted gleam of tarnished brass oil lamps in wall brackets.

A lesser pony would have leapt to the conclusion that this place was an upscale bathroom, but I notice the discrepancies. First, the smell, or rather, the lack of it. No broken sewage pipes, no antiseptics. Second, the mirrors are over tables, not sinks, and there are no towels on the attendant’s station. Third, most importantly, the aesthetics are all wrong. This isn’t a place designed to project sterility and efficient comfort; it’s downright social. The designer wanted you to sit here and have a chat with your marefriends about how your day is going. There’s even a little sign by the door: “Don’t Forget Your Saddlebags!” It’s written in bright, friendly pink. I hate pink.

I let a breath in... and out. Right. First things first. The light from my horn overtakes the attendant’s station, and I pull open the cabinets under it, rooting around through the supplies there. It doesn't take me long to find a refill for the oil lamps, a half-filled grimy bottle of kerosene. The first lamp I try has no wick left, and the second has a hole in the bottom of the pan, but the third—by the booths—is intact, and a spark from my horn lights it. Warm white candlelight replaces my soft magenta glow, and I let my magic relax.

“Right,” I say to the lamp. “Next, I ah...” I light all the other lamps that are still in working order, turning them up all the way until the room is bright. It uses up all the oil, but it makes me feel better.

“Right,” I repeat, turning to the room as a whole. “Next, I assess the situation.” That sounds good, very decisive, but I can’t help but feel it needs a little follow up. “The situation. Which is,” I continue, “which is that I have locked myself in a lounge of some kind, and outside, there’s a deranged earth pony sorcerer waiting to chop me up. I’m in some kind of... seapony city.” It sounds half-witted as soon as I say it, and I momentarily grind to a halt. I pick it up again though—need to keep that momentum going. “There are no obvious means of escape, but, I’m Celestia’s prized pupil! She’ll come for me when it’s clear that I’m missing.” I bite my lip, a hoof dragging over the carpet. “In a few months. I just need to hold out until then!”

“So, step two, uh... assess... what resources are available. Starting with this room.” I glance across the room, noticing what facilities are there, and specifically, which aren't, as I earlier noted. I let out a breath, considering if things can just wait, but under the circumstances, it doesn't seem like I’ll get a break soon. I’m not proud of what happens next, but, it’s not like that puddle by the door could get any filthier.

“Right!” I exclaim, with more force than I strictly need to. “Step two, assess resources.” I turn to one of the stations and push the door open.

For the most part, it’s empty—just a space for a pony to stand in with plenty of knee room. The only thing in it is at the far end: a life-size copper statue of a pony on a stand. No, not a statue, an automaton—I can see the gears and cogs beneath the smooth segments of its legs. It’s sexless, its face featureless except for two glass eyes, its tail and mane made from actual hair that has long since faded. It hangs limply on its stand, limbs swaying faintly under it. I can’t see a crank or other controls, but there’s a hexagonal slot on its flank, like something is meant to be inserted there. Once again, I wish I’d paid more attention when Celestia taught me about magical theory.

“I wish I’d paid more attention when Celestia taught me about magical theory.” It makes me feel better to say it aloud.

“Right, well, you obviously come to life.” I glance at the heavy stand it’s braced on, checking to see if it releases. From the looks of it, it doesn't, connecting straight to the floor. “You don’t go anywhere though. The designer wanted me to feel social around you, but being in the booth with you is private. You’re pretty—” I briefly admire the smooth, minimalist construction, “—but sexless, so you aren't a model for clothes or anything. All of which means...” I apply my razor wit and the whole of my training to the problem, looking over every detail.

“Um...” I mutter, furrowing my brow. I take a moment to reflect on the applicability of the dozens of intellectual fields I have mastered to this particular dilemma.

“I’ll come back to this later,” I decide firmly, resolving to be more efficient by gathering all available information before I waste time overthinking it. I step out of the booth, heading back to the attendant’s station. My stomach growls loudly, and after a moment to brush the dust off, I grimace and eat the pile of mints. It leaves my mouth feeling so dry and cold I worry my jaw might crack and fall off, but at least I can’t taste the brine water anymore.

A more thorough search of the supply cabinet proves fruitless. There’s no potable water or helpful tools, just cleaning solutions, rags, lubricating oil, and some interesting but not immediately useful beauty products. I do take a moment to examine the bottles, noting the garish, faded labels: Crank Shaft’s Universal Machine Oil, Sparkle Enchantment’s Automaton Restorative (Now with Pine Scent!), Pinkie’s Pie-Flavored Cleaning Solvent (Danger: Not Actually Pie Flavored. Highly Toxic. Do Not Drink). All of the bottles have some overdone logo that matches their equally colorful contents. I wrinkle my nose at the last one; pink is such an awful color.

More importantly though, none of these are brands or manufacturers I’ve ever heard of. Not that I’ve ever cleaned anything before, but... obviously, none of this came from Equestria. Any doubts I may have had are dispelled when I pick up the bottle of Brilliance tail-shine, and a hot blush rises to my face when I see the label. Even though the label is faded and cracked, I can still see the mare on it quite clearly. She’s shockingly pretty, her tail and mane such a rich green that the color seems to radiate out through the paper, and her pose is... the sort of thing they wouldn't let you publish in Equestria. Although, I can see her tail quite clearly and it is indeed very shiny. I put the bottle back.

Finally, I make it to the mirrors on the room’s far side. Each one is a makeup station with an oil lamp over the mirror and a small countertop in front of it. I already know how filthy I must be, so there’s no point in looking into the mirror, and I focus on searching the stations for useful items. The entire place is a mess, and the supplies have been knocked onto the ground and trampled, but between all six stations, I manage to find an unbroken comb, brush, horn file, scissors, half of a set of horseshoes, and hoof clipper. I’m not completely sure how these are going to help me survive a crisis, but I’ve collected my tools. That’s important.

Finally, with nothing else left in the room, I look into the mirror. I squint.

“Ewwww.” I feel the mints threatening to escape, and I hurriedly grab the brush and comb with my magic, trying to scrape off those bits of... decaying...

I shudder, and brush harder, violently shaking myself off again, peering into the mirror to make sure I got it all. My light-purple coat looks brown, my mane is tangled and twisted, my tail is dripping something black. My eyes dart over my reflection, looking for any trace of that sickly green, and when I see another piece of it in my mane, I pounce on it with the brush and comb. Strands tangle and fray as I brutalize the poor hairs, knocking the last bits of filth off me. The comb suddenly snarls on something, and I squeal in pain as I rip a few hairs off my back.

After a few experimental tugs, I determine that the comb is quite stuck, but it doesn't feel like a knot. I reach back with a hoof, blindly pressing around until I feel the comb, and something taut around it. String? There’s something hard in my mane, like a rock, with a cord attached to it. A necklace! At this point, my mane is hopelessly tangled anyway, and so I bite down and levitate the scissors up behind me. A single, loud slice frees the comb and its strange prize. I levitate the filthy ball of hair and detritus in front of me, and it sparkles.

It takes me a few moments with the scissors to free the items. I have to cut the stone at the end of the necklace from its cord entirely, and after some thought, I throw the rest away. It’s a bright blue crystal, hexagonal and flat on both ends. I remember the strange foal and the pony in a diving suit, and cleverly conclude that she must have tied the stone into my mane so I couldn't lose it. Holding it up for a closer look, I can see that its about as long from end to end as my hoof, and perhaps a fourth as wide. One end is unadorned, but the other has etchings that show a magic wand with a star on the end. The size and shape of the crystal is familiar, and I look back to the booth.

“So, the pony who saved me gave me this. They obviously wanted to help me, and so they must have thought this could be useful. Picking a random door in a random plaza just happened to leave me with a device that this fits.” I step back into the booth, and holding the crystal up to the slot confirms it’s the right size. “Obviously, these automata are very common, and this crystal will let me turn them on so I can escape.” I slot the crystal into place, and it fits perfectly. “Automaton!” I give a decisive command, “Help me escape!”

“Automaton! Activate!” I try again. “Um. Turn on. Come to life! Obey! Uh... fire up?” I pull the crystal in and out, tap it with a hoof, and try to energize the machine with my horn. I try the crystal in the other booths, inspect it for cracks or other damage, and dry it off just in case it’s water sensitive. I rifle through the attendant’s station again for tools or other parts, and read all the labels on the bottles just in case one of them lists “crystal recharger” as a feature. Finally, I come to the inescapable, obvious conclusion: the machines are broken.

“Fine,” I declare to the machine, resolute. “I’m a unicorn. You’re magic. How hard can this be? I’ve got a horn file I can use as a screwdriver, I can use the flat of the scissors as a hammer, and—” I struggle to think of a third tool “—and I’ve got this one. No problem.” I levitate my screwdriver and hammer so they float next to me. “Now, how do you come apart?”

Some time after I break my hammer and screwdriver trying to get into the stupid machine that was designed by ponies who couldn't get a date, it occurs to me that the crystal probably goes in with the mark facing outwards, so it looks like the automaton’s cutie mark. It’s completely non-obvious and an example of really bad design, but I manage to figure it out anyway. Quickly.

This time, when I put the crystal in, it starts to shine, and the automaton twitches sharply. I step back into the open part of the booth as its limp legs stiffen into a resting posture, its head gradually tilting upwards. Its glass eyes shine in the lamplight as it turns to look at me directly. Inside it, I can hear something spinning up, a quiet mechanical whirring that grows steadily faster. “Now!” I begin, with an entirely understandable frustration, “I order you to—”

“Who is so ignorant—” the machine bursts out, its voice artificial and mechanical, yet also distinctly aggressive and feminine “—as to speak thus to the Great and Powerful Trixie!?” I jump back as the automaton rears up, momentarily forgetting that it can’t actually leave the stand to get at me. “Do you not realize that you are standing in the presence of the most magical unicorn in all of Vision!?”

“N-no, sorry!” I stammer, though privately, I wonder how anything without a horn can think of itself as a unicorn. “I thought you were just a golem, I swear!”

There’s a pause while “Trixie” absorbs my thoughtful apology, lowering herself back to all fours.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asks, with a wholly unnecessary and mean-spirited level of sarcasm, tilting her head as she leans in to peer at me more closely. “When you listen to records, do you wonder about the tiny musicians living in the machine?”

“H-hey!” My cheeks feel hot for some reason. “How should I know anything about automata or talking machines? I just got here and—”

“Trixie isn’t the wiredoll, you ignoramus.” She points at me with a hoof, just in case there was any doubt as to who she was unfairly criticizing. “Trixie is controlling it remotely because it is marginally more convenient than shouting clear across the city. Now, who are you, and how did you get Trixie’s token?”

I take a moment to collect myself, putting a determined hoof forward, looking her in the eye, and stiffening my posture. She’ll respect a good, authoritative posture. “I’m Siren Song, personal student of Princess Celestia, and I demand—” I emphasize it with a good, regal point that uses the full foreleg “—you tell me where I am!”

A derisive snort was not the response I was hoping for, but things rapidly improve as she follows it up with a dubious, “You’re Siren Song?” Doubt I can deal with, and she knows who I am! Trixie leans forward to look me over more closely, the “wiredoll’s” head sliding back and forth. “Finally come home, have you?” Her tone sinks into a scathing sarcasm. She has very good technique, obviously formally trained, and her words manage to sting even when I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Trixie thought you would be taller.”

“Yes, I am Siren Song, Trixie,” I throw the name back at her with just the right amount of practiced disdain. I need to knock her off balance. “And I’ll thank you for watching your tone with me! Since arriving... wherever we are, my ship has been attacked, and I personally have been frozen, drowned, and assaulted twice by the most degenerate vandals ever to dwell under the sun. Now I’m stuck in some disgusting slum and...” I lose the momentum for a moment. “And I demand you send someone to get me to safety!”

Trixie pauses and leans back from me, and I can tell she’s lost in thought. At first, that seems like a good thing, but when she answers me, there’s pity in her tone. “How did you end up in Serpent’s Wharf?” The combination of faintly lowering her voice and tilting her head is very effective, and I feel a shiver run up my spine. The thought that it might be genuine pity sends a much stronger shiver through me, and I answer quickly.

“I-I infer that you mean the slum in which I find myself trapped.” I cover my bases, my voice cracking in a completely unprofessional way as I add, “I don’t know!” I clear my throat, and press on. “My ship was attacked, and I was knocked overboard. I woke up in a shanty-town of a dock, and when I was recovering from hypothermia, a strange filly gave me this crystal to activate the machine. Then this... hideous thug chased me in here, and—” I swallow quietly, lowering my voice as it occurs to me he might hear me “—I locked myself in.”

Trixie doesn't answer right away, and I use the pause to rear up onto my hind legs, peeking over the top of the booth at the door to the lounge. Just for a moment to make sure it’s still secure in its frame and that nopony has tried to pick the lock or try the handle. When I lower myself back down, the wiredoll is giving me a close look, but its body language is flat. I wish it had an expression I could read. Finally, she leans back. “Why did you come here?”

“I didn’t mean to. My ship was attacked and—” She silences me with a slashing gesture across her throat.

“We are in the middle of the ocean, and far from any trade routes. Lie to Trixie again, and Trixie will end the wire and leave you to the mercy of whatever’s outside that door.” Her tone is like ice, and I’ve gone pale before it even occurs to me she might be faking.

“It’s true! I was looking for Twilight Sparkle.” Trixie’s pose stiffens, and she raises her head faintly, ears perking up. “You might have heard of her—she was the Bearer of the Element of Magic. I found out that she was also Princess Celestia’s student once, but that they had a fight, and she left Equestria.” The wiredoll doesn't move when I trail off, those glass eyes boring into me, demanding more. “I was just looking for her to try and get her to mend the fence with the princess. The official records about her have been redacted, but I did some digging, and I found a ship whose captain said she once paid him to take her to a lighthouse out in the middle of the ocean.”

“So you decided to follow her.” Trixie lowers her head, and shakes it faintly. I can tell her real eyes are closed, even if the wiredoll can’t blink. “You’re in the right place, but you’re too late. Twilight Sparkle is dead.” After everything I’ve seen today, that shouldn't even register, but it does. This was all for nothing. I really shouldn't have ever left the palace.

She raises her head, and her tone goes hard. “Trixie will only explain this once, ‘Siren,’ so listen carefully.” She sits up, back arched, head lowered so she looks down at me. I recognize the posture from Advanced Stagecraft and Expression. It’s ‘Authority Figure Commands Novice #3,’ and it’s supposed to make me pay attention. Which I do. “You are in Serpent’s Wharf. It is a completely burned out section of the city. Nopony lives there except markers, predators, and ponies who are hiding from security. Even if Trixie cared enough to help you, Trixie doesn't know anypony foalish enough to go there. You’ll have to fight your way out on your own.”

“I’m an artist! A student! I can’t fight a bunch of... markers!” I assume it’s a reference to the colorful and obviously magic tattoos that thug was covered in.

“Then they’ll kill and rape you, and if you’re lucky, they’ll do it in that order.” My mouth falls open, and I look back to the door. I think I heard something outside it. “Do you want to live?” Trixie demands, leaning forward until her nose touches mine. I forgot she was copper; the chill of the metal sends a shiver through me.

“You—” I can’t look away from those glass eyes. My own are starting to tear up.

“Do you want to live!?” she shouts, her voice echoing around me, carrying out the door and into the promenade. There’s no way he didn’t hear that. He’ll be here any second. I want to look away, to check the door, but I can’t. It’s like my gaze is glued to those glass orbs. I feel tears running down my face, but I’m not sure why.

“Yes!” I finally manage to respond to her stupid, pointless overacting that only got to me because I’m so unsettled. I think my voice quivers a bit, but that doesn't matter, and she leans back.

“Then do everything Trixie tells you. First, you’ll need weapons. Can you find a wrench or a crowbar or something?” She looks around, but the wiredoll can’t see outside of the booth, and I shake my head.

“No, I’m just in a... wiredoll lounge,” I guess at the name, and she doesn't laugh, so I suppose I got it right. “There’s nothing here you could use as a weapon. Just some makeup and booths and cleaning stuff.” I’m obviously going to have to fight my way out of here barehoofed.

“Mph. Bring Trixie all of the bottles you can find. Cleaning solution, makeup, everything,” she insists, even though I just explained none of it is useful as a weapon. I step out anyway though, sweeping up all the stuff at the attendant’s station and holding it in front of me as I trot back.

Trixie looks down at the bottles, then looks at me, a silence hanging between us. “Well?” she demands, like I was a stupid foal again. “What are you waiting for? Stuff the rags into the bottles of machine oil and tail shine.” Like that was supposed to somehow be obvious. I do as she says, waiting for her to berate me for not knowing to perform the secret dance of thug repelling.

“There, done, now what?” I demand, but Trixie only faintly sways her head. It’s a strange gesture, one I can’t quite figure out, and she quickly follows it up with a sigh, her face sinking into a hoof.

Wait, was she trying to roll her eyes at me?

“Trixie has been away so long, Trixie forgot how pathologically peaceful ponies from Celestia’s domain are.” She says that like it’s a bad thing, and I’m about to lecture her on the importance of kindness as a virtue, but what she says next takes my breath away. “Use your magic to light the rag on fire, and throw it. When it hits something, the glass will break and throw flaming oil everywhere. If somepony gets too close for that, throw the acid in their face!”

I know that my mouth has fallen open again, but it hardly seems important. I’m at a loss for words. This sadistic, sick... monster of a pony just suggested I maim somepony with acid and burn them with oil! Scar them for life, just because...

Just because they want to rape and kill me.

“Celestia wouldn't approve,” I whisper, looking down and hoping she won’t hear. She does hear though, of course, she does. That awful witch of a pony.

“The sun doesn't shine here, ‘Siren.’ Are you willing to die for Celestia’s principles?” She’s awful, cruel. She’s enjoying seeing me this scared, seeing me flinch every time she yells, I can tell. Just like that pony out there liked seeing me afraid.

“No,” I squeak.

This place is horrible.

“Then do as Trixie tells you.” She leans back, reaching her hooves out to gesture as she talks. “The elevators around you are broken. You will have to use the maintenance stairs. There are three stairwells, marked with red stripes, but they are all at the far end of the promenade. It doesn't matter which stairwell you take, but you must take it all the way to the top. Do not stop at any of the interim levels for anything or anypony. If anypony gets in your way, kill them, or run. Do not stop before you reach the top.” She pauses in her gestures, looking down at me. “Do you understand?”

“What...” I croak, forcing the words out. “What happens when I reach the top?”

“You’ll be near the basement of Artemis Suites. There will be signs pointing the way. Trixie knows a few holdouts who have refused to leave. Trixie will wire ahead to let them know you’re coming. Get into the Suites building and look for suite 017. Got that?” She can’t help but add that slight little put-down at the end, like I honestly was too dim to understand what she just said. I hate her.

“Suite Zero-One-Seven. Got it.” I parrot back, and she nods.

“Take the token with you. You’ll need it. Oh, and remember, if you get in trouble—” I crane forward for some single word of encouragement “—you can use the broken bottle as a weapon.”

“Thanks.” I nod, not sure what else to say. “I guess that’s it then.” I don’t want her to go, not yet, and I reach out for the wiredoll. “Is-is there anything you can do to—” The crystal pops out of the machine with a mechanical whine, and the doll goes limp, slumping back onto its support pole.

“I guess not,” I murmur, pulling the crystal out, levitating it and the bottles back to the countertop. I should feel... I don’t know, sick? I should feel disgusted by that awful pony, but all I can think about is the wrench I left on the ground because I didn’t have any saddlebags. Stupid.

“I’m not making that mistake again.” I reach out with my magic to grab the broken scissor’s blade, and stab it down into the first dry patch of carpet I see, grabbing the edge and yanking hard. A long strip of the blue-green fuzz rips itself out of the floor, and I yank and stomp on the end of it until it snaps off. I kick all the stupid junk off one of the countertops, and press the carpet strip down onto it, so I can cut it with the blade. Two long cuts later, the machine-oil bottle fits snugly into my new belt. I make spaces for the rest of the bottles and Trixie’s “token,” and then tie the band around my barrel, right where a saddle would go. The carpet fuzz feels greasy against my coat. Evidently it wasn’t as dry as I thought.

“Right!” I look down, taking an inventory. “I’ve got three bottles of things that burn, two bottles of acid...” I look back up at the mirror, grab one of the horseshoes, and smash the stupid, ugly thing to pieces. “And a knife,” I finish, using my magic to pick up the largest shard of broken glass I can see.

I turn back to the door.

“Right,” I assert bravely, adding, “Nobody’s going to buck with me.” I look like a mare on the edge. That inbred ruffian will probably wet himself when he sees me coming.

Just for good measure, I add another, “Right.”

The door is still there.

I have to straddle the filthy puddle to reach out for the bolt. My hoof touches it, and I pause for a second to carefully and prudently think the situation over, but, if all this yelling hasn’t attracted him, the sound of the door bolt certainly won’t. The grimey thing is stuck, and it takes a few hard whacks before it pops open. The lock opens just fine on the first try, and I let the door swing in. I take a second to look around, just in case he’s waiting for me. Then I step outside.

The room is a jungle. The first thing I see when I step outside is the tail-end of the statue whose legs I ran under, but that’s not the room, that’s just what’s in the room. The room is elevator shafts made from skeletal brass beams and glass, so you can see and admire every cog that makes the lift move. Around those scattered trunks are circular platforms where emerald banners hang like leaves, letting ponies off onto the floors and floors of stores and businesses that must stretch ten stories above me. The cables and walkways that connect it all are a labyrinthine mess, but that just brings to mind vines, the ponies like little forest animals scrambling along them. It’s raining, and the drops make a steady pitter-patter on the leaves on their way down. I can see this place, and it’s beautiful—a jungle like none other.

I can only see it in my mind though. The real jungle is dead and rotting. Most of the stores are abandoned and boarded up; the rest have been looted and vandalized. The elevator mechanisms are visibly damaged, and a few of the cars are ajar in their shafts. The rain that makes that perfect sound is seawater, running out of open doors and broken windows before it falls to the ground. There was a real garden at the bottom level around me, but the seawater has choked it out, and all the plants and trees are lifeless husks. It’s not the time to be stopping to admire the sights, but...

It’s not the time to be stopping to admire the sights. There doesn't seem to be anypony else here, and the air around me is quiet other than the dripping water, so I move forward.

The statue is impressive, and when I pass under it and glance up, I note that the designer wasn’t too shy. There’s a few other details too—I don’t think this was the same sculptor as the other statue. It would hardly have mattered if he had censored it though. While the statue’s pose isn’t suggestive per se—one hoof forward, glancing down at the crowd—it’s domineering and masculine enough that you can imagine a mare swooning in front of it. The kind of mare I try not to associate with. On the way past, I turn briefly to see the quote I didn’t have time to read coming in.

“Every pony builds the world in their own image. They have the power to choose, but no power to escape the necessity of choice.” I frown, as I read the words aloud. Somepony has scrawled “NO RIGHT CHOICES” across the statue’s chest in bright red paint. It feels applicable to my situation.

Soon, I come back to the stairs. The banners I saw before are there, but there’s nothing interesting on them, just Sine Rider’s cutie mark and one-word slogans. “ABSOLUTION” holds my gaze for a moment longer than the others, but I don’t have the context to learn more. My hooves hit the ice water, and I leap back, waving my knife in front of me! There’s nopony there though; the whole of the promenade is abandoned and silent.

I’m less than eager to jump back into the corpse water... my stomach churns, and I hurriedly decide to think of it as ice water. I take a moment to look over the promenade instead. It’s not that long, and while the far end does curve out of sight, I get the impression that it’s not too far out of sight. To my right, a wall of white stone rises ten stories high, each level an identical collection of archways. Once it would have been a sharp juxtaposition to the market below—sterile geometric perfection rising above the colorful bustle—but now that perfection is marred by damage, scorch marks, and worse. There are... sounds, drifting out of those archways, and I quickly conclude that the other levels of this place are inhabited. They must just avoid the lowest level because of the water.

After a moment of listening to the sounds from the arches, I look away, over to the left. The ocean-side of the promenade is a little more pleasant to look at, even with the leaks. The light doesn't extend very far into the water, but sometimes a fish swims close enough for its scales to glint, only for it to swim away a moment later. There’s something I’m supposed to see outside this window. I can tell from how it’s positioned. I’m supposed to look out that window and be left breathless, but there’s nothing there. For a moment, I almost wade up to it, just to peer into the gloom and look more closely.

Not the time.

My whole body shivers when I wade into the icy water. Without the shock of fear to insulate me, I feel colder, although that might just be because I’m getting weaker from hunger and thirst. My mouth has gone from tasting like ice to tasting like dust, and dragging my tongue over the inside of my cheek produces a scraping sound. It’s a stupid thing to be worrying about right now, but it means I don’t have to look down. I don’t think the bodies have anything useful on them, and the water has... bloated them.

I glance down, and look back up before I can see anything. I just need to keep moving. I glance down again. Something might have been moving there, but no, moving on.

I look down, and stop.

He’s dead.

The thug who chased me. He’s face down in the water, but I can see the faint impression of a hoof above his eye, just below his metal hat with the knife. I can see the outline, but his skull doesn't look cracked. He must have been stunned and slipped down into the water. I’m not actually sure what a cracked skull looks like, but there’s no blood. I think that’s important.

He’s right where he was when he threatened me, before I ran from him. Why did he come back here? Was there some other mare he was chasing? Did he get into a fight with another vandal?

I’ve never seen a corpse before. I mean, I guess I have now, but they were months-old things long since given to decay. This isn’t a thing; he’s a stallion. He looks like he might lift his head and get up at any moment.

He won’t, though.

He’s not so scary this way. I can make out details I didn’t notice before. He has a tan coat, and a ratty dark-brown mane and tail. It looks like he’s gone months without a shower, and I can see insect bites along his neck. At the time, being a filthy ruffian was part of what made him so scary, I guess, but now it just looks like that must have itched. I can see his cutie mark: three clovers. It’s only after I look at his flank that the significance of “marker” hits me—his tattoos are fake cutie marks. The one on his shoulder is obviously some kind of ward against magic. It’s not clear if the others do anything.

He’s not ill-bred, like I thought. Even inbreeding won’t deform a pony that badly. It’s like his skin is pushing out in lumps all over his body, except I can feel misshapen bone underneath. I’m touching a corpse, but I don’t feel that bile rising. His rear legs are twisted and warped. He probably couldn't move faster than a trot. How did he ever keep up with me?

He did chase me. I heard him.

I feel so strange. It’s like none of this is really happening. I remember what I said earlier, about being too good for him, and sick as it is, I feel a little pang of guilt. It’s like the whole rape and murder thing doesn't matter—he’s the ugly foal in the orphanage nopony would play with, and I’m the bully who made him cry.

That’s it though. Just that little pang. Is that wrong?

“We mustn't touch unclean things,” a voice hisses in both my ears at once, an echo. I look around for the source, my heart suddenly racing, but I can’t see it. Above me, somewhere, but there are too many arches, too many places it could carry from. “If we do, we become unclean ourselves. You’re a dirty pony.”

This one is a mare, but there’s something in her voice that reminds me of him. She’s cruel, not just like writers in Equestria use the word because they’ve already used “mean” twice in one paragraph, but shamelessly and proudly. “Dirty, dirty, dirty. I know what you were planning to do with that corpse, you sick, sick, sick deviant. Deviant, deviant, deviant.” She’s dragging the words out, maybe because she’s trying to unnerve me, but I think it’s because she enjoys my fear. I can hear a scraping sound, like dragging metal over stone, the sound carrying clearly over her hoofsteps. I back away from the arches, but my leg bumps a fallen cart, and I shriek.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, do you!?” she shouts, even though I haven't laughed or... or anything. “Dirty pony in her dirty water. Giggling at me! Me!” Her shouting is making it easier to locate her, and though I can’t see her, I look up to one archway in particular. That saves my life a moment later.

“I’ll give you something to giggle about!” This time, I’m thinking on my hooves. She leaps out, and I see what I need to see: unicorn, glowing horn, far away, nothing floating around her. She’s casting a spell at me. I leap before she finishes, and the cart I bumped into explodes into a shower of fiery debris. She’s screaming something at the top of her lungs, but the hiss of steam covers it, and I break into a gallop, steering close to the right side so her shot will be harder.

It doesn't occur to me until afterward that that will also make my shots harder. I grab the first bottle with my magic, lighting the rag and hurling it up over my shoulder. Even without looking, I can hear that it’s a dismal miss, shattering against the wall almost directly behind me. She’s more accurate, and I cry out in pain as a fireball detonates in the water a few yards behind me, spraying me with boiling droplets. They’re in my mane, in my tail, running down my coat, burning me everywhere they touch. I leap into one of the white stone passages back to the docks, out of her sight entirely. I need to shake off, but if I do, I’ll lose my weapons! It hurts, it hurts so much. There’s a splash in the water behind me, something heavy landing in it.

There’s no thought. I don’t make a conscious decision. Something in me takes over—I forget the pain, turn, grab next bottle, and throw. It hits her just before the spell finishes, and she bursts into flames. The tail shine burns green, and I can see flaming rivers of it running down her face, her sides. Her coat is tan, her mane orange, and I can see that they’ve both caught on fire as well. She should be dead, or disabled by pain, but all she does is scream at me like a wild animal and leap away. It’s an impossible jump she makes—nopony can jump that high—but she does it, and I can hear her climbing back up into the archways. I bolt out of the tunnel and back down the promenade before she can recover.

The sounds in the archways are worse now: groans, screams, growls, moans. The fight is waking something up, and it doesn't sound like a pony. I hope no pony made those sounds. I can hear her hoofsteps echoing above me, and her growls of pain, but no more fireballs yet, and the end of the promenade is just ahead of me. Once, trees hid it, but now the trees are dead and I can see the service doors. Wide wooden things, now jammed open, each one marked with a peeling red strip.

“Unclean, unclean!” There’s a rush of fire above me, and I duck, but I don’t feel any heat. Ahead of me, the first doorway explodes, fire racing out from it to envelop the dead wood just past it. I can feel my breath catch, and I put on a burst of speed. The second doorway bursts into flames when I’m halfway there, her screams of, “Filthy pony!” flying around me. I’m not going to make it. I can hear her spell charging, and there’s too much distance left to go. I’m going to hit the third door just as the fireball does.

I hold my breath, shut my eyes, and run for the first door.

I try to take it in two big leaps to get through the fire more quickly: one through the door, one up the stairs. I take the first leap perfectly. The heat doesn't even seem that bad, then all four of my hooves go in boiling water. It’s like knives are plunged into me, up through my hooves and into my ankles. I stumble into the second leap, and land on the stairs on my side. Glass crunches under me. I don’t know if it’s the oil or the acid, but it burns. I just want it to stop. I can’t think of the markers, the fire, anything else, just the pain. Make it stop, Celestia, make it stop!

At some point, I realize I’m screaming. I don’t know how long it’s been, but there are other ponies screaming around me. Yelling, fighting. I try to rise to my hooves, and fall, squeeze my eyes shut and try again. My ankles must be broken—burns can’t hurt this much. I’ve lost the knife, I don’t know what bottles are left. One step, up the step, right forehoof first, left forehoof next, rear to follow. Next step, right forehoof first—oh Celestia it hurts. I’m on the next flight, but there’s no door out. Why is there no door? Doesn't matter, going to the top.

Next step, right forehoof first. There’s somepony in front of me. Grab one of the bottles, smash it against their face. They start screaming and I run past. How many flights are there? How many have I gone? There are two ponies in the stairwell, grappling on the ground. I try to jump over them, but the force of the landing makes me beg for Celestia to cut off my hooves so this can end. One of them grabs my rear ankle, and I kick them in the face with my other hoof. The shock of impact travels through me, pain roaring in my ears every time my ankles touch anything, but I kick and I kick until I feel something give. He lets go.

Smoke, heat, sweat, screaming, fumes around me. Did I light the stairwell on fire? I need to keep going. There’s so much shouting now—when I see doors, there are ponies fighting behind almost of all of them. One throws himself out prone onto the ground in front of me, trying to block my path. Last bottle. I smash it into him and kick him on the way over him. Up, up the stairs. The smoke is getting worse. No bottles left. I lost my knife. Up, keep going up, just to the next flight of stairs.

I come to a dead end, no more stairs. I took a wrong turn, I’m in the wrong stairwell. The exit on this level opens to a wide, dark hall, full of lurking ponies. They can see me and I lost my knife! I can’t turn around, there’s too much smoke. I need to find a way to the right stairwell. I jump out, and look around, but I can’t see any other stairs around me, just those other ponies closing in. Those awful, horrible things.

“Get away!” Something tears in my throat with how hard I’m yelling. I grab a piece of debris off the floor with my magic. It feels heavy, a length of pipe or something. “Get away! Get away!” I swing at the first one of them that gets too close, and run. He’s right behind me. I whirl to swing at him, but I turn too fast at a full gallop, and I go down to the ground. The floor is rough and dirty, and falling onto it at speed rips open the cuts from the glass. My side feels warm suddenly. Oh Celestia, that’s blood. How much am I bleeding? I need to get up. I need to... there’s something green in front of me.

Somepony green. They smell... nice.

“Would you kindly stop struggling, before you open those cuts any further?” she asks, and I do. She smiles at me, and that’s good. She’s happy. It’s important I do whatever I can to make her happy.

“That’s good, Sweetheart. Now, fall asleep.”

Green Apple

Being sick feels great. Not the sickness itself of course—that feels awful. I hate the sniffles and the flu, and stomach bugs are worst of all, but being sick is awesome. When I’m sick, I don’t have to study or practice magic, and Princess Celestia lets me listen to as much music as I want. She always gets super protective and tucks me into bed with way too many blankets, until I feel like I’m in a cocoon. Sometimes they’re so thick I can’t even get up, but it’s okay because the record player is on the table next to the bed and I can wind it up with my magic. I don’t even have to turn my head, and I always let it play when I’m sleeping in.

I’m sick now, and all bundled up. With so many blankets on top of me, it’s like I’m buried and just my head is sticking out. They feel warm and soft, and I don’t have to worry about when I’m getting up. I know I’m weak, but I can rest now, and resting feels good. Drifting in that careless haze, not sure if I’m dreaming or awake or somewhere between the two, and it doesn't matter. Just for a second though, I crack an eye open to spot the phonograph. My horn comes alight, and I set the needle in place, winding the handle until it starts to turn back the other way on its own. I shut my eyes as the first notes of Sarabande drift through the air. That’s good bedside music, not too adventurous. The record player must be broken though—I keep hearing a weird beat that’s out of time with the music.

I can tell I’m drifting in and out of sleep, because I keep missing sections of the piece. It’s okay though—I know what’s supposed to be there by heart, and I just imagine the missing sections. Eventually, I realize the music finished a while ago, and I’ve just been imagining it so well I didn’t notice. I open my eyes to start it again, but there’s a pony there beside the bed. She’s a really pretty shade of green with sparkly emerald eyes and a mane that’s all shiny like it was wet, and she’s a unicorn like me, which is also nice. Most likely she’s a doctor, since she’s tending to me and doesn't look like a servant. I can’t see her cutie mark though.

“Could you start the music again?” I ask, and she looks curious, drawing the blankets down a bit with her magic. Her horn is a really pretty green too, but her magic is a dark red. The color mismatch makes her horn look black when she uses it, which is cool I guess. She must have fun pretending to be a changeling for Nightmare Night.

“In a minute, Sweetheart,” she tells me, patiently, and she reaches down to pull one of my hooves up. They’re all wrapped up in cloth, which is silly. I mean, I’m already covered in blankets—what’s the point of adding a bunch more little blankets to my hooves? She pulls the cloth away, and the inside of it is all red and gross. I guess some of it must have gotten on my hooves and ankles too, because they’re all sticky and blistery and look like they’re covered in jam. She levitates a sponge up in front of me, and starts to clean my ankles, but it suddenly hurts when she does, like my skin is on fire, and I whimper.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart. I have more morphine right here.” She levitates a needle up to me, and I don’t see how that’s supposed to make me feel better. Needles always hurt, and this one hurts when she jabs it right into my shoulder. I’m not a little foal though, so I try not to show any pain or complain.

“Thank you,” I murmur, shutting my eyes again. I can feel her washing my hooves with that sponge, but I can’t feel it anymore. I can sense the pressure, but there’s no sensation and no pain, which I guess was the point. It feels kind of nice, actually, but then, everything feels kind of nice. It’s getting hard to stay awake, so I’m probably making her do extra work holding my hoof up while she changes the bandages. “You’re the prettiest pony I’ve ever seen. You should have been a model instead of a doctor.” She doesn't say anything, but she stops cleaning my hooves for a second, so I know she heard me. After a little while, the music starts again.

I wake up a lot like that. Sometimes the doctor is there, sometimes I’m alone, sometimes I wake up feeling so good I have to giggle for no reason at all. When I’m awake enough to open my eyes, I set the needle and listen to Sarabande. When I’m not, I just listen for that funny beat in the air, and make up words to sing along to the meter. I wake up in pain, once, covered in sweat, with this awful stabbing in my sides and burning in my hooves. The pain is enough to make me yell and cry like a little filly, but the doctor comes running and gives me a shot, and doesn't once make fun of me for being a wimp. Every time though, I’m in that bed, safe under the blankets, just like I always am when I’m sick and Celestia takes care of me.

Then I wake up one more time, and I remember that Celestia isn’t here.

When I come to, it’s like every mortal frailty has taken residence in my body at once: my muscles are weak, my joints ache, my spine is twisted into a knot. Under the blankets, I’m overheating and drenched by sticky sweat, and outside them, the air is freezing. I’m clear-headed though, and I know where I am. A grunt escapes me as I shove hard with my rear legs, kicking the blankets off the bed. A rush of freezing air settles around me, the heat radiating off me in waves, escaping in every breath as I shudder involuntarily. I don’t have the strength to stand, not yet. I don’t even feel awake enough to open my eyes.

This isn’t my bed. The pillow is ratty and worn. The sheets are twisted into a ball under me, and I can feel that they’re as soaked with sweat as I am. I doubt they’ve been changed in all the time I’ve been lying here, left to marinate in filth instead. That thought gives me a little more incentive to find the will to wake up, and I force myself to suck down a deep breath of that cold air, trying to get my limbs to move. A shudder runs through me, my heart starting to race, pounding in my ears just with the effort of moving my limbs. It’s like all my blood has turned to molasses, and the motion of my legs is driving it through my veins like a pump. My eyes clamp shut with the effort, and then fly open.

I can see wood—a flat plane of it at the edge of my vision. The space directly ahead of me is dominated by a phonograph made from wood and brass, dirty and long corroded. Around the edges of its horn, I can see a fading and splintered wall. Once it was beautiful hardwood, but the individual planks have been warped so badly they no longer fit together, and many of them have cracked. Mirrors and the oddest collection of woodcuts adorn the walls in a seemingly random pattern, hanging from hooks that have been haphazardly nailed into the intact pieces. One of them has slipped to the side, and behind it is a crack in the wall. Through that crack, I can see white stone glistening with water in the light.

It’s a bedroom. I’m in a bedroom, and no matter how filthy it is, it’s the kind of bedroom where somepony still cares enough to listen to music in bed and hang things to hide the cracks in the walls. I’m out of that horrible nightmare. Relief floods through me, but instead of sapping my strength or lulling me back to sleep, it gives me energy. I need to find out where I am.

With another grunt of effort, I manage to push myself out of bed. My landing on the floor is less than graceful—my knees buckle with my weight, and I tumble forward. The pile of blankets breaks my fall though, and I shakily rise to my hooves a few seconds later.

It’s not a bedroom after all, or at least, it didn’t start as one. There are tiles under my hooves, and when I raise my head, there’s an oven and sink directly in front of me. For a moment, the strangeness disorients me, and I feel the fleeting edges of panic, but I shut my eyes and draw a deep breath. I will examine all the evidence before I leap to any conclusions. That makes me feel better, and I open my eyes again, slowly looking left and right.

The room I’m in is long and narrow, lit by those same pulsing strips along the ceiling. Once, it was a kitchen. The floors are tile, and the left wall is covered in more sinks, ovens, stoves and wooden cabinets. I see three sets of each, but no professional equipment, so it was probably a communal kitchen at some point. The left wall is the side I could see from the bed, and the cracks continue all along its length, to the point that many of the cabinets have had to be braced to the wall with nails and haphazard carpentry just to keep them from falling off. The right wall is more intact, but also bare, save for a door at the far end. Unlike the rest of the room, the door is made of metal, and a great profusion of locks and bolts seals it shut. A little cot has been set up in front of the door, empty, but clearly well-used. After a moment’s thought, I decide to leave the door alone. Opening all those locks without knowing why the door is locked might be a bad idea.

Turning around, I see there’s a little more to this room, an extension that gives it a stubby ‘L’ shape. The extension is a bathroom, containing a row of toilets, showers, and sinks. Having that so close to the kitchen can’t be sanitary. These rooms clearly weren't meant to connect, and somepony has taken a sledgehammer to the intervening wall, boarding up the old bathroom door so the kitchen is the only way out. The bed is at the heel of the ‘L’, where a kitchen table might once have sat.

Right. Room surveyed, time to take stock of yours truly.

I’m encrusted with filth. Not a great start to the whole self-inspection thing.

It’s mostly dirt and sweat—they’ve just been there so long they’ve congealed into a brown sludge, like an oil slick gleaming on my coat. Somepony has shaved my right side, along my barrel, and there’s a collection of stitches there, the skin around them red and angry. I take a moment to count them, and wince at the total—twenty-three distinct cuts. My hooves and ankles are bound up in bandages, but they have already started to peel off, and I can see that the skin beneath is mostly healed. I do mean skin too—there’s no hair left on my legs all the way up to my fetlocks, and from how waxy and melted the skin looks, I’m not certain there ever will be again. The bandages themselves are soaked with fluids best not described, and I carefully peel them off.

“Okay, Siren.” I draw a deep breath as I feel my heartbeat stabilize, falling closer into rhythm with the beat of the lights. “You’re in a bad situation.” It seems obvious, but hearing somepony say it makes it feel like things are under control, particularly when they say it with that much class and authority.

“You’re trapped in an undersea city overrun by—” I get tongue-tied for a moment, a shiver passing through me “—vandals and madponies. You’ve been badly injured, and you’re probably scarred for life. A lesser pony would be a wreck right now, but Celestia didn’t raise you to panic during a crisis!” I stomp my hoof a little for emphasis. That helps. “You’re going to get out of here, and everything will be fine.”

“First, assess the situation.” I take a second to look around again, reviewing where everything is. “You’ve been rescued from certain death by an unknown pony. You appear to still be in the slum, but your evident rescuer not only took care of you and bandaged your injuries, but gave you the bed while she took the cot by the door. It therefore seems unlikely he or she is one of the madponies from before.” Indulging my analytical side always makes me feel better, and I take a second to examine my hooves again. Celestia can heal that, I’m sure. I was just being negative before.

“Concurrently, it seems likely that you aren't in any immediate danger, and that your rescuer will return soon. Your goal for the immediate future is therefore to wait and prepare yourself for whatever may happen to the greatest possible extent.” I frown a little at that. It’s more vague an objective than that side of me usually cares for, but it will have to do.

“Step two, assess resources.” That step goes quickly, after another brief glance around me. “A bathroom, a record player, some blankets, and whatever’s in the kitchen drawers. Further...” I look back at the bathroom, my train of thought derailed as certain other needs my body has been suppressing suddenly come to mind. Hesitantly, I lean my head down to below my shoulder and sniff, my nose wrinkling at the result. “Right, step three: shower.”

There’s a certain eagerness in my steps as I trot up to the tub, but I’m not so focused that I don’t still notice the little things. The copper piping is new—or at least in good condition. Unused showers and toilets have been disconnected, and the pipes capped. The inside of the shower is clean and organized, towels and bottles of soap tucked into slots in the wall. When I see how kept-up everything is, I even dare to hope that the water might be hot.

It is! When the hot spray hits my back, I actually shudder with sheer delight, a shaky cry escaping me. It’s stupid, but it feels too good for me to be embarrassed, and I lean my head against the shower pipe, just relaxing and letting the water wash over me. The spray feels almost hot enough to burn me, which right now, is just right. It trickles down through my coat, flowing through the hairs, letting the heat seep into me. When it hits the burns on my ankles, it burns like nothing else until I can actually hear the pain in my voice, but I really don’t care. I want to scrub and scrub until every trace of this awful nightmare is gone and I can wake up again. I can hear my own breathing, my heartbeat, the hiss of the shower and the pulse of the lights. It all sounds good.

I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep on my hooves until my little nap is over. My eyes fly open, and I almost slip and fall, doing a panicked dance on the porcelain until my hooves find their place. The water has cooled, now barely above room temperature, and the air is full of steam. I take a few shuddering breaths as I wait for my heart to slow down, and then set about actually washing up—mane, coat, tail, hooves, everything gets cleaned twice. When I start, I’m so dirty the water runs black down the drain, and I don’t stop until I shine. I feel a little bad about using up all of my rescuer’s soap, but not that bad.

A shower is a profoundly civilizing experience, and when I step out, I almost feel like myself again. There are only two towels, so I wrap one around my mane and the other around my tail, letting the steam clear out as I step back into the kitchen-turned-bedroom. I pick a random cabinet to search through, and my curiosity is rewarded with a collection of mismatched bowls and a large mason jar full of oats. I levitate the jar down, along with a bowl and spoon, taking note that they’re not in easy reach of hooves or teeth. My rescuer is a unicorn. Or owns a stepladder. But I don’t see a stepladder, so that seems like enough evidence to conclude I was most likely rescued by the green physician I vaguely recall from my fever-haze. Still though, that’s no reason not to be thorough.

Levitating the bowl alongside me and munching as I go, I pull open the other drawers and cabinets, lifting their contents up onto the countertop to sort through them for anything of use. The first under-counter cabinet contains a miniature wiredoll, no more than four hooves tall. It’s rather more ornate than the ones I saw before, and made of engraved silver, but without any crystals for “wiring” another pony, it’s a distraction at best. The next cabinet contains nothing but more oats—that can’t be a healthy diet—and the space below the sink contains a first aid kit, along with a number of bottles of medication, and syringes that look less than sterile. I recognize morphine, aspirin, iodine, and other common drugs, but most of the items here are beyond my knowledge of medicine. Still more confirmation that my caretaker is also my rescuer.

The last set of cabinets proves considerably more interesting. I open the top one first, and I’m greeted with a menagerie of strange bottles, each one adorned with a brilliantly colored label. One contains a watery red fluid, the label a picture of a doctor’s bag and a stylized “Doc Stable’s Patented Red Cross.” Another contains a sparkling golden liquid and a label with a wide eye and angry red text that reads “Feeling shy? Look ’em in the eye with Stare brand Mantles!” Each bottle is small, no larger than a flask, and many of them are half full. I’m not quite sure what to think of them. They’re obviously valued and probably expensive, but that still doesn't let me know what they do. For the time being, I leave them alone and check the other cabinet.

Jackpot. Last cabinet here, and it’s a treasure trove of information—a memento drawer. At my magic’s direction, four small boxes float out of it: one full of jewelry, one full of newspaper clippings and old flyers, one full of vinyl records, and one with a movie player and tape reels.

Music is obviously the best way to learn about my rescuer, but there’s no pattern to the records here. The box holds some classical works and older pieces, but nothing in Equestrian contemporary. Then again, after seeing how isolated this city is, that’s no surprise. I’m also able to pick up on some details that a lesser pony would have missed: for instance, the newest Equestrian piece here is from a hair over eighteen years ago. Combined with Trixie’s comments about being “away from home,” it makes me think that this city once had more contact with Equestria than it does now. I knew that music trivia would come in handy one day! I even take a few minutes to deduce my rescuer’s taste in music, but ultimately conclude that the collection is just whatever records she could scrounge out of the slum.

Next, I sort through the jewlery—nothing I’d be caught dead wearing. Most of it is hopelessly cheap, but even the well-made pieces are unlike anything that might be found on the surface. It’s all rather predatory in how it looks—anklets like armored joints, earrings made from interlocking sections, lots of sharp edges and points. Trying too hard, in my opinion. It’s all also polished to a mirror shine, despite the dilapidated conditions of the room.

The movie reels seem potentially useful, but I’m hardly going to set up the projector. All I can do is look at the titles: Vision: A History, The Life of Sine Rider, The Founding. They’re all historical pieces, which would be informative, but my rescuer will probably return shortly, and I can just ask her directly. One reel does stand out from the rest, a lonely case at the bottom labeled, “10,000 Ponies Under the Sea, Seapony Queen Throne Room, Scene 44, Take 1.” On a hunch, I crack open the roll and unspool a length of the tape, moving it up to the light. Holding my eye up to one of the frames, I can see the mare who tended to me, dressed up in a sparkly costume, a trident hovering before her. I am good.

The box of clippings comes last, and I take my time with this one, putting the other boxes away. First out of it is a poster, one that gives me my first long, detailed look at my rescuer. The intended content of the poster is unremarkable—an advertisement for Clotheshorse Tailoring—but my rescuer is front and center, effortlessly stealing the eye away from even the gaudiest text at the edges.

She’s dazzling. Her coat is brilliant like a perfect emerald, to the point it almost sparkles, while her mane is the darker, rich green of a forest’s canopy. It hangs down around her in the most graceful lines, as though it were wet and had come to rest just so. She’s modeling an elegant silver dress made from cloth that flows around her torso, falling down around her legs and leaving her tail exposed. It’s scandalously suggestive, and when she rears up with that athletic build and the fabric ripples like she was in the wind, she looks...

The details aren't important. All that matters is that I’ve learned my rescuer used to be a model. I also take a second to go brush out my mane, for unrelated reasons. Mine isn’t as good as hers, but, I’m pretty close, I’d say.

Now that I’ve learned what she looks like, the next thing out of the box tells me her name. It’s a newspaper clipping with a photograph, and the photograph shows her clearly, standing on stage under a spotlight. The headline reads, “Envy Breaks Box Office Records with Explosive Musical Debut.” A quick scan of the text is enough to get the gist—a former model entering the singing scene. The article is nothing but positive, but I know how to read between the lines. No matter how kind it is, there’s an absence of phrases like “to critical acclaim,” or “attended by Fancypants Famouspony,” or any hint of praise from other artists. Generously, she’s a genius who isn’t yet appreciated by jealous and undeserving rivals. Realistically, she’s a hack who only fills theater seats because the audience is drooling over her. It’s kind of disappointing.

I put my hooves up on the counter and methodically sort through what’s left. The rest of the box is all articles in much the same vein. Naturally, she only bothered to save the flattering ones, but a clear pattern in the headlines emerges. Seats sold out, record deals, appearances in this or that. No approving critics, no positive reviews, no endorsements or discussion of her work. She modeled, she danced, she sang, and while I don’t see any articles about it, I know from the tape that she must have tried her hoof at acting. The tape was a test reel though, not a finished piece, and on a whim, I check the dates on the articles. Most of them are over twelve years old, and even the newest is nine years past, the paper yellowing and faded.

“So, ‘Envy.’ The crowd got tired of you.” I look around the dilapidated apartment, and my eyes go back to the mirrors and bits of wood covering the cracks in the wall. “You weren't careful with your money either, evidently, and now you’re living in a slum, trying to keep things dignified and pretending you’re still somepony.”

I’m not wrong—stars like that come and go—but as soon as I say it, it feels mean-spirited. She saved my life, tended to me when I was sick, and gave me her bed when she slept on a filthy cot on the floor. “I mean, it’s not that bad.” I correct myself, turning to look down at the poster between my hooves. “You are outrageously pretty. I’m sure your career could recover!” I’m trying to be nice here, but I really am an analytical pony by nature. Sometimes being sharp and insightful can be a burden. “Of course... you’re obviously not working as a model now. So either you’re so hopeless on stage that your looks aren't enough, or there was some kind of big scandal and nopony wants to see you anymore.”

I tap my hooves on the counter. It feels like I should add something to that. “But, it’s not all bad! Nopony in Canterlot has heard of you. After you rescue me, you can start your career all over, if scandal was the problem.” I give the poster a reassuring little wave. “And um... if you are a talentless hack, I’m sure Celestia will put in a good word for you as thanks for saving me. Then, nopony will care if you’re any good or not!”

I put my hooves back on the floor and thank Celestia that I’m talking to a poster and Envy didn’t actually hear that. “Right.”

The cosmic irony I just invited misses me by a comfortable margin of perhaps thirty seconds. I have enough time to go through the rest of the newspaper clippings, put them away, and finish the oats before the sound of a key turning in the lock behind me makes me jump. I whirl in place, facing the door just in time to see another one of the bolts turn, the long line of locks opening one after the other. My heart starts to race, and all my limbs go stiff. I don’t know what to do. What if it’s not her? Do I grab a weapon? I can’t threaten her after she saved me, but I can’t just stand here. I need to do something!

When I choke under pressure in front of Princess Celestia, she gives me a level look, taps the floor, and says: “Siren, while you did have to do something, and that was something, you should probably not have done that.” I guess it’s supposed to be a nice way of telling me I did something stupid so that I won’t do it again, but all that’s changed is that now I hear her say it in my head when I mess up, and I feel even dumber.

So, by the time Envy finds me hiding in one of the bathroom stalls, I’m pretty much hearing it non-stop.

“You can come on out, Sweetheart. I’m not going to hurt you.” She’s standing a few paces outside the stall door—I can hear it from her voice. There’s nowhere for me to go, but I can’t open the door. She might still be dangerous, or think I’m dangerous and jump to conclusions, or she might think I’m the sort of useless idiot who hides in bathroom stalls and throw me back into the slums! I know I’m panicking, so I try to calm down. I take a deep breath, and let it out. I just need a second.

My second still isn’t up when the crimson red glow of her magic envelops the door, and she pulls it open. It startles me, and I scramble back away from the opening door, my breath seizing in my throat. She looks just like she does in the clippings, and when she fixes me with a soft, gentle smile, I feel like an idiot for hiding from her. I know she’s not going to hurt me, but I can’t make my hooves move, and my teeth feel stuck together. She’s looking at me, wondering why I’m shivering in the corner like a foal, and the more she wonders, the more ashamed I feel. There’s nothing I can do; I can’t even move, like my hooves were glued to the floor. I’m just stuck here, looking like an idiot because I’m the kind of useless, pathetic, twit of a pony who cowers in bathroom stalls.

She’s just staring at me. Staring at me with those bright, emerald eyes.

She smells nice.

“Oh, you poor thing. You’re shellshocked, aren't you?” she asks with the sweetest, kindest, most melodious voice any pony has ever possessed. She’s like Celestia and Luna and all my friends rolled up together, and I would do anything to make her happy. All the tension flows out of me in one wonderful breath, and I step up to her when she gestures. She’s wearing the strangest perfume. It’s like the smell inside an apothecary—crushed flowers and a hundred different herbs. I just want to bury my head in her mane and take a big whiff, but when I try, she laughs and holds me back with a hoof.

“Would you kindly go sit on the bed, and take slow, quiet breaths?” Her voice is light and playful, her mouth quirked in the gentlest of smiles, and the mirth in her eyes sparkles like stars. It’s a wonder just to see, and more than enough to put a giddy smile on my face. I trot over to the bed with my best high and eager step, trying not to look back to see if she’s watching me, and just like I’m told, I go and sit on the bed and keep my breathing even. I look over the room for a second—there are some saddlebags full of supplies on the counter now, so she must have been shopping—but then she walks back into the room, and my eyes stay on her.

She’s wearing a set of silver horseshoes and the same dress she was in the poster, but while she looks as wondrous and radiant as the day she first posed for it, her accessories have obviously seen better days. The metal is tarnished, and the dress’s silver splendor has faded to a dirty grey, stained by a dozen ugly spots and patched with coarse thread. I wonder why she doesn't just go without it, and I almost ask. My jaw clamps shut before I make a sound though. She told me to be quiet. Instead, I just watch her unpack her groceries.

It’s when I start thinking things like, “I wish I could unpack groceries as majestically as she does,” that some part of my mind stops to consider if everything is quite right here. My head feels a little fuzzy—good, but fuzzy. I take another long, slow breath, and try to figure out just what it is that’s nagging me.

The most obvious thing that’s wrong with this situation is her. She looks just like she did in the poster. Just like she did in the ten-or-more-years-old poster. The dress couldn't provide a more striking contrast if that had been her intention. Even if she aged very well, things should have happened to her over that time; the stress of her career should be showing. I’m glad she looks good, of course, because that makes her happy and her being happy is the most important thing in the world, but that doesn't seem right.

The more I think about the situation, the more other things seem off as well. Her coloration, for instance: green mane, green tail, green coat, green eyes, green horn, blood-red magic. One of these things is not like the others. Red is a good color for her because everything about her is enchanting, but it just doesn’t seem to fit.

I look at the cracks in the walls, and then back to the dress. That inconsistency is more subtle, but to a pony with insight, far more important. She’s a pony who cares about appearances, and yet she trots around in a ragged old dress. If the wall-hanging is that ugly, what crack is it hiding? Is that what ruined her career? Did she get a disfiguring scar on her flanks or legs?

I try to ask her that question, but the words won’t come. She told me to be quiet. It’s like in the bathroom stall, when I was paralyzed with fear and embarrassment, but I know those feelings, and I don’t know why I’m hesitating now. She turns to look at me when she hears my jaw click, and gives an encouraging nod. “That’s it, Sweetheart. Long, deep breaths, let it all work its way through you. Your head will clear in a second.”

“W-why?” I manage to force out, struggling to act contrary to Envy’s command. It’s all I can do to overcome it, and even then, I divert the words to a whisper at the last second—some traitorous part of my mind insisting that that somehow makes it better. The effort is exhausting, almost like a physical exertion, and the strain of it seems to wash some of the cloying cloud from my mind.

“You mesmerized me.” I manage to speak more clearly on the second try. I still can’t look at her without feeling the faintest urge to smile, but the urge feels foreign now. I can smell her perfume again, but even though it’s the same scent, it seems different now. A sickly sweet odor, like so many flowers rolled up and left to rot. I stop before I wrinkle my nose though, taking a second to compose myself. A pony like her would take offense at that. Instead, I just look away, forcing my breaths out through my nose until the scent clears.

“I did, Sweetheart. I didn’t want you hurting yourself or doing anything silly while you were panicked. I’ll understand if you’re upset with me, but I meant you no harm.” Her accent is mixed, educated with a bit of Canterlot, but mostly rural. I take another long, slow breath and let it out, opening my eyes to consider her with a clear head. She’s looking at me now with sympathetic eyes, and even when I’m not mesmerized, they seem soft and understanding.

“No offense taken.” I shake my head, stepping away and off the bed. The saddlebags are empty by now. She turns to face me, reaching out towards me with one of her forehooves. For a few long seconds, I stare at her hoof, and a blush appears on my face as a smile appears on hers. This is obviously a greeting, and I’m supposed to do something, but I have no idea what. Hesitantly, I raise my own hoof in a mirror of her gesture, hoping I’m getting it right as I gently tap my hoof to hers. After a second, I give a slight bow in the proper Canterlot fashion, just to be safe.

“You’re adorable!” She giggles, and while I don’t like being embarrassed, it certainly beats offending her. My gaze starts to tilt down, but she reaches out to tilt it back up so that I look her in the face. “Don’t be embarrassed, Sweetheart. I’m Green Apple, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. You must be Siren Song, is that right?”

“That it is.” My reply is a bit timid—the hoof thing threw me off. I recover my composure quickly though, adding a more controlled, “I assume I have you to thank for my rescue?”

“That you do. Trixie let me know you’d be headed this way, and I thought you might need some help with the last leg of the journey. It’s lucky you showed up when you did—things were getting wild enough I was about to head back inside.” She smiles and nudges my shoulder with a hoof, a mischievous smile on her face. “You set off a riot, you know—a big one. The streets were on fire all night. Security even graced us with their presence.”

The smile on her face is a familiar expression in some ways, but the context makes it seem subtly disquieting. It’s like when I’m practicing form, and for the sake of the exercise, I try to project the wrong emotion for a set of dialogue. Celestia has had that smile, so have some of my pegasus friends, but this pony has it... for a riot. She expects me to smile and bashfully giggle at the thought that I started a riot. I don’t know what to say to that, so I think it best to change the subject.

“Forgive me for prying, but, you said your name was Green Apple? Does that mean that Envy is your stage name?” I know it’s a mistake as soon as I say it. The smile vanishes from her face, replaced by a stiffer, neutral look, and she pulls her hoof back. “I-I hope you don’t mind. I was just trying to figure out where I was, and there were some newspaper clippings in your drawer. I thought it was your work.”

“Yes, that was my stage name,” she answers, curt, that good cheer she had a moment ago washed away. It’s perfectly obvious I just stuck my hoof in an old wound, and I struggle for a way to recover. “The critics gave it to me after an early performance. It was a play on words, you see.”

“Oh. Green with Envy.” My breath comes stiffly, and I almost swallow, but I catch the gesture before it can betray me. There’s a way out of this yet. Instead, I titter, looking down and scraping a bashful hoof on the floor, careful to glance at my burned ankles and then quickly look away. “Well, I can see why they called you that. You have a wonderful color.”

I know I scored a direct hit when she steps up and puts a foreleg around me, pulling me into a gentle hug. “Don’t you worry, Sweetheart. I’ve seen burns worse than that. You’ll be back to your old self in no time.” That was closer than I like, but I am good, and she interprets my sigh of relief just the way I want her to.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to say it about your city, but this place has been just horrible ever since I arrived. I’ve been attacked by monsters, vandals, madponies, and...” I struggle for another word, something to encapsulate the nightmare I ran through. I was covered in a pony’s blood, drowned, stabbed, chased, and scalded by boiling water. By all rights, I should be crying that into her shoulder, but while I feel a growing lump in my throat, my face keeps that bashful smile. Her grin and that nudge have unsettled me, and the more I think about her unaging appearance and ragged dress, the stronger that worry grows. My instincts are trying to warn me that there is something subtly but vitally wrong with this creature, and I instinctively hide my feelings. “And, I want to go home. How can I get back to the surface?”

I read the answer in her eyes even before her face falls. I can’t. By the time she shakes her head, she’s made her answer obvious three different ways, and the half a second it takes her to start speaking feels like an eternity. How can I not get out? I can’t be trapped here. You can’t just kidnap ponies like this!

“Oh, Sweetheart. I’m so sorry, but it might be awhile. Travel to the surface is hard to come by these days. I can’t really say when the next chance will come.” There are a thousand questions running through my head, but I clamp down on them. I want to scream, to yell, to demand to know what makes her think she can do this. I’m Princess Celestia’s own student; she can’t keep me here!

No. No—I refuse to give into panic. Looking at the situation rationally, she obviously wants to help me, and can’t. Yelling at her won’t make anything better. I must be letting the strain show a bit, because she reaches out to me, sitting beside me with a foreleg over my shoulder. “I know this must be hard to deal with, but you’re in good hooves now. You’re going to be okay.”

That feeling of wrongness only grows stronger as she puts a leg around me, and I have to fight the urge to go stiff and pull away. I’m not usually so instinctual in my reaction to ponies, but the kinder she is to me, the more my fight-or-flight reaction puts me on edge. It’s a dark je ne sais quoi—like a sour note in a song. Part of it is that she smells sweet, but I remember the stink in my nose, and the soft odor brings me no comfort. Part of it is that she mesmerized me, and the more I want to lean against her for support, the more I wonder if she’s doing it again now. Part of it is that grin, that look in her eyes. Part of it is... is that something I can’t define. I draw a breath to clear my head. This isn’t helping. Celestia would want me to be strong.

“‘Hard to deal with’ doesn't begin to describe it. That was not my most dignified moment, there in the bathroom, but... thank you. I do understand what a kindness you’ve done me.” That sounds good, and when I hear myself speak, I can imagine the brave, capable pony that uttered such words. “I have questions. I know the city’s name is Vision, but that’s all I know, and I have seen many strange things since I came here. The wiredolls, forcefields, magical lights, aside from the very concept of a city beneath the waves.” I draw a breath, emphasizing my final sentence with pause and a faint shake of my head. “What is this place?”

Green turns away from me and lowers her gaze to the floor. Her mane partially hides her face from me, but that doesn't matter. I can see it all in how her spine relaxes, in the way her head tilts down like she didn’t have the strength or will to lift it. Shame, loss, regret. There’s something else there though, something darker and angrier. Not all of her body is limp, one of her hooves scraping at the floor hard enough to scratch the wood. “It started as a beautiful dream.” She seems at a loss for how to proceed, and after a moment, she removes her leg from about my shoulders. “We all believed there could be something better than Equestria. We believed that if you gave ponies the chance to prosper, they would rise to greatness. We...” I can’t see her shut her eyes, but I know she did, a quiet sigh escaping her.

“Of course, it’s just a leaking ruin now. Some ponies will tell you that Heart’s Desire and Poison Joke destroyed this city, but it’s not true. Vision was ruined by its own inhabitants. Idiots. Cowards. Parasites. They wanted freedom, but they didn’t have the strength for it. They didn’t have the spine for it.” Her anger falters, and for all that she is strange and unnatural, I can’t help but be struck by what a pitiable creature she is: once adored but now alone, once prosperous but now squatting in a slum. Even with that unnatural air she has, I can’t help but admire her beauty. What must she have been like before? “I’m sorry, sweetie.” She shakes her head, rising to her hooves. “Here you are, afraid for your life, and I go off on some rant. There’s tea today. Let me brew some. You’ll feel better.”

“It’s okay,” I assure her, grateful that her looking away means I don’t have to come up with suitable body language on the spot. “This is your home. I can’t imagine how troubling it must be to have to see it in such a state, but there are things I still need to know.” Things like how I get out of this madhouse, but that will be a long and complicated discussion, I’m sure. There’s so much going on here; I should start with the basics. “Tell me...” I consider the things I’ve seen here: the city itself, the strange devices, the thug with the magical tattoos, the madponies. I’ll have to ask about all of them, but I should start with a more immediate mystery. “Who are Heart’s Desire and Poison Joke?”

She laughs at that, a trace of warmth returning to her body language. “Not who, Sweetheart. They’re magical plants, native to the Everfree Forest.” That helps explain a lot of what I’ve been feeling. If the city is overrun by plants from some mystic jungle, it’s no wonder things have gone so horribly wrong. Crimson light surrounds her horn as she levitates a pot out of the cabinet. She pauses for a moment, focusing on the pot as she fills it with water and then sets it on the stove. “On their own, they can cause some fairly unpleasant ailments if you touch or eat them, but mixed together...” She looks down at her kettle and shakes her head. “Well, it’s time for my medication anyway. I suppose it’s easier just to show you.”

Her horn glows again, but this time, the magic takes hold of her dress, carefully releasing it and sliding it away. As she works, the thought occurs to me that the sickly lumps under that vandal’s flesh might have been the result of some supernatural plant toxin, and I mentally brace myself for whatever disfigurement her dress is hiding. Physically though, I show only a mild curiosity. It’s a blend of a few poses, but I’m not at the top of my game right now, and she’s not paying full attention to me anyway.

I’m ready for anything, but when she pulls the dress away, her flesh is whole and unbroken. I’m not the sort to evaluate other mares’ flanks, but she’s certainly not hiding a disfigurement. The only thing about her that stands out as strange is that she’s tattooed like that thug was.

Her real cutie mark, three green apple slices, rests right where it should be, but five other symbols have been painted on. Just below her cutie mark and across her leg is a tattoo showing the black outline of a pony, surrounded by scarlet coils. From the center of her barrel, just over her ribs, a stylized eye stares out at me, black and white swirls inside it. A red cross and a set of silver horseshoes adorn her shoulder, and I can barely see something else on her underside, just where the strap of the dress wraps around her. She spares me the awkwardness and impropriety of leaning down to look, raising a foreleg so I can see. A silhouette of a pony biting its own tail.

I bite my lip, taking a moment to think. So obviously, Heart’s Desire and Poison Joke have something to do with those tattoos, and from my previous encounter, it seems likely the tattoos are magic. A tattoo would be a major faux pas for a model, but it seems a little unlikely that a supernatural plant toxin causes spontaneous decoration.

“The plants make magical tattoo ink?” I hazard a guess, looking up at her for confirmation. The ordering of events makes sense—the plants make magical ink, which can be used to create useful effects, but there’s some kind of awful side effect or stigma. She shakes her head though, opening the cabinet above her and levitating out the vials I saw before.

“Those aren't tattoos, sweetie. They’re cutie marks.” When she answers, I’m quick to assume Uncomprehending Befuddlement #7. It closely mirrors my real feelings, and it’s always good for earning a little sympathy. On cue, she laughs, shaking her head and levitating a glass from the other cabinet to the counter in front of her. “Once upon a time, there was a disease called Cutie Pox you could catch from Heart’s Desire. It made cutie marks appear all over your body, forcing you to spastically perform all of the associated acts.” She carefully measures out precise doses from each of the vials into the glass, restoring each vial to the cabinet once she’s done with it. “But then, somepony wondered what would happen if you added Poison Joke, and discovered that it sends Cutie Pox into remission without removing the extra marks. You could even make a specific mark appear, with some refinement.”

The glass in front of her pulses faintly with each new compound she adds, and she gives a dark chuckle, that unsettling grin returning to her face. “Now, I am a mare of many talents: I sing, I dance, I model, I can heal the sick or entrance with a stare, I age very gracefully, and I suppose I can still buck apples if the urge ever strikes me.” She downs the glass in front of her sharply, grimacing with the taste, and every cutie mark on her but the real one pulses with a dull crimson light.

For a moment, I’m at a loss, and when she pauses to clean out the glass, I happily use the time to think. I’m no alchemist, and my magical talents are focused in areas more worthwhile than enchantment, but I can already see the problems here. A cutie mark isn’t just a stamp that gives you a talent—it’s a part of what you are and what sort of pony you turn out to be! You couldn't have a Siren Song with a spear or a castle on her flank—take away my music, my art, and I wouldn't be me anymore. All you would have is some other pony, walking around in my body, playing at my life, running through the motions of my existence in some sick parody.

I don’t know know what instinct warned me, but I know why I find Green so unsettling now. No, not unsettling. Revolting. Luckily, I suppress a shudder, assuming a picture-perfect Thoughtful Curiosity #1, complete with hoof tap to the chin.

“I can’t imagine what that must be like. My talents have always been so focused,” I reply, showing just a touch of my nervousness so the act will seem believable, but keeping the words on point. “But, forgive me for asking: there are side effects, aren't there?”

“Sure are, Sweetheart,” she murmurs, staring off at the wall, lost in recollection. “Poison Joke loves a good laugh, and well, the joke was on us.” She shakes her head as though to clear it, and her eyes refocus. She pulls the dress back up and carefully ties it around herself as she finishes. “Poison Joke suppresses Cutie Pox, but it doesn't cure it, so you need to keep taking it in steadily larger doses. It starts as a vial a month, then a drink once in a while, and pretty soon you’re chugging down bottles of it every morning. You start thinking that maybe you should quit—that this has gone a bit too far. That’s when you discover that you can’t. If you’d quit after the first hit, you’d have been fine, but once your blood is choked with it, Poison Joke won’t let you get off that merry-go-round. And if you try? Mutations. Deformities. Transformations. Insanity. That’s how you end up like those poor souls in Serpent’s Wharf.”

That feeling of revulsion only grows stronger now—like she was diseased and I was afraid just to be near her. She’s not even a pony anymore; she’s a living morality play about the importance of not trying to cheat the natural order. I never let my feelings get in the way of a good performance though, and so my eyes get that wide, sympathetic look as I reach out to take her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Green.” Does the flesh feel wrong somehow? I don’t remember if it did before.

“Oh, don’t feel bad for me, sweetie,” she tries to reassure me with a smile and a light tone. “I keep the dose manageable, and if this does kill me in a few years, it’ll be my own fault. Meanwhile though, I’ve got no regrets.” I can tell she’s eager for somepony to talk to, and she’s quick to pull me up against her side again, facing the counter. That cloyingly sweet scent hits my nose again, and now that I know what she is, it actually causes a wave of nausea. I force it down though, and keep that worried sympathy on my face.

“I don’t suppose you’d understand.” She opens the drawer, levitating out the poster I found earlier. “Trixie told me you’re a proper Canterlot unicorn—grace, beauty, class, magic, all that. I’m sure you’re used to crowds fawning over you.” Which is true—I’m an amazing performer. I could draw crowds of thousands if I wanted to. I just don’t want to. “Growing up on a farm though, when I would show an interest, they’d look at me like there was something wrong with me. They wished I was an earth pony. Coming here, getting to be myself for the first time in my life. It was magical. We wanted to think it could never end.”

She’s lost in reminiscence, looking at the poster. I realized she was lonely, but it takes a certain degree of desperation to spill your life story to somepony you didn’t know an hour ago. I test my theory by putting a comforting hoof on her shoulder, and she sighs. “I did make that look good, didn’t I?” I’m going to need another shower, after this.

“Is that why you came down here? To be a model?” I keep a gentle tone when I inquire, just in case it’s another sore spot, but she shakes her head.

“No. That was what made me buy my ticket, but it wasn’t the real reason. I’d been ready to leave Equestria for years before I even knew Vision existed. Sine was what made me come. He made us all realize there could be something better.” She shakes her head. “I’m sure you know the history—the riots and Celestia. Well, now you know where all those missing ponies went.” In fact, I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it doesn't seem a good moment to say it. “The bare facts don’t do him justice though. You met him and you knew he saw you as an individual, not a collection of descriptions and roles. He wanted you to be happy for you.”

From the tone of her ramblings, she obviously expects me to know the full history of what she’s talking about. I’ve certainly never heard of Sine Rider before I came here though, and nothing about any riots. It occurs to me that I should say as much, but that is an unknown path. Without knowing the facts, I can’t say if they’ll be a sore spot for her or not. For the time being, best to play it safe. “It sounds like you cared for him a great deal. You two must have been close.”

“No.” She shakes her head faintly. “No, we only met once, and it was years before it all happened, but he changed my life. We were passing on the road, and he looked at me—he looked right at me—and he said, ‘You’d be beautiful if you didn’t look so unhappy.’ Then he moved on. Didn’t even wait for me to answer.” She reaches a hoof up to her face, rubbing it as though to clear her thoughts and putting the poster away. “I’m sorry, I’m getting nostalgic now.”

“It’s really okay—” She waves for silence before I can continue, rising back to her hooves.

“No, sweetie, the past isn’t going anywhere. I was supposed to wire Trixie as soon as you were awake. I just didn’t want to rush you. Why don’t we wire her up now and see about getting you home?” Tempting a thought as that is, I don’t want to talk to Trixie again. I almost interrupt her, but by the time I’ve started, she already has the miniature wiredoll out and on the countertop, and my hoof freezes halfway through the motion. She reaches into her bag and fishes out that crystal with a wand and star on the end, along with a small makeup kit. “All ready?” she asks, taking a moment to touch herself up, fixing her mane with a brush of magic from her horn.

“Oh, um... ready.” I quickly fix mine as well, turning faintly so my shaved and cut side won’t be visible to the little statue. She slots the crystal in, and just like before, it starts to glow, the loud whirr of spinning gears emerging from inside the machine. On the little stand, the figurine jerks once, its head raising up to look at us.

“Trixie,” Green greets her, with a polite nod of her head. I remember that last time Trixie let me speak first, and I mirror the gesture.

“Envy. Siren,” the little doll addresses us in turn, and Green frowns at the use of her stage name. The implicit put-down goes well with what I think is a modified Magician Awes Crowd #3, and I have to admire the technique. It insults Green while projecting that she’s lucky Trixie acknowledged her at all, reinforcing her status as Trixie’s subordinate. “The Great and Powerful Trixie is pleased to see that you managed not to get yourself killed. Well done, Envy.”

“This one’s tougher than she looks.” Green demurs, tapping my shoulder with a hoof. I’m not sure how to feel about that. “She’s ready to travel. She won’t be doing the Running of the Leaves anytime soon, but I can get her down to Neptune’s Bounty whenever you’re ready for her. She’s champing at the bit to be on the next sub out of here, not that I could blame her.”

“Trixie is impressed by your generosity, Envy. Submarine seats are worth a pony’s weight in bits these days. Trixie assumes you’ll be paying her way?” Her words come with a cutting sarcasm, mocking Green for assuming she would help a pony in need. For a moment, it’s enough to make me forget what Green is, and I remember why I hate this pony. Green says nothing, the little doll letting out a hiss like escaping breath. “That’s what Trixie thought. You aren't going to Neptune’s Bounty. Has Siren told you who she claims to be?”

“I introduced myself,” I snap at the little doll, but Trixie only gives a short, curt laugh.

“Trixie is sure you did, but unless Trixie has misread Envy, there is a detail you left out. You were all too eager to let Trixie know that you were Celestia’s personal student.” Green’s eyes widen, and she turns sharply to look at me. “Some reason you didn’t feel the need to tell her?”

“It didn’t come up!” I insist, Green’s increasingly unfriendly gaze putting me on the defensive. Her eyes are narrow, her body tense, her face pulled tight like a snarling animals. “I was scared. I had to ask about the city! It just didn’t seem important.”

“Normally, Trixie would have you thrown to the markers for trying to con her this way,” Trixie says. This time she using a more magnanimous tone, making a wide gesture with her hoof up. I don’t recognize the specific form, but I’m sure that awful witch of a pony is getting this from somewhere. “But there is a certain degree of corroborating physical evidence. Trixie has confirmed that a ship was recently sunk outside the city, and Envy has already determined that you’ve been eating ship rations for the last few weeks. Trixie is not willing to believe you, yet, but on the off chance that you really are the princess's student, Trixie is sure she’ll part with much to have you back.”

My cheeks burn, and I shout before I think. “That’s why you helped me? So you could ransom me back to Celestia!?” I look at Green for some sign of outrage, but she just looks hard, and there’s no support there. “Well you can forget it, both of you! I won’t be your hostage.” A flash of pain rushes through my ankle when stamp my hoof to the floor for emphasis, but I bite it down. Imagine, me, returning to Celestia’s court because I was saved by a witch and a freak. I have my dignity!

“Very well.” Trixie raises a hoof to gesture to the door behind me. “Go ahead.”

What?

I look over to the door and its many locks. “You can’t keep me here!” I insist, glaring down at the little statue. This is an obvious game, and I’m not going to fall for it. Theatrics like hers might move common ponies or get to me when I’m unsettled, but she can’t push me around now.

“Trixie is across the city, and Envy certainly isn’t going to fight you to make you stay. If you don’t find Trixie’s terms acceptable, you’re free to go.” It’s a thick door, and it’s braced with more hinges than it needs, probably to make it harder to break down. There are chains, deadbolts, and a wedge I didn’t see before, that Green used to spike the door shut after she came in.

“Well?” Trixie demands. The doll’s face doesn't move, but I know she’s sneering at me, judging me. Green should be coming to my aid, but she’s just giving me a silent glare. When I look at her for help, her gaze only narrows, lips curling back faintly.

“I didn’t—” I look to Green, stepping up to her. “Please, I didn’t mean to hide anything from you. I didn’t think it was important. I still don’t know why it’s important! Yes, I’m Celestia’s student. I’m sorry, but please, you can’t let her do this to me. I need your hel—”

She slaps me.

It takes me a second to figure out what just happened, like the different parts of the slap arrive out of order: my view abruptly jumps to the side, my neck hurts, I hear the clap of impact, and then I feel the shock of pain. Her horseshoes are icy cold, but as I reel backwards, I can already feel heat spreading through my face. I freeze on the spot, reaching up to my cheek. She-she’s wearing horseshoes, so she must have pulled that blow. If she really hit me with those, I’d be out cold. Right? I don’t know what to do, but Green looks so angry, her breath coming out in a sharp snort.

“You may be used to getting everything off the backs of hardworking ponies, Siren, but that ain’t how things work down here.” Green spits the words at me, her earlier friendliness gone. “I don’t coddle parasites! You need something, you earn it. You don’t want to play ransom? Fine! You can earn your ticket some other way. You do anything useful?” I don’t know what to say. What am I supposed to say to that? She leans in close, and I pull away. “Have you done an honest day’s work in your life?” I don’t know what she wants me to say. “I’m talkin’ to you, you stuck-up foal!” I don’t know what she wants me to say.

I don’t know what she wants me to say.

I don’t know when I started crying. I only notice it when my vision starts to blur. I’m looking up at Green, just muttering the same thing over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I can’t even get that right. I’m slurring all the words, making a mess of it. Probably just making her angrier.

“Trixie can see what you meant about this one being stronger than she looks, Envy.” Trixie snorts. “Pathetic. She has an appointment at Doctor Stable’s to get her blood tested. That will tell us for certain if she is who she claims to be. Clean her up and get her down there.”

“I don’t do doctors, Trixie. They all report to the Medical Pavilion. You know that,” Green mutters, watching me quietly. I can’t see her clearly—my vision is too blurred by tears. I don’t know how she’s looking at me.

“Then have Berry Punch take her in. Trixie doesn't care,” the automaton insists, its tone leaking frustration.

“Wire ahead to let her know we’re coming. Call it two or three hours,” Green murmurs, as I try to rub at my eyes. She moves, and I squeak, shielding my head before she can hit me.

“Fine. Oh, and one more thing. Remember not to use her full name in front of security. Trixie isn’t the only pony who still has connections on the surface.” I can hear a faint mechanical whirr and the sound of the crystal popping out of the socket. Then, the room is quiet. There’s not a sound.

Just me, sobbing like a stupid little foal.

Green touches my shoulder, and I reflexively curl up tighter. “I’m sorry!” I shout. I realize that I’m inconsolable and irrational, and a terrifying thought enters my head. I grab onto her hooves, begging, “Please don’t hypnotize me.”

“I’m not going to do that, Siren. I... um...” Behind her, the kettle starts to hiss, the sound of boiling water spilling out into the room. “I...” She doesn't seem sure of what to say, the kettle’s whine carrying over the sound of my pathetic whimpering for what seems like an eternity. “Come on now, wipe those tears. Crying never helped anypony with anything.”

I force myself to keep quiet, squeezing my eyes shut and letting the last tears roll down my face. She’s right, of course. This was my fault. No need to make it worse. I reach up to rub the tears away, and when I open my eyes again, I can see her giving me an uncertain look, her mouth a tight frown.

“You need a bit to pull yourself together, before we can go.” She looks at the stove and levitates the kettle away. Nopony says anything as she pours two cups. I’m looking at my hooves, so I’m not sure if she’s looking at me.

“You like music, right?” I nod, and she dumps one teabag into each cup. “Good. Give this a bit to cool off. It’ll make you feel better. I’ve got more classics here—you can listen for a spell.” She levitates the teacup to sit on the counter near me.

“Th-thank you,” I murmur as she pulls the box of records out from under the counter. It’s obvious she intends to plunk me down in front of the phonograph until she’s ready to deal with me, or until I’m coherent enough to deal with her. Which is fair. I wouldn't want to deal with somepony in my condition.

“Yeah,” she agrees, mouth still a tight frown, shooting me a glance. “Just try to calm down.”

A few moments later, she turns the crank, and the music starts.

Golden Palm

I know this song. I’ve heard it somewhere before. That’s not like me; I always remember music perfectly, but I don’t know where I heard this. It’s slow, full of violins so quiet they seem to whisper. One is louder than the rest, ready to steal the song, but all it does is mirror the others—repeating the wanderings of the instruments around it. Strings draw out long, pure notes, and the needle doesn't once scratch. They’re like a stone floor worn smooth by dozens of generations of hooves, until it seems to have grown into that perfect rippling shape. Every note is quieter than the one before it, shorter and weaker.

I can see everything that led me here, but I can’t hear it. I watch myself knock on Celestia’s door, but I don’t hear my hoof strike the wood. My face tweaks with that nervous little moment when I wonder if I can lie to her, but when she opens it, I’m perfect. I have just that hint of nervous excitement, a foalish giddiness tempered by a desire for dignity. I can see my mouth moving as I assure her that I’m ready to study abroad, that griffon art is so fascinating, but I can’t hear a word. It’s like my mind is a silent picture with that music in the background.

The lead violin is starting to waver, like the strength was leaving the musician. She can’t hold the bow steady, and the notes swerve up and down through the song. It’s a losing battle, but she refuses to give in, working every mistake into the wandering melody, making it sound intentional.

The last thing I ever said to Princess Celestia was a lie. I willfully deceived her and half the art faculty so I could run away after something she told me was none of my business. She’ll be waiting for the first letter from me now. Dear Princess Celestia, today I learned about pre-classical sculpture in avian beings and blah blah blah. Then she won’t get it. She’ll write to the curator to ask if I’m well, and he won't know what she’s talking about. She’ll be so worried, send out the guards to search for me, but they’ll never find me. Eventually she’ll figure it out. I ran away.

She gave me everything. She loved me when nopony else did, and I repaid her by running away.

She’ll worry if I’m okay until she can’t sleep at night. She’ll wonder what she did wrong, to raise a pony who could deceive her own mentor. She’ll wonder if she did anything to make me want to leave so much. Then, she’ll accept it. She’ll hope that I’m okay wherever I am, and tell the guards to stop searching, and I’ll be one more weight piled up on her heart. Just another disappointment in her long life. I left to make her happy again, and I ended up being another student who didn’t love her.

I’ll never get to tell her it’s not true, that I wish I’d never left. I’ll never see her again. I’m going to die down here and she’ll never know.

The lead violin twitches, the faintest sound. Its bow draws back, pulling forth the highest and clearest note I’ve ever heard a violin produce. Then it’s silent, the others carrying on without it, sinking into silence one by one.

Oh, Princess. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

The music stops abruptly, and a hoof shoves me away from the table. I was still crying, I guess. I can feel the tears on my face and my eyes are stinging. It’s Green, and she’s glaring at me. She’s not going to hit me again though—it’s not that kind of angry. It’s... I don’t know, I can’t think. She’s not angry at me though.

“Hoof,” she barks. I don’t understand. “Give me your hoof!” she repeats, sharply pointing at my right forehoof. She yanks it up and forward when I extend it to her and shoves something around it. It’s jewelry, or an accessory—a hoof-boot, but with five slots arranged like a fan. There’s a little blue crystal in each one, like the wiredoll tokens. A holder, I guess. It’s held in place by a tight fit and little pins that go into my hoof and sting when she clamps it on. “Stop crying,” she snaps. I force my chest to go still, blinking the tears out of my eyes. It doesn't quite work though. I keep trembling for some stupid reason.

“There. You want to beg for somepony to help you?” She almost spits the words, sharp and strong. “That’s two who are more likely to help than the one you were making a foal of yourself for. Now, it’s time to go. You’ve had an hour. If we wait any longer, we’ll miss the tram.”

My stupid chest won’t stop shaking. I know... this. I know why she gave me something. I know what that look means. I know what to do. I just can’t think of any of it. “Can I...” I manage to nudge my head towards the bathroom.

“Yes, fine,” she sighs. “Hurry.”

A splash of cold water to the face helps a little. I make myself draw a deep breath and let it out, slowly counting down from ten like Celestia taught me. My chest stops shaking, and I clean the tears off my face. My eyes are all bloodshot, but that will fade.

I wish I could talk to myself. It’s silly, maybe a little narcissistic, but I have such a wonderful voice. I’m commanding and authoritative and charismatic—it makes me feel like I could do anything. Green wouldn’t like that though. She would think I was wasting her time. I’ll just have to pull myself together without it.

“Right.” Take stock. First, I examine the hoof-boot more closely, and I discover I was right. The crystals in it are wiredoll tokens: one of Trixie’s, one with Green’s original apple mark, and three with my cutie mark. So, she gave me a gift. More than that, she gave me something I don’t need, since she certainly doesn't intend to let me out of her sight. She was mad, but not at me, and she called herself and Trixie more likely to help me than Celestia. That’s good. I can work with that. When a pony makes an absurd statement with that much conviction, you know it’s because there’s some reason they need to believe it. It makes it easy to get a handle on what’s going on inside them.

She’s... she’s mad at Celestia. That’s obvious, but it’s more complicated than that. She didn’t merely say that Celestia wouldn't help me—she asserted that she would. She needs to think she’s better than Celestia.

It hits me all at once, and I can’t help but give a weak little laugh. Green with Envy. Somepony had perceptive critics. Good models know not to compare themselves to the Princess—it isn’t right—but there’s nothing good in that rotten shell of a pony. Fine, she can think she’s better than the Princess. I think she’s a pathetic, bitter washup clinging to her fifteen minutes of fame long after they’ve passed.

Huh. That felt kind of good.

“I can do this.” It feels good to hear too, even whispered. Very strong, with the right amount of emphasis on the “do” so that it hits hard, but “I” is still the word to note. It’s empowering. I’m going to get out of here, I’m going to see the Princess again, and I’m going to prove I’m the pony she thought I was when she found me. She made the right choice that day, and I’m going to tell her in person!

Okay, now, what to do when I walk out? Not crying, that would be trying her patience. Sad is overplayed. Abashed, while staying a little too close to her side and looking at her for approval right after I speak. Like she slapped some sense into me and I got it together, but I still need her. She’s vain enough to believe she can replace the Princess as my mentor, helping me learn how to survive in this world. That’ll play her ego like a harp, and she’ll get me out of here just so she can spit in Celestia’s face and say she did.

And then the Princess will let her rot in prison for the rest of her unnatural life.

Okay, right. Game face. Draw a breath, little tremble in the chest that’s almost imperceptible. An intentionally bad Determined Resolution #9, complete with a hint of stiffness around the edges of my mouth. The bloodshot eyes will sell it perfectly. Straighten my mane a little, but not well, as though I was flustered and trying to look good for her. Straighten the back, stiffen the knees, and... showtime.

I exit the bathroom at a tense walk, like I want to trot, or run, but the room isn’t big enough. I glance up at her, then back down at her hooves, and I nod. “I’m sorry.” I stiffen my spine a little when I say it, drawing in a trace of breath and making my ears perk up. “It won’t happen again.” I don’t put strength into my tone—that would be an affront. I brush it in, breathe into the words, and then as soon as I’m done, undercut it with a quick glance to her face, checking her expression to make sure she approves. “I just...”

“I know, Sweetheart.” For a moment, she doesn't move and lets the conversation lapse into silence, but then she reaches out to take my shoulder and pulls me close. “You’d never touched a weapon in your life before, and you fought your way out of Serpent’s Wharf. That takes guts. You’ve got what it takes; you just need to break some bad habits. That’s all.”

“I won’t get in your way again.” You degenerate, sick-minded freak. “I-I’ll be useful, and-and if I’m not, I’ll learn. I’ll make you glad you helped me. I promise I will.” Echoing her words from earlier is a good touch, particularly with the faintest hint of a tremor in my voice. She takes her medicine like a good pony, and I feel her hesitate, as her pose gets a hair looser.

“I know you will, Sweetheart, and I promise, I won’t let anypony hurt you. You’ll be okay.” She lets a breath out, and I can sense the faintest stiffness in her face as she shuts her eyes. “I’m sorry I hit you, Siren. That was beneath me.”

“It’s fine.” I say it a touch too quickly, pulling back and crossing my hooves. “I was making a foal of myself.” This time, I reverse the order: ears twitch down, glance at her face, and then quickly down at her hooves. It lands perfectly. I’m always good, but I couldn't have done it any better if I’d actually reached out and grabbed her black heart. She suddenly pauses, bites her lip, glances down a hair, and then back up at me.

“It’s... fine. We need to go though. It’ll take time to get tickets.” She turns back to the door to start into the collection of locks, picking up her saddlebags on the way.

She’s obviously not afraid of going outside, and given that she can hypnotize anypony into doing her bidding, it’s not hard to imagine why. Still, just because I know that, doesn't mean poor, frightened, traumatized Siren is that sharp. It’s the little touches that make a great performance great, and so I glance around the room like I was searching for something. “Shouldn't we be armed?”

“I pay my protection, and the gangs around here know better than to mess with me. Stick close to my side, and you’ll be fine.” I’m hardly going to pass up that invitation, and two quick steps take me to her side at once. A pause, an embarrassed glance away, and a faint step to the side completes it, and I’m rewarded with another little hesitation on her part. Aww, I’m so sorry, Envy, did I derail your train of thought?

She pulls the wedges out from under the door last, and once it swings open, we step outside together. She has to stop to lock the door behind us, which gives me a second to take stock of our surroundings. It’s about what I expected, given that Green’s “apartment” is made from an old communal bathroom and kitchen. We’re in a common space, full of rusting metal bunk beds and abandoned trunks of clothes and possessions. Everything here is long since ruined by water, and a drain in the floor is all that stops the dripping ceiling from filling the space. It’s abandoned, but it seems that a few of the apartments around it are still occupied. A number of the doors are fortified like Green’s is, covered in locks and reinforced by metal strips. There doesn't seem to be anypony around though.

Green is taking awhile with the door, and so I trot ahead to the exit. This room is boring, cheap; it doesn't have any of the architectural grandeur the Wharf did. The space outside is a little better. It’s an atrium of white stone, a ramp circling around the outside to permit access to the different levels of apartments. It looks like there are six or so in total, and that we’re on the ground floor. Once, this was a garden, bathed in artificial sunlight from the glowing, pulsing strips above. The plants are all long dead though, choked out by the salt water.

There are some other details too, but nothing really noteworthy—a statue here, a fading mural there. This room at least tries to impress, but in the end, it’s wanting. Even the graffiti is uninspired, little more than a collection of nonsense and vulgar trash. Still, the room reminds me that Green is not the only thing standing between me and freedom. Best to find out more about this place while I can. Right on cue, I can hear Green’s hooffalls behind me.

“What happened to this place?” I keep my voice low, widening my eyes a tad as I turn back to look at Green head-on. She doesn't answer at first, turning to lead me up the ramp, her eyes cast downwards to watch where she’s going.

“A lot of things happened, Siren. We had nopony to blame but ourselves. We built the city wrong, and it leaked. We used all our metal to build wiredolls and toys while vital infrastructure decayed. We discovered mantles, and got addicted. Life in Vision was never easy, but it didn’t get bad until the revolution.” Her teeth set as her tone hardens, and she firmly shakes her head.

“Some ponies lost their nerve. They said we’d made a mistake when we left Equestria. They said ponies weren't meant to rule themselves, that we needed the Princess. They wanted to go back. That’s all we needed, a bunch of washups and losers running back to Celestia to whine their pathetic little hearts out about how hard life is without her, and how they need somepony to save them. We’re all struggling, but listening to them, you’d think they were the only ponies in the world with problems.” Her tone is picking up as her pace does. It’s a live nerve, and I know better than to interject. Best to let her rant herself out and play the timid wide-eyed card.

“The council said no, and that should have been the end of it, but the parasites were willing to do anything to get out. They drummed up everypony with a grudge against the council: losers, beggars, failures, markers who needed a fix. They’d give those ponies a sandwich and a speech about freedom, and those ponies would hand over their lives! It all happened so fast. One day everything was normal, and then we were in the middle of a civil war.” She snorts, but takes a second to collect herself, reining in her tone. We turn around a bend in the ramp. Third floor and climbing now.

“It was bad. Serpent’s Wharf got the worst of the fighting—ponies trying to get to the submarines. It never recovered. The rest of the city was badly damaged too. There used to be a tram station right outside that ground level door, but it hasn’t worked since then. We’ll have to walk to Spitfire Station. Don’t worry though—it’s not far.” She draws another breath and glances back at me. She’s thinking of what I might want to know, and what she should take the time to tell me. I don’t push it.

“The council makes some exceptions though, for the right ponies. If anypony can get you a seat out of the city, Trixie can.” It’s a good opportunity to ask how she knows Trixie, but this is one chance I’m going to pass up. Green doesn't give any warning when you’re about to push one of her buttons—you push it and she explodes—and I don’t know if Trixie is a button. Best keep the subject general.

“Trixie said she was from Equestria, and still knew ponies there from before. When did Sine found the city? It must have been over a decade ago.” It’s the right question to ask, but for some reason, she stops up short, turning and giving me the strangest, pitying glance. I come up short as well, and I don’t have to fake my worried, confused expression.

“Celestia never told you anything, did she?” Green asks, but it’s not a question. “Do you even know about the riots? About what happened?”

“I... um...” Nutbunnies, caught in an omission. I obviously have to admit it, but how I admit it matters. I stick to the plan, glancing down and repeating a faint, “I—” while my voice cracks.

“Shh,” she reaches out a hoof to shush me, brushing my shoulder. “It’s okay, Sweetheart. Not your fault.” She shakes her head while I tilt my gaze back up. “Sine Rider didn’t found the city. He died. He died years before this all happened. Celestia killed him. The Elements of Harmony founded the city, when they realized what Celestia was: a tyrant.”

It’s all I can do not to spit in her face and tell her just what I think of that pile of horseapples. The Princess couldn't hurt anypony. She’s not capable of it! Saying as much would start another fight though, and I’ve hidden worse moods on stage. Wounded Denial #1 serves well here, and a whispered: “She wouldn't do that.”

“I know it feels that way, sweetie. I remember when I was a foal and all I wanted was to get to meet the Princess and see her raise the sun, but it’s true.” She glances at the ramp, and I can tell she’s trying to decide if we have time to stop and talk. Apparently we do. “You deserve to know the real story.”

“Sine was a farmer in Ponyville and friends with the Elements of Harmony. About twenty years ago, there was a food shortage. A crop blight that was resistant to traditional methods or unicorn magic. For the good of Equestria, Celestia decreed what farmers had to grow and how much they could sell it for.” She glances down at the floor, her tone growing quiet as she stares into the past. “At the time, I agreed with her. It was hard, and the farm struggled, but nopony wanted a famine. Sine was different though—he wouldn't have it. He said that if Celestia wanted to work his farm, she could come down and pull the plow herself. A lot of farmers agreed with him, and they walked away. All of them.”

“She tried to bribe him.” Green lets out a humorless laugh. “Offered him ten times what everypony else was allowed to sell for, if he’d go back to his farm and tell everypony to do the same.” Her laugh turns into a smirk, still humorless, but now dark. “So he burned his farm to the ground in front of her.”

“She didn’t like that, and her pegasi dragged Sine off to the palace then and there. He never came out. And that’s it, really.” She turns back to me. “Not much of a story, I guess, but if you’d met him, you’d understand. His death changed things. It changed how we all saw Celestia, and we realized we had to leave.” She glances away, up at the ramp. “And now, you and I really do have to leave. C’mon, sweetie.”

It’s obvious she’s lying about Celestia, but the story still leaves me at a bit of a loss. That’s the hero of the city? They could have made up anything they wanted, and that’s what they decided to go with? A pony who, in the middle of a famine, burned his farm down to spite Celestia. That’s their role model?

No wonder this place fell apart.

Green sets a faster pace now, too quick for conversation. We take the last two stories at a trot, ending at another one of those metal security doors with the crystal in the center. This time, there’s no guessing game—Green lets out a sharp: “Password: Picture Perfect Pony,” and the door slides open on those clicking mechanisms. The hallway outside is cramped and narrow, barely wide enough for the two of us to trot side by side. If there was a ground-level door with its own tram station, that was probably meant to be the main entrance and exit. This must be a side corridor or a back alley. It’s filthy too, reeking of urine and full of trash.

We pass a few junctions before we meet anypony; I was starting to think that this part of the city was abandoned. The first pony we see is a filthy old unicorn stallion, rummaging through a trash can. He runs off as soon as he sees us, and I don’t get a good look. Only one cutie mark though, I think. The second is a pegasus, sleeping inside an old crate. He shies away from us and lets us pass, and I have to hide my disgust. He’s filthy, and flea bites are visible around the ragged blanket he’s wrapped in. His box smells cloyingly sweet, and his gums are cut and bleeding, obviously diseased. Every city has parts that are better than others, but the worst places in all of Equestria aren't a fraction as bad as this. It’s like they’re animals, left to fend for themselves. Of course, it doesn't even occur to Green to stop and help him. We pass more ponies like that, scavengers and squatters, and eventually I lose count.

It’s a mare who stops us—a unicorn. It’s so quick, I don’t even have time to be properly frightened. She steps out from behind a pile of boxes, two long knives levitating beside her, and suddenly Green comes to a halt. Even her shout of, “Hand over the saddlebags, now!” doesn't faze me. I know what’s happening, but it’s like my mind hasn’t registered it yet. I feel numb, rooted to the spot, and I just stare at her dumbly.

She used to be bright orange with a white mane, but she’s covered in so much filth that she’s almost brown, and her mane is starting to fall out in patches. Her coat is waxy, and the skin around her joints is starting to bulge out, making it hard for her to walk. She flinches as she takes another step towards us, brandishing the weapons. “I said hand them over!” Her magic is a pure white, like her mane.

“Would you kindly relax?” Green asks, and abruptly, her posture softens. She turns away from me and towards Green, staring deeply into her eyes. A little jolt runs through me, but it’s okay, it’s over. Green can tell her to leave now. Green stares back, giving her a gentle nod. “Now would you kindly give me those knives?” The glow around the weapons changes from white to crimson as Green takes possession of them. That’s probably a good idea—stops her from mugging anypony else, and it couldn't hurt for us to be armed. The orange mare is gazing at her expectantly, and Green rewards her with a smile. “That was very good. Thank you.” It seems to light up her face, a stupid smile appearing there at the thought that she made Green happy.

Then Green jams a knife into each of her ears, sharply yanking forward.

There’s something warm on my coat. Little droplets. I lift up a hoof to look. It’s red.

There’s blood on my coat. I’m covered in blood and bits of a pony’s face.

Oh Celestia, I’m covered in blood and bits of a pony’s face! I have to get it off. I have to get it off! I try to summon my magic, but I can’t concentrate because I’m covered in bits of that mare and when I try to rub it off, it gets more into my coat and there’s blood pooling on the floor oh Celestia her face nearly fell off and it’s on my hooves! I can’t breathe and there’s blood everywhere and I can’t move! I stumble away, but I can’t fall. I can’t fall over or I’ll land in a pool of blood that’s probably full of Heart’s Desire and Poison Joke and who knows what else and I’ll go crazy and mutate and it’s on me already! I need to get it off.

“Would you kindly stop screa—” I see her eyes, I feel that tug on my mind.

“No!” A shock runs up my leg. I hit her. I hit her? A sharp blow to the face, sending her reeling, eye contact broken. What did I do? Oh Celestia, what did I do? I think I broke her jaw. I hit my only guide and she’ll hate me and hypnotize me and cut my face off! I had her and I ruined it, I ruined it! Oh Celestia, I need to get out of here. I need to go!

I run.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going. She’s my only hope to get out of here, but I can’t go back there—she’ll kill me or worse and I think there’s blood in my mouth. There’s blood in my mouth that’s full of I don’t know what and I don’t want to turn into one of those awful things! I didn’t swallow, did I? I try to spit, but my mouth feels so dry, my stomach is churning, I have to keep going, I have to find a place to stop and get it off! I don’t know what to do!

Impact. My chest comes to a stop instantly, but it takes my hind legs a second to realize it. My head flies forward, cracks into something, and my knees buckle under me as my torso twists with the strain. A pony. I hit a pony. Our forelegs lock together, and we go down to the floor in a pile.

My head. My horn. There’s stabbing pain there, like my head was split open with an ice pick. I mustn't scream. If I scream, things will hear me, but it hurts so much. My breath is hissing through my teeth, and my eyes are clamped shut. I can feel the other pony getting up, but I can’t get up—it hurts too much to move my head.

“Oh, ponyfeathers.” A stallion, breathless and alert. “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.” He’s breathing too fast, he’s panicking. He’s lying. I’m gonna die! “C’mon, let’s get you to a doctor. You need to walk. Get up.” He tries to pull me up, and that pick jams down into my forehead again.

“I can’t!” My eyes are watering from the pain, my limbs locking up. I can’t feel anything from the knees down. Is that it? Am I concussed? Is my horn broken? Oh horsefeathers, I hit the stone floor wrong and my horn snapped off. I don’t want to be an earth pony!

“You gotta, this isn’t a safe place. Don’t worry, I’ll help you. Come on!” He has a leg around me now, and I can hear him straining as he hauls me to my hooves. He’s shaking with the weight, but he helps me stand until my knees unlock. I can’t open my eyes. “Just hold your head steady and walk. One hoof forward at a time. I’ll lead you.” Every time I move my head, lightning runs between my ears, and the world spins. I need to puke, but I know if I do, I’ll pass out. I hold my breath and put one hoof forward.

One hoof forward. One hoof forward. I don’t know how long that lasts. His leg is around me, guiding me left or right as I need to turn. I can hear things around us: other ponies, dripping water, the hum and pulse of the lights. I open my eyes once, and see a wide corridor with windows on each side—but the world spins and I almost fall over. I don’t open them again. Eventually, there are more sounds, more ponies, a crowd. A door in front of us opening.

“Doctor!” His voice sounds funny now, more distant than it did when we started walking. I think my ears are ringing, and the sound has a metallic tinge. He starts to pull away, but if he lets go of me, I’ll fall. I pull close before he can get away, some other pony grabbing me. I don’t want them to touch me! “Shhh, it’s okay.” His voice echoes in my ear, like he was far away. “It’s the doctor. Give him time.”

I can’t do that. If he lets go of me, I’ll fall. I’ll fall and I’ll die and mutate or worse. He keeps trying to pull away and leave me here! “No. Please.” I pull closer, my other three legs shaking as I put one around him. There’s muttering, talking I can’t make out.

“Okay.” He stops trying to pull away from me. “I’m here. Lie down on the exam table. It’s right here to your left. You can feel it. All you need to do is lie down.” Something metal and straight presses against my left side, and I can feel ponies grabbing me. Lifting me up, turning me onto the table. The world spins, and I feel bile rising in my throat.

“I know you did it!” Rock Solid shoves me in the shoulder, and I stumble a little. He’s angry, but I know he’s not that angry. He could have shoved me a lot harder than that if he wanted to, and he could have done it in public instead of in my room. I kind of wish I was older, so I could use magic to brush my mane while I talk, but for now, I turn back to the mirror and pretend it didn’t happen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insist, trying to seem innocent as I check my face in the mirror. My mane is straight, clean, I’m all brushed and washed. I even got the matron to braid my tail, and it seems to be holding up. I check Rock Solid while I’m at it, glancing at his reflection. He obviously hasn’t used that brush I gave him. I don’t think he even washed up. Colts. Luckily, his coat and mane are such a rough tan that you can’t tell if he’s dirty or not.

“You put something in everypony’s shampoo and now their hair is getting all tangled and falling out!” He wants to shove me again, but he just stamps his hoof on the tiles. He’s not stupid, exactly. I mean, he does better than me on our homework a lot of the time, but he doesn't think much. I know you’re mad, Rock—you don’t have to go smash up the floor.

“That’s not true. Your mane seems fine to me.” I sigh a little, and roll my eyes. “It would be better if you’d brush it though. The Princess is visiting. You could at least try to look nice.”

He reaches out to turn me around, sharper than I thought. I squeak a little, but only so he’ll think I’m surprised, which I definitely wasn’t. “This isn’t funny, Siren!” He leans in to glare.

“It’s not supposed to be funny, stupid!” He’s way too close to my face, and I have to glare back. “Ugh. Do you want to be adopted or not?” Naturally, he doesn't get it, just giving me a dumb expression with his dumb face. “You know how it works. They always adopt the prettiest foal. That’s why everypony is trying super hard to look great today.”

“So you sabotaged everypony else so you’d seem good? That’s messed up!” Rock is super nice, but there are times when he doesn't get it.

“Rock, this is the Princess. Do you know what that means? It means if one of us got picked, we’d get to live in the palace. Do you get what a big deal that is?” I give him a little shove back in his stupid earth pony shoulder.

“She’s just visiting!” He glares twice as hard, and I lean in until our muzzles are almost touching.

“Nopony ever just visits. Now shut up and brush your stupid mane and try to be princely!” I really shouldn't raise my voice—somepony might hear—but they’re all downstairs, and yelling is the only way to get anything through Rock’s thick head.

“No.” He snorts, leaning back. I don’t get it.

“Huh?” He must be trying to make a point or something. He’s so stubborn.

“No. I don’t want to get adopted because you made everypony else look terrible. Some of the fillies out there are crying, Siren.” He turns away, heading back towards the door. “I’m not going to tell on you, but... that wasn’t okay. I’m going to go with everypony else. You can be the prettiest pony here. I don’t care.”

“Ugh! Stop being thick. You’re going to pass up on a chance to be a prince because of some stupid crying fillies?” He doesn't answer me, and he opens the door to leave. “Rock!” I call after him, following him to the door. He doesn’t say a word though, and all I can see is his tail as he heads downstairs towards the others. “Fine! Be that way! If I get picked, I’m not coming back for you!”

And I never did.

“I’m sorry, Rock.” He doesn't answer me, which is so like him. Instead, all he does is shine a light in my eyes and say something about my reflexes. He always did babble about things that didn’t matter. He must have dyed his coat at some point. He’s green now, and a unicorn. That’s new.

Hold on.

I sit up, and all the blood rushes out of my head. Spots appear in my vision, and the world turns around me. I almost fall back to the table, but Rock—but the doctor catches me at the last second. There’s somepony else too, on the other side, two sets of hooves behind my back. “Careful now,” the doctor murmurs, rebuking me with his tone. “You had a horn fracture and a concussion. Don’t try to sit up too quickly.”

It’s like all the blood has run out of my torso. I can feel my heart pounding, but nothing is moving. I reach up to my head, hooves running over my face, up to my forehead.

Oh thank Celestia.

“Yes, you’re fine. Despite your best efforts, from the shape of you.” The doctor waits until I’m sitting up under my own power and then lets go, but the other pony keeps holding on. My heart is still pounding in my barrel, but feeling is coming back to me now, and the spots in my vision are clearing. “Now, I have other patients to see to. I’ll give you a bit to recover, and then we’ll discharge you.”

I don’t understand why he’s leaving right after I sat up. Shouldn't he be asking me questions or something? The other pony in the room speaks up though. “Thank you, Doctor.” It’s the stallion who helped me. I guess that would make sense.

The doctor leaves. I try to get a good look at him, but my eyes won’t seem to focus. The room around us is white, but that’s all I can make out. The other stallion lowers me back to the table, and that makes me feel a bit better. My vision blacks out again for a second, but that numb feeling goes away. “Thanks,” I whisper.

I’m not sure how long it takes me to recover. More than few minutes though; I think I fell asleep again. My head is pounding when I wake up, but it’s a good kind of pain, sharp and distinct. I’m alert, and when I open my eyes, I see a medical examination room carved out of the white rock instead of a blurry mass of white and silver. There’s a pony sitting next to the bed, and he’s not the doctor. A pegasus. He’s a pegasus.

There’s something wrong with him. His wings are... atrophied. I can barely see his wing muscles, and it makes his torso appear compressed. He’s tan, with a dirty brown mane, and I can’t tell if it’s his natural color or if he’s truly filthy. His muzzle is square and short, his ears stubby and loose. Even if he weren't deformed, he’d be a fixer-upper. As is, he’s pitiable. His eyes are bright gold though. It’s a pretty color.

I check his flank. Only one cutie mark. Crossed palm fronds.

“Hey.” He noticed I opened my eyes. He’s looking right at me, but keeps his voice low. I guess he doesn't want to wake me up. “You feeling okay?”

I don’t answer right away. I lost Green, and I’m in a strange place. I need somepony to help me—I’m not going to blow it by speaking impulsively. Shutting my eyes buys some time to think. I let a breath in and out.

“That was a dumb question.” I smile faintly when I say it, wincing a little as I reach up to hold my head. I hear him chuckle. Nailed it. “Better, though. I have a headache—it doesn't feel like my skull is going to explode.”

“That can’t actually happen, right?” he asks as he plants his flank on the floor so he can reach out with both forelegs, helping me roll over to a sitting position.

“No. That doesn't actually happen.” I say, and this time, it’s my turn to laugh. He has a nice voice. I open my eyes again, glancing over at him as I wait for my head to clear. He’s staring at me with an attentive expression, and I look back with the same. I pick up a few details I didn’t before, like his saddlebags resting against the wall. I think that brown is his natural color, too.

“Well, how was I supposed to know that? You’re the one with all the magic bones stuck into your head.” He’s not that funny, but right now, I need to laugh at something, and it doesn't hurt to make him feel good. His ears perk up a little when hears me giggle, and he smiles. “I’m Golden Palm. You?”

“Siren Song.” I extend a hoof and tap it against his. “Do you prefer Golden or Palm?”

“Golden Palm,” he replies. He’s got a good tone when he says it, cheerful and light. A lesser pony wouldn't even know it was one of his pet peeves. “You prefer Siren, I take it?”

“If you don’t mind. I... um... I—” I shouldn't thank him too quickly, or it won’t seem as meaningful. A little blush, glance down like I’m embarrassed to be in anypony’s debt. That little hesitation, until he thinks I’m about to brush him off and not thank him at all. I bite my lip a little too; it’s a good touch. “If you hadn’t come along, I don’t—”

“It wasn’t as bad as it seemed.” He waves me off before I can finish. “You gave me a bit of a scare—I thought all that blood you were covered in was yours. But the doctor said you probably would have recovered on your own. I mean, you only ran into me.” He glances down at the floor. “My skull isn’t that hard.”

Oh, that poor thing. He’s actually blaming himself for running into me. For a second, I consider not letting him off the hook for it; guilt is a very effective motivational tool. But he seems so nice, and he already helped me. He doesn't deserve that.

Plus, it feels kind of good to know that even bruised, battered, and shaved, I can still make a stallion blush with a kiss on the forehead. “Thank you, Golden Palm.”

He’s actually left speechless. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but it’s still kind of sweet to watch. He’s not sure what to do with his hooves, folding and unfolding them as his gaze jumps between me and the floor. There’s no doubt I’m the prettiest mare to ever give him that kind of attention, and when I stop to think about it, I realize it’s possible I’m the only mare who's ever paid him any mind. He’s not much older than me, and cripples aren't exactly a great catch. “I’m sorry I scared you. There was a fight between two markers, and I got caught in the middle.”

“Yeah, I um... I thought it might be something like that.” He manages to still his wandering gaze, fixing it on me. “We get section eight markers here all the time. It’s not exactly the good part of the city, you know?” More local slang, though I don’t see why he can’t just say “violent.”

“Yeah. I was with somepony, but we got separated.” Right after I smashed her teeth in. It’s okay though; I’m okay. I’ll find a doll, wire Trixie, and she’ll get somepony to pick me up and take me the rest of the way. “Um... where am I?”

“Steady Hoof’s Veterinary and Discount Medical.” I was treated by a vet? A vet? “It’s part of Spitfire Station. He was the only doctor nearby and I was sure you were bleeding out, I didn’t want to—” I press a hoof to his lips to silence him.

“I seem to be in one piece.” No thanks to his idea of good medical care, but there’s no point in saying as much; he meant well. “Spitfire Station is the tram station, right? The one that still works?” I take a shot in the dark, and I get a nod in return. “Good. Is there a doll around here I could use? I can wire for a ride.”

“Yeah, there’s one on the other side of the bazaar. I can show you after the doc discharges you.” And presumably gives me a doggie biscuit for being such a good patient. “Um... I’m sorry to ask, but if you have friends, is there a way they could help cover your doctor’s bill? I got it when you came in, but it was a little...”

“Of course, Golden Palm.” Poor thing probably doesn't have a bit to his name. “How much was it?”

“Five hundred bits.” What? “I mean... six hundred, since I had to pay in installments. I only had twenty on me, but I work in the station, so they can garnish my wages.” Five hundred? For a vet? “It’s only... I’m already in trouble for breaking some dishes, and this would add on top of that...” I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many bits in one place. If I filled up a good set of saddlebags I might be able to carry that many. “I just, I um...” Change the subject. Change the subject!

“Dishes?” His head snaps up a little at the sound of my voice. “You’re a chef?”

His hoof scrapes at the floor, and he breaks eye contact. “I’m a waiter.”

It’s all I can do not to sigh and slump my shoulders when the doctor comes back in.

“Well, hello there—” He glances down at the chart that’s floating alongside him. “Ms. Doe.” He’s a wiry, lanky unicorn, his green flank studded with three cutie marks: a dog and cat under a red cross, a silver caduceus, and a pile of bits underneath a rising arrow. Belatedly, I spot a fourth one across his chest—a blazing fire.

“It’s Ms. Song. But I prefer Siren,” I rebuke him, letting a hint of outrage seep into my tone. “And what’s this about you charging six hundred bits? I can’t have been here more than few hours!”

“Well, Ms.—” he takes a moment to correct the chart, muttering as he fills it in “—Siren... Song...” He taps the pen when he finishes. “You had a fractured horn, a concussion, and numerous contusions. There was also a possibility that your earlier wounds had been exacerbated by the impact. With the extra fee for immediate magical healing, that’s one hundred for the concussion, two hundred for the horn, fifty for the bruises, two hundred to check for internal bleeding, and fifty to repair the cosmetic damage to your horn. It’s all on the form your friend signed.”

“Extra—! You’re a unicorn! What else were you going to do? And where do you get off charging two hundred bits for injuries I didn’t have? What are you going to do next, bill me for not removing my tonsils?” It’s good outrage. Indignant, but with a hint of fear, a tremble of worry that turns greed to guilt and melts ponies’ hearts.

“Your friend agreed to pay before—” He tries to cut in, but I know that trick. I’ve done it before, and better than he does.

“He’s a good stallion, and you told him I might die if he didn’t. He’d have agreed to part with his wings if you’d asked right.” Granted, his wings aren't exactly in mint condition, but it’s the principle of the thing. “In Equestria, the whole visit wouldn't cost me fifty bits, and I’d get a real doctor! I won’t stand for this.”

He smiles, and it doesn't go up to his eyes. Oh horsefeathers.

“I can see you’re from a family that keeps to the old ways, so let me remind you, Siren, that you are not in Equestria. You are in Vision, and we don’t coddle parasites here. We hang them.” Hang? As in... hang from the ceiling? “Your friend has already agreed to pay. If you want to reduce his burden, I suggest you help him cover it.” He sharply puts the chart away, dropping it into a slot in the wall. “You are discharged. Get out.”

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you; I’m sorry about her.” Golden Palm cuts me off before I can object, reaching up to pull me off the bed and drag me towards the door. The doctor doesn't follow us, and we stumble out into a wide but short hallway, turning towards the open end. I start to object, but he shushes me, and I think better of it.

It looks like this practice is only about a half-dozen rooms off this hall. At the end, there’s a small waiting area and a receptionist's desk, the most vapid pink pegasus sitting behind it, filing her hooves. A garish pink sign above the desk reads: “Steady Hoof’s Veterinary and Discount Medical, a Subsidiary of the Carousel Medical Pavilion.” It’s sickening; I hate that color. Luckily, we don’t have to endure it long.

As soon as we push out through the lobby’s double doors, the noise level spikes: conversation, shouting, haggling, music. I should have realized it, of course—he told me there was a bazaar. It’s an impressive chamber. Two statues of pegasi rear up, one at each end, their heads bowed and wings swept forward so the tips touch and form the vaulted ceiling of the space. Tram rails run over their shoulders to a platform suspended from their wings over the center of the room. The floor itself is open to make room for additional stands and market stalls, and the edges are ringed by more permanent stores like the sort we just left. They’re all packed too, a real crowd. I suppose the room’s aesthetics don’t really matter, but I do find them comforting. This is a civilized space.

“You can’t backtalk ponies like that,” Golden Palm murmurs, stepping up to my side as I take in the room. He sits next to me, letting me take my time as I look up at the suspended platform and down at the stores.

“I can when they’re thieves calling themselves doctors. He can’t rip you off like that.” I use a good tone, encouraging and decisive, but when I turn to look at him, he shakes his head.

“Yes, Siren, he can. Please... don’t make things any more difficult.” He stares down at his hooves, and his ears fold back. He gave up six hundred bits for somepony he’d never met and almost didn’t ask her if she could help cover it... but he’s asking me to keep quiet now.

“Golden Palm...” For once in my life, I really, really hope I’m wrong. “Are you going to get in any trouble because I argued with that doctor?”

He doesn't answer.

“Just... just show me where the wiredolls are, please.” Every time I think I have a handle on this place, it gets worse and worse. He doesn't even nod—he only turns and starts walking through the bazaar, wings pressed to his side. I follow him, but I watch the crowd. He’s hard to look at.

It’s not like the markets in Equestria. It appears that way from a distance, but up close, there are differences. There are more clothes than in Equestria, and everypony here has saddlebags, a belt, or something else to carry things in. A lot of them are carrying weapons. I see bits, but I also see the glint of platinum—a coin with five sides. I guess that makes sense, if things are so expensive you’d need bags of bits to pay for them.

There’s a lot more advertising than there is in Equestria too. Sure, every store puts up signs and flyers and things, but here, it seems like every free surface has been plastered with posters. Store signs glow and hum, and music drifts out of every shop, the uncoordinated notes running over each other to form the most irritating din. I see posters for food, apartments, barbers and weapons. Glowing signs scream about the quality of the wares beneath them, and little jingles run from phonographs in every shop. I even see a window display made out of fire—they must have gotten a pony with a pyrokenesis mark to enchant it. Lines of flickering orange form a unicorn's head in three dimensions, and outline the blazing column of fire emerging from his horn. “UNICORNS!” the fiery text reads. “Don’t wait! INCINERATE!”

Any one of them would have been attention-grabbing, but together, it’s so much I start to tune them out. One stands out to me though, and catches my notice as we pass. It’s a poster, showing a pegasus with atrophied, crippled wings. Plain white text across the top reads, “P.C.S.D Affects Over 45% of Pegasi,” while softer text at the bottom says, “There is a cure. Rainbow Brand Tonic.” It’s a good effect. Much more downplayed than all the glitz and noise, but far more effective. The pegasus in the poster seems so miserable you can’t help but stare at him. I glance back at Golden Palm.

Oh horseapples, he saw me looking at the poster.

“It’s not a real disease,” he speaks first. I... I guess he must be used to it. “They couldn't sell enough athletic tonic telling pegasi that they need to exercise more, so they started calling it Pegasus Confinement Stress Disorder and saying it was perfectly normal to feel depressed that you’re hideous.”

“You... you aren’t...” I can’t say it. He’ll never believe me. “That’s all from not exercising? I thought you’d been injured.”

“Nope. Just, you know, use it or lose it, and I never used it. I haven't flown once in my life, leaves the muscles a little underdeveloped.” He trots in silence for a moment as we maneuver between two stopped carts, making slow progress across the crowded market. “My parents spent a small fortune when I was little to send me and my sister to Cloud Chaser’s Flight Academy. You know, the one with the big dome and the lamps on tracks and all that?” I nod. “I hated it. The sun was too bright, I couldn't get the hang of walking on clouds, and the first time I tried to fly, my wings cramped and I threw up. I’m basically an earth pony.”

“That’s not true.” I blurt it out before I think of what I’m going to follow it up with. The right line is the one that gets the audience in the heart, not necessarily the one that makes the most sense, and that’s the line that will get him. A firm stomp of my hoof emphasizes the words, and he stops to look back at me. Time to improvise.

“Palm fronds.” I point at his flank. “You live underwater. You didn’t get that cutie mark because you love palm trees so much. You got them because palm fronds are a symbol of victory over adversity. They’re how pegasi generals showed their greatness. You’re not an earth pony. You got that mark because you have the heart of a pegasus champion!”

“Actually, I got it because I love stories about pegasus warriors. You know, folklore?” I blush on cue, and he smiles. “You’re kind of full of it, Siren.”

Yeah, but I’m awesome at being full of it. I scuff my hooves and mumble something about him still not being an earth pony, and when he leads me on, his expression isn’t quite so sad. He’s probably forgotten about the doctor and the bits already.

The wiredoll lounge is pretty much what I expected—a cheaper, tackier, smaller version of the one from Serpent’s Wharf. There’s an open archway instead of a door, unfinished stone instead of plush carpeting, and there’s a line for the half-dozen-odd booths inside. We step up to the end, and I glance at the sign above the arch. “Complimentary Wire Service Provided by Lulamoon Logistics.” It’s mildly more interesting than looking at the tail of the mare in front of me.

“So, are you really from Equestria, or did you make that up too?” He knows? How does he know? What did I do? “The thing you said in the doctor's office, I mean.” Oh, right.

“Oh, um... not really.” There’s no need for me to draw attention, but it is an awfully convenient way to explain my ignorance of basic facts of life here. “I mean, when I was young, I guess. Mostly it’s that my parents kind of kept me at home. It makes the city feel a little weird sometimes. You were born here?”

“Yup. My dad was part of the storm crew back when they were building the city, and my mom’s an engineer. She’s a unicorn, but me and my sister both got dad’s wings.” That’s a pity. He could be an okay unicorn.

“Wait, does that mean you’ve never seen the sun?” This is symbolic of something—I know it. Meanwhile, I keep my ears perked up for that little hint of surprise.

“I’ve seen a bunch of yellow lights on a track. Does that count?” He’s teasing, but he’s a little embarrassed. That’s so sweet. I’ll have to make this up to him, but for now, that’s exactly the state of mind I want him in.

“It does not,” I rebuke him, but I smile just enough to give him a little hit of approval. He probably doesn't get that a lot. “But... I guess you can’t miss something you’ve never seen?”

“Pretty much. Ponies from the surface always seemed a little odd to me. You’re weirded out by the most normal things and ask after stuff I’ve never heard of.” It only occurs to him after he said it that he might have offended me, and he gives me a nervous glance. “Um... is it that different?”

“Really different. The surface is... messy. It’s full of living things, natural obstructions, dirt and dust. The buildings up there are different too. A pony can’t stick two pieces of wood together without painting a heart or a star or a pattern on them. It makes things seem jumbled and disorganized, but really friendly as well. Every building is special. Here...” It takes a second to distill my many insights regarding the city’s design into something more accessible. “Here, the buildings make you feel dirty. They’re so commanding, so geometrically perfect, you feel like you’re ruining them by standing in them, you know? It makes you feel small.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I feel that way every time I look out the observation window.” In front of us, the mare steps away, and there’s an empty booth in her place. I hear something behind us, shouting, a scuffle, but when I glance back, Golden Palm shakes his head. “It’s only a shoplifter. Go ahead.”

I nod. “Real quick, where do you work? What’s the name, I mean?” He gives me a confused stare, but there’s a line behind us, and he answers quickly.

I shut the booth door behind me, and at once, the sounds of the marketplace fade. Good soundproofing. The wiredoll appears to be the same as the one from before, except that it’s a bit more polished and adorned with brass fittings. A sign above it warns me that complimentary sessions are limited to five minutes, but that’s not a problem. I want to keep this conversation short—the longer it goes, the more of a chance Trixie will have to gain the upper hoof. She needs me, she doesn't have me, getting me is going to cost her. Make it clear, and end the wire.

“Right.” I take a breath. “You can do this, Siren. She got the better of you last time, but last time, you were afraid for your life. Once you got it together, you came out swinging. Green still doesn't know what hit her, and you’re going to hit Trixie just as hard. Whack! Pow!” Okay, I got this one. “Right. Let’s do this!” Muss my mane, slouch, eyes a little unfocused, hooves apart. True artists know they need to sacrifice for their performance, and much as it hurts, a sharp poke in my eye really sells it. I can see my reflection in the doll’s glass eyes, and I look awful.

Fuchsia magic over the blue wire-token leaves it a muddled brown as I slot it into the doll’s flank. Like before, the doll twitches, its legs rising into a neutral position as some mechanism inside it starts to spin. This time though, I’m ready.

“Um, Trixie?” It’s her, the doll is in the same position, but I pull back from it a little, giving it a wary scan with my good eye.

“Siren. Good.” Her tone is curt and efficient, her body language formal with a hint of tense irritation in her hoof motions. It’s exactly how I would expect her to look if she was annoyed at Green for losing me, but wasn’t worried about me in the slightest. She’s good. “Trixie is glad to see you are unharmed. Where are you?”

“I... um. I’m in a doctor’s office.” And your halfwit henchmare is afraid of doctors, so good luck getting her to confirm that. “There was a marker and I got covered in blood and I had to run and I got lost and I think I ran in the back door of a restaurant or something and I fell into a pile of dishes...” I reach up to hold the side of my face, by my bad eye. “A waiter helped me to a doctor, but now he says there’s an unpaid bill and...” I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s too much for one poor, frightened mare to deal with.

“How much?” Trixie leans over to look at me more closely, the doll whirring as those glass eyes inspect my face for injuries.

“Six hundred bits for Steady Hoof’s Veterinary and Discount Medical and another two hundred in damages for Golden Palm at the Spitfire Station Cafe.” I tremble a little, glancing up into the doll’s eyes. I can’t see Trixie’s expression, but I know what it is. Worry and a dash of fear, waiting to be encouraged. “One of the waiters offered to cover me, and the doctor helped because he said I had a horn fracture and might have had internal bleeding, but I don’t think he can actually pay the bill and he’s not supposed to let me go until I’ve paid him for all the dishes and the doctor sounded really mad and...” Time to use some of that local slang. “What does ‘hang’ mean?”

From how she tenses up, it means she’s going to pay the bill.

“Has he contacted security yet?” Her voice is tense, her posture stiff. I shake my head. “Does he know your full name?” I nod. It’s so perfect, I wish I’d planned it. “Very well. Siren, Trixie needs you to listen carefully. Trixie is going to send the money immediately. As soon as it arrives, head up to the observation deck and wait there for Green to find you. Whatever you do, do not antagonize the doctor in any way, and do not do anything that might get security’s attention. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Trixie.” She’s good, but I’m better. “I... I won’t run off again. I’ll head right to the observation deck.” A little squeak. “Thank you.” She disconnects, the crystal popping out. I glance up. I wait a second to make sure the doll is fully limp. I smile.

“Wham! Whack! Oh, mares and gentlecolts, I can’t bear to watch. It’s a knockout, and the match goes to Siren!” Nopony is watching, so it seems the perfect time for a little happy dance, and then the crystal goes back into its holder. I’m thinking a nice leisurely walk up to the observation deck, get lunch while we wait. I turn on a hoof, and trot back out to give Golden Palm the good news. He’s looking up at the ceiling, and so is the rest of the crowd. There’s something falling.

Snap.

Oh. Hang.

“So, what’s the news?” I get it now. Hang from the ceiling. “Siren?” There are things up there, on the wings. They’re like wiredolls, but there’s no stand. One of them is holding the rope. “Siren?” No. Not a rope. A cable. A metal cable. A wire, even. Now I get where that name comes from. Wire-doll. It’s a descriptive name. What the label says it is. Like “hang.” It’s just what it’s called.

“Siren!” Somepony is yelling at me. Golden Palm. He’s... worried. Worried about me? “Are you okay?”

“Oh... yeah.” I probably still look terrible, that’s all. I reach up to stroke my mane straight again. “Sorry, I was... watching. That’s all.”

“Yeah, you missed the fun part. We could stick around and watch the cleanup crew if you wanted, though.” The cleanup crew. Watch the cleanup crew.

Because I missed the fun part.

“Okay.” I don’t... I don’t know. What am I supposed to say to that? How can I say anything to that? “I got... I got the doctor’s bill paid for. You’ll be fine.” He says something. I think he’s thanking me. Then we find a bench, and sit down. It was a stallion. Two cutie marks on his flank, two on his underbelly.

Golden Palm is looking at me. Of course he’s looking at me. He’s a colt, I’m the pretty mare who smiled at him, and now I’m unhappy and he doesn't know why. He’s worried. I don’t want to see him right now.

There are other couples watching. They look kind of bored, or are watching each other more than the room. They all have saddlebags. Here shopping, I guess. They don’t look that excited, but... something to do. Hey honey, you want to watch the execution before we head home? Sure, I guess.

It’s so much worse than Green or Trixie. They’re toxic, nasty, bitter creatures. They’re evil—you expect it of them. The ponies around me though, they’re like... caricatures. They go through the motions of ponies out shopping, but they don’t stop when something horrible happens. It’s like they can’t see it. They’re not rotten inside, there’s just... nothing there. Like you stretched flesh and hair over one of those mechanical dolls, but inside it’s still a windup toy. And one of them is touching me.

“Are you okay?” Golden Palm nudges me, leaning around to examine my face. “You’ve looked really rattled ever since you finished the wire. Did it... go alright?” His hooves are cold. His coat is greasy. I can feel it leaving a trail along me, full of sweat and blood and who knows what else? “Whoa. You’re shivering.”

“Yes. I’m... cold. It’s cold in here.” I guess if he’d had a blanket or something, that would have been smart. You had to do something, Siren, and that was something, but you probably shouldn't have done it. Now he has a leg over my shoulder and he’s pulled up against me and I can smell his awful breath. He smells like Green does—like too many flowers left to rot until the stink and sweetness run together. I can smell it every time his chest moves, and those disgusting wings touch me. “Thank you.” I lean against him. It’s what he expects.

The floor trembles a little. Something big is coming. Above us, I hear a whine. A mechanical sound, like the dolls. Golden Palm looks up, and a second later, the body hits the floor. Even from so high, there’s no blood or anything. Just a muffled thump, like the sound of a bag of flour hitting a countertop. His legs are all bent up though. He landed on them, I think. His neck is all twisted around too. I don’t understand how there’s no blood.

There’s something walking towards us. A pony in a diving suit. He’s the earth pony I saw before; he must be. He’s a giant all wrapped up in brass and thick cloth, and with the suit, he’s so heavy the floor pounds like a drum around him with every step. I can’t see his face at all. He’s wearing a big brass helmet studded with tiny glass windows, and all I can see behind them is a phosphorescent glow. He’s carrying things too. I can see a drill on the far side that’s almost as big as he is, hanging from him like saddlebags. Nearer to us though, there’s a basket. A basket with a filly inside.

No. Not even a filly. A foal. A little unicorn with a sky-blue coat and eyes that are red through and through. I remember the filly who helped me, who gave me Trixie’s token, but it’s not her. Her coat isn’t right. She’s clothed in a little pink dress, covered in bloodstains that match the dull glow of her eyes. Her horn is the wrong color for the rest of her; it’s bleached white, as well as being far too long, and coming to a grooved point.

“Here we go, big brother!” Her voice is high, squeaky, off-key. She leans out of her basket to point down at the corpse, her... brother, carrying her that way. The crowd’s backing away from the body, making a wide circle and letting the pony in the diving suit get close to the corpse. He falls to one knee so the basket is by the floor, and the little foal hops out.

“We know these events, can seem strange, but please bear with us, through this change.” She hums an off-key little tune as she steps up to the body, pressing against it with a hoof until it rolls over, belly-up. “We gather that, which you require, Poison Joke, and Heart’s Desire!” She seems to be feeling his barrel with her hooves, like a doctor trying to feel a patient’s heart. She lowers her head.

Oh, Celestia, please no. She’s only a foal.

“Ow! Stupid ribs.” There’s a wet tearing sound when she pulls her horn out of him, like ripping cloth, and when she stabs it back down into him, I can hear bones crack. “There we go!” She gives a happy little clap of her hooves on the stone, and blood runs through the grooves in her horn. It’s like a straw at... with a glass and... when there’s not much left.

“Siren? Are you okay?” I shut my eyes. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t think about it. Can’t draw attention. It’s worse with my eyes shut. I can hear her humming. Her brother breathing through that mask.

“I’m supposed to go to the observation deck. I should go now.” I step off the bench. The floor is wet. I stare straight ahead. I can’t look down. As long as I’m not looking down, it’s water. Water. He’s saying something. I can’t hear him. I can smell something in the air every time she rips that horn out of his chest. A sudden burst of that sweet scent. Now I know what it is. “The observation deck. I should go.” He’s obviously confused, blankly staring at me for a second before he reacts, but he pulls me that way. There’s stairs and things.

It’s dark up here, but I can still hear the lights hum. I forgot the windows aren't windows, but big holes with force fields. There’s nopony here, just a big, shadowy platform with benches facing the windows. I keep my eyes on the walls and on the floor. There’s rippling light there. It must come from outside. Something’s bumping the back of my rear legs. A bench, I guess. He’s saying something.

“Thank you, Golden Palm.” I turn to stare at him. He seems so worried, with his golden eyes and stubby ears and those useless wings that are trying to shrug with him. “I’ll be fine from here. You can go.” He’s muttering something about me, and the call, and who’s going to pick me up. I cut him off with a kiss to the lips. He actually goes stiff with shock. His wings try to flare, but they can’t get more than a hoof from his body. It’s like his mouth is full of sludge. I thank him, and give him a strong shove away. He gets it.

Then I’m alone.

I guess I sit there for awhile before I finally raise my head and look out the window. I can see the city. I mean, of course I can, that’s the point of an observation room. It’s not like a city though—it’s like a forest. A forest of white stone. I can see the water; I can see the ocean floor and the teeming life upon it. The surface isn’t the start of the water; it’s the end of the sky—the vault over the city that marks the edge of the world. Towers of all kinds rise up out of the ground like trees, walkways and rail lines their branches. The buildings give me vertigo—impossibly tall and angled, casting pure light out into the ocean through every window. That’s where the white light here comes from. This room doesn't need any lights of its own; it drifts in that radiance.

Canterlot could live in this city’s shadow. It’s more than size though. Canterlot has eye-catching buildings, but this place screams. Every structure is decorated with statues, images of ponies, brilliantly lit signs and banners. Every tower proclaims its greatness to the world, competing for attention with all the others. Taller works blot out and obscure lesser buildings, all trending upwards to the city center.

My eyes refuse to see it as a building. Buildings can’t get that big. All the lights from its windows run together, until they form a glittering carpet of white. It reaches up from the stone of the ocean floor, all the way up to the surface. There are no banners, no statues, no decorations. This building doesn't need to tell us that it’s great—it simply is great. It bears only a single sign, written in purple light: “Sparkle Enchantments.”

I reach out a hoof to the window. All the city lights are pulsing together, and the field crackles with them. Bright, dim, humm and buzz, flowing from the center outward. This city has a heartbeat. It’s alive, and it’s beautiful. Maybe it’s because I’m still in shock, but I just kind of... watch it for awhile.

“Dear Princess Celestia.” The words are quiet. I can’t say them louder. “You asked me to write you every week when I was away. I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise when you’ll receive them. A lot has happened to me recently, but it made me think of you and being back home. When I was little, and I wanted to talk to you, you’d always insist on getting down on your knees so I could look you in the eye. I never thanked you for that. I’ve met another, you see, who reminds me of you. They’re also big, and beautiful and powerful and grand, but they don’t kneel down for anypony. I don’t think they like me very much. It makes me appreciate everything I left behind. I’ll—” My voice is cracking for some stupid reason. “I’ll try to be home soon. Your Faithful Student, Siren Song.”

That’s it. Two of Celestia’s students, dead at the bottom of the ocean. One who hated her, the other who wasn’t good enough to get home. If I could... if I could hold it together, if I could do something, anything, I could get home, but I can’t. I’m a stupid, useless twit of a pony, crying on a bench. I just want this all to be over. I just want to wake up and be back in my own bed, my own life. I just...

Green is there. How long has she been standing there? Her face looks awful. Not even her coat color can hide the massive, discolored bruise under one eye.

“Green!” I need to say something. She’s killed ponies for trying to hurt her and I smashed up her face! I try to get up too fast, slip, and hit the floor. I need to get up, quick, but my stupid legs keep getting tangled! “I... uh. I-I—” Her horn glows. She’s picking me up. She’s strong enough to lift me off the ground! I’m running but I can’t get anywhere oh horseapples I can’t touch the ground. “Green, put me down. Green, I’m sorry I hit you. Please, don’t!”

“Shhhh.” She presses a hoof to my lips. “I’m going to put you down now, and I need you not to panic. Can you do that?” She’s not... I hit her. She must be furious, but she doesn't look mad. She’s staring at me. I don’t understand. “Siren, if I put you down, can you stay calm?” I nod. She puts me down, gently, so my hooves have time to find the floor. Then the glow fades.

I need a second to catch my breath. All that running in the air.

“When I was your age, what I wanted more than anything else was to be from a unicorn family.” She reaches out to me, but stops before she touches me to see if I flinch away. I don’t, and she puts a leg around my shoulder. “That I’d turn out to be adopted or somepony else would take me, or I’d wake up one day and it would all be an awful dream. I’d curl up and mutter exactly the same way. I just wanted this one thing, just this one thing, and if I could have it, I’d never ask for anything again.” Her horn shines crimson for a moment, and she wipes my face. “Cried myself to sleep a few times, muttering that.”

“A-and?” I look up to her, but she laughs and shakes her head.

“Wantin’ something don’t make it so.” She gives me a little pat and moves her hoof back to the floor. “You’re here, and you ain't gonna wake up in Canterlot. For at least the next little while, you’re stuck with us. No sense in tearing yourself up wishin’ it weren't true.”

“Your accent is slipping a bit.” I don’t know what else to say, but she only shakes her head again.

“I haven't used those elocution lessons in years anyway. Come now. We missed the morning train, but the afternoon leaves in a bit. We should start getting down to the station.” She turns to go, and I grab her shoulder. I don’t know why. For a second, we just sort of stare at each other.

“Everypony else has a belt or saddlebags or something. I can’t carry bits or weapons. It makes me feel useless. Can we... down at the bazaar, I mean...” I’m not sure why I think I can ask her for a gift.

Then, she nods. “Yes, Sweetheart. We can get you a belt, and... here.” She opens her saddlebags, pulling out the mugger’s knives. They’re shiny and clean. “Something to protect yourself with.” For a second, I almost take them.

Celestia wouldn't approve.

“Well—” Green answers, putting them back in her bag. “A belt at least. Come now, we have time, but no sense in dawdling.”

About half an hour later, the train comes.

Berry Punch

The inside of the train car is cramped and quiet. Rows of hard wooden benches capped with brass sit close together, designed to pack as many ponies as possible into the available space. Most of them are empty though. There are only a few other passengers in the car, and they spread out as much as possible, not speaking to each other. Green pushes me along onto one of the benches, near the window, taking the space by the aisle. So I can’t leave, I guess. My belt itches a little when it tugs against the bench beneath me. I’m not used to wearing clothes, but I’ll get used to it.

Green picked it for me. It has a few pockets and pouches, but also loops of fabric, cords, little holders made for things—wrenches, bottles, knives. I don’t understand. I hit her; why did she offer me a weapon? Why, of all the belts there, did she pick this one?

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart; this won’t take long.” Her horn turns black with the color of her magic as she opens her saddlebags, pulling out the mugger’s knives. What? What won’t take long? What’s she doing? There’s nowhere for me to go—I’m stuck here. I could hit her, but the angle’s not good and she’ll see it coming. Why aren't the other passengers doing anything!? “We’re headed to Tiara Tower. It’s the second stop. The whole ride won’t last twenty minutes.” Her mirror, file, and makeup kit float out next, and she tucks the knives back into her bag.

Oh. They were in the way. They were just... she was only taking them out because they were in the way. I knew that. She caught me a little off-guard. That’s all. My heart’s pounding in my ears, but that’s only surprise. I’m fine. There’s a grinding sound. Metal scraping.

She’s filing her horn.

She had to pull the knives out of her bag, so she could get to her things and clean up a bit while we’re stuck on the train. File her horn, do her hooves, use some makeup to cover up that bruise. She must have have already cleaned up though. I mean, she must have. She was covered in blood, and now it’s all gone. Not even her dress is stained. She knows a lot of magic—I bet she has a spell just for making sure blood doesn't stain. She probably needs it a lot.

The train jerks into motion, and the file jerks backwards with it, scratching her horn and casting the dust down into her left eye. “Ah!” She squeezes it shut, flinching as she reaches up to rub the dust out. “Horsefeathers,” she mutters, wiping at her face as the file swings downwards, uncoordinated and jabbing blindly in my direction. It’s a regular file, but it has one of those tips for digging around the bottom of your hooves, and it looks sharp and it’s pointing at me. I grab it, and I shove it away, the glow around it shifting from crimson to magenta. She looks at me, with that one open eye. I stole her file—oh Celestia, I stole her file and I beat her up and there’s nowhere for me to go!

“If you wanted it, you could have just asked, Sweetheart,” she says, her words flat, a touch dry. She knows that’s not why I took it—or at least, she noticed how sharply I yanked it away from her. She’s letting me off the hook though. “You could use it. Take your time; I should clean up this shiner you gave me anyway.” She turns back to the mirror and opens her makeup kit, looking for the right shade of green. She’s being light, conversational, forgiving, is she trying to cover up her embarrassment that I hit her? “You know, for somepony who never fought in her life before, you move pretty fast when you want to. Hit pretty hard too.”

She’s... complimenting me on beating her up? She’s not joking either, I don’t think—that sounds like actual pride. She doesn't even look mad. She should be mad; she should be furious. She’s a murderer and a spiteful vain witch, and I hit her and messed up her face! She should be seething, but she looks kind of... bored, almost. Like the ponies in the market.

I should do something. I’m holding the file, and pretty soon, she’s going to notice that I’m not using it, but I don’t know what to do. Ponies don’t act this way, they can’t... they just don’t. I don’t know what she’ll do next, I don’t know how she’ll react. I don’t know what to do or say. Will she be mad if I don’t use her file? Why is she ignoring me?

I don’t understand.

“Green?” She turns to look at me. Oh shoot, the file! I make busy with it, like I had been sharpening my horn and then put it down. She believes that, yeah. “Um... I wanted to ask. Something I heard in the station that I didn’t understand. What is, ‘the fun part?’” She leans back, narrowing her eyes. Oh, ponyfeathers! I didn’t think about how that sounded! “Of a hanging!” Now I’m shouting and I’m screwing this all up and the other passengers are staring at us. “What... I mean. It was just something somepony said. What’s the fun part of a hanging?”

“Their face, when they realize what’s about to happen.” Their face? What? “Parasites can’t be reasoned with. Their comfort, their food and shelter, depends on them believing that they have some kind of right to it, so you’ll never persuade them otherwise. All they’ll do is lie, and cheat, and tell you whatever they have to, but I’ve yet to see the pony who can smooth-talk a length of cable. That moment, when they realize there’s no out this time, and you can see on their face that they’ll never wrong you again—that’s the fun part, and that’s what keeps the other would-be moochers in line. The noose is Vision’s great moral teacher.”

“Is that why you killed that mugger?” I blurt it out before I know what I’m saying. “To see her face?” The face that ended up all over me and in my coat and on her dress. I can feel my stomach churning. Don’t think about it.

“No.” She gives me a strange look, shaking her head. “She was willing to use violence to take things that weren't hers. If I had let her go, she’d only have kept doing it, until somepony was killed.”

“Somepony was killed.” I shouldn't say it, but what else can I say? What can I possibly say to that? I shouldn’t have said it, now she looks mad—she’s glaring at me.

“Is that Siren or Princess Celestia talking?” she demands, pressing a hoof to my chest. “Because as I recall, Siren was willing to do what it took to defend herself.”

“What you did wasn’t self-defense! That was... different. I did what I had to do to survive, but I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t want to hurt anypony! You liked slicing up that poor mare and—” Her mouth is twisting back into a snarl, her glare turning from simple narrowed eyes into something wider, more intense. What am I doing? “And that’s messed up! Ponies aren't like that, they aren't!”

“Why don’t you shout a little louder, Siren? I think there are still some ponies in the city who haven't heard you.” Oh, oh no. Not again, please not again. I try to say I’m sorry, that I’ll be quiet. Maybe she can’t hypnotize me if she can’t see my eyes. She always looked into my eyes before. I look away, I shut them. She can’t hypnotize me if she can’t see my eyes.

She’s not saying anything. Why isn’t she saying anything?

“Oh, Sweetheart.” She’s touching me, she’s touching me. My whole body goes stiff when she touches my shoulder, what’s she doing? She’s... brushing my coat, just... leaving her hoof there. “Shhh. Don’t worry. You don’t have to open your eyes if you don’t want to. I’m not gonna hurt you.” She’s lying. She only wants me to look up so she can hypnotize me again because I’m panicking except it’s not panic when you actually are going to be killed. “Here.” She’s taking something out of her bag, what is it? It’s the knives. That’s all that’s left in the bag, it’s got to be the knives!

She starts brushing my mane.

“When I’m panicking and don’t know how to deal with things, I clean the apartment, or brush my mane or something silly like that. It helps me focus.” She draws my mane out with her magic, bracing her hoof against the roots and running the brush through the long strands. “You have a wonderful color—rich and vibrant. I used to go through a bottle of conditioner a day to get my mane to shine like that, when I was modeling.” It’s a trick. I’m not falling for it.

“I don’t have to do that anymore, of course—now it comes in like yours does—but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. It’s a pleasure to brush, and it makes me feel good, particularly on days when there’s not much else to feel good about.” She gives my mane a little tug, holding it straight and flexing the hairs to examine them. “If you curled this, you’d look a lot like Pinkie Pie. I don’t think that would be a good look for you though; you’re better off with it straight, and a hint of bangs. It makes you look scholarly. Not stiff, though—you have too nice a mane to waste it on a geometric cut.” It’s a trick. I’m not falling for it.

“Your tail though, that’s different. You’ve got a lot of volume there, maybe a little too much. That big and that pink kind of screams, you know? Even if you did have it straight. Have you ever considered braiding it?” She goes back to cleaning up my mane, with the regular motion of that brush.

“I’m not pink. I’m amaranth.” It’s a trick, but I’m not falling for it. I’m correcting her.

“What was that, Sweetheart?” She’s trying to get me to look up at her by sounding all quizzical, and I’m not going too.

“I’m not pink. Pink is an awful color. I’m amaranth.” I can hear her giggling, trying to hide it. It’s not funny and I’m not pink.

“Sweetheart, you’re the pinkest pony I’ve ever seen. Amaranth is how artists and fashionistas say ‘light pink.’ Besides, pink is a good color for you!” Her eyes virtually sparkle, and no matter how much she tries to hide her feelings with a reassuring tone, I can hear the twinge of a smile at the corners of her mouth. She thinks I’m a foal—something to be made fun of!

“No, pink is an awful color—it’s stupid and bubbly and silly and sweet and foalish. Can you imagine a pink pony in Anpony and Cleopatra? In The Trojan Mares? They’d be laughed off stage if they didn’t blind the audience first by shining like a torch under the lights! Pink actors do comedies and slapstick, and once a year they get to fight for the right to be Chancellor Puddinghead because that’s the closest they’ll ever come to being a real actress and I am not pink! I’m amaranth, you got that!?” I jab her chest with a hoof, and she raises an eyebrow at me. It lets me see her eyes more clearly, like two bright emeralds on her face.

Oh ponyfeathers.

“Okay, Sweetheart. You’re amaranth.” I’m looking into her eyes. She’s looking at me. Why hasn’t she done anything yet? “Your tail isn’t quite the same color though. It’s more of a...” She makes a vague swirling gesture with a hoof. “Rose. You’re amaranth with a rose mane and tail. Does that sound good to you?”

“Um.” I can’t cover up my eyes again, can I? I mean... that would be stupid. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Okay, now turn your amaranth-colored flank around so I can braid your tail. You’ll look good that way; it’ll get that volume under control.” What? She wants to braid my tail? That’s um... I mean. I don’t really know what to say to that.

I guess that’s okay though.

My belt drags over the seat as I turn around, twisting uncomfortably around my barrel. Green fixes it before she starts, drawing out my tail and starting in with the brush. She’s a strong telekinetic, and she doesn't seem to have any trouble using her hooves and magic together—pinning down sections of my tail and brushing them straight. She works fast, pulling the strands close around each other.

“Not so tight, please,” I murmur once I can feel how stiffly she’s pulling the braid. I mean, I look good in a braid, but it’s impractical. “You can’t move your tail right if the braid is too dense.”

“Nonsense, you can flick your tail perfectly fine that way,” she insists, though she does loosen her grip a bit. She’s not even really disagreeing with me either, not like she actually thought I was wrong. She’s... casual. Like we’re old friends doing each other’s hair. I guess she won’t get angry if I correct her.

“Yeah, but flicking is... I mean. That’s really only for swatting a bug or attracting a really clueless stallion. Not that you don’t know that!” I mean, she obviously does know how to attract a clueless stallion, but it’s probably better not to say that. “Just, emoting properly with your tail is all about subtlety. Most of the time, it’s turned away from whomever you're speaking to, and they’re looking at your face, so they don’t consciously perceive it. They see it though. If you’ve ever watched an actor who appears to be doing everything right, but she seems fake and you aren't sure why, odds are good her tail work is off. Your brain notices even if you don’t.”

“Mmmhmm. I had a little of that, when I was learning how to model.” She’s... embarrassed. She hides it well, but her chest is a little too tense for that casual tone. She’s embarrassed I know more about this than she does and is trying to assert that she knows something too. “Just the basics: too stiff makes you look nervous, too loose makes you look lazy. They said that it should look like your tail was on a spring—stiff but moving with your hips.”

“Yeah. My acting coach used the same term. Up was ‘tighten the spring,’ down was ‘loosen the spring.’ I think it was because he felt uncomfortable telling a filly to ‘raise her tail’ though.” Green starts, and then giggles, and I blush a little too. “That’s really the neutral position though. It looks good, but it doesn't convey much. After that, you get into specific poses, and it gets a lot more formal.”

“You did say you were a serious actor. It sounds like you’ve put a lot of work into it.” Her tone is polite, curious, familiar. It... I mean, it doesn't belong here at all, but it is kind of relaxing. “From your cutie mark though, I’d assumed you were a singer.”

“I’m a student of the arts, acting and singing included. My cutie mark represents the lure of beauty and artistic expression.” She’s being nice to me—I can be nice to her, and a little flattery certainly won’t hurt my standing with her. “I guess I’m a bit like you. I don’t have a cutie mark for singing, or dancing or acting, but I can do them all well. A mare of many talents.”

“Sounds like you’re a lot like Twilight Sparkle, actually.” What? “I have cutie marks for a lot of different things, but they’re all specific. It sounds like you have a broad talent—a cutie mark for art. Twilight was like that too, with magic.” She was?

“I knew she was the Element of Magic, but I didn’t know that was her special talent.” I thought her special talent was friendship? It would have to be to use the Elements, wouldn’t it? “Did you... know her?”

“Not well, but we did meet a few times, and of course, I know a lot about her by reputation.” Green’s tone turns warm. A fond memory. “Everypony focuses on her cutie mark and spellcasting, like she was some well of ultimate magical power, but that’s not fair to her. She was very gifted, but she worked for everything she had. When Vision was founded, I don’t think she slept from the groundbreaking until the last tower was done. She was a self-made mare.”

“Well... she can’t have been perfect.” She helped create this awful place—she’s probably a nasty witch pony who got her powers from Discord or something.

“No, she wasn’t perfect.” Green shakes her head slowly, sighing. “She was so trusting, so genuinely warm, she didn’t see what was happening around her. She couldn't see it. And she didn’t appreciate what she had until it was gone.” Oh, so her only flaw is that she was so sweet and innocent and perfect she couldn't see all the evil ponies around her? Yeah, right, Pony Sue much? She probably just had good PR because she saved Equestria a few times. I’m talented and hardworking too. “If she’d acted differently, maybe Sine would still be alive and none of this would have happened, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. I’m not going to judge her for that.”

“What are the other Bearers like?” Green obviously has some sort of stupid hero-worship thing going on for Twilight. No point in asking more about her.

“I don’t care for them as much.” I can’t see Green frown, but I can hear it in her tone. “Pinkie Pie is the Element of Laughter; she runs maintenance. Some ponies say she’s funny, but personally, I think she’s irritating and incompetent. Fluttershy is the Element of Kindness, and she is sweet—I only wish she did something useful instead of letting ponies fawn over her. Applejack is the Element of Honesty, and there’s no pony better for helping me remember why I left the farm.” She gives a heavy sigh and shakes her head.

“I do like Rainbow Dash, though.” Her tone perks up a bit. “Element of Loyalty. Moving to a city with no sky is rough for any pegasus, and she was a pro flyer in Equestria. She didn’t let it ruin her though—buckled down, learned a new trade. She runs the trams, the flying schools, the mail, and security. The city would be in rough shape now, if it weren't for her.” I think it’s in pretty rough shape even with her, but that doesn't seem the right thing to say. “When the city was first founded, the Bearers of the Elements were the leadership council, but it expanded quickly. Trixie was actually one of the first ponies to—”

“That’s only five.” An accident? Or an intentional omission? “You skipped the Element of Generosity.” A long silence answers me, her braiding pausing. An intentional omission, then.

“Yes. Rarity.” Another pause, and she still doesn't move. “Rarity is the Element of Generosity.” Her voice has gone quiet and her tone’s gone flat. There’s something there, a current hidden under all the stiffness, but I can’t tell what.

“Anywho!” Abruptly, the stiffness is gone, her tone back to upbeat as she snaps something around the end of my tail. “All braided with a nice bob. Now, turn around, and you can help me cover up this bruise before we arrive. Sound good?” Rarity is one of her buttons. Right. That sounds good.

I’ve just about finished with her makeup by the time the train pulls into our station—nothing is going to conceal that bump, but at least she’s the right shade. With the colors matched, it actually looks a little bit like those bulging mutations the markers have, but it doesn't seem prudent to tell her. The conductor trots through the car; he’s a little tan earth pony in a vest. “Tiara Tower! All off for Tiara Tower!” Green takes her things back and drops them into her saddlebags, letting me up as we both slide into the aisle and make our way out.

My first impression of this new stop is cold. I’m shivering by the time my hooves hit the stone, and the feeling of the icy rock against my bare hooves is enough to send a jolt through me. It’s a little station—no shops, no second story, nothing but one of those statues of Sine Rider and a pithy quote, mounted under a big clock. Not all of the white here is stone though—there’s snow piled up in the corners, ice on the floor, and wreaths on the walls. Sine Rider has to fight for space with a gaudily decorated and obviously fake tree, and somepony’s run garlands around his neck. It’s bizarre, but strangest of all is the bright crimson banner that hangs over it all, wishing us a happy Hearth’s Warming Eve.

“It’s not Hearth’s Warming Eve! It’s not even close!” I look around for a jacket or a heater or something, but there’s nothing. There are some guards by the exit, and they’re all nice and bundled up in fluffy blue uniforms, but nopony thought to warn us what it was going to be like here. I can actually see my breath on the air!

“Well, you know. They move this forward every year,” Green answers, her voice tight as she eyes the guards and then the floor. “There’s nothing between it and Nightmare Night and all that. Now be careful, there’s ice on the floor.” She carefully places a hoof forward and picks her way across the station towards the exit. I start after her, stepping where she steps.

“Nightmare Night? It’s the middle of spring!” A drop of ice water lands on my back, making me shiver as it runs along my spine. An involuntary gasp escapes me, my knees locking up and my tail lashing as that icy point curls along my sides. I can’t help but sigh and go slack when it finally falls to the floor, and when I glance up, Green is looking back at me with a smirk on her face. “Oh be quiet.” I fix her with a good glower so she knows I mean it too. “This still makes no sense.”

“It’s not my tower, Sweetheart. Maybe they’re... testing the environmental controls or something, I dunno.” That’s even more ridiculous than her first explanation, unless the cooling system also shoots out tinsel, but she’s made it perfectly clear she doesn't know or care. By the time we get across the station, I’m feeling about the same way—horsefeathers, I’d put on a Hearth’s Warming Eve pageant if it would get me out of this cold. It doesn't help that the guards stare blankly at us when we reach the exit, all bundled up in that warm pastel fabric. They sure aren't shivering; one of them even has a mug of hot tea. I fix him with a glare, but he ignores me.

“Hello, and welcome to Tiara Tower,” one of the guards greets us with a dull rote, taking a sip from his mug. He’s an earth pony—or maybe a pegasus, the uniform gets in the way—and when he lifts the mug to his face, I can see he’s got something on each of his ankles. It looks a bit like armor, but I can see some clockwork inside it. It’s like some... bulky metal armory clockworky thing. All the guards seem to have them. “Guests and renters only. If you’re interested in purchasing or renting space here—”

“We’re guests of a resident,” Green says before he can go through whatever script he was reading from, her teeth chattering as she speaks. “Berry Punch. We’re expected.” I doubt her dress does much to protect her from the cold, but every little gust of air makes me wish I had it. Frigid tendrils work their way over my coat, growing more intense as they tease at my shaved side. It’s such a striking experience that I hardly notice the guard taking his sweet feathering time to find his clipboard and very slowly read down it for our names. It doesn't help that all of the other stallions are busy blatantly checking out Green, the one female guard there rolling her eyes. Not that she does anything to help either.

“Here you are,” the... officer, I guess, says as he finds our names on his clipboard. Their uniforms don’t have any marks to indicate rank, so it’s hard to tell. There’s no decoration at all actually, other than a little “TT” logo on the collar and some military-looking lines in the stitching to make it clear they’re security. “Second stairwell on your right, above the tracks. Your guest pass is valid until the end of the day. Go right ahead, have a merry Hearth’s Warming Eve.” He slots his clipboard back into his saddlebag, and Green nods as she starts past. I think about correcting him, but... what’s the point?

“Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go,” one of the stallions calls after Green, a wolf whistle and a chorus of laughs following us. She grits her teeth and ignores them, picking up the pace as we move down the hallway.

“Look but don’t touch, Copper,” the guardsmare teases, with that little twist in her tone that signals something nasty is coming. “You couldn’t afford it.” It lands exactly the way she intended, the guards sent into a new round of chuckles. I can’t see Green’s face when she’s ahead of me, but I can see how her trot becomes a little bit stiffer. Her cheeks are burning.

We don’t have far to go, at least. This hallway obviously circles the edge of the tower counterclockwise—it’s wide and clean, save for occasional piles of snow, with many branching hallways on our left and windows on our right. I’m in a bit of a hurry to get out of the chill, but I still take a second to look out and admire the city. We’re in the middle of it now, towers all around us so low that we can see their roofs or so tall they seem to go on without end. Pipes and railways and bridges loop around the tower like vines, and tiny, distant ponies move through them, oblivious to our presence. It’s when one of those railways loops close to the tower that the windows turn to stairwells and maintenance doors, and at the second stairwell, we head up.

“Now, I think you’ll really like Berry,” Green says as we ascend, working our way through the long and narrow stair, “but, two things to remember about her. First, don’t touch her. No shaking hooves, no pats on the shoulder, no hugging, and if she hands you something, don’t touch her hoof when you take it. She doesn't like it. Got it?” Whatever humiliation she’s feeling, she’s forced it out of her tone, leaving only an upbeat cheer behind.

“Respect her personal space, got it. What’s the second thing?” Is it that she’s evil? Because at this point, I’m pretty much expecting that. As long as she’s evil with a warm house and maybe a blanket, I can bend my principles in this case.

“She can be um... well, not boring, but uh, soporific?” Ooh, congratulations Green. I take it that was the word of the month on your calendar? “Try not to nod off in her presence. It’s rude, you know?”

“Got it. No touching, look alive. It’s like we’re already friends!” Sarcasm is a plebeian form of expression, unbefitting a pony of taste. It’s far more cutting to say something so enthusiastically they aren't sure if you’re kidding or not, and Green actually has to look back for a second to confirm I’m not serious. At least she has the decency to pick up her pace.

Two flights later, we reach the end of the stairs and a wooden door set in the stone, silver lettering along the front reading Berry Punch. Green’s as eager as I am to get inside, and she knocks quickly, calling out to the wood: “Berry! It’s Green; I brought Siren.” There’s a momentary pause, and then some sort of buzzer sounds, the door sliding away to the left to let us through. I can feel the warm air flowing out the door, and we can’t get inside fast enough. There’s some special vents inside the door that I think are weight-activated because when we walk inside, they let out this blast of hot air underneath us that just washes up and around us and pushes all the cold away and then there’s little jets above us and...

Ooooh. Yes.

The sound I make is somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and lacks the merits of either, manifesting as a “Uaaagh,” that nicely matches the stupid, droopy-eyed look on my face. Not that I particularly care. I shiver, and shake off, and the moment passes, returning my dignity, and my wits as it departs.

Right. Back to business.

There’s a lot more than warmth inside this apartment—luckily I’m a master of perception and observation, amongst my other talents. Before Green has finished pressing the cold air out of her dress, I’ve already taken in the vital details of this place. First, we’re in a living room—rug on the floor, decorations on the walls, a couch and a big bay window overlooking the city. Second, the air is dry—no leaks. Third, I can hear a fireplace crackling. Fourth, there’s music in the air, violins and piano—“Lullaby for a Princess.” Tasteful. Finally, the apartment smells like overly sweet flowers. So, key facts: Berry is a marker, owns a nice multi-room apartment in an exclusive tower, and can afford to keep it in tip-top shape. That means she’s more successful than Green, which means Green resents her, and Trixie probably likes Berry more. Right.

Step one, assess situation, done. Step two, assess resources—artistic genius, overflowing charisma, and in a pinch, good looks. Done. Step three, define your objectives. Get as much information out of Berry as possible while ensuring she likes me enough to protect me. Okay Siren, let’s do this!

After getting myself all psyched up, it’s a bit of a let-down that Berry Punch doesn't actually appear. The door shuts behind us, but the living room is empty, giving Green plenty of time to collect herself while I take in some of the lesser details. There’s the fireplace, there’s the phonograph. Most of the decorations on the walls are pictures, presumably friends and family. There’s a liquor cabinet that’s very well stocked, and two other doors leading out to what I think are a bedroom and kitchen, judging by the shape of things. It’s a good five full, awkward seconds before the first door opens, our host stepping into the living room to join us.

She’s purple—different shades of it in her coat, eyes, and mane, but purple all over—her mane and tail curly and tousled. I guess I’m used to thinking of earth ponies as big and tough, because it actually catches me off guard that she’s shorter than I am—if only by half a hoof or so. She’s also the first pony I’ve seen in Vision who didn’t have a belt or clothes or saddlebags, and for a second, I feel like she’s another poor pony who fell into the city and got trapped. That delusion doesn't last long, though. Six. Six cutie marks. One of them is on her face.

Disgusting.

“Hello.” I’m not sure what I was expecting out of her. More saccharine sweetness from a pony with a rotten soul? Another cruel jape at the suffering of others dressed up as normalcy? Maybe, I guess. There’s nothing there though. Much like her expression, her tone is dull. She’s not sluggish, exactly, and she’s not exactly quiet either, but she doesn't move more than she needs to or say more than she must. The edges are taken off her voice, and her face is flat.

“Hello, Berry! So good to see you again.” Green doesn't wait for Berry to go on, her enthusiastic, energetic tone a sharp counterpoint to Berry’s apathy. “This is Siren Song.” She puts a leg around my shoulder, giving me a little squeeze like we were old friends. Seeing the marks all over Berry reminds me what they are, and I swear I can feel the filth in Green’s veins. Like her body was greasy. “Siren, let me introduce you to Berry Punch. She’s another old friend of Trixie, and she’ll be escorting you down to Doctor Stable’s. I’m sure you two will get along great. Siren is just the sweetest thing, and she’s full of questions about the old days. Berry was from Ponyville originally, Sweetheart—she probably met Twilight and the other bearers dozens of times. You two will have lots to talk about.”

“Okay.” Nothing. Not a twitch on Berry’s face. No excitement at meeting me, no irritation at Green’s obvious insincerity, no curiosity about me or caution about a stranger in her home. A perfect poker face. “Trixie said to wire as soon as you arrived.”

“Well, we mustn't keep her waiting. Come along, Siren.” Green trots through the open door behind Berry, and for a second, Berry and I are left staring at each other in silence. She turns without a word, following Green, and I trot after her. Berry’s good, very good even. I’m better, but until I know what her game is, this quiet act of hers is throwing me off balance. Time to gather more information. As I predicted, the room around us is a bedroom—small, but cozy, with a wide single bed in the center and a chest of drawers across from it. One of those miniature wiredolls rests atop the cabinet, and while Green searches for her crystals, I take a second to size up my new nemesis. Watch out, Professor Mareiarty, you’ve met your Sherlock Hooves! Only without the dying.

Right, first, her cutie marks. No, first, the fact that I can see them. Image-conscious Green would rather trot around in a fading dress than let people know she’s a marker, so there’s a stigma associated with it—one that Berry doesn't care about. Second, the marks themselves. Her original mark rests right where it should, a cluster of grapes and a strawberry on her flank. A hoof’s width below that on her leg are two cups, one pouring into the other. There’s an Erlenmeyer flask on her shoulder, and the leaf of some strange plant along her belly. There’s a mark on her barrel—a pony biting their own tail—that I recognize from Green, and I can’t help but notice that for an “old friend” of the Bearers, Berry doesn't look like she’s out of her twenties. Little pony ouroboros means they’re older than they look, got it. Most egregious of all, of course, is the mark on her face—a seven-leaved blue flower, right over her eye.

Right—foe assessed. Now, to use my great powers of observation and symbol interpretation to divine what those marks mean. First, she’s older than she looks! Second, she’s not very self-conscious. Third, she... that is. Third, she is... hard to read! Very hard to read. Good poker face.

Oh look, Green found the crystal. Better come back to this later.

The little doll on the stand lets out a faint whine as whatever parts drive it start to spin—legs jerking faintly as its head rises. As before, it’s the wirer who speaks first, Green smiling and giving a polite “Trixie. We’re here at Berry’s—Siren and I made it the rest of the way, no problem.” Berry looks indifferent. I nod.

“Simply amazing, Envy.” The little doll sits up, pressing a hoof to its chest and raising its head. “The Great and Powerful Trixie would never have believed it if Trixie hadn’t seen it, but it appears you are indeed capable of walking someone from your apartment to the rail station—and with only two fatalities! You must be so proud.” Her tone starts light and airy, but soon it seethes, and though the doll has no expression, I can see her mouth twisting to a snarl and her eyes narrowing into a glare. She doesn't wait for Green to answer, turning sharply to look at Berry. “Berry, I talked with Doctor Stable. Siren is still on for today, in two hours. Go ahead and take her early; I need to speak with Green in private.” More like take the full two hours to chew her out.

“Doc doesn't like patients showing up that early.” Berry doesn't show the slightest reaction to Trixie’s tone, which makes Green’s cringing seem almost comic in comparison. The big mean unicorn is shaking in her horseshoes and the pint-size earth pony looks bored. I manage to keep a smile off my face, barely.

“So, take her for a walk or something,” Trixie insists, curt and dismissive. I can hear the frustration building up inside her—she’s champing at the bit to properly chew out Green for screwing up. It only makes Berry’s stone-faced act funnier.

“Can’t. Snow outside. She would freeze,” Berry says, with a slow, smooth gesture to the door.

“What? Snow? Why?” Trixie demands, her gaze fixed on Berry. Trixie’s not so scary, now that I’m wise to all her games. She can be tricked, and once you get past the act, she’s all hot air and talk.

“Hearth’s Warming Eve celebrations,” Berry answers, and the doll’s surprised little start is almost enough to make me giggle. I know what’s coming next.

“Hearth’s Warming—it’s the middle of spring!” The little doll stamping its hoof as Berry shrugs is too perfect, and I can’t keep the faintest ghost of a smile off my face. Trixie must have seen me, because she fixes me with a glare all my own. After a moment, she turns back to Berry, her tone a touch more subdued. “Then buy her a coat or something—Trixie doesn't care. Find a way to kill time until her appointment, and get her there without her getting hurt or picked up by security. It’s a simple job, which means Trixie will be very upset with you if you screw it up. Is Trixie understood?” Blah blah, I’m Trixie, I’m an insecure petty bully who uses overacting and threats to hide a giant pile of impotent anger. I wish I were as cute and smart as Siren instead of an evil witch pony. Whatever, Berry is nodding; time for us to go. Green doesn't even say anything—she just looks at the doll and bites her lip as Berry and I walk out. The door shuts behind us.

“Follow me,” Berry says, pulling open a cabinet by the door to retrieve her things. She pulls out a jacket first—naturally, the thought of sharing does not occur to her—and then slides her saddlebags over it before heading to the door. I guess she’s not going to bother stopping the record player. I’m not eager to go back into that cold, but I doubt Berry will see things my way, and when the door slides open, I brace myself and trot out after her. At least there are no air currents in this stairwell.

Two flights down, it’s clear Berry isn’t going to make conversation, so I let myself shiver aloud, a quiet little shaking sigh that turns into a bit of a whinny. “So, Berry. Green didn’t tell me much about you.” Nothing. She only nods. “I heard you were listening to “Lullaby for a Princess.” That’s one of my favorites.” Again, a nod. She doesn't even look back at me. “Its companion songs are great too. I’m particularly fond of “The Moon Rises”. Have you heard it?”

“Yes,” she answers, turning out of the stairwell and into the main corridor. She quickly picks a direction and starts trotting down it, leaving it to me to follow her.

This may be more difficult than I had anticipated.

“So, um, how do you and Green know Trixie?” I pick up my pace to keep alongside her, so I can look at her face in case she shows something. I might as well not have bothered; her poker face is perfect, and the motion makes the cold air cut against my bare side.

“Work for her.” Well, now it’s clear why Green didn’t wait for Berry to answer her. Okay, fine, this isn’t working, time to take a more direct approach.

“I can see you’re the strong silent type, but I’d really like to get to know you better. Is there anything you like to talk about?” She doesn't answer right away, but her eyes move. It’s the faintest little movement, not even so much as a blink, a twitch. She’s thinking. I knew it—no poker face is perfect. I give her the time she needs, and exactly like I predicted, she turns to look at me as we trot.

“Distillation,” she tilts her head to the side faintly and, dare I hope, “and alchemy, insofar as it is like distillation.” Gosh, Berry, has anypony ever told you you’re a real complex creature? Still, a complete sentence. Thank Celestia for small victories—but not where she can hear, because she doesn't like it.

“Oh, I guess that would make sense. I can see your original cutie mark is a cluster of grapes and fruit. Did you work in a distillery?” She nods, and we round a corner, heading into one of the side corridors. There’s not much here—the corridor is bare except for piles of snow and occasional Hearth’s Warming Eve decorations, and we’re the only ponies in it. Both sides of the hall seem to be apartments—wooden doors with names stenciled on them—and there’s not a sound in the air but us and the steady beat of the lights. Still, Berry obviously knows where she’s going.

“Yes. I ran Ponyville’s vineyard and distillery before the blight. I specialized in strawberry wine, but I made many things.” Two sentences, and unprompted elaboration. Maybe she isn’t a statue. In this city, maybe I’m the first pony who has ever tried to make conversation without shouting or berating her.

“Oh um... fruit wine. I don’t think I’ve ever tried that.” Of all of the topics in the world, naturally she had to bring up the one I know next to nothing about. I manage to avoid saying anything trite, or stars forbid, asking if it’s good, but I still have to keep things general. “But, I never exactly spent much time in the palace’s wine cellar.”

“You would not have encountered it even if you had,” she says, seemingly oblivious to my shivering and cloudy breath as she trots along in her nice, warm coat. “Fruit wines are not a significant part of the unicorn vinification tradition because many fruits—particularly strawberries—lack the acidity to ferment into a proper wine. Additionally, they have an overall low phosphorus and potassium content, which further causes them to degrade rather than to improve with aging. This led to them being seen as inferior to unicorn wines, a perception which grew stronger as the previously exclusively unicornian belief that older wines were better perpetuated throughout all three races.” She draws a breath.

Oh no. She’s going to keep talking.

“That’s fascinating.” Normally, it’s rude to cut someone off, but it’s below freezing out here—if I fall asleep, I’ll die. At least now I know why Green warned me about her. “When we have more time, you’ll really have to tell me more about it. I’m more curious about you, though. How did you go from running a small-time brewery to here?”

“A brewery makes beer; I ran a vineyard and distillery.” Reflexively, I start to react like she’s mad—she should be mad, I painted her profession with a broad brush. There’s nothing on her face though, her tone still flat and calm. “Furthermore, we were not ‘small time.’ I created some of the finest wine in Equestria, and the Princess herself observed as much during one of her visits to Ponyville.”

“But I thought you said strawberries couldn't make a proper wine?” I know, there’s probably some long winded shop-talk explanation about how they fix it, which I’m going to have to pretend to care about now, but I should ask. Her poker face may not be perfect, but it’s still pretty good; she could be hiding anger. Best make some preemptive amends to be safe.

“I said unicorns couldn't make a proper fruit wine,” she corrects me, and this time, I’m sure she’s messing with me. You can’t say that. You can’t snub unicorns in front of a unicorn and act like you honestly don’t know what you did. So that’s her game—keep ponies guessing to knock them off guard. Well fine, I’m wise to it. I won’t react at all either. “Doing it right requires magic.”

“Right. So why did you say unicorns can’t do it?” This is going nowhere, but if I try to change the subject, she’ll clam up again. I need her to give however much of an answer satisfies her so I can admit defeat and ask her about something substantive.

“Unicorns lack the magical abilities required.” Gosh, thanks Berry, you’ve saved me the trouble of looking up ‘can’t’ in the dictionary. Think you could try making some sense while you’re at it?

“What are you talking about? Unicorns are the most magical of all the pony races. You know, horns, spells, that whole bit?” I pause for a second to tap my horn with a hoof, but she doesn't look, and I have to dash a few steps to catch up with her.

“All pony races are equally magical; it simply expresses in different ways: unicorns through their horns, pegasi through their wings, and earth ponies through their hooves.” Earth pony magic. Right. I’ll call you if I need something gardened. “The latter is generally superior for encouraging fruit wine fermentation.”

“Ah. Right.” I let out a suitably embarrassed laugh, and force a little blush into my cheeks—not that it’ll be noticeable with how cold I am. “Sorry, that’s not what I—I mean, I wasn’t—” A little shake of my head sells it. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me. You grow up in a unicorn city, you start thinking of magic as bright lights and explosions.”

“It is a common mistake.” I’m not sure if she’s offended, but I am sure I lost the thread of conversation, and she falls silent. Not my best performance. Luckily, we seem to be getting near our destination—I can hear other ponies talking, and from the sounds of the echo, there’s a larger room ahead. Soon, the hallway ends, and we emerge into a large rhomboid marketplace.

This place has seen better days, to be sure, but it’s not a slum like the rest of the city so far. It has two levels filled with storefronts, and the open space in the center is given over to tables, musicians, and artistic displays—there are no windows, but the ceiling is painted to look like the sky. Sure, many of the storefronts are empty, the crowd here is meager, and I could manage a better rendition of “Beyond Her Garden” with a kazoo than that band is managing with three string instruments, but the stores are empty instead of looted, there is a shopping crowd here, and the band is getting tips. Which they don’t deserve. Because they’re terrible.

Berry turns as soon as we enter the space, leading me towards one of the stores: Clotheshorse Tailoring. I guess she’s taking Trixie’s instructions literally, but I’m certainly not going to object to a jacket, and I can feel the warm air rolling out of the store whenever somepony opens the door. Soon enough, we’re inside, and what a relief it is. It’s not a real tailor—just a clothing store with racks of wares and a bored-looking clerk reading behind the desk—but it’s something civilized, comprehensible, and warm. I’ll take it.

“Pick something cheap,” Berry orders, sliding her rear to the ground next to the door. She still doesn't look at me, staring straight ahead, and I’m pretty sure she intends to sit there until I’m done. To test my theory, I look back at her, giving a long, slow count of ten in my head. Nothing. Not the slightest impatience. Not even curiosity.

“Aren't you going to... hurry me along?” At this point, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that whatever toxic sludge painted those marks all over her body also melted her brain, but I might need her to protect me, so I can keep trying. She shakes her head. “Do you want to help me look?” Another shake of her head. “Are you going to sit there for as long as I keep staring at you?”

“We have the better part of two hours to expend. I am indifferent to how we do so.” If whatever Green drank made her soul rot, whatever Berry drank seems to have made her soul rust. It’s like she’s an automaton, only with less personality. I let out a frustrated sigh and rub my temples while I think. Berry doesn't react. Fine, new tactic.

“I don’t know prices in this city, so I’ll probably get taken if left to my own devices. If you help me look for a jacket, you will end up spending less than if you let me pick.” After a moment, she rises back to all fours, staring at me and waiting for me to walk into the shop. It’s a little creepy, like looking at a windup doll, but I’m calling it a victory. She has levers I can pull—not the same levers as normal ponies, but levers all the same. I just need to figure her out. I turn to lead her back into the store, pretending to pay attention to the racks of clothes we’re walking past. This calls for careful study.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, why did you come here? It sounds like you were a very successful winemaker in Equestria. It must have been hard to leave your vineyard behind.” It’s tangentially related to distillery, and if I can get her to talk by tying the subject back to her particular obsession, her quiet act might not be such a problem after all. She mulls it over for a second, and then shrugs.

“Not really. It was destroyed in the blight.” Terse, but an answer—results unclear. As my teachers would have said, the need for further experimentation is clearly indicated.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I take it you mean your vines were wiped out? You couldn't continue with just the distillery?” She shakes her head, and without the empty zombie stare first.

“The majority of the vineyard was wiped out by the blight, and I was required to sell the remaining produce as food. Vinification crops are technically edible, but are not considered high quality food crops. They did not sell well. I ended up selling most of my wine stock and distillation equipment to cover the gap. The vineyard never recovered.” And that’s terrible. More importantly, theory confirmed! I can get her to blab about whatever as long as I find a way to tie it back to her little nerd obsession.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how it must have felt to have to sell your life’s work. I’m surprised though—distillation obviously means a lot to you. Why did you leave it behind to work for Trixie?” We seem to be moving towards jackets now, but I don’t see a reason to rush. A store like this could never exist in Equestria—they couldn't move this much inventory in a year, much less need to keep it all on hand. I guess clothes are a part of Vision the same way saddlebags are. Then again, I haven't seen many ponies wearing anything this decorative, so maybe fancy clothes are something you’re supposed to own.

“I did not. I was invited to Vision by Pinkie Pie to run the city’s first distillery.” So, Green wasn’t talking out her tail about Berry knowing the Bearers of the Elements. “While the agricultural systems that support the city theoretically replicate surface conditions exactly, in practice, salt levels in the resultant produce can vary by up to fifteen percent between batches. This causes—”

“So they needed your expertise to make the wine any good,” I summarize, and she has the decency to just nod. At least she doesn't mind being cut off. “So is that what you’re still doing now, then? Is Trixie a drinking buddy or something?”

“No. The distillery was destroyed by looters in the war. I had to sell the remaining inventory and parts to make rent.” She pauses for a second. “I’m sorry. I can get a little emotional talking about it.”

“It’s... fine. It must have been very traumatic to go through that twice. I can tell it’s really getting to you. We can talk about something else.” I manage to sound sympathetic, but it’s so bizarre that it’s hard to keep it up. If we were anywhere else, I’d swear she was a master actor, really devoted to her practical joke. She has no expression—her tone never wavers from that apathetic, flat inflection—but I don’t think she’s kidding. She even nods at me.

“Thank you. I do not want to make a scene.” Yeah, if we keep talking about this, you might actually show an emotion. I don’t know how you’d survive the shame.

“So, Pinkie Pie invited you here to make the wine? She’s the Element of Laughter, right? Were you two friends, or was she into distilling as well?” You know, now that I think about it, why am I looking for a jacket? What am I, a stallion? They must have scarves somewhere around here.

“Some of both. She threw the best parties, and I brought wine or punch as a way of showing thanks.” She glances at me as I start looking around for some more feminine options, but makes no comment. “I was a party mare, back then.”

“Oh, I can tell.” It’s a heroic effort, but I manage to keep the sarcasm out of my voice entirely. “You’ve got that lively air about you.”

“That’s surprising. Most ponies find me to be rather calm these days.” I... I can’t. That’s... what? She can’t be serious. I mean, she is, but—

“What, really? I can’t imagine why they would.” Luckily, my mouth can run on its own even when my brain is struggling to orient itself. Right, need to get back on topic—find why she works for Trixie, learn what motivates her. I’m certainly not getting anything new from her face. She’s staring straight ahead, unblinking and without the slightest expression. “Still, what happened after that? I assume you tried to rebuild the distillery?”

“Yes. I was unsuccessful. Demand for high-quality spirits precipitously dropped after the war in favor of cheaper, stronger liquors. After two failed attempts to rebuild the distillery, I gave up, and developed a drinking problem. I was pushing forty with no children, no friends, and my life’s work in ruins. It seemed like too much effort to keep trying.” So you washed out, gave up, and ended up working for the first mare to offer you a job. Just like Green, really. “So I tried to kill myself.”

What?

“I... uh.” What? “That... um...” How can she say that? What do I say to that? She doesn't even look sad or hurt. Most ponies put more emotion into observing the weather, but it’s gotta be getting to her, right? She did say some things make her emotional. Sympathy is good, but it has to be the right kind of sympathy, and it can’t be generic, or it’ll look insincere. I could give her a hug. No, wait, I can’t touch her. But I need to do something! “How?”

You had to do something, Siren, and while that was something, you probably should not have done it.

“By throwing myself off the top of the promenade in Serpent’s Wharf.” Her voice is totally flat, and even though I know I’m not going to find anything, my eyes reflexively travel over her face for some, any hint of expression. There’s nothing though, nothing but that empty stare, and the blue flower curling around her eye.

“I... um.” I grab something at random off the rack. “This jacket looks fine. We can go.” She nods. She just... nods.

Buying it goes fine, I guess. Unremarkably, I mean. Take jacket, give bits, and then Berry walks out of the store, and I follow. I’m not really paying attention. I keep picturing her at the top of those archways, looking down at the flooded marketplace, getting ready to throw herself off. That’s a seven-story fall. She must have been afraid, she must have known it would break every bone in her body on impact. I mean, I guess that was the point, but... she must have looked scared, or sad, or-or something. But no matter how many times I imagine it, I can’t picture her with an expression. She’s always stony-faced, throwing herself off the ledge with a mild indifference. That makes it worse, I think.

I guess I kind of zoned out, because when I come to, we’re sitting at one of the tables near the band. Berry seems like she’s content to wait here until the time runs out, looking straight ahead and not saying a word. I must have been daydreaming for awhile, not sure how long though.

“You don’t care enough to lie to me, do you?” It’s not really what I should say, but I’m not sure there is a “should say” for her. She doesn't even react when I ask; she only stares. “Am I going to get out of this alive?”

“I do not know. However, it is important to Trixie that you not come to harm, and she has asked me to guard you. I will keep you safe to the best of my abilities.” I suppose she will. I needn’t have bothered trying to get her to want to protect me. If she even wants anything.

“Thanks.” There’s no point in saying it, but it’s something to say. I go ahead and let the conversation lapse. We can sit here until it’s time to go. It can’t possibly be more depressing than talking to Berry. We sit there in silence. For a while, I guess. I’m not really thinking about anything.

“Wait here.” She gets up and walks away without bothering to explain where she’s going. Bathroom or something I guess. It would be funny if I walked away while she was gone, so two of Trixie’s henchmares would have lost me in a row. She’d blow a gasket. I think about looking up to see where she’s going, but mostly, I just look at the floor.

I don’t think my ankles are going to be okay.

I mean, I don’t know the full extent of the Princess’s powers, but I’ve seen ponies with scars, and I know Princess Celestia wouldn't let them suffer if she could heal them. And my ankles are scarred, no hair left. I guess I shouldn't be surprised; I was standing in boiling water. Probably burned the skin right off me. Heh. I don’t know why I think that’s funny all of a sudden.

It is though. Funny I mean. It’s only... what, a few days ago, that I was running for my life while degenerate mutant ponies tried to kill me? Now I’m sitting in a marketplace, and the biggest dangers to me are that I picked a really ugly color for my jacket, and that my escort is a terrible conversationalist. This is... this is like my time with Golden Palm. So close to a normal, dull afternoon—so like it in every superficial way. But when you get past that, there are things I don’t want to think about.

My hooves aren't getting better. I don’t think those scars on my side will either. That’s it. My career is over before it even started. I’m going to be an ugly pony for the rest of my life. It’s... it’ll be okay though. I’m the Princess’s student! I can do whatever I want with my life. I can. I could.

Berry is coming back, but she’s walking really awkwardly—on three legs, from the sound of it. She must have something in one of her hooves. She trots back to the table and sits down next to me. Like nothing had happened. “Here.” She’s giving me something.

It’s an ice cream cone.

I just... start laughing. It’s stupid, but right now, it’s the funniest thing in the world. I’m trapped in an underwater city, surrounded by Hearth’s Warming Eve decorations in the middle of spring, and there’s a mutant freak pony offering me ice cream. Mind the snow drifts! “Ice cream always made me feel better when I was a foal. Don't eat the cone though,” she says. Yes, Berry, I got that. That’s why I’m laughing.

“Thank you, Berry.” I float it over and let her put her hoof back on the ground. Vanilla, not bad either. “You know, ice cream is normally something for the summer. When it’s hot.”

“Yes, that always confused me. The summer is when it melts the fastest and is the most difficult to procure and store. It makes more sense to eat it during the winter when it keeps well.” That only makes me giggle more, and you know, I think I see some confusion in her eyes. Maybe a little. Maybe not though.

“You have very distant memories of what it’s like to be a pony, don’t you, Berry?” Distant and muddled. “From when you were a foal, and you were sad, and somepony gave you ice cream and you felt better. And now, you can tell I’m sad, and you do the same thing, but you don’t really understand why. You don’t get why I’m upset; you don’t get why this is going to make me feel better. It’s just something you do. And you know what else?” You know what else I figured out, Berry? “I am a genius.” I point down at her leg.

“Berries stand for fermentation, but two cups is a traditional symbol for temperance. I didn’t remember it until you started prattling on about winemaking, but that’s what it is, isn’t it? You tried to kill yourself so somepony made you chug a mantle for emotional stability or self control or whatever. But you know what, Berry? You know why two cups represents temperance? It’s symbolic for watering down wine. And that’s what you are. Watered down until nothing's left. I keep looking at you, and I keep thinking I see something in your face, but it’s not there. The water comes in a wine glass so I keep thinking I can taste the wine, but that’s only me deluding myself.” I look at the ice cream, then down at the table. But not at her. I can’t stand to look at her right now.

“I mean, I get it, you know? I can read between the lines. You said you liked talking about alchemy, and you have a flask and one of those awful flowers on your body. You mix up potions or mantles or whatever for a living now. I guess that pays for a pretty nice apartment.” I wonder if there’s even any alcohol in that liquor cabinet of hers. “Do you ever stop to think that you’re killing ponies? That you’re giving them the same thing that destroyed you? Does that ever occur to you?” She doesn't say anything. Of course she doesn't. Why would she? “Do you ever look in the mirror in the morning and remember Equestria and realize your younger self would be horrified and ashamed?”

“I do miss the emotional highs I used to experience,” she says, with no more interest than if I’d asked her what time it was. “However, there are advantages to a more restrained lifestyle. For instance, I will never go off on a spiteful, bitter rant at another pony because I am upset my perfect good looks have been besmirched.”

I—No, that’s not—

“I saw you looking at your scars. Eat your ice cream, Siren.” I—I don’t, I mean. That wasn’t what happened. I was upset, but, I didn’t. She’s the freak here. She’s the one who ruined her own life. It’s not cruel to observe on something that’s true.

I eat the ice cream.

“Don’t eat the cone.” Berry takes it away from me nearly the second I’m done, tossing it into a wastebin nearby. I don’t really know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything, letting my head hang. I don’t know how long the silence drags. It feels like forever.

“I’m sorry, Berry.” That’s not the right thing to say, but I don’t know what the right thing is, and I can’t take more of this silence. I hope she answers. If all she does is nod, it’ll make things so much worse.

“You are not the type of pony I was expecting when Trixie told me you were Princess Celestia’s student.” She doesn't even sound disappointed. She must be furious, but her voice is dead. Reciting a fact. Oh, no, it’s nothing against you personally, Siren. It’s not your fault I was expecting the Princess’s student to have some redeeming qualities. But this whole useless twit thing you’ve got going is also fine; it really meshes with the way you take out your stupid, petty problems on those around you. So, I’m assuming Princess Celestia never spent much time raising you?

“I didn’t know the Princess had a type, for students.” That’s a lie. She’s kind, she’s sweet, she’s strong. That’s the kind of student she should have had. “I guess I’m not much like Twilight, though.”

“No, you aren't,” Berry answers, and there’s nothing more for us to say.

I’m not sure how long we sit there before I hear the rumbling. Heavy hoofsteps, the table shaking under me. Brass on stone. Another one of those giants in the diving suits. Berry doesn't move, of course, but I can hear the other ponies around us perking up, becoming alert. A few of them move away. I guess they don’t want to have to look at it, and who could blame them?

“Look, Big Brother, it’s Cousin Pinkpony. Hi there, Pinkpony!” Oh Celestia, that voice. It’s not even a filly’s voice anymore. It rattles, it drones, like there was nothing inside her barrel at all, and the words could echo around inside. But more than any of that, it oozes, like she’s gargling something in the back of her throat. Was the other one this bad? Did I just not hear it? I don’t want to look up, I don’t. I don’t.

When I look up, she’s waving to me.

It’s funny, how sometimes you look at something, and you see it, but you don’t see it. Like how if you repeat a word enough, it stops being a word and becomes sounds. There’s so many things wrong with her, but I can’t link them together. That happy little wave, that bright tone, those expressive eyes—they can’t belong to the same creature as that needle horn and that awful gurgling voice. There’s not a mutated filly in front of me, not in my head. In my head, there’s a filly in a bright blue dress, and this awful monster that wheezes, and drools, and oozes blood like a sore.

“Hi there... whatever your name is,” I say as she draws near, riding in that basket her brother carries. When she waves that hard, her entire body sways back and forth with the motion. She’s leaning forward into my view to try to get me to acknowledge her—so far forward she’s almost falling out of the basket—and I give her a little wave in response. That makes her smile. There’s something glittering in her mouth. Are those braces?

“Hi there, Cousin Pinkpony!” she chirps as her brother walks up to us, stopping to let her speak. They are. Those are braces. Bright, shiny braces for that overbite she seems to have. I suddenly picture a very nervous-looking orthodontist, working on her as that behemoth of a brother she has glares at him from inside the suit. And you know what? It’s funny. It’s just really, really funny to picture him with his little tools and smock and her smiling with those blood-caked teeth. And I start laughing and laughing. “Something funny, Cousin Pinkpony?”

“You’re funny!” I answer, but it doesn't seem so funny anymore, and I don’t know why. I can feel my heart racing, and it’s getting hard to breathe, my chest tight as the laughter sputters and dies. I can smell something. The most putrid stink I’ve ever encountered, blood and rot and oil. It’s her brother’s suit. It’s no normal smell; it’s like it’s coating the inside of my lungs, and my eyes start to water until I have to squint to see her. She just blinks at me, those scarlet eyes wide.

“You’re silly, cousin,” she says, a little confused, not quite sure what to make of me. “We’re looking for angels! Have you seen any? They look a lot like her,” she points at Berry, “except they don’t move. And sometimes they’re missing parts. They glow like she does though.”

“She seems to glow to you?” I look at Berry, who’s looking at me, but it’s hard to see her. My eyes won’t stop watering for some reason. That awful smell. “I guess that’s what those pretty red eyes are for!” I smile at the little filly. It’s a good smile because I’m a great actor and that’s what’s going to get me through this okay. Everything’s going to be fine.

“Yup. Her heart’s all shiny, and she smells like candy and wildflowers. That’s how I know she’ll be an angel one day. You don’t glow at all though, Cousin Pinkpony.” She leans far out of her basket, sniffing at the air. “And you kind of stink.”

“Sorry.” I keep smiling because it’s important to smile because her brother is there and he’ll smash us into paste if we look at her wrong and that would be bad and she’s such a nice filly anyway I mean none of this is really her fault. “I guess I need a bath.” She’s looking at me all funny. Why is she doing that?

“Are... you okay?” Of course I’m okay, I’m fine. I’m fine. Why are they all looking at me? That stupid stink is making my eyes water.

“Of course! I’m fine. It’s... I’m fine.” I can’t breathe. I try to draw a breath and my chest sticks. All that rot is building up in my lungs, and I can’t breathe. But it’s okay, I can get through this, I’ll smile and be nice and her brother will go away and it’ll all be fine. I kind of... lose track, for a bit, and I think she’s quiet. Suddenly though, my head snaps up, and she’s saying something.

“When I’m sad, and I can’t stop crying, I’ll try to smile so I don’t make all my sisters sad too.” Her horn glows, blood red, and I’d swear her eyes shine at the same time. She’s levitating something over from one of the other tables. A glass. “And then Auntie Rarity pulls me aside and says I’m very brave and gives me something so I’ll feel better. She’s the Element of Generosity.” I guess she’s giving me the glass. That’s nice. It’s a nice glass. She seems to be levitating it up to herself though.

“That’s sweet, but you don’t have to...” I trail off as she opens her mouth, and this gurgle comes out, this reaching sound. Her body shudders, her stomach churning as she levitates the glass up in front of her. Red light shines from her horn as she violently pukes into the glass, her eyes wide as she gasps for breath between heaves. Slowly, one disgusting retch at a time, a stream of black and crimson pours out of her mouth, filling the glass until it starts to overflow. She looks up at me, using the back of an ankle to wipe dribble from her lip.

Oh no. Oh no, oh please no, oh sweet Celestia no. I have to get out of here! I start to rise, but I feel Berry jab in my back leg, and my leg buckles under me. I can’t get up! My rear legs have gone all numb. “It is rude to refuse a gift. If you upset her and she cries, her guardian will kill us both,” Berry murmurs.

“Refuse a gift, ha ha!” I levitate the glass over to the table when the filly offers it my way. “Don’t be silly, Berry! Why would I do that? It’s a lovely gift from the cutest little filly in the world.” I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Life or death. I just have to lift the glass up, and pretend I’m back in Equestria, and it’ll all be fine. It’ll all be fine.

Berry is pushing the glass back down to the table. “It is a lovely gift, but I’m sure you’d like to enjoy it later. Getting it has already made you feel better. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, yes! That’s true. That’s very true.” I wipe my tears away, and I’m totally fooling everypony when I smile up at the little filly. I give a saccharine little giggle, and clap my hooves together excitedly. “Thank you so much, cousin. I do feel better! And now, it’s off with me to have a good day and off with you to find some angels!”

“That’s the spirit, Cousin Pinkpony. Now, c'mon, Big Brother! Lets look somewhere else.” She slides back into her basket, and her brother turns away, lumbering off between the tables and down another side corridor. Berry turns to watch them go, not saying a word until they’re out of sight, only the giant’s lumbering footsteps audible. I have to hold it, hold it until they’re gone.

The world spins, and I lean over the edge of the table, and it’s my turn to be sick. My front legs go weak like my back ones did, and suddenly I’m on the floor—my stomach seized in a vice, my throat burning. I smell vomit before I realize I’m the one throwing up, retching until there’s nothing left in my stomach, and then dry heaving until my vision spins and my ears start to ring. Berry doesn't so much as help me up. She watches as I struggle for breath, splattered with blood and vomit. She watches until I manage to push myself up, forcing myself to take slow, even breaths.

“What are those things?” I already know, of course, but I need to hear somepony say it. I can’t accept something that horrible on my own conclusions.

“Big Brothers and Little Sisters are responsible for the collection of poison joke and heart’s desire from the corpses of deceased markers.” I know, Berry. I know. I know. “The active compounds in poison joke begin to disassociate from each other within thirty minutes of death, making speed of extraction vital. The Dash-Lulamoon Act made all—”

“I know, Berry! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know!” I rise up, slamming a hoof down against the table with each repetition of the words. I get it, okay? You don’t have to keep telling me! Why does she keep telling me things I already know? “Just—just shut up! Just shut up! Just shut up, okay? Just shut your stupid marked-up face and tell me when it’s time to go.” I don’t know why I’m so mad all of a sudden. It’s her fault, her and Green and Trixie and, and I didn’t even want to be here. I just want to get out of here!

“I’ll give you two hundred bits for her gift.” What? How can she even say that now? “Stabilized aortic marker blood can be refined back into raw components for mantles, making the contents of that glass very valuable. You should not let it go to waste.”

I don’t know what to say. What to do. What can I do? Princess, I don’t know what to do. I guess I nod dumbly, because she opens her saddlebags and rummages around inside them with her teeth. She counts out the coins one at a time: a little crystalline coin with “100” etched onto it, nine of those ten-bit hexagonal platinum pieces, and ten of what I actually recognize as bits. I bet she carries all her money with her. I... I look at her. She tucks the money into one of the pouches on my belt, and sits back. Looking at me.

“I...” I’m covered in vomit and worse. It’s starting to burn. “I’m going to go clean up and look at the other stores. I won’t go far. Don’t follow me.” I turn before she can object, and start off in a random direction, weaving between the tables. My ears pivot to listen for the sound of her steps, but all I hear is the ponies around us and my own hooffalls. I don’t even really want to go into any of these stupid stores, so I circle the market until I find a bathroom.

It’s what I expected. Tiny, cold, sterile and white. There’s a tiny sink and a tiny mirror, and opposite the facilities, a giant, shiny poster in a wooden frame, showing a stallion with a big, stupid smile on his face and a pair of crossed wrenches on his barrel. Flowing golden text above him reads, “If the mares can’t find you handsome,” and then below, “they can at least find you handy—with Pinkie Pie’s new FixIt brand mantles!” I hate that stallion. He looks so feathering excited there’s a new flavor of poison to shove down his throat so it can twist him into one of those things. You know what makes it even funnier? He can’t be a model. He can’t be, because now he has an extra cutie mark plastered onto his body that won’t look good in other shoots. This was a one-time thing. Somepony asked him if he’d mind corrupting his body and soul on film so that they could use it to sell mantles to ponies who are trying to pee, and he jumped at that chance. And why wouldn't he? All the other ponies in this city got rich and powerful by destroying everything that’s good in the world. He was probably champing at the bit to get a piece of that action!

“Buck you!” I turn, and I kick. I kick the poster right into the wall. I kick until I hear its frame shatter and the tiles crack and break. I kick until I feel plaster on my leg, and my hooves shake with the force of an impact on stone. I kick at that stupid wall until my hooves are throbbing and I know they’ll crack if I kick again, and then I just stop. I stop and curl up on the floor and cry like a stupid, useless little foal. Somepony heard that. Everypony heard that, including security. Now they’re going to come and call me a vandal and hang me, and not even those poor little fillies will care. Why should they? I don’t know why I’m crying; I don’t know why I’m so mad. I hate this place. I hate it so much.

I guess I’m there for a while, because when I finally manage to lift my head, my eyes feel all puffy and my face is burning. Nopony knocked, at least. I pick myself up and check the mirror. I look awful: my mane is a mess, my eyes are bloodshot, I’m covered in flecks of vomit, my cheek is bruised from... I don’t even know how I got that. I laugh a little, when I see that my tail braid held together. Nice job, Green. There’s nothing to do really; I clean myself up, wash off as best I can, splash cold water on my face, and brush my mane as well as I can with only my magic. If there’s a guard waiting outside the door to arrest me, rushing won’t change anything. At least this way, I can face him with dignity.

There’s nopony there when I open the door. Did nopony hear that? How did they not all hear that? Everypony is still going about their business like nothing happened; there’s not even so much as an awkward glance at the crazy mare who went berserk and smashed up the bathroom. I look around for Berry, but I don’t see her. Oh, great, my escort wandered off. I feel really protected. Whatever, just...

“Just...” I draw a slow, deep breath, and shut my eyes. “I need to get it together.” My voice sounds nice. Haggard, but nice—smooth and clear and warm. That always seemed a little messed up—that I actually do love the sound of my own voice. I mean, how do you tell somepony about that without sounding like a narcissist? But right now, I really... I need this, okay?

“Okay, Siren, you had a little bit of a stress attack there”—a little bit of a stupid, foalish tantrum—“but it’s okay. You’ll be okay.” It sounds so reassuring, the way I say it. I can imagine some poor downtrodden pony looking up at those encouraging words. I tilt my head up a little.

“I know, there’s a lot here that gets to you—you’ve got a heart of gold and you’re surrounded by ponies who need help, but you need to focus on the one pony here who really matters. You wanted to be an actor, and that’s not going to happen now, but you have options.” The way I say it, it sounds reassuring and wise. “You aren't just an actor, you’re an artist. You sing, you carve, you compose—you’ll do well no matter what, but first you have to get back home. You need to survive.” That puts things back in context—maybe now is not the time to be worrying about the little stuff. “Right.” I open my eyes.

“Right, okay. Situation, resources, objectives. The first two haven't changed much, except that I know Berry will protect me now, and I have a few hundred bits and some free time. So I should...” I take a breath, pausing for a moment to think. “See how I can utilize those resources, money and time, to best advantage. To wit, I should see if any of these stores contain items that could prove useful for escaping the city.” That sounds like a plan, particularly the way I say it. Just for practice, I give a confident smile—Confident Assurance #2, to be specific. It feels good to wear. “Okay, curtain up!” I give a firm shake of my mane. Enough of that crying, useless foal everypony—Siren’s back!

My initial survey of the stores here is less than encouraging—a lot of high-priced frilly junk. It says something concerning about the ponies who live here that in the ruined aftermath of a civil war, there’s somehow enough demand for two beauty salons, one right across from the other, no less. Aside from them, there’s Clotheshorse Tailoring, a few restaurants and food carts, some tinkerer’s store called Ironhoof’s Automata, a pharmacy with windows full of advertisements for mantles, Lotus’s Clinic and Therapy (a subsidiary of the Carousel Medical Pavilion), some place called Circus of Values that I think is a bit-store, a theatre, and a handful of knickknack shops of no particular note. Not that I was expecting Prison Break’s Handy Dystopian Escape Kit Outlet, but these are still some slim pickings.

My stomach chimes in with its own opinion, churning painfully. It isn’t exactly what I was looking for, but the thought of getting real food in a proper setting does have an appeal. Not quite the palace chef, but it’s a step up from stealing oats out of a marker’s apartment. I set my hooves into motion, taking a long, wide arc through the market. Faint sound drifts out of each of the stores when I pass—music, voices on a phonograph. It’s quiet enough that it doesn't form the same din it did in the bazaar, but it’s there. Some of it’s mood music, some of it is advertising—some of it sounds like it might be useful news, but I don’t feel like stopping to listen right now. I can always come back later.

None of the restaurants really stand out to the eye, but one catches my attention when I walk past it, exactly the way a restaurant should. It smells like a kitchen—like flour and apples and eggs and extract of vanilla. One whiff of that, and I’m flashing back to when I was a foal and tried to steal cookies out of the palace kitchen. Second whiff, and I’m on my way inside. I glance at the name on my way in: Sweet Apple Cafe.

It’s like stepping into some bizarre hybrid of Vision and Equestria. This place is trying to be Equestria—it’s trying so hard. There are little patches of straw on the floor to make it smell like grass, and the scattered tables are each a little different. Everything is made of wood and painted in friendly, unique designs, right down to a little line of hearts along the edges of the tables and bar. There are even pictures of Canterlot and some other Equestrian towns behind the countertop in the back. It can’t quite escape what it is though, and the sight of the glowing ceiling strips gives the whole thing an unreal feel. The phonograph playing background music only enhances the effect, one of the unsettling little errors that reveals the fake. There’s nopony there at the moment but a waitress reading a book behind the counter, and she looks up as I make my way through the tables towards her. She’s an orange pegasus with a close-cut sea-green mane—an unfortunate combination of colors. She doesn't look bad though; her wings are outstretched as she reads, and it shows off a lithe and athletic build. She’s not even that much older than me. I can’t see her whole body, but, no cutie marks from the withers up, at least.

“Hey there.” Her voice is upbeat and friendly. She’s faking it, of course, but it’s the sort of fake where you make yourself feel it, not the kind that’s truly insincere. “Take a seat. I’m Swiftwing. You want some ice for that bruise?” She lets a hint of sympathy seep into her voice. It’s not the best, but she’s very practiced.

“No, it’s only a little bump. Thank you though. Could I get the...?” There’s a menu nailed to the back wall, and I glance at it over her shoulder. “Do you have anything not made from ap—?”

“No,” she giggles. I must have missed something that’s common knowledge. “You’ve never been here before, have you?”

“Not exactly.” I give an embarrassed little smile in turn, glancing down while my eyes look up. She smiles and looks down as well. I don’t think I really need her for anything, but it’s a nice reassurance that I am good at this. “The apple crumble and the toast with apple butter then, please.”

“Sure thing.” She turns to head into the back, and I lean over to glance at her flank. Only one cutie mark—a comet with a sparkling silver tail. Good. I settle back onto my flank in front of the counter, drawing a slow breath and letting it out. This place smells really nice. Behind me, I hear the phonograph click, and the music stops. It sounds like the record’s run out, the needle floating back to the beginning and starting again.

“Hi there, everypony, Applejack here.” The recording starts again, and my ears perk up. The Bearer of the Element of Honesty? She doesn't sound like I expected. “I wanted to take a moment to talk with y’all about life in Vision and, well, a lotta things, really.” She sounds a bit like a hillfilly—that accent’s not doing her any favors—but there’s more to it than that. This is a prerecorded message, so I know it’s fake, but I can’t help but think she sounds really... sincere. A little sad, a little worn, a little tired, but resolute, and fixed. I can see her looking into my eyes as she says it.

“Now, it’s no secret that this little experiment of ours ain’t worked out quite the way we’d hoped. Made life awful hard for some ponies.” She sighs, and I can see the little shake of her head. “Made life awful hard for all of us. Seawater, madponies, strugglin’ just to get by. Worst of it is not knowin’ what’s gonna come next—what the next day will hold. It’s enough to make a pony want to give up and quit. But...” I hear her draw a breath.

“But that ain't our way, and that’s never gonna be our way.” She doesn't raise her voice, but she doesn't need to; she sells it with that soft-spoken conviction. “Runnin’ away when you get in over your head, lookin’ for somepony to take all that worry away and tell you it’ll all be okay—that’s what a foal does, and that’s what we were in Equestria. Foals. Celestia’s little ponies in her schoolyard kingdom.” It’s nonsense of course, but she delivers it far more effectively than Green did. I have to fight that tone to remind myself that no matter how honest she sounds, she’s marked herself as a crazy pony.

“I guess what I’m trying to tell y’all is, when that rebel comes a knockin’, tellin’ you that Vision has failed and that the council’s to blame for all your problems, try to remember—we didn’t leave Equestria ‘cause we wanted this city. We left Equestria because there was no place for us there anymore. Foalhood is a wonderful time, but we ain't foals no more. Our eyes are open, and even if the council opened every sub there is... for us, there ain't no goin’ back.” There’s a little pause on the other end, and I shiver a little for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. That was powerful—not good, or sane, but powerful. “Anyway, I’m interruptin’ y’all, so I’ll finish up by sayin’ that if it ever seems like too much, New Apple Acres and Angel’s Garden are always open to ponies in need. Fluttershy and I are here to help any way we can. Come on down, take a load off, feel good again. Y’all have a good day now, y’hear.” The music starts again, back at the beginning.

I guess it shouldn't surprise me. It fits with this city, it really does. “Pie-Flavored Cleaning Solvent” that isn’t pie-flavored and would dissolve you if you drank it. “Clotheshorse Tailoring” that doesn't really do any tailoring. Even the city name, “Vision,” when nopony here can see what’s coming next. And now, the Element of Honesty is a charismatic liar, slandering Celestia with the most ridiculous nonsense. You could use that argument to justify getting rid of anything that helped you! Unicorn magic? Well, that’s all well and good for foals, but adulthood is all about learning to use your teeth. Law and order? That’s for the schoolground; grown ponies know how to defend themselves. Some semblance of basic kindness and decency? Oh, you cute little fillies, you’ll grow out of that!

I’m scowling by the time Swiftwing comes back, a dish balanced on each wing like they were trays. She looks worried when she sees me—maybe because of how many ponies in this city express unhappiness with violence—but I force my expression into something like a smile. It helps a lot when she lays out the food in front of me and the smell hits me. Oh, that’s nice. That is wonderful.

“Here you go.” She folds her wings against her body, sitting down so she can use both forehooves to fill a glass of water. “You alright? You look like you’re having a real bad day.”

“Bad day doesn't begin to cover it.” I give a weak little chuckle. It works for the moment, and it feels nice. Besides, if I go back to a full smile, I’ll seem really insincere. “The recording of Applejack back there didn’t help. Those things get to me.”

“Ugh, I know! They’re so annoying.” She fluffs her wings out, keeping them folded but puffing out the feathers, fixing me with a narrow expression. “And now I will talk to you in a very serious tone about things that happened before you were born.” She speaks with a deep, booming, over dramatic tone, applying lots of emphasis to every word. She’s not that funny, and I really just want to eat, but I can tell she’s trying to cheer me up, so I giggle a little, and she takes that as a cue to continue. “Don’t you smile at me, little filly! I’m trying to explain something of critical, vital philosophical importance. A truth that will change your life and forever alter your view of the universe.”

“And what is this deep, vital truth of the universe?” I keep my tone light and a little playful, so I can really only blame myself for the fact that she doesn't pick up on the hint. Is that cinnamon? I think that’s cinnamon I smell. And pecans. And lemon. And those little flakey bits stuck to the apple.

“That me and my clique of friends are running the city exactly right.” Giggle, smile, nod, eyes light up, she looks down and away, take a bite before she starts talking again. Oh, yes. Civilization, thy name is lunch. She picks up on the hint, finally, and takes it as an excuse to look at the counter and busy herself with glasses that are already clean. I shouldn't be too harsh on her though. It’s probably more the food than her attempts at humor, but I do feel better, and she means well. Kind of in the same way that Golden Palm meant well, no doubt, but that’s better than nothing.

“What’s your book there?” It’s a good question, and one that doesn't require me to stop eating while she answers. She seems pleased I asked though, her face a little more animated than it was a moment ago, and she turns the book up so that the cover faces me: Managing Debt, by Neck Deep. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I put exactly the right amount of worry into my tone. It’s a little undercut by the fact that I don’t stop eating my toast, but this isn’t the Canterlot Theatre. “I guess being a waitress doesn't pay that well?”

“Manager, actually, and it pays fine.” She gives a little reassuring waggle of her hoof. “Not a lot, but much as she can be kind of a pretentious old fart, Applejack is pretty good about making sure we all have enough for food and rent and stuff. I just had some uh... luxury expenses.” She sounds a little embarrassed, so I peer more closely, and she blushes. “It’s um...” She’s mulling something over in her head—I can tell—trying to decide if she wants to do something or not. She’s glancing at the floor, at me, and at the countertop, but finally, she makes up her mind.

Her hooves go up onto the counter and she rises up behind it, flaring her wings out so high that the tips touch behind her head like a halo. It shows off a lot: her flexibility, her sleek and athletic build, the agility required to bring her wings together that perfectly. With the wings bent in that wide arc, her primary feathers splay out behind her, like the spokes of a wheel, perfectly framing her face. It looks good, and when she curls her tail around, letting it splay over her flank, even that sea-green seems to have its merits. “So,” she grins down at me. “What do you think?”

What do I think of what? She’s not wearing a new dress or anything. I mean, she looks really good, but that’s because she’s a pegasus who’s...

Oh.

It’s okay. I’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. My stomach churns, but I hide it with a quick glance down at the counter. Slow, deep breaths, Siren. Okay, good.

“Way to make the rest of us feel inadequate.” Thank Celestia she’s not too observant. Even I couldn't stop that from sounding a little wooden. In what sick world is this something you brag about? “That’s um... tonic, right?”

“Yup. It was so expensive, but totally worth it. I feel like a million bits, I have energy in the morning, I can run forever and not get winded. I know flying is a rich-snob thing, but I kind of want to take it up now to see what it’s like.” She sounds so happy, like a foal opening her Hearth’s Warming Eve gifts. “And it does make me feel a little bit pretty.”

“Just a little?” I ask, and she beams. She has a good smile—perfect teeth. Too perfect.

“I may have woken up this morning, looked in the mirror, and done a little happy dance.” She slides back to the floor and folds her wings, blushing brightly, but it’s still all she can do not to grin. “Say, listen, this is really not my thing normally, but you seem nice, and I saw you checking me out earlier.” What? I wasn’t— “I get off work in a few hours. Wanna go someplace?” With her? On a date?

“Ooh.” I giggle, light and amused, and clap my forehooves together. “We’d be quite the matching pair. Both of us all patched up.” She blinks, looking back at herself to see what I’m talking about. I give a little reassuring gesture, waving my hoof at her torso. “Oh, don’t worry. Your doctor was much better than mine. It’s not noticeable.”

“What?” She shakes her head, taking an involuntary step away as her ears fold back, and a blush rises in her cheeks. “What’s not noticeable?”

“I don’t know.” I flash her a smirk and it wipes the last traces of enthusiasm right off her stupid face. “You tell me. You’re the one who tried so hard to be rid of it.” For a second, she can’t even formulate a response, her jaw opening and closing without a sound.

“You could have just said no.” The blush in her cheeks darkens, and her gaze goes to the floor.

“Why would I say no? You’re so endearing—the sporty fillyfooler pegasus with a winning smile and tousled mullet.” I never let my tone sink into sarcasm, no matter how much I want to. Nothing but praise, saccharine and oh-so-genuine. “It’s a cliche, but you know, it’s comfortable. Unthreatening.”

“You’re not that good a catch yourself!” she snaps and she looks up faintly to glare at me, but she can’t raise her head all the way.

“Good enough to get you.” She starts at that, leaning back faintly. “Besides,” I brush back my mane, smiling at her over the counter, “if I change my mind later, it’s not like finding another one of you will be hard. That stuff’s trendy, you know?” The ring of a ten bit piece hitting the counter seals the deal. Embarrassment turns to shame, and rage, and her head sinks to the floor. It’s like I can feel the blow connect as she looks at her hooves. “Thanks.” I levitate the last of the crumble alongside me, finishing it off as I turn and trot out.

Nothing. Silence behind me. I was expecting her to at least yell something half-hearted at me on my way out. Not a word. She doesn't even raise her head to glare at me as I go. I must have hit her harder than I thought. She’s messed up. She might even be trying not to cry. That thought makes me chuckle.

Then I frown.

I don’t know why I did that.

I mean... that was... there was no reason to do that. I’m not a fillyfooler, and the idea of celebrating one of those awful potions is disgusting, but I ruined somepony’s week. And not because there was something in it for me! Just... because. Princess Celestia would be... disappointed doesn't cover it. She wouldn't have words.

I trot out of sight of the restaurant door, and then stop. Maybe I should go back inside and say I’m sorry? That seemed really important to her. Yeah. Yeah, I should do that. I turn around to head back inside.

Berry’s in front of me.

“Gah!” She’s right in front of me. Right behind me, whatever! My hooves scrabble on the stone, and I leap away from that blank face. “How long have you been standing there!?”

“Since you left the table,” she replies, without the faintest reaction to my shock and fright. Standing there with those dull eyes.

“You’ve been trailing me since I left the table?” She nods. “I told you not to follow me!” And of course, she nods again. Of course she does. “Why didn’t I see you!?”

“I didn’t want you to see me.” Oh, great. So now I have a stalker. That’s exactly what I needed. I take a second to calm down and let my heart rate slow. It’s probably for the best. Berry is supposed to be my protector. All this means is that she’s good at her job. Creepy, but good at it. Right. “We will proceed to the doctor’s now.”

“What? It hasn’t been long enough.” I glance around for a clock, but there’s nothing. Not that it matters, since I don’t know what time we left the apartment. “It can’t have been more than half an hour!”

“I have revised my earlier assessment. We will see if the doctor can admit you early.” I don’t know why I bothered raising my voice. She doesn't even fold her ears back to keep the noise out.

“Early? You were the one who said he’d be angry if we showed up early! And revised it on what basis? I thought this was just to confirm that I am who I say I am.” Somehow. I wish I’d thought to ask Trixie exactly what this test is for. I’ll have to ask the doctor.

“I am concerned about your mental stability under stress.” She what? All the ponies in this city, murdering and robbing and mutating each other, and she thinks I’m crazy?

“How dare you!?” I snap, pointing up at her, my hoof hovering right above her face. To Tartarus with her personal space—she had no right! She doesn't so much as blink though, taking a smooth step back from my hoof.

“We should go now.” She turns to one of the side corridors, trotting away. She gets about seven paces off before she realizes I’m not following her, and she stops to look back at me. “Was there something else you wanted to do here?”

“Well, there was... I mean, no. I mean, no, but, that’s not the point! You can’t just say something like that and then drag me off to the doctor’s.” I glance back at the restaurant and then to Berry again. “I’m not crazy.”

“I did not mean to imply you were crazy. Only that your experiences over the last few days have been stressful. We should go now.” Again, she gestures to the corridor, and after a second, I trot up to her side. We both fall into motion again, and slowly, the marketplace shrinks behind us. I mean, it’s fine. She’ll be fine. In a city like this, I’m not the first pony to say something a little mean to her. She’s probably heard worse already from lots of ponies. And I could have said it better, but it was the truth, right? She’s the one who corrupted her own body.

Yeah. She’ll be fine.

I look up at Berry as we move down the corridor. She doesn't look back at me. Stress. The stress is getting to me.

That sounds right.

Doctor Stable

Tap tap ta-tap tap. Tap tap. My hoof beats out a little musical pattern. One does not simply knock on Princess Celestia’s door, oh no. Seeking a private audience with the Princess of the Sun requires forethought, grace, charm, and in this case, her favorite waffles.

“Enter!” Princess Celestia calls, and I push the door open as I walk through, the tray floating behind me. I know she’s expecting the servant, so I put on a good smile for when she looks up at me. She’s still sitting up in bed, reading quietly, a pile of scrolls and her book stand beside her.

“Good morning, Princess!” I greet her all sing-song. That gets her to glance up all right, and my smile is waiting. “I brought you breakfast.”

“Oh. Good morning, Siren,” she says, her wings folded against her side. “Just put it over there, thank you.” She nods to the desk beside her window, and then goes back to reading. She’ll raise the sun soon, but for now, the only light in the room comes from the glittering stars outside.

“I hope it’s not too forward of me, Princess, but I thought we could eat together? Like when I was younger?” I slide the tray over to the desk, turning to look at her. She doesn't look back at me. “I brought those waffles you like, and Princess Luna’s coffee. I know you’ve been meaning to try—”

“Not this morning, Siren. I’m busy,” she says as she gives a gentle shake of her head, focusing on what she’s doing. “Another day.”

“What day, Princess?” It’s a little rude of me to press like this, but... I’ve tried the subtler approach. “I’m sorry to be so insistent. It’s just been a while and you’ve been so busy lately. I really enjoyed waking up early for this.”

“I said not today,” she answers me, curt, wings fluffing outwards against her side as she levitates a new scroll up to the stand. “Thank you for bringing breakfast, Siren. You may leave.” For a second, I almost do. I take a step towards the door, but then I stop and turn back to her.

“Princess, I’ve barely seen you—”

“Siren, I said you are dismissed!” the Princess snaps, eyes still focused on her reading stand, her wings flaring out a few hooves as she raises her voice.

“Why won’t you look at me!?” I’m shouting now too, stomping my hoof on the floor, and she raises her head to glare at me. “I’m your student! You raised me, and now you won’t even talk to me!”

“Why do you think, Siren?” Princess Celestia’s horn glows, and she levitates the mirror off the wall, floating it up to me. I’m... I look good. My coat is all shiny amaranth, and I did up my mane for this so it’s bright and flowing. I even braided my tail. I mean, I look good, other than a few things. Sure, the blue Poison Joke mark over my eye doesn't exactly blend with the rest of my coat, and the Incinerate mark on my shoulder is a little masculine, and nopony in Equestria knows enough about wiredolls to even get the Wire Freak mark. But the rest are fine! They’re colorful and bright and stand out when I smile.

“It’s... it’s not so bad,” I insist, but Princess Celestia snorts—a disgusted, throaty sound.

“The servants tell me you spend hours every morning preening yourself in front of your bedroom mirror until you shine,” she says, glancing up at me, her face twisted into a tight frown. “Do you think it actually makes a difference, or are you just taking the time to convince yourself?”

“Why are you doing this?” I shout, tossing the mirror to one side and letting it smash on the floor. “I know I look different, but I’m still your student! I’m still the same pony!”

“I know you are, Siren,” Princess Celestia answers, casting her magic across the room to sweep up the pieces of glass. “You’re the same cold, narcissistic, petty creature you always were. I did everything I could to raise you right, and this is what you turned into.” She shakes her head, tossing the remains of the mirror into the wastebin. “All that’s changed is that everypony else can see what a fraud you are. Now get out of my room.”

“Princess, I—”

“I said get out,” she snaps, and this time, I do. I turn, and I go. I step outside her door, into the shadows. I don’t know where I’m going, so I just go. I go until I’m alone.

Alone where? The thought strikes suddenly, as I remember how few places there are to be alone in Canterlot Castle. This building is a home to me, but I don’t recognize where I am. My head feels funny, confused. The space is dark, but I see light, and I stretch and twist in place. There’s something rough against me, something soft, a wall, a gap in front of me. A gap? In the floor? That doesn't make any sense. I don’t...

My eyes flutter open. Berry is there, sitting across from me, staring at the wall. Of course. I keep my eyes open long enough to be sure that I’m awake, and then give a good yawn. It was a dream, only a dream. I take a deep breath and stretch out on the couch, feeling my spine twist and my joints pop. It’s bracing, and I actually have to gasp for breath a little after, but I’m awake now.

“I’m sorry for thinking of you that way, Princess,” I murmur, letting my eyes slide shut again. I’ll get up in a second. “I know you’d never really do that.”

“You have been asleep for over an hour,” Berry says. I guess I got her attention by speaking. “The doctor will call us soon.” Thanks, Berry. I stretch again and roll off the couch, my hooves hitting the floor. I’m still groggy, and the effort of standing up makes my heart pound in my ears. A good shake helps with that, and when I open my eyes, my vision is starting to clear. I look around, in case anything has changed while I was asleep, but no. It’s only us in the waiting room.

I find the pitcher and glasses in the corner of the room and pour some of the chilled water for myself, carefully picking out the half-melted ice cubes and dropping them into my glass. It’s refreshing in a number of ways. Aside from the obvious, my mouth tastes like pillow fuzz and dried spit, and I swish the cold water around my mouth. This really is a remarkable waiting room. It shouldn't have caught me off-guard—Berry’s apartment was more than enough evidence to realize that the poisoners and death-merchants in this city demand luxury—but I still couldn't believe it when I saw it. One wall is nothing but glass, giving us a commanding view of the city. The rest of the room is lit by elegant oil lamps, the walls covered in beautiful flowering vines that curl around the pillars in the corner. The pillars themselves are smooth and bright, shaped like cresting waves. It’s like being in an undersea garden, and when the lamps flicker, gold sparkles on all the fittings.

The room’s accoutrements are probably more telling though: two couches, each large enough for only one pony, and a tiny table by each one, barely large enough to hold a single glass. For one of these couches—the one Berry now occupies—the table is positioned near her head, so the glass will be within comfortable reach of her mouth. For the other, the table is positioned closer to the midbody, to provide a more convenient angle for magic. It’s a subtle thing, but this room was made for exactly one unicorn and one earth pony. A team of servants had to rearrange the furniture in this room before we arrived, just for the sake of making us slightly more comfortable. Berry said something about that, but I don’t quite remember what. I might have been resting my eyes at that point.

“An hour?” I ask, as I process what Berry said, working my way back to the couch with my glass floating behind me. She glances at the pitcher, the glasses. It would only take her a second or two to get up and get one for herself, but she doesn’t move. “Then he couldn't accommodate us early after all.” Berry shrugs. “I’m surprised he left us waiting this long. This place tries pretty hard to cater to your every whim.”

She nods. You’re a real chatterbox, Berry. At least I’m getting used to it. I settle down on the couch, wiggling my way into a comfortable position on the soft, downy pillows.

“Why is that, then? I know for a fact there are mantles in this city that will make you a doctor. What makes him so special?” I give a little flick of my tail to loosen the braid up a bit, shivering as the chilly water runs down my throat.

“Your premises are incorrect. Mantles can only give cutie marks; they do not bestow knowledge. While some experimental didactic compounds have shown potential for overcoming this limitation, for the time being, it still takes many years of training to become a licensed physician, and the pavilion restricts both the training and licensing processes.” Yes, thank you Berry—you’ve got a bit of a one track mind, we get it. Somehow though, it’s a little more unnerving than when she didn’t talk at all. No matter how much I intellectually know she’s not going to show any expression, I keep reflexively trying to read her, and the effort is annoying. I shake my head, looking out the window instead of at her.

“The pavilion. Green mentioned them before—she’s afraid of them?” Berry lets out a hiss of breath, which I think is a yes. “That must be relevant to your job. Tell me about them.”

“The Carousel Medical Pavilion is the dominant provider of medical services in Vision, as well as a major producer of mantles, tonics, and designer clothing. It is lead by Rarity, the Bearer of the Element of Generosity.” I think back to the train and Green’s quiet little moment of silence at the mention of Rarity’s name.

“What’s the deal with Green and Rarity then?” I ask, but Berry only shrugs. “You don’t know anything?”

“All I know is that Trixie says it’s important Green not come to Rarity’s attention.” I don’t... hard to read doesn't do her justice, so I can’t be sure, but I think she’s lying. She just answers questions—she doesn't try to guide the conversation—but that was structured to discourage further inquiry. I shift my legs a bit to work out some stiffness while I decide if I want to press. No, even if I corner her, I can’t shame her into spilling the truth—she’ll only stonewall. Best not to give away that I noticed anything.

“Still, I get the impression that Green isn’t the only one who’s afraid of them. I ran into a pony in the tram station on my way here—from the way he acted, you’d think the doctor could have him killed for backtalk.” Berry puts on her thinking expression for a moment, and then shrugs.

“Maybe.” She says it like it like she says everything else. Matter of fact. A little bored maybe. I still can’t believe it though.

“Wait, what? I was exaggerating to make a point!” My own fault—I should have seen it coming. Every time I think I have a handle on this city, it finds a way to get worse. “The doctors here can have ponies killed? Why? How?”

“Rarity is friends with Rainbow Dash,” she says, matter of fact.

“And? Berry, I need you to explain this properly. Can you do that?” My tone is demanding, but she doesn’t answer, only sitting there. “Berry, if you don’t explain this to me, I’m going to be worried about it, stressed, and thus harder for you to keep an eye on. So do your job and explain what’s going on!” I didn’t mean to snap at her that hard, but it’s so impossible when she stares at the wall that way. I’m yelling, and it’s still a good two full seconds before she turns her head towards me.

“As a result, the pavilion’s requests to security are given priority, and a pavilion doctor could suggest to security that your friend is a troublemaker or a rebel. Depending upon the wording of the suggestion, this could result in his death,” she says, like she never stopped talking in the first place. “Though having him killed would be considered extreme by a majority of security officers. A beating is a more realistic outcome.”

“But that’s horrible! They can’t...” Berry doesn't even answer; she just lets me trail off. I guess I should be thankful for that. There’s nothing she could say that wouldn't make me feel more stupid and naive. “Um...” I squeeze my eyes shut. Forgot where I was for a moment. “Right. So they run all the hospitals and clinics, and Doctor Stable is special because he doesn't work for them.” Berry nods. “So why isn’t Green here, then?”

“A number of the ‘independent’ doctors in the city are actually spies for the pavilion. Green therefore refuses to set hoof in any doctor’s office.” I guess I can add paranoia to Green’s list of winning personality traits. I’m about to ask exactly how that works, when a niggling little thought interrupts me, and I fall silent halfway through opening my mouth.

“Um... and we do know that Doctor Stable isn’t a spy, right?” Berry shrugs. “But you don’t have any reason to think he is a spy.” Again, she shrugs. “But you trust him, right?” A faint shake of her head. “Then why are we here?” I ask, a little louder than I meant to, turning back to glare at her.

“Because Trixie ordered us to be here.” And just like that, she folds her hooves, and looks away. I think I’m starting to hate her.

A few minutes of angry silence pass before there’s a knock at the door, and the pegasus nurse who showed us in tells me that the doctor will see me now. I’m half expecting Berry to get up to follow me... well, more than half expecting really, but she stays where she is, nodding me on. The nurse leads me through the halls, and soon enough, she leaves me in the examination room.

This time, my expectations are spot on—a little room of white stone, bone dry, supported at the corners by those elegant pillars. A sterile steel examination table rests in front of wall racks full of tools, but when I climb onto it, it feels soft and pleasantly warm to the touch. I twist my neck down and around and peer under the table. There are a half dozen gems there, embedded in the metal. That’s probably... a few hundred hours of a unicorn’s time? Each? All so I wouldn’t have to put my flank on something cold.

I’m still twisted around when I hear the three sharp taps on the door, and I sit up sharply as the doctor walks in. As tired as I am, the motion makes my head spin, and it takes me a second to orient myself enough that I can see him clearly.

He’s old. I don’t know why that surprises me. Maybe I’m getting used to all the ponies in this city hiding their years in bodies no older than mine. Mid-fifties for certain, fit for his age, with just enough grey in his mane and tail to make him look wise. He’s a bright-tan unicorn, sandy really, his mane and tail a rich brown save for those greying streaks. He’s dressed like you’d expect a distinguished doctor to be—a professional shirt and tie folded under a sterile white coat. It nicely hides how many cutie marks he has, but I spot at least two: an EKG machine on his flank and a scalpel made of bright red lines on his leg.

“Hello there!” he says, with a practiced smile and relaxed posture. “You must be Siren Song. I’m Doctor Stable.” He extends a hoof, and I reach out to take it. He’s one of them, but he seems normal enough to deal with. “Now, I originally had you down for some bloodwork, but I see some cosmetic damage here.” He adroitly twists his hoof, and suddenly he’s holding me by the ankle, closely examining my burns through the wire-rim spectacles perched on the end of his muzzle. “This looks fresh, about a week I’d say. Why don’t we get this fixed before it sets in?”

“Fixed?” My ears shoot up. He can regenerate my burns. He can regenerate the scars! I’m going to get to go on stage after all! “You can fix this?” I demand, shaking my hoof a little in his grasp. He smiles contently, the look of a craftspony whose work is appreciated.

“Young mare, I promise we will have you fit as a fiddle and restored to your pristine self before the day is out.” He gently folds my hoof back under me, releasing my ankle before he moves to the racks of tools on the shelf. “No pony ever walked out of this practice in anything less than perfect condition.”

“Thank you, Doctor!” I’m on the verge of gushing like a foal who just got her birthday presents, but something in the back of my mind catches me, and I fix him with a narrow stare. I shouldn't have shown that. Berry has thrown me off my game; I’m giving away too much. Still, nothing in this city is that good. “Wait, what’s that going to cost me?”

“Good instincts!” He grins, his horn glowing a faint amber as he draws out his tools from their racks. It’s all the normal stuff: a stethoscope, a reflex hammer, and some wavy-tipped metal things I expect I’ll be jabbed with soon. “But don’t you worry, this won’t be costing you a thing. Trixie told me to take good care of you, and the councilmare’s credit is always good here.”

“That’s good to hear, Doctor.” It is good news, and I get a bit more control over my expression, settling it back into something social but noncommittal. Still, I suspect Trixie’s motivations have less to do with altruism and more to do with my getting back to the Princess in mint condition. For all I know, she explicitly told him to heal the scars and his whole kind-doctor bit is an act. I can’t be sure though—he’s hiding something, but it could be anything, maybe not even related to me. “May I ask how you know Trixie?”

“Oh, we go back quite a ways,” he says as he taps my knees with his little hammer. “I met her back in Ponyville, when she was a traveling showmare.” I knew it! I knew she was formally trained. She’s just overacting and hot air. “I didn’t care for the show myself, but a few days after she left Ponyville, she ended up in the hospital. Poor mare had tried to eat a pinecone, of all things.” Thank you, Doctor. I quietly file that away for the next time Trixie gives me that condescending attitude. “It was obvious she’d had a few bad days, and she was mortified when she found the nursing staff gossiping about it. So I made sure they understood it was not to leave the hospital, and helped her get back on her hooves. The least I could do, really.”

“More than most ponies in this city would d-aaah!” He sharply yanks on my ear, jabbing some sort of metal cone down into it to peer inside.

“I still say it was just common decency, but Trixie felt the same way you do, and when the Pavilion came to run me out of business, there she was. She said it was because she didn’t like being in anypony’s debt.” He chuckles, taking a hold of my jaw as he shines a light into each of my eyes, leaving me momentarily dazzled. “The way I see it though, I stood by her when she was down, she stood by me when I was weak, and now we pretty much stand by each other.”

“That’s... good.” That’s wholly inconsistent with her observed behavior, more like. I’d bet bits against wooden nickels she had her own reasons for saving him and made up the whole good-and-pure act so he wouldn't question it. Still, he does seem to know more about her than I do. I bite my lip, giving him a hesitant look as he feels down my ribs. “Is ah...” I trail off, waiting for him to glance up so I can stare down at my hooves. “What is Trixie like?”

He gives me a strange look at that—more intense than I’d expected. Sympathetic. He actually reaches out to put a hoof on my shoulder, giving me a gentle pat. “I’m not supposed to discuss that with you. She wants you to learn in your own time—and I think she’s waiting for the test results too. She’s the sort who refuses to believe good news, because things like that simply don’t happen. But I promise, if you are who you say you are, she’ll take good care of you.” What? Not supposed to discuss what with me? That wasn’t a pitying expression—he doesn't think I’m in danger, but there is something he’s hiding from me. Something big. He doesn't give me a chance to pry though, tapping my neck sharply. “Now roll over so I can draw a blood sample.”

For a second, I consider refusing, matching his eyes as he gazes down at me. No. No, he won’t tell me any more. I suppress the urge to scowl and leave my expression puzzled as I roll over. It’s not long before I feel sharp prick of a needle along my underside, and the faint chill that comes with drawing blood. “So, Doctor, I meant to ask—what exactly am I being tested for? I’m a little unclear on how a blood test confirms my identity.”

“Oh, it’s mostly a precaution against fraud.” Telling me what I already know. Calling it now: he’ll evade the question. “You look like yourself, of course, but between mantles and modern surgical techniques, you can make anypony look like any other. I can’t count the number of criminals who have tried to beat the law by changing themselves into somepony else. Luckily, that all leaves trace indicators in the blood, which we can detect. That’s why I’m drawing your blood before we heal those scars. Don’t want any false positives.” He pulls the needle out, pressing a cloth down over the puncture before it can start to bleed.

“Well, that won’t be a problem. I’ve never had surgery, except once to get my tonsils out.” I’m a little surprised that the answer was so straightforward. Not that I trust he isn’t lying, but it’s not the outright evasion I was expecting. I’m still trying to figure out what to say next when I feel the cold disk of his stethoscope press against my barrel. I didn’t even notice him leaning over.

“When was the last time you slept?” His tone is more businesslike now, like every doctor’s really, and I reflexively answer.

“I napped in your waiting room for a bit.” He pauses to look down at my face as I continue, “Oh, and this morning, I think.”

“You think? You aren't sure?” he asks pointedly.

“Well, yeah. I think it was this morning. I’ve spent a lot of time knocked out between now and then... uh...” And now that I say that aloud, it sounds kind of concerning. “But I saw a doctor about it!” I insist, my tone defensive, like I was a foal making excuses for not doing her chores. “Well. I saw a vet about it.”

Doctor Stable sighs, raising a hoof to rub his temples.

“I’m not in danger, am I?” Have I cracked my skull or something? Why didn’t it occur to me how much I was getting hurt? I think my horn is starting to burn. Maybe they didn’t fix it right. I can feel my heart speeding up—then Doctor Stables shakes his head. He reaches out to put a hoof on my shoulder, light building up in his horn as he casts some spell over me—a dark red wave that seems to sweep from one side of my body to the other. When it’s done, his expression settles into a stern frown, and pushes his glasses up over his muzzle.

“No—but I suspect that the prescription you need is a few days bed rest, and there’s no way Berry or Trixie will let you have it. They’re probably waiting to ship you off to Neptune’s Bounty the second you’re out the door.” He lets out an irritated grunt, considering the vial of blood still floating beside him. “Tell you what. This test takes a few hours to run. Normally I’d let you go and wire the results in, but why don’t we keep you for observation, mmm? I can get the nurses to bring you a pillow.”

“That sounds...” Nice, actually. Very nice. I suddenly notice how heavy my head feels, and Doctor Stable chuckles. “Good, Doctor. Thank you.”

“Of course. We’ll patch up those scars and then give you some time to recover.” He steps out the door, and I swear, I feel ready to fall asleep before he even gets back. He’s not long though, and when he returns, that pegasus nurse is with him—a pillow and blanket tucked under one wing, the other carrying a tray that holds a collection of medicinal-looking vials. The doctor spends a few minutes carefully examining my burns and scars, and consulting with the nurse over things I don’t understand. A few times, I realize they’ve asked me a question, and that I missed it completely, stuck staring off into space. Eventually though, he selects three of the vials from the tray, carefully measuring out some of each with a syringe and mixing them in a small glass the nurse provides.

“Here you go, dear,” the nurse says, her voice sweet as she extends the tray down to me on a wing. “It tastes something awful, so down it in one go. You’ll feel a bit tingly and then a bit sleepy, and by the time you wake up, you’ll be all better.”

“Thank you,” I let out out a relieved breath, almost a sigh, and my eyelids flutter as I levitate the glass up to me. It’s like I don’t feel tired at all, just heavy, dazed, sluggish. Too tired to feel tired—I must be barely functional. A little R and R will do me good, and then I can deal with what’s to come.

The glass touches my lips.

“What’s in this?” It’s strange. I hear myself say it before I realize I’ve said anything, and it’s like I stop the glass in response to my words, instead of before them. Doctor Stable gives me a curious glance, and shrugs.

“A combination of ablative and exfoliative agents paired with classical regenerative compounds in a tincture suspension. It’s all pretty standard.” He looks a bit offended, and I realize how loudly and suspiciously I asked the question. But why shouldn’t I? He’s the one who evaded it.

“Right, but what’s in this? What’s it made from?” I demand, taking a good whiff of the glass. It smells vile. Sludgy. Sweet. Metallic. Coppery. Like a thick brown syrup.

“If you’re concerned about quality control, we produce all of our medications in-house,” he replies, his tone growing curt and his gaze narrowing slightly. “If it’s the poison joke that gets you, don’t worry, it’s well below the addiction threshold. The worst you’ll experience is a mild headache as it—”

He jumps back as the glass hits the floor and shatters into a thousand slivers that jump and skitter across the stone. The liquid inside it is so thick it doesn't even splatter—it just oozes around the broken bottom of the glass, spreading out over the pure-white rock. It’s going to leave a stain, I’m sure, spoiling the perfection of the rock forever. They’ll probably pull up the whole floor to fix it.

“That was unnecessary,” Doctor Stable snaps, his tone restrained, but not so controlled that the anger doesn't seep through. I have better form, and I show exactly as much anger as I want to.

“I’ve decided I like these scars after all. They’ve got real character.” A charming tone and intense glare convey much when paired, and I follow them up with a sharp tap on the table. “Thank you, Doctor.” Dismissing him might be overplaying things, but after a moment, he grits his teeth and turns to go.

“Nurse, clean that up and join me once she’s resting.” He trots out, and the nurse silently sets about sweeping up the glass pieces. We don’t talk, but I levitate some of the smaller shards for her so she won’t have to fumble with them herself. After she’s done, she gives me the pillow and blanket, and leaves.

I turn down the oil lamps, and stretch out on the table, but I don’t really feel like sleeping anymore. That was too close. It was reflex—a doctor put medicine in front of me and told me to drink it, and I almost did. I almost drank... well, I’ve offended him now, but I guess being Trixie’s prize offers me a certain degree of protection.

“Thanks, you pretentious witch,” I murmur to the room, to break the silence. “There must be some way for me to show my gratitude. I know: when Celestia throws you in prison, I’ll see that you’re well cared for. All the pinecones you can eat.” That thought makes me smile, then giggle a bit.

I think that’s okay. I mean, Trixie is a bad pony. She deserves it. There’s nothing wrong with giggling at the thought of a little petty revenge.

My thoughts drift back to earlier. I don’t want to think about that, but it was just a dream. “A very unsubtle dream,” I murmur to myself. “I mean, I’m worried what Princess Celestia will think of me after this. I get it. You really didn’t need to hammer that point home; I already kind of figured. Not that I’m going to drink any of that stuff, and not that Celestia would love me any less if I did, but it’s a pretty understandable concern.” I draw a breath, and when I let it out, it’s shaky. I roll around for a bit, my hoof tapping the examination table under me.

“I mean, it would be nice if I could get some sleep. It’s not like my survival depends on my being alert or anything,” I murmur to the room, the blanket bunching under me as I roll back over. I straighten it out. “So, you know, if you want to let me get to sleep without nightmares, I think it would work out great for everypony involved.”

I can’t get comfortable on this stupid table. It’s enchanted to feel soft, but I can’t actually sink into it like a mattress. I keep squirming and rolling over and curling and uncurling and I can’t get any rest. Finally, I let out an angry sigh.

“This isn’t working. Okay, I need to just... distract myself. Think about something positive to fall asleep to.” Music is the first thing that comes to mind—I always listen to music when I need to fall asleep. I can’t seem to hold a tune in my head though. Even humming doesn't work—it feels like too much effort to keep the song going, and I let it die. I don’t want to think about my friends in Canterlot or Princess Celestia. That’s too much of a reminder of how far away they are.

I guess I can think about Swiftwing. She’s disgusting, but, hey, I still got it, right? All scarred up, burned and bruised, I can still turn heads. I twitch my tail a little. That’s a more pleasant thought. I mean, there are lots of pretty mares in Canterlot, but how many will be able to say that they fought their way out of a sunken nightmare city? I’m not merely attractive, I’m intimidating. Stallions go crazy for that, if you do it right.

I brush my side with my hoof, the side where I still have hair. Yeah, when I get back, I’ll be the idol of Equestria. And while I’d never abuse that, maybe I can use it a little. To flirt with somepony cute. Like that Baron with the fiery red mane and those piercing eyes. That’s a nice thought. I let my hoof trail the rest of the way down my body, turning my head to the pillow as I shift my hips, hiking my tail up.

I have discovered the single most humiliating position in the entire world to fall asleep in.

I don’t even realize I nodded off, until I wake up. My face is pressed into the pillow, and I can tell at once I’ve been drooling—the pillow is wet and my mouth is bone dry. One of my forelegs hangs limply over the edge of the examination table, and the other is still stretched down to rest under my hips. All my weight is on it, and the whole leg has gone numb. My rear legs are a jumble under me, leaving my hindquarters hiked up in the air. Thank goodness for the blanket or I’d have no dignity left at all.

The blanket that’s currently on the floor.

Okay, there’s no need to panic. I don’t know what it is that woke me up. Maybe nopony saw me like this. Slowly, I twist my head to one side, and open my eyes. Dark, other than a sliver of light from under the door. Nopony in the examination room.

I heave a sigh, and slide over onto my side. A sudden feeling of cold races through me when the blood starts to flow through my leg again. I can move it again now, but it’ll be all pins and needles soon; I hate it when my legs fall asleep. My rear legs aren't in much better condition, all sore and twisted from being in that unnatural position for so long. All in all, I feel terrible—stiff, sore, prickly, heavy, and tired. My head is pounding, my mouth is so dry I could cough dust, and I really need to pee.

“Time to get up, Siren.” I don’t wanna. “Time to get up, Siren. Now.” I throw a little commanding kick into the words, and it’s enough to make me roll off the table. I guess my leg was a little more asleep than I thought, because it almost buckles under me when I hit the floor, but after a few stumbling seconds, I’m back on my hooves. I take a second to stretch, draw a breath, get all the kinks out of my joints—it’s like my blood is molasses, and I have to pump it into motion with my legs. Eventually though, I begin to feel at least vaguely like a pony. I turn the oil lamps up first and let my eyes adjust, so that I won’t be blinded when I open the door. Then, I’m off to search for a bathroom.

That goes well, at least. There are a few nurses and staff about, but nopony seems to be paying me much mind, and the layout of this place is straightforward. I find the bathroom and take the chance to clean myself up a bit—you could see the drool on my cheek and one of my eyelids was stuck half shut; I must have looked like I had brain damage. There’s a box of candy bars, or ‘pep bars,’ whatever, behind the nurses station. I guess they’re there for the staff, but I’m hungry, and I munch my way through one as I head back to the examination room, tucking the rest into some of the loops on my belt. Maybe that’s what those are for.

I make it back to the examination room fine, but there’s still nopony else there. I could get a little more sleep, but I feel like I’ve been asleep for a few hours at least, and Berry is probably still in the waiting room. Then again, knowing her, she’d probably wait there until she died if Trixie ordered her to.

It occurs to me that that might literally be true, which makes it a lot less funny. Still, I head back down the hallway towards the waiting room, following the route the nurse led me on by memory. I get lost a few times, but find my way soon enough. When I near the waiting room, I can hear voices inside, and I slow my steps, tip-hoofing up to the door. The sounds of their voices are muffled to the point of incomprehensibility, but that horn on my head isn’t just for keeping my hats straight. A little spell I learned for getting good acoustics in bad rooms, and I can hear them clear as a bell.

“—hardly unprecedented.” That’s Berry’s voice, but the scoff that follows it is Doctor Stable. He sounds irritated. No, frustrated. It’s not the anger from dealing with me, preserved for however long I was asleep, this is new—hot but shallow. Berry is giving him a hard time, maybe? “She can’t have another panic attack between here and Neptune’s Bounty.”

“Then don’t put her in front of an angry marker between here and Neptune’s Bounty,” the doctor shoots back, snide and sharp. “I have no reason to believe she’ll have another episode as long as she isn’t put in mortal danger.”

“She’s emotionally unstable—”

The doctor gives a sharp snort. “I’m going to cut you off right there.” He narrates his own life, apparently. Still, nice to have somepony standing up for me. “There are plenty of doctors in this city who will stuff her full of pills until she wouldn't notice if her own legs fell off, but I’m not one of them. She’s been through several traumatic events in quick succession. Short run, she needs rest and a safe environment. Long run, she’ll probably need therapy. She does not need to be tranquilized to the point that you can send her to Trixie by mail!” I can tell he’s glaring, probably pretty hard too, from how sharp his voice is.

“You could dose her with Temperance or Levelhead.” I feel my ears perk up at that, and my lips twist into a snarl. Are those mantles? Did she just suggest turning me into a fleshy wiredoll like her?

“Mantles are a permanent solution.” That wretched ghoul of a pony! “This is a temporary problem. There is no need for such extreme measures.”

“It’s not permanent if we don’t let her indulge the addiction,” Berry says, matter-of-factly. How dare she even think that? How dare she!?

“She is my patient, Berry, not yours.” Even the doctor sounds offended at the idea, and he is one of those freaks. “You do not get to dictate what is and is not in her best interests. Besides, Trixie wants her in good health, and when she finds out—”

“Trixie trusts my judgement, Doctor.” When I can’t see her, that dead tone makes her even more disturbing—like she really was a ghoul. A corpse brought back to life by alchemy, with no soul at all inside. “My job is to get Siren from here to Neptune’s Bounty without her suffering any permanent harm. That job will be much harder if I cannot take my eyes off her without worrying she’ll suffer an episode.” There’s a pause. “I see you are experiencing anger. That is not a productive emotion. Practically speaking, if you do not prescribe something to calm Siren, I will give her something out of a vending machine. It is therefore in the best interests of your patient for you to comply.”

For a while, the Doctor doesn't answer her. What could he say to that? What can I say to that? I’m not safe. I’m not safe with my own escorts. That’s who's here to save me—a witch, a freak, and a ghoul, all trying to get their hooves on me because they know I’m worth my weight in bits. They’d chop me up and split the pieces if it wouldn't lower my resale value!

“I’ll sell you some Daring Do,” the doctor says, reluctantly. “It has the lowest addiction index of anything that’s likely to help her, and the fewest secondary effects. It’s expensive—very expensive—so you can explain to Trixie why you needed it, and getting her to drink it is your problem. Just don’t do it in my practice.” No, Doctor. No, I don’t think getting me to drink it will be her problem.

Berry says something in response, but I’m already tiphoofing away and down the hall. My chest and barrel feel tight, my legs are tense, but I know what I’m doing. Sun and stars, I’m Princess Celestia’s student! I’m through being led around like some naive little foal too stupid to realize she’s in bad company. I know what I need to do—I need to get to Neptune’s Bounty, and from there back to Equestria. I have some money, food, and my wits. I can get across a city.

I find the lobby quickly enough, but I don’t run. There’s a squad of guards at the front door—real earth pony brutes who could almost look Celestia in the eye. They aren’t exactly the cream of the intellectual crop, but I don’t doubt they can smell a pony who’s afraid of getting caught. Still, they’re there to keep ponies out, not in. I walk like I own the place, tapping the top of the front desk sharply and demanding my jacket back from the attendant. I don’t hurry her, but right now, it’s easy for me to project the sort of smouldering anger that makes her double time it anyway. She fetches it, I slide it back on, and then I’m out the door.

“Okay Siren, priorities,” I mutter to myself as I step back out into the frozen hallway. The hall outside the doctor’s office is long and quiet, with service doors on either side in regular intervals—no shops or apartments though. “First, you need to find a map. The only place you know that would definitely have one is the tram station, which fits, because that’s probably where you want to be anyway.” I think I remember the way back to the market, and from there to the tram, and I adjust my course accordingly, picking up my pace to a canter as soon as I’m out of the guards’ sight.

“Second, you’ll need a safe means of moving through the city. That’s probably the tram—and you should try to take the tram as far as possible—but you may have to make part of the journey on hoof, potentially through dangerous areas.” I fall silent for awhile, the sound of my hooves echoing off the ice and stone. “So you should see if you can find another escort. Maybe a guard you can talk into walking you the rest of the way.” Yeah, that’s the most practical solution.

“Third, you’ll need to make sure Green and Berry don’t catch you.” The head start will help, but there’s not a lot I can do if they find me. Green can hypnotize me, and Berry is an earth pony with far more experience than me—I doubt she’d have much trouble overpowering me. Not a lot I can do about that.

I start giggling to myself at that thought. No. No, there’s not a lot I can do. But there is one thing I can do. I could get her first.

“I could get her first.” My laugh turns to a tremble when I say it. It feels so alien coming out of my mouth—strained and warped and on edge. But saying it feels good. The trembling in my barrel slows, and I draw another, calming breath. “I could get that wretched, broken, ghoul of a pony first.” It’s slower this time, and I’m not trembling anymore. It’s like the feeling’s come to rest in my gut, something instinctual.

Berry has it coming. It’s not like she’s even really a pony anymore. And I could do it. Doesn't matter how strong she is, she’s still an earth pony, and I’m a unicorn! She has to close with me, and I’ll never give her the chance! A knife, a spear, sun and stars, why am I so afraid of her? All I need is a piece of broken glass!

There’s a trash can nearby that hasn’t been emptied recently, made of copper slats. “Buck you!” I scream as I follow my own instruction and send the trashcan flying into the wall. The whole thing comes apart, sending copper slats and trash and debris all over the floor. My heart’s racing, and it feels great.

It takes some straining, but I manage to rip one of the copper sections out. It’s not nearly heavy enough to be a club, and it’s too short to be a spear, but it ends in a lethal-looking barb of jagged metal. I slide it into my belt; it’ll do for now. There’s no solvent or lamp oil in the bin, but I do find a big, solid bottle of spoiled pepper sauce that makes my nose and mouth burn just smelling it. I almost leave it at that, but you know what? I said broken glass, and I meant it. I grab one of the bottles in the pile and smash it against the wall, tucking some of the shards away into my belt pouch. One of the shards is longer and sharper than the others though, with a wicked curve. That one, I tuck down into the hoofboot Green gave me, so it forms a jagged spur, sticking up and out.

“For when you get close, Berry.” My heart’s beating hard now, my breath coming in quick gasps, all my muscles tense. I want to do something: to run and find her right now, to smash up this wretched city, to buck and scream until everypony hears me. I’m wound up like a spring! But no. No. Not yet. When Berry finds me. Save it for her.

Unless Green finds me first.

That feeling of strength in my gut turns into a rock, and the tremor comes back, like somepony was reaching into my chest to grab my heart. Green didn’t do anything to me, not yet. But if she catches me, it’s back to Berry and back to Trixie. They’ll drug me or cart me off or turn me into one of those things. They’ll make me a freak like her. And she is a freak! She’s a freak and a monster and a sadist and a murderer, and just because I didn’t happen to overhear her plotting against me doesn't mean she hasn’t got it coming. I have the pepper sauce. Something for her pretty eyes. I swallow all that doubt and push it out of my mind.

Time to move on.

A few minutes of cantering later, I realize I don’t recognize this hallway. I must have missed the turnoff, and instead of getting brighter and more upscale as I near the market, it’s getting more barren and industrial. The service doors are spaced further apart, marked only with numbers instead of signs, and there’s not a pony to be seen—just a long, frozen hall lit by those pulsing light strips. That’s fine though. This tower isn’t that big, and with all the security at the entrance, it’s not like I’m going to get mugged. The corridor is level, so I’ll eventually find an edge, and then I just have to follow it clockwise back to the tram station.

There are sounds here, coming up through the floor—a regular, pounding rhythm. It’s not like the lights—the lights are irregular, beating about once a second, but never quite. This is the sound of machines, keeping a perfect time, hissing and clanking under the stone. Hearing the two sounds together creates the most maddening vibrations. Sometimes the machines and lights fall together, sometimes one after the other. Sometimes one will beat twice before the other goes at all. My ears keep straining for a pattern that isn’t there, never letting the sound fade into the background.

The corridor seems to go on for some time like that. Maybe it’s the irritating noise and the cold playing with my perception of time, but I don’t think so. Is the tower bigger than I thought? I assumed the marketplace was in the middle of it, since it had that central, radial design, but what if it was near the edge? Or what if I’ve passed through a tunnel or bridge without realizing it and ended up somewhere else entirely? I can’t go back—I’ll only get lost again or run into Berry—but I do keep alert for anything to orient myself: a sign, a junction, an elevator, anything. Nothing like that appears, but I do spot something else up ahead. An open service door, and a pony outside it.

He’s a diminutive creature—so small and slight of build I feel like he’d be swept up into the sky by the slightest breeze. That perception of weakness is made all the stronger by his wispy brown mane and tail, paired with a fading cream coat and wide eyes. He’s bundled up in a fluffy green jacket that probably doubles his size, and under it, I can’t tell if he’s an earth pony or a pegasus. I can tell he’s one of them though, one of those things. He has the same mark Berry does, over his eye—the blue flower that only appears when he blinks. When I find him, he’s sitting back on his flank, a lunch box beside him and a sandwich balanced on his hooves. He pauses when he sees me through, eyes going to my belt, my scars, the glass spur at my hoof. He starts to pack up, glancing quickly to the open door. I don’t think so.

“Hey, you there.” I take three quick steps towards him, and suddenly I’m between him and the door. He’s frozen to the spot, eyes wide and alert, halfway through putting his lunch back in the box.

“I don’t have any money,” he squeaks, eyes flicking between that glass spur and my horn. Naturally, because nothing can go right for me; this city doesn't allow it. “Just my lunch, take it!” he slides the box over to me, flinching away like I’d raised my hoof to strike him.

“You’re not being mugged.” You imbecile. I shove the box back to him. “I need directions to the tram station.”

“Oh... really?” He lowers his hooves back to the ground, but doesn't unfold from his flinch, still leaning away as though anticipating a blow. “Because, I mean uh...” He gestures in my general direction.

Wow, you’ve figured me out. I guess I’m mugging you after all.

“Yeah, I’ve looked better. Long story,” I put a little hint of embarrassment and awkwardness into it, and soon, we both give that stiff, nervous chuckle. He has a terrible voice, squeaky and awkward. His laugh sounds like an out-of-tune accordion, and it grates in my ears. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. I’ve just gotten so lost down here—”

“No no, it’s fine.” He rises back to his hooves. “You’re going the wrong way though. You’re actually right under it, but you’re three floors down—” What? That can’t be right. The corridor was level the whole way. “—and there’s no stairs that take you up this way. This corridor goes straight to the basement of Angel’s Garden; you need to turn around, go back to the first intersection, take a left, and then take the stairwell up.”

Horseapples, there are so many reasons that’s a bad idea: the chance of running into Berry again, the chance of getting lost again, and with that much of a delay, she might figure out where I’m going and beat me to the tram station. I shoot him an uncertain look, biting my lip like I was trying to figure something out. “Um...” I glance at the corridor, then at him, then back and forth. He eats it up, leaning faintly closer as his expression turns concerned. “I’m really sorry, but are you sure there’s no more direct route? I’m kind of in a hurry and I don’t think... uh... you know.”

“Well... there’s the service elevator, but that’s really for staff only, I’d get in a lot of trouble for even letting a resident use it, and you aren’t a... uh...” He stumbles over his own words when I reach out to him, brushing his cheek with a hoof.

“You’ll only get in trouble if you get caught. Please?” This is an old-hat trick for me, and I match my eyes with his on instinct. It’s not until I feel the metal catch his coat that I realize I’ve reached up with the hoof that has Green’s boot on it, and the spur. He goes from tense and excited to tense and alarmed when he feels the sharp edge scape over his coat, and suddenly, it’s less like I’m brushing his cheek and more like I’ve got him by the throat. Think fast, Siren. That’s not good, but it knocks him off guard, and he seems the type who defaults to agreeing with whoever is speaking to him. This could still work. “I need this favor, and I’d be ever so grateful.”

“I don’t uh...” He tries to pull away, but a casual reorientation of my hoof keeps it on his shoulder at least. He’s looking at it, at me, at the floor, and biting his lip uncertainly. “I... guess I could. Just this once.”

“Oh, thank you.” A tolerable recovery, but this is where a master distinguishes herself from a novice. Anypony could have managed that with sheer luck, but I know how to follow it up. A kiss to the forehead would be too much, and too obvious—but a little squeeze of the shoulder and a soft glance reassures him that he’s doing the right thing, even as I keep close to him. Few ponies realize just how much proximity changes a conversation. We feel threatened by those standing too close to us, and without my saying another word, he feels like he owes me and like I might beat the stuffing out of him. Not my most civilized move, but soon we’re trotting through the open service door, side by side.

There’s a short and narrow hallway on the other side, and when we pass through it we emerge into a wide work area. I knew that I’d have to keep quiet so as not to draw undue attention, but this place is so eerily silent that my every hooffall feels like a thunderclap. It’s wide and open—a metal cube really—but it’s full of the strangest things. Big glass boxes of swirling liquid sit mounted atop collections of pipes, like fishtanks on pedestals. Each one is tended by an earth pony and unicorn, the earth pony’s hooves pressed to the side of the box, the unicorn’s horn shining a pale pastel light down into the liquid. It’s the only source of light here, and all the colors of the rainbow ripple over the ceiling and floor. Every tender has that same cutie mark, the blue flower over their eye, and all of their eyes are closed, like they were statues.

“What are they doing?” I whisper, as my guide leads me across the room and to the door on the far side. I’m sure every single pony here heard me; there’s not a sound to hide my voice. None of them react though.

“They’re preparing novative solution,” he answers matter-of-factly. Novative... that means, uh... having the properties of... nove. Yeah. Magic and latin, two of Celestia’s classes I’m wishing I’d paid more attention in. I give him a puzzled look, and he clarifies, “It’s the base that you brew tonics in.”

“Oh. Right.” That little conversation must have marked me as an intruder to everypony here, but not one of them looks up as we make our way across the work floor. There’s a series of doors on the far side, and I realize as we draw close that one of them is an elevator. It’s a bit like the lifts that were broken in Serpent’s Wharf—driven by cogs and cables, and all made of glass so you can see the mechanisms work. There are a few differences though: This one is much bigger and less ornate, made to carry cargo. It’s also up against the edge of the tower, and when we step into it, the glass offers a panoramic view of the city. I leave him to operate the lift controls, and walk up to the glass.

The lift has no lights. I just realized that. There are no oil lamps or glow strips above us. They aren't necessary; the city lights shine into the lift like a sky full of stars. There’s an irony in that—I never actually cared much for the night sky. Princess Luna did her best, but it was always just lights to me. This though... I slide my rear to the floor as the lift begins to move, and hold up two hooves to the glass. They block out the top and bottom of one building, so I can only see a single strip of light. One floor.

I have to wiggle my hooves a bit to keep it in sight as the lift moves, but I can see it clearly. It has big windows and an open space on the other side. Full of... something. Furniture, but a mix of it. About half the lights are on, half are off. I see three ponies there: one sitting at a desk working, one pacing around, one in a room off to the side that looks like a tiny kitchen. The one who’s pacing around is quick and agitated, the one in the kitchen sluggish. They’re working late. Three ponies working late because of some problem: one angry, one trying to get through it, and one looking for coffee. I draw my hooves back so I can see the whole of the building they’re in, dozens of floors glittering all at once. When I put my hooves down, the whole city seems to shine, no longer monolithic, but an impossible hive of motion.

“Um...” my guide mutters behind me. I guess the silence is getting to him, though frankly, I don’t care—it’s like that screeching accordion he has for a voice could crack the glass and bring the whole city crashing down. I was actually enjoying the view until he said something, but with that little mumble, I remember what we’re in the middle of, and it doesn't seem the time to sightsee. Whatever, best keep him in tow.

“Sorry,” I titter, blushing a little. “It gets me every time, you know?” He nods reflexively, which is good enough. He only needs not to raise an alarm; I can manage if he’s lukewarm on me besides. “So how do we get to the tram station from here?”

“It’s outside the employee entrance, right up here.” He nervously scuffs at the ground. “If anyone asks, you’re my sister, and I’m only showing you around, okay?” Yeah, that’ll fool everypony—a real master of deception you are. We’ll say that you drank some bleach when we were foals and never quite recovered.

“Sure thing.” I smile, and he relaxes a little. Soon enough, a little bell rings above us, and the lift door slides open. It’s an office we’re in now, like if the bureaucratic levels of Canterlot Castle were crossed with an alchemist’s lab. Desks covered in paper rest amongst a tangle of pipes, little glass tubes emerging from the mass to drip samples into waiting jars. Busy-looking earth ponies with flasks and pipettes and bunsen burners and stranger marks covering their bodies fill the space, and we press through the tangle to try and make it to the door on the other side. I walk smoothly. There’s no way to make myself blend in here, but I act unafraid of being caught, and smile when ponies notice me. Meanwhile, my idiot guide scampers around like his lunchbox was stuffed full of stolen goods, and it’s a miracle the whole room doesn't jump on him at once. Somehow though, the worst we get is a couple of looks, and then we’re across the space, into another hallway, and angling towards the door at the end.

“Well... here we are,” my guide mutters, reaching up to open the door. I can hear the rattle of a train moving on its tracks above us, the whistle of steam, and the screech of brakes. A tram must be coming into the station. “Um... good luck, I guess—”

“Yeah, thanks.” I shove past him, stepping out into the hall. I don’t know exactly where I am, but the outside of the tower is behind me, and the sound of the tram is coming from my right, so I must be on the opposite side of the tram station from Berry’s apartment. Good, less chance that I’ll run into either of them. I turn to the sound of the train and move down the wide hallway, following the Hearth’s Warming Eve decorations towards the station and the gaudy fake tree waiting there. Sound carries well in this hallway—I can clearly hear the train coming into the station, the hiss of its doors opening. It sounds like there’s quite a crowd this time, a rumble of hoofbeats echoing off the stone.

“Hello, Lieutenant!” Somepony calls ahead of us, loud and clear. I come around a bend, and I’m facing what I think is the rear-end of another security checkpoint. This hallway is narrower than the one Green and I came through before, and so the half-dozen sentries just about block my view completely. I’m pretty sure it’s the tram station on the other side though, and the sentries look alert, their ears pricked up as they spread themselves out to fill the hall. It sounds like whoever is shouting is in the tram station. Maybe a new arrival? “To what do we owe this visit?”

“I am here in pursuit of a fugitive. I wired ahead to speak with your boss and clear things up. I was told I would be expected.” A deeper voice this time—older, masculine, authoritative, his tone formal and a little bit angry. I step up to the sentries in front of me, as close as I can get without pushing through them, peering up and over their shoulders. There must be more than a dozen ponies in the station—a mix of unicorns, earth ponies, and a few pegasi hovering over the crowd. They’re all in black uniforms, stitched with silver. It looks good, and it looks intimidating, a perception aided by the fact that they’re all armed and armored. They have those weird clockwork things on their hooves, helmets with a steel horn spike, and the pegasi have some kind of blades on their wings.

“You are half correct, Lieutenant,” the first voice replies. I can see who it belongs to now: one of the guards at the checkpoint Green and I passed through. That seems to be the way these new arrivals are headed, and they’re facing away from me. I can see the Lieutenant as well, a charcoal pegasus with a stubby blue-silver tail and a mohawk of a mane. He’s not that big, but he projects a lot of authority, even with his back turned to me. “I was informed that you spoke with my superior, however my understanding was that we were to receive a special fifty thousand-bit bounty for our assistance in this matter, and we have yet to be paid.”

“I wired the money ahead,” the lieutenant speaks, his tail lashing back and forth. “I received confirmation that it had arrived.”

“Well then, I suggest you find a new banker, Lieutenant, because we have received no such payment, and I’m not to let you past until we do.” The guard sounds a little too smug, and the sentries in front of me chuckle and nudge each other.

“On behalf of City Central Security, I apologize if there was any error or oversight in this matter,” the Lieutenant says. I can hear that he’s angry, but he’s not letting it openly show. Probably trying to avoid getting drawn into a confrontation. “You have my assurances you will receive the full agreed-upon amount, and if there was any error on our part, compensation for your patience. In the meanwhile though, I have a mission to complete, and it must be seen to promptly.” He tries to shoulder his way past them. It’s a fair attempt—with his presence and all those soldiers behind him, a lot of ponies would have parted and gotten swept away in the current. The guards close ranks though, stopping him on the spot.

“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant.” With everyone so bunched up like that, I can’t see what’s going on so clearly, but the guard at the other checkpoint doesn't sound too unhappy about this outcome. “You’ll have to either get it wired again, or pay it now, but I’m not to let you past until it’s paid.”

“I do not carry fifty thousand bits in cash,” the Lieutenant snaps, his wings fluttering faintly out to either side. “Nor do I have time to return to arrange a second transfer. The fugitive will be leaving Doctor Stable’s at any time, and it is imperative we catch her there.” Oh, horseapples! It’s me! They’re here for me!

I start to crouch down reflexively, to scamper away, but I catch myself. No, that’s wrong. The guard is saying something else, but I’m not listening, running through what to do in my head. No. If I run, I really will be a fugitive, lost in an unfamiliar area swarming with guards. Right now, all the soldiers are facing the other door. If I’m lucky, they’ll pass through it and I can sneak into the train behind them. Good. I quietly rise back up and keep listening.

“—pissing contest between the pavilion and Doctor Stable,” the Lieutenant says, his already curt tone growing sharp. “I appreciate the position you’re in, but my orders come from Rainbow Dash herself. This is for the city.”

“If you really appreciated my position, you’d understand why I can’t let somepony from City Central Security rough up one of the doc’s customers,” the guard answers, unmoved. “If she’s that big a deal, post some sentries. Once she leaves the tower, she’s not our problem.”

“I have done that as well,” the Lieutenant answers. I want to run through another tirade in my head, but I stamp down on that, biting my lip until it hurts. I don’t have time for that kind of self-indulgence, and right now, it seems like my only chance is to get on that train and hope he doesn't have guards posted at every station along its route. “However, this fugitive is too important to leave to chance. Furthermore, your superior did not seem to share these objections when he accepted our payment.”

“We haven't gotten any payment, remember?” the guard answers, and the smug contempt in his voice is getting more obvious. “I’d say you’re outta luck, Lieutenant.”

“Are you presuming to cheat City Central Security?” the Lieutenant demands, but I can tell he’s not going to get anywhere. Not with this stallion.

“You thinking to start something, Lieutenant?” I bet he’s grinning. He sounds like he’s spoiling for a fight. “You know there’s a good eighty guards in this building, not counting all the wiredolls and traps. Against your, what? Twenty goons in your fancy uniforms? You think you’re going to rough us up to fix our attitudes? We’ll send you back to Rarity in a box!” There’s a tense silence for a moment, but the Lieutenant shakes his head.

“I do not work for Rarity. I am an officer in this city’s security forces, and I serve the Element of Loyalty.” He says it with pride. Strong pride, and angry. “Furthermore, I do not ‘rough ponies up’ because I do not like their attitude. The building is surrounded, and after I catch this fugitive, I will return to discuss your unlawful actions.” He turns to leave, walking back towards the train, and his soldiers take the hint.

“That’s right. Run back to your marefriend,” the guard taunts the Lieutenant’s retreating tail, but he keeps walking, moving across the ice towards the train. “Or, are the rumors true?” The Lieutenant presses on, steadfastly ignoring the jabs behind him. “I mean, she’s awful quick to come running when Rarity needs help, and I’ve never seen either of them with a stallion. I guess that assertive tomboy act is just for the public, right?” The Lieutenant’s hoof hits the stone, and he stops. “In private, I hear she knows who's boss.” The Lieutenant doesn't say anything for a moment, his soldiers drawing together in little groups, the pegasi hovering nearby. The sentries in front of me are tense. They aren’t jostling each other now—they’ve gone still, heads craned forward, ears up and alert. This wasn’t part of the plan.

“Rainbow Dash is a hero in every sense of the word,” the Lieutenant finally speaks, turning back to the guard behind him. Something’s changed, now. “She was saving Equestria before you were born, and she’s saved Vision more times than I can count. You owe her your life and your respect.”

“I owe her my job, more like.” The guard sneers, comfortable in the protection of his fellows. “We wouldn't need near as much private security if she wasn’t Rarity’s favorite saddle.”

“I don’t like you,” the Lieutenant nods, tapping a hoof twice on the floor. “And it would give me a great deal of pleasure to give you the beating you’re clearly asking for. But I am an officer of the law. Which means I don’t get to rough up ponies because I don’t like them.” He lets out a hiss of breath, and I can see the tension flow out of the sentries in front of me. That was close.

“Instead, I find them guilty of sedition. And then I hang them.”

A snap, a scream. Oh, horseapples—novice mistake. I was watching the monologue and not the goons! It’s the mouthy guard—one of the unicorn soldiers has him with some kind of lasso, dragging him across the floor. The rope’s glowing. I think it’s enchanted—they’re actually going to hang him! The sentries around me freeze to the spot, tense and uncertain, and then one of them’s shouting, “Save him, save him!” Then, the group leaps into action, charging forwards.

I don’t know what to do. Do I run? Fight? If the guards win, I’m out of here! I can hear spellcasting, a crackle of lightning, and suddenly one of the sentries tumbles to the stone, his legs spasming under him, tripping one of his fellows and sending them both to the ground in a pile. The others charge on without them, leaping into the confused melee. The one who was tripped scrambles to his hooves, but the one who fell starts to convulse—something’s wrong with him.

The standing guard looks back and forth, at the ceiling, at me. He’s an earth pony, brown hair. There’s motion above him, two of the pegasi soldiers, both mares. One drops in front of him, flexing her ankles, and knives pop out of those clockwork things they have on their hooves. He rears up to strike at her, but he can only attack on two legs, and she just floats around him, her weapons stabbing forward whenever he drops to all fours. He bunches his legs and leaps for her, like he could grab her before she moves, but that’s the trap. The second pegasus soldier goes for the twitching guard once his defender is away, and stabs those knives down into his neck. The earth pony guard turns, yells something, rushes to his friend. But then there’s a loud snap, and one of those glowing cords is around his neck, the first pegasus lifting him up off the ground and into the sky.

My eyes follow them up into the air. It’s like the pegasi are dancing, weaving in tight arcs through the station—six flyers all twisting around each other. One of the guards passes one of the soldiers at high speed, and suddenly the guard is twisting, falling. He hits the floor maybe five paces from me, crimson splatting over the white stone from the two deep cuts in his wings. He’s shaking, still alive, but that’s a lot of blood under him. Too much blood.

There are guards coming now, from the battle, going the other way. One of them gallops past me, screaming something about a door. Another stops to try to help the downed pegasus, hefting him up onto her shoulders, but something tears in his wing. Suddenly, she’s covered in blood as he begins to violently shudder, a seizure gripping him as she tries to pull him away from the room. There’s a bright red flash, a rush of heat, and she’s on fire. Oh Celestia, she’s burning! Her friend crashes to the ground, and she tramples over him as she gallops screaming towards the nearest snowbank. My heart is racing inside my chest, all my legs are frozen—I need to get out of here but I can’t move!

“Lieutenant!” One of the pegasi shouts, bellowing so loud I can hear him over the battle. “The fugitive!” I look up. He’s pointing. He’s pointing at me.

I run.

I don’t know where I’m going—I just gallop as long as there’s hallway ahead of me. I don’t know if they’re behind me; I can’t hear anything except my own breath and my heart pounding in my ears and a deafening alarm klaxon that seems to come from all directions. I need to go, I need to go! There’s a corner up ahead where the hall turns away from the battle! I can get there and—

Something wraps around my legs. I can feel it, a length of cord, twisting and stretching, and then two weights slam into my sides, and I go flying. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and my vision swims, but I can feel a tug at my ankles. A lasso—I’m tethered! The rope goes tight, and stretches as they pull, and then I’m sliding across the floor, back to the station. My mane snags on a chip on the floor, but I don’t even feel pain when the hairs are ripped out of my neck. I look down, past my legs and my hooves and the rope that binds them up. I want to struggle, but I’ll never get out in time! There’s one of those security doors, half closed, two earth ponies holding it open and a pegasus pulling the rope. I start casting. Every spell I know—every petty trick Celestia managed to teach me when she still thought I could be a wizard—light spells and sound spells and conjured pies and my pathetic little magic bolt. Nothing, nothing! My breath comes faster, I’ve got to get out of the ropes. I’m struggling, but I can’t move and I’m at the door and the pegasus is grabbing me to pull me through. One of the earth ponies holding the door open. I twist my spine around, hauling myself up.

I headbutt him.

I don’t see what happens, I just feel it, hear it, a collection of disconnected sensations. The shock of impact runs down my neck. The door mechanism whines. The pegasus drops me. I hit the ground and roll. Metal screeches. The floor shakes.

I struggle with the ropes, sure that somepony is going to grab me any second. The cord tangles tighter and tighter, and I scream as loud as I can. I’m stuck! I’m stuck and I can’t get out! I rip one of the glass shards out of my belt pack and saw at the rope. The glass piece shatters and I grab another, almost beating my collection of shards against the rope. I saw until the rope snaps and I can leap to my hooves, sucking down deep lungfuls of air. I can still smell it—fire, sulfur, burning flesh. I can’t get the smell out of my nose. I know that smell. I’m burned. They hit me and I’m burning up, I just know it, but I can’t find the strength to move. All I can do is stand there, feeling my heart race, my legs shuddering under me.

I taste copper. Why does that seem so important?

Copper and something else. Sugar? That’s not it. It’s sweet, but it’s a nasty taste, cloying and thick. I run my tongue along my lips, and the taste is strong there. There’s something all over my face. Something warm and sticky. I reach up and run a hoof over my muzzle.

It comes back covered in blood.

Time slows to a crawl. My breathing is loud all of a sudden, the pounding of my heart distant and rumbling, like thunder. My hoof is covered in blood. A drop of it is running up my ankle. And my hoof was on my face. I reach up and touch my cheeks. Mostly dry. I think I actually left a sticky hoofprint there. Then up, wetter, but already starting to dry and congeal. My forehead. My horn.

The door shakes. Sparks fly off the crystal in the center. I just look at it. That’s important for some reason, it... I know that’s important. The gear in the center begins to turn—slowly, but it’s turning, dragging those thick bolts out of place. I hear a few loud thumps, a muffled shout. Metal grinds, and the door slides up an inch. I can hear voices now. But they don’t make sense. The words are all jumbled.

There’s a smell drifting in from under the door. Ponies burning.

Suddenly, it’s like all that lost time comes back to me with a vengeance. My heart seems to race, the seconds come too fast. They’re going to find me! They’re going to find me and burn me to death! I scream at the top of my lungs, and then I’m running. I gallop as fast as my legs will carry me, the hallway twisting around me as I barrel through it. Doors. Nothing but locked doors all around me! All I can do is run and hope they aren't behind me, but they are. They’re right behind me and they’re always behind me and they’re going to find me. Dark and corridors and mutants and fire. Oh, please no. Please no!

My hoof hits a patch of ice, and the next thing I know, I’m on my side—my vision swimming, my ears ringing. It’s happening again. It’s all happening again the way it did before, only now I’m going to die and they’re going to kill and rape me like Trixie said and I should never have left Berry! I have to go, I have to go! I force myself to stand, to get up. The corridor is moving, shifting in front of me, and there are things in it now. Like wiredolls, but they aren’t on stands, and they’re a lot bigger. Four faceless ponies with steel instead of skin and glass instead of eyes, each one with a glowing crystal where their cutie mark should be. I run past them, trying to keep on my hooves.

I come out somewhere. I don’t know. I look left and right to get my bearings, but the room starts spinning, and I almost fall over then and there. It was a room though. A big room, lots of tunnels leading out of it. I can’t stay here. One of the tunnels was wider than the others, familiar, and I take it, galloping as hard as I can. My lungs are burning, legs aching, every part of me covered in sweat as I gasp for air. I can hear fighting behind me, lightning, they’re here! I burst out of the tunnel, a wide room, tables, stores, Hearth’s Warming Eve decorations. The market!

“Swiftwing!” I bolt for the store, for cover, for someplace to hide. It’s blocked though—there are metal bars that cover the doors and windows so I can’t get in. All the shops have them so I can’t get in! “Swiftwing, please, come to the door!” I hear motion. The store is dark, but I see her outline in the window, the gleam of her eyes. “Swiftwing! Please let me in!”

“Well, you look like you’ve had better days,” she glowers down at me, cold and angry. Oh no.

“Swiftwing... no, please. I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry I was so nasty to you. Let me in.” My voice wavers, something seizes in my throat, and my vision blurs. Am I concussed again? My head hurts so much. “Please let me in.”

“Oh yeah. Now you’re sorry. Why do I feel that’s less than sincere?” I can barely see her but I can hear her scoff.

“No, Swiftwing, please. I’m sorry, I know I was awful to you, but don’t let it end like this!” I’m begging on my knees now, but she just turns, walking away into the back of the shop and out of sight. I grab the bars, tugging on them for all I’m worth, but they don’t budge. “Please. I don’t want to die.”

There’s a loud buzzing, a drone, like the wiredolls, and suddenly the bars are sliding up and out of my hooves. The door to the front of the shop unlocks, and I dive through it, kicking it shut behind me. I hear it slam closed, the latch clicks, and the bars slide back down over it outside. It’s dark here, but Swiftwing’s outline is behind the countertop. “Don’t stand near the window, they’ll see you. Get in the back.” She points, and I hurry through the dark interior. A table cracks into my side, but I keep going. I need to go.

The back is... like a kitchen. The lights are on. It has a sink, and a stove, and an oven, but there’s no real space to prepare anything—only stacks of boxes, and a little door to a bathroom. I slam the door to the front shut, and it has a bolt, so I bolt that too, and then I stop. I stop and listen for them. For the sound of them bending the bars and breaking the windows and setting the restaurant on fire.

“Rider’s ghost,” Swiftwing mutters, but I’m not paying her any mind. I’m pressing my ear to the door, listening for them. But I don’t hear them. I hear her and me and my breathing and my pounding heart, and the muffled sound of the alarm klaxon.

I just... I just need a second to catch my breath. I need a second.

My neck hurts first—where my mane was ripped out. The pain I forgot about. Then my lungs—they’re burning. My breaths come faster and faster but I can never get enough air. Then my side where I was dragged over the rough stone and sharp ice, the cuts, the scrapes, my head where I hit the floor. And then my legs. It starts as a burning in my ankles, working its way up, growing as it goes until I’m shaking uncontrollably. I try to lie down, but I don’t make it all the way, and I collapse onto the floor. All my muscles are burning, hotter and hotter, spots appearing in my vision. I try to scream.

But all I do is wheeze.

White Wash

“I found more alcohol swabs,” Swiftwing says, and when she offers me the box balanced on her wing, I take it. It’s not much—a little bin full of cotton balls with a bottle of rubbing alcohol tucked into the side—but it seems clean enough. The bathroom sink is already full of bloody rags and cotton from the first aid kit resting on top of the toilet, and when I look into the mirror, I can still see flecks of red in my coat. I sweep the cotton out of the sink and chuck it into the bin, wringing out the cloths so I can use them again later. The fabric was white when I started, but now it’s a dark pink that runs red when I twist it. I leave it hanging on a towel rack to dry.

“Thanks,” I mutter, uncorking the bottle and pressing one of the cotton balls to its mouth. A quick twist soaks the cotton without wasting any of the fluid inside, and I wince as I levitate it up to my forehead. I don’t even know how I got that cut. I guess he must have had a knife or something where I headbutted him. It feels like lightning is shooting through my forehead, and for a second, the glow around the cotten flickers as I struggle to hold it. I power through it though, clamping my teeth together and dragging the swab over the cut. The pain won’t kill me, but an infection might, and soon enough, the cut is clean and clotted. I toss the swab into the bin, turning to start on the cuts along my side.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Swiftwing asks for the third time. I glance up from my work and realize she’s standing in the doorway, watching me clean my injuries as she shifts awkwardly from hoof to hoof. Her face is flat, but her eyes are a little bit wide, and her ears are up and alert. There are probably some subtleties in how she’s holding her wings too, but I think I get the gist, and go back to what I’m doing.

“That depends. Can you catch poison joke from an open wound?” The cuts in my side don’t seem that bad. They sure bled enough to give me a scare, but now that I’ve washed the blood away, I can see that they aren’t that deep, and they seem to have stopped bleeding on their own. I should still clean them up and bandage them, but I’ll be fine. They might not even scar, I guess.

“It’s not a disease,” she replies, a little sharp, maybe. She doesn’t follow up on that anger though, and her tone quickly softens. “I mean, you could catch cutie pox from marker blood, I guess, but I’ve never heard of that happening.”

“Then I’m probably fine,” I say as I levitate the razor out of the first aid kit. It’s a good kit at least, even if it is small. I’m pretty sure the shaving cream is an antiseptic and a painkiller. It stings when I rub it into my coat around the cuts, but the stinging stops soon enough, and I don’t feel any pain when I start shaving away the hair. A muffled crash comes up through the floor, and the bathroom trembles very slightly. I guess they’re still at it.

“That cut on your forehead looks like it might need stitches,” Swiftwing says, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see her pointing with a hoof. I shrug.

“Do you know how to sew wounds?” I ask, and of course, she shakes her head. “Well, I don’t either. So let's hope you’re wrong.” That keeps her quiet for a bit, and she watches as I work. Scrape, scrape, wash the razor off in the sink, antiseptic cream, scrape, scrape, repeat.

“Do you need any help with that?” She breaks the silence after what feels like five minutes at least. “I know you’re a unicorn, but that still seems awkward.” She knows I’m a unicorn? It takes me a second to piece together what she means—of course, she would have to do this with her mouth.

“No. I’m almost done,” I answer with a little shake of my head. I only need to take enough off so that the bandages will stay on. A minute more, and I shift to do the cut on my forehead. A minute after that, I toss the razor into the sink, taking the pink cloth off the stand to wash away the cream. Get some bandages, press down on the wounds, stick them in place, and done.

I should clean up. I’ve made a mess of the bathroom. Put everything I haven’t used back in the kit, clean up the swabs, wring out the cloth.

“You look... uh. You look better,” Swiftwing fumbles out, still standing in the doorway. I don’t glance back at her—I know her body language hasn’t changed.

“Oh yeah, dazzling. Mares dig scars, right?” I don’t know where that came from. I should... sigh or something, show her I didn’t mean it, but I only stare at her. I just spoke without thinking. She doesn't answer. There are more sounds from outside—distant screaming and the crackle of lightning. “I’m sorry. That was—”

“Yeah,” she says, the word clipped, and she turns away to walk back into the kitchen.

I finish cleaning up the bathroom. I guess it strikes me as odd that I’m not freaking out. I don’t think I’m in shock, or at least it doesn’t feel like it did when I was lying on the wharf or running away from Green. The first time, I couldn't think anything at all, and the second time, all I could think about was the blood. Now I feel numb. Not really numb—my legs and cuts still hurt—but like my thoughts are echoing out of a deep well, if that makes any sense. Maybe I’m tired.

She’s waiting in the kitchen when I step back out, sitting on her haunches by the stove, glancing around at nothing in particular. She doesn’t say anything. My belt is right where I left it on the countertop, and I quickly secure it around my barrel, even if it does irritate the new cuts. It’s funny—a month ago, the idea of wearing clothes or saddlebags every day would have struck me as vain and uncomfortable. Now though, I feel somehow safer with this, like it was armor instead of cloth and straps.

“Thank you, for everything,” I speak first, and after a second, I open up one of the pouches on my belt. I have no idea how much a first aid kit costs here, but I count out five of the ten-bit tokens and leave them on the countertop. “I’m sorry I can’t do more, and I’m sorry I was so nasty to you earlier.” She doesn’t answer. I fold my ears back, tilt my head down, and lower my tail a bit. It’s not my best performance, but contrition is mostly in the tone anyway. “I’ve had kind of a bad day.”

“I picked up on that,” she says, reaching up to scratch the back of her head. There doesn’t seem to be much else to say. I don’t need her to do anything other than what she’s already done, and she doesn’t seem to want to talk, so we stand there. I can hear some thumping in the distance, I think, and the pulsing of the lights. When it gets quiet enough, I start to hear my own breathing. Of course, not wanting to talk isn’t the same thing as wanting silence, so it doesn’t take her long to pipe up again. “You were pretty bad off when you came in. I thought you were about to die on my floor.”

“That makes two of us,” I answer, even if it’s not exactly true. “But I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. And then it’s quiet again.

“Ah.” This time, it’s me who says something to break the quiet. I don’t feel well at all. It’s all too much at once. Something else to focus on will do me good—a little trace of normalcy. I force my voice into something like casual and lift my head, looking around the little space we’re in. “How do you cook anything here? There’s barely any counter space, no cabinets, no tools, no trash disposal.” That felt nice to ask, and I swallow a bit, trying to get back into the swing of things.

“Oh, I don’t.” Swiftwing shakes her head. “I just heat things up. All the food is prepared when it arrives, in those boxes there.” She points to the pile of little metal containers that occupies nearly the entire wall, and I lean over to examine one.

It’s small—about three hooves across maybe—with a latch, but not a lock. A plain white label reads Cinnamon Apples A3, and when I crack the top open to peek inside, I see that it’s full of apple slices dusted with cinnamon and suger. They smell good, like the apple was freshly cut, but these boxes are covered in dust. “Don’t they go bad or turn brown?”

“Produce from New Apples Acres never goes bad,” she says, plainly enough. Her tone is almost bored, going through the motions of a conversation. Unremarkable.

“Are the boxes enchanted?” I turn the box over, but I don’t see any gems or enchantable surfaces on it.

“No, the fruit just never goes bad. It’s a special breed or something.” Swiftwing gives a little shrug.

“That’s unnatural,” I answer, and it comes out a little harsher than I meant. It is, though. Not even the ponies in Celestia’s own kitchens can delay spoiling indefinitely.

“It’s better,” she snaps back, and while her voice doesn’t rise much, I can hear her bristle. It’s okay though; I can defuse this situation. All I need to do is agree with her, apologize for being rude, and explain I’m a bit of a traditionalist. I know what I need to say.

“Tell yourself that to make it feel okay, do you?” That wasn’t it.

“You’re something else, you know that?” Her voice drops, but her tone hardens, her jaw set as she stares me down. “After you were a toxic, spiteful shrew to me, I saved your life because I took pity on you. And now you have the gall to come in here and condescend to me, all high and mighty.”

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer as I try to recover the conversation. There was no need to say that, she just got to me for a second there. “I didn’t mean—”

“Ponyfeathers you didn’t mean it,” she snaps, her voice rising. “Your closet is bigger than this? My apartment is smaller than this, you harpy.” A sharp snort escapes her, and she glares. “I don’t get you. Do you hate everypony, or did I do something to you to deserve this?”

“You—” You decided to become one of them for the glamour of it, you disgusting coward. That’s what I want to say. That’s what I feel in my throat when it tightens, my chest when it goes tense. I want to go off on this pathetic nothing of a pony. Her self-esteem is like glass. I could rip out her heart and crush it in front of her with one good cold rant. I know I could, and Celestia forgive me, right now I want to.

I take a deep breath and let it out.

The Princess can forgive me later—for the time being, she raised me better than that.

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and sometimes when I’m having a bad day I take it out on the ponies around me,” I say with a weary little sigh, slumping my shoulders appropriately. Contrite isn’t the right tone for this; I undercut that option by using it earlier and then snapping at her. Instead, I go for worn down, beaten, and it’s barely above a whisper that I continue, “It’s petty and selfish, and I am sorry, Swiftwing.”

She turns away, her ears folded back and a sharp frown on her face. “Whatever,” she mutters. “I’m not going to kick you out over it, so just...”

“Sit here and try not to make a mule of myself?” I offer her a weak smile, and she offers a weak laugh in trade.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and her ears perk up a little. “That.”

Things get quiet, but they’re not as awkward as they were before. I start to calm down, or at least, stop feeling so twitchy. I realize it’s gotten quiet outside too. Well, not quiet quiet—the alarm is still going off—but there are no sounds of fighting anymore. Perhaps the guards have retaken the train station. Then again, perhaps the soldiers have advanced so far into the tower we can’t hear the battle any longer.

“Do you know what’s got them so riled up?” Swiftwing asks, peering at the closed door to the restaurant front. “The fighting doesn’t usually last this long.”

“Usually?” My head perks up, and she turns back to me. “This happens often enough to have a ‘usually’?”

“Every few months I guess?” she answers, superficially calm, but there’s a little hint of unease in her eyes. “Some hot-shot in security thinks he’s going to be the one to finally bring Rainbow Dash the doc’s head, or some featherbrain here thinks that being a resident means he can taunt City Central. Only a scuffle though, usually—some ponies get black eyes or a broken leg and that’s it. It sounds like a real knock-down brawl this time.”

“Nah, nothing special. Some idiot again,” I say, and it’s not exactly a lie. “I was in the train station when it started. One of the guards there decided to imply that Rainbow Dash and Rarity were... you know.” I clap my hooves together. I mean, I guess she does know, fillyfooler and all that.

“Suicide, then?” she asks. I don’t get it. He didn’t kill himself—the soldiers killed him. I give her a puzzled glance—tilting my head to one side—and she makes vague circling gesture with a hoof.

“Suicide by cop,” she elaborates. “You know, like going into a public space and shouting that Rainbow Dash can kiss your flank or that Celestia wasn’t so bad.”

“Oh.” Because guards here can kill ponies for saying the wrong thing. “Suicide by cop. I get it. That’s... clever.” Laughing makes me feel a little better about how screwed up that is, I guess? Even if it is more of a nervous giggle than a real laugh.

“It’s just something ponies say.” She shrugs. Outside, the alarm klaxon fades away, and there is genuine quiet. Swiftwing lets out a sigh, shaking out her wings and ruffling her feathers. It’s a funny gesture, something between a stretch and a shiver, but then again, pegasus wing-expressions are usually complicated. “Oh, good,” she says, the relief in her tone mirroring her body language from a moment ago. “We should give it a few minutes to be safe, but that—”

“Citizens of Vision, take heed!” Though the Lieutenant's voice is no louder than the klaxon was a moment ago, it feels so much closer—it booms, it rattles the door, it drips authority and strength. I know he’s not here, he’s not. I’m a singer and an actress—I can hear the difference between somepony projecting their voice in person and doing it over a distance through magic. Somepony needs to tell my subconscious that though, because I sink down and reflexively try to look smaller. “I am Lieutenant Thunderlane of City Central Security. If you were not already aware, I regret to inform you that a misunderstanding earlier this evening resulted in an altercation between city security and your own private guards. You may be at ease in the knowledge that this matter has been resolved, and normal operations have been restored throughout Tiara Tower. While this incident was both regrettable and entirely avoidable, and steps will be taken moving forward in light of these mistakes, we may take some comfort in the knowledge that no security officers were killed. On behalf of City Central Security, I apologize for any disruption this may have caused to your day.”

He pauses to let it sink in. His tone is all authority and control and classic commanding-stallion intonations, but there’s no way that little undertone of menace was accidental. “Normal operations,” but he’s the one addressing us instead of some local officer or mayor. Reassuring us that no members of his force were killed. Steps will be taken moving forward. You don’t grow up in a palace without learning to read between the lines when politicians talk.

“I address you now to bring to your attention a matter of grave importance. A fugitive from the law has taken shelter in your tower, and it is imperative that she be captured as soon as possible,” he belts out the words, and I realize I’m in trouble. I check Swiftwing, but she’s staring off into space as she listens. She hasn’t put two and two together yet.

“This fugitive, operating under the name ‘Siren Song’—” thank Celestia I didn’t tell her my name “—is wanted on charges of murder, arson, inciting rebellion, and treason against the city and its citizens. I remind you all that while the city forgives you for offenses committed against it in ignorance, knowingly sheltering a traitor is treason and will be punished as such. The bounty for this fugitive or any information leading to her capture is set at ten thousand bits.” Okay. Okay. This is bad, but it could be worse. She doesn’t know my name. When she asks, I’ll make something up, and then be on my way.

“Fugitive is described as a pink unicorn with pronounced scarring down her right side—” Ah horseapples.

Swiftwing whirls in place to face me, springing to her hooves as I do the same. She’s tense, alert, legs spaced apart, wings flared up—instinct and adrenaline driving her eyes back and forth to take in the room around us. Blood pounds in my ears and my throat tightens, but I rip my little metal spear from its strap on my belt, holding it up to her point first. The lieutenant is still talking, but neither of us is listening.

“I can’t believe I saved you, you backstabbing trash!” she shouts, but when she takes a step towards me, a sharp jab with the spear drives her scrambling back.

“Ten thousand bits aren’t worth your life, Swiftwing!” Quickly, I reach back with a hoof to pull open the door to the front of the restaurant. Our eyes are locked together, hers and mine. There’s no talking her out of this now—not with all that anger and all those debts. The second I turn away, she’ll attack, I’m sure of it. For now though, she’s still on the ground, and that throws away her biggest advantage. One step at a time, I back away, out of the kitchen and into the darkened front room. She follows me, step for step, her eyes on mine, until I feel my tail brush something behind me. She’s fixed on me, eyes zipping back and forth over my face. She doesn’t move though. Why not? Around us, Lieutenant Thunderlane is still talking, droning his way through my physical description. Is she listening to him talk? What is she waiting for?

For me to realize I don’t know how to lift the bars.

“The bars!” I snap, waving the spear at her in what I hope is a threatening manner, putting as much anger as I can into my voice. I’m a dangerous fugitive, as far as she knows! She better do as I say or else. “How do the bars go up?”

“There’s a box under the counter with two gems on it,” she points to a space behind me, and even if her voice trembles, she doesn’t stop staring me down. “Blue one lowers the bars, the red one raises them.” Waiting for me to turn around to use them, are we, Swiftwing? I jab at her with the spear again, and she stumbles back into the kitchen in time for me to reach out with my magic and pull the door shut. Light floods into the room as my horn shines, and when I turn around, I see the the box right where Swiftwing pointed—a little metal thing attached to the counter’s underside, two small square gems inside it. I haven’t got long, so I jam the red one as hard as I can, turning to—

Outside, the alarm klaxon sounds again, joined by a loud whine. The red gem pulses in time with the alarm, the light strips in the room flashing a bright crimson.

I am the dumbest pony to ever live.

The blue crystal. I jam it down with a hoof, hitting it again and again until the box shears off the underside of the counter. I don’t hear the bars move, but when I look up, the door is open and light is coming in the windows again. My first leap takes me up onto the counter, my next takes me halfway across the room, and then I’m galloping out the open door, back into the market. Cold hits me like a brick wall, reminding me that I left my jacket inside with every freezing gust that washes over me. It finds its way inside the bandages, and by the time I’m halfway across the market, my cuts are the only part of my face that doesn’t feel numb. There’s no time for that though—the alarm is still going off. I pick a hall at random, and I run as hard as I can.

“There she is!” Swiftwing’s voice calls after me, echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling. “That’s her, right there!” That wretched, pathetic, lying freak! She deserved everything I said, she—

My breath catches in my throat. Who is she shouting to?

There are hoofbeats behind me.

I put on a burst of speed, stretching my hooves forwards so they catch the stone, and a sharp tug of my legs sends me hurtling down the hall. My muscles surge with pain, but I grit my teeth and bear it, leaping ahead as hard as I can with every step. I’m braced for the pain to get worse, but it fades instead, and everything else fades with it. There’s no throbbing in my muscles, no burning in my lungs, no shock of acceleration. I’m not even galloping, I’m flying across the stone. I slip on the ice, but there’s not even any fear, only motion, and then I land on my hooves and speed ahead, like it was all on purpose. The hallway is twisting around me, bending and blurring as I keep in the center, watch where I’m running, watch for guards or doors ahead of me. I need to keep going, need to find a way to duck them and hide until—

Dead end.

It doesn’t taper off, there’s no warning, I turn a corner and suddenly there’s wall where there should be hallway. I try to come to a stop, but I’m moving too fast, and my legs tangle under me. For one, brief, peaceful second I really am flying. I’m soaring through the air in a smooth arc, the wind rushing around me and my legs finally relaxing as they no longer have to hold my weight. Then I hit the ground. It all comes to me then: the burning in my legs, the bite of the cold, the cuts that have been torn open, the bruises all up and down my torso, the froth that comes out when I desperately suck down air, and the sweat dripping off my body. I clench my teeth and try to force myself up, but my legs won’t cooperate. I put weight on them, and before I can stop myself, I scream. Fire rips through my joints, and I crumple back to the ground. It’s all I can do to sit up, try to see some way, any way out.

There’s only two of them, but it might as well be a million for all it matters. Wiredolls. Sexless things with muscles that don’t tire and skin made of steel, standing half a head above me. Buzzing, clicking, clattering like machines, but they aren’t machines. Machines do not think, they do not see, they do not crouch and prowl like predators, seek me through those glass eyes. They aren’t even moving at a gallop. At a trot, they’re faster than me, all graceful and tireless motion, glittering every time the lights pulse. They could have caught me anytime; they just wanted to let me run myself to exhaustion.

That’s it. It’s over.

They slow to a walk, moving up side by side, evenly spaced so they have the whole corridor covered. I can see... there’s... on their forelegs. Cables all bound up with weights and winch. From the station, the metal figures hanging the shoplifter. At least it looked quick.

My chest is trembling, and... and it seems stupid, but I stand up. I take it slow and grit my teeth though the pain, and then I stand up in front of them. I can’t... I can’t move right now. I can’t get away, but it seems wrong to die curled up and whimpering on the floor. Okay, okay, I’m up. That’s good. That’s good. They’re moving towards me, on either side.

I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see it coming.

I never really thought a lot about what happens to us when we die. Princess Celestia always told me to worry about living a good life first, and I guess I thought that meant... I don’t know. Meant something. My throat is getting tight, and my eyes are burning. I want it to mean something! They’re closer now. Ice crunching under metal. This is it. Last thoughts. Well, I mean, my last thoughts are probably going to be “oh I’m falling” snap, but, last thoughts that mean anything. Should I say I’m sorry? That I wish I’d done it all differently? I could have been a better pony, I know I could have. I could have been braver and stronger and kinder, and I wish I had been. I should end it with something noble like that, but all I can think is that I want to live.

Please, Princess.

Please.

“Sir, I have lost sight of the target,” a stallion says, the wiredoll distorting his voice. What? No. What? I open my eyes, but all I can see is a blur, and it takes me a second to blink the tears away.

“No, total dead end. No cover.” A mare’s voice this time, out of the second doll. “We do know she’s not a teleporter, right?”

I have to shake my head, the last of the tears running down my face, but I can see the wiredolls now. They’re right in front of me, less than four paces away, but they’ve stopped. They’re staring right at me... no. They’re looking right past me, searching the room left and right, peering up at the ceiling like I was a pegasus, but their heads don’t even pause when their gaze moves over me. I reach out. I wave a hoof in front of the left doll, right in front of its eyes.

Nothing.

“I don’t know,” the mare says, out of the left doll. “Maybe she has Target Dummy or something? I hear the new one can spoof the dolls.” A pause. She’s listening to somepony I can’t hear. “Right, got it.”

Then they’re turning around. Walking away.

What just happened?

I... I guess I stand there for a while, trying to piece it all together. There’s some part of my mind that insists that it’s all a trick, that they’re going to jump back around the corner and grab me. There’s also a part of me that wants to think that cause follows effect—that Celestia can hear me, somehow, and that she reached out across the world to save me. That... that thought keeps me busy for awhile.

They’re foalish thoughts though. One is pointlessly fearful, the other pointlessly hopeful, and they’re both based in emotion rather than reason. It’s not a trick—their reactions were too genuine. I can tell that much even through the dolls. They couldn't see me, and they’re still searching. Something saved me, but it wasn’t Celestia. The Princess told me she can’t actually do that, and besides, if she knew about this place, she’d have come to save everypony long ago. Something here bailed me out, for whatever reason. Knowing this place, not a good reason. But I’m alive.

Right.

I draw a deep breath, and my chest trembles, but I... I’m collected, I think. Mostly, anyway. Enough to look around. The wiredolls couldn't see me, but that’s no guarantee they won’t be able to see me from now on, and there are regular guards and soldiers as well. I need to find a place to hide. It doesn’t take long for me to realize I have no idea where I am. The corridors are wide and there are apartment doors, so I’m still somewhere in the residential part of the tower, but I have no idea how to get back to the train station. Or... anywhere. I’m way too recognizable, but the corridor seems empty, and there’s only one way for me to go anyway. I start walking.

“A bloody foal and a blind doll,” I mutter. “You’ve got a funny way of saving me, whoever you are.” A few more seconds pass. “Thanks, I guess.”

My legs are aching with every step. I’m barely moving at a slow walk, but I know there’s no way I could pick up the pace. If they find me now, I can’t run—much less fight my way through whatever security checkpoint is waiting for me. I need to hide somewhere in the tower, somewhere I can lay low for a few days while my body stitches itself back together. With that bounty on my head, I doubt anyone will shelter me, but maybe I can find an abandoned apartment or—

“Excuse me!” a mare’s voice calls from my left, friendly but a bit strained. When I turn that way, I can see that there’s a shop there I didn’t notice before. Not that it would be hard to miss—it’s a little hole in the wall with a single window full of cages, and a sign above the door that reads Fluttershy’s Home for Wayward Animals. The mare is standing in the half-open door, a powder-green unicorn in a dirty smock that completely covers her neck to flank. It matches her off-white mane well. She waves to get my attention, and then points to my side. “You’re bleeding.”

I can guess what she means, but I look down anyway. Scarlet is running from the fresh cuts in my side, the bandages ripped away at some point during the chase. It’s probably not a good thing to have wounds constantly re-opened that way, and they’re bleeding a little more than they did before. Most of it falls to the ground, but some of it is running in trails down my left foreleg, and I shake it off. “Thanks,” I call back to her. Not sure what else to say.

“Um...” She glances back into the shop, and then at me, her tail twitching to one side. “Do you need like... a bandage or something? I’ve got a first aid kit in the shop.”

It’s obviously a trap. She’s going to invite me in, shut the bars behind me, and then sound the alarm. I should start running now, but... it’s not like I can gallop or even trot in this condition. She could probably sound the alarm and not bother with the bars, and I’d still be dead. There’s something about her too. She’s a very good actress. I’d almost think she’s being honest, if it weren’t for the minor detail of the huge blaring description of me she’s pretending not to have heard. A good poker face, but an obvious lie.

“That would be nice, yeah,” I say as I start to move towards her. I reach for my spear, but I realize I don’t have it. It was with me when I was fighting Swiftwing, but it’s gone now—I must have dropped it at some point during the chase. There’s time for a quick pat-down of my belt as I walk to the shop. I still have my money, my pep bars, the bottle of pepper sauce, and a few pieces of glass. They’ll have to do.

“C’mon in. My name’s White Wash,” my host introduces herself, stepping out of the doorway so I can pass through. It’s a strange little shop: a small, triangular room containing a study table, a small desk, and dozens of cages full of stuffed animals. They’re adorable things, like children's toys, all posed like they were real. She’s even given each one a little water bottle and bowl of food. I guess the name of the shop is meant to be ironic, or maybe they keep the real animals in the back or something. “Go ahead and stretch out on the table. I’ve got the first aid kit behind the counter here.”

This is it—she’s going for the alarm. I reach for the pepper bottle and the shard of glass, but they’re not even out of the belt before she turns back around, a first aid kit levitating in front of her. Her magic barely has any color to it, almost a snow-white. She stares at me, and I stare at her.

“Do you... need help?” she asks. She’s examining me, wary about something. What is she hiding? Does she plan to sedate me when I’m on the table? Bind me up against the wood? Stab me with the razor from the kit? Slash my tendons so I can’t get away? Light me on fire as soon as I’m distracted? I should be so lucky! No, no, no! This is a trap. I’m not walking into an obvious trap, not now!

“I um...” she mutters. “I’m sorry to ask, but, have you been crying?” She lifts up a cloth from the counter, wiping at my face. “You’ve just got a little stain there.” I don’t answer. “Under your eyes, I mean.”

I don’t understand. I’m so good at reading ponies. Why can’t I see what she’s planning to do to me? I don’t sense anything dishonest in those eyes, but I know it’s there—like anypony in this city would actually want to help me.

“Is... something wrong? You didn’t hit your head, did you?” she asks, turning to examine the cut on my forehead. I’m probably dead if I accept her help. “There’s not much dried blood here. Have you already cleaned this up?”

But I’m probably dead if I run back into the halls, and at least this way, I might get some medical attention before she tries to betray me. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“No, sorry. I’m tired. I think I zoned out for a second there.” I slide my belt down and away from the cuts without taking it off, and a moment later, hop up on the table and lie on my side—that way, if I have to go for the bottle or the glass, it’ll be one smooth motion to smash either right against the side of her head. She obviously knows what she’s doing, opening the first aid kit and neatly laying out all the supplies she’ll need. “Do you patch ponies together often?” I ask.

“Shhh.” She gives me a conspiratorial little glance and a smile. It’s fake—an attempt to make me feel better. She can act better than that though, I’m sure of it. Did she want me to know it was fake? Is that it? “Are you trying to get my legs broken? You know how the Pavilion feels about vets moonlighting as doctors.”

“Oh. Oh, you’re a vet.” Now I get it. She’s a spy, exactly like the last vet—probably adding cheating on the Pavilion to my list of crimes right now. Everything about this place is a lie—cages full of fuzzy stuffed animals. I guess that’s a kind of advertisement, or maybe actual animals were too much work just for pretending.

“No, not for the last few years. Don’t worry—” she adds quickly “—I’m still certified; that training didn’t go anywhere. But, my health isn’t what it used to be, so I needed a job with lighter duties. They were happy to let me take over the animal shelter, so I’ve been here ever since. It’s close to my apartment, which makes it easy.”

“Semi-retirement?” I ask as she peels away the last of my bandages, taking a closer look at the cuts. She appears to be about my age, but that’s so commonplace it’s hardly worth observing anymore. I’m getting used to everypony in a crowd being young—it’s like being back in Celestia’s school, where anypony over twenty sticks out like a cracked hoof.

“I’m not that old, ya little punk,” she shoots back, but then she smiles, and laughs. I fake a laugh as well, playing along. “A bit, I guess. And you need stitches. This is going to sting a little bit—there’s no local anesthetic left and I don’t think you want morphine for this. That okay?” After a moment, I nod—if knocking me out with drugs was her plan, she could have jabbed me with the needle. She nods back and gets to work, little pinpricks of pain working their way up my side. After everything I’ve been through... honestly, it doesn’t even seem worth wincing over.

I watch her while she sews up the first two cuts, waiting for whatever she’s going to try, but then I realize she’s almost done with the third one, and I didn’t even notice she’d started. I’m drifting off. Taking a risk for some medical care is one thing, but falling asleep now would be terminally stupid, so I force my eyes open and lift my head. Conversation, that’ll keep me alert. “So, what’s with the stuffed animals?”

“Well, there’s not actually that many stray animals in Vision,” she explains, her tone light and friendly—a classical good bedside manner. “It’s important we care for them and find them good homes, of course, but we’re rarely at capacity. I put stuffed animals in the cages when they aren't in use so the building won’t feel empty.”

“Oh. That’s friendly,” I say, and she smiles like I’m so stupid I would believe we were just chatting.

“I like to think so. Not a lot in this city that is.” I feel a sharp little tug as she yanks on the thread, but then she’s finished, and she gestures for me to sit up. “Now, lets see about that head of yours. You’re going to need to take some antibiotics. Something topical at least. I don’t have any here, but those cuts are in real danger of getting infected otherwise.”

“Thanks, White Wash,” I mutter, and she leans over to examine my forehead, needle and thread floating beside her. Is the needle for my eye? No. The angle is wrong.

“This one, actually not as bad as it seemed.” She seems to be mulling over if I need stitches or not, and I let my eyes wander. She must be cleaning today, because that smock she’s wearing is filthy, and it kind of smells like sweat and animal waste. I mean, she’s using magic, so I guess it’s sanitary enough. She seems to be unarmed. Beyond that, she’s not so bad—youthful, good color, kind of a stringy mane. The smock is pretty loose, and I glance down the front when she leans in to rub the cut with an alcohol swab.

There’s a cutie mark on her shoulder.

I only see it for a second, but I’m sure it’s there—one, maybe even two. I knew it! My chest locks up, and I have to force myself to breathe. Old, dirty clothes, there to hide extra cutie marks. A little out of it, a little strange. My eyes dart around to every cage here. Stuffed animals, clean paper, full water bottles, full food bowls. I sniff the air. Clear. No smell of musk or animal waste, except what’s coming off her smock.

She’s tending an animal shelter full of stuffed toys. Refilling their food bowls and giving them water.

“Mmm, yeah. It’s not as bad as I thought,” she observes, leaning away from me. “This will heal itself fine. Let me clean it up a bit and give you a new bandage.” She levitates the razor out of the kit.

A sharp shove of my hooves sends me scooting backwards across the table, away from her and away from that razor. I drop off the far end and hit the floor, yanking my belt back up so it clinches tight around me. “It’s been great, White Wash, really. You’ve been very generous with me, but I need to get going.” I turn to go, but when I push on the door, it doesn’t open. I try the handle, but it turns without resistance, and the latch doesn’t click in the lock.

“That was a little rude,” White Wash murmurs, fixing me with a stare as I whirl back to face her.

“I wasn’t trying to be impolite. Open the door,” I order, sliding the bottle and the piece of glass out of my belt. I’m not going to be caught off guard!

“I patched you up. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect a little courtesy in turn. Maybe a ‘thank you.’ If you really wanted to be nice, you could stay and think about adopting a pet.” The razor is still floating beside her, drifting this way and that through the air. Her cheerful expression is gone now, replaced with a cold frown.

“I’d love to, really!” I smile, and she doesn't smile back. “Except, I’m in such a hurry—”

“Everypony says they’re in a hurry. They never visit the shelter anymore.” She takes a step towards me, her stare hardening into a glare. “Maybe if more ponies in this city had pets to care for, they wouldn't be so angry and selfish all the time.”

“You know what? You’re right. I had a kitten named Mr. Scuffles when I was a foal, and I loved him to death,” I reassure her. Technically Mr. Scuffles was a dragon, and imaginary, but close enough. “I’d love to come back and get a pet once I’ve settled down, but I really need to—”

“Don’t you patronize me, you little bottom feeder!” she bellows. She’s actually trembling as she steps towards me, as though she were literally shaking with rage, but that’s not quite right—the razor is waving too. “I’m not senile!”

“That’s it! Open the door now or—”

“Shut up!” Her bellow raises to a hysterical scream so loud that it reduces her to wheezing and coughing. I think she’s torn something in her throat. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Say one more word and I swear I’ll kill you!” She holds the razor up in front of her, the clean silver blade glinting every time the lights beat. The edge is red—blood from cleaning the cuts. “You’re just like those foals who come and egg the building every night. Useless, spoiled little punks! You’re the reason this city is falling apart! All of you!”

My chest goes tight when that blade shines, and suddenly I can’t get enough air. I swallow. My heart beats faster. Gotta keep it together. I have to keep it together, can’t panic now. I have the bottle and the glass. That’s sharp as a razor, right? Two weapons to her one. I have the advantage here.

“You think I don’t hear you laughing at me, but I do!” she insists, her breath coming in shaking gasps. “You’re always giggling and whispering when you think I can’t hear. Poor old White Wash, real shame they let her stay, she’ll be a Section Eight soon. I know I get confused, but I am not crazy! I am not crazy, and I don’t like it when you say that I am!”

She’s going to come for me now, leap forward and attack. She doesn’t even seem to have noticed the bottle, so I tense it for a good swing. Across the eyes, blind her, then run and take cover. One good swing. I can see it in her face, the tension building behind her eyes, that razor shaking with the need to use it.

“Don’t you look at me that way.” She steps forward, brandishing the razor. “Don’t you look at me that way!” Here it comes! I raise the bottle in turn, aiming for her face.

The razor is shaking a lot now, the glow around it flickering and intermittent.

“Don’t you...” Her breath comes in quick gasps. Too quick—she’s hyperventilating, wheezing. Her knees are quaking as much as the razor is, and while she’s struggling to keep her glare on me, she can’t do it, her head bobbing up and down. “Don’t you—” She wheezes the words out, before the razor drops to the ground, and a moment later, she tumbles down as well. The trembling has turned to spasms—her eyes rolling back into her head as her limbs flail under her. She’s having a seizure! I don’t see the razor. She must have fallen on it. No way for her to get to it now, perfect.

I leap around the table, hurrying to behind the desk. Like I thought, there’s another one of those boxes with the two crystals in it, and I tap the blue one. The distinctive thump of a turning deadbolt echoes from the front door—time to get out of here. I sweep up the last of the medical supplies from the table and stuff them down into my belt, trotting around the table to avoid the crazed mutant. At that moment, the sound of the door handle turning is the sweetest music I’ve ever heard, and I pull it clear open, checking back to make sure White Wash isn’t about to follow me.

Her seizure seems to be winding down, but she still can’t get enough air, wheezing and panting on the floor, her legs faintly twitching beside her. A puddle of foamy drool has formed under her head, her eyes darting left and right wildly. My nose tickles, and I sniff the air. There’s something there, cloying and sweet and rotten. Marker blood. I didn’t notice that before, but it’s strong now.

She fell on the razor.

But that... I mean, she was ready to kill me. I was about to do that in self defense! Just because she happened to have a nervous attack before I could does not make this any less her fault. If anything, it makes it more her fault! This is poetic justice for one of the monsters in this city. Besides, she’s clearly unhinged. If I saved her, she’d be as likely to stab me as thank me, and even if she doesn’t, she’ll only go on to hurt somepony else. Right now, I need to focus on saving my own life. That’s what Celestia would want me to do—get back to Equestria in one piece.

She whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut.

I am so full of it.

“It’s okay. Don’t move,” I say, kneeling down by her side. Her eyes do tilt towards my face, and I think they’re focused, but when her mouth opens, only a faint gurgling emerges. The smell is really strong, but I don’t see any blood pooling under her—that’s a good sign. “C’mon, let’s get you up off that blade and lying on your belly. Tuck your legs up and I’ll roll you over. On three. One, two...” My horn shines as I grab her and twist, the magenta glow enveloping her entire body. Oh I wish I was as strong as Green, able to lift an entire pony, but it’s a struggle to get a grip on something that large, much less move it. She tries to twist herself over, but my magic falters, and she cries out in pain when she falls back onto the floor.

“Stupid, stupid... sorry. Okay, don’t move,” I say, planting my butt on the ground and reaching over to get my forehooves around her neck. “Push and pull at the same time. On three again. One, two...” My horn shines and I grunt. Pulled muscle, pulled muscle, this was a bad plan! My ears fold back, and I know my face is contorting into the most absurd expressions, but if I let go, she’ll fall onto the razor again. Her side twists up off the floor, and I hear the clatter of something metal hitting the stone. My rear hooves are slipping, but I dig them in as best I can and give one last heave. She straightens up as I tumble over, rolling to my side as she rolls to her belly.

With me on my side, belly towards her, our legs tangle pretty much immediately, but she doesn’t move to extricate herself. She’s still trembling a little, and her breaths seem ragged. Now that I touch it, the smock is disgusting. I don’t have a lot of feeling in my ankles, but I swear I can hear it squish, and I think her coat is equally greasy. I try to pull away, but she grabs me, tightening her leg around my ankle.

“Od spurrsh,” she says, and if she’s garbling any words, they’re beyond my comprehension. I twist my head down to look at her, and her mouth seems to be working, but all that comes out is nonsense. “Reep ant heave neep.”

“Let go of me!” I snap, and give my leg a good yank. My leg flashes with pain, but her grip is weak, and my ankle pops out. Soon enough I’m scrambling to my hooves and away from her, and even if I’m limping more than a bit, no way can she catch me.

“Reep ant heave neep,” she repeats, following me with her eyes. It’s about all she can do, still struggling for a good breath. Her face is slack, eyes wide and... oh, sun and stars, I wish I wasn’t so good at reading ponies.

“Please don’t leave me,” I say to her slowly, staring into those frightened eyes, her ears folded back and her jaw loose. “Is that what you’re trying to say? You don’t want me to leave you here?” She nods, her mouth lolling open under her, making her teeth knock together when she nods too hard. “It’s okay, White Wash. I’m not going to leave you here.”

“Eep. Doff tur keep wid,” she slurs, head tilted towards the floor. I don’t quite follow that one as clearly—I think something is wrong with the lower half of her face, and it’s a little hard to read somepony from eyes and ears alone. Her tail still seems to be working though, and seeing it droop helps, along with the little flutter of her ears and her downcast eyes. She’s sorry, she’s ashamed, she’s... saying something that may or may not be related to that. I don’t know.

“It’s okay, White Wash, I understand,” I say, keeping my tone slow, the words even and soft—and when she looks up, my expression is steady and attentive. A little earnestness goes a long way, even if it is fake. “Let me get at that cut.” Moving her doesn’t seem like a good idea right now, so I push the table away instead, moving around to her injured side. Like I thought, the razor is lying on the floor, fresh blood splattered around it. I do heave a little sigh of relief though—there’s a cut in her smock, but it’s as long as the straight razor, not as wide, and the blade only has blood on its edge. I don’t see any blood in the fabric, but I guess the smock isn’t very absorbent. “Okay, White Wash. I can’t see your cut. I need to take the smock off now.” I reach for the opening of the fabric.

“Wao jase,” she forces the words out with some urgency, trying to lift a hoof to stop me. She doesn’t have the strength, and all she manages to do is nearly knock herself over, but I catch her at the last second. That doesn’t make her give up though, and she doesn’t stop struggling until I move my hoof away from the flap, putting it over her trembling leg.

“Shh. White Wash, it’s okay,” I insist, but she shakes her head. Her ears are flat, tail almost scrunched up under her legs—it’s such textbook shame that if I ever did that I would have been accused of overplaying the part. “White Wash,” I repeat, quieter this time. “I know you’re embarrassed, but I need to see how bad the injury is. You might have a scratch, or you might need to go to the hospital right now.” I reach down to her leg with my other forehoof, holding her until the trembling stops. Steady as a rock, that’s my cue here. Not a hint of judgement. “It’s okay.” I say, but she doesn’t respond, staring down at the floor. “C’mon now. You’ve seen me naked.” That gets her to tilt her head up, and right on command, I smile and laugh in the face of her confusion. “Something my old acting coach said.”

It takes a little while for that to wheedle its way in, but eventually, she nods. “Now look over there.” I point across the room, and she turns. Not because I particularly need her to turn away, but because I don’t want my expression giving away anything. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but... well, we’ll see. I start to strip the smock away, and a rank smell assaults my nose at once. It’s like it wafts up out of the fabric in clouds, turning my stomach and making my eyes water. Marker blood, yes, but also sweat and waste and grime and other things I don't want to think about. I have never been so glad to be a unicorn in my entire life—I can’t imagine having to do this with my teeth. I give it a second to air out, and then I brace myself and pull.

Ponyfeathers.

Her flesh is boiling. Her torso is covered in those lumpy growths, nodules of bone and muscle that have swollen until they threaten to burst out of her skin, and each one is surrounded by blisters full of blood or yellow fluid. It’s like nothing so much as bubbles of steam rising out of a pot, floating on the surface before they finally pop. The whole thing glistens, and I have no idea if that’s some other fluid she’s leaking or if she’s just covered in sweat and never bathes. How is she still alive?

I... she shouldn't be. She should be dead.

I don’t think I understood the word “unnatural” until this very moment. It was just a thing ponies say to mark something as weird. Not like this. I’ve gone past disgusted and revolted, and every part of my mind is... sickened. Not fright that I have to be near this thing, or worry that I have to touch it. Offended that it even exists. That this place is... No creature should live like this. I...

I need to look for the cut.

It’s only when I stop and... get a hold on myself, that I even notice all her cutie marks. A dozen, at least—they’ve been warped by the damage to her body, some to the point of being almost totally obscured. A few stand out—a candle on her back, a comet on her front leg, and her original cutie mark, a brush and a bucket of paint. The cut is along her ribs, almost perfectly in the middle of her barrel.

“It’s... not bad.” The words come harder than I thought they would, and I realize how tight my chest and throat are. “It’s actually really shallow. I think the smock protected you. You burst a few of these... blisters, here.” My stomach twists. Not now, Siren! “Released a bit of blood, but I don’t see any more flowing. You’ll be... fine.”

“Tahnk...” She slurs the word, drawing a deep breath. Her jaw trembles, but no sound emerges. The struggle on her face is obvious: her muzzle scrunched up, her body tense, her eyes squeezed shut as she tries to force herself to make the sound. “Tahnk... thank. Hyu. Thank you.” She opens her eyes, and though her breaths are coming deep and eager, they do come, and she seems to be getting enough air. “Thank you. I’m sorry.” Saying it seems to take a lot of effort, and she doesn’t match my gaze, letting a long silence hang before she continues. “This happens, sometimes.”

“I understand,” I say, and I flinch at what I need to do next. Remember, Siren, you can’t catch poison joke. It’s not a disease, you can’t catch it, there’s no harm in this.

I reach out to hold her shoulder, giving her a reassuring little pat. You know what’s great? Hooves are great. Wonderful, numb, I-don’t-have-to-feel-what-I’m-touching hooves. That much I keep out of my expression, and when she peers up at me, I smile.

“Is there anypony taking care of you, White Wash?” I ask. Her eyes tilt away, down and back to her left. I move my hoof off her shoulder, taking the moment when she’s not looking to discreetly wipe it off against the table leg.

“There’s nothing...” she starts, having to pause for breath halfway through the sentence. “Nothing the doctors can do. I’m hopelessly addicted. I buy as much as I can on a vet’s salary, but—”

“No, White Wash,” I say, reaching out with my magic to gently turn her head back to me. “Is there anypony taking care of you? A daughter or a son or a friend? Somepony to make sure you’re alright and visit you?”

“Oh, no. No family,” she shakes her head. “Just a son who hates me and never visits. It’s okay though. I have the animals.” She gives a weak little smile, and nods at the cages. “They’re so nice, and they need me to get by. They keep me company.”

I...

I get one of the bandages from my belt, and I put it across her cut as best I can. Then I reach down, and I do up the smock, nice and tight so it won’t fall off, high on her neck and low on her body. Lastly, I straighten her mane, and brush it as best I can with magic alone until it’s bright and neat. “There you go, White Wash.” I smile. “All better.”

“All better,” she echoes, rising to her hooves. Her legs are a bit shaky, but the fit seems to have passed, and there’s strength in her muscles again. She can’t seem to meet my gaze though, pretending that her head is still heavy so she can stare at the floor. “I... um. I’m sorry. It ah...” She swallows, her tone quick and rigid. “I should fix up that cut on your head, shouldn't I? Wouldn't ah, want to leave you in bad shape or anything.”

“It’s okay, really,” I say, nice and gentle, giving her my best reassuring smile. She sees it, even if she can only glance at me.

“It’s really no trouble—”

“It’s fine, White Wash.” I say it as gently as I can, but her gaze slumps all the same, her ears folding tighter against her head. For a long time, neither of us says anything.

“I...” The words aren’t coming to me, for some reason. “I need a way out of the tower that security doesn’t watch. No guards, no checkpoints. Can you think of anything?”

“Well... smugglers sometimes use diving suits to get around,” she says, uncertain, but it’s the best lead I’ve got.

“Thank you. Where would I find a diving suit?” I ask.

“Airlock, ground floor of the tower.” She tilts her head up, pointing to the exit. “Go out, take a left, third passage on your right, follow it all the way to the bottom.” She turns to glance up at me, pleading in her eyes. “Do you have to go so soon? You could stay for a bit. Even if you don’t want to adopt a pet, I’m sure they’d love it if somepony would play with them.” She laughs, nervously. “We really don’t get a lot of visitors these days.”

“Goodbye, White Wash,” I say. Or whisper, really. “Thank you.” I turn, and I trot out the door without waiting for her answer.

I manage to get to the first intersection before the tears come. My throat tightens, my eyes burn, and suddenly I’m sobbing like a stupid foal in the middle of the corridor. Forget that I’m a wanted fugitive and that this is going to draw attention—never mind that stopping in an open space right now is colossally stupid even if I don’t make any noise. No, I’m going to stop and have a good cry right here for no stupid reason!

No stupid reason.

It’s freezing out here. Every part of my face is stiff with cold, until the tears feel like hot water running down my cheeks. I’m going to die of hypothermia of all things. That’s it, isn’t it? I don’t know why I’m crying. I don’t know why the guards and soldiers haven't heard me yet. I don’t know why these hallways are so empty. Why isn’t anypony here? Because they’re all still cowering away behind those locked doors, brewing up more mantles and tonics. Why hasn’t anypony heard me yet?

I draw a shaky breath, and I let it out.

“Cry later, Siren, you need to move on now,” I mutter, but my voice cracks, and it only makes me sound even more afraid. “I said move, you stupid, useless coward!” That gets my head up at least, my ears unfolding even if my chest is still shaking. “Two... two intersections to go. Now you’re going to draw a deep breath, and then you’re going to be brave.” I draw another deep breath, and I let it out slowly. “Right. Right, okay.”

My hooves start moving again.

This tower really is empty, but it’s not abandoned. I can hear ponies behind closed doors, and more importantly, I can hear hooffalls echoing around the corridors. The high ceilings and sloping turns carry sound well, and make it hard to tell where anything is coming from, but there are definitely guards out searching for me. I hear muttering, cursing, and the buzz of wiredolls, all of the sounds running together until they form a dull murmur barely audible over the beat of the lights.

I pass another intersection. A four-way split, this time. One more intersection to go, next turn on my right. The sounds around me don’t seem to be getting any closer. Maybe they’re guarding the tram station and the exits to the tower, and waiting for me to—

“Hey! There she is!” A stallion’s voice. From my left.

I catch a glimpse of them, as I start off—three of the tower guards in their puffy blue uniforms. They’re a ways down the passages to my left, so I have a bit of a head start, but something’s wrong. I feel it as soon as I stretch out my legs to gallop—a shooting pain, up through my ankles and shoulders. For a moment, I think it’s just my muscles burning and all I need is to stretch and get into the pace of things, but the pain is getting worse with every step. I’ve barely gone half a dozen strides before it hurts so much my eyes are watering and I need to slow down, first to canter, then to a brisk trot, and even that causes little flashes of lightning to shoot up my legs. The corridor in front of me slopes down the way White Wash said, but it’s long, and I don’t see any breaks or interruptions. One open, straight passage for them to run me down in. No good at a trot. No good at all.

I stop, and turn, and spread my hooves out, pulling the bottle and my little piece of glass from my belt. My chest is tight, my heart is racing, but I can do this. I take a breath, and it’s time to be brave. They’re getting closer now, three stallions—two earth ponies and a pegasus. I draw a breath and let it out—time to be brave. I’ve got reach on the earth ponies. I’ll blind one with the bottle, tackle the other so the pegasus can’t get to us, and then get him with the glass. That’s it. They’re almost on me. I heft the bottle up and get ready to throw. Just need to let them get close enough. I can do this. I can do this!

“Hey, straw-for-brains!” a mare shouts. Something flashes through the air, bright and glittering, flying over my shoulder. The guards scatter in all directions, but the pegasus isn’t quite fast enough, and the projectile bounces off his forehead. It clatters to the floor as blood runs from the gash down his forehead—it’s a long knife. Belatedly, I recognize Green’s voice, and hear her shouting behind me. “Would you kindly sit down and hold still!?”

I take a step away, whipping my head back over my shoulder. She’s down the passage behind me, racing towards me at a gallop. I twist back around, and the guards are still there. Maybe it’s because Green is so far away, or because there are three of them at once, but it doesn’t seem to be working. The pegasus is already flexing his wings up, a quick beat taking him into the air. He’s like a hummingbird, his wings beating hard and letting him turn on a dime as his body twists into the curve. Then the knives on his hooves snap out, and he’s off, over my shoulder towards Green. The earth ponies seem more sluggish—one is twisting on the ground, but the other lurches to his hooves, stumbling towards me. He’s coming for me!

“Stay down!” I hear the words before I realize it’s me who said them, and then the bottle of pepper sauce hits his face. It doesn’t break like I thought it would—it bounces off when it connects, jerking his head to one side with the force of the impact. “Stay down!” I swing again, smashing the bottle down against his eye and sending him stumbling back. He seems to be snapping out of it, his sluggish movements speeding up. “Stay down! Stay down!” The bottle hits his face again, and I hear something crunch. When I pull the bottle up to swing again, a spray of red comes with it, blood gushing down the guard’s uniform. He’s stumbling now—his motions are animated, but he can’t seem to stay on his hooves. “Stay! Down!” I lift the bottle again.

“Get away from him!” A stallion’s voice roars, and I feel somepony crash into my side. A moment later, I’m on the ice-cold floor, my fresh stitches torn open all over again, and there’s what feels like a ton of earth pony pressing down on top of me. There’s no thought, no pain, just adrenaline and instinct—swing and kick and bite and stab with my horn. He’s winning though, he’s winning. I’m losing blood from my cuts, my horn hits nothing but air. The one time I do get him with a hoof, it’s like hitting a brick wall, and when he drives his hoof into my gut, it knocks the wind clear out of me, spots appearing in my vision. Through the haze, I can feel him disentangling himself from me, standing up and getting back on his hooves. I see him flex his ankle, a long silver blade snapping out.

My magic catches it at the last second, shoving the blow away and into the ground. He growls, and his other forehoof drives down into my face. My ears ring and the world spins, warmth flooding my mouth as I taste blood. The corridor becomes a place of muted sounds and distant lights, but even through the haze, I can see the shine as he raises his hoof-knife again.

A crimson glow surrounds his mane, yanking his head up and back. There’s a flash of silver, and a wet snap.

He gurgles, once. Then he falls over and doesn’t move.

“C’mon, Sweetheart,” Green says, and I see the bottoms of her legs when she steps up to me. Oh, right. I’m lying down. “Somepony will have heard that. Time to go.” The world suddenly turns red, and I feel her lifting me up off the floor—but I right myself, and stand under my own power. She’s right there, in front of me. Exactly like she was. So pretty in that old dress, with that beautiful color. It seems forever since I’ve seen her. One of the mugger’s knives is floating next to her, covered in blood. I pick up the second one off the floor. “This way, follow me.” The pegasus’s body is there, but his blood doesn’t pool under him. It runs in a little river from his throat, following us down the slope. He won’t get up again.

We don’t go far—only a hoofful of floors down, to one of the apartment doors. It looks like any other really, the hardwood covered in golden lettering that reads Eileen Quine. Green has the key for it though, and when she pushes it open, I can see it’s abandoned—an empty apartment, with bare floors and bare walls and warmth in the air. She yanks me inside and shuts the door behind us, heaving a sigh once we’re out of sight.

Her back is turned to me, and I have the knife.

“That was too close for comfort,” she says, turning back to face me. “They’ll be searching...” Her head tilts to one side, as she seems to notice me. “Sweetheart? You can put the knife down now.”

She’s one of them. She’s one of those things. She wants to hurt me. She wants to turn me into one of them. She does! I lift the knife, twisting it around. The point is hooked on one side, and blood runs down it, clinging to the inside of the curve.

“Siren, Sweetheart, come back to me. You’ve been through one heck of a beating, but we’re safe for now,” she coos. Liar. She’s a liar and she’s trying to get me to let my guard down. Liar! “I’m going to reach out, nice and slow, and I want you to give me the knife. Okay? Nice and calm. See? I’m putting mine away.” She slides the other knife back into her saddlebags. Like that’s supposed to convince me of anything. Everything about her is deadly. She could kill me with her eyes, her hooves, her horn, and I’m supposed to feel better just because she doesn’t have a knife!? “I’m reaching out now, Sweetheart.”

Her horn glows. She’s trying to take my knife. She’s trying to take my knife! She’s going to kill me. She’s one of them and she’s going to kill me and turn me into one of them and I’ll mutate and I don’t want to die here! I have to get her first! I have to—

Suddenly, the glow around the blade is a different color. I’m trying to hold onto it, my horn flickering and shining with the effort, but she’s so much stronger than me! There’s a loud buzz as we both strain, and then a sudden pain in my horn, and I have to let go, the blade going away into her bag. “That was good, Siren. Now, shhh.” She reaches out.

“Don’t touch me!” I scream, getting as far away from her as I can, backed against the door. “Don’t you—”

“Would you kindly be quiet?” she hisses, and I feel my mouth clamp shut. I... she... I... should be quiet. That’s what she wants, and it’s important I make her happy. That’s the most important thing. She’s so beautiful.

But why does that make me hurt?

My eyes are watering again, but I don’t make the slightest sound. Not a sob, not a squeak—it’s not what she wants. No matter how much I try to focus, my vision is blurred, but I can smell her. Like the most beautiful field of flowers and a spring breeze and cut grass. She pulls me forward into a hug, and I bury my head in her mane, taking a deep breath of that wonderful scent as the tears run down my cheeks.

“Shhh,” she whispers to me, putting a leg up around my shoulders to pull me against her. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Sweetheart. Come now, you’re bleeding. We’re going to sit you down in the corner and I’m going to patch you up, and everything will be okay.”

It must be true, I know it’s true, but I don’t feel like it’s true. She’s going to patch me up and then everything is going to be okay—I should be happy that everything is fine now, but I can’t seem to stop crying. I know everything is alright because she tells me it is, but my chest hurts and I can’t seem to get enough air and my eyes won’t clear and...

“Shhh,” Green whispers. I didn’t even realize she was leading me into the corner, I was so distracted. She has some things here—a little cot and some boxes of something I can’t make out because my vision won’t clear. Gently, she pushes me down to the cot and rubs something against my side. She coos, so close that her voice is in my ear, and I feel tingly and numb. “I think you need rest now, Sweetheart. Real rest.” She pulls something out of one of the boxes, and I feel a sharp prick in my side. “Now shut your eyes, and I promise, when you awake, it’ll be all better.”

I’m starting to feel heavy, so I let my head rest against her shoulder. She’s so wonderful, and if she says it, it must be true. I just need to rest, and everything will be all better.

All better.

Darkness. Too tired to dream, I suppose. That’s not to say there aren't visions in my sleep, and things half remembered, but they all have the awkward tinge of reality. I remember Green shoving pills down my throat, forcing me to drink some water, helping me to the bathroom at one point, little things like that. There’s pain, and I ask her for morphine, but she says no for some reason I don’t understand. Perhaps it isn’t necessary though. I’m so weak that not even the pain can keep my head up.

She’s there with me when I wake up, lying next to me. I know it’s her even before I open my eyes—I can feel her old, ragged dress pressed up against me, and I can smell that cloying, rotten odor that seems to follow them around. Am I the only pony here who can smell it? Maybe they’ve all gotten used to it. It’s an oddly effective wakeup call, stopping me from getting comfortable enough to drift away, and soon I crack an eye open.

She isn’t asleep—her head is up, and she’s playing with one of those wiredoll crystals, rolling it around on the floor with a hoof, back and forth. There’s not a lot to read in her expression, save for a tiredness of the eyes and a faint, dull frown. Boredom, I’d call it, when there aren’t a lot of happy thoughts to distract you. She hasn’t noticed that I’m awake yet. I shut my eyes again.

“Why is it that you smell different when I’m hypnotized?” It takes a lot of effort to say it, and the breaths come hard, my words emerging as a sigh. There’s no answer at first, but I feel her body move as she turns her head towards me.

“I don’t know, Sweetheart. It’s just one of those things,” she says, and her hoof touches my neck, brushing down to my shoulder, straightening my mane. “You’ve been asleep for about twelve hours now.”

“Why didn’t...?” I can’t find the air to finish the sentence, but she doesn’t rush me, letting me draw a few breaths before I go on. There’s a tightness in my chest, and my breathing feels shallow. “They find us?”

“It’s a big tower, Sweetheart,” she says, speaking slowly and quietly as she brushes my mane with her hoof. Little motions, back and forth. “Even if they’ve started a house-to-house search now, it’ll be awhile before they get to us.”

“You found me,” I say. Guards found me too. Three times, I should have died.

“Trixie told me where to find you. I was off in the basement when I got the wire. Galloped straight there and still barely caught you in time.” She lets out a little hiss of breath, uncertain if she wants to continue. “I’m glad I arrived when I did.”

“M' sorry I’m slowing us down,” I say, and it’s true. I ran off, I got cornered by wiredolls, trapped by a marker, caught by guards—I’m only alive because of ridiculous amounts of sheer stupid luck, and I’m still the reason we keep getting in trouble. I’m still the one who needs other ponies to help her. “I messed up.”

“That’s not the way I saw it, Sweetheart,” Green answers. I can hear her opening her bag, the faint whisper of magic, and then it’s a brush in my mane instead of her hoof, slowly working it straight. “I saw a unicorn who looked like a stiff breeze could push her over step into the ring with two earth pony brawlers. You’d been bloodied, stabbed, burned, and tore nearly every muscle in your legs, and you turned around to meet ‘em on your terms. You got real guts, Siren. The will to live.”

I don’t answer that. She’s trying to make me feel better, but I don’t think fear and bravery are the same thing. The conversation lapses as she continues to brush, and she makes her strokes more carefully and slowly, perhaps thinking that it will lull me back to sleep. I can’t sleep though. I’m thinking.

“You’re an assassin, aren’t you? Or a hitmare, or whatever you call it.” The brush stops, and she doesn’t answer me. “It just occured to me now. You’re totally unafraid of violence. You live in a dangerous place but nopony messes with you. You don’t have a job, but you can afford your mantles.” I draw a low breath, and the air seems to spill out of me with the weight. “It’s true.”

“I do whatever Trixie needs me to do, Sweetheart,” she says, her tone gentle, and she resumes brushing. “Sometimes that involves killing ponies, yes.”

“Why?” I ask, and I really want to know. I’m curious. It doesn’t even frighten me, sitting next to a murderer. Maybe that’s the drugs.

“My dose is pretty expensive. Back when I could afford it, I went and got the best mantles money could buy. Figured it was an investment in my health, for later,” she says, her tone wandering, meandering lazily through memory. “I suppose it worked, since I’m still in good condition, but it’s not cheap to keep up. More than I could afford working a regular job.”

“Would you kill me, if Trixie asked you to?” I already know the real answer, but I’m curious if she’ll lie to me—if she’ll admit that she’d slit my throat for the right number of bits.

“Trixie won’t ask that,” she says, and I guess that’s fine. It’s probably true.

“I ran into a marker. In the tower,” I say, letting the words flow as breath becomes available—it’s getting a little easier now. “She was losing her grip on reality. Forgetting things. Becoming violent. Her skin was boiling off.” I try to draw a deep breath, and one of my ribs stings, reminding me to take my time about it. “Is that what you’re going to turn into?”

“Eventually,” she murmurs, still brushing away. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Green.” It seems wrong to tell her that, with everything she is: a monster and a freak and a killer. But it’s so sad. “You don’t deserve that.”

“We deserve just what we get, Sweetheart,” she says, shushing me gently. “All our debts come due eventually. I ain't gonna waste the time I have whining that it’s not fair. And you shouldn't waste your time worrying about the likes of us. There’s a sub waiting for you, and a ship, and a breeze to blow you back to Equestria,” she says, and she lets out the faintest hiss of breath as she does it. Smiling maybe. “You’ll be with the Princess again soon.”

“You hate the Princess,” I say, and my ears twitch back when that little breath of air hits them. “You hate me because I’m her student.”

“I don’t hate you, Siren. When Trixie told me, I saw you as a little miniature Princess Celestia, and that was... wrong of me,” she says, trailing off, and in that pause, I know she’s frowning. “You’re a kind young mare—your only crime was being deceived. You aren’t waiting for somepony to save you.”

“You did save me,” I point out.

“You had him on the ropes. I just figured we should hurry things along,” she says, chuckling like it was funny. Now that I know what she does, I suppose I understand her sick sense of humor. Everypony needs to find something in their job to giggle at.

“I guess,” I answer, for lack of anything else to say.

“Guess nothing. You must be half earth pony,” she asserts, and though her voice is still quiet, she tries to keep her tone light. “I have never seen a unicorn take that kind of beating and keep on ticking. Lacerations, contusions, torn muscles, bruised ribs, a minor concussion, and you kept getting back up.”

“Staying down would have hurt less.” This time, it’s my turn to laugh, and I immediately regret it, pain shooting through my ribs with every chuckle, making me wheeze.

“Well, you can stay down now, because you aren’t going anywhere until I decide you’re healed,” she says, giving my shoulder a little pat. “I promise.” That feels nice to hear, even if it isn’t true. It’s comforting, I guess.

“Do you know why I ran away?” I ask, and I can feel her head shake—the little tremors of her body when she moves. “Berry wanted to give me a mantle so I wouldn’t be afraid. To make me like her so you could manage me more easily.” I trail off, not sure what to say. What can I say? “If Trixie told you to—”

She presses a hoof to my lips. “Shhh,” she whispers, drawing out the sound long and slow.

Her horseshoe is cold against my muzzle, worn so smooth by years of use that I can’t even feel the nails. It’s a part of her hoof. Like the dress is a part of her. I can feel the fabric touching me, whenever she takes a breath, and her sides push the dress against me a little. It’s not like White Wash’s smock, left to decay and time. It feels clean, kept up, so carefully preserved. It’s so worn and ragged, but it won’t admit it until the day the last thread in it frays. There are lots of ponies who prefer to wear clothes, but I think she’s the first pony I’ve met who would actually be naked without them.

I guess that’s okay.

“Can I hear you sing?” I ask, if only because I can’t think of anything else to ask.

“Um...” she stammers, stumbling suddenly in the conversation. “It’s been a long time since I sang anything, Sweetheart.”

“Please? Just something simple,” I say. She doesn’t answer at first, folding and unfolding her hooves awkwardly. It’s a good few seconds before she makes any noise at all, gently shaking her head. Then she takes a breath.

“A gentle breeze from high in the mountains softly blows through the air to the bay. It fills the sails of ships that are waiting—waiting to sail your troubles to sea,” she sings. She really is a talentless hack. Her voice is sweet, but she has no idea how to use it, bumbling through the words without grace or distinction. That song is a classic, and she’s butchering it.

It still helps me sleep though.

“To walk, I suppose,” Green is saying, when I snap awake. I know I’m getting better, because I feel so much worse, the dull aches and pains coming into agonizing focus. The indistinct stabbing in my muscles has turned into a thousand hot needles, every one of which I can feel individually. My head pounds every time my heart beats, and my eyes throb every time the lights pulse. An involuntary groan escapes me, but Green takes no notice. “But just walk. Not so much as a trot past that.”

She’s standing next to me, staring at a blank wall, her eyes wide and glassy. For a second, I don’t get it, but then I notice that one of her horseshoes is glowing a dull blue—the same shade of blue as the crystals in my little hoofboot. I guess that’s what it looks like when somepony wires you, instead of the other way around. If she can see or hear me, she’s not showing it, and I really need to pee, so I skip trying to get her attention and wander off that way, flinching with every step.

“I don’t know; I’m not a doctor.” Her voice drifts through the empty apartment, and while it isn’t exactly classy, I leave the bathroom door open so I can hear what she’s saying. There’s a long silence, a few full seconds at least, and when I hear Green’s, “Yes, Trixie, I’m sorry,” I know she’s getting yelled at. It’s odd, but she doesn’t get reproachful or guilty when Trixie berates her—it’s fear in her voice. Then again, I guess the consequences of Trixie cutting her off are a bit worse than just failing to make rent. “I promise, I’ll... yes, Trixie, I... yes. Yes, I understand.”

A long silence follows, with nothing more than occasional sounds of affirmation from Green to indicate she’s listening. I finish up and wash off. There’s no mirror in the bathroom, but that’s probably for the best. I bet I look like one ugly mule right now, all cut and bruised up. Soon enough, I’m back in the main room. It’s good to be able to get my bearings with a clear head, even if there’s not much here. I can see the cot where Green and I slept, and the boxes of supplies stacked up in the corner. They’re mostly food, water, and medical supplies, though I do spot some odds and ends like rope and jackets. I grab an apple and some water out of one of the boxes, and work my way through it while I search for my belt. It’s in one of the bigger boxes. I think Green cleaned it.

“Are we sure the tunnels are traversable? Even if security hasn’t filled them in by now, I don’t think the rebels have done much maintenance lately,” Green asks, drawing her head back as she sets her jaw. To me, the uncertainty is clear as day, but Trixie can’t see any of that. Curious to see this from the other side. I slip a few bottles of water into my belt while I wait, along with some more pep bars, bandages, antiseptics, needles and thread, and painkillers. I fill up the entire belt except for two loops, and it feels heavy afterwards. Still, no sense in letting the capacity go to waste.

“We’ll see how things are when we get to Ceto Station, then,” she says, and from the strength of her nod, I gather that the conversation is wrapping up. “Yes. Yes, Trixie.” Her horseshoe stops glowing, and she blinks her eyes twice, taking a moment to let them focus on the wall in front of her. She actually starts a little when she sees that I’m not there—her body sharply coming alert as her eyes go wide—but she slumps when she spots me a moment later.

“Oof!” She holds a hoof to her undercarriage, and I think her heart is racing. “You gave me a scare there, Sweetheart! I thought you’d gone and wandered off.”

“I don’t feel ready to stand up, much less wander off on my own. I’m alert, though.” Alert enough to remember good form. Green will respect stoicism, I’m sure, and a dignified posture, but I don’t want her thinking I’m ready for something I’m not. The key then, is to do it a little bit badly, and so I straighten up until I hear a joint crack, dignified but ready to fake a—

“Aaaaaaaaaaah!” I let out a remarkably realistic-sounding squeak at that crack. In fact, I am such a good actor that it’s totally indistinguishable from if I had actually wrenched a joint. I am that good. Totally planned that. Along with Green’s laughing. I meant for her to laugh. That’s us bonding, right there. So she’ll protect me.

“You seem to be feeling better,” Green observes. “Mentally too, I hope?”

“I... guess.” The question never occurred to me. How does one determine if you’re mentally better? I don’t feel like crying, or screaming, or panicking, but this isn’t exactly normal, is it? “A little overwhelmed, maybe, but I’m not going to panic. Thank you for last night. That helped a lot.”

“That was two nights ago, Sweetheart, and this is the fourth time you’ve thanked me for it. But you’re welcome,” Green says, as she smiles and nods. “You’re a fast healer. I wouldn't have bet on you being on your hooves this soon.”

“So, did I hear you say we’re moving on?” I don’t feel ready to go out there, not to face those guards. The apprehension Green is trying to hide with a tacky smile doesn’t help matters. Still, her outward tone is upbeat at least.

“Trixie bought your life from Ms. Tiara,” she says, delivering the facts with an efficient, straightforward tone. “City Central still has the building surrounded, but the local guards are going to see us to the basement. Apparently, some of the rebels’ old smuggling tunnels are intact and accessible from here. I don’t know how far they’re intact, but it will get us out of the security cordon, at least.”

“Ms. Tiara... she’s the owner of this tower?” To be safe, I wait for Green to nod before I go on. “She’s a rebel?”

“More likely she sold mantles and weapons to the rebels,” Green’s tone is casual, but she’s forcing it to be that way. I can hear that her chest and barrel are a little bit tight—that means grief or anger, and somehow I doubt she’s broken up about the tragedy of mantle smuggling. “This tower seems to do well no matter how the rest of the city fares.”

“Does Trixie trust her to take the bribe?” A prudent question, given that security also tried to bribe her and ended up no better off for it.

Green hesitates for a moment before she answers, “Trixie made her an offer she could not refuse.”

I don’t get it, but I get that this is a figure of speech, and that Green is worried its meaning will upset me. So, something unpleasant then. “And... will that... make her trustworthy?”

“It’s the best deal we’re gonna get, Sweetheart, ’less you’re keen to fight your way out,” she answers, with a sigh and a shake of her head. “C’mon now, eat something, and I’ll take one more look at your injuries. We should be on our way within an hour or so. We’re meeting them at the intersection next floor over.”

“Sure,” I say, but I catch her attention with a little glance. There’s an art to glancing—first at her eyes, then down and away, and just when she’s getting curious what I was about to say, back up and hold her gaze for a good long second. Do it right, and the most trivial statement will sound profound and deeply personal, even if you mess up the tone—though for the record, I never mess up the tone. “Green. You offered me that set of knives before. Does the offer stand?”

She pauses, narrows her eyes and examines me for a moment. Then, she nods. Her horn comes alight with that distinctive blood-red glow, and her saddlebags slide open. She’s cleaned the knives—there’s no blood on her dress, now that I think about it—and she floats them over to me in a single smooth motion. “Here. There are no sheaths, but if they’re going in that belt, you’ll need something to cover them.” She pulls a small section of burlap from her saddlebags and levitates a needle, thread, and scissors from the first aid kit. She’s remarkably fast, and soon, two crude yet functional baggies adorn my belt loops, protecting my flanks from the blade. “Now, lets see those injuries.”

She says about what I thought she would: that I’m not about to puke up my vital organs, but I shouldn’t try running any races, possibility of permanent damage if I overexert myself, at least no sign of infection blah blah whatever. I let her do her work. It’s so strange to watch her now. My eyes keep wandering to her dress, wondering what it’s there to conceal. I remember... a horseshoe cutie mark, and an eye with a swirl in it, and the apples on her flank. But there were others I don’t remember. And are there any signs of degradation? That bruise on her forehead really does look like one of those lumps when it’s painted over that way. I bet she’s stewing about that but refusing to show it, or refusing to think about it.

Freak. That’s what I called her. Freak: noun, a thing or occurrence that is markedly unusual or irregular, often with negative connotations. I wish she was a freak, but I think she’s too normal for that. Ghoul doesn’t quite fit her, not like it does Berry—she’s not dead, she’s afraid of death. Witch doesn’t quite fit her either, not like it does Trixie. Monster, maybe? My murderous protector.

Green gives a sharp two-tone whistle, and I snap out of my reverie, shaking my head. “Wha?”

“I said, you’re all done. Your legs aren't going to fall off for a few good hours at least. Let’s go,” she says, turning to the door. She’s not herding me like she did before, but moving ahead and trusting me to follow. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I move after as quick as I can under the circumstances, pausing only to slip a jacket on before we step outside.

The hallway is empty, silent except for the crunch of our hooffalls, the puff of our breath, and the pulse of the lights. The bodies are gone, but I can still see long bloodstains running from where they died to the bottom of the incline, little patches of scarlet in the snow. Green turns to move downslope, and I keep with her.

It doesn’t take us long to reach the intersection—a five-way split this time. There’s a dozen guards there and four wiredolls spread out to cover the tunnels—more security than they had for the entire tram station just to escort the two of us. My heart starts to flutter, but I don’t stop. I just keep walking forward into the middle of the group. They’re staring—what are they staring for? Do they know who I am? Are they shocked and horrified to see the Princess's student? I try to turn away from them, but I end up looking at one of the wiredolls instead, and that doesn't help at all. I can see my reflection in its eyes and... they’re all around us. Why do they need so many guards to walk us to the exit? It’s a trap. It’s a trap! We’re gonna die!

Green’s hoof presses against my side, blocking me from drawing the knife as I take a hold of it. What’s she’s doing? What’s she doing!? We—

“Shh.” She gives a little shake of her head. I—

I let go of the knife. She pats my shoulder.

“Siren Song and company, I presume?” one of the guards asks, stepping forward. He’s a purple pegasus stallion with a strange cutie mark on his cheek that depicts a pegasus mare rearing over a starburst. From his expression, he’s a little less nervous than the others, but I think that’s only because he feels he has to put on a strong face. I’m about to speak when Green takes a step forward.

“You would be correct,” Green answers him. “You’re here to take us to the tunnels?”

“By way of Ms. Tiara, yes. She wants to have a word with Siren and... what do I call you?” He gestures at Green with a hoof.

“You don’t, loverboy. You’re our escort—now would you kindly escort us?” She makes a faint little waving motion with her hoof, and he seems to lose his train of thought—I would call it obvious, but none of the other guards catch on, so I’m not going to complain. He barks orders, and soon enough we’re moving through the tower at a steady walk, headed in through the wide corridors.

It doesn't seem to be that long before we stop, although my attention is mostly on the pain in my legs, so I’m not paying a lot of heed to exactly how far we’ve walked. The guards draw up, Green holds out a leg to stop me, and I realize we’re in front of an impressive set of oaken double doors, the image of a five-pointed tiara emblazoned on them in silver, half of the image on each door. A guard knocks, the door opens a crack, and there’s a whispered conversation. Soon enough, we’re led on through.

The doors don’t open all the way—to keep the heat in, I guess—only parting enough for a single pony to pass. The wiredolls move in first, then us, then two of the guards, and then the doors shut. We’re in the foyer of an office done up in an absolutely horrific style—dark red plush carpeting, beige paint on the walls, and Hearth’s Warming Eve decorations everywhere. From the shape of it, there are a number of offices that connect to this space, but the guards and wiredolls lead us straight through to the one in the back, knocking at the wooden door there.

“Enter!” a sharp feminine voice calls, and the door slides open to let us and our escorts in. We’re in a smaller office now, containing a cluttered desk, some cabinets, a few pictures on the walls, and a high-backed chair that currently holds a garishly pink earth pony mare. A silver tiara rests on her head—her namesake, I suppose—blending poorly with her purple-and-white mane. No cutie marks that I can see, but the desk is so high and she’s pulled up so close that I can’t see much below her shoulders anyway. Still, she’s appears to be about my age—too young for all of this. “Ah, if it isn’t the mare of the hour.” She gestures me forward. “And Green as well. A pleasure.”

“Diamond,” Green greets the mare behind the desk, her tone openly wary. There are guards all around us, ready with weapons. I try to seem indifferent, but I know I’m failing. I keep glancing around, eyeing those knives, seeing when they step towards us. “It was my understanding we were going straight to meet Berry Punch. I hope she hasn’t suffered any misfortune in the interim?”

“Now, Green, I don’t appreciate that accusation,” Diamond Tiara says in a cool tone. “Ms. Punch is a resident of my tower. I do take the safety of my tenants seriously.” Her voice is relaxed, but her posture is too stiff and artificial for that: eyes narrowed, shoulders tight, back straight. I know she’s alert, and I’d bet she’s angry, but she’s not giving away much more than that.

“Can we see her?” Green asks, direct and to the point, her gaze focused on the mare behind the desk.

Diamond Tiara doesn’t answer right away, letting Green stew in her uncertainty. It’s only after a hefty pause that she reaches behind the desk to hit something, and a side door opens to the office. Berry comes through it, shoved by a wiredoll behind her, and she soon stumbles into place beside Green. I can’t worry about her now. I have to try and be brave, not let the guards see how frightened I am.

I wonder if Berry is looking at me. Planning when to give me the mantle.

“It was also my understanding that we were going directly to the tunnels,” Green continues, her whole body stiff. She’s nervous, and I don’t like it when she’s nervous because that makes me... deep breath, Siren. “Has there been some problem there?”

“To an extent, but nothing that can’t be overcome, I’m sure,” Diamond says, leaning back in the chair and tapping the tips of her hooves together. “I need you to wire Trixie, to renegotiate the terms of your release.”

“Listen, I understand your situation,” Green says, trying to soften her tone with limited success. “But that’s a matter between you and Trixie. You can wire her yourself. Would you kindly let us go in the meanwhile?” I try not to show my relief, but it’s good to know the situation is under control.

“Ah yes,” Diamond Tiara says. She smiles, but it’s the wrong kind of smile. Smug, confident, not the stupid grin of somepony staring at the most beautiful mare in the world. “I’ve heard about your unique approach to diplomacy. I’m curious if you’re aware that they pre-released the Mark Two version about a month ago.” Green takes a step away, body tensing as she flicks her gaze between Diamond and the guards. Diamond only laughs, a dark little giggle. “Tell you what. If you didn’t know that, bark like the well trained dog you are.”

“Arf arf!” Green shouts. Her body goes slack, relaxing at once as her tongue lolls out. She sharply flicks her tail back and forth, gawking at Diamond Tiara with an expression of absolute adoration.

Oh no. Oh no no no. That’s not fair. That’s her thing! That’s what she does. It has to work!

“You really should keep your mantles up to date.” Diamond Tiara tut-tuts Green, feigning disappointment as she shakes her head. “Still, this is a good bit for you. It really makes you seem more approachable.” Diamond Tiara stands up behind her desk, reaching down into a drawer to find a pink rubber ball. When she rises, I can see her lower body more clearly: a tiara cutie mark on her flank, an eye with a golden swirl inside on her leg, a pile of bits near the base of her tail, and I think there’s something on her back. “Who wants the rubber ball?” She coos at Green, who eagerly hops up and down. “You do? You want the rubber ball? Go get the ball!” She flicks the ball off her desk, and Green eagerly pounces on it with her forehooves, catching it in her mouth and chewing.

“Green?” I call to her at a whisper, leaning down next to her and nudging her shoulders. “Green? Green, snap out of it.” She growls at me, pulling the ball away and defensivly folding her hooves over it. “Green, you need to wake up!”

“Is there a point to this?” Berry asks with a level tone, and my head snaps up to her. I’m alone. I’m alone with Berry and the guards. I can feel my heart racing, the room heating up, it’s getting hard to breathe.

Diamond Tiara doesn’t answer. After the silence gets too long, I turn back to her, and I realize that she’s staring at me. She’s looking right at me, level and evaluating. She’s not putting on airs, she’s... searching for something. But I don’t understand and I don’t know what to do. She sees me watching though, and turns away, reaching across her desk to push one of those miniature wiredolls into the center.

“A point, Berry?” Diamond Tiara asks, her teeth set on edge, her tone dropping into an icy rigidity. “Fifteen of my guards are dead because of that filly beside you, and Trixie thinks she can bully me into pretending it didn’t happen.”

“She offered you a fair deal,” Berry replies, as Green looks between them with wide, uncomprehending eyes. She’s wondering when one of them is going to throw the ball again.

“Tell me,” Diamond Tiara demands, her stare faintly narrowing. “By what standard is, ‘do it and I won’t have you killed,’ a fair deal?”

“That is an oversimplification,” Berry says, her tone calm as ever, but Diamond Tiara’s expression doesn’t change.

“I’m not so sure that it is,” she answers, and I can hear the pent-up rage she’s hiding under that icy exterior. “However, it is surely an accurate description of the terms you are being offered.” She emphasizes her words with a shove of the wiredoll towards the edge of the desk.

Berry turns her head left, then right, taking in the guards around us. She gives in without the slightest show of defeat, stepping up to the doll and then rummaging through her saddlebags for the crystal. It doesn’t take her long to find it, and she leans her head around to slot it into the doll’s flank. The little thing twitches, hums, and comes to life.

“Trixie,” Berry greets the doll. Green barks twice. I don’t say anything. What can I say?

“Berry,” Trixie answers through the doll’s mechanical intonations. Her tone is flat, almost bored, but something is wrong with the doll, and the pitch of her voice wavers up and down randomly. The doll twists around on its little stand, looking over its shoulder at the desk. “Diamond. What’s the meaning of this?”

“I want a hundred and fifty thousand bits for Siren and the other two,” Diamond Tiara answers, quick and to the point. She draws a deep breath, letting it out through her teeth. “I don’t suppose you care, but that’s ten thousand bits for every one of my guards you got killed. Compensation for their families.”

Trixie lets out a derisive snort, the little bobble of the doll’s head the only sign that she rolled her eyes. “The way Trixie hears it, you got your guards killed trying to short-change security. Trixie knows money is hard to come by these days, Diamond, but really? Doctor Stable is half the reason anypony still lives in—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion!” Diamond Tiara roars, her hooves slamming down onto the desk hard enough to leave gouges in the wood. Her eyes go wide, and she rears up, reaching out to spin the doll around with a sharp smack to its base. “I’m sick of getting squeezed by you and by security. What’s the point of paying protection if you don’t actually protect me!?”

Trixie doesn’t answer at first, but I can see the little doll raising a foreleg as though to consider its own hoof, turning around, examining it, and only glancing up after a moment. “Oh, Trixie is sorry, were you expecting an answer to that?”

There’s an explosion there, waiting to be set off—a furious, screaming, wide-eyed rant—but Diamond Tiara takes a deep breath, stamping it down and shaking her head. “A hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Or what, you’ll kill them? How will Trixie ever deal with the grief?” The little doll asks, tone overwrought, raising a hoof to its forehead and mock fainting. After a moment of that, it rights itself, fixing Diamond with a glare and a snide: “Be serious.”

“Oh, of course.” Diamond Tiara turns to Berry, Green, and me, and then scowls down at the tiny metal figurine. “Where do you find these ponies, Trixie? My guards follow me because I would go to the ends of the ocean for any of them, but you seem to find followers who delight in your sadistic indifference to their lives. I suppose when they’ve been particularly good, you do them the honor of beating them in person?”

“This is starting to get boring,” Trixie replies, her tone flat. “Trixie doesn’t care if they live or die, but Trixie does have a reputation to maintain. Touch any of them, and Trixie will have you drawn and quartered right in the middle of that lovely bazaar of yours.”

“That’s kind of an over-the-top threat even for you, Trixie,” Diamond answers, but that confidence is flowing back into her smirk. “But you are even more full of it than usual today. I’ll believe you don’t care about Green or Berry, but you’ve been pulling out all the stops to go after this filly: parting with good money, burning favors, picking fights. She must be very valuable to you to be worth so much effort. Yet I can’t help but notice she doesn’t seem that useful: no valuable skills, no special knowledge, no connections or influence. So I can only imagine that your interest in her is... personal.”

“Oh, please,” Trixie insists, with a little dismissive wave of her hoof. “That’s the best you can come up with? Trixie has—”

“No family, no friends, nopony she cares about,” Diamond Tiara spits caustically, sneering down at the little doll. “I don’t buy the whole mare of mystery act, Trixie. What is she to you? A niece, a cousin, a friend? Somepony you had hidden away so they couldn't be used against you?”

“Oh, yes. That’s it. You got Trixie,” Trixie answers, her voice dripping disdain. “Well! With such a secret out, it seems like Trixie’s only recourse would be to say that if you touch a hair on their bodies, Trixie will have you killed.” A faint pause hangs in the wake of that declaration. “Oh, wait... hold on.”

“You think this is funny?” Diamond shouts, body tense and tone sharp.

“More sad, really.” The doll gives the faintest of sighs, tilting its head to the side. “You don’t have the guts for this city, Diamond—you never did. That’s why you ran crying to Trixie that those mean old stallions in security weren't playing nice with you. And you’ll note that ever since that point, they have left you alone when you aren’t dumb enough to antagonize them—so don’t say that Trixie didn’t hold up her end of the bargain. If you had what it takes, you would never have needed Trixie in the first place, so don’t pretend you’re willing to pick that fight.”

“I am not your pet, Trixie!” Diamond Tiara snarls, her hoof smashing into the desk, knocking one of the glass ornaments off the edge. I hear it shatter on the floor, but I don’t look away.

“No. Good pets are hard to come by, but this city is full of ponies dumb enough to think that running a successful business means they have what it takes to play war,” Trixie answers, unfazed.

“I built this tower and I took care of the ponies in it! Don’t you mock that, you stuck-up lunatic!” she screams, mane out of order as she leans in to glower down at the doll. Her head is almost bigger than its entire body, but Trixie doesn't so much as twitch. “You think I haven’t got the guts?” She sharply turns to us. “Tell you what, Green. Come over here and lay your head on the edge of the desk.”

Green shrugs me off without a second thought, pushing me aside as she trots right up to Diamond Tiara, laying her head on hard desk’s edge. Diamond Tiara turns the wiredoll around so that its pointed right at Green, forcibly tilting its head down to gaze into her eyes. “Tell you what, Green. Tell Trixie that this is Siren next if she doesn’t get the message.”

“Siren’s up here next if you don’t get the message!” Green tells the doll in front of her, sing-song, cheerful, as Diamond picks up one of the heaviest decorations on the deck: a solid brass bookend.

“Diamond, there’s no—”

“Shut up!” Diamond snarls. The bookend is heavy enough that she has to hold it between two hooves. She raises it high, and brings it down on the top of Green’s head. There’s a loud, wet crack, her head slamming down against the edge of the hardwood. At once, her eyes go unfocused, and she starts to slump to the floor, but one of the guards rushes forward to grab her, holding her up and pinning her to the wood.

Diamond Tiara raises the bookend.

“Stop!” I shout, leaping across the little room. The guard is in my way, but I manage to shove myself between him and the desk, wrapping my forelegs around Green’s head. I can barely stand up that way, teetering back and forth on two hooves as I try to find something to brace against. All my legs are burning, shaking with pain, but I can’t let go. “Stop! You’ll kill her. You win, okay!?” I can tell I’m tearing up, and I know I’m screaming but I don’t know what else to do. “You win. I’m sorry I got your tower messed up. I was frightened by security and I ran and I didn’t realize I was leading them somewhere. I’m sorry. You win! Just don’t hurt her.”

Diamond Tiara doesn’t say anything, at first—the bookend is still above her head, and she draws deep, quick breaths, her eyes wide. “Well?”

“Trixie will do as you have demanded if you release the three of them,” the little wiredoll says, its mechanical voice restrained and stiff. “There is no need for any... further unpleasantness, so long as you keep your conclusions a secret. Keep them a secret indefinitely, and Trixie will forget that this ever occurred. We can call it a new understanding between us. Berry will shake on it.”

There’s a pause before Diamond Tiara answers, and when she does, her voice is quieter, lower. “Take the green one outside. Make sure she doesn’t die.” The guards and dolls hesitate, but she makes a sharp gesture with a hoof. I don’t let go—I can’t let go. She might slip and her head could hit the desk! But then there’s a cable wrapped around my foreleg, and one of the guards has my other leg, and they’re pulling me off her, yanking me away no matter how much I struggle and shout, dragging Green off.

“Be quiet!” Diamond Tiara snaps at me, and I fall silent, trying not to sniffle too much. After a moment, she reaches out and gives Berry the most angry hoofshake I’ve ever seen, just about grinding her hoof into the other earth pony’s. After a moment, they finally pull apart, trading Berry’s flat expression for Tiara’s toxic glare.

“Fine,” Diamond Tiara snaps, sitting back in her chair and yawning as she moves a hoof to cover her mouth. “Get them out of here before I change my mind.”

The guards pull us away, back into the main room. Green is there, on her hooves at least, and there’s a bandage around her head. They don’t give us time to talk, pushing us out into the hallway. It doesn’t take them long to lead us to one of the many unmarked metal doors in these halls, and they open it with a ring of keys, forcing us down into it and slamming the door behind us. I hear a humming sound, the whine of those bars lowering. There’s a long stairwell here, twisting down, spiraling through the rock. We move away from the cold, and the sound of dripping water returns, that smell of mold and the feeling of dampness. We move away from the guards, and there’s no sound but our hooves. We move away from the lights, and it’s dark.

“Light,” Berry orders. Green and I both move to comply, but I’m a little faster, and my magenta glow fills the space around us. There’s nothing to see now but the stairwell: winding stone steps and damp walls. Soon though, the stairs end, and we emerge into a rough-hewn tunnel. Grey stone here, not white, and the floor is rough and uneven, covered in patches of moss.

“Are you alright?” I ask Green, once we’re away from the guards. I don’t know why I felt I couldn't talk in front of them, but somehow, the damp and dark tunnel seems far more welcoming than the cool, sterile tower ever did.

She doesn't answer me right away. Her face is pretty messed up. I think some of it might be that her light is actually blood red and mine is pretty close, but the entire left side of her face seems to be covered in a mass of black. Her ear on that side folded back, and her eye keeps sporadically opening and closing.

“I’ve been better, Sweetheart,” she finally says, but the words are noticeably slurred, and a lot of breath escapes with them. “I know this may seem strange, but, not of all us are as tough as you. To some ponies, a concussion is actually a fairly significant inconvenience.”

This place must be getting to me, because for a second, I don’t actually know if she wants me to joke back or not—if I’m supposed to be serious, or show bravado in turn, or just stop talking. That’s such a simple thing to read, usually, but there’s a noticeable pause before I pick up on her. She wants me to stop talking. I think the sound might be making her headache worse.

“You need a...” A doctor. Horseapples. “A place to lie down and get some real first aid. How long is it to where we’re going?”

“Ceto Station is a ways away, Sweetheart. We’ve got a few hours of walking,” she says, her head slumping faintly. “Don’t you worry though. I’ll hold together until then.”

“We are not going to Ceto Station,” Berry corrects her, without the slightest trace of concern for her health—or even something as decent as fear. “Trixie has ordered us to take the first left instead. It will lead us to a maintenance junction where we are to wait for further instructions.”

“That’s not what she told me,” Green says. She raises her voice a little when she answers, but only to bring it to a regular volume—it sounds like it takes a lot of effort.

“Trixie knew that Diamond Tiara could hypnotize you.” Berry gives Green a curt answer, but for some reason, Green laughs, the motion making her wince.

"She’s always got an angle, doesn’t she?” Green asks, but Berry says nothing. It takes Green a second to realize her mistake, or to remember who she’s talking to. “Did Trixie tell you anything else?”

“Yes,” Berry answers. Of course she does.

“Anything I might find relevant?” Green asks, nudging me a little as we pass through a particularly narrow bit of tunnel. Berry takes her time in answering that one too—mulling it over, I guess.

“That I should shake on her behalf,” Berry says. Her voice is plain, reciting the simple facts of our meeting, but Green laughs again—a dark chuckle this time.

A smile appears on Green’s face as we walk, that same smile she had when she told me I started a riot, and when she calmly stuck two knives into a pony’s ears. She doesn’t seem to have any more questions for Berry, walking with her eyes half shut. It makes her seem strangely serene, even though I know she must be in pain.

“What does that mean, Green?” I finally ask her, after what seems like forever. “Green? What does that mean?”

“’S just like I told you, Sweetheart,” she says, “One way or another, we all deserve exactly what we get.”

Zephyr

The rest of the journey is a blur—an indistinct haze of events that come swift and immediate, only to fade the moment they pass. Berry leads us through the tunnels to a security door, and we sit down to wait. Green falls asleep as soon as she puts her head down, and when I nudge her, she doesn’t wake up. I shake her as hard as I dare, poke her, yell, try to do anything I can to rouse her, but there’s no response.

I ask Berry to help, but she ignores me. That just makes her the target of all my anger and worry. I bellow at her, command her, scream every insult and profanity I know, threaten what Trixie will do to her if Green dies, but she doesn’t so much as blink. Eventually, I scream myself out, and there’s nothing I can do but kneel by Green’s side, hold her head, and hope that she’ll wake up again.

I don’t know how long we sit there. There’s no way to tell the time, and Berry never moves or says a word. It’s like I’m the only living thing in these halls. At first, I try to keep time by listening to the water drip, but then the count runs too high, and I lose track. My head is empty, and my mind distant. I’m apart from it all, watching from far away, my thoughts a bizarre and indifferent commentary. It’s like I shouted all the energy out of me, too tired to act, too tired to think, and there’s nothing left I can do but wait.

Water rushes out from under the door when it opens. It’s not the pressurized spray of a space open to the sea, but the release of a stagnant pool, the smell of brine heavy in the air as it washes around the three of us. I rise before it hits me, and it sloshes around my hooves, barely high enough to come to my ankles. It’s freezing, and the splashes alone send a shiver through me. I can’t imagine what it’s doing to Green, and I want to pull her out of it, but I don’t think you’re supposed to move a pony with a head wound. As if I could even lift her right now.

There’s nopony on the other side at first, just a dark space that my horn won’t light. I can see nothing, but senses old and instinctive rise to the occasion—things more primal than sight. There’s only blackness on the other side of that door, but I can sense motion: rising, falling, writhing, twisting. I can feel the floor shake with the movements, and a thick scent washes over us like fog. Sweat. Blood. Urine. All the smells of ponykind in concentration, mixed in with that aroma of dead and rotting flowers. The motion in the darkness oozes forward with that scent, sliding out towards us with the cloud.

It’s a pony—a tan pegasus stallion—and two others behind him. One is a unicorn, dressed in a filthy white labcoat and balancing a stretcher between them. The other is a mauve pegasus mare with a belt full of tools. Both pegasi are covered in a sheen of sweat, and the stallion’s wings are crippled like Golden Palm’s were—withered and deformed.

“You three Siren Song, Berry Punch, and Green Apple?” the first pony asks, and Berry nods. “Then we’re your ride out of here. I’m Red Wall, the mare is Zephyr, and that’s Bolt, our doc. Stretcher her up, would you?” He gestures the other two forward, and they move up to Green.

“She hit her head,” I say as they approach, glancing down at the wound. I cleaned it up as best I could, but her coat is still sticky with blood all down one side of her face. It’s coming from cuts, punctures, and out of her ear, oozing steadily down her cheek. “She was fine for a bit after, but then her eye started twitching, and when she went to sleep she wouldn't wake up. Is she going to be okay?”

The unicorn doesn’t answer me, but his horn glows, shining a bright crimson light down onto her head. It’s the same spell Doctor Stable cast on me, and it’s only belatedly that I realize that labcoat could hide any number of cutie marks. The other two are covered in them head to hoof, so many that I don’t bother counting them.

“Yes,” the doctor answers, but his words are clipped, his throat tight, and in the dull magenta light from my horn, I can see he’s biting his lip. “But she needs surgery. Soon. Zephyr, get ready.” The mare holding the other end of the stretcher braces, and his horn’s glow changes from crimson to a dull blue as he levitates Green out of my grasp, grunting with the effort of moving her to the stretcher.

“What? Why? What’s wrong?” I ask, close to the doctor’s side as they make their way through the door. He doesn’t answer me, focusing on holding the stretcher steady, and my horn illuminates our path as we go. There’s no hallway here, just a tiny, cramped, hot room that reeks of brine, rot, and every bodily fluid I can think of. It’s empty save for a bulky mechanical device in the center—a mass of cables, chains, and gears—and a large window at the far end, some levers in front of it. I don’t understand where we’re going. There are no other exits to this room, and he’s not going to perform surgery here, is he? I could get tetanus just looking at this place—the floors and walls are metal and covered in rust.

“And, down...” the doctor says, and he and Zephyr lower the stretcher down to the floor. Behind us, I can hear the clank and hiss of the door as it slides shut behind us. Zephyr steps over Green, squeezing past Bolt to sit beside me. Red Wall shoulders his way to the window at the same time, the three of them struggling to fit through the tight space at the same time. At first, I think the doctor is going to operate while they keep watch, but he steps away from her too, moving to the back to sit next to Berry.

“Doctor? What’s wrong?” I repeat, the glow from my horn casting long, twisted shadows in the tiny space. The air here is already getting stale, my lungs burning when I draw breath. “Doctor!” I snap, and he shoots me a curt glare.

“Her skull is cracked,” he answers me. His voice raises a little, words clipped and snippy. “She needs surgery and I can’t do that here.”

“So why are we just sitting here!?” I yell, in the hope that it will maybe occur to him that he’s leaving Green on the floor to die in this filthy place!

Somepony’s hoof touches my shoulder, and when I turn to look, Zephyr is there. “It’s okay. We’ll be back home soon,” she says, catching my gaze and giving me a reassuring nudge. She’s calm, comfortable, trying to tell me with body and face that it will all be okay. A loud mechanical thump carries through the room, and I hear a rush of water behind us.

“Rear hatch sealed,” Bolt calls forward. “Animating.” Scarlet light courses through his horn, traveling up the grooves towards the tip. The light builds there into a single bright point as Bolt squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. He tilts his head forward, and the light lances out, striking the strange assemblage in the center of the room. At first nothing happens, but then, like a creature rousing from its rest, the device stirs. Cables and chains go taut like stretching limbs, gears groaning as the first hiss of escaping breath, and I realize I can feel the room tilting, twisting to one side.

“Knee tension is holding at thirty thousand newtons,” Red Wall calls back to us, reaching out to grasp one of the levers in front of him. “Moving.”

The entire room lurches to one side, and it’s not until I feel us pulling forward that I realize it’s not a room at all. Of course maintenance would need a way to get around outside—they can walk us to Neptune’s Bounty! I check on Green to make sure all this motion isn’t rocking her off the stretcher, but she seems well supported, and I eventually notice there are straps on the stretcher holding her down. For just this reason, I guess. Hang on, Green, we’ll be out of danger soon.

I’m starting to feel the burn from keeping a light going this long, so I let my horn go out. Without it, there’s hardly any light in here at all—just the dull red glow from Bolt’s animating spell, and the city lights coming in through the window. Combined with the smell in the air, it makes this place feel... primordial, the ponies around me vague impressions in the shadow. I can tell why it’s so hot; with six ponies packed into this tiny space, I’m already starting to sweat, and I have to shrug my jacket off. The air is beyond stale, the burning in my lungs persisting no matter how much I try to clear them.

I’m about to ask how bad the air gets when there’s a sound like bellows behind me, and a wave of fresh air washes across the room. The new air is as hot and damp as the rest of the space, but it’s still a palpable relief from the stifling atmosphere—a warm wind that blows the burning vapors out of my lungs. It’s actually really relaxing, the tension I didn’t know I was holding letting go as I realize I’m not about to suffocate. The bellows stop after a second, and then reverse, sucking in a wave of the stale air. The room still stinks, but the primordial swamp around me doesn't feel quite so hostile anymore, and I lean over to be a bit closer to the machine.

My head bumps Zephyr’s, and I start a little bit, pulling away from her. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, turning to face her as I apologize. “I didn’t...”

The words die in my throat as I try to take in what’s in front of me. Zephyr is sitting down on the floor, legs folded under her, her eyes shut. She’s stretched her jaw wide open, like a serpent, neck craned out into the cabin. As I watch, she draws a deep breath—deeper than any I’ve even seen, her barrel swelling out with the motion. One of her cutie marks glows a dull red when she finishes the breath, the tree and mouse depicted on her chest briefly visible. Then she lets the breath out, and warm, fresh air washes over my face.

For a moment, I’m not sure how to react. She is a pegasus, so I guess air magic isn’t unnatural for her. I suppose it doesn’t matter much, since we need air to live.

“I didn’t mean to bump into you,” I say to her, finishing my apology. She doesn’t react.

But, I guess she’s busy.

I end up spending most of the trip watching Red Wall pilot the machine. He’s the only one here other than me who seems alive; Berry and Green are both still, and Zephyr and Bolt only move in time with the machinery, like they were parts of the vehicle themselves. Red Wall never so much as looks at me, but it’s oddly comforting to watch him struggle with the levers, cursing under his breath every time one gets stuck or he makes a mistake.

I’m not sure how long it’s been before the view outside the window changes—half an hour maybe. I can see some kind of metal archway above us, then another, then another, and soon the city lights are obstructed completely, our vehicle nestled in some kind of steel cave. That whistle I heard before lets out three sharp blasts, and a rhythmic pounding echoes through the hull. Red Wall keeps at his station even though we aren’t moving anymore, and it’s not long before the water outside the window starts to churn. I can see a surface now, the water level dropping, leaving little rivers to run down the glass.

Glass. It didn’t occur to me until just now. That’s a window. It’s a real window. I watch the little patterns the water makes as it drains, until Red Wall gives one of the largest levers a pull, and I hear a sharp clatter outside.

“We are locked in place,” he calls back into the room. “Drainage complete. Leg tension released. Animator may open the hatch at will.”

Bolt doesn’t seem to move, but I guess he does something, because the door at the back suddenly slides open. He releases his spell, and the gears haven’t even stopped turning before he’s moving towards the stretcher. For a second, over the sound of the gears, I can hear the oddest feminine giggling coming from the front of the craft—but when I look that way, there’s nopony there, just my reflection in the wet glass. Red Wall has already left his post, moving to help Bolt with the stretcher. Zephyr is staying put this time; she’s raising her wings, beating them like a fan to push the bad air out the open hatch, her mouth still craned all the way open. That’s part of her job I suppose?

“And up!” Red Wall calls. There’s a strap on the end of the stretcher poles so that earth ponies can carry it around their shoulders, and he and Bolt easily lift Green, maneuvering her towards the exit. I step after them, but Berry blocks my path.

“Berry, get out of my way,” I say, stepping to the left, but she takes a step of her own to match me. They’re already out the door behind her, moving onto some kind of gangplank. “Berry!”

“We should report to Trixie first,” Berry answers, bored, flat, dull.

“You go ahead; I’m going with them,” I say, trying to cut to the right. It’s no good though. I’d have more luck fast-talking a stone wall, and no matter how I move, she’s right in front of me, muzzle to muzzle.

“I am not leaving you alone,” she replies, her quick motions juxtaposed by her slow speech. “Your presence will not speed her recovery.”

“Berry, get out of my way!” They’ve carried her out of sight now, around a bend, but if I hurry I might still be able to catch them!

“You are becoming emotional,” Berry says, displaying her astounding mastery of the obvious. Of course I’m becoming emotional! Somepony is dying and she’s getting in my way because she can’t wait five minutes to have her stupid wire with her boss!

“Oh you think so, you—!”

“Hey, hey!” Zephyr’s voice cuts in. I’d forgotten she was still in the cabin with us. When I glance back over my shoulder, she’s alert again, mouth closed and wings folded by her side. “I’ll watch the filly. You go ahead and wire your boss. I promise, she won’t get in trouble.”

I am not a filly! Hooves, I look older than she does! But... whatever works. Berry takes forever to think about it, the seconds dragging on impossibly long as she blankly stares at us. Finally, she takes a step to one side to let us pass. I dart ahead before she can change her mind, ignoring the burning in my legs as I look left and right.

I can’t see Green. I’m on some kind of metal catwalk that swings out on a huge joint, connecting to the white stone and steel cavern around us. There’s an enormous door past the end of the catwalk that I assume must be what we came through, but it’s not the time to sightsee. There must be dozens of doors, passages, ladders and stairways running all over the space around us. She could have gone anywhere!

“Hold your horses,” Zephyr says, stepping out after me. “It’s Siren Song, right?” she asks, forcing a little upbeat energy into her voice. I can tell that she’s just doing it to reassure me, but it still kind of works, and I nod. “Alright, they’re going to be rushing her to the doc’s office. I’ll show you the way, come on.” She starts down the catwalk at a brisk trot. At first, she seems infuriatingly slow—but when I stretch out my legs to take off after her, I can feel something about to rip. On pure instinct, I yelp in pain and instinctively come to a halt. She stops at once, turning sharply to check on me. “You okay?” she asks, quick, and a tad worried.

“Fine.” I manage to keep my tone even when I answer, but it does make me realize that perhaps galloping after Green wouldn't be a good idea. “I pulled something earlier. Let’s just walk.”

She nods, and leads me on at a slower pace, down the catwalk and into one of the tunnels. The walk gives me more time to evaluate her in a good light; I’m not sure I’ll need the information, but old habits die hard. She does seem a little younger than me—if I didn’t know this city, I’d put her at sixteen. She has a soft mauve coat that clashes with her fiery red mane and tail, her wings sleek and tufted with streaks of orange. She has a half-dozen cutie marks that I can see—a smiley face on her flank, the tree and mouse on her chest, a hammer and woodsaw along her barrel, three interlocked gears on her cheek, and a lightbulb on her back. No pony biting its own tail? Maybe it’s on her belly or something.

She doesn’t say much, but I think that’s because she knows I’m not in the mood for conversation—she certainly isn’t afraid of saying little things, telling me to watch my step when we go up stairs or come across a particularly deep puddle. This place isn’t as run down as Artemis Suites or Serpent’s Wharf, but the signs of decay are visible; we pass more puddles than dry floor, and the metal fittings on the walls are often rusted. There are lots of signs of recent habitation, ranging from coffee cups left on the steps to wet hoofprints, but the corridors seem to be abandoned now.

“Here you go,” Zephyr says, pushing open a door with a large red cross on it. We’re in a brilliantly lit antechamber of some kind, a small room with three large windows on the far side that look out over a larger space, a door to our left providing access. It’s an operating room, and I can see Green sprawled out on the table, surrounded by three ponies in... mostly clean labcoats. There’s a glass shield of some kind over the operating table, and I don’t understand what it’s for until I see the buckets scattered around the room to catch the water that drips out of the wide cracks in the ceiling. The glass blurs and distorts Green’s image so I can’t see her clearly, but... maybe that’s for the best. The doctors seem calm, at least.

“Can we go inside?” I ask, but Zephyr shakes her head.

“Let’s let them do their work,” she says, keeping her tone casual and pointing to a corner of the room with an old, soggy couch. “Come on, sit down. We can watch and wait.”

I drag the couch over to the window, which I sense isn’t quite what Zephyr had in mind, but she doesn’t complain. The couch isn’t big enough for two to sit end to end, and is a hair short of deep enough to let you sit back to front, so we end up in a fairly uncomfortable arrangement with Zephyr sitting lengthwise and facing me, and me sitting forwards with my forehooves on the floor to support me.

“Yeah, this couch is pretty terrible,” she mutters, and I nod.

Frankly though, I’m not paying her much attention. The surgery isn’t what I expected. I’m not sure what I was expecting, other than maybe a spray of blood and panicked shouting, but it’s just three doctors standing around her and muttering to each other. You can’t even see anything—they usually block the view, and when they don’t, the glass distorts the image.

“She’ll be fine,” Zephyr says. Her tone is reassuring, but more than that it’s genuine. She’s a bad actor, and I can hear every little stiff hesitation in her voice when she tries to make herself sound calm. Mostly though, she doesn't have to try, and her tone smooths out as she continues. “Bolt can be a little gruff, but he knows what he’s doing. Once, one of the unicorns here got caught in the bilge pump, and it ripped her horn right out of her skull. We were all sure she was going to die, but he had her back on her hooves in a week.” I just nod, and she takes that as a cue to continue. “Not even any brain damage—she woke up and saw us and asked if we’d all died too. I got to give her the good news,” she says, with an earnest little smile. She really thinks that’s going to cheer me up. “Of course, learning to use her mouth and hooves was a bit harder. She’d keep trying to use magic and then pee herself and forget who she was for a half hour or so.”

“That’s kind of grim,” I reply. I should be offended, or disgusted or... something. I don’t feel it though. Zephyr at least has the decency to look embarrassed.

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” she admits, reaching up to scratch behind her head with a hoof. “But life can be grim. You need to find the fun in it. Laugh. I know, seeing her get hurt probably scared the stuffing out of you, but she’ll be fine.”

“I guess,” I say, turning away from the glass for a moment to look at Zephyr. “You mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead,” she says, overdoing it a little with the upbeat manner. Really, she stops just short of a hoof-pump for emphasis, and a deaf pony could hear the tension in her chest. Oh well, she’s trying.

“How old are you?” It’s a little blunt, but, I don’t think she’ll take offense. Right now, I don’t have the energy to do something clever anyway. “You look sixteen, but you have wings like a pegasus from Equestria and you called me ‘filly’ earlier.”

“I am sixteen—but the new mare is always ‘filly,’” she explains, smiling a little as she turns her head up towards me. “And you do kind of have that air about you.”

“What air is that?” I ask. I wasn’t meaning to project anything, but then again, between the stress and the fear and the worry, there are times when I’m not even thinking about what my body language is saying. It’s sloppy form, and just the thought makes me sit up and look a little more mature and alert.

“That you’re still kind of figuring things out. You’re, you know, youthful,” she says, with a little waggle of her wings in my direction.

“Did you just call me a child?” I’m not really offended, but the conversation is a nice distraction from what’s going on in front of me, and I take her up on the offer. “I’m nearly two years older than you.”

“Yeah, but I had a job when I was six. You’re still reeling from getting out of your parents’ place, right?” Celestia is not exactly my mother, and Vision is not exactly the normal world, but the palace is my home, and so the comment stings a little more than I think she meant it to. I don’t show it though, and I nod with a trace of reluctance, “admitting” to the fault.

“You had a job when you were six?” I ask, feeling a change of subject is in order.

“Uh-huh!” she answers with a more genuine cheer, reaching up to tap the three interlocked gears on her cheek. “I was a mechanic for the Rainbow Tram. Cargo cranes, station clocks, all that. It’s hard for full-grown ponies to crawl into the machines, you know? It’s good work for a filly.”

“You got that when you were six?” I gesture to the cutie mark on her cheek with my muzzle. That would have to be before she got her real cutie mark.

“Yup! My dad’s a mechanic. He always wanted an earth pony son to pass the business on to, but Mom gave him three pegasus fillies who were about as sharp as marbles. He loved us to death anyway, but, you know. You could tell he was disappointed.” She’s a bit of a storyteller it seems. For now though, I want a distraction, so her inability to get to the point is actually an asset. “So, one night, I stole some money from the cashbox, snuck out, and got a bottle of Grease Monkey from the store down the street. Drank the whole thing without reading the instructions, got completely wired, spent the whole night fixing everything in Dad’s workshop, and then threw up and passed out.”

“How’d he take that?” I ask, trying to picture a stallion walking in on his daughter, passed out on the floor with that unnatural brand on her cheek.

“Well, first he was terrified, then he was relieved I was okay, then he was furious. I’d gone and spent money we didn’t have, not to mention the doctor’s bills from when dad rushed me in, convinced I’d poisoned myself.” She laughs a little at that, tapping the tips of her hooves together as she glances down at the floor. “But then he was... proud, you know? I stood up and said I’d get a job to pay for it and that I wasn’t going to let him and Mom down. He told me I didn’t have to do any of that and that he loved me anyway, but I was pretty stupid back then, and even I could tell he was so proud he was trying not to cry. That’s when he started calling me ‘young mare’ instead of ‘filly.’”

“And that’s why I’m ‘filly’ now even though I’m older,” I summarize, and she nods. “So are you going to take over the business then?”

“Oh, probably not. One of my sisters maybe,” she says, and even though she keeps her tone casual, I catch the little awkward glance down. A falling out with her family? Or the business not doing so well? “I still keep in touch with Mom and Dad of course, but Maintenance is family now too. Considering how much you get injured on this job, there’s probably as much of my blood here as in Mom and Dad.”

“It’s really that bad?” I ask, though considering this city, I’m not surprised.

“Well, I exaggerate a little. It’s usually pretty safe, but there are times we have to go into bad parts of the city—even the Wharf. You can expect a few injuries then. Plus, equipment failure, drowning, flooding, you name it.” She rattles off the list casually, without any trace of fear or concern. “It’s really rare that anypony actually dies though; we know what we’re doing, and the Pavilion gives us all the doctors we ask for.”

“Wait, they’re Pavilion doctors?” I turn back to the glass, my body tensing reflexively. They don’t seem alert, so I should let them finish, but I’ll have to stop them from reporting back. The last report was on paper, so if they don’t wire it in, maybe I can intercept it before it gets out.

“Relax, Siren,” Zephyr says, reaching out to gently push me back to the couch. “They’re friends. This one’s off the record.”

“Oh.” It takes a few deep breaths for the tension to leave my body, but I manage to settle back into the couch. “So Trixie paid you, or...”

“We never take bribes,” she answers, curt and quick. She keeps it in check, but I can tell from the way her mane bristles a bit that I’ve genuinely offended her, as if her tone didn’t make that clear enough.

“I’m sorry, I knew that,” I say, betting that it’s common knowledge. Combined with a sigh and a little slump of my head, it perfectly conveys how bad my day has been for me to make such an obvious mistake. That mollifies her fine, and she rewards me a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay,” she says, softening her tone to show all is forgiven. “I’m not in on all the details, but this is more of a ‘one good turn deserves another’ situation as I understand it. Trixie did us some huge favor and we’re settling accounts.” That sounds an awful lot like a bribe to me, but I somehow think it might be imprudent to say as much. “So uh...” She smiles, perking up her ears and nudging my side. “Friends in high places, huh?”

“I wouldn't call us friends,” I answer, with a little shake of my head. It’s probably not prudent to discuss this, but it feels good to say. “She’s pulled me out of a few fires though, yeah.”

“So, what’s the mare of mystery like?” she asks, leaning forward intently. She seems so eager, I almost want to make something up just to delight her—but in the end, I shrug.

“You’re the one who lives downstairs from her—you tell me. We’ve never met face to face.” I meant it as a brushoff, but the confused stare she gives me alerts me at once that I said something wrong. “She... does live here, right?”

“Nnnnot that I’m aware of,” she drags the words out, giving a firm shake of her head. “Last I heard, she lives in Neptune’s Bounty.”

“This isn’t Neptune’s Bounty,” I say, as the hope that this awful journey is at an end tumbles down around my ears. It’s all I can do to keep my expression something like neutral.

“This is the Tethys Industrial Center. Neptune’s Bounty is halfway across the city.” Just for a second, my poker face slips—my eyes going down to the floor. I realize I’ve given myself away, and I let it come, sighing through clenched teeth as I shut my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say. And it is fine. It’s a bit disappointing, but it was probably prudent to stop at the closest location to get Green her surgery, and we can always get back in the vehicle later. “I’m just... fine.” She’s not going to let it go at that. I need to change the subject. “So you got too big to be a mechanic?”

“I’m still a mechanic; I just work on other things now,” she explains, kind enough to pretend she didn’t see what just happened. “We’re so understaffed, you won’t find anypony here with only one job. Everypony does everything.”

“I was wondering why your doctor was powering the... vehicle,” I say, prompting her for the name with a little gesture of my hoof.

“Crawler,” she names our peculiar steel chariot. “And, yeah. It carries six ponies maximum, so for big jobs, it’s really helpful to have the repair team also crew the vehicle. And frankly, six ponies is pushing it a little further than is really safe,” she explains, making a faint, flicking gesture with a hoof, as though to urge somepony on. “I was wheezing pretty hard there at the end.”

“Yeah, that... thing you did.” Where you turned yourself into a living accordion that sucks down stale and putrid air. I’m struggling to think of the right emotion to show in this situation, so I settle for a moderate uncertainty, uncomfortable enough that she’ll get the idea but won’t be offended. “With the air.”

“Isn’t it awesome?” She didn’t get the idea. “This one time, I held my breath for thirty hours straight just to see if I could—I only had to let it out because I was so tired I was about to pass out.” She seems so animated by that, so full of energy. “Ponies keep daring me to go for a swim and pretend I drowned, but, I don’t think those jokes are funny, you know?”

“That would be tasteless,” I blandly agree, hoping she’ll pick up on the hint. She doesn’t.

“Oh, totally. The only downside is I can’t walk on clouds anymore—” Wait, what? “—which sucks whenever I visit the flight school. Mom’s really cool with it though. She’s always been very supportive.”

“Your mom works at a flight school?” I ask, deciding it might be better to approach the subject obliquely than to just blurt out how wrong that is.

“My mom owns a flight school: Cloud Chaser’s Flight Academy.” She says it with a fair measure of pride, pressing a hoof to her chest. “You might have heard of it? Business has been slow lately, but it used to be kind of a big deal.”

“Um... yeah, I’ve heard of it,” I say, neglecting to add that the last graduate I met couldn’t fly if his life depended on it. I’m not sure I think much of her mother’s skill as a teacher. “Is that why your wings are in good condition even though you grew up here?”

“Mmmhmm. I got plenty of exercise growing up whether I wanted to or not,” she says, giving a little cheerful flap of her wings, the gust blowing my mane back behind my head and making me squint. “I actually hated it when I was growing up. None of my friends could fly, which made me the weird one—I got bullied a lot. But, now I’m really glad Mom did it. Being able to fly is so useful when we need to get at ceiling cracks, and it does make me look good.” She stretches her wings exactly the way Swiftwing did, so that the tips of her primaries touch behind her head and give her a halo of feathers. That can’t be a coincidence, but it at least means I know what response she’s fishing for, and my expression is suitably admiring.

“I could totally look that good if I wanted to. I just don’t want to,” I say, playing the part she wants me to play. She giggles right on cue, glancing down at the floor as a little blush touches her cheeks. “What was that about not being able to walk on clouds?”

“Oh, yeah. For some reason, mantles that let you do air magic inside your lungs take away your cloudwalking. Bolt explained it to me once, but I didn’t really get it. Something to do with the noves and reconfiguring the whosawhazit—you know, doc talk.” She shrugs, seeming indifferent to the whole notion. “I miss it, because being able to push around clouds was great, but this is awesome too, so I can’t say it wasn’t a good deal.”

“Being able to hold your breath for a really long time?” I ask, making sure my tone doesn’t slide into outright skepticism, only lightly curious. It’s easier than I thought it would be. Once you get over the horror of the idea, it does have a sort of bizarre fascination to it—a pony cheerfully talking about mutilating herself.

“No. Yes. I mean, that’s fun too,” she says, stumbling through the words. She reaches a hoof up to make a wide circling gesture, searching for the right way to express herself. “But, being able to do something I never could before. I always imagined that it’s a little bit like being a unicorn. Pegasus magic is very physical, you know? Pushing things around, jumping on clouds—now I can do something useful and weird just by thinking about it. It’s a lot like when I got my first cutie mark. Suddenly, stuff that used to confuse and upset me was fun and interesting and I was good at it. I think that’s why I like Maintenance so much. Pinkie Pie says that every cutie mark is for laughter because everypony can find something in their job that makes them smile.”

“That’s—” Cliche? Trite? An obvious attempt to cover up what a nightmare this city has become? “—inspiring. Have you met her in person?”

“Yeah, once!” she chirps, smiling at the memory. “She’s crazy busy, of course, but she makes an effort to get to know every pony in Maintenance personally. She showed up to my cuteceañara and my dad about had a nervous attack. My mom knew her from when she was only the baker down the street, so she didn’t get quite as wound up, but everypony was still really excited. She breathed a lot of life into the party,” Zephyr says, giggling as she adds “and, fixed our leaking faucet while she was there. She’s a little weird.”

“Yeah. I can imagine,” I say—a bit of a non-answer, but I can see one of the doctors moving away from the operating table, heading up towards the door.

It’s Bolt, and soon enough, I can hear a latch sliding away on the door’s far side. He steps out and nudges it shut behind him with a hoof before he nods to the two of us. His lab coat is a little dirtier than it was before, marked with fresh bloodstains, but I can tell at once he has good news. He’s not smiling, but his posture is... satisfied. It’s a little hard to explain how, there’s a thousand little things in the way a pony holds themselves, but I’ve got a good instinct for these things.

“I wanted to let you know your friend will be fine.” He confirms my observations, and I mean... I already knew he was going to say that. So it’s fine. Green will be fine. She’s tough like that. I still let my shoulders slump to show suitable relief, of course. I bet he’s the type to take pride in his work; he’ll appreciate it. “It’ll be another hour or so before she’s out of surgery, but at this point, we’re patching up the secondary injuries; we were able to soothe her concussion and knit her skull back together just fine. She’ll have a nasty scar, but no brain damage.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I say, and maybe that relieved slump isn’t entirely fake. Green is going to hate having a scar on her face, but, she’ll get over it. She can let her mane fall down over the other side of her face—it’ll be totally invisible. “Can I wait here until you’re done?”

“If you like, but there’s not going to be anything to see,” he says with a shrug. “We’re just going to sew her up and then move her to a bed. She’s out of danger, but it’ll be at least a day or two until she’s awake.”

Two days? We’re going to be stuck here two days? I start to object—we’re wanted fugitives, we can’t stay in one place for two days—but Zephyr reaches out to touch my shoulder again. “It’s okay,” she assures, catching my eyes and smoothing out her words. “You’re guests here for as long as you need. Security never bothers us. You’ll be safe.” I don’t answer right away, and she evidently takes that as a sign that I need more reassurance. “Besides, you look like you could use some time to recover yourself. You should stay with us—it’s a real party here once everypony gets back from their work details.”

Somehow, that’s not the first thing on my mind, but I doubt I’d get very far arguing the point with either of them. I nod, and they both take that as an indication of surrender. Zephyr unfolds herself from the couch, stepping back onto the floor as Bolt steps back towards the operating room.

“Come on then. It’s only an hour or so until the day shift ends. Why don’t we catch up with your other friend, and then you can help us get ready?” Zephyr says, and I almost agree, but something makes me stop halfway through forming the first word—an instinctual fear.

I really don’t want to be alone with Berry right now.

“Berry can wait. She and Trixie always talk forever anyway,” I say with a little dismissive wave of a hoof. “Why don’t we go get ready? It’ll keep my mind off things.”

“You’re sure?” she asks, and I nod.

Our trip through the corridors is fairly quick. Zephyr makes some polite small talk, but nothing much comes of it. Now that I’m less distracted, I’m starting to get a feel for the outline of this place. The dock for the crawler seems to be the center of the building, and we keep catching glimpses of it as we maneuver our way up the stairs and across a number of the catwalks. It’s an ugly contraption, resembling nothing so much as a ladybug the size of a small building, balanced on six giant spindly legs made of steel and cable. It’s half-submerged, but I can see there’re quite a few gems studded into its surface below the waterline, though I have no idea what spells they might be powering. Somepony has even painted big spots on it to make it look more like a real bug. Or maybe that’s rust. Zephyr doesn’t say, and I don’t ask.

The building is more than a bit of a labyrinth, but eventually, our course takes us up and above the crawler dock, and we emerge out into a large storeroom. It’s as wide across as the dock was—a hundred paces at least—but the ceiling is lower, and it’s filled with stacks of crates, lumber, metal beams, tools, and every other mechanical bauble I can imagine. Maneuvering between those tall stacks makes the room feel a little claustrophobic despite its size, but Zephyr obviously knows where she’s going, and soon we emerge into an open space. It’s a little clearing amongst the crates, full of tables, couches, and pillows. I’m pretty sure we’re in the center of the room, though with the stacks all around us, it’s hard to tell. The space is festively decorated, festooned with banners and ribbons, and full of bright balloons straining at their strings.

“Here we are!” Zephyr announces cheerfully, her voice echoing around the room. “Ponies will start getting back soon. It takes a while for them to filter in, so whoever gets there first gets things ready for everypony else. We’re a little early, but no sense in wasting time, right?” It’s the sort of excessively cheerful question that leaves the mind grasping for any response but a dull nod, and after a moment, I decide to bow to the pressure. “That’s the spirit. So! Why don’t we start by replacing the popped balloons? I’ll blow them up, you tie them off?”

“You can, uh...” I really don’t want to see that. I just know she’s going to have fun with it too, cheerfully giggling about how squeaky her voice sounds while I have to pretend what’s happening to her barrel and chest is normal.

“Blow them up with the helium tank, Siren,” she says, rolling her eyes before she turns to trot off, heading back into the stacks to retrieve the tank. “You’re kind of a prude, you know that?” she calls back over her shoulder, teasing.

I laugh, but I don’t think she hears me. That’s probably for the best. It wasn’t a very good laugh.

Soon enough, she comes back with a helium tank on a rolling cart, and we set to work. It’s not bad; I could really use a distraction right now, and there’s plenty here to occupy me. It always shocks me how dexterous earth ponies and pegasi can be with their mouths—I still have to tie the balloons off, but she’s able to get them inflated just as fast. Of course, she does do the squeaky-voice bit, and I have to pretend that is or was ever funny.

There’re other things too—like the poster somepony has tacked up to a stack of lumber. Bright blue writing across the top reads, “Race to the Ocean Floor,” and perhaps twenty long columns have been drawn down it. Each column has a little cardboard cutout of a pony stuck to it somewhere along its length, and I recognize Zephyr as one of them, depicted with a smile on her face and her wings outstretched. Each column has a little silver “0” written along the top, and a golden “1000” at the bottom, nestled amongst little sketches of fish and city towers.

“It’s for leak repair,” Zephyr says, unprompted. She must have caught me staring. “First pony to patch a thousand leaks gets a party. I mean, we all party anyway, but it’s fun.” She keeps talking, but she also leans down to inflate a balloon as she says it, so all I hear is an extended string of mumbles and the hiss of gas. As soon as is tactful, I take it from her and tie it off, letting her draw a breath before she goes on. “It usually takes about two and a half months for somepony to win, and then we start it all over again.”

“That would imply you patch—” I glance at the chart, gauging how far down they’ll all be when the leader hits the end “—about six thousand leaks a month.”

“About that, yeah. You know the joke: you can tell Vision was made by a unicorn because it was falling apart the day it was finished, and you can tell it’s kept up by an earth pony because it darn well stays that way.” That’s a little funny, I guess, and I do smile. She giggles a bit harder than the joke deserves though.

“And what about pegasi?” I ask, nudging her on.

“We thought the whole underwater city idea was dumb in the first place.” She grins, leaning down to fill another balloon. “Fuf fu ho. He hent hahong huiff it.”

“Well, thank you for indulging the rest of us.” A good follow-up can salvage even the worst joke, and I put enough dry humor into my words that even I’m smiling a little at the end. Zephyr is giggling clear through the next three balloons, until she finally gets it under control, leaning away from the tank.

“Alright, I think that’s enough. Why don’t you finish tying them up while I go put this away and find the punch bowl?” Her enthusiasm is a little irritating, but it’s also kind of comforting. It’s such a normal, not-trapped-in-a-living-nightmare request that just hearing it feels kind of nice, and I nod before she’s even finished standing up. “Great. Don’t wander off!” she says, sing-song, before taking the handle of the rolling cart in her teeth and dragging the helium tank away.

It’s relaxing, tying up the balloons. I’m not very good at it—servants did this sort of thing back in the palace, or I talked my friends into doing it. My knots are ugly and crude compared to the beautiful, intricate bows the other bits of string are tied in, and I can’t get the ribbons to curl in that elegant way the others do. But, it’s still a balloon on a string, for a party where there will be punch and stupid games, and where the ponies will be friendly and make nice conversation. They’ll probably be markers too, but as long as they’re like Zephyr, I think I can deal with that. It’s a little disturbing, but I can deal with it.

I mean, she’s not really a monster—not like Trixie or Berry or Green. Each of them has a shriveled or rusted or rotten soul. Zephyr’s body may be a little... disquieting, but she has a family she loves, friends she hangs out with, a tendency to laugh a little too hard at her own bad jokes. She even has a cutie mark story—granted, it was about the mark on her cheek instead of the one on her flank, but that’s only a detail. Once you get around that, she’s very normal.

Though I suppose she’ll go into withdrawal eventually. She probably won’t be so normal then.

I guess I get a little lost in thought, because I have no idea how long it’s been when I’m snapped out of my reverie by the sound of a door swinging open. There’s the squeak of hinges, and the clang of metal, and the steady clip-clop of hooves on stone—echoing back and forth amongst the stacks. It’s a perfectly normal sound, but I can feel all the little hairs of my coat going stiff.

Was that the door Zephyr went through?

“Zephyr? Is that you?” I call out, raising my voice so I can be heard clearly over the stacks. There’s no answer, but for a moment, the hoofbeats pause. When they resume, they seem louder, and my ears perk up to follow the sound. Moving towards me.

Throwing your voice is a cheap trick, but a surprisingly useful one. My horn shines as I cast my spell, lifting my head up to the ceiling. It’ll be a bit challenging to bounce it down into the stacks, but, all that training wasn’t for nothing. “Hello?” I shout, and the sound seems to come from behind a pile of timber across the way. “Who’s there?” Again, there’s no answer, but the hoofbeats shift to move that way.

My breath catches in my throat.

Okay. I can’t panic. If I run, I’ll rip every muscle in my legs and maim myself. I need to walk in the other direction, slip out the back, and find Zephyr. I turn and start into the piles, keeping my pace slow and my hoofbeats quiet. “Did you bring the punch?” I call out, throwing my voice across the way again, bouncing it off the ceiling so it seems to come from somewhere near the far wall. The hooves change direction again, and I take the time to slip between two giant rolls of cable, escaping out the far side. The door Zephyr and I came in is right where I remember it, and I reach out to grasp the handle, slowly and carefully pulling it open. The hinges squeak, and then let out the single, longest, loudest groan I have ever heard a door make.

They didn’t do that last time.

Suddenly, the hoofbeats change direction—moving back towards me and breaking into a gallop.

“Ponyfeathers!” I hiss, hurrying through the door and slamming it behind me. Even that little start has my legs sharply tingling, and of course this door has no lock! The hallway outside runs in three directions: stairs up, stairs down, and a corridor straight ahead. I don’t have much time to chose, so I chose to go down—it’ll be easier on my legs and that’s the way Zephyr and I came, so I at least sort of know where I’m going. I take off as fast as I can, a little jolt of pain shooting through me with every step. Going down helps, but I’m still managing a fast walk at best.

“Zephyr!” I bellow at the top of my lungs, taking a hard right out of the stairwell and onto one of the catwalks over the crawler. The metal clangs under my hooves, and I bite down on the pain to speed up to a trot, but I’m still barely two thirds of the way across when I hear another set of hooves behind me. I whirl around in place. It’s Berry, moving after me at a brisk trot, eyes focused in on me. I can’t outrun her and I can’t fight in this condition!

That water looks pretty deep.

When she sees me put a hind leg up over the rail, she breaks into a sprint, tearing towards me. A sharp shiver runs through me, the metal railing pressing up into my gut, but I roll off just as she lunges for me. She leaps the last five paces, her forelegs outstretched, and I see her fly past me, missing me by half a hoof’s length. Then the world spins, tumbles around me, and I’m looking at the ceiling instead of Berry. White stone fills my vision, but then it shrinks away, growing more distant, catwalks and lights and pipes crowding it out as it retreats from me. They mar that empty, sterile perfection, but they also make it seem more real, more alive. It’s beautiful, and tumbling away from it, I feel... serene.

Though, it does occur to me that my time in the air would probably have been better spent trying for a good landing.

I hit the water in a perfect backflop. The impact slaps against my back, burning me, knocking the wind out of me, but it doesn't have the strength to stop me. By the time I realize my ears are ringing, I’ve dropped right through the surface, and water rushes in around me. It washes over my belly and head, and suddenly, I’m drowning. I’m drowning! It’s like being trapped in a block of ice; my skin goes numb nearly instantly, but I can still feel the cold stabbing down through me, and where the knife points hit my muscles, the flesh feels like it’s burst into flames. I open my mouth to scream, but water rushes down into my lungs, burning and freezing at once as it pours into my throat. My gag reflex kicks in. I spasm, I kick, I fight, trying to get up, trying to get the surface.

My head breaks the surface of the water, and I gasp for air, hacking up salty waves when I do. There’s an alarm blaring all around me, and I can hear Berry’s voice booming, amplified by some magic or mechanism: “Medical emergency in the crawler bay.” Somewhere between struggling for my life and trying to ignore how much pain I’m in, there’s some part of my brain that notes she manages to sound disinterested even when shouting. Another gasp of breath and I can lift my head to look around.

Sheer stone walls surround the crawler, but there’s a set of stairs rising out of the water across from me, and I make for it. The cold is sapping what little strength I have, but the water is calm, and I manage to make it across. The stairs continue far under the surface; all I have to do is walk out. My hooves touch the slick stone, and I manage to take one, two good steps up the stairwell. By the third, I’m mostly out of the water, and my legs are quaking so hard my knees almost knock together. Water slides off me as I climb, but I’m feeling heavier with every step, my vision blurring as my view swings back and forth. On the fourth step, my left foreleg buckles under me, and I twist down to the steps, collapsing against them as I hack and wheeze, my rear legs still dangling in the icy water.

Berry is there.

She’s standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at me. I try to push myself up, but my foreleg trembles and then collapses without so much as budging me. It’s getting harder to breathe, and the pain in my rear legs is gone—the cold, the burning, all of it. They just feel numb.

And all she does is stand there and look at me.

“Don’t just stand there!” I hear Bolt’s voice a few seconds before I hear the pounding of his hooves. “Grab her other shoulder. One, two!” I assume he must have another pony with him, because Berry never moves, but I feel two sets of hooves grab me and haul me out of the water. They let go, laying me out on the stone floor. I feel one of them press their muzzle to my neck, and there’s a funny clattering sound behind me.

“One, two, three, four, five, six...” Bolt mutters under his breath behind me. “One hundred and thirty BPM. She’s going into tachycardic shock. Get her on the stretcher!” A strong set of forelegs hooks under my own, and I feel air rushing around me, wings beating. Berry only watches as they drag me onto the stretcher, pinning me down with those straps. I can see Bolt now, filling a syringe from a bottle. I try to say something, but no sound comes out. There’s this weird drumming in my ears. Bolt’s horn shines, and he stabs the needle right down into my barrel between two ribs, forcing the plunger down.

I feel a little funny for a second. Then, it’s dark.

Chalk scratches on stone, moving up and down the board. It draws out long lines in smooth, flowing motions, and it taps up and down with the short little dashes and squiggles of letters. It turns, curves, growing a sharp point only for that point to be worn down, the golden glow that drives it against the blackboard slowly grinding it away to nothing. That’s an advantage to unicorn magic I suppose—you can use the chalk all the way down to the little nub.

“Now, Siren,” the Princess says, turning to look at me. She’s beside me, not at the front of the room as a traditional lecturer would be, both of us curled up on a wide, soft mat on the floor. It lets her glance over my shoulder at my work materials: some paper and a little chalkboard spread out in front of me. “How would you solve for the mass of the object being teleported?”

“I wouldn't,” I mutter in response, using a hoof to roll one of my pencils back and forth along the mat, twisting and flexing my ankle to make it slide. I know I’m supposed to be paying attention, but my eyes are on the pencil more than the board. “The equation is wrong. You intentionally made a mistake to see if I’d notice.”

“Mmm. That doesn’t sound like me,” she answers, keeping her tone light to try to encourage me. “Could you point out where I made a mistake?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t really get it.”

“Then what makes you think it’s wrong?” Princess Celestia asks, leaning around to try to get a glimpse of my face as I focus on rolling the pencil.

“When you looked at me, after you finished writing it,” I answer. Back and forth, back and forth. I press lightly so that the pencil tip won’t snag on the fabric. “Your eyes hesitate just for a moment when you lie. It’s how I always know when you’re asking a trick question.”

The Princess doesn’t answer at first—I suppose her eyes aren’t the only things that hesitate. She has so much experience that the lines are always delivered perfectly, but she’s an honest pony by nature, and it shows. “Well, I shall have to ask trickier questions in the future then. You’re growing up to be a very perceptive young mare.”

“Thank you, Princess,” I say. She doesn't reply at first, but this isn’t a pause while she thinks— she’s waiting for me to go on. It’s hard to explain what makes one silence different from another. It’s not like she’s saying anything, and I’m not even looking at her—but it is different. I just know these things. “Why does Princess Luna hate me?”

Princess Celestia sighs, reaching out to put a wing around me. I’m a little old for this now, but I don’t want to seem like I’m snubbing her, so I lean in against her shoulder. It’s still kind of comforting, and I know she likes it. It reminds her of when I was a foal. “Luna doesn’t hate you, Siren. She simply values her privacy, and you have a way of seeing through ponies—like now.” She rests her hoof over mine, trying to reassure me with that even touch. “It makes her a little uncomfortable sometimes.”

“If I could see through her, I wouldn't keep doing things that make her dislike me,” I say, leaning against the Princess's shoulder a little more. Just so she’ll feel like she’s helping. “Like that stupid sapling.”

“Siren, you can’t keep blaming yourself for that,” Celestia insists, one of her primary feathers brushing my far shoulder. “It was a very thoughtful gift. You went through an enormous effort to try to find something that she would treasure, and she knows that. It was very personal, that’s all. Luna thought she was the only pony in the world who even remembered there used to be a tree in that section of the garden.”

“I think I figured that out about when she accused me of prying open her heart so I could peddle her tears,” I mutter. “Princess Luna has some very memorable insults.”

“She apologized for that,” Celestia points out, trying to tilt my chin up with the tip of her wing. “She was emotional and said things she didn’t—”

“You made her apologize for that,” I say, looking down between my hooves. “She meant every word.”

Princess Celestia lets out a breath. “I can’t slip anything past you these days, can I?” she asks, and somehow, I find myself smiling a little. Not because she made it all better, but... because she didn’t have to. I can hear the trace of pride in her voice. Even with all of this, even when I’m frustrating her, she really is happy for me. “Oh for the days when you were cute and gullible.”

“I was never gullible,” I insist, but that smile isn’t going away. “And I’m still cute.”

“So you are,” Princess Celestia says, her tone warm, leaning down to nuzzle the top of my head. I let myself relax, shutting my eyes for a moment as I tuck my head into her shoulder. “There are many ponies in this palace who adore you, Siren, but also some who dislike you—even a few who dislike you greatly. Yet you do not crave their approval the way you do my sister’s. Why is that?”

“Because they aren’t royalty,” I answer. Something sharp jabs into my side, and I jump, my eyes flying open as my heart starts to race.

I hear Celestia’s giggling before I realize what it was, and she wiggles her hoofboot playfully. I glower at her, fume at this intrusion, but she smiles and asks, “Is that the real reason?”

That was kind of an obvious fib, I suppose. I shake my head a little. “Because they aren’t your sister, Princess.”

“Do you think my affection for you is predicated upon my sister’s feeling the same way?” she asks gently, and of course I shake my head. “Then, do you think I can’t decide for myself if you’re the sort of young mare I approve of?”

“No, Princess, but... I know Luna’s opinion means a great deal to you. You respect her judgment, and in her judgment, I’m...” I turn away from her, staring down at the floor. “You know.”

Of course she knows. We both know.

“I am curious what a cutie mark for tear-peddling would look like,” Celestia says, like nothing was wrong, and when I stare silently down at the floor, she only smiles. “Siren, my sister may think what she likes, and you may try to change her mind if that is your desire, but do it because you care about her opinion—not because you believe it influences mine.” She pulls me close against her, tucking my head in against her neck as she nuzzles hers between my ears. “I will always be there for you, Siren. You’re my faithful student, and I love you.”

For a moment, I want to pull away. I don’t know where the impulse comes from, but some dark part of my mind wants to look her in the eye and tell her to say that again. I think she feels me go stiff, because she tilts her head down, trying to look at me. But... no. No. I push that thought away. I push it away, and I pull against her.

“I love you too, Princess,” I say, and all is right in the world.

Music. I hear music. I’m too... something... to understand it. The thing, with the fuzz and the thoughts and the hard to focus. It’s a simple word. I know this. With the rest and the beds and the pillows. There’s a nice pillow under my head.

Tired. That’s it. I’m too tired to understand the music. The words rush in one ear and go out the other. It has a nice beat, though—simple, nothing fancy, but easy to listen to. And I do listen to it for a while, letting it wash over me. There’s a fiddle and a guitar, and a harp, and a lot of singing. That’s nice. They sound like they’re really having fun with it, pounding their hooves on the floor.

I feel kind of nice right now. I can’t move, but I don’t have to move. There’s a soft bed under me and a big heavy blanket over me—I’m warm and comfortable, and even if the music is just ponies pounding their hooves and fumbling for decent lyrics, it’s still music. It’s like I’m back in my room in the palace, listening to the phonograph as I drift off.

“Is anypony here?” I ask quietly. I don’t feel like opening my eyes right now.

“Berry and I,” Zephyr whispers back. She’s close, probably sitting by the bedside. “How you feeling, Siren?”

“Sleepy,” I murmur, and a thought flickers in the back of my mind. “Is that the party upstairs?”

“It is. It’s a really good one tonight too, and you’re missing it. Serves you right for nearly dying on us,” Zephyr answers, and I frown.

“I’m sorry, Zephyr. I didn’t mean for you to miss your time with your friends.” It seems really sad, when I think about it: she’s lived in this awful place her whole life, gotten injured more times than she can count, she’s probably going to die or mutate or go crazy, and she gives up her time with her friends to take care of the mare from Canterlot Palace. “You’re really nice.”

“Hush. We do that every night; you’ll catch the next one,” she promises. I don’t know why, but that makes me frown more. It seems wrong, somehow. Not like that thing she does with her lungs is wrong, or White Wash or Berry are wrong but... wrong. Berry. She’s in the room too.

“Please don’t leave me alone with Berry,” I say. My head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and the bed seems to tilt back and forth very faintly, as a raft upon the sea. “She’s evil. She wants to drug me so I can go back to Trixie in a box. She wants to turn me into one of those things.”

“Siren—” Zephyr starts to speak, but then she stops abruptly. I hear something. Motion. The rustle of saddlebags. Ponies moving.

“Wait outside,” Berry says, and after a moment, I hear hoofsteps moving away, the squeak of a door hinge, the clap of metal in its frame.

That’s it.

I’m too tired to panic—but I am afraid. Tense. I can’t move, so I lie there, listening for the sound of her motions, her breathing, the rustle of her saddlebags. Anything to mark when it’s about to happen.

“Does it hurt?” I ask. It’s foalish to care about that, like worrying that the needle full of poison might sting going in—but it does bother me. I don’t want it to hurt.

“No,” she says, and I hear her step up to the bedside.

“That’s good,” I murmur. She’s reaching into her bags now—I can hear the rustle of cloth, and the faint click when her teeth settle around glass. Fabric swishes gently, and there’s a distinctly wooden thump near my head. A table by the bedside.

I don’t want to listen to that, so I listen to the music. I don’t think I’ll be able to appreciate music after. Berry did have that record player in her apartment, but... I should enjoy this while I can.

It’s pretty bad. Trite, cheap, poorly performed, full of repeating verses. It even rhymes words with themselves a few times, when the composer couldn't think of anything else to say. It’s the sort of thing you hear when somepony throws together a big group sing at the last moment—a bunch of generic verses about sticking together the pony way, and patching leaks and whatever else comes to mind. None of that really matters though, if the singers are into it and feeling the mood.

I’m not sure they are though. They’re shouting, and pounding their hooves, and singing and laughing, but the tone is wrong. It’s too loud, and too quick, and everypony laughs too hard, even when the verse isn’t funny. Perhaps they’re having fun, but they aren’t relaxed. I can see it. They’re eyeing each other, watching who is laughing when, making sure to stay in the spirit of things. They aren’t being spontaneous. They’re singing, but the song isn’t in their hearts.

That’s not right. Music should be something pure and beautiful—an expression of feeling. I don’t want that to be the last piece of music I ever really hear.

But what I want doesn’t matter—does it?

Why hasn’t she done it yet?

“This is Daring Do,” Berry says, even though I can’t see what she’s talking about. I suppose I don’t need to see it, though. “It is a classical mantle that bestows a compass rose cutie mark, usually on the back or cheek. The primary benefit is enhanced bravery, alertness, and composure in the face of stress or danger.”

I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, but I nod anyway, a weak little motion of my head that makes my ears twitch. Then, there’s a long lull in the conversation, the music carrying down around us.

What is she waiting for?

“If I put this in your belt, will you promise to drink it if you start to panic again?” she asks, and I don’t understand what’s happening.

“Why?” I ask, my brow furrowing faintly as I squeeze my eyes tighter.

“Because this is the third time panic has nearly killed you.” That’s an answer, but not to the question I asked. I think about pushing the question, about asking again, but... no. What would the point be?

“Yes, Berry,” I say, and much as I know I can always go back on that later, the words feel final somehow. Like I was putting my name to a faustian pact. “Yes, I promise.”

I can hear her picking up the bottle with her teeth, and the rustle of fabric. There’s a crinkle—that must be her pulling some of my pep-bars out to make room for the mantle. I hear something scraping over the wood, and then Berry stops moving, and there’s only the music.

That lasts for a few minutes, just me and her and music, before I ask: “You said you used to like Pinkie Pie’s parties. Are you going to go upstairs?”

“No,” she answers.

“I guess they aren’t really your thing these days,” I say, tucking my head down into the pillow.

“No,” she repeats. After a moment she adds, “Pinkie Pie’s parties in Vision were never as good as her parties in Equestria. Everypony is trying too hard.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I got that feeling too.”

She doesn’t answer, and there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say, so I listen. The music isn’t any good, but I can hear her breathing. It’s so regular, it keeps a time of its own, and when I listen to it, the music fades into a pleasant background noise. I’m tired enough, or just distracted enough, that I stop hearing the pauses and the false starts and the subtle tension, and all I can hear is a good group sing, with laughter and dancing and stupid jokes.

It occurs to me that for all I’ve suffered since I left Equestria, I seem to always have this luxury. Music when I’m falling asleep—that strange song in Green’s room, and the phonograph in the doctor's waiting room, and Green’s lullaby before, and this now. Isn’t that a funny thought? I wonder why that is.

“Hey, Berry?” I ask, squirming in place to get comfortable. “You’re smart. Is there some reason there’s always music when I sleep?”

“There was no music in Doctor Stable’s examination room,” she answers, flat.

“Oh,” I say. “That’s right. Darn. I thought I’d found something really poetic.” She doesn’t say anything. I guess she’s thinking I’m weird. “It’s an art thing. You wouldn't get it.”

I’m still mulling it over when I fall asleep.

Echo

Dream, noun: an involuntary vision occurring when awake or during sleep, frequently characterized by a succession of sensations, thoughts, and emotions.

I said once that Vision had to be real, because it was too internally consistent to be a dream, but don’t dreams always seem reasonable when you’re asleep? It’s only when the sun rises that you see that none of it made any sense.

Green Apple has a cutie mark for applebucking, for apple farming, for her family’s trade. She must have loved them once, and she must have loved the farm, or it wouldn't have become a part of her so. I suppose it’s possible they gave her a little guff for being a unicorn in an earth pony family, but... not like she says. I wonder, was any of it true, or did whatever poisoned her soul actually rewrite her memories of her loved ones? Did poison joke turn smiles into sneers and friendly teasing about her horn into genuine cruelty? Did she ever actually cry herself to sleep wishing she were born in Canterlot, or did she convince herself she did?

Berry Punch has a cutie mark for distillation, for winemaking, and for silly earth pony drinks. She must have taken pride in her work—come to understand the science and then to master the art. Her work was the love of her life, to the point that life without it wasn’t worth living, but she doesn't love anything now. That care was her talent, so why haven’t her talents faded? Why does she obey Trixie? Why was her apartment so well kept, when she could sleep on a bed of nails without complaint?

Trixie has a cutie mark for showmareship, maybe acting or stage magic too, with that wand and star. She must have made ponies giggle—been the sort of mare who needs the crowd’s adoration, prancing up and down a stage and calling herself ‘great and powerful’ for some cheap laughs. That sort of pony doesn’t need money or power to be happy. Why does she have so much of both? Why do Berry and Green love her, no matter how much she abuses them?

Siren Song has a cutie mark for expression, for emotion, for looking into ponies and seeing what makes them feel. She must have made the Princess very proud and had a lot of friends who loved her.

I’m waiting for the room to get brighter before I climb out of bed. It’s too dark to be awake, too quiet, but I’m not asleep either, just staring at the ceiling. There must be some light, because my eyes have adjusted. I can see the glimmer of water working its way across the white stone ceiling before I hear it drip to the floor. I’m in a small room, barely larger than the bed, but I don’t feel claustrophobic. Maybe it’s because the air is clear and the blankets are warm, or maybe I’ve just got a lot on my mind.

“Dear Princess Celestia,” I murmur, pretending the points of light on the ceiling are stars. It kind of works. “I had some time to think today, and I remembered the first time you ever lied to me. I mean, really lied, instead of asking a trick question or something. We were walking through the history museum, when I was seven I think, and you looked at one of the displays—a battle saddle. I asked you what was so special about it, and you turned to me and said ‘Nothing.’ Just ‘nothing.’ One word.”

“But it wasn’t true, Princess. You tried to hide it, but I could see it in your eyes. You were so tired then, so old. Did you know the pony who died wearing that saddle, or was it just a reminder that Equestria was not always so kind? You lied to me, because you didn’t want to face what was in that display.” I draw a breath and shut my eyes, taking a moment to collect my thoughts.

“That was the moment I realized you were fallible—that the immortal, wise, kind, eternally youthful Princess of Equestria could lie, could twist a fundamental truth because she doesn’t feel like having a painful conversation right now. And...” Nothing comes to mind after that, like my thoughts had simply run out, and for a time, I struggle for what to say next.

“And I think that was when you stopped being an impossible ideal and started being a pony to me. Knowing that you can be hurt, can turn away from things that cause you pain—it made me understand how much it meant that you never turned away from me. I know you’re going to blame yourself when I don’t come back, but please don’t. You aren’t perfect, but you deserve to be happy. I hope whatever pony you find to care for next gives you less trouble than I did.”

“Your faithful student, Siren Song.”

The sun doesn’t shine here, and the room will never get brighter. Time to get out of bed.

My spine pops as I give one long stretch, twisting my back and letting my legs go taut. Muscles strain, but they don’t burn, and I find my breath coming clearly. Relaxing forces a sigh from my lungs and I push the blankets off to one side, enough for me to lift them away with a foreleg and roll out onto the floor. I can see the outlines of the room, that there’s nothing in it but a bed and an end table, and that it has two exits. One is a door, under which a crack of light can be seen—the source of the faint illumination. The other is an open archway that leads to a dark space, though I do catch a glint of glass and metal, and some very distinctive outlines. A bathroom.

The facilities work fine, and there’s warm water for the shower. Not hot, but warm. I guess it feels nice. I assume there must be some way to make the lights in here come on, though I don’t bother fumbling around for it. Showering in the dark is odd, but it’s not much of a shower. I kind of stand under the water until I feel it’s been long enough, and shake off before I pull the curtain open. Water is still dripping off me, running down my legs and over the bare skin on my ankles. I’m already standing in a puddle though, so what does it matter?

I suppose I’ve been standing there for a while when I notice the shine by the door. Something glitters in the darkness to the left of the bathroom’s doorframe—something I didn’t see on the way in. Its shape is strange, like a bundle or a coiled serpent, and I don’t immediately recognize it. Reaching out for it proves to be a mistake, and the glow of my own telekinesis blinds me. Rose-tinted light lances into my eyes, and I reflexively snap them shut and turn away, a hiss passing through my teeth. I was too slow though—I can feel my eyes adjusting, and green blobs swim around my vision, drifting amongst ghostly after-images of the bathroom. It’s almost enough to make me drop whatever it is, but I manage to hold on, slowly opening my eyes while my gaze is cast down. The bedroom looks disturbing in this light, full of long red lines and dark shadows, but it’s light enough for me to adjust, and then slowly turn my head forward.

It’s my belt, of course. Somepony must have left it on a hook on the wall.

I slip it around my barrel, and it’s not until I tug it tight that I feel something is different. It’s heavier on one side than it should be, not very much, but enough to make it list slightly off-center. I balance on three legs, twisting around to pat down that side with a hoof, feeling for the source of the weight. My hoof hits glass, producing a muffled but clear tone—a bottle stuffed into one of the pouches of the belt, sealed with a cork.

I let my horn brighten slowly, giving my eyes time to adjust to the magic’s glow. Then I pull the bottle out and hold it in front of me.

It’s small, flat, and full of a silvery liquid that beads up when it sloshes. It looks a little like mercury, actually. There’s a wide label on one side showing a green and gold compass rose, under which dark brown characters read “Daring Do.” The label wraps around to the back, continuing with considerably smaller text. “Directions for use.” I scan down the rows of neat characters, squinting to see them in the dim illumination. “Consume contents of bottle with food, being sure to drink the entire bottle at once. Cutie mark will appear within seconds, and lasts fifteen to forty days, depending on build and metabolism. WARNING: Do not consume any poison-joke-based products until mantle has fully faded. Persistent exposure to poison-joke-derived pharmaceuticals can result in serious long-term side effects, including blindness, paranoia, intermittent explosive disorder, and death. Addiction Factor: 8%”

I uncork the bottle.

Dazed. I feel dazed. Like none of this is real. The bottle floats up to my face, and I sniff gently at the mouth. I suppose I was expecting that distinctive flowery smell, but there’s nothing—a slightly acrid scent, maybe, but that might be my imagination. I shake the bottle a little, and watch it bead up inside the glass.

It’s not that it’s tempting me—if I wanted to take the easy way out, I think I’d prefer drowning to poison. It’s...

I expected it to be magic: to glow, to churn, to give off that unnatural stink. I expected it to be malevolent, an emissary of the evil that’s taken root in the city’s heart. I expected it to be like those stories of cursed artifacts that whisper dark secrets to their bearers.

But it’s only a bottle, with a garish label and a cheap cork and a little chip in one corner. I could dump the liquid down the sink, toss the whole thing into the trash, or drop the bottle on the floor and smash it to bits under my hooves.

My horn shines a little brighter with the effort of forcing the cork back into its place, and I put the bottle away in my belt.

After that much light, the room seems pitch black other than the blobs and spots in my vision. I have to carefully feel my way out of the bathroom to the edge of the bed, and then around it to the door. It’s not locked. Though why would it be?

It’s not like I’m going anywhere.

“Good morning,” the soldier outside my door greets me politely. I smell tobacco smoke before my eyes have a chance to adjust. Then I see the uniform, then the knives on his wings, then his scarred face, then that the only door out is behind him. We’re in a common room of some kind, with a small table, a couch, a bookshelf, and some cabinets, all lit by those overhead strips. He’s seated on the far side of the table, and the table itself is set for two. Baskets cover the center of the table, piled high with food, and the pleasant, gentle aroma of fresh baked goods wafts through the air, soured by the smell from his cigarette.

He’s sitting between me and the door, but he’s at ease. His shoulders are relaxed, his tail flat on the floor, and his eyes are on the table instead of me. He’s rummaging through the pile of muffins for one he likes. A sentry would be more alert, but he’s not at all concerned I’ll make a break for it.

That’s it then. Sold out by the maintenance ponies. Kind of an anti climax, after...

After all that.

“Good morning,” I reply to him, and step up to the far side of the table, sitting like nothing was wrong. He’s a snow-white pegasus stallion, perhaps in his late forties. Once, his mane and tail were sky blue, but now, lines of silver show his age. He doesn’t brush or cut them, and his mane is so long that stray hairs hang down over his eyes, resting above his short, square snout. On another stallion it would look feminine, but not on him. Age has sapped none of his strength, and the lines and creases on his face serve only to draw attention to his bright, probing eyes. Some of those lines are the faint silver streaks of scars, barely visible beneath his coat. On such a stallion, long hair doesn’t show sensitivity—it shows contempt. The absolute certainty that he can do as he wishes. He has a cigarette resting between his teeth, a thin line of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.

He’s well equipped, his neat, organized gear making my rough belt full of tools and supplies seem embarrassingly crude. The black uniform clashes sharply with his coat, but somehow, not a stray hair has landed on it. It’s made from a fine fabric that draws taut no matter how he moves, pulling the silver stitching into neat lines. Two squares of blood-red fabric have been sewn onto the shoulders—like epaulets—and each side of his neatly folded collar is adorned by a pair of silver bars. I can tell there’s armor under the fabric—the torso and leg sections are too even, the straps there too tight. He’s even wearing wing-blades and those little hoof-ankle devices with the knives inside. He snaps one out as I watch, using the long blade to carefully dissect a muffin.

“You must be hungry. No need to wait on my account,” he says, gesturing me towards the table. It’s lavishly set—like it would be in Canterlot if we were entertaining a dignitary—piled high with more food than two ponies could hope to eat. The scent of toast, pastries, tea, jam, and more intermingles in the air, creating a heady aroma that not even the cigarette smoke can fully spoil. He wolfs down one of the sections of his muffin. I still don’t move, but he doesn’t wait, giving me all the time I want while he pours a cup of tea from the pot. I say nothing, only watching, and he leans his head down to pick a flask from one of the many discreet pockets in the uniform, shamelessly tilting its mouth into the teacup.

I suppose it has been a while since I’ve eaten, but somehow, the thought of eating anything right now makes my stomach turn. I nibble on some toast, just to be polite.

“Did you sleep well, Ms. Song?” he asks, his voice deep and rough. He moves slowly, but with a certain deliberateness that leaves me with no doubt he could spring into action when pressed. I’m not getting much from him beyond that—if I knew him better, or if the situation pushed him more off guard, maybe I could read more, but his body language is too controlled. All I can see in those eyes is confidence, arrogance, and a hint of curiosity. The smoke from his cigarette twists up towards the ceiling, weaving in and out amongst the little currents in the room, looping back and forth about itself. When he sees me watching, he takes a long draw off his cigarette and blows a sharp wave of smoke out his muzzle, ruining the aroma from the table. It was a very deliberate move, but his eyes never leave my face. He’s evaluating me too.

“Fine, thank you,” I say, coughing a little when the cloud of smoke finally hits me. “Could you put that thing out?”

“I could,” he says, with the sort of thoughtful, intellectual air one might use to ponder an abstract concept. Considering the notion is about as far as he gets however, shifting the cigarette to one side of his mouth so he can sip his tea. “Lieutenant Echo. Echo is fine.” He reaches out with a wing, the tip of the longblade there catching the edge of the butter tray and dragging it over to his side of the table. “So, Ms. Song, now that we’re introduced, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“You already know who I am. Or do you treat all prisoners this way?” I answer back, smooth and calm. I want to snap, to yell, but that’s what he wants too. This is a battle of wills, and the first pony to get emotional loses. Still, I catch a hint of a condescending smirk. Something in my answer he finds oh-so-amusing.

“Perhaps I have other reasons for being nice to you,” he answers, his gaze traveling down my neck. He leans around the table a hair, so that look can slide across my side until it comes to rest on my flank, my thigh. There it lingers for a moment too long, before lazily sliding back to my face, a chuckle escaping him.

“You’re disgusting,” I blurt out before I have a chance to think, leaning away from the table. I feel sweaty, dirty, like his stare left a trail of grease in its wake. He’s laughing before I’ve even finished, and my cheeks burn when I realize I played right into his hooves. He wanted to see if he could catch me off guard, and I let myself get pushed into a childish outburst like a stupid foal.

“I’m practical, Ms. Song,” he answers as that chuckle winds down. He flicks out a wing, and in an impressive display of agility, hooks his teacup by the handle using the edge of that wingblade, sipping at it quietly. “The way I understand it, getting you a doctor’s visit is worth one fairly passionate kiss—I figured that breakfast and some conversation would at least earn a smile.”

I don’t... for a moment, my mind goes blank. I stare at him in mute shock, unable to process what I’ve just heard. He gives me time to mull it over, sitting back from the table and lazily swirling the contents of his teacup.

“I don’t think that’s so unreasonable,” he says, fixing me with a stare over the cup’s rim.

“He didn’t know who I was when he helped me,” I say, but I can hear my voice trembling, my teeth set on edge. My perfect poker face is destroyed in a moment, twisted into a glare that only makes him smile. “He hasn’t done anything wrong!”

“Certainly a valid point of view. Then again, perhaps he knowingly aided a fugitive, and is himself a traitor who must be made example of. I haven’t decided,” he says, with a matter-of-fact air, tilting his gaze down, and then back up to my eyes.

Just for a moment, I consider taking the hint—some malignant and cowardly part of my mind weighing the advantages and costs of smiling and flirting for this creature, if it will make things easier. The thought is barely a flicker, but in its wake comes a torrent so sharp and sudden I’m swept away before I know what’s happening.

“The only reason you’re being nice to me is because you know what Princess Celestia will do to you!” I scream, rearing up onto the table and smashing a set of the dishes under my hooves. “You let me go! You let me go back to Equestria right now and maybe she won’t destroy this city and leave you to drown!”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and then his grin fades, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. “Ah, our dear Princess,” he says, sitting up and back, taking another draw off the cigarette. “And how is she doing these days?”

No.

“You already knew I was the Princess’s student,” I insist, like saying it will make it true, but he shakes his head.

“I knew you were somepony important to Trixie who she didn’t want the rest of the council finding out about. Security’s best guess was that you were some long-lost relative. Rider’s ghost—I did not realize she had the guts.” He glances up at the ceiling, putting on airs of being lost in thought. “Rainbow Dash has hated Trixie for years, but the others always held her back. If this gets out though, I don’t think a hanging will cut it. She’ll have the old showmare drawn and quartered and put her head on a pike.”

I...

Behind him, the door flies open, Zephyr rushing in. “We heard shouting,” she blurts out, raising her head to look at me over Echo’s shoulder. Berry isn’t far behind, entering the room at a more measured pace, and standing by Zephyr’s side. “Is everything okay?”

“Ms. Song and I were getting introduced,” Echo answers, his tone friendly, casual, smooth. “Sweet filly. Not very bright though.”

The knives are in my grip, floating in front of me. I don’t even remember drawing them, but suddenly, they’re there. His smug, ugly face is my entire world, like Berry and Zephyr and the room and the city all didn’t exist. My whole body is tense, my magic gripping the weapons so hard that a whine fills the air, and breath comes in uneven, quick starts. I need to do something! Need to wipe that look off his face permanently. He can’t do this! He thinks he can yank me around for his own sick amusement and I need to show him he’s wrong! He is wrong!

But all he does is sit there. And then, somepony is grabbing me, pulling me away from the table. Feathers—it’s Zephyr. She’s saying something, but I don’t hear her. It’s like her voice is distant, muted mumblings from far away.

“Siren,” Berry’s voice cuts through that haze. She’s by my side, looking at me. Just a single word.

I put the knives down. On the table.

Echo lets out a snort, finishing off the last of his tea and tossing the cup away, letting the porcelain smash against the floor. He reaches under the table, retrieving his helmet—one of those brutal steel things, capped with a spike instead of a horn. “Much obliged, Ms. Punch. Get her cleaned up for the trip. And, while you’re employing that unique charm of yours, keep her under control,” he orders as he rises from the table to go. “Oh, and Ms. Song, next time you’re about to jump to conclusions, you might want to pause to consider that prisoners generally do not get to keep their weapons. Just a thought.”

Nopony says anything. After a moment, the door swings shut behind him. The lights hum and flicker. Beside me, Zephyr’s wings rustle.

“Zephyr, I need to talk to Berry in private. Leave,” I order, my chest trembling as I try to draw a long, calming breath.

“I don’t—”

“I said get out!” I scream, so loud and so hard my voice cracks, a screech of primal fury that sends Zephyr leaping backwards before she has time to think. Her eyes go wide, and after one quick glance between Berry and me, she scrambles out into the hall, the door banging in its frame behind her.

Then it’s quiet.

“You are experiencing emotional distress.” Berry breaks the silence with her perfect calm, that bland sort of indifference. She picks up my knives, one at a time, curling her lips back in the oddest way so that only her teeth touch the handle, sliding each one back into its sheath. I don’t say anything at first. I don’t think she expects me to.

“I told him that I was Princess Celestia’s student. That’s what the screaming was earlier,” I manage, sometime after she’s finished with the knives. “I thought he already knew. But he didn’t.”

Berry doesn’t react of course, blankly staring at the wall. I know she’s considering it though, those gears in her head turning. After a few seconds, she indicates one of the baskets with her muzzle—the one full of grass and daisies. “Green will be discharged this morning. You will take this to her.”

Picking up the basket is almost instinctive, and it levitates alongside me as I move after Berry. When we step out into the hall, I can see Zephyr watching us, a few paces away from the doorway. She’s biting her lip, struggling to keep her gaze off the ground, and it doesn't take my talents to see that she’s hiding something. Guilt, shame, something else. “What should I do?” she asks, but her voice is stiff. She’s saying it just to have something to say.

“Throw all this away. Clean the room,” Berry orders, and we move on.

Our trip through the halls is uneventful. There’s no sun, of course, and the steady beat of the lights reveals nothing about the time, but I think it’s late morning. The work shift has obviously left for the day in any case, and we don’t encounter a single other pony on our way to Green.

The trip ends with a set of wide double doors that swing loosely on their hinges. Behind them lurks the pungent odor of ozone and antiseptics, a malevolent cloud that springs out into the hall at the first opportunity. We push on through the swinging doors anyway, and the worst of it passes after a few moments.

The recovery ward isn’t much, just a long room with a half-dozen beds, so clean that the white stone seems to shine. Each of the beds is guarded from water by one of those glass covers, but only two of them are occupied. The bed second from the left holds a sleeping silver pegasus, covered head to hoof in what must be a dozen lightning bolt cutie marks. He twitches spastically every few seconds, and sparks crackle over his coat, the source of the ozone smell.

The bed on the far right holds a unicorn, green and familiar.

“Hey there, Berry. Siren,” she calls out from the bed, her voice quiet, but clear. She’s on her back, legs bent around a pair of metal bars that run over the bed, her head in a padded brace to hold it still. The whole setup is so clinical it makes it easy to imagine she’s at death’s door, an impression aided by how weak her voice sounds. When I trot towards her though, I can see that her eyes are open and following me, her expression alert. “You two ready to get me out of here?”

“The doctors have not yet discharged you, however, a matter has arisen which Trixie must be informed of immediately. You will watch Siren until such time as you are discharged, and then prepare her to depart,” Berry says. Green can’t move her head much inside the brace, but she gives the faintest of nods, and Berry turns away, heading back out into the hall.

Watch Siren. Because the stars know we can’t let her out of our sight for five minutes without her ruining everything. Lucky that Green doesn’t mind playing foalsitter.

“Hey, Sweetheart?” she calls from the bed, snapping me out of my thoughts. I raise my head to look at her, and she smiles. “I’m watching you.” A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, though it’s a sickly, unsteady sound. “Come on over here. Is that grass for everypony or just you?”

“Oh. Berry thought you would want some,” I say, stepping up to the bedside. I hang the basket from the metal stand above her, so she can reach it easily without turning her head, and she levitates a daisy out, sniffing at it. I take one myself, just to... just because, a squeak emerging from my throat.

Just a squeak.

“S-sorry,” I stammer, reaching up to rub at my eyes with an ankle. “The air in here is terrible.” I blink the tears out of my eyes, but there seem to be more of them, my vision blurring as they run down my cheeks to the bed sheets. “It’s that ozone smell, it’s... I mean...” My throat is seizing up, tight and sore, twisting my words into an ugly croaking. I’m not hurt, I’m not even scared. I just got rattled a little by a guard, there’s no reason for me to be choking up. Green doesn’t care anyway. I force myself to straighten up, to look dignified, “I’m sorry, Green,” I manage through the pain in my throat.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart,” Green says, dropping the flower to the bed beside her. Her tone is even, gentle, but I can’t see her face—my vision is too blurry. “That smell stings my eyes too. Besides, you wouldn’t cry, would you?”

“No. Crying never helped anything.” I force the words out, a long sniffle marking the end of the sentence, as I try to hold my head up. “Had a bunch of foals in the orphanage who wouldn't stop bawling. I hated those snot-nosed little whiners. Bully magnets, that’s what they were.”

“That’s right, Sweetheart. That’s right,” Green murmurs. With the flower released, she’s free to focus her magic on other things, and she unlocks one of the bars above her. Her right foreleg goes free, and with some effort, she pats a spot on the bed next to her. “You can lay your head down if you like. Until your eyes clear. You get used to the ozone after a little while.”

I lay my head down across the sheets; Green puts her leg around me, and we wait. We wait and we pretend that I’m not crying. We wait and we pretend I’m not the kind of useless, pathetic overgrown foal who needs an adult to put a leg around her and tell her it will all be okay.

“I didn’t know you grew up in an orphanage,” Green says, after a time, when the sobbing has stopped save for the occasional sniffle. With my head so low, she can’t look at me, and I can’t see her—the brace won’t let her turn her head that far. She’s holding me though, able to feel my little motions, and I can hear her voice. Worried, soft, but touched with something. Something good. Surprise, maybe.

“I didn’t really. I was still young when the Princess took me,” I say, shutting my eyes and resting my head against the padded brace. “I hardly even remember it. I couldn't name the other ponies there, other than the matron and a few friends.”

“The Princess adopted you?” she asks, her tone perking up, voice rising from its low whisper as curiosity drives her on.

I say nothing.

“Oh.” Her voice sinks again, almost sighing the word out. “I’m sorry, Sweetheart.”

“She raised me—gave me everything I had. If she wants to call me her student, she can. It’s just a word,” I say. Green doesn't answer, but she pats my neck, her hoof making little brushing motions against my mane. She keeps doing that, until the silence grows long, and I feel like I have to say something, say anything to break it. “Besides, I never knew my parents, so she’s the closest thing I have.”

“Accident?” Green asks, and I give a little shake of my head. She’ll feel it.

“Abandoned. Not really, I mean, they didn’t leave me on the orphanage door and run away or anything like that. But, they couldn’t care for me and...” I bite my lip, drawing in a long breath. “Well, they didn't leave names.”

“That actually happens in Equestria?” Green asks, and it’s kind of bizarrely funny, that for once, I’ve shocked her notions of kindness and decency.

“Very rarely. Princess Celestia looked into it, when I was young and wanted to know. Apparently, it usually means that they can’t care for their child for some reason and feel ashamed. Illness, too young or too old with no family to help, or... mentally unfit,” I say. The effort of talking is strangely soothing, letting me get my tone under control as I put the words together. “She always said that my parents loved me so much they were willing to give up their only child so she could have a chance at a good life.” Green doesn’t say anything, and I have to laugh, a weak little chuckle. “You’re thinking something unkind about my parents right now, aren’t you?”

“I’m thinking something unkind about Celestia for telling you that,” she answers, and though her voice is still quiet, it’s picked up a distinct edge of strain.

“I know you hate the Princess, Green, but you shouldn't,” I plead with her, imploring her to reconsider. I’m collecting myself again, and I have it together enough that the words emerge not as a whine, but as an honest plea, brushed by the pain her hatred causes me. “She didn’t kill Sine. You think she’s some insidious mastermind, but she isn’t capable of what you’ve described. She...”

I realize Green has gone still, and I let the words die, trailing off into nothing. “Of course, no matter what I say, you’re going to insist that she’s pulling the wool over my eyes.”

“I know very well what you think of me, Siren,” Green says, but her tone is disappointed now, “but you’ve got too sweet a voice to spoil it with bitterness.”

“I didn’t—”

“Horseapples you didn’t,” she says. “Your Princess killed the pony I love, and you’re upset at how gosh-darn unfair that is to you.” Her words are quiet, but laced with unkind judgment. “It ain’t about you. Deep down you know that, but you’ve still got some real bad habits to break.”

“I’m...” It takes a second for me to collect myself, but she doesn't rush me, letting me find the right words, the right tone. “I still don’t think she killed him, Green. But you loved him, and he died, and expecting you to get over that just because I wanted you to... that was selfish and stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?” she asks, but it’s not cruel, or mocking. It feels like an honest question, and after a moment, I nod. She draws a deep breath, lets it out, and it’s only after a considerable pause that she speaks again, a short, contented “Good.”

“Maybe dying down here would be easier,” I say. At once, she jolts like somepony lit a fire under her, struggling to free her legs from the restraints and yank herself towards me. “Not like that, not like that!” I say as quickly as I can, pushing her back down to the bed. “I was joking! I just meant it’d be less awkward than trying to introduce the two of you.”

For a moment, she freezes—then, when it sinks in that I’m not suicidal, she relaxes, laughter floating out of the top of that brace. “Less awkward for you maybe, but that’s your bad luck, ain’t it? I intend to get you out of here in one piece.”

“You know, at some point, you’re going to have to decide if you have an accent or not,” I tease, lightening the air a bit, after that scare I gave her. “Your ain’ts and y’alls seem to come and go with the tides.”

“Hush, you. When I started modeling, my accent was so thick nopony could understand a word I said. My photographer said it was better that way, meant I talked less. Every time one of the models offered their opinion on his poses, he’d stare them right in the eye and say, ‘Young mare, when you walked in this morning, I thought you looked clever. Why’d you have to go and spoil that by opening your mouth?’” she chuckles, basking in an old memory. “We all hated him. Stuck-up jerk.”

“Well, he knew how to catch your good side at least, if those posters were any indication.” A little light flattery always goes well with Green, and she takes it exactly the way I thought she would, with a happy sigh and a smile I know is there even if I can’t see it.

“He did at that,” she says, the leg that rests around my neck seeming to relax, like some tension was leaving her body. “You mind giving me a hoof sitting up? I think I could go for some of that grass right now.”

As it turns out, I do mind helping a pony with a head wound circumvent their doctor’s instructions, but Green is perfectly able to eat from where she is, even if she does have to levitate the grass down two or three blades at a time. As soon as she sets in, the fact that I haven’t eaten in what must be more than a day catches up to me in a rush, my stomach turning into a yawning pit. I pace myself though, eating only one or two blades at a time like she does, forcing myself to make light conversation to space things out. I think she’s in about the same position, and we while away our time with amusing nothings until the last of the grass is gone.

“One piece left,” I observe, picking up the daisy she let fall to the bed beside her. “It’s all yours.”

“Nonsense.” She waves me off, as I levitate the daisy in front of her. “You can have it, Sweetheart.”

“I’m not stealing food from a pony in traction. I’m already on my hooves; you need it to recover,” I insist, balancing it on the tip of her nose.

The flower has barely hit her nose, though, before the scarlet glow of her own magic surrounds it, lifting it up and away. “I got a little bonk on the head,” she insists. “You were beaten black and blue for nearly two days straight.”

“Yeah, but I’m the toughest unicorn to ever live, remember?” I insist, a little grin tugging at my features as I look down at her from my perch beside the bed. “You’re the sort of sissy who goes down after one little concussion.”

“You are going to take that back, and then you are going to eat that flower,” Green says, firm. Her tone is forceful, but she’s smiling as well, her free leg resting over her undercarriage.

“Or you’ll what? Hit me with one of those perfectly polished hooves?” I shoot back, sing-song, raising one leg and letting my ankle go limp. “You’d get a scratch and faint.”

By the time the doctor shows up to discharge Green, she has me in a headlock, the rest of my body levitated off the ground so my legs flail uselessly in the air. He is something less than amused and doesn’t hesitate to let us know it, but Green and I just sit through his excoriating lecture on hospital safety, shooting each other sheepish grins as I take my time eating the daisy. When he’s done, he curtly pronounces Green fit and sends us on our way. When her legs come free of the braces, she’s so unused to walking she almost falls out of bed—but I catch her, and we head out together, her magic sweeping her saddlebags out from under the bed just in time for them to chase us out the door.

“I think you made me pull something there,” I say, wincing as we start down the hall. I don’t manage faster than a steady walk, every motion of my legs electing a painful twinge, a soreness that carries up my back to my neck. Green only chuckles though, shaking her head.

“If you’d pulled a muscle in your condition, you wouldn't be joking about it,” she insists, with a light, reassuring tone—though she does take a moment to carefully watch my walk before she continues. “It’s some lingering soreness is all. You’ll have a chance to rest it on the ride home.”

“That’s great! When do we leave?” I ask, a certain lightness entering my heart when I realize that, for once, fate is not going to conspire to turn a simple task into a nightmare. Green isn’t headed for the crawler dock, but from how often she stops to get her bearings, I gather she’s not too familiar with the building’s layout. Besides, we need to collect Berry first.

“Just as soon as we have you all cleaned up and ready to go. I had Berry make a supply run while you were out,” Green answers, opening her saddlebags, pulling out two small bottles and a thick envelope. It takes me a second to realize she’s giving them to me, her red glow fading to my more mild hue as I hold them up in front of me: Picture Perfect’s Coat Dye (Emerald Green), Brilliance tail shine (Lime Green), and a packet of rub-on cutie mark stamps.

“Hey, they’re still using you on the shine bottle,” I say, reflexively. I’ve got good instincts for these things, and the warm glow of pride that suffuses her when she smiles buys me a few moments to think. “But... what do we need all this for?”

“You’ve got a pretty distinctive profile, Sweetheart,” she insists, pulling open a door ahead of us. A bathroom? “Fuschia and rose unicorn, shaved on one side, and bald ankles. Right now, all it’ll take is one look, and anypony in the city can fix you to the description.” She pulls a silver horseshoe out of her bags—a spare for her usual set, I assume—and jams it under the bathroom door to prop it open as she gestures me inside. “That’s the sort of thing that’s prudent to fix, even if we aren't going to be parading you around in public.”

“But nopony is going to see me, right?” I ask, hanging back from the open door. My heart starts to beat faster in my chest, and for a moment, it keeps time with the lights above, the resonant sound carrying over my quickening breaths. “Because we’re taking the crawler straight to Neptune’s Bounty, and then I’m going home, right? There’s no reason not to just take it there. There’s—”

“Shh,” Green says, reaching out to press a hoof to my lips, her horseshoes hard and cold. “Crawlers are a very obvious means of smuggling. If we got you to Neptune’s Bounty that way, Security would know who helped you. Don’t worry though—you and I are riding straight there another way.” Her tone is quiet but firm, and she levitates me off the ground without removing her hoof from my muzzle. It should be terrifying, but there’s something oddly comforting about it, and she sets me down in the middle of the bathroom, facing the mirror.

“With the lieutenant,” I say, my voice so quiet I’m almost whispering the words. All the pieces from today fall into place in a moment, and there’s nothing I can do but stand stock still in front of the mirror, watching Green’s reflection uncork the first bottle. “Echo.”

“That’s right, Sweetheart. He’s arranged a special convoy for a security station near Neptune’s Bounty. We’ll all ride in the back, and once we’re close enough, slip out with nopony the wiser.” She pulls a comb, brush, cloth, and a few other items of makeup from her bag, and it’s only after she’s started brushing my coat that a thought seems to occur to her, her eyes perking up suddenly. “You two have met?”

“He threatened to hang a colt who helped me if I didn’t smile for him,” I say. After a moment, I swallow.

“Well,” Green says when the silence has grown too prolonged, going back to brushing the dye into my coat. “I’ll have a word with him about that.” Her tone is casual, polite—like he had caused me some minor inconvenience. But there’s a hard edge there. Is she angry with him? Seething with quiet fury at what he’s done? No. No, that’s not it. I catch her eye in the mirror. I see a glint, that faintest stiffness in the muscles around her eye.

It’s me. She’s angry with me.

Did I do something wrong?

“Will...” I swallow again, struggling to force words around the lump in my throat. “Will you really be able to hide the shaved patch with just makeup? I’m still missing a lot of hair there.”

“Mmhmm. You just let me work my magic, Sweetheart,” she assures me, like nothing had happened. There’s a pause though, a lull. She’s prompting me for something.

“Oh!” I laugh, and I think it sounds natural. I keep the tension out of my voice, at least, and I put a soft smile on my face for good measure. “Work your magic. I get it. That’s funny.”

She totally bought it.

The conversation mostly lapses into silence as she works, but that might be for the best. It gives me time to recover, and makes sure she isn’t distracted from her work. She is very good at this—there are a lot of unicorns with spells for this sort of thing, but she mostly works with her hooves, rubbing the dye into my coat. The dye is cheap and watery, but when she finishes with each section, the color shines through clear and bright. First my legs, then my undercarriage, then up along my sides.

“Did you never think about dyeing your coat before, Sweetheart?” Green asks, as her hooves massage the color into my barrel, along my ribs. “I know, you have a good natural hue, but it would mean ponies would mistake you for pink less.”

“I’ve thought about it,” I say, looking at my reflection in the mirror, sizing up the mare on the other side of the glass. She looks... bad. Not battle-scarred, not tormented or ragged or worn. All of those things have a dignity to them, some signal of inner strength to match the outer damage. She just looks dumpy, tired, with her pale coat and bald ankles and shaved sides and the patchwork of scars over her ribs. She has a bruise under one eye, scarring above it, and a cut on her ear that didn’t heal right. Her coat is pale, losing its luster, her mane full of tangles and split ends.

She doesn't look hideous. She’s not the kind of pony I would take pity on. She’s just... nothing special.

“Siren?” Green says, raising her voice. Her tone is pointed, and I realize I must have drifted away, missed something she said. A quick shake of my head serves to make it clear I wasn’t intentionally ignoring her, while I try to get my head back in the game.

“Sorry, I think I zoned out there for a moment. Could you repeat that?” I ask, sweetly enough. She doesn’t seem offended, but she’s giving me a funny look—eyes a little narrowed, ears up. Is she still mad? No, that’s not it. Something else. Concern, maybe?

“I asked: what color did you think about dyeing it? Back in Equestria,” she says, her hooves still against my side. She’s working as she talks, but her pace has slowed considerably, her attention now split between me and my coat.

“Oh. I never thought about it that much. It doesn’t matter,” I say, shaking my head again. “It’s considered bad form to dye your mane or coat. The tabloids go crazy with it, everypony insists they can see your real color. Besides, I’m the Princess’s student. It’s not like half the country doesn’t already know what I look like.”

“So, some pony on the street can have her hair any color she likes, but the Princess’s own protege can’t?” Green asks playfully. She’s trying to poke fun, but there’s not a lot I can do in response other than laugh and shrug.

“That’s how it works. I mean, it’s fine,” I answer, peering at my reflection still. Were those lines under my eyes always there?

“That’s how it works in Equestria,” Green corrects. Her voice is strong, but not sharp, too stern to be playful, but still friendly enough. She levitates the bottle of dye beside her, reaching up to hold my face with both hooves. “In Vision, special ponies can do and be whatever they please. Now shut your eyes.”

“Green, I—” She fixes me with a firm stare. I shut my eyes. Right.

We fall quiet again. It’s a little hard to talk with her hooves all over my face, and even with my eyes shut, the fumes from the dye itch and sting. She moves away from my face and down my neck, but insists that I’m not to open my eyes until the dye is dry if I enjoy not being blind. She needn’t have said anything—the caustic smell of the stuff is enough. It’s probably better not to think about exactly what dye is made from in Vision; I doubt they have the highest standard of safety and quality control in mind.

And so she works, down my neck, along my back, finishing my sides and my flanks. Then we wait for my coat to dry while she works a brush through my mane.

“Hold still,” she orders, and I hear her makeup kit open. She holds my head still with both hooves while her magic controls the array of tools inside. Brushes, pads, and other things work their way over my face, and I’m left wondering what she’s doing. If the dye isn’t dry enough for me to open my eyes, it’s probably not a good idea to start on the rest of the disguise yet. I consider asking, but, with how tight her grip is, I don’t think she wants me to speak. I’m supposed to sit there, holding still until...

“Done,” she proclaims, leaning away. “Take a look.”

For a moment after I open my eyes, my brain doesn’t recognize my own reflection. Too much has changed too quickly—she’s green, she’s strange, foreign and different, and instinctively, I pull away from the glass. It’s only when I see her mimic the motion that it hits me, that I recognize those eyes as my own, that mane, that face.

I’m dazzling.

Her—my—mouth falls open when I see what Green has done. She’s fixed up my face and mane just the way she does her own. The green shines through perfectly, a rich, deep color, and my mane hangs down dramatically over my right eye, hiding the bruses and the cut on my forehead. It doesn’t look like a cover though—it looks exotic, and when I glance to my left side, the little bumps and scrapes there are completely invisible. My ankles are still bare and my side is still shaved of course, but from the shoulders up, it’s like I’m restored. No, better than—I couldn't look this good when I was trying.

I catch my reflection’s wide-eyed, stunned expression, and it occurs to me then that I’m still miles below the ocean’s surface—that I’m still trapped in a nightmarish, blighted city, and that maybe I can worry about my looks when I’m not in mortal danger. I turn away from the mirror, starting to feel like I might be a very petty creature.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart,” Green says, her hooves finding my muzzle, gently tilting my face up. She’s smiling up at me softly, and with those hooves and silver shoes, she guides my gaze back to the glass. “Your actual disguise is going to be fairly ugly—pretty ponies stand out after all. I just figured, with how upset you were about the scars, you deserved to know things weren't that bad before I messed you up.”

“I...” In an instant, my mind goes blank. I look back at her for direction, but I can’t find anything in her face. It’s there—she’s not hiding her expression at all—but I can’t see it. It’s like she’s a book, and I just forgot how to read, leaving me staring at her dumbly. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, what I’m supposed to do. Something, anything. “Scars,” I stammer out, stiff and rigid, practically shouting the words as I point at the side of her face. “The doctor said you’d have scars.” The side of her face is unbroken though, without so much as a shaved section to indicate she had major head trauma not a few days ago. The bruise I gave her on the way to the station seems to have vanished too, leaving her in mint condition. “You look good,” I finish, lamely.

Green just laughs and smiles. And then, it’s back to work.

First, she wipes my face clean, and then, she starts in with her magic, telekinesis and petty spells making a host of corrections nopony could do by hoof. She discolors a few hairs in my tail, one at a time, until the once-perfectly-neat colors are messy enough that it looks natural. She presses one of the rub-on cutie mark stickers to my bare, shaved side, a little electric jolt running through me when she applies it. Then, she pulls out her makeup kit.

“Isn’t that a bit much just to cover the scars?” I ask as her brush and cloth work back and forth over my side and tug at the little half-formed hairs. “Visible makeup will be suspicious too, I mean.”

“Oh, a bit much,” she agrees, though the pace of her work doesn’t slow. The makeup is thick at this point, dense, like she had slathered it over my side. I don’t use makeup much, but even I know that it’s going to look terrible. “And... there!” she proclaims, abruptly snapping the kit shut. “What do you think?”

I turn so my side faces the mirror.

It’s not much of a disguise. My coat is emerald green, yes, and my mane is a flowing mix of forest hues, but a palette swap does not an effective disguise make. My ankles are still bare, my face is still the same as it always was, and the cutie mark she put on my side—a gear and silver bars—looks flaky and translucent, like the cheap rub-on it is. Worst of all is the makeup though. If she was trying to make my side look unshaved, she failed miserably. In fact, the thick coat of off-green does nothing but draw attention to my side, making it clear exactly how much hair is missing.

“It’s um...” I struggle for the words. “The color is—”

“You’re looking at it wrong,” Green says, smoothly talking over me. She sits down so she can reach out with both hooves, putting them over my eyes. “Shut your eyes,” she orders, a tad redundantly. “Clear your mind of all preconceived notions of what you look like. You’re not looking at a mirror—you’re looking at another pony you’ve never seen before.”

That seems like dubiously useful advice, since anypony looking for me will certainly have my description, but I nod. “Okay,” I answer, and I do actually make an effort, taking a deep breath, letting it out, trying to still my troubled thoughts.

“Now... open your eyes,” she orders, removing her hooves, letting me look at the mirror again.

I look...

“Ponyfeathers,” I whisper, reaching up to touch my face. It is like the transformation from before, only horribly reversed, encompassing my entire body. My hair is falling out in clumps all over my body—my ankles, my forehead, both sides, bits of my mane. I’m cut, I’m battered, my real cutie mark almost hidden in the encroaching forest of emerald around it. Worst of all though is my side, the skin there waxy and sickly, like a blight that’s seeping through my flesh, that weak, fading cutie mark in the center of it all.

She turned me into one of them.

I reach back to pat that spot, needing to confirm that it’s only makeup, but Green catches my hoof before I can. “Don’t touch it. It smears easily,” she warns. “All this stuff is meant to come off. The permanent version takes longer to apply, but this will do for the trip.”

“Green, this is...” I struggle for the words. Brilliant? Awful? “Won’t I stand out in a crowd?”

“Nope,” she answers, with a casual confidence. “In fact, you’ll about have the power of invisibility if you look desperate enough. Nopony wants to make eye contact with that sort. If you do, they’ll only hit you up for money. I’ve had to look ugly for a few jobs before.”

“That must have been a lot of work,” I speak without thinking, but for once, that leads me down the right path, and she smiles. “Thank you, Green. This is brilliant. And... I’m sorry. For earlier I mean.” I don’t know exactly what I’m apologizing for, but I give it a little awkward, bashful shame, and she takes it without question.

“You’ve got a lot of bad habits to break, Sweetheart, but you’re making good time. Think nothing of it,” she waves the matter off with a hoof before rising back to all fours, carefully securing my belt around me so as not to smudge her fresh work. “Let’s get you upstairs, shall we?”

The walk gives me time to think—Green gets us lost, and we spend a few minutes wandering the corridors, looking for somepony to ask for directions. I think about helping her navigate, since I seem to understand this place a bit better, but I could use the break, and she doesn’t notice how quiet I am when she’s busy trying to find her way.

I mean, I’m not thinking about anything in particular. Just thinking. Everything that’s happened today, over the last few days, it’s left me rattled. Disoriented, even. It’s like I’m a stranger in my own mind, finding things I’d thought long buried, fumbling for things I once could find easily.

Like my body language. I’m not controlling it the way I used to—things are slipping out, or worse, I’m forgetting myself entirely, letting instinct of all things choose how I look and move. Even now that I’m thinking about it, what used to be as natural as breathing feels like an effort, some conscious decision on my part against my nature. I have to remind myself to smile whenever Green looks at me, to glance at her mane like I was admiring how much it shines. It’s no wonder she was angry with me—when we met, I was graceful. Now, I’m practically stumbling through the day, just trying to keep from tripping over my own hooves.

Rattled. Unsettled. The shakes. I’ve heard a lot of terms for the disorder in one’s mind after a frightening event, but they were always just words. The closest I’ve ever come to tragedy or danger was when Cirrus Cloud snapped her wing, and that was really more dangerous for her than for me. Even if it was scary, the doctors told me she’d be fine, and the Princess was there to put a wing around me and tell me it would all be okay.

This doesn’t feel... rattling, though. Or shaky. I was a little emotional earlier, but now I feel like my thoughts are clumsy, slow and uncoordinated. I need a chance to clear my head, to talk things through, to find some solid ground to stand on.

But I guess it’s time to go now.

Green’s navigation takes us up a particularly long set of stairs, and when we reach the top, we emerge into a large half-cylindrical chamber, the roof arching high over our heads. The line between “hallway” and “road” was always a little blurry in Vision, but from the train tracks that run down the length of the room, I’m pretty sure this is the start of some kind of major thoroughfare. They’re not like the tram tracks that went outside—solid, braced things—but more like tracks you’d see in Equestria, smaller and recessed into the floor. There’s a stubby, boxy train car of some kind sitting on them—and while I know that aesthetics in Vision are different than those in Equestria, this thing seems to be making an active effort to be ugly. Short, squat, dark, with no windows other than a slit in the front, and no doors but a sliding cargo hatch in the side. Berry is standing in front of it, and through the door behind her, I can see it’s stuffed full of boxes.

“Hello, Berry!” Green calls as we make our way across the room. My eyes follow the train tracks as we walk. One end of this room really is just a wall—the start of the line, I suppose—but the other is one of those heavy security doors. There are a lot of little doors around the sides too, presumably more stairwells to the maintenance space. I’m not looking at Green, and so it catches me off guard when she shoves me forward, pushing me up towards Berry. “So!” she chirps, “What do you think?”

When I turn back ahead, I’m greeted by the sight of Berry’s muzzle barely a hoof’s length from my own—enough to make anypony jump. It’s a good thing she doesn’t care about interpersonal cues, because I am not at the top of my game right now, practically announcing my discomfort with a sign and a megaphone. I squirm away as she looks over every part of me, inspecting the disguise, eyeing Green’s handiwork. She actually sniffs at the fake cutie mark. Who does that?

“Acceptable,” she pronounces after a moment, her usual dead indifference coming across more as resignation in this particular context. “Regarding Lieutenant Echo, Trixie conveys that we are to trust him with the information he has acquired regarding Siren, and completely trust him once this assignment is complete.”

“Well, good to know,” Green says after a stiff pause. She tries to hide it, but I can hear that she’s a touch distracted by the news. She doesn’t like the idea of trusting that detestable monster? Not that I could blame her. “Are we waiting on him, then?” she asks, and Berry nods. “Well, no sense in sitting around. I’ll go find him. You watch Sire—”

“No,” I blurt out. For a second, I go stiff, Berry and Green both turning to look at me when I have no earthly idea what I’m going to follow that up with. I don’t panic though. I push through that disorientation, that fog, and I look Green in the eye, taking a deep breath and letting it out. “I’ll go fetch him. You’d only get lost again.”

“That is not a good—” Berry starts to object, only for Green to hold out a leg in front of her, as though to block her path. Berry looks down at the leg, and then at Green, and says nothing. I guess silence implies consent?

“Go ahead then, Sweetheart. And don’t dally—we should get underway as soon as we can,” Green says. I feel... tense, for some reason. Like all my muscles were wound up. I don’t show it though, and I nod to her, turning and starting back the way we came.

“Okay,” I say as soon as I’m out of earshot, my hooves carrying me down that long, twisting flight. “Okay, Siren. That wasn’t your best performance,” I add, with a suitably rebuking tone, but not one that strays into outright criticism. It’s supportive, reassuring. I’m good at that. “But you didn’t bomb it either. You hit all the key notes, and the audience knows what you were going for, even if you slipped up in the little details.” Put that way, it doesn't sound so bad. Green still wants to protect me, Berry isn’t going to try to poison me, I’m in good health. “I know you’re still rattled, but you’re in a better position now than you have been for a long time, and if you can keep it together, you’ll be home soon. Think you can do that for me?” Yeah, yeah, I think I can do that. “Right!”

“Now, first step: finding Echo...” I mutter when I come to a four-way split at the end of the stairwell. I have the feeling of this place, the ways and means of its architect, but that doesn’t tell me where Echo will be hiding. I could find somepony to ask, but with how abandoned this place is during the day, that would be a significant undertaking in and of itself, and there’s no guarantee they would know either. “Well...” I muse, biting my lip. He must have known we’d be leaving soon, so probably somewhere near the exit. Of the three tunnels I have to chose from, two are stairs leading downwards, so I pick the third one, following its level course that must run parallel to the train station above.

This floor doesn't seem like it gets much use. From the look of it, it was intended to be a proper train terminal—wide corridors, benches, spaces for little shops. It’s all locked up though, or converted to storage space, a number of storefronts packed full of dusty crates. I don’t think the space is abandoned; it looks more like it was never used. The benches are still pristine, other than the dust; the floor shows no sign of warping or wearing from passengers’ hooves; there are no neglected signs in the storefronts or inventory left behind. Maybe this was built before the war and wasn’t needed after? Maybe it was an ill-considered last-moment addition? It clearly wasn’t made by the same architect as the industrial space.

I’m abruptly jerked out of my reverie by the sound of splashing. Hooves in water, somepony moving through the pools and puddles that form under the leakiest parts of the ceiling. The sound is intermittent, irregular, like they can’t quite find their balance, but it’s definitely coming from up ahead. I pick up my own pace to a quick walk, ears twisting back and forth as I look for the source of the noise. There, just ahead, coming from that storefront. I hurry past the dust-covered windows, pushing my way in through the open door—

Dark. The inside of the storefront is dark, illuminated only by a thin, sickly shaft of light from the open door. Tall stacks of boxes and abandoned furniture cast long shadows, forming a pattern of scattered light against the rear wall, like glittering pieces of shattered glass. I see motion, a swaying. Then I hear the splash again, hooves in water, awkwardly moving back and forth. Breath, a hiss of exertion, the thump of something hitting wood. Muffled and muted words. A long, high groan. I take another half-step in, the light shifting around me, moving as my shadow does.

Zephyr’s face, yanked back and high, a bit in her mouth, her cheeks and ears flush. A white leg capped with a steel hoof-weapon, wrapped around her neck, pulling her back.

I’m frozen to the spot. I should leave, pretend I never saw anything, look away at least, but all I can do is stare. Light seems to dance over the scene, revealing something, only to let shadows conceal it again a moment later. Zephyr’s mane, wild and knotted. Their rear legs intertwined on the floor, caught in that puddle. The glint of that bit in her teeth. Echo’s face, brushing against hers. Their wings are outstretched, hers full of a tense energy, his steady and stiff. I see a shine in the darkness there. He’s still wearing his wingblades. The sounds tell more than my eyes ever could though, the panting, the grunting, her sudden hiss of pain. She tries to form words, at points, but it’s impossible now, her head pulled back, her eyes forced towards the ceiling by the taut cords behind her.

And then it’s over. There’s a sudden tension, a sharper grunt, a squeak and a long hiss, and the energy seems to flow out of them. Zephyr curls her lips in around her teeth, the reins behind her going slack, letting her finally lower her head back to level. Letting her see me.

She freezes. Her eyes go wide.

“Not bad,” Echo’s voice rumbles, and I see his head rub alongside hers, her left ear momentarily in his teeth. He sounds amused, and he whispers something to her, too quiet for me to hear. She abruptly spits out the bit, and the reigns slip over her head, clattering to the floor. He must notice how stiff she’s gone, because he turns his gaze to follow hers, eyes settling on me. They seem to sparkle in the reflected light, and he laughs.

“Hello, Ms. Song,” he greets, sliding off Zephyr’s back, his forehooves splashing in the puddle around them. She seems frozen to the spot, the two of us like statues, staring at each other in mutual wide-eyed horror. “Do excuse me; I’ll be with you in a moment.”

It’s hard to see in the shadowy storefront, but he turns away from her, taking a few steps towards something in the back. A table, maybe. I hear a rustling of fabric, and the clink of metal, and then he’s beside her again, a small bag balanced on one of his wings. “My apologies for being so abrupt, Ms. Zephyr, but duty calls, and it is rather urgent. Do give my regards to your family.”

I have never seen a pony look so small as Zephyr does at this exact moment, glancing between Echo and me, seeking some, any escape, her wings tucked tight and stiff against her side.

“You can go now, Ms. Zephyr,” Echo repeats, more firmly this time. She gives me one last frightened look, takes the bag in her teeth, and gallops out the door—rushing past me without ever making eye contact, her gaze on the ground. I can see deep bite marks on her ear, bruises on her side, her flank. Then, she’s gone.

“She’s sixteen.” The words should be an accusation—they’ve every right to be. Yet somehow, they come out like Berry would utter them. Dead, indifferent, stating a fact.

“So she is,” Echo agrees, returning to the back. My eyes are adjusting a little now. I can see the table he went to before—no, it’s a crate he’s using as a table. There are objects scattered over it, though I can’t make them out clearly. His uniform, probably? He starts attaching the armor plates, slipping the loops around his legs, his barrel. “So rare in this city to find a pony who is actually the age they seem to be. My compliments to Ms. Apple on your disguise, on that note. I’d think you were her daughter if I didn’t know any better.”

“Why?” I ask, and he pauses in his labors, looking up at me from across that dim space.

“You need me to explain how you two look rather similar at the moment?” he asks, a tad quizzically, a tad dry. I start to answer, but I can’t seem to find the words, my mouth opening and closing without a sound. “Or, you mean, why would she?” He seems to understand now, and I dumbly nod.

“I suppose that would be a bit of a shock to you, what with your recent immigration.” He reaches down for something on the table, and when he lifts his head up, a cigarette is held between his teeth. “Light this, would you?” he asks, stepping over towards me, holding the object in question towards my horn. After a moment’s pause, I tilt my head forward, a soft magenta spark lighting the cigarette end. “Thank you,” he says, before turning back to his uniform.

“I don’t know how much the other two have told you, but she’s one of the maintenance ponies down here. It’s a good job—food, board, full medical coverage, protection, plenty of friends to support you. Not a lot of money, but then, with all those perks, you don’t need to spend much,” he explains, snapping on the last of his leg pieces. I can see his side now, in the light. His original cutie mark is a silver medal, and the others...

Nothing.

“Sometimes though, a pony finds herself in need of some spending money. Maybe she has a taste for luxuries, maybe she has a family to support,” he continues, oblivious to my observations. “It’s all strictly at her discretion of cour—”

“Where are your extra cutie marks?” I ask, abruptly, pointing at his barrel. “I don’t see any.”

“I’m not a marker,” he replies, after a thoughtful pause, sliding another one of the armored plates over his back. I can see he’s smirking, the light from that cigarette bobbing up and down. I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I say nothing, and after a moment, he takes that as his answer. “No mantles, tonics, or medication. Contrary to popular opinion, Ms. Song, not every pony in security puts poison joke in their cereal in the morning. Call me old-fashioned, but if I’m going to drink something that will kill me, I think I’d prefer alcohol. Speaking of which.” He pulls his flask from the folded uniform, taking a long swig from it before tucking it back into his pocket, pulling the cloth exterior of the uniform over his head, and sliding it across the hard plates beneath.

“Why, then?” I ask.

“Ms. Song, if you want a helpful answer, you really are going to have to ask a slightly more detailed question,” he asserts. He’s not really annoyed but his voice is a touch stiff. He tugs the sleeves of his uniform straight as he talks, before doing up the front and reaching for his helmet last of all.

“Berry and Green both work for Trixie because they’re addicts. They need the money. Why are you doing this?” I ask. He doesn’t answer at first, busy adjusting those little epaulets and making sure his pins are straight. It’s only when he’s ready to go that he turns to face me, trotting towards the door. His face is on me, but his expression is guarded, just like it was this morning. All I can get from him is that he finds the question curious, and that he’s evaluating me for asking it.

“Perhaps I didn’t think you deserved to die simply for being related to an unpopular councilmare.” It’s an obvious lie, but there’s no way to question it without looking like a whining little brat, so I nod. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say, and we spend the rest of the walk in silence, back along the corridor, up the long stairs, into the rail chamber. Berry and Green are still there, sitting in the open cargo door. They look up when we enter, Green giving the pair of us an alert glance. Echo doesn’t show her anything though, and I don’t either.

“Ladies,” Echo greets, one long gaze taking in the three of us. “Shall we be on our way?”

“No reason to wait,” Green agrees, but after a moment, she looks back at me. “Everything went okay?”

“It went fine,” I reply, pushing past her and climbing up into the traincar. “Let’s get out of here.”

“All aboard then,” Echo says, and once Green and Berry are inside, he pulls the cargo hatch shut, locking it. There’s not much to the interior of the vehicle, just a small control panel near the front and some tied-down piles of crates and barrels in the back. “If you ladies would please stay away from the windows, our total trip time should be a hair over two hours. Next stop...” He turns to the front, pulling one of the levers there. The train car jumps forward a half step, and then slowly starts to roll, the security door sliding open ahead of us to let us pass.

“Neptune’s Bounty.”

Silverhoof

I catch Green’s eyes across the compartment and hold her gaze in a long, silent stare. She has striking eyes, as rich a green as the rest of her, but they’re crude tools. They can command, enthrall, beguile, but not truly conquer, control, or conceal—she can’t plant an idea in my heart and make me think it my own. All she can do is try to hold steady, dark emeralds matching light rubies in the dim train car. I catch the faintest glint of light, her gaze flicking down for but a fraction of a second.

Gotcha.

“Got any threes?” I ask sweetly, Green shooting me a foul look as she plucks three cards out of her hoof and pushes them towards me. I grin just a little, stacking her cards up with my three of clubs. The pool is almost empty, and with six little stacks of cards in front of me to Green’s one, we’re rapidly nearing the point where her victory will become mathematically impossible. She knows that, and I know that, so I’m sure to grin enough to show I’m enjoying it, but not so much that I’m rubbing her muzzle in it—just enough that I’m not patronizing. It’s a delicate balance, but I strike it well, and her expression is more playful than actually irritated.

“You’re cheating,” she insists, eyeing the little line of cards hovering in front of me, her own hoof of cards flat on the floor in front of her. We’re sitting face to face in the back of the railcar with Berry beside us, the pool of cards taking up the spot on the floor precisely in the center of our little group. There are no windows in the rear, and the stacks of crates obscure our view of the front, leaving us alone in our little shelter. Berry isn’t playing, of course, but it’s still rather cozy. The only sign of Echo is the faint haze of smoke that drifts along the ceiling, but even that’s become tolerable after a while. There’s nothing to do but wait, Green and I passing the time while we listen to the tracks click and clack below us.

“I’m playing well,” I reply, with an amused air that is not entirely feigned. “Your turn.”

“With two players, this should be a game of chance,” Green points out. “There’s no such thing as playing well, and you’ve flattened me three games in a row. You’re cheating.”

“It’s only a game of chance if you’re guessing,” I reply in turn, sing-song. “It’s not my fault you’ve got no poker face.”

“Poker face? What, are you reading my cards in my expression?” she demands, turning her head slightly and fixing me with one, skeptical eye. She’s having fun with it though, and I laugh.

“Something like that,” I say, taking a moment to rearrange the cards in front of me like I was organizing them into neat sets, picking out two or three at a time and lumping them together. It’s random, of course, but Green picks up on it exactly like I thought she would, her eyes following the cards’ motions, counting the number of sets left. “Your turn,” I remind her.

She nods, catching my gaze, trying to read me the way I read her. She doesn’t have a chance, of course, and I give her nothing, her eyes narrowing. Then, she smiles. “Would you kindly tell me if you have any jacks?”

Eye contact. My breath catches in my throat, and I go stock still. Eye contact. I didn’t even think about it—it was just us playing cards! I should turn away, break the connection, but my whole body is tense, freezing me to the spot. I brace for the sweet smell, that rush of adoration. Green’s eyes seem to sparkle as a grin appears on her face.

Then she snorts.

It’s about when I hear her high-pitched, nasal laugh that it occurs to me I’m less than entranced by her at the moment. She giggles like a schoolfilly, the room seeming to boil as a hot flush runs through me. My ears fold back instinctively, and that only makes her laugh harder as she reaches up to cover her mouth with a hoof. “Are you trying to resist mind control or do you need a bran muffin?” she asks, the grin she’s hiding audible in her tone.

“That wasn’t funny, Green,” I say, looking down at the floor and folding my cards in front of me. I can’t keep the blush off my face. My whole body is tense, like I drank way too much coffee, my forehooves tapping together nervously just to have something to do. I could unfold my ears, I guess, but it wouldn't be a convincing expression.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” Green sighs, sweeping the cards away and reaching out to me. A hug? She’s giving me a hug? Letting me rest my head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was only joking around. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“I know,” I say, automatically. It’s true though, I mean, we were having fun and foaling around and she did something silly. I can’t hold a grudge against her for that. “And, I mean, I know you wouldn't abuse it. It’s not like you’re an evil mastermind making me do your bidding or anything. It’s just...” She doesn’t pick up the thread when I trail off, and I catch the slight stiffening of her pose, her head tilting to focus on me, paying close attention to my answer. She wants me to finish. “It’s just...” It’s just what? What is it she wants me to say? “I don’t like... feeling that way.”

Not what she was looking for—I can tell by the way she relaxes, lets out a puff of breath. She doesn’t seem disappointed though, giving me a little squeeze before she leans back and releases me. “Okay, Sweetheart. No more jokes, I promise.”

It’s an awkward moment to share with others around. Of course, Echo is in the front, and Berry keeps staring straight ahead, swaying back and forth with the railcar’s little motions. Still.

“Um....” I glance down at the cards, hopelessly scattered at this point. The mood for the game has passed anyway, and I think it’s time to find a new topic. The flush is already fading, and I force my ears back up. After a moment, I lift my head and look Green in the eye, careful not to show any hesitation. I think I catch a glint of approval at that, though she’s trying not to be too obvious about it. “So, why wasn’t I hypnotized that time?”

“Oh, the phrase isn’t magic. It’s just something I say,” she answers, sweeping up the scattered cards and folding them one at a time back into a deck.

“What, so you can be the world’s most polite hypnotist?” I say, teasing her right back. I’m in my element here, so of course, I nail it, and she instinctively smiles.

“The development of obsessive-compulsive behavioral quirks pertaining to the functioning of secondary cutie marks is one of the earliest symptoms of withdrawal,” Berry cuts in. She doesn’t look at me or Green as she says it, just blandly staring ahead at the boxes. “Markers will often develop small rituals or habits associated with their new cutie marks. While these begin as simple behavioral oddities, in time, they become a compulsion to the point that many markers become unable to use their abilities without them. While the reasons for this are not well understood, they are believed to pertain to the original nature of Cutie Pox, wherein it would force spastic and compulsive behaviors upon the infected ponies.”

For what feels like a very long time, nopony says anything. Green keeps herself busy with the cards, shuffling them over and over again. Berry stares straight ahead. Echo gives a grim chuckle, his laugh carrying back over the boxes. I don’t know what to do, left glancing between Green and Berry with a blank expression.

No. No, that’s not true. I draw a breath, giving my head a good shake. I’m rattled, rattled enough I’m not thinking straight, but under that, I do know what to do. Green doesn’t respect ponies who shrink away from unpleasant truths, and while she may not want to talk about it, she’s faced this truth before. It won’t offend her.

“So, you have to say that every time then?” I ask her. My tone isn’t casual—that would be making fun of the seriousness of the situation. I don’t show worry either though. Instead, I’m a little stiff, and a little curious, like I would be if making polite inquiries about any other weighty topic. She doesn’t answer at first, but when she does, it’s with a firm nod, and she turns back up from the cards to look at me.

“Sure do, Sweetheart,” she says, tucking the collected deck back into her saddlebags. “Once upon a time, all I had to do was stare a pony in the eye and think real hard what I wanted them to do. But thoughts can be vague; it was a lot easier to casually drop a line in conversation giving them an order. Then I started dressing it up so it would sound polite, and I guess one day I realized I couldn't do it the old way anymore.”

There are follow-up questions I could ask, and probably should, but I think Green will welcome being a little less the focus of attention. Instead, I glance at Berry, giving her cutie marks a careful inspection before I ask, “So, is there a phrase you have to say every time you distill something?”

“While heart’s-desire-induced obsessive-compulsive behaviors can take the form of specific actions which must be undertaken upon the use of secondary cutie marks, it is more common for markers to develop ‘maintenance’ behaviors which may be carried out over time,” Berry answers, efficient and dull. “One of the earliest known examples is a unicorn named Coal Spark who, six months after acquiring his Winter Blast cutie mark, developed a habit of chewing on ice cubes. He insisted there was no link between the two, but when denied the ability to engage in the behavior, would become irrational and aggressive, and lose the ability to use his secondary talents. This case is considered typical both in the nature of the action, and in the fact that he was unaware of the compulsion.”

“Right...” I say slowly, tapping my jaw with a hoof as I mull her words over. With everything that’s happened, I haven’t exactly had time to stop and think about the details of how the city functions. But if I’m going to be leaving soon, and hopefully getting the Princess to save this place after, it might be prudent to know. “So then, you might have some obsessive behaviors, but you probably wouldn't know if you did.”

“Correct,” Berry nods. Of course, it doesn’t bother her, but Green also seems to be taking it well. Maybe Berry’s academic tone has distanced her from the embarrassment of it, or maybe she’s happy to teach me.

“Do you have any others, Green?” I ask, turning back to face her.

“Sure don’t.” Echo’s voice drifts back over the piles of boxes, a dark chuckle carried along with it. “Sweetheart.”

Oh, ponyfeathers.

Green’s reaction is quick, a whole set of emotions flashing across her face in barely a second. Confusion in that momentary pause, recognition as her eyes go wide, embarrassment when her jaw goes a little bit slack—shame when she sees me staring at her. Last of all, strongest of the set, is anger. All those earlier reactions vanish as her eyes narrow, her face twisting into a grimace as she shoots to her hooves. I try to stammer something, but she shoves past me before I can, storming around to the front of the railcar.

“It’s a nickname,” she snarls at Echo as Berry and I rise in turn, following her around the stacks of crates to the front. She’s fixing him with the most toxic glare, her grimace so sharp it’s like she’s an animal baring her teeth. He’s turned to face her, but he doesn’t seem bothered—in fact, I think he’s smiling a bit, like this was all one big joke.

“Is it?” he asks, his eyes briefly flicking in my direction. Wait, what was that? That was intentional—blunt even, with the pause he’s letting hang to make sure she noticed. “Well, I suppose you would know best, Ms. Apple,” he answers, calm and amused.

“Don’t y’all—don’t you take that tone with me! And don’t call me that!” she snaps, her accent coming on thick as she loses her composure. Is that because he looked at me? She’s not turning her head back, but she’s so tense, she might be willfully suppressing that instinct. Is Echo trying to humiliate her in front of me? I can’t get much from him, and he smiles and shakes his head, letting out a deep, reverberating chuckle.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” he asks, unmoved, matching her gaze without fear. “Green Apple. Or would you prefer I call you by your nickname? What was that charming little sobriquet they had for you back in the day? Green with, oh... something. It’ll come to me.” He’s smiling, not a trace of cruelty in his tone, but it’s there, as sweet and toxic as everything else in this city. He settles back on his haunches, taking a draw off his cigarette and blowing the smoke thoughtfully upwards. “I’m not one to judge of course; gossip can be so unfair.”

Green’s teeth grind together, her posture going stiff. It won’t work though. Echo is the one in control here—if he’s trying to push her into attacking him, it’s because he knows he can win, and she’s about to fall for the bait.

“Is there some reason”— I raise my voice until I’m almost shouting, stepping between the two of them —“that you are antagonizing my escort?” I keep my voice firm, authoritative, and no matter how loud it might be, I don’t shout like we’re in an argument. That would only inflame things, while a good dose of stern disapproval might bring Green back to her senses. I notice that one of his pockets is open, the one with the flask, and on a guess, I launch a quick follow up, “Wait, how much have you had to drink today?”

“I’m not entirely certain that’s any of your business, Ms. Song,” he replies, but it’s probably the best answer I could have hoped for, and I can see Green’s expression settling a bit. She’s still furious, but the realization that she’s arguing with a drunk has cooled her temper a bit—or at least, she isn’t tensing to swing the first punch anymore. “This is the watered-down stuff, in any case.”

“Watered-down what? Paint thinner?” I keep up the pressure, stepping closer to Green’s side. Don’t argue with him; make him look like the sort of idiot who isn’t worth arguing with. “Don’t you think it might be a problem if you have to talk us through a checkpoint—”

“Train,” Berry finishes for me, pointing at Echo. Green, Echo, and I all stop what we’re doing and turn to her. Of course, her body language reveals nothing.

Echo tilts his head at her, puzzled. “What are you—”

“Train,” she repeats, pointing firmly at Echo, raising her voice over the clatter of the wheels on the tracks.

Echo gets it before I do, his eyes going wide as he follows her pointing hoof to the window behind him. “Train,” he breathes. He doesn’t bother looking to double check, reaching out and grabbing one of the levers beside him and slamming it all the way into the up position. Metal screams as the brakes engage, the floor seeming to leap backwards, twisting me around and sending me crashing into Green. We both go down in a pile of tangled legs, the floor shaking under us with the force of our deceleration. I can’t see anything, but I hear boxes crashing in the back and the scrape of metal on metal in the cabin. Green shouts something and grabs ahold of me, covering my head with her leg.

And then, the railcar is still.

“You trying to kill somepony, you idiot!?” a stallion shouts at us, his voice muffled by the cabin glass. I hear his hoof strike the outside of the car, producing a deep ring on the metal. He curses at us, storms away, and as one, we heave a sigh.

“Well, there’s an aesop in this somewhere about paying attention to what you’re doing,” Echo says as he pulls himself to his hooves. “Thank you, Ms. Punch.”

Green and I have a bit more trouble untangling ourselves, and it takes a few tries before we can both get up. By the time we’re both on our hooves, Echo and Berry are already at the window, looking out and ahead.

True to Berry’s word, there’s a train stopped not five paces ahead of us, and I think my heart skips a beat when I realize how close we came to a full-on crash. The corridor around us is wide, perhaps twenty paces across, gently curving to the left. I can see that there are quite a few cars backed up on the rails—at least a half dozen before I lose sight of them around the bend. It’s an even mix of passenger cars and freight, and there are a few ponies milling around outside, including a stallion nearby, who I assume is the one that yelled at us. The walls are mostly bare other than a few shops, but those all seem to be closed, those metal bars lowered over the front.

For a moment, the car is quiet while we all evaluate what’s in front of us. Green is the one to break the silence. “We should back up,” she says, the earlier argument forgotten in light of more serious matters. “Take another route before we get stuck here.”

“Take another route to where?” Echo asks, shaking his head. “There are lots of other routes to Security Station Myrina, and there are lots of other routes to Neptune’s Bounty, but this is the only one that coincidentally passes near both.” He pauses, brushing his lips together as he seems to notice that he’s lost his cigarette. This unnatural state of affairs must be corrected at once, of course, and he wastes no time drawing another cigarette out of the pack in his pocket. “No, we’ll have to wait until the jam clears. It shouldn't be a problem. We’re inconspicuous, just one of a lot of stuck cars.”

“So while we’re talking about obsessive behaviors, is there any time you’re not smoking like a chimney?” I ask, shooting him a dirty glance. He’s right, of course, but his plan involves a few hours of sitting in a railcar with nothing to do but murder each other—best get back to defusing that argument now. Besides, he can’t make fun of Green like that.

“Well, I’m not smoking right now,” he answers, glancing pointedly at my horn and then down at the unlit cigarette.

“Grow your own horn,” I snap back. It comes out harsher than it should have, but I won’t say I didn’t enjoy it. A quick glance at Green confirms it’s having the intended effect; the glare she shoots him is contemptuous, but not furious—a smouldering anger that doesn’t extend to her hooves or weapons.

“An intriguing suggestion, Ms. Song,” he says, his tone dry. “But I do believe you’ve misinterpreted my intentions. While Ms. Apple’s outburst was... amusing,” he chuckles, but this time, Green doesn’t rise to the bait, “it was not my intention to slight her. Merely to point out the flaw in Ms. Punch’s reasoning.”

“Which is?” I ask. Normally, in this case, it’s best not to engage, but I get the sense that he’ll go on if I ask or not, and at least this way, I have some control over events. Green seems content to keep quiet for now, flicking her eyes between the two of us.

“That if you go searching for something, you are sure to find it,” he answers, casually. “I habitually smoke, drink, and refer to ponies in the formal style, and if I were a marker, I’ve no doubt she’d quickly diagnose me with all sorts of nervous disorders. Your escort is no less cruel in her judgments, but to herself instead of others.” He turns up to look at Green, matching her gaze and smiling. “That’s all that I found funny, Ms. Apple. I do apologize if I offended you.”

It’s a pile of horseapples and we all know it, but for the sake of civility, Green pretends she’s too stupid to realize that. “You have a unique sort of diplomacy, officer,” she grumbles, glancing him over. “But... accepted.”

“Guards.” Berry raises her voice, pointing outside, and for the second time in less than ten minutes, I realize we all let ourselves get turned away from the window. No wonder Trixie trusts Berry more than the rest of us. Looking ahead, and I can see two figures in black working their way down the line of stopped cars, opening them one at a time and speaking to the ponies milling around outside.

“Well, time for you to earn your pay th—” Green starts, but Echo sharply raises a hoof for silence. He leans up towards the glass and peers into the distance, squinting at the approaching uniformed figures.

“Problem,” he says. “I know those ponies. They’re part of Thunderlane’s unit, and Rainbow Dash has him searching for you. This isn’t a regular stop.”

I feel my breath catching my throat, and I peer harder at the glass, trying to see how many there are. “We need to back up then!” I say, glancing at the controls and then back to the window. “Get out of here before—”

“No,” Green says, reaching down to put a hoof on my shoulder. She lets it rest there for a moment, giving me a faint pat. My heartbeat starts to return to normal, and I didn’t even realize it had sped up. “No, if they knew what train we were in, they’d have arrested us the second we left Tethys. Echo?”

“I’m not sure,” he mutters. “Last I heard, Thunderlane lost your trail in Tiara Tower. This must be new since this morning.” For a moment, he’s stone-faced, peering at the guards making their way towards us. “Well, at this point, they’ve seen us. If we run, they will know what train we’re on. Ms. Punch relaxing in the back, Ms. Song and Ms. Apple up here—we’ve got nothing to hide.” He glances between me and Green, and then catches her eye. “Keep Ms. Song covered, crates on one side of her, you on the other. Her distinguishing marks are on her sides—let’s not let them get a good look.”

Berry moves into position in one smooth step. I start to move to my own place, but Green catches me again. “Hold on, Sweetheart. Let’s check that makeup real quick.” It was a good thought—my disguise did get a little smudged in that tumble Green and I took. She fixes it up in a few quick strokes from her makeup kit, and when I snuggle up against the boxes, she moves to stand on my opposite side.

Of course, that doesn't take more than thirty seconds, and the guards are still a way ahead of us, giving me plenty of time to sit there and worry. This is an introductory acting lesson—look casual, don’t show how nervous you are—but I feel tense anyway. It’s kind of silly, really. I’m the real actor, and Green is the cheap model, but with us side by side, I’m practically breaking out in a sweat, and she’s casually taking the time to brush up her own makeup.

“I like ‘Sweetheart,’” I say, just to have something to say—just to break the silence. If I was alone, I could talk to myself and get properly psyched up for the role, but I think Green would judge me for that. “Why did you start calling me that?”

“Oh, it’s an Apple family thing. I thought it was nice,” she answers, catching her reflection in the little mirror in her makeup kit, working a brush around her eyes before reaching for her horn file. “You’re a sweet young mare, and your name seemed a little unfriendly. I never liked those stories, sailors being lured to their doom and all that.”

Fire below decks.

“Are you okay?” Green asks, pausing in her filing and leaning over to try to catch my gaze. “You look like somepony just walked over your grave.”

“Uh...” I stammer, trying to put my thoughts back together, trying to figure out when they flew apart. “I’m fine,” I manage, shaking my head, like that would knock the thoughts back into their proper places. It doesn’t help. “I was... remembering... something. What you said brought it to mind. The sailors. On the ship that brought me here. One of them, he made that joke—that he and the crew must be very brave, letting a mare named Siren lead their ship to a mysterious rocky island. He’s dead now.”

“Oh,” Green says, turning towards me and reaching out to rest her foreleg over my own. “I’m so sorry, Siren. I was just joking around. I didn’t mean—”

“No. No, I mean, it’s fine,” I say, staring at the floor. “It bothered me when I first came here, but, now the whole thing feels so distant. The palace, a ship, a fire, and then this place.” I can tell Green is struggling for something to say to that, and I don’t feel like I’m done either, the thought demanding to be finished. “I mean, it should bother me. A lot of ponies died because of what I did, asking them to sail me out there. One of them sacrificed himself to save me. He pushed me out of the way of an oncoming blade, and I don’t even remember what he looked like. Tan, I think. Or, maybe brown?” I try to think back, but my whole journey here has gone blurry in my memory. “No. No. He wasn’t tan or brown. That was the ship’s cook. He was... blue? Maybe? An earth pony.”

“Siren... Sweetheart, it’s really okay.” Green tries to comfort me, but I can hear how uncertain she is. Anypony could; she’s not faking it well.

“No, I mean. I know. I don’t feel bad, I just feel kind of... I don’t know.” I shrug.

“Flat?” Berry asks.

It takes me a moment to realize who spoke, that there even is a fourth pony in the car. I’d have expected Echo to chime in, but he’s busy watching the soldiers. It takes me a moment longer to remember I need to respond, and when I look to the back, Berry is watching me. I’m so used to her staring into the middle distance or vaguely towards me that it’s a little unsettling to realize she’s looking right at me. At my face.

“Yeah,” I manage, after a longer pause than is really polite. “Something like that.”

“I remember that,” Berry says, her eyes locked on mine. Steady, even. There’s something in them, but it’s too far away, I can’t see it, and her face gives me nothing. “It doesn’t last.”

“You... you ah...” I stumble through the conversation. Trying to make sense of what she’s saying, what she’s getting at. It’s so unnerving, being watched that way. I feel paralyzed, like I want to break away from that dead gaze, but I can’t. “You mean...”

“You will find ways things could have gone differently, if you were faster, or stronger, or smarter, or braver. Then it will hurt.” She delivers the lines without the slightest inflection, words evenly spaced and slow. “I don’t remember that part as well as I used to. Many aspects of it are confusing to me now.” A silence hangs in the train car. I turn to Green for direction, but she’s at as much of a loss as I am. Even Echo doesn’t interject—gazing out the window and pretending not to hear. “I didn’t like it.”

“Well... I mean,” I stammer, when the silence grows so long I have to say something just to break it. “You don’t have to be perfect.” It’s a platitude, and everypony knows it, but if Berry is judging me for that, she gives no sign. She seems to be thinking again.

“For what?” she asks.

“Security! Open up!” a mare’s voice shouts outside the door, rough and scratchy. Oh, thank Celestia.

The cargo hatch rings with a loud knocking, metal on metal, and everypony’s eyes turn back to the door. She must be wearing those hoof weapons the soldiers all have. I push Berry out of my mind as Echo straightens up from his slouch—game face time. I put on exactly the right pose, casual, a little bored, a little nervous, right as Echo reaches up to yank the release for the cargo door. It comes open with a loud pop, sliding away just in time for Echo to assume a lazy, stupid smile.

“Problem, officers?” he asks, glancing down at the two uniformed ponies outside.

They both come up to attention and salute when they see him—recognition immediately visible on their faces. “No, sir!” they snap as one. One is a stallion, a tan earth pony in his early twenties, wisps of his garish orange mane sticking out from under his spiked helmet. The other, the one who knocked, is a mare in her early thirties—a rich purple unicorn with a silver mane, her own helmet notched to let her real horn stick through. She’s painted it silver though, so it’s not immediately distinguishable from one of the metal helmet spikes, and her beautiful natural color is ruined by the blazing-fire cutie mark that covers half of her face in orange and yellow.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, turning to look at the mare specifically, finding a more attentive smile for her. “It’s good to see you again, Speci—” Echo seems to catch himself as he glances down at her uniform. It’s the same as his, except that the patches on her shoulders are blue instead of red, and she has two little bronze arrows on her collar instead of silver bars. “Corporal Silverhoof. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replies, her posture relaxing. Well, relaxing a little. So far so good, but they haven’t paid us any attention yet. I keep my posture largely neutral, glancing their way with a timid sort of curiosity. There’s still no guarantee the disguise will pass inspection, but my expression will, at least. “Just this month.”

“You should have let me know,” he says, after taking a moment to consider her, tail to muzzle. “We could have celebrated.”

“Living the dream, sir?” the stallion asks, glancing around Echo to examine the three of us. His tone isn’t openly disdainful, but it carries about as much judgment as a subordinate can safely level upon a superior. His gaze jumps from Berry to Green to me, resting there.

Then he looks back at Echo, and I have to suppress the urge to sigh.

Wait, he didn’t mean that... us and Echo?

“I know I didn’t just hear you make an untoward suggestion about my lovely companions, Specialist Irons,” Echo retorts, and his tone ends the causal period of the conversation, the two guards straightening up again. He did mean that! And that drunken brute is enjoying it! He’s smirking at us up there! I have to repress the urge to glare at him, doing my best to seem vapid and... and whatever the sort of mare who does that looks like.

I don’t think there’s a standard form in the books for “easy.” I never checked though, so maybe.

“Sir, no, sir,” Specialist Irons finally replies, and Echo nods.

“That’s right,” he says, taking a draw off his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of the open door. Wait, when did that get lit? “Now, who are you two looking for?”

“We’re conducting a routine search for contraband, sir. There’s a—” Corporal Silverhoof starts, only for Echo’s brief but withering stare to silence her. “Uh... I mean...”

“It’s not like you to waste my time, Corporal. The suspect description,” Echo orders. For a moment, neither of them speaks, then the stallion steps forward.

“Sir. We’re looking for a pink unicorn mare, scarring down both sides, shaved on one side, bare ankles,” he says.

Echo is rather good at this. Oh, he’s making mistakes that I can pick up on—obviously self-taught—but the subtle shift in his body language shows real talent. Just like that, the tone of the conversation changes, the two officers pulling away slightly without his ever having to glare or yell.

“Repeat that,” Echo orders, smooth and quiet.

“Sir,” Specialist Irons starts, more slowly this time, “We’re looking for a pink unicorn mare with scarring—”

“Specialist. Corporal,” Echo speaks, his voice slow and calm. That makes it worse. “I am aware that Lieutenant Thunderlane does not hold you to the same standards that I did, but I recall promising you that if you ever gave me a suspect description that started with a coat color and breed, I would take a bottle of dye and a false horn, wrap them up, and beat you to death with them!” When the surge of anger comes, it comes all at once, his wings flaring outwards as he leans forward, putting his full effort into bellowing. Bizarrely, I notice he somehow manages to hang onto his cigarette while doing it. Years of practice, I guess.

Corporal Silverhoof tries to defend herself, stammering out a quick, “Sir, the intelligence report indicates—”

“Then the intelligence officer can find the fugitive for you if he knows so much!” he snaps, forcing her into silence. “The intelligence report is usually wrong, Corporal. You used to know that. Now, I will ask you again, who are you looking for?”

At first, they don’t answer, the silence growing long and uncomfortable. I’m careful to show it, glancing down at the floor hesitantly at first, then turning my head away almost entirely, awkwardly fiddling with my hooves. Finally, the stallion speaks.

“Her original cutie mark has a star in it,” he says, hesitantly nodding. “Something else too, but definitely a star. Silver or blue.”

“That’s a start. What else?” Echo snaps, a turn of his head and a narrowing of his gaze making it clear he expects the Corporal Silverhoof to speak next. What is he doing? What is he doing? She bites her lip, pausing and taking a breath.

“Her ankles were badly burned,” she finally says, with a firm nod.

“Scars can be regenerated.” Echo dismisses her out of hoof, but she holds her ground.

“Yes, but they were burned all the way down,” she says with another nod. “There would be damage to her hooves as well. That could be filed away, but damaged hooves or a fresh hooficure still narrows it down.”

I almost glance down to check my hooves. Almost. Green seems to have had the same thought and turns to look at me. Quick as I can, I reach back to my belt with my magic, calling a pep-bar up to my hooves. Why yes, Green, you can have some of my candy bar.

“Ah, so you can still think, Corporal. I was beginning to wonder,” Echo snaps. Silverhoof glances at Green and me when she sees the motion of Green’s head, but by the time she looks at us, I’m already unwrapping the bar. Nothing to see here, soldier; my escort here is just hungry. She thinks nothing of it and soon turns away. “Anything else?”

“She was pretty,” Corporal Silverhoof says quietly. “Good figure, full tail, all that.”

“Are you trying to arrest her or ask her out?” Echo snaps. Ponyfeathers! What is it with me and mares?

“Not a lot of tonics that make you pudgy and droopy-eyed, sir,” she points out. “If she had a good figure before, odds are she still does.”

“It’s a start,” Echo growls, curt and direct, fixing her with an authoritative stare. He’s faking it though. He can do voice, face, and body language, but like a lot of amateurs, he can’t do all three at once—at least, not well. I can see a little droop in his tail, a relaxing of his haunches and a gentle lowering of his head. It’s subtle—I don’t think she noticed anything—but I certainly did. Disappointment. “Now, you have some reason to think she’s in this backup?”

“Yes, sir,” Specialist Irons supplies. “A source in Lulamoon Logistics says that the fugitive is expected there this afternoon, but that there might be a delay of up to several hours due to a rail traffic backup. This was the only major backup on a line that goes near Neptune’s Bounty.”

“Mmhmm. You have all the stores and side doors closed up?” Echo checks, and the mare nods. “Guards at the far end for runners or backups?” Again, she nods. “How many?”

“Four. Cottage, Prancer, and the twins,” she says, direct.

“Salt and Pepper? They couldn't see their own hooves in front of their faces, much less an escaping fugitive,” Echo replies, incredulous.

“Thunderlane has them on Eagle Eye now, sir,” she replies.

Echo lets out a scoff, shaking his head, but doesn’t push the matter any further. “And the cause of the backup?” he asks, but the mare only shrugs.

“Not sure, sir. A bunch of Pavilion goons have the intersection closed,” she answers, indifferent.

“Of course they do,” Echo grumbles with an air of finality, taking another draw off his cigarette. “Specialist. Get up there, find out why they have it closed, then tell them where they can shove it and start getting this traffic moving again. Rainbow Dash runs these streets, not the Pavilion—you make them remember that! This is a major thoroughfare. If it gets completely logjammed, the traffic report will give the fugitive all the warning she needs and we’ll be stuck clearing it all night. Be sure to sweep every car again before clearing it and check for ponies riding on the roof or the back.”

“Thunderlane has Sergeant Lock running the... um...” the stallion starts to object, but another sharp stare from Echo cuts that short. “I’ll tell him, sir.”

“You do that,” Echo says, staring at the stallion until he, well, goes and does that, trotting off and away. “Corporal, are there any places around here still open?” he continues, turning to look at the remaining soldier.

“Sir?” she asks, already stiffening against the impending verbal assault.

“Corporal, let’s pretend for a moment that I’m not going to leave my dates in the hot train car for hours on end while I go yell at your idiot superior,” he snaps, dry. “And while we’re at it, let’s pretend you’re capable enough to find them a place to relax outside the security cordon and then get somepony to move my train for me.”

“I do enjoy playing make believe, sir,” she replies, stiffly. “I think I saw a restaurant past the intersection. I’ll take them there and then go find a driver, shall I?”

“You do that. Thunderlane is up ahead, right?” Echo asks, and she nods. He turns back to us then, glancing at the three of us one after the other. “I do apologize, ladies, but it—”

“We understand,” Green says with a smile, rising from where she sits. She stretches out in a gesture that appears remarkably natural and hooks him by the collar with a hoof, but I can’t help but notice it keeps her tail between me and the guards, letting her pull him in.

Pull him in and uh. Wow. They’re making that look very... real. With her leg over his shoulder and her eyes closed and that quiet, stiff sigh she lets out. When they finally break apart, they brush muzzles, and she stage-whispers, “Don’t take too long though, okay?”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he murmurs back, before finally breaking away and turning to hop out of the open cargo door. Silverhoof steps aside to let him pass, but he doesn’t acknowledge her, and soon he’s gone.

Um. Okay. Yeah.

“If you three would come this way, please.” Corporal Silverhoof turns to us, polite and formal. It takes me a second to get my head back in the game, but... right. That. Berry steps up at once, stopping next to me, and I realize it’s so when I get up, she and Green will be on either side of me. Green seems to realize it too, and the three of us make it look good, climbing out of the car and onto the street. “Now, before we go, I’m going to have to ask you not to repeat anything you just heard. We’re in the middle of a sensitive operation here and don’t want word getting out.”

“Don’t worry, we know how to keep quiet,” Green assures her, calm, if a little too casual. “My cousin works in security; he told me that you can’t say a word in a public area without Neptune’s Bounty finding out about it. I heard that Trixie has spies everywhere.”

“Well, it’s not quite that bad,” Silverhoof assures her with a calming tone and a bemused smile, raising a hoof as if to physically push Green’s rumor-mongering away. “Still, you understand how serious a matter this is?”

“Yes,” Berry agrees. “We wouldn't want that information falling into the wrong hooves.”

Never have I been so glad for her perfect poker face.

“Good then,” Silverhoof agrees. “Follow me.” Soon enough, she’s leading us, and we’re walking up the line of stopped train cars, past the waiting crowds of ponies, the soldiers searching them, the locked-up shops, and guarded doors. I hear crashes from inside a few of the cars, angry shouting from one, a loud crack, and a scream.

“So, you three and Echo, huh?” Silverhoof asks, and my head snaps up reflexively as I’m pulled out of my reverie. She’s ahead of us, glancing back over her shoulder as we move at a quick walk. From her tone, I don’t think we’re getting through this trip without some conversation, and her curious expression makes me doubt we’ll be able to get away with platitudes either. “How’s he doing these days?”

“He’s keeping busy,” Green answers, eliciting a smirk from Silverhoof as she turns back ahead.

“I can see that,” she says. Amused but... a little stiff as well. It’s not really a happy sound, and she’s not going to let Green get away with a vague answer like that. “But is he, you know, okay?”

I can tell that Green is going to answer with another generality and Silverhoof is going to keep harping on that point, so I cut in right as Green is opening her mouth to speak. “He seems alright most of the time. I’ve never seen him go off on a pony like that before though. Did he always yell at you like that?”

“No,” she says, dismissive, brushing the accusation away with a familiar air. “He’s just angry at Thunderlane.”

“Bad blood?” I inquire, keeping the burden on her to talk, my tone polite. A little ditzy, perhaps.

“Yeah. They used to be close way back when, but it all fell apart when Rainbow Dash gave Thunderlane his command. These things happen,” she says with a sort of verbal shrug, her tone resigned. She’s not as indifferent as she’d like us to believe though, nor terribly good at hiding that fact.

“Well, maybe Rainbow Dash will change her mind,” I suggest, but she gives a firm shake of her head.

“Rainbow Dash has decided that the city is better served by Lieutenant Thunderlane. It is not my place to question her decisions,” she answers, formal and curt.

“Oh, come on,” I press, wheedling gently, “you obviously respect Echo way more than Thunderlane. You don’t think Rainbow Dash made a mistake?”

Too late, Green gives me a warning nudge in the side, Silverhoof drawing to a stop in front of us. She turns around to face me, fixing me with an attentive glare. It’s lucky that fear is the appropriate reaction to that, because I reflexively go rigid when she looks me over, almost shaking when I realize her gaze has drifted to my side.

“And what was your name again?” she asks, finally meeting my gaze. Her eyes are purple, matching her coat on one side, jarring with the fiery cutie mark on the other.

“All she meant was that Echo—” Green begins.

“Your name!” Silverhoof barks, a few of the guards around us glancing her way, turning away from what they’re doing.

“Uh...” I stammer. Think of something. Think of something! “Zephyr,” I finally blurt out. “I work down in Tethys. Fixing the clockwork.”

“And when Pinkie Pie makes a decision you don’t agree with, are you so quick to decide that you know better than her?” Silverhoof presses, not letting Green or Berry draw her attention. I’m pinned to the spot, and even if she hasn’t seen through the disguise, I think I’m in trouble as it is.

“I, uh...” I scramble for an answer. I should meet her gaze, but not too aggressively! Oh, but not too timidly either, she’ll think I have something to hide!

“Are you nodding or having a spasm?” she snaps, forcing my eyes back up.

“No! I mean, yes. I mean, Pinkie Pie knows what she’s doing,” I blurt out. Wrong answer.

“Ah, so Pinkie Pie knows what she’s doing but Rainbow Dash doesn't, is that what you’re telling me?” she demands, leaning in close as she glares.

“No! I’m sure Rainbow Dash knows exactly what she’s doing!” I stammer, quickly adding, “And—and I’m sure that she made the correct decision here. It was just a figure of speech. I just meant... Echo seems to know what he’s doing too. That’s all!”

“This may come as a shock, Zephyr, but lifting your tail for an officer does not qualify you to comment on his merits as a leader!” Silverhoof snaps, and a hot flush rises into my cheeks, my tail reflexively tucking in under me. Her bellowing has attracted a crowd, and now, everypony is staring straight at me. Giggling. Pointing. “Rainbow Dash has a hard enough time keeping the city safe without every mechanic and two-bit whore questioning her decisions. There’s a word for that, and it’s sedition. Have I made myself very clear?”

Sedition. The soldiers in the train station. Rope. Tumble.

Snap.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until Green puts a leg around me to steady me. “She understands, officer. I’m very sorry, she’s had a little bit to drink. I assure you, it will not happen again.”

“It had best not,” she snaps with an air of finality, turning to lead us on at a quicker pace. “This way.”

There are ponies watching us. As we walk the rest of the way. Watching me. It’s hard for me to keep up with Silverhoof. My legs keep going all stiff, and Green and Berry have to stop so they don’t get ahead of me. I can see the stopped passengers, the guards. Watching. Smirking. One mare points at me, then points at Green, sharing something with the guard next to her. They both get a good laugh out of that. I catch her gaze for a second, across the way.

I’m assuming she comes free with the pretty ones. That’s what she was thinking. That’s what she said.

It’s not true though, it’s not. It didn’t happen that way.

Green grabs me and pulls me along.

My tail is tucked up so tight under me that the muscles around my dock are cramping. The hallway feels like it’s a thousand degrees, a sickly, prickling heat burning through my skin, caught up in my coat. It’s not fair. It didn’t happen that way! He hit on me, yeah, but I said no. It’s not like I did anything!

I mean, I guess I did overlook the thing with him and Zephyr, but, that’s not the same. I needed him to get home!

It’s different.

I don’t even notice when we’re getting near the security cordon. Just, suddenly, there are no more trains, and a lot of soldiers around us, and Green is saying... something. Then we’re in a wider hallway with a high ceiling, big and empty, full of rails that have no trains on them. And Green is guiding me somewhere, into a building that smells like hay and coffee. A bench.

“You can stay here until Lieutenant Echo comes for you. Do not bother the officers at the cordon,” Silverhoof says, curt and efficient. I’m looking at the table. “Good day.”

Then she’s gone.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Green whispers, and I feel the bench sway as she takes the spot next to me. “We paraded Vision’s most wanted in front of fifty security officers and Pavilion enforcers, and none of them did a thing.”

“Quiet. Somepony might overhear,” Berry whispers from my other side, keeping her voice low as well.

“There’s a leak in Neptune’s Bounty. Trixie needs to know,” Green says, so quiet I can barely hear her.

“I’ll take care of it. Stay here,” Berry answers, and then she’s up and gone. I keep watching the table.

I don’t like this table. It’s all scratched up. And it’s covered in coffee stains.

“Nicely done back there, Sweetheart,” Green says, ruffling my mane. “You took it on the chin like a real champion, and now you’ll be back home in no time.”

I don’t look up.

“Sweetheart?” Green repeats herself, leaning in and around me to catch my gaze. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I answer, glancing up a little. Why should she be bothered? She actually did kiss him, just to make the part look good. All I see in her face is confusion, and a little worry, I guess. “It was embarrassing, that’s all. I’m not used to being... embarrassed. That way.”

“Oh, sticks and stones, Sweetheart, don’t worry.” She dismisses me with a little wave of her hoof, the concern leaving her voice. “Nopony will remember that an hour from now, much less days from now and half a world away. You’re home free.” Her tone is airy, friendly, encouraging.

“In a play, when somepony says that, it’s usually a sign that things are about to go horribly wrong,” I murmur, staring down at her chest, right where her neck meets her body. I don’t feel like looking her in the eye right now.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” Green says, with a silly little smile. “You don’t believe in all that superstitious nonsense, do you?”

“No.” I answer. “No, of course not.”

For a moment, Green doesn't say anything. “Here,” she finally says, her tone forcibly casual. “I’ll get you some coffee. You’ll feel better.”

And so we wait. Green comes back with coffee and hay, and sits next to me again. I’m not hungry. I hate coffee anyway, and the hay smells a little dodgy. Hay shouldn't glisten. Some time later, Berry comes back. She doesn’t say much, just, “Resolved.” And then we’re back to waiting.

Eventually, I tilt my head up. Look around. It doesn’t make me feel better. The coffee shop is a pretty miserable place, run down and spoiled. The walls show ugly stains from water damage, the tables just the same. Once, the floor was wooden, but now it’s so warped that it rolls like a gentle sea, and you can see the white stone through the cracks that have opened up. A shimmering layer of water too. It’s full of ponies, but they don’t seem happy to be here, staring at their tables or poking at untouched cups of coffee.

It’s actually a little odd. There must be more than two dozen ponies here, and the place is very nearly full, but almost nopony is ordering anything. I guess I thought they were here because of the rail jam, but, they don’t look bored like somepony stuck waiting for their ride. They actually seem nervous, tense. Some of them are really cleaned up, like, with makeup and clothes and brushed manes and everything. Some are flipping through little books or piles of paper. Most are glancing around, not speaking to each other, not making eye contact.

“Green, something’s wrong,” I say, sitting up, examining the room more pointedly. It’s not just me; everypony here is really on edge. I’ve seen it before, during tests, in auditions, before a big performance—there’s some unspoken tension that they all know but won’t acknowledge to each other. Something that’s about to happen.

“Relax, Sweetheart,” she coos. “Everything’s going to be—”

“No, Green, look,” I hiss, lowering my voice. “Nopony is ordering anything, they’re all glancing at the door. They’re waiting for something to happen, and the street was closed off.”

Green’s casual manner goes stiff as she spots the same thing that I did, her ears perking up as her eyes go faintly wider. She rises from where we sit, stepping over to one of the other tables and smiling at the pony there, a blue pegasus. “Excuse me,” she says to him. “Would you kindly tell me what everypony is waiting for?”

“Oh, sure thing, miss,” he says, grinning like an idiot as he stares up at her, wholly enraptured in an instant. “Rarity is doing an audition today for her new model. She’ll be here any minute.”

Green goes stock still, her breath freezing in her throat. She doesn’t bother with subtlety, tearing across the room to the window and looking out at the street. Ponies let out startled shouts in her wake, and the sound of her quick, panicked breaths tells me everything I need to know. She rushes back towards us, knocking our table to the ground as she sharply yanks me to my hooves. “Siren, time to go!”

“Hey!” shouts one of the patrons. A unicorn, black and soft blue, rising from his table. His horn shines with that sparkly twilight shade, and he draws a brutal chopping knife out of a belt. A machete, I think. “You need to—”

“Would you kindly give me that knife?” she asks, fixing him with a sharp share. He hesitates, the weapon trembling back and forth. Maybe he’s strong-willed, maybe it’s the situation, but he doesn’t obey right away, biting his lip.

“Oh, forget it,” Green snaps, the crimson glow of her magic surrounding his chair moments before it spins through the air and impacts the back of his skull with a sickening crack. She catches his weapon before it falls, not bothering to watch him hit the ground.

Then, pandemonium.

A mare screams, and the herd bolts for the exit, tables crashing, ponies running around us. “Security!” bellows the pony behind the counter. Green yanks me forward and hurls the knife. I stumble, and don’t see it hit, but I hear the rough thump of impact. We’re moving towards the back, and Berry is there now, scrambling over the counter, pulling open the door to the storeroom.

“Green, you’re hurting me! Green!” I’m shouting, yelling, but Green ignores me, dragging me around the counter. I try to pull away, and she grabs my front left leg with her magic. My shoulder muscles scream in pain as she yanks me ahead, wrenching me forward. I see the shopkeep as we go, a greasy, sickly pink earth pony stallion. Green rips the weapon out of his skull as we pass his prone form, and she shoves me ahead. It’s dark, cold, and I’m not two steps in when I hit a shelf, the metal slats biting into my side.

“How can they not have a back!?” Green screams, something metal flying through the air behind her and hitting the wall with a loud crash. I pull myself up, pots and pans jangling around me. We’re in a storeroom, shelves, crates, and in the back, there’s a small, open elevator full of boxes.

A small elevator, controlled by a lever beside the door. A large dumbwaiter really. There are no doors, no controls on the inside, not even a floor—just a fragile wire cage with wooden slats on the bottom and a cable connected to the top. Green is wrenching the boxes out of it, her magic ripping them from the lift and hurling them blindly into the storeroom behind us. “In!” she shouts, leaping ahead into the lift and dragging me with her, Berry not far behind. Green doesn't wait a moment, reaching out to slam her hoof against the controls so hard they rattle in their frame.

Above us, I can barely heard a faint, sickly whine.

“Why aren’t we moving!?” Green shouts, beating at the controls so hard the lever threatens to snap off, as though pushing harder on the switch might make the lift move faster.

“We’re overweight,” Berry answers, without the slightest sign of worry or fear. She lifts a hoof, pointing to the corner of the lift, and a sign there I hadn’t noticed, informing us that the maximum capacity of the lift is “1000N”. What’s an “N”?

“Siren, help me!” Green orders, her horn shining as she grabs the lift car around us. I help all I can, with my own feeble telekinesis, and I can feel the car shake. I’m giving it all I’ve got, my horn burning, but it’s not enough! We lift a few feet, but it’s already clear Green and I can’t keep this up, and when I let out an exhausted breath, we sink back to the floor.

“Still too heavy,” Berry says. “We should be able to—”

Green turns away from Berry, leaning onto her forelegs, and her rear legs lash out and up, a powerful kick that catches Berry in the chest and sides. She’s picked up off her hooves, hurled towards the exit, but the angle is wrong, and she smashes hard against the doorframe outside the lift. I hear the sickening crack of impact, the crash as she hits the metal, and then she slumps to the floor. Green doesn’t so much as check to see if she’s alive, wrapping Berry in her magic’s glow and hurling her back into the storeroom. She hits a shelf, and with a clatter and roar, it tumbles on top of her, spilling its pots and pans out onto the floor.

She...

“Been a pleasure, Berry!” Green snarls, her horn shining as her hooves jam the elevator control so far it sticks in the upright position. I can hear that whine, the distinctive grinding of gears above us, and the lift inches upwards—but only a few inches. Green turns her head up, staring into the darkness above us, peering for the lift mechanism as we feel it struggle against our weight. But after a moment, the whine grows more intense, more pained, and the lift drops back into its slot.

“We’re still too heavy!” I say. I don’t get it. We were barely too heavy with Berry—ditching her should have worked! Think, Siren! “The winch can’t lift us... what if we got on top of the lift car? Without its weight, if I got on your back, we might be able to...”

Green is looking at me.

“G-Green?” I ask her, a moment of silence hanging in the air.

“My my,” a mare’s voice breaks the silence. Smooth. Cultured. With just a trace of an aristocratic accent. “This certainly took a grim turn.”

Rarity

(Source)

When I was a foal, I imagined scalpels were perfect, glittering knives made of silver. That was how they were described in stories, and it just felt right somehow. Then I saw one, when I had my tonsils out. It was rough, uneven, covered in indentations and protrusions to ensure the surgeon could get a firm grip—a practical little thing. It wasn’t even that sharp, or at least, not any more than some razors are. There’s this whole cultural mystique that surrounds scalpels, but they’re just ugly little knives. The beauty, the glamour, the power, it was all in my head—all in the knowledge of what this little thing could do: heal or hurt. I remember being very disappointed, but with time, I realized it was okay. The handle design, the shape of the blade, silver or steel or copper, none of it really matters—not as long as ponies know what they signify. No matter how surgical tools are made in reality, in ponies’ minds, scalpels will always be perfect, and cold, and they will always shine.

Rarity reaches out to Green and runs a silver-edged hoof under her chin, tracing the contours of her throat. Green seems rooted to the spot, and does nothing to stop her. Neither of them reacts when one of Rarity’s escorts shuts off the elevator, when they put Berry on a stretcher and carry her off. No—Rarity has eyes only for Green, and her expression is curious and quiet. Green just stares straight ahead, and I realize she’s holding her breath, the edge of Rarity’s hoof pressing against her neck. Nopony pays me any mind, like I wasn’t there.

With the gentlest of touches, she tilts Green’s head up, then left, then right, looking over her in the lift. Green doesn’t move; she doesn’t speak—like she was paralyzed. Her magic though; she’s still levitating that machete. The blade trembles like a leaf in the wind, unsteady, the glow around it flickering and uncertain. I hear the faintest of sounds, a trembling breath.

“Oh, why don’t you put that down, dear?” Rarity asks, light and friendly. The glow around the blade winks out, and it tumbles downwards, burying its edge in the lift cage.

She looks her age. I... I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, she cleans up well, with that hint of shadow around her eyes, her alert expression, that authoritative way she looks at you. She looks forty, but she doesn't look old. Too sharp, a snow-white mare with a perfectly styled mane and tail in that rich royal purple. She never got old, just... more experienced. Her outfit reflects it too. Somewhere in its distant ancestry is a surgical gown and, I suppose, to an ordinary pony, it might still look a bit like that. That would be their failing though. The way the pure white fabric clings to her frame, molds to her coat, blends in with the walls, the way the silver on the edges of her hooves frames them in geometric perfection. That outfit could stand alongside all the noble finery in Canterlot and silently shame us all for being so petty.

“I’m curious for your thoughts, Doctor,” she says, and though she doesn’t turn to look at either of the ponies who came in with her, the stallion on the left looks up. They’re both pegasi, dressed in white uniforms considerably less elegant than her own—something between a jumpsuit and a smock, done up with belts full of practical tools. Each one doesn't look a day over seventeen, tan on the left, blue on the right, matching manes, each one athletic and striking. Once upon a time I’d have found them quite attractive, but I know this city now, and what those uniforms are there to hide. It’s only after a long pause for thought that Rarity continues, “If she were to walk into your office, confused and not entirely certain what medications she was taking, what would your assessment be? Based on the visible rate of decay.”

He considers that for a moment, then looks directly at Green. “Remove your dress,” he orders, curt and efficient. For a second, I think he’s like Berry, so tepid is his emotional reaction. But no. No, he’s hiding it. There’s a tension in his legs, and he glances at the back of Rarity’s head furtively, worried she won’t approve.

For a moment, Green does nothing, then she catches Rarity’s eye and cringes. A red haze surrounds her dress, and it slides back down off her frame, revealing her body and the other marks that cover her: the apple slices, the pony and the coils, the eye and the swirls, the red cross, the silver horseshoe, and the pony biting its own tail. It’s funny—she’s been dressed for so long that it’s actually odd to see her naked. It makes her seem smaller, in a way.

“Initial addiction factor in the range of ninety to one hundred and twenty percent,” the pegasus diagnoses. He has a stern, no-nonsense voice, one that’s just shy of bizarre on a pony of his apparent age. “Primary form of degradation appears to be monochromatic bleaching. I’d say she took her first dose three to four years ago and is experiencing fairly standard early symptoms.”

“Yes, that would be my assessment,” Rarity mutters, tilting Green’s head down to inspect her horn. “Isn’t it simply incredible? Nearly sixteen years since I started with her—the work has aged amazingly well. I’d never believe it if I hadn’t been there myself.”

“You must be very proud,” the stallion on the right supplies. I don’t think he’s as sharp as the one on the left, or perhaps he’s closer to his apparent age. It’s a banal comment, and he’s only delivering it to have something to say. Rarity doesn’t seem to notice his uncertainty though, or maybe she doesn’t care.

“Well, somewhat,” she says, shaking her head. “An artist's relationship with her early work is always complex. As your methods become more advanced, your older creations start to look crude, even repulsive.” She folds back a lock of Green’s mane, her face briefly pulled into a tight frown. Then it’s gone, replaced with that casual, friendly air and that gentle accent. “But at the same time, you long for those heady, romantic days when anything seemed possible and every success was a wondrous achievement. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a fashion show quite so much as my first. Well, my second, technically,” she says, elegantly rolling the word out. “Have I ever told you that story? It all started with the girls’ gala dresses, you see—”

Behind her, a pony clears her throat, and I see one of the doctors who dragged Berry out. She looks as young as the rest of them, a shocking dark red with an orange mane that matches the fiery cutie mark on her cheek. Her magic, though, is a soft purple, and she uses it to levitate a small manila folder in front of her. “Excuse me, Ms. Rarity,” she introduces herself, patiently waiting to be acknowledged.

“Ah yes. Go ahead, dear,” Rarity urges her on, continuing her silent inspection of Green, tilting Green’s ears up and down like a mechanic checking a joint to see if it sticks. It’s unreal to stand there and watch this, and if it weren't for the other ponies occasionally glancing at me, I’d wonder if I somehow turned invisible again.

“Four casualties in total,” she recites like she was reading from a list, though the folder remains closed. “The shopkeep, a stallion in the crowd who tried to stop Green, a young mare who was trampled on the way out, and the pony under the shelf—”

“Berry Punch. An old Ponyville friend,” Rarity clarifies.

“Yes, Ms. Rarity,” the mare defers. “The mare in the crowd has two twisted ankles, but is otherwise unharmed. Ms. Punch has a cracked rib as well as numerous cuts and contusions, however she is anticipated to make a full recovery. The shopkeep, Mr. Pot, has been rushed to emergency care on Doctor Dale’s instructions, and his prognosis is uncertain. I regret to inform you that the stallion in the crowd has died. The chair shattered the back of his skull.” She doesn’t sound terribly sorry, delivering the news with a flat, vaguely bored efficiency. “If it is any consolation, I doubt he ever felt it hit him.”

That catches Rarity’s attention. She pauses in her inspection of Green, shutting her eyes and letting out a long, slow sigh. “Does he have any family?”

“I’m not sure, Ms. Rarity,” the mare answers. “He wasn’t carrying any identification, and nopony in the crowd knew his name.”

“Find out,” she orders, opening her eyes. “A stallion his age, there’s a good chance he was supporting somepony. The last thing we need is for them to go hungry and add to this senseless tragedy.” My head perks up at that, and I look back from the assistant to Rarity. She seems resigned but... there’s loss there, in the little motions of her eyes. Regret in the way her jaw faintly tightens. Something else under the surface too, but that news actually bothered her.

“Yes, Ms. Rarity,” she nods, slipping into that reflexively deferential tone. Like a verbal bow. “There was one other thing. Ms. Punch was carrying this in her saddlebags.” She levitates the folder over to Rarity, the glow around it changing from purple to blue as Rarity takes it. “It appears to be a medical report from Doctor Stable.”

Rarity opens the folder without a word, her eyes scanning left and right across the pages. The motions are quick, impatient; she doesn’t feel like dealing with this now. Halfway through the report though, she pauses, glancing over the top of the folder at me, as though finally noticing that I exist. Then, she turns back to the page, and when she reaches the bottom, she closes the folder and floats it back to the mare. “Rainbow Dash will want to see this. Give it to the security officers outside and release Berry to their custody as soon as she’s fit.”

“Yes, Ms. Rarity.” The mare nods, silently backing out of the room. For what seems like forever, nopony speaks—not Green, not Rarity, not her escorts. Not me. Rarity keeps staring at Green, looking her in the eye, the escorts patiently waiting. Why are they all just standing there? Why are they all ignoring me? Do they expect me to wait to be acknowledged? Are they that sure that I can’t escape?

Then, Green whimpers—a soft, mewling sound, cringing away from Rarity.

“There aren’t a lot of ponies left in this city who would stand up to stop something they knew was wrong,” Rarity says to Green, that friendly, light inflection gone from her voice, making the aristocratic accent seem icy and imperious. Her expression is as cold as her tone, her eyes showing not a trace of emotion, while her mouth is drawn into a sneer most ponies reserve for when they’ve stepped in something. “I suppose you felt that death was the most appropriate reward for his heroism?”

“Rarity, I—”

“I did not say you could speak!” I leap back, pulling away into the corner of the lift as my heart starts to race. It’s Rarity, roaring, the sound reverberating in the tiny space until it comes at us from all directions. I pull away, but Green—Green screams like she saw Nightmare Moon herself, shrinking away into the back of the lift, shaking uncontrollably. “He was here to try to be a model,” she says, her tone returning to that prim, proper cadence, her volume sinking back to normal. “I don’t suppose that thought occurred to you at any point? Here to try to earn the dream you never deserved. He could have been great, truly beautiful, but now we’ll never know, will we!?” Like that, the proper tone is gone, and her question comes out as a screech, ragged and harsh. Rarity’s face twists into a mask of fury, eyes wide, nostrils flared. Green can do nothing but feebly raise a hoof, as if to ward off a blow. Rarity pulls away from Green at that, gaping down at the gesture.

“All this, and the biggest worry in your self-absorbed little mind is that I might hit you?” she asks, incredulous. “No, not guilt, not remorse, not even a hint of regret—your biggest worry is that I might bruise your pretty face,” she delivers the words with thick, toxic contempt. “I will never understand how Applejack’s family managed to produce such a selfish, vicious, disgusting creature!”

“Stop it!” My own voice catches me off guard, and next thing I know, I’m across the elevator car, between Rarity and Green. I can hear a rattle behind me, Green’s horseshoes shaking against the metal walls. She’s trembling uncontrollably, and without looking, I know her eyes are wide, panicked. I need something to follow that, but I don’t have anything, and all I can do is shout, “Just... stop! You’ve made your point. You’re scaring her!”

In the silence that follows, I realize that I’m shaking too—shivering on the spot as I glare into Rarity’s eyes, her expression softening from anger into a gentle surprise. Then, she leans away, and reaches a hoof up to straighten her mane. Her shouting knocked a few hairs out of place, and she takes her time, gently smoothing them back down.

“I suppose you’re right,” she agrees, that friendly, lighthearted tone returning. “Siren Song, I presume?” she asks. I manage a nod. My chest feels so tight, I’m not sure I could speak right now without shouting.

“It’s so good to finally meet you in person, but I can see that I’ve upset you. Would it make you feel better if we gave Green a little space? We really should have a chat anyway, you and I.”

What is there to say to that? The whole situation is so bizarre—like the nobles’ political games in Canterlot, but played for ponies’ lives instead of bits and titles. Rarity fits the part, really. I can’t count the number of nobleponies who have a team of flunkies so they’ll look important, and to intimidate with numbers. And I recognize that tone, the polite request that is really an order. I think we should have a chat, so we’re going to have a chat, right now. I know this game.

Granted, in Canterlot, losing only means you get snubbed, so maybe the stakes here are a bit higher. Still, I know this game. I can do this. I take a second to visibly collect myself so she won’t wonder why I’m so slow in answering, and then I nod.

“Very well,” she says, acknowledging me with a polite dip of her head. Good sign—I played along with the pretense that this is a request, she does me a courtesy in turn. “You two, take Green outside and let her recover. Make sure she’s closely watched. Siren, if you would come with me please?” She holds out a hoof to guide me. I look back at Green, seeing her wide, frightened eyes, looking at Rarity, looking at me. She doesn’t want me to go.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I’ll be back soon,” I promise her. Then I take Rarity’s hoof, and she guides me along out of the storage room, back into the coffee shop.

The shop is empty, other than two more guards or... doctors or... helpers in white, by the door. Two of Rarity’s attendants hustle Green away behind us, pulling her through the shop and outside without a word. Rarity seems content to stop here though, glancing down at me with an attentive expression.

“So, ah...” I murmur, looking for something to say, something that will prompt a reaction. I can read her face fine of course—after Berry and White Wash and even Green, it’s refreshing to run into a pony with normal emotions—she’s just not feeling much at the moment but a thoughtful sort of curiosity. I need to prompt a reaction that will let me read her. “I guess my name was in the report?”

“Well, ah, yes, it was,” she agrees reluctantly, giving a little nod. To be nice, I think. “Although your disguise was a little...” She makes a flicking gesture towards my side with a hoof, like she expects it to be self explanatory. Did the makeup smudge? I twist around to get a better look, but it seems okay to me. Remarkably intact, given everything I’ve been through.

“Green’s supplies were very limited.” I fudge my answer in case she’s testing me, and I turn back to look at her. “She can hardly be blamed for a few errors.”

“Oh darling, don’t be absurd,” Rarity says, with a sweeping gesture, her tone grand and magnanimous. “I taught Green everything she knows about beautification. There was not a single error in her execution.” She draws a breath, giving my disguise one more long, considering look. “No dear, much like Green herself, that disguise was a precisely designed, lovingly crafted error, timeless in its utter wrongness.” She gives a little sigh and a shake of her head. “Oh well, no matter. Now, let me guess—you can’t stand coffee?” she inquires politely, her tone casual.

Coffee? This seems the most appropriate time to ask about my choice in drinks? And what was with that dig at Green? I let my uncertainty show for a moment, puzzled eyes and a squint, but now that the shouting is over, I rein that in quickly enough. Remember, Siren, you know this game, and if you manage not to do anything stupid, you know how to win it. I’m not going to make the same mistake I made with Echo. She doesn't know anything I don’t tell her.

“Tea is okay,” I offer, taking the implicit invitation to sit at the counter. If she noticed my mistake, she doesn't show it, and soon enough, she’s slipped behind the counter to rummage through the pots and boxes there. “This place looked a little dodgy, though.”

“Ugh! I can see what you mean. Expired, expired, expired...” Rarity says as she sorts through a collection of tins labeled with pictures of tea-leaves. She picks them up two or three at a time, and scans down the writing on the back before tossing them away into the trash. Finally she picks up one, pops off the lid, and sniffs at the top, wrinkling her muzzle in response. “Oh, goodness no,” she exclaims, immediately tossing the container into the bin with the others. I’m not sure if this little display is for my benefit, or if she actually is that picky, but soon there’s only one tin left, and she looks at it with a narrow, skeptical eye. “Well, the date is good, and it’s still sealed, but... it’s herbal tea.”

“I like herbal tea,” I volunteer, earning a disbelieving stare.

“Well...” she says, after a moment. “Nopony is perfect.” Her horn glows, and a kettle fills itself with water under the tap. I’m about to offer some retort when I hear the scrape of wood on wood, and glance to the side in time to see the chairs in the room aligning around the tables. “We’ll give that a minute or two to sit,” she explains, and when I look back at her, the kettle is on the stove, the counter is swept of trash, and the messy inventory stacks are neatening themselves. The blue light from her horn marks a transformative wave in the ugly little shop: shelves straightening, dust clearing, stains fading. I can’t even watch it and listen to her at the same time—how can she possibly be concentrating on all these things at once? I get a headache just thinking about it.

I realize I’ve tuned her out and snap my head back to her. “—terribly sorry for frightening you with that, ah.” She laughs, quietly. “With that little display. I suppose I should be used to this sort of thing by now, but it still finds a way to unsettle me every time.”

“Oh, it’s... it’s quite alright,” I say, trying not to get too distracted as she sweeps the counter clean, drawing a pot of fresh flowers seemingly out of nowhere and setting it in the middle. A tea set quickly appears as well, and I admit, the whole process steals some of my attention—but my tone and body language are still good, a little nervous, but not giving much away. I just need to keep it together. Think of it like tea with that pimply Saddle Arabian prince. Only, you know, the penalty for failure is death instead of a pity date. That helps a bit, but I still can’t think of anything to follow up with, and so I look at the counter, tapping my hooves together. “I can see how that would be upsetting.”

There’s a pause before she speaks, and when she does, her voice is quiet. Sad. “I suppose Trixie told you I’d do all sorts of horrible things to you if I caught you?” My breath catches in my throat for a moment at the unexpected turn, but she isn’t done. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. You can just nod.”

“She didn’t say much about you,” I say, shaking my head. “It was all pretty implicit.”

“Well, I’m not sure how much weight this will carry, but for whatever it’s worth, you have my word that I will do you no harm.” Her voice is quiet but firm, carrying a strong conviction. The same conviction that was screaming in the elevator, but now it’s content to simply speak. “Standing up to me like that was very brave, even if I don’t think Green is worth protecting. You’re a very special young mare.”

“Thank you, Ms. Rarity.” Hearing her speak does make me feel a bit better, or less tense at least, and I look up from the counter in time to see her smile. I notice her horn isn’t glowing anymore, and when I look around, the dingy little shop is transformed—clean, orderly, it even seems brighter, more friendly, respectable. She waits until I look back at her to continue, and when I do, her smile is a little warmer. I guess even she likes knowing her work is appreciated.

“It’s just ‘Rarity,’ dear. Now, we do still need to talk. Do you feel up to that?” she asks. I recognize the trick, smiling at me, encouraging me, making it so I can’t say no to that request without looking like a foal. It’s not a terribly unreasonable trick for her to use though, and I think this request might actually be a request. I’m half tempted to say no and test that theory, but not yet. Better to nod. “Let’s start at the beginning then,” she says, focusing on me with a surprisingly earnest interest. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“I’m an artist,” I say, and I catch the skeptical glint in her eyes when I say it. “Acting, mostly, but a little bit of everything.” She doesn't really believe me, and so after a moment I add, “I never did much with fashion, but that outfit is brilliant. I feel like I could cut myself on it. It seems like a shame though; I bet most ponies think you’re in a slightly neater uniform.”

“You do have a good eye,” she observes, her skepticism fading behind a layer of gentle enthusiasm as she glances down at the work. “You’re quite right of course. You wouldn't believe the number of ponies who approach me and ask when I’m going to stop ‘tinkering with that dreary jumpsuit’ and go back to making ensembles the way I used to. Naturally, I tell them that I’ll go back to those frilly things just as soon as they go back to using stone tools, but—” she gives a superior little chuckle “—they don’t understand.”

“It doesn't hurt your reputation as a designer?” I ask, and I think I can feel a bit of normalcy returning. For however odd the situation is, she seems so... She seems like a pony I could meet in Equestria. A somewhat self-absorbed noblepony with too much power, and a bit enamored with her own work perhaps, but maybe she’s earned it.

“Oh, Siren. That’s a worry for young artists,” she answers, fixing me with an encouraging smile. “With experience and practice, a time will come when you know your work is brilliant and you don’t need anypony to tell you so. I know what I did, even if most ponies lack the capacity to appreciate it. Though I do welcome the occasional insightful spirit.” She says it with a teasing air, aware of how vain she’s being and making fun of herself for it. It doesn’t quite bring a smile to my face, not under the circumstances, but I do feel myself relax. And, well, I smile. I mean, it’s not genuine, but I can pick up on the cue; I’m not blind.

“And you're so humble too,” I supply, and she laughs, a merry little giggle.

“Well, we must have standards,” she demurs, with a little smile and a glance down, obviously and playfully insincere. “Now, I can see that artistic expression is your special talent, but I keep an eye on the up-and-coming artists of Vision, and I’d certainly never heard of you before this whole kerfuffle with Trixie.” Riots, murders, fires, and she calls it a “kerfuffle”? I’d hate to see a spat by that standard. “Have you not yet had the chance to truly create, or do you keep your work private?”

“Oh, mostly the first one,” I cover smoothly, showing a hint of embarrassment with a flick of my gaze to the floor. “Though I do have one piece I’m proud of. It’s a scale model of—” Canterlot “—the city, but it doesn’t contain any real buildings. I was trying to capture the essence of the city, rather than copying the visuals. Everypony who looks at it is certain it’s Vision and starts looking for where they live, but they can’t find it. It’s not exactly a masterpiece, but it’s my first real experiment with expressionism, and it was very satisfying to watch ponies who have lived here for years be stumped.”

“Oh my! That sounds like a delightful little puzzle,” Rarity says, with a giggle. “I should quite like to see it. Who have you had a chance to show it to so far?”

Obvious trap. Obvious enough I think it’s best she knows I saw it, even if she doesn’t realize how well I’ve avoided it. I glance down at the counter, then back up to her, hesitating to answer. “Nopony, really,” I defer, pretending to stew under her gaze. “Just my um... ah.” I bite my lip a little. “Trixie liked it.” And, guide the conversation back to safer topics.

“If I can ask, what is your relationship with Trixie, exactly?” On the stove, the kettle starts to bubble and hiss, shaking slightly on the burner. That puts a hold on the conversation, both of us falling quiet as Rarity picks up the kettle and pours the hot water into a teapot. A teabag from the tin soon follows it, gently lifted up and down in the hot water.

“She’s...” I finally answer, after what I deem to be a suitable pause. “Trixie. She’s the pony who checks up on me by wiredoll and has lots of friends. That’s all.”

“And what does your family think of that?” Rarity asks, and I can see what she’s fishing for. Like Echo said, if you go looking for something, you are sure to find it.

“I don’t have any family. I’m an orphan,” I say quietly, and I’ll admit to feeling a trace of satisfaction when I see Rarity sit back behind the counter. I’m sure that, in her mind, I just confirmed security’s long-lost-relative theory, and that for now at least, inquiries as to my origins are off the table.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Rarity says, with a gentle shake of her head. “I know this city can be unkind to stray children.”

“Trixie made sure I had money. And I didn’t leave home much,” I say, glancing at the exit, the guards there giving me a dull look in response. I can’t see much out the windows, only a herd of ponies milling about outside—white and black uniforms, and some of the crowd from earlier, I think. “I guess I’m realizing now how unkind this city can be,” I add, a touch sad, with a little sigh that sells me as the sweet, naive child of privilege. Throw in my crime boss aunt or mother or whatever, and I’m downright tragic.

“It does have a certain harsh character,” she admits, with a wistful little hiss of breath, buying it without hesitation. “Things never came as easy here as they did in Equestria. Sometimes it seems that for every step forward we take two back. Hunger, crime, the leaks, this whole business with poison joke. There are mornings I wake up and wonder what right I have to lead these ponies, with the condition the city is in. Those... ugly moments of reflection.” That was unexpected, and when I look back at her, she’s staring down into the teapot, lifting the teabag’s little cord up and down. I could follow that up with something banal, of course, move the conversation along, but, no. No, time to take a risk.

“The security officers outside don’t like that sort of reflection,” I say, gentle and quiet, ready to defuse an angry response if one should well up. It doesn’t though, and instead, she nods.

“Well, Rainbow Dash has been nervous about that sort of talk ever since the war, and I can’t say I blame her, but it is... disappointing. At times,” her voice sinks for the last two words. It makes her seem tired, worn, and she pauses faintly before she goes on. “I may not have agreed with Sine’s ideals, but at least Vision used to stand for something. These days, it feels like Vision stands for itself.”

Again, I have the chance to offer something banal in reply, something safe, but... dare I hope? “Wait, you didn’t like him?” I ask as she snaps out of her little reverie, raising her head from the teapot. “But you founded the city.”

“Is that what they’re teaching these days?” she asks, with a gentle little laugh, like that softer moment had never happened. She lifts the teabag out of the pot, restoring its lid and quietly pouring two cups. “No, it wasn’t nearly so simple as all that. What happened with the Princess and Sine was troubling of course, troubling to all of us, but the way his more fanatical followers tell it, you’d think the Princess gored him with her horn in the middle of the street.” She gives the faintest roll of her eyes, lifting her teacup to blow on the liquid inside. It’s pink and smells like oranges, a fact that makes her nose wrinkle.

“I was upset, mind,” she continues, putting the teacup down as quickly as decorum would allow. “But that was about the extent of it. I can’t even say I wholly disagreed with the Princess’s decision. It was really Twilight who took it hard—leaving Equestria was her idea. The rest of us came along when it became clear we couldn't talk her out of it.”

“So, you don’t have anything against the Princess?” In a testament to my acting ability, I manage to keep my tone casual, even moderately curious, when by all rights I should be shouting for joy. I even take the time to sip my tea, careful not to stare at her too intently. It does taste like oranges.

“Well, don’t spread it around. At this point, it’s practically official policy that Princess Celestia starts every morning with a breakfast of fresh kittens,” Rarity says, adding a little snort. “But, privately, well... we had our good times. She was so supportive, back in the old days. And even when things were bad, she never did me any harm. That whole business with Sine was troubling, yes, but there were extenuating circumstances.”

Immediately, a number of questions spring to mind: what extenuating circumstances, why do you put up with something you know isn’t true, can you get me out of here? I stomp them all down though. At this point, no matter how good my tone is, continuing to ask questions on this subject will become conspicuous. I force myself to nod, and sip my tea again, seeming to mull over what she said. “I suppose,” I finally say, shaking my head. “I guess I’m discovering the city for the first time, really. Away from home and without support.” I cast my eyes down a little, to add that melancholy kick.

I am so cute.

“I saw your ankles earlier,” Rarity answers softly, reaching out to pat my shoulder. Sympathy pat—nailed it. “I can’t imagine how terrifying that must have been. I’m so sorry.”

“Is the whole city this way?” I ask, looking up into her eyes. She seems so sincere, so sad. The first pony here like that I’ve seen. She even feels like a real pony, without that greasy, saccharine stink. “It’s so... inventively sadistic. Every time I think I have a handle on it, it finds a way to get worse.”

“It can seem that way, I admit,” Rarity nods. “I’m not blind to why some ponies want to go back to Equestria. But you have to keep things in perspective.”

“And what perspective is that?” I ask.

“Well, it’s like Green, really,” she says, rolling her teacup back and forth, watching the liquid slosh around. “You can’t imagine how proud I was when I first saw her on stage. She was gorgeous, and everypony knew it. I felt like I’d wasted my entire life before that moment, fiddling with fabric and stitching. It was a grand achievement, a true masterpiece of her era.”

She trails off for a moment, lost in thought. “But with one, came two. Then three. Then four, and ten. What was unique became standard, and I realized I was spending my career creating the same tired shapes, over and over again: the upturned muzzle, the smooth flank, the ample tail. And worse, I started to realize precisely what sort of creatures I was creating.” She tilts her gaze up at me, matching my eyes, her own so soft and intense. “You know she was about to shove you off that lift to save herself.”

I guess I do.

“She was thinking about it,” I answer, after taking a moment to collect myself. “But she had her chance, and didn’t. You can’t know what she would have done, given a few more seconds.”

“That’s a very forgiving way to see things,” Rarity observes, giving me a curious look, head tilted faintly to one side. She’s obviously surprised but also pleased. None of Trixie’s derision, or her contempt for the notion.

“I prefer to think of it as generous,” I reply, and Rarity cracks a faint smile at that. I’m getting a little incautious, but she obviously finds me charming, and if she might be my ticket out of here, worth it to learn more about her. “So Green is a metaphor for the city’s downfall, then?”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Rarity replies, with a more casual tone. “Whatever darkness may have rested in her heart was always there. She was a petty, loathsome creature long before you and I met her, but that fact was hidden to our eyes. Now we can see it, and that ugliness in her heart stands out all the sharper in contrast to her physical appearance. Oh, it’s easy to become upset with her flaws, but when you take a moment to consider it rationally, Green is objectively better than she was before she met me. So it is with Vision.” She lifts her cup to her lips, sipping at her tea. “I shower the ponies of this city with wonders—it’s hardly my fault if they choose to squander them.”

She’s been so sweet so far that for a moment, I’m sure I misheard. Nopony could really be so callous, so casually indifferent to what’s happening here. I’m staring at her, looking for the cruel jape, that little wink that signals she knows her gifts are poisoned candy and is laughing at the city’s misfortune. I’d expect it from Green, Trixie, even some of the others, but I don’t see it here. She’s just making conversation. Like she really doesn’t know.

“I wouldn't consider mantles a gift,” I say quietly, testing those waters. I have plans, things I can say to qualify the statement if she explodes like Silverhoof did, but all she does is look up at me with a curious frown. “Coming to terms with your special talent is a part of coming to terms with yourself, understanding who you are. This way... this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

I’m braced for her reaction, but all her expression does is encourage me on. “My dear Siren, I couldn’t agree with you more, but surely you must see that this is how it is.”

“But it wasn’t always this way!” I shoot back, and I realize my voice is rising. “Maybe... maybe Green was always this bad, but not all of them. This isn’t how ponies are! We aren’t this cruel! This place, the markers, they’re like grotesque parodies! Can’t you see what you’re doing to them? Can’t you see that it’s all gone horribly wrong?”

At some point, my forehooves ended up on the countertop, and I ended up standing, shouting. I don’t realize what I did until it’s over, my body shaking, every muscle tense. My shoulder throbs from Green yanking me earlier, and after a moment, I have to settle back down, letting that leg hang limp.

You had to do something, Siren, and while that was something, you probably should not have done it.

Rarity shows no reaction, sipping her tea as she mulls the matter over. Maybe... maybe she’ll forgive me. I didn’t know what I was doing; that came out of nowhere. She has to know that it’s because I’m under stress, right? I didn’t mean to snap at her that way—it just came out! She saw my burned ankles, she knows, she’ll understand. She has to.

Finally, she lowers the cup, giving me an evaluating glance. “Grotesque, are we?”

Stupid stupid stupid! The clothes are always to hide the extra cutie marks! I knew she was covered up and I fell for it anyway! “I-I didn’t...” I stammer, looking for some, any out. “That is, I meant to say—”

“Oh, hush now. You’re embarrassing yourself,” she says, putting her teacup down. Her horn’s light doesn’t fade however, the glow reappearing over the buttons down her outfit’s side. She undoes them one a time, quickly and efficiently working her way down the row until she can pull the fabric aside, revealing a cutie mark along her chest—the outline of a red cross, with a red and blue flower laid along its diagonals. “I could take it the rest of the way off if you’d like. I do have a few others.”

“Um... no, that’s...” I look down at my teacup. “That’s fine. I mean—”

“This may shock you, Siren, but I was perfectly comfortable with who I was before mantles came on the scene. In fact, when Twilight first invented them, I thought she was wasting her time,” she says, raising her muzzle slightly. So that’s what Green meant, about Twilight being too nice to see what was happening. I should have known. “I mean really. Perhaps they would be a curious way to explore the world over a weekend, but ponies already have a special talent—a second one would be entirely superfluous.”

I can hear the long-winded story coming, and I cut to the chase. “And then you discovered medicine and—”

Her hoof hits the counter hard enough to make my teacup jump, and I jump as well, my jaw snapping shut instantly. She’s staring now, glaring down at me from above, eyes wide and intense. She’s judging me, finding me wanting. I fall quiet.

Then, her expression softens, she lowers her hoof, and she goes on with that casual tone, like nothing had happened.

“Actually, it was architecture,” she explains, gesturing at me with an upturned hoof. “The city didn’t look like this in the beginning, you see. Twilight’s notion of a ‘good’ city was all about efficient use of space. Cramped little boxy rooms, squat, rectangular buildings. She wanted advice, and I was happy to don another hat for a week or two, just as a favor. It was an enlightening experience. Of course, everypony knew that the city was ugly, dark, unpleasant, but suddenly, I knew why. I could fix it! I could see how ponies react to a building the same way I could see how they react to a new dress or to changes in style. I was always an artist, but suddenly, I had a whole new medium to work in.”

“So, you were the one who designed the wharf?” I ask quietly, and she beams down at me.

“I was! Did you like it?” she asks, with an overflowing sort of cheer. Like we were two friends, sitting down over lunch together. “It’s not really my usual style, but I was trying to capture Sine’s essence. Since he was such an inspiration to the ponies who came here.”

“It felt angry. Judgmental. It made me feel small and weak,” I say, trying to figure out what to do with my eyes. Up? Down? Up. Better to see her that way.

“Yes, that was Sine all over, really,” Rarity agrees, a slight pleased note in her voice. Happy it worked out, I suppose. “You see, Siren, additional cutie marks aren’t substitutive, they’re cumulative. I never stopped being a fashion designer or lost that power to create—I simply gained new appreciation for how it might be applied to other fields. Mantles don’t fundamentally change who you are; they make you more than what you were.”

I almost snap at her, but I’m ready this time, smashing down that urge and swallowing the words, like a lump in my throat. What do I say to that? Ask how they’ll enjoy their good looks after their faces melt off? How they’ll appreciate those other fields as they slowly lose their wits, their minds, turn into parodies of everything they were?

But it’s not really “they,” is it? It’s “she,” and I don’t imagine she would appreciate that reminder. Not that that’s unfair, I mean—Green is sensitive about the whole addiction thing too. So, when I finally do speak, my voice is meek, quiet, inoffensive in every way: “But not better.”

“No dear, not better. But if there’s a potion to enhance the spirit, I have yet to discover it,” she answers with a soft little shake of her head. “I know very well what you must think of me, Siren, but I learned from my mistakes with Green. Physical beauty is cheap; it’s what’s inside that’s really worth preserving. That’s the nice thing about my job, you see. Only so many ponies can be models, and since anypony can be beautiful, I’m free to give the jobs to those who really deserve them. I can take that moment of true glamour and preserve it forever.”

My jaw opens and shuts. “I’m sorry I called you...” I stumble through the words, trying to regain my ground. I lost the thread of the game here, but I can get it back. This can still work. “I’m sorry I snapped. If you can understand, I’ve had a really bad week.”

“I do understand, my dear. Apology accepted.” She tilts her head to the side, looking down at me. “I think you’ve torn a muscle in that shoulder. Would you like me to fix it?”

“I won’t need to drink anything, will I?” I ask, and she gives a gentle chuckle.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she says, buttoning up her outfit again and then coming around to my side of the counter. The tip of her horn shines, and a bright blue beam strikes down into my shoulder. It feels oddly cold, tingly, numbing. “Yes, that’s definitely torn. Now, if you would hold still, this will sting a little, tiny—” I feel a tugging in my shoulder, and a faint stinging.

Then the room starts to shake.

At first it’s just a faint vibration, then the whistle of a train echoes through the windows, and the room starts to shake in earnest, teacups rattling along the countertop. That stinging point in my shoulder seems to rattle as well, weaving up and down wildly, the sting coming harder, hotter.

Then my shoulder tears open, blood pouring down my leg.

I scream. After everything I’ve been through, maybe pain shouldn’t bother me, but I can feel it! I can feel all the muscles and flesh in my shoulder wrenched out of place, sliced open in a long, jagged line. I try to pull away, but Rarity’s horn goes out at once, and she grabs me with her hooves to hold me still. I’m trying to get away from her, but she’s stronger than me, and every strain against her causes another flash of pain and current of blood. “Shh, shh,” she says as the room shakes around us. “Let it pass. Let it pass.” I’m in no position to object; every movement of my leg is agony, and I can feel that warm, sticky feeling spreading down to the floor. That’s a lot of blood, a deep, ragged cut. I stop struggling, try to hold it steady so it won’t hurt. It’s all I can do, and Rarity presses my head into her shoulder, holding me in place.

Then, gradually, the train fades into the distance.

“Now, hold still,” Rarity says, her horn lighting up again, enveloping my wound in that anesthetic blue light. It’s a good thing she told me, or the release from pain would have actually made me slump with relief, that throbbing agony reduced to a numbed pinching. At once, the blood flow stops, though I can still feel a sticky, crimson sheen covering my shoulder and leg. Rarity levitates the kettle over, checking the temperature of the water inside before pouring it over the wound, washing the blood away. The green in my coat washes away with it, a brown and red puddle forming on the floor as my natural color starts to show again. “Ah, nothing to worry about. You’ll be fine,” she says, gentle and smooth.

I can’t see the cut clearly, but maybe it’s better I can’t from how it felt. All I can do is watch Rarity’s focused expression as that light plays out of her horn, and I feel my flesh drawing together, going taut again. I can actually feel the edges of the cut pull together. Then, the light goes out, and my shoulder doesn’t hurt.

“There,” Rarity says, with a relieved sigh, leaning back to look me in the face, eyes full of worry. “I’m so sorry, Siren. Are you alright?”

I reach up with a foreleg to feel around the spot. There’s no tear in the flesh, no scar, and when I rub my hoof against the joint, my shoulder feels whole, moving without pain. The room starts to shake again—more trains, but the deed is done, like the injury was never there. “Yes, I...” I manage, after a moment. “I think I’m fine.”

“Good,” she says, turning to the two guards near the door. I hear their hooves shift as they suddenly go stiff, put on the spot by her gaze. “You two will simply have to forgive me; my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I do recall saying I didn’t want my visit interrupted by any of Trixie’s awful little mechanical contraptions. Is that not so?”

“Ms. Rarity, I—” the guard on the left stammers, about to make an excuse, no doubt.

“Ah ah,” she tsks at him, with a warm little smile. “I asked you a question.”

“That, ah...” He manages to nod. “That is so, Ms. Rarity.”

“Oh, good!” she answers, cheerful, a touch relieved. “You see, I wasn’t certain, because—and this is the confusing part—one of her wretched trains just made me botch an incision!” The fury comes so hot, so suddenly, that even with every warning she gave it was coming, it still catches me off guard, and I scramble away as the guards pull back. Rarity’s face is twisted into a snarl, her teeth barred as her eyes go wide, unblinking and intense.

“I shall find out who is responsible for this travesty immediately, Ms. Rarity,” the guard on the right volunteers quickly, already opening the door to leave.

“Good! Good,” Rarity agrees, with a merry little laugh. “And when you do find them, please convey, in absolutely unambiguous terms, that they embarrassed me in front of a patient. Can you do that?” she asks, so saccharine sweet, the two guards giving hurried nods. “Simply wonderful. Now get out!” Her scream sends them fleeing out into the hall, the door slamming behind them.

It’s only in the silence that follows that I realize my heart has started to race, my breath coming in shallow pants. Rarity draws a deep breath, letting it out with a wide, sweeping motion of her hoof. “And we let the anger out.” She breathes the words out, slow, calm. “Terribly sorry about that. I take my work very seriously, you understand. I swear, sometimes I think the other doctors exist solely to make me look bad.”

“Oh, no, I uh... I understand completely,” I say, managing a nod. Okay, okay, some mood swings there. But she did slash open my shoulder maybe it’s understandable. She’s under a lot of stress too, I bet. “Uh...” Stay on task, Siren. “Right. Um... I didn’t think those were all Trixie’s trains, out there.”

“Not in the sense of owning them, no, but they’re all her fault,” Rarity says, with a sharp little snort. “Back when the city was new, ponies moved through the corridors the proper way—carts, wagons, sky-chariots, or stars forbid, walking. Trixie was the one who sold Twilight on the ridiculous notion that we needed an in-street rail system when we already had Rainbow’s trams. I mean, have you seen them? Squat, ugly, boxy, greasy little things that practically shake the towers down when they move. They’re simply awful.” She delivers the word with a faint, dramatic groan, like a terminal patient on their deathbed.

I want to ask more, but now we’re definitely getting into subjects that even Trixie’s poor lost relative should know about. I’ll have to tread carefully, but... she’s obviously a bit fond of me—that should give me enough wiggle room. “I guess I never stopped to think about it,” I say, sitting back, my heart slowing down as we settle back into normal conversation. “The way she talked, about herself, her... well. I knew she had money and power, but I always thought of her as a showmare.”

“She’s a parasite and a fraud, more like,” Rarity replies, shaking her head. “Back in the early days, she saw how overworked Twilight and the rest of us were and realized there was an opportunity for a sneaky, underhooved mare to make good. She rounded up a pair of mechanists named Flim and Flam, as well as Doctor Stable and a few other hangers-on, and managed to persuade Twilight that they were the solution to all of the city’s problems.”

“Oh,” I say, tapping the floor as I think. “So, is that why she sits on the city council even though... you know.”

“We can’t get rid of her!” Rarity exclaims, exasperated, spreading her hooves and looking up to the ceiling for a moment. “She managed to trick Twilight into building a city that’s wholly dependent on her little toys: trains, wiredolls, elevators, bilge pumps.” She rolls the word out with a smooth emphasis, like it was somehow particularly absurd. “Everypony knows she’s a two-faced little witch. When dissent was in, she was a protestor. When the war was on, she was a rebel. When it ended, she was a loyalist! And now that the government is weak, she’s a criminal.”

“And Neptune’s Bounty?” I ask. It’s pressing my luck a little, but she’s obviously distracted, and this is good information. She doesn’t notice anyway, taking the question at face value. “I mean, I know it’s where she lives—”

“It’s where she cowers more like,” Rarity scoffs, quick and curt. “It’s a fortress that puts her and her little minions well out of the reach of even Rainbow Dash.”

Not all of her minions, but somehow, bringing up Doctor Stable is probably a bad idea. I don’t thinks she’s intentionally deceiving me—I don’t get any of that from her face or eyes—but ponies often simplify the truth in their own favor, particularly when they’re emotional. Rarity is just downplaying Trixie’s influence because she sees herself as part of the legitimate government.

And, I mean, isn’t she? She’s got a bit of a temper, sure, but she fixed my shoulder. I think Trixie would have ground salt into the wound to motivate me not to get injured in the future. And yeah, she blew up at Green, but... none of what she said was really untrue, was it?

“I suppose that brings us to what’s going to happen to me,” I say, glancing down for a moment to explain away my delay in answering. The hot water has really done a number on my disguise—that entire shoulder is fuschia again, and rivers of that bright shade run through the darker green. Rarity accepts the pause without question, giving me a reassuring nod.

“You understand that I can’t give you to Trixie,” she says, reaching out a hoof to touch my shoulder. “She’s had ponies bribed, threatened, even murdered to have you. Turning you over to her would send entirely the wrong message. And frankly, I’m not sure you’d find Neptune’s Bounty as friendly a place as you might think. I know Trixie has been kind to you, but when you get past that... well.” I don’t need her to finish to know what she means. When she sighs, I can hear Trixie bellowing at Green and Berry, her snide tone, her toxic spite, her nasty little superior attitude. I don’t show my comprehension of course—in fact, I make a point to look a bit offended on my dear foster parent’s behalf. “I can simply let you go, if that is your wish, but I’m not sure you’d fare much better on the streets. I’m quite certain Rainbow Dash intends to use you as a hostage to ensure Trixie’s good behavior.”

“But you have so much power and influence here,” I observe, bristling a little from that offense. It sounds good too. “Can’t you stop her?”

Of course, I already know the answer. Rarity’s lips purse, and for a moment, I think she seriously considers it. But then she sighs, shaking her head. “I am only one of the Elements of Harmony, Siren. I could ask Rainbow Dash, but I doubt she’d listen. That mare is impossibly stubborn once she gets an idea into her head.”

“So, is there a third option?” That’s obviously what she’s leading up to, and as I expected, she nods.

“If you would like, I would be happy to offer you shelter in the Pavilion until this whole thing blows over,” she says, looking down at me with a careful, attentive gaze. “It won’t be much, but you’ll be safe, and nopony will expect you to play hostage. I know it doesn’t seem like I’m offering you much choice, given the alternatives, but I promise, what comes next is up to you. If you decide you’d rather take your chances with security, I will do my best to help. I just can’t guarantee anything.”

And there’s the offer. Of course, the entire bit about my not being a hostage is a load of horseapples—being in Rarity’s keeping when Trixie wants me makes me an implicit hostage. Still... there is a big difference between implicit hostage and being tied to a chair. I search her eyes for any insincerity, for the vicious little trap, but I don’t see anything there. Only that honest generosity, that desire to help.

“What if I change my mind later?” I ask, stalling for time. So, options: I can choose the street and make a mad sprint for Echo’s train, the street and try to get to Neptune’s Bounty on my own, security and hope that eventually Rainbow Dash trades me off to Neptune’s Bounty, or Rarity. Not much choice at face value, but what’s my long-term plan with her? Sneak off to Neptune’s Bounty? Let her know I’m from Equestria? I could tell her that now, if I wanted.

“You’re free to go any time you like,” she assures me automatically. “I could even fix you up, if you wanted. A few hours on the table, and nopony would ever recognize you. You’d be free to go without ever having to worry about Trixie or Rainbow Dash again.” I’m careful not to show disgust, but I do let my muzzle scrunch up at the thought, and she gives a light little giggle. “Or maybe that’s not to your taste. But the offer stands.”

No... telling her that I’m the Princess’s student now would be a stupid risk. The signs are all good, but one conversation is not enough to make that kind of judgement. Really then, my choice boils down to making a sprint for Echo’s train now or betting that I can get a better handle on Rarity over time and make an informed decision. I do think she means it, about letting me go... I mean, she’s a marker, but she seems okay.

“What will happen to Green?” I ask, Rarity’s expression twisting into a frown at the unexpected question.

“She’s a murderer and an agent of a known crime boss. She’ll be handed over to security,” she answers, curt and direct.

“Whereupon they will hang her,” I check, and after a moment, Rarity gives a stiff nod. I guess that’s that, then.

“Green has been very kind to me, when there was nopony else around,” I mutter, though I can tell from Rarity’s expression that she doubts that very much. “I’d like it if she was spared.”

“My dear Siren, I cannot pardon a violent criminal simply because—” she starts to explain, but no, I know this game.

“Pardon her, and I’ll go with you,” I deliver the line with an air of finality. I really nailed it too; I can tell by how Rarity sits back and looks thoughtful, tapping her hoof to the floor as she runs through her options in her head.

“I’ll commute her sentence from death to imprisonment. So she can keep you company,” Rarity offers, adding with a firm note, “but she will not be free to leave the Pavilion and return to Trixie’s service.” I can tell it’s the best I’m going to get.

“Deal,” I extend my foreleg, and our hoofs meet in the middle with a sharp tap.

“Simply wonderful,” she says, and I admit, I do feel a bit relieved. Maybe more than a bit. The chase, the struggle, the fighting—it’s all over. I still need to evaluate Rarity, of course, plan my next move—but nopony is going to try to stab me, and that realization makes my shoulders sag, all the tension flowing out of me. “Now, just one more thing, and we’ll be on our way.”

“What’s that?” I ask as she levitates the kettle over towards us, holding it up in the air.

Then, she sharply upends it.

“Ah!” I jump as the water spills over me, stumbling backwards, but I can already hear Rarity giggling. Green turns to brown and runs in rivers down my coat, through my hair, washing away into the floor drains and leaving my natural color behind. Rarity finds the whole thing terribly amusing, lifting a hoof to cover her mouth as she giggles like a schoolfilly. I can’t believe she did that, and all I can do is splutter, “Was that really necessary?” staring at her from under my wet forelock.

“Well, I hate that shade of green, so, yes,” she explains with a sweeping gesture and a deep nod of her head. “Your natural color is absolutely marvelous! I simply can’t have you trotting around covered in Green’s ghastly craftsmanship. Now, dry yourself off, and let’s be on our way,” she encourages me, levitating a clean cloth from behind the counter towards me.

Okay. Dry myself off. I can do that.

“Well, if you insist—” I tense, bracing my hooves against the floor, and Rarity has just enough time to jump before I start to shake off, drops of water and green dye flying in all directions. She’s splattered at once, a pattern of muddy green dots and lines covering her beautiful white outfit, ruining its perfection in a moment.

She looks at it, and looks at me, a long silence hanging. The smile fades from my face, as I see her stare, long and empty. “I uh...” I say to that hollow gaze.

Then, she smiles, her face lighting up. “Nopony has had the guts to do that to me in a long time, Siren,” she says, the words broken by a chuckle. “Reminds me of my younger days.”

“Oh, in a... good way?” I ask, and the relieved laugh I give is remarkably genuine. That was too close.

“Oh, absolutely,” she assures me with a little wave of her hoof. “I was getting tired of this outfit anyway. It was about time I touched it up. Now, let’s be off. Have you ever traveled by sky chariot?”

“Once, with—” the Princess “—a pegasus friend,” I finish lamely, gulping down the last of my tea. I don’t think she noticed though, turning to lead me out the door.

The street outside is crowded. I can see there are trains in motion, the line quickly clearing, and the floor faintly shakes with their passage. Closer at hoof are clusters of those white-suited minions of Rarity’s, keeping the crowd away or the street clear. I can see her sky chariot. It really is like the Princess’s, wide and flat, covered in soft padding, with a tall backing at the rear instead of a cover on the front, more like a palanquin than a chariot. It has spaces for four pegasi to pull it, and is made of hardwood adorned with gold. Green’s colors stand out, of course—she’s across the street, being watched by a group of those guards or doctors or whatever, near a flying ambulance.

Then something moves in the corner of my vision, and when I turn my head, I see them—one of the little sisters, her diving-suited guardian, and the body of the stallion who stood up to Green.

“—please bear with us, through this change.” She sings her off-tune little ditty, her voice wheezing, gurgling, her horn already buried deep inside his barrel, forced between two ribs. “We gather that, which you require, Poison Joke—” with a wet, sticky tearing sound, she pulls her head backwards, her horn coming free with such force that she actually stumbles a step back “—and Heart’s Desire! Also, ow!” This one is yellow, with a green mane and her little blue dress. The colors make the blood stand out more, fresh lines of it running down her face. One line touches her eye, and she flinches, squeezing it shut.

“Oh, let me get that for you, dear,” Rarity says, stepping up to the little creature and her guardian without fear. Her horn glows, and she picks up the... the filly, wiping the blood from her face. “There, isn’t that all better?”

“Yes, Auntie Rarity,” she sniffs, reaching to rub at her eye, her muzzle scrunching up with obvious discomfort. Auntie Rarity. Who gives them things when they’re sad so they’ll feel better.

“Aww, who’s the bwavest widdle gatherer in the whole city? You are!” Rarity coos, leaning in to nuzzle the little filly nose to nose, the contact leaving a spot of crimson on Rarity’s white muzzle.

“Thanks, Auntie Rarity,” she says, leaning around Rarity to look straight on at me. “Hello, Cousin Pinkpony!”

I think I blankly stare at them for a second. At the little filly, at the blood on Rarity’s muzzle.

“‘Cousin?’” Rarity asks, shooting me and the little filly a curious look. Neither of us have any answers though—I doubt the little filly can lie, and the dumb look on my face is certainly genuine. Rarity doesn’t seem overly bothered by it though, placing the filly back on the ground. “Well, no matter. Would you like to say hello to your cousin then, Siren?”

“I...” I feel my stomach starting to churn. She has a blister on her face, or a sore or something that bleeds. I can’t tell how much of that blood is hers, how much is from the stallion. It all stinks though, so sweet the smell has come around and become caustic. Rarity is looking at me, waiting to see what I do. But... she has to see that this is disgusting, right? She’s just putting on airs because there’s no point in yelling at it. At her. Right? I look at Rarity for something, anything, a line out of this. But she only looks expectant, maybe a little annoyed. She’s wondering why I’m taking so long to say anything.

If I refuse, I’ll offend this filly, I’ll offend Rarity, and then Rarity will never help me get out of here.

I look at Rarity and swallow. She’s obviously gotten used to it. So, if she can be this filly’s aunt, I can be her cousin.

“Of course I would!” I chirp. “Cute little thing.”

Her guardian’s helmet tilts as I step up to her, that drill banging against his side as he twists to follow me with his gaze. I can’t see his eyes, but I know he’s watching me. I think the consequences for offending him might be more immediate.

“Hello there... cousin!” That sounded good, very convincing. “I’m surprised you recognized me! I’m not pink, after all.” I lift a hoof, patches of green still visible where the water failed to reach.

“No, you’re still really pink. That just makes you look like a pink pony who threw up on herself. It’s kind of gross,” she asserts, with that wheezing voice, like a set of organ bellows. Her stomach jumps, like a hiccup, and a trail of crimson drool starts to run from the corner of her mouth. “Besides! There aren’t a lot of ponies in the city who don’t glow.”

“Well, that’s very perceptive! I suppose you should run along now, but um... say hello to all your sisters for me. One of them gave me a gift earlier and uh... it was really sweet.” I finish the line fine. Great even! But she’s still looking at me, waiting for something.

I brace myself, leaning my head down to touch the tip of my muzzle to hers. Her brother tenses when I draw close, bracing a leg forward. He’ll smash me flat if I make a sudden move, I know it. That smell floods through my nose, flowers and rot and filth and copper, caustic and toxic, enough to make my eyes water. I ignore it though, nuzzling against her, and she nuzzles back.

“Aww. Aren’t you two just precious?” Rarity asks, with a cheerful little laugh. “It’s like you’re a part of the family already.” It is, isn’t it? Brother, sister, aunt, cousin.

The little one’s guardian doesn’t share that opinion, quickly sweeping her up back into the basket. I don’t say anything—can’t think of anything to say. All I do is watch as he lumbers off. He’s so heavy the floor shakes with his brass-bound steps, and he shambles like he can barely support his own weight. Yet somehow, for all that, he makes good time, quickly moving down the street. The little filly leans out of her basket to wave to us before she’s too far out of sight, calling out, “Goodbye, Auntie Rarity! Goodbye, Cousin Pinkpony!”

“Goodbye, dear!” Rarity calls after her, waiting until she’s away before looking back to me. “Are you ready to go then?” she asks, gesturing to her sky chariot. Like nothing happened. But why should she be acting like something happened? I mean, we just said hello to her little niece, right? That’s how it works. If that gets me home, I mean.

I take a breath. Take a second to clear my head. I look around, and the guards here appear to be clearing away, but Green is still across the street, waiting by the ambulance.

“In a moment. I want to tell Green she’s going to be okay,” I answer, and Rarity nods, gesturing me on that way. It’s refreshing that she trusts me enough to let me go off on my own, and I quickly trot over to Green and the guards watching over her.

“Siren?” Green asks, looking at me as I run up. She’s wide-eyed, alarmed, her mane a mess. “What happened? Why did the soldiers leave?”

“Don’t worry, I fixed everything,” I say, quick and reassuring. She’s obviously panicked, and why shouldn't she be? She doesn’t know what’s happened. “I got Rarity to pardon you! Or, well, commute your sentence, but you’re going to be okay.”

“W-what?” she asks, trembling, looking wildly between me and the white-suited guards watching her. “Why? Why would she do that?”

“It’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “We’re going to the Pavilion together.”

Green goes stock still, her eyes shrinking to pinpricks. Her trembling becomes more noticeable, like she’s having a seizure. The guards around her notice too. “She’s freaking out,” one of them says, reaching back into his saddlebag for a needle. “Hold her down and—”

“No!” she screams at the top of her lungs, her legs blindly flailing backwards, catching one of her guards in the side. He goes crashing to the ground, and as soon as her hooves hit the earth, she’s galloping, sprinting away, throwing me to the ground as she slams past. I’m knocked spinning to the side, hitting the stone hard, but I can I hear the crackle of magic, Green screaming at the top of her lungs.

When I look up, I can see that two earth pony orderlies have tackled her, and another two unicorns are holding her in place with magic. Still, she almost manages to throw them off, thrashing like a wild animal as they drag her back towards the ambulance. “No! Please! Help!” she screams, her horseshoes producing a screeching whine as she scrambles them over the stone. “Anypony, please!” The soldiers watching over the trains are still visible in the distance, and she reaches out towards them, shouting, “Security! Don’t let them—” then the orderly gets her in the shoulder with a syringe, jamming the contents down inside her.

“No!” she bellows, less than sedated, fighting every step of the way as they drag her towards the ambulance. “Not again! Not a—”

The ambulance doors shut.

Quick March

“—Years of being abused by Trixie haven’t done her any favors,” Rarity explains, her sky chariot banking into a turn as we make our way through Vision’s streets. “Green never was very emotionally resilient, and the things you hear about that mare and the way she treats her subordinates. Why, there’s even a rumor that she b—” Rarity comes up short, checking her own language. For a moment, she goes stiff, caught in that awkward moment; then she makes a smooth, dismissive gesture, like she was wiping the words away. “That she doesn’t treat her henchponies well.”

“Yes, Ms. Rarity,” I answer automatically. My mind’s not really in the conversation anyway. She’s being disingenuous, of course—hiding things that she knows—but under the circumstances, that doesn't really tell me anything. She could be hiding some horrible incident between her and Green in the past, but it’s just as likely that all she’s concealing is how much she loathes Green, since she knows that would upset me. Given the outburst in the elevator, probably the second one, but there’s no reason to make risky assumptions.

“Dear, it’s just ‘Rarity’!” she says, laughing and trying to lighten the mood with a friendly tone, even a little teasing. “Honestly! You sound like one of the security officers. ‘Mister’ this, ‘Miss’ that, yes sir, no ma’am, and a title for everypony. It’s like they’re afraid of names.” I nod to that, and I guess that makes her realize how rattled I’m feeling right now, because she softens her voice. “I’m sorry, Siren. You’ll be able to see her as soon as that sedative wears off—probably not more than an hour. I promise, she’ll be okay.”

I know it’s a gesture, and a kind one at that. Maybe Rarity does want me as a hostage, but when it’s within her power to just throw me into a cell, she’s going out of her way to treat me like a friend—to respect my worries and needs. I should be grateful, but I’m not feeling it right now. I force myself to smile anyway though. It’s a weak, worried little gesture, but I make it seem very sincere, and Rarity smiles back. That seems to be enough, and we fall into a mutually understood silence.

Her chariot really is a lot like the Princess’s. A bit less ornate, perhaps, and with a sleeker design, but it was clearly inspired by the royal conveyance. The floor is covered in soft cushions, royal purple instead of golden-yellow like Celestia’s. The front of it is enchanted to break the wind, so we never feel more than a gentle breeze even as we race through the corridors. It even has the little stand the Princess’s does, for when she wants to read during a long trip, although this mount holds a miniature wiredoll instead of a book. The biggest difference has nothing to do with the chariot though. When I rode with Princess Celestia, there was barely enough room for the two of us, forcing me to stay close to her side. She’d put her wing over me, sometimes. With two normal ponies, the chariot is spacious, and Rarity and I sit a good pace apart.

That’s for the best, I guess.

I think about a lot of things during that silence. Some of them are practical, like how we seem to be moving at right angles to the track Echo’s train was on and what that says about getting to Neptune’s Bounty the hard way. Some of it is contemplative, like how I might break the news to Rarity if I decide she’s trustworthy. Mostly though, I just think about little things, like Green and Zephyr and Golden Palm and my friends back in Canterlot. Stupid thoughts. I’m not sure how long that keeps me busy, but eventually, something moves in the corners of my vision. There are things rushing past us. I hear a distant roar, and I realize we’re slowing down.

Tram rails.

That’s the difference, I suppose, between Trixie’s train tracks and Rainbow’s tram rails. Trixie’s are ground-bound, boxy, practical, blunt things—like if earth ponies were trains, clad in their iron horseshoes. Rainbow’s trams are more elegant, suspended under their sleek brass-capped rails, all hardwood and bright metal. She’s a flyer at heart, even without the sky, and now her rails twist and bank around us, converging on the station ahead.

Carousel Medical Pavilion. That is the full name, isn’t it? I’d almost forgotten, with how much the ponies of Vision shorten it to “the Pavilion.” But now, I see where the name comes from. There’s no grand entrance, no monolithic building, but there is a ring—a circle of tram tracks and stations and bright lights and glass. It towers four stories tall, a maze of paths and stairwells and tunnels and tracks in three dimensions, surrounded on all sides by stores. Doctors’ offices, spas, clinics, tailors, all covered in their gaudy signs and bright decorations, music flowing out of them until it forms a cheerfully tuneless din. And then there’s that roar. Water.

The ceiling drips from a spiderweb of cracks, but it’s like it’s meant to be that way. Where the water droplets fall, the white stone sparkles and shines, and the ponies on it seem to shine too. With this much water, I’d expect the floor to be studded with ugly metal drains, but there are none to be seen. Instead, the floor is subtly and gently sloped, collecting the water and guiding it in towards a grand channel in the center of the room. That channel soon turns to a waterfall, spilling down over a wide pathway I think is the entrance. There’s a pair of big silver gates there, wide open, and above them, a verdigrised brass sign to welcome visitors.

“They all seem so happy,” I say as we swing over the central hub. We’re too high to make out conversation, but I can still see individual ponies: one sitting on a bench reading the paper, a couple chasing each other through the puddles and laughing, two friends talking near some shopping bags—gossiping no doubt. When I look up, I realize we’re angling for a series of doors on the far wall, only accessible to pegasi and sky-chariots. Rarity’s personal estate, I would assume.

“Well why shouldn't they?” Rarity asks, energetic and friendly, the outline of a chuckle running under the words. She has this very breathy way of speaking, quick and grand in her gestures and expression. “The city is going through a rough patch right now, it’s true, but here...” She hooks a leg around my shoulders and pulls me forward, gesturing to the vast market below. “Here, the glory days never ended. Everypony is smart and beautiful, all our works shine like jewels, and no doctor or merchant turns away a pony in need.”

She sounds so enthusiastic that I glance up to check her face. I guess after so long here, I expect to see some trace of sarcasm or derision, but there’s nothing in her eyes and face but the warm glow of pride. She’s watching the market, but I keep my eyes on her. “I’ve met a few of your doctors. They didn’t strike me as the charitable types.”

“Well, perhaps not personally, but I’m happy to pay for the ponies who can’t pay for themselves.” she says cheerfully. Below us, the market vanishes from sight completely as we pull onto a large, bare landing pad, the flying ambulance and a few other pegasi-drawn carts not far behind us. “It is a tad expensive, but really, what else would I do with the money? Buy a golden house?”

Her jest makes me laugh, even if it’s not that funny. It’s just nicer than I’ve come to expect, and she delivers it so earnestly. “I think you could afford it,” I quip back, not my wittiest, but it’ll do.

“Probably,” she admits, a whimsical little twist in her tone. She actually tilts her head upwards to the ceiling as though considering the matter, a silly little grin on her face. “Something for the future perhaps.” Her voice and manner are playful as she turns back to me, trying to make me feel at ease. “Now, let’s get you settled in. I can only imagine how positively dreadful this whole affair has been for you,” she says with that overflowing energy, adding a dash of sympathy. “The sooner we can get you back on stable footing and calm those worries, the better.” She shifts tones smoothly, from playful, to energetic, to sympathetic, to firm. It’s a good effect, and reassuring in its way. She doesn't linger in that tone long though, forgetting it in an instant as she switches to a quick, practical cadence. “We do have some guest rooms available, do we not?”

“Yes, Ms. Rarity.” The new voice comes out of nowhere, and I spend a few disoriented moments casting my gaze towards the sound to see who snuck up on us. The voice was clear, but I don’t see anypony, and it’s not until he continues, “If you would give me a moment to check your schedule,” that I realize it’s one of the pegasi who was pulling the chariot. I’m so used to thinking of the team as a part of the vehicle that I didn’t even notice Rarity’s assistants from earlier were right in front of us. It’s the blue one who spoke—the dim one—and he takes a second to extricate himself from the harness along with the others.

“My schedule? Really, March, we have a guest,” she insists, and suddenly, I find a leg put around my withers, sharply pulling me over until I just touch Rarity’s shoulder. The other pegasi pulling the chariot pay us no mind, and they give us a respectful berth as they trot off. “Are you really telling me to put this poor thing in a corner and make her wait?”

“No, Ms. Rarity,” he answers, betrayed by the stiff tremor running through his voice. He reaches back with a wing into the folds of his jumpsuit, pulling out a little pad of paper. “But I am telling you that you’re supposed to be in surgery in fifteen minutes, and then you’re meeting Ms. Fluttershy at the spa at four.”

“That’s the mare with the maimed wing, yes?” Rarity checks, and March nods. “Doctor Twirl can handle that. And tell Fluttershy I’ll have to cancel—explain why, she’ll understand.”

“You’ve already canceled on her twice this month,” March answers, glancing down at his notepad. “You specifically told me that I was not to let you do it a third time.”

“Yes, and now I’m telling you—”

“Actually, if it’s alright with you—” I cut in, to the evident surprise of both speakers. “I feel about ready to collapse. I think Trixie rushed me along before I was quite ready. If you’re busy right now, honestly, I’d prefer to lie down.” It’s not untrue—I certainly could use the rest—but I’m not going to learn anything about Rarity by going on her little pre-planned tour where everypony bows and scrapes with her passing. If I want to judge her character, I’m going to need to see how the ponies in this place act when their lady and master isn’t around.

“Oh, of course! How could I have been so thoughtless?” Rarity asks, letting go of me and taking a half-step away so she can give me a long, careful visual inspection. “Here I am about to drag you over half the Pavilion, when you must be run positively ragged,” she chides herself, as though only now noticing my disheveled state. “Why don’t you take the afternoon to recover? We can catch up this evening.”

“I would like that very much, Ms.—” I catch myself before I finish speaking, and she fixes me with a pointed stare. Which is fair—this is like the third time I’ve messed that up. Or the fourth? I don’t know, but at this point, it’s becoming rude, so I cover it up with a blush and an awkward glance at my hooves. I nail it of course, and before long, she’s practically cooing over me. “I mean: thank you, Rarity.”

“Think nothing of it, dear,” she insists, waving the matter off before turning back to March. “Get her settled in and make sure she has everything she needs. She’s free to travel in the public areas and to see Green once the on-call doctor says she’s fit for visitors.” That makes me remember the ambulance, but when I look towards it, the door is already open and Green is gone. I must not have noticed them moving her out. “And let’s see... there’s something else I’m forgetting...” she says, pursing her lips. “Oh well, it’ll come to me. You’ll be alright, Siren?”

“I’ll be fine. You should get going—you have a wing to put back together,” I say. It sounds a little rigid, but under the circumstances, that’s how it should sound. It’s fine.

“Would you like me to have that washed while you’re in surgery, Ms. Rarity?” her assistant asks before she can run off, gesturing at her once-proud outfit. “I should be able to have it ready before your meeting with Ms. Fluttershy.”

“No,” she sighs, looking down at herself and frowning as she takes in the splattered stains. “I’ll always know the stain was there; it’s tainted now. I’ll drop in the incinerator on the way to cleanup.” Wait, the incinerator? I didn’t stain it that badly.

“I’ll have your tailoring supplies sent to your room,” her assistant says, taking his pen in his mouth to make a jot on his notepad. It really is amazing how he does it all without magic—holding the pad with a wing and a hoof and the pen in his mouth. Pegasus dexterity, I guess.

“That’s what I was forgetting!” she says with some relief, striking a hoof against the ground for emphasis. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” March nods to her, and she turns back to me, giving me one last glance. “I’ll see you this evening then?”

“I wouldn't miss it. Enjoy your time at the spa,” I answer politely, and she trots away, leaving me and her assistant behind. The other ponies have largely cleared off the dock at this point, and so we’re very nearly alone as I turn to face him. “So, you’re March?”

“Quick March. Though March is fine if you prefer, Ms. Song,” he says, mouthing the words around the pen. I wonder if that’s the same way Echo can hold onto a cigarette even when he’s shouting. Probably not—Echo spoke clearly and sharply; March is just kind of mumbling. He makes another mark on his pad and then puts it and the pen away, back into his pocket. “Shall I take you to your guest room now?”

He has such a formal, dull method of speaking. Not exactly stupid but, he’s certainly not the brightest star in the sky. He waits for me, but I can see the curiosity in his eyes when he realizes I’m not speaking, the faint little tilt of his head and the tension in his ears. I still take the time to examine him though. He can keep waiting.

Stars, he’s cute. That’s kind of perverse, isn’t it? Even the thought makes me feel greasy. For all I know, he’s in his fifties, and I just checked out a pony old enough to be my dad. It’s true though. He’s got a great powder-blue coat—nice and light without being silly—and this tousled red mane that tumbles down to his left when he tilts his head. By all rights, that ugly uniform should spoil his build, but somehow, he manages to convey how athletic he is under it. It’s in the way he holds himself, those smooth little motions.

“Uh... sure,” I say, when I realize I’m staring a little. “So, you’re Rarity’s ‘assistant,’ are you?”

“I’m her general assistant, yes,” he answers, gesturing me towards one of the distant doors before starting that way himself. “Doctor Side is her aide on medical matters. You may have seen him in the diner. He was the tan pegasus.”

“With the red mane, yeah. Like yours, actually. Are you two related, by any chance?” I ask, keeping an eye on him as we move. He’s not totally oblivious—I catch him giving me a few thoughtful sidelong glances, so he’s at least figured out that I’m evaluating him. That’s about all I can say though, and his body language is straightforward enough besides that.

“No. Ms. Rarity enjoys that particular shade of red,” he answers plainly. Wow. I assumed he would... dress it up a bit more than that. But I guess that sort of thing is considered acceptable down here? Fine, I can be a little more direct.

“Well, I can certainly see why you got the job,” I say, switching tracks to flattery. It’s pretty blatant, but not so doe-eyed I can’t switch again if it turns out to be a mistake. I just need to see how he responds, and I can start getting information out of him from there. He’s probably soaking up all the attention, cute and he knows it, eye-candy for a mare of power and taste.

“Well, that’s very kind of you to say, Ms. Song,” he replies, with a slight nod in my direction. “I pride myself on my attention to detail. And, I wouldn't worry too much. You’re not the first of Ms. Rarity’s special guests to ruin one of her things. She’s very forgiving.”

Or maybe he’s a clueless, well-meaning stallion, and I totally misread the entire situation. That could be it too. It’s good to know she won’t hold it against me, I guess.

“So, what’s she like? Personally, I mean,” I ask as we near the doors on the far side of the landing platform. They’re wide, graceful wooden things, but they’re also conspicuously recessed into the hallway, and I can see the steel security door waiting in the ceiling. March doesn't make any notice of it though, picking up his pace a few steps to hold the door for me.

“Complicated. I’m not certain I can do her justice,” he says, thoughtfully. I slip past him as he speaks, and he steps through the door behind me. The Pavilion itself may leak, but these halls are dry, wide, and brightly lit. Very bright actually. Even the low point of the lights’ regular beat is too bright, and the high point is so glaring that it actually hurts my eyes. The usually quiet thrumming of the lights is an angry buzz here, threatening to become a pounding in my temples. It makes the whole world flare with white, and the floor and walls have been scrubbed clean until the stone shines, free of any scratches or obstructions.

“If forced to describe her though,” he continues, failing to notice my obvious discomfort at the brightness, “I would say she takes great pride in her work. She appreciates how others make her accomplishments possible, and is generous to them in turn, but at the same time, she sees everything she creates as a reflection on herself. She’s a very devoted craftspony.”

“Is that why Green bothers her so much?” I reply, light and conversational as we make our way down the hall. I’m seeing spots as my eyes struggle to adjust, but nopony else seems to be making a big deal out of it, so I don’t say anything. Besides, I’m sure it’ll be a nice effect once I get used to it. There are decorations on the walls—pictures of the city, old posters, staff photos in front of important buildings. They’re tasteful, and the gold frames really match the bleached rock all around us.

March hesitates for a moment before he answers, and when he speaks, his voice is a touch tighter. “I don’t think she would appreciate me talking about that.” Well, March, I also don’t think she’d appreciate you being so obviously uncomfortable that you’re actually telling me more than a “yes” would have. But we don’t get everything we want.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” I say, quickly covering for the mistake. Saying it a little too fast and following it up with a silence after makes me seem wonderfully awkward, and it’s barely a few seconds before he’s mumbling about how it’s okay and I didn’t mean any harm. “She um... sounds like a pretty good boss. I mean, you obviously have a lot of respect for her.”

“I have not had other employers to compare her to, but she is very interesting,” he observes as we start down a flight of stairs, the walls painted with two long strips of royal purple that give the whole thing a very regal feel. “It is my experience that most artists begin with work that they find meaningful and then spend their careers trying to get others to accept it. Ms. Rarity began seeking fame and fortune, but having acquired them, found they are not valuable without some deeper purpose behind them.” He pauses for a moment while he thinks, and it kind of makes me wonder if I did read the situation right in the first place. He seemed afraid of her disapproval earlier, but I’d have to be blind not to notice the spring in his step when he admires her. Maybe the hair was his choice? I don’t quite get a romantic vibe from him though. I guess they could just be friends.

“If I had to summarize, I suppose I would say she makes the pursuit of others’ approval seem terribly shallow,” he finally says. “I’m not an artist, but working for her, I get that special sense of satisfaction I don’t get anywhere else.”

“High praise,” I say in response, but he only nods. It’s a completely biased accounting, of course. Putting aside the fact that Quick March obviously worships the ground Rarity walks on, for somepony who doesn't care about money or fame, Rarity seems to have a lot of both. I know that feint: pretending you don’t care about popularity so the ponies who aren't as beloved as you will feel shallow and unlikeable. It’s stupid and mean-spirited, and-and it’s my trick! “She seems to have a bit of a temper, though?”

“At times,” he agrees, without elaborating.

We reach our destination before I have time to think of anything else.

“These will be your accommodations for the duration of your stay,” Quick March says as he pushes open a set of graceful wooden double doors ahead of us. I didn’t even realize we’d turned out of the main hall, but the bright lacquered wood swings open to reveal a bedroom more suited to visiting royalty than a common guest. It’s wide, grand, abandoning the sharp angles and harsh whites of the rest of the Pavilion in favor of wide, sweeping curves made to resemble crashing waves. The bed is in the center of it all, mounted on a dais two steps above the rest of the floor—sharing the space with a pair of end tables. It’s a wide, sapphire-blue thing that manages to feel soft from across the room, and I get so distracted that March is halfway through his next sentence before I even realize he’s speaking.

“—Button by the door,” he explains, with a patient, efficient clip. “The servants’ quarters aren’t far. If you need me for anything, there’s a wiredoll in the study.” A study? I have a study? It’s only when it occurs to me to look that I see there are another four exits to this room, two more doors on either side, each made of a light wood. I’m still gawking when I realize he’s offering me one of those blue tokens, and I belatedly take it. It doesn't help my composure when I try to tuck it down into Green’s hoofboot, only to remember that all the slots there are full, leaving me pawing at the thing for several, ungraceful seconds. I get it after a moment, and I put the token in my belt pouch. “You mentioned you wanted to rest. Do you wish anything else for the time being? I can have food sent up, if you need to recover your strength.”

“Um... no,” I manage eventually. “No. Some time to rest will be fine. If I don’t call for you, you’ll wake me before Rarity returns for the evening?”

“Of course, Ms. Song. Sleep well,” he says, nodding his head and stepping back into the hall, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Right.

“Right,” I repeat as I make my way to the bed, just for good measure. I don’t so much get into bed as fall into it, tumbling over sideways and landing on the smooth covers. “Right right right right right right right right right right.” It’s silly, and stupid, but it feels so nice, and I can’t help but laugh. I actually shiver a little as the energy flows out of me, and I almost fall asleep on the spot. It’s so tempting, to bury my head in the wonderfully soft pillows and drift off, find a little time to collect myself. I shouldn't though. I need to get my bearings and decide how I’m going to deal with Rarity.

I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit.

“It’s time to plan, Siren.” Dunwanna. “If you lie here, you’re going to fall asleep.” I’m okay with that. “Siren.” Can I at least stay in bed while I plan? “No.” Please? “No. Now, you’re going to go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on your face.”

I let out a little sigh. “Fine.” It’s like my limbs have turned to lead, but I force myself to roll back off the side. I don’t so much slide onto the floor as ooze onto it, and my first few steps off the dais are stumbling and distinctly bow-legged. There’s a pounding in my ears that I vaguely recognize as my heart, but it’s keeping time with the lights, so I can’t be that panicked. It goes away after a few seconds anyway, and I stumble my way towards what I hope is the bathroom.

“Nope, study,” I say to the room that greets me, with its desk and shelf of books and the full-size wiredoll in the corner. Next is a small, surprisingly casual dining room... or a large, surprisingly formal breakfast nook—I’m really not sure which. It has a dumbwaiter, and somepony left a fresh newspaper on the table. I hit my target on the third try, pulling open the door to reveal a wide, glittering bathroom.

It really does glitter too. There are mirrors everywhere, coating the walls, the ceiling, the floor, absent only where space was needed for lights or a porcelain fixture. I don’t know if the mirrors are enchanted only to reflect ponies, or if there’s some very clever arrangement at work, but when I step inside, my image stretches off into eternity from every angle. It’s disorienting for a moment—my every motion seems to make the room pinwheel around me, like I was being hurled through some bizarre centrifuge. The moment passes though, and when I step inside, the surface under my hooves feels more like stone than glass. I can’t scuff the mirrors no matter how hard I try, and even a little stomp of my hooves doesn’t produce so much as a crack. They must be enchanted to be unbreakable. I can’t imagine what this room must have cost, but I suppose Rarity can afford it.

There’s a shower, and I am still covered in makeup, but I don’t feel like showering. Instead, I end up in front of the sink, picking a washcloth from a neatly folded pile nearby. The mirrors in front of me spread open like flower petals, giving me six different views of myself, all from some useful angle.

“Hey there, sexy,” I purr, fixing the mirror with a half-lidded gaze and generally treating my life-or-death situation with the seriousness it deserves. Oh, whatever—it makes me smile. Hot water comes out of the tap when I twist the appropriate valve, and I set about washing off the remaining makeup, starting by scrubbing my ankles with the cloth.

“Okay, so, from the top: assess the situation, assess available resources, define your objectives.” My words are clipped, my voice quick and businesslike. It really sets the right tone for things, helps me get in a good frame of mind. The scrubbing would normally be a distraction, but having something to do helps me focus my thoughts, and the water in the sink runs green as I mull the matter over.

“Rarity has taken you hostage.” I open with a frank assessment. The sooner I come to terms with these things the better, and besides, I’m really good at emphasizing the positive. My tone doesn't draw it out at all—just rips off that band-aid in one go, and it hardly hurts at all. I’d be a great therapist. “While her motives are not entirely clear, given the political situation in Vision, it seems likely that she believes holding you will ‘encourage’ Trixie’s good behavior. Fortunately for you, her notion of hostage-taking is a little closer to a noble and her ward than... the other sort.” I’m not actually clear on how hostage-taking works, since it’s not like it ever happens in Equestria, but I understand it involves being tied to a chair. That’s always how the audience knows someone is a hostage in plays. “You’re being treated as an honored guest, she’s respectful of your feelings, and you’re allegedly free to leave, although testing that offer might be imprudent.”

My ankles are about done at this point. Without any hair, there’s not a lot for the makeup to stick to, and it comes off pretty quickly. I take a moment to examine them, but my thoughts aren’t productive, and I twist over the sink to start at my shoulder and side.

“This in and of itself represents a significant improvement of your circumstances,” I grunt, trying to keep the mess in the sink as I scrape the makeup off. Whatever Green used on my barrel doesn't seem to be as water-soluble as the dye was, and it’s coming off like paint chips—a shower of ugly, flaking pieces. “However, there is an additional factor to consider. Rarity does not appear to share the city’s overwhelmingly negative opinion of Celestia and Equestria, and might—might—be willing to entertain the notion of sending you home. If true, this would mean you’re home free. However, broaching the subject will require considerable finesse and entails significant risk. If Rarity is not as understanding as you might hope, alerting her to your origins will sink all chances of escape.”

Yeah, that sounded good. Authoritative, chilling. Very “Your mission, should you choose to accept it.” Makes me feel like I know what I’m doing. Which I do, of course, even if this stupid makeup is sticking to the cloth until I have to scrape it on the drain just to get it to come off. Shoot, I think this is one of those makeups you’re supposed to remove with alcohol. Whatever. I can just scrub harder.

“Right. Step two: assess available resources.” I shrug off the belt and fold it next to the sink when my scrubbing reaches that point. “You retain your previously mentioned material resources, to wit: knives, food, water, some basic medical supplies, some bits, and one high-end mantle. However, your greatest asset will be your freedom and the privileges that come with being a guest. While details are not available at this time, your options are now significantly less restricted than they have been in the past—be sure to take full advantage of that fact.”

“Step three: define your objectives.” I grunt, twisting my spine around so my flank is up on the counter, leaving my side over the sink. “Your goal here is simple, though challenging. You must learn enough about Rarity to determine if it is safe to approach her honestly. If so, you must...” The washcloth is stuck under my side, pinned there by the little motions of my body. I give it a sharp tug, trying to make it come free, rolling my flank a bit off the countertop as I pull on the fabric.

Suddenly, the cloth yanks itself free, and my flank comes free with it. I’m falling! I let out a startled little shriek as I twist around, my legs reflexively flailing out to grab the countertop. My hooves scramble on porcelain and glass, but I can’t get a grip! Then I’m tumbling down, landing hard on my side. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and for a second, I lie there dazed, but... I think I’m okay. There’s no real harm done.

Then the washcloth lands on my face.

I shake the washcloth off, and pull myself back up with a stiff groan. For a second, I think I must have gotten some of the makeup in my eye—my vision is full of ugly green splotches, covering everything in sight. It’s not my eye though, it’s the mirrors. I’ve left an ugly green mess all over the floor, smearing the makeup up and down my sides, over my face, my shoulder. It’s splattered on the mirrors, and with how this room is arranged, the green carries everywhere, seeming to cover every surface.

“Looking good, idiot,” I mutter to the mirrors, splattered flecks of makeup surrounding my reflection. “Going for the unexpected twist ending, were we? Siren survives all the horrors of Vision only to slip and crack her head open on a bathroom counter?” My throat is tight, painful, and the words come out ragged and rough. Five Sirens at the rim all fix the one in the center with a glare, curt and sharp. “I’m not saying it isn’t deep, but do you think instead you could go for the version where she doesn't screw up everything she touches?”

I draw a slow breath. It’s unsteady, coming in little starts and stops, and I can see it from every angle. My eyes are wide, ears folded back, muzzle all twisted up. The makeup has smeared over my face and sides, and with how tense I am, it’s bunched up into ugly, cracked lines. I’m trembling a little, in the chest and along my barrel, like a shiver.

You’re not crazy if you realize how crazy you just sounded. Right?

“Right,” I agree, setting my hooves down off the counter. “It’s fine though, it’ll all be fine. Yeah, you made a little mess in the bathroom, probably should have showered in the first place, but that’s not worth getting upset over.” I take another slow, calming breath, and then turn to step into the shower. It has a sliding door made out of glass and a smooth interior with far too many nozzles sticking out of the ceiling. At least it’ll get the makeup off quickly. “You’ve made a lot of progress today. You got yourself out of danger, charmed Rarity, and you even managed to save Green and—”

And...

“I completely forgot about Berry!” I leap out of the still-dry shower and gallop halfway across the bedchamber before I realize I have no idea where I’m going, skidding to a halt in front of my room’s main door. There’s a button by the door! I could press it and... what, call a servant? Or the wiredoll, to call Quick March. He could get Rarity! No, wait, she’ll be in surgery now. But this is important! They could be handing Berry over to security any second now! I need to talk to her and...

And say what? That I’d like to renegotiate our agreement after I’ve made it? That if she doesn't save Berry as well, I’ll walk? Walk right past her guards of course, because there’s no way a pony from Vision would ever use force to get their way.

“It’s not that bad. Rarity will understand,” I say, turning away from the door, back to the study. “I was distracted. We were in danger! It’s totally understandable that I forgot about Berry.” The door to the study swings open as I push through it and trot over to the desk.

“I mean, it’s not like she ever talked much. Right?” I reach back to grab Quick March’s token out of my belt, only to find my side bare and remember that it’s still sitting curled next to the sink. I bolt back across the room, sliding into the bathroom, my hooves shaking unsteadily on the slick floor. “She was always just kind of there and being Trixie’s agent. It’s not like she did anything memorable! Other than... that whole bit with the potion but...” I dash back across the way, belt hovering beside me. “It’s fine. It’ll all be fine.”

I rip open the belt pouch with my magic, two pep bars and a bottle of water spilling out onto the desk. I twist it around, looking down into the pouch, but, nothing. I just put it there! “How can it not be here!? I didn’t lose it in the last ten minutes!” I shake the belt out, like that might somehow make the token materialize and fall to the desk, but all that happens is I make myself look like I’m having a spastic fit. I rip open all the other pouches, pep bars and water and rolls of bandages tumbling to the desktop. Quick March’s token finally tumbles out of one of them—which isn’t the one I put it in—landing on the desk with a heavy thump. I reach out, but it catches my hoof wrong, skittering across the desk and tumbling away behind it.

“Horseapples!” I shout, my throat tight. My rear slumps to the ground, and my head to the surface of the desk, my voice sinking to a feeble whine. “Horseapples horseapples horseapples horseapples.”

My hoof bumps against the underside of the desk, making a little metallic clink.

Of course! I’ve been wearing this thing for so long I forgot it was there! I pull my hoof up to the desk, going through the tokens slotted into the boot. Mine, mine, mine, Green, and Trixie! I pull the wand-and-star token out, scrambling over to the wiredoll and reaching around to its flank. Trixie can break Berry out, and I don’t have to look like an idiot in front of Rarity. Problem solved!

The token slots into the doll’s flank with a quiet click, and whatever mechanisms drive it start to spin up, producing a sharp whine that soon settles down into a steady hum. This doll is more elegant than the others, made from polished steel and silver, its sides adorned with beautiful filigree like the cords of a dress saddle. The doll’s legs twitch once, and its head rises.

“Trixie!” I blurt out as soon as the doll is active. “Thank goodness I was able to reach you. Berry is in trouble!” The doll doesn't answer, casting its gaze left and right over the little study. Its motions are smooth, oiled. I guess she wants to make sure we’re alone? “Rarity caught her. She was injured, but she’s going to be given to security as soon as she’s healthy. There’s still time to save her!”

The doll finishes examining the room, and turns to stare at me, my coat reflected in its silver body and those glass eyes. “T-Trixie?” I ask. Maybe the doll is broken and she can’t talk?

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is aware,” she answers, haughty and superior like she always is. But there’s something else there too, hidden behind those glass eyes. Her voice is too reserved; she’s not as blustery as before.

“So you’ll be breaking her out, right?” Okay, she’s upset with me. That’s understandable. This must seem bad from her position, but she’s all sorts of crime lord. She’s totally got this one. “I mean, you’ve got a ton of spies in security. One of them can let her go.”

“No,” Trixie answers, the doll’s glittering eyes staring down at me from its high stand.

“Right, but, you’re just saying that because you think Rarity might be listening and you’re really going to—”

“Don’t wire again,” she orders, and her token pops out of the doll’s flank, clattering to the floor. For a moment, the doll holds its pose, still staring down at me, but then the life leaves its eyes, and it slumps on its stand.

“But...” I murmur to the doll. “You’re only saying that because you think Rarity might be listening, and you’re really going to save her. Right?”

The doll doesn't answer.

My hooves are shaking when I reach under the desk. It takes a little feeling around, but I find Quick March’s token. It hasn’t cracked or anything, it’s still good. For a second, I think it’s blank, but then I turn it around to the right end. A sword and hoofprints.

That would make sense.

Quick March. Then. I just need to wire him, and he’ll get Rarity, and then I can save Berry. He can get her as soon as she’s out of surgery, and we’ll meet, and I’ll explain that I made a mistake, and she’ll commute Berry’s sentence too. That should be easy enough for her. She’s a mare with a lot of power. And I can totally convince her. I just need to meet her and say...

Something.

I try to say something, but no sound comes out. I can’t find the right tone. Right now.

It really doesn't matter what words you use if you can’t find the right tone. It’s all about how you say it. There’s no point in talking to Rarity otherwise. I mean, I couldn't convince her of anything without the right tone. The words don’t make much of a difference.

I put the token on the desk.

I should finish washing up. While I think.

The shower is hot, and the water jets hit hard from every direction. The dye in my coat washes off almost instantly, but the makeup on my sides is stubborn, and even with the water blasting against it, I have to scrub until my scars burn to get it all off. Not meant to be cleaned with water. I take a little while to clean up the bathroom after. There are probably servants to do that, but it’s polite, and I really made a mess. Then I go find my belt and put all the things back into it. That’s good. It’s neater.

The cleaning up gives me some time to think. I mean, Berry is Trixie’s top agent or something, right? Of course Trixie is going to save her. And asking Rarity to protect a pony who helped me is one thing, but asking her to bail out a criminal’s top henchpony really would look bad. Besides, it’s not like it’s my fault that she got captured or got in trouble in the first place. She wasn’t wanted because of anything I did. There’s no need for me to risk my standing with Rarity over this. Berry will be fine. She’ll be fine.

Eventually, I make my way back to the main room. There’s something there I didn’t notice before, on the nightstand by the bed. It’s a little mechanical figurine of one of those ponies in the diving suits, made out of some shiny metal. His legs have little joints full of gears, and he’s on a tiny stand. He’s positioned with all four legs splayed out, looking towards the door, like he was guarding the bed against intruders. I don’t know how I missed it before.

“I don’t suppose you know how to turn the lights off?” I ask him. “It’s just, it’s a little bright in here, and I’m very tired.” He doesn't answer. That’s fine, I guess.

I slide under the covers and put my head on the pillow. For a while, I try to get used to the lights, but they seem to come from every direction no matter how I turn my head. Finally, I roll over, cracking an eye open. “You’re right next to the bed,” I tell the little brother. “You either control the lights or give me a glass of water. Which is it?” He doesn't answer.

“Good night, then,” I say, and I’m about to shut my eyes when I hear a little mechanical click. He lifts a foreleg, gracefully tucking it under himself. Then he bows to me, and the lights go out.

The click of a latch, the squeak of hinges, a sliver of light shining across the room, making the bowing figurine glint. “Ms. Song?” a voice calls out. A stallion’s voice. “Ms. Song?” he repeats, louder, his voice echoing off the smooth contours around me.

“Yes?” I ask. It takes me a second to remember where I am, recognize who it is that’s talking to me. Quick March. “Is Rarity ready to see me now?”

“She’s been back for several hours,” he answers, plainly. “I attempted to wake you when she arrived, but you were unresponsive, and she decided it was best to let you sleep. If it suits you, Ms. Apple is awake and fit to receive visitors, and Ms. Rarity would like to see you at your leisure.”

“Thank you,” I say, forcing myself to sit up. If I don’t get up now, I’ll fall asleep again. My head is swimming besides, and my limbs feel heavy. “Can you have some alfalfa and tea sent up?”

“If that’s what you want, Ms. Song,” he says. I open my eyes and immediately regret it, flinching in pain as I squeeze them shut. The light from the hall is blinding, so brilliant that it leaves dancing, flickering spots in my vision. I couldn't even see his outline, only a vaguely darker spot in the center of that painful radiance. If he sees my pain though, he makes no comment on it. “It’s after nine though. If you would prefer, I could have them bring you some seaweed juice instead.”

“Is that like tea?” I ask blearily.

“It will wake you up without keeping you up all night,” he answers matter-of-factly.

“I’m used to tea.” He nods and departs, shutting the door and leaving me in darkness.

I just kind of sit there for a little while. I’m awake, and I know where I am, but I don’t feel like getting up yet. With my eyes half open and half closed, I’m drifting somewhere between consciousness and dreaming.

Drifting? Floating. Calm.

Suddenly, my legs go tense, alert. I can feel my heart starting to race, adrenaline rushing through me. Something’s wrong! My breath picks up, coming faster and faster as my hooves scramble over the bed. “Good morning!” I shout at the little doll, my voice rising in pitch. “Rise and shine! Wake up! Time to get up! Lights on!” My breath is coming in shallow gasps, and some instinct compels me to go up. Up, I need to go up! To scramble for anything to hold onto! My hoof touches the head of the bed, and I’m clinging to it like a liferaft.

Then I hear the little mechanical clicking, and the lights in the room start to come up. Brighter, brighter, until I’m squinting in the glare.

My chest, my sides are trembling as I force myself to draw a slow breath. There’s something poking into my sides. Wood, jamming against my ribs. I’ve somehow wrapped myself around the head of the bed at this impossible angle, all four of my legs twisted around it. I just need a second. I need a second to catch my breath.

Slowly, gradually, my limbs relax until I can make myself let go, and I slump back to the bed, landing on top of the twisted sheets.

“Okay, Siren, had a bit of a... ah. Had a—” A nightmare. You fell asleep sitting up and had a nightmare. “Yeah. Had a bit of a nightmare there. Time to get up now.”

Getting ready makes me feel better, or helps me calm down at least. There’s a toothbrush and a few other things behind one of the mirrors. I guess I didn’t realize how gross my mouth was getting, but when I start brushing, it’s like I can taste all the brine water I’ve inhaled since I arrived here. It takes a good three brushings before I feel something like civilized again, and I’m no less obsessive with my mane. I still look awful, of course, with those burns and my shaved side and all the other stuff. But I make it work.

“Neutral position,” I order the mirror, letting my tail come to attention as I lift one foreleg in time. It’s not really a pose you’d use for anything, but it works the kinks out of my joints, helping me practice the right arrangements. The hoofboot changes it a little, leaving me a tad asymmetric and putting an edge on things. It’s stylish though—I like it. A little swish of my tail affirms it’s free of knots, making the end flick back and forth. “Relaxed position,” I order, letting my tail tuck between my legs. Guilty Child Meets Parent #3 fits that nicely, and I shoot the mirror an absolutely adorable glance, biting my lip and flicking my gaze up and down. “Good. Alert position,” I command. Tail up, legs stiff, body forward, gaze tight, “Outdoor voice!” Yeah, that sounds good. Very authoritative. “Right.”

By the time I’m done getting ready, the dumbwaiter has already arrived in the little kitchen space, carrying a plate of alfalfa, a teacup, milk, sugar, half a lemon, and a hot silver teapot. It’s all sitting on a tray, and I levitate it over to the table as a set. The alfalfa smells fresh, and I can tell from how it lies on the plate that it was made the traditional way—haystacks, not bales. When I nibble on a piece, it doesn’t taste quite right though. It’s good, but it’s a hair too salty.

While the agricultural systems that support the city theoretically replicate surface conditions exactly, in practice, salt levels in the resultant produce can vary by up to fifteen percent between batches. This causes... something to do with the wine. And the alfalfa as well, I suppose. I should have let her finish explaining.

I’ll get used to it, I guess.

I unfold the paper on the table and pour a cup of tea, taking a moment to enjoy the smell before I take a sip. It’s not bad—needs some lemon. The headline isn’t very useful: “HD Prices Rise Amid Spec DL-Act Repeal.” I try reading the article, but the whole paper is written in that abbreviated shorthand. Not that it matters much—without the proper context, I doubt I could understand it anyway. I try the other articles, but they aren’t much better.

I find the comics around page six. They’re a little funny. Some of them are even comics I know from Equestria. They draw the characters a little differently, and there’s a fish outside the window instead of the sun, but it’s the same old lack of humor.

There’s one comic that catches my eye at the bottom of the page—a single panel with a caption at the bottom. It shows two ponies facing each other, one of whom is instantly recognizable as Diamond Tiara. The other is a mare in a gaudy star-studded wizard hat, wrapped up in a cape held in place by a single-cut jewel. The mare in the hat seems to be offering Diamond Tiara a bottle with the label “Doc Stable’s Insomnia Cure.” The caption reads, “‘Well, we haven't had any complaints yet.’”

After a minute or two of mulling it over, I decide that political cartoons are stupid in any city, and put the paper aside. It’s a waste of time.

I’m about done when I hear a knock on the door and Quick March’s voice, muffled through the wood. “Ms. Song? Are you presentable?”

“Yes, just a moment,” I answer, gulping down the last of my tea. Sliding the tray back into the dumbwaiter seems to set off some mechanism; there’s a series of clicks, a copper grate slides over it, and the dumbwaiter sinks out of view. After that, there doesn't seem to be much left to do. My belt is still on the nightstand by the bed. I won’t need anything in it, but I don’t think I want to leave it behind. The idea of going without it makes me feel vulnerable, weak. One of my teachers explained that to me once: the difference between being naked and having no clothes. It doesn't really matter much though, and I do the belt up around myself quickly enough.

“Enter,” I call out, and the door slides open to let Quick March step inside. I catch myself glancing at his flank, now that I know what his actual cutie mark is, but the last few hours have failed to make that jumpsuit transparent, so all I see is white fabric. If he catches me staring, he doesn't comment on it, politely waiting for me to acknowledge him. “Can I see Green now?”

“Of course, Ms. Song. This way,” he says, holding the door open for me with a wing and gesturing me out in the hall. “I hope you’re feeling better?”

“A bit,” I reply, noncommittal, falling into step with him as we make our way through the bright, clean halls. He seems to know where he’s going, and the layout of the building is simple enough that I’m not particularly worried about getting lost. “I was meaning to ask: were you in security before you worked for Rarity?” He shoots me a curious glance, and I clarify, “It’s just that your cutie mark has a sword in it, and earlier, Rarity made a joke about how security ponies always use ‘mister’ and ‘miss’ like you do. But you said you’d never had another boss to compare Rarity to, so I was curious.”

“You’re very observant, Ms. Song,” he says with a polite little smile. It’s a little too stiff though; he’s hiding something. “But, no, I never worked for security.” I’m not sure if it’s a lie, but it’s not the truth either. I could pry but... all ponies have their secrets, right? So he’s a bodyguard or something. That’s fine.

We don’t talk much for the rest of the journey there, making our way through long, gently curving corridors. Eventually, the hallways start to feel less “palace” and more “hospital,” although they never lose that brilliant, sterile shine. We pass ponies on stretchers, doctors and nurses, doors with windows so we can see the ponies within, bandaged and laid back in bed. The air starts to smell sharp, like soap and antiseptics, and the dazzling silence of the upper levels is replaced by a buzz of activity. Ponies talking, shouting, fiddling with equipment, crying out in pain, trying to maneuver around each other in the halls.

Then we push through a large set of double doors, and the sounds of the hospital are suddenly muted. We’re in a short hallway, only four doors along it, isolated from the rest of the building. There’s a desk here, with a guard behind it—his uniform is white, but those hoof-knives are pretty distinctive. He jerks his head up sharply when we enter, but then relaxes, putting away the book he was reading. “Quick. Ma’am,” he greets my guide and me in turn. “Need any help?”

“Yes, thank you. Ms. Song would like to see Ms. Apple, if you could—”

“I can manage on my own, thank you,” I say, pointing to the door at the end of the hall. It’s the only one that has a clipboard and notes tucked into the little slot under the window. “Through there, right?”

“Yes,” the guard says. I nod, and trot past him before he can go on, and lift the clipboard out of the holder on the door. I pretend to read it for a moment, long enough that Quick and the guard’s staring will be plausibly conspicuous. Then I glance back, like I’d just remembered they were standing there. “You don’t have to wait for me, March. I might be a little while.”

He does hesitate for a moment, glancing at me and the guard. He couldn't outright refuse me, but perhaps he might lurk in the hallway or nearby, letting the guard know to alert him. He comes to a decision quickly enough though, and he nods his head. “As you wish. Ms. Rarity is seeing to one of her new projects at the moment; she’s in the reflecting room. You can give Ms. Song directions?” he asks the guard, who nods. “Good luck then,” Quick March says before excusing himself and stepping away.

Allowed to wander around without an escort. A point in Rarity’s favor.

The clipboard is still beside me when I step through the door. There’s not much to the room; it’s small and cramped and sterile and safe. Wretchedly safe. There’s a bed, a chair, a counter, a sink, one of those glass covers to keep water away, but I don’t see a single edge in the entire room. Everything has rounded corners, the glass is well out of reach, the bed is covered in layering so soft it’s like foam, and everything is so clean it gleams. The only color in the whole space is a hideous poster on the wall, showing some grinning pink earth pony with a puffy mane reminding us that “A smile makes everything better!”

Well, it’s not really the only color in the room. There’s me. And Green.

She’s kind of... bleached. I guess I’ve never seen her without her makeup on. She’s obviously been scrubbed clean, her face free of her usual highlights, her coat and mane still a mess. She’s strapped to the bed, all wrapped up in those puffy restraints, like manacles made from cotton. They look so fragile that it seems like she should be able to tear out of them with a stiff breath, but I don’t think so. Even her horn is wrapped up in some kind of padding, a steel cap on the end to stop her from using her magic. Completing her bindings is a blindfold over her eyes, a sign above the bed reading: “WARNING: Hypnosis. Do not remove blindfold. If patient complains of eye pain or if blindfold appears ajar, contact on-call physician immediately.”

I just kind of stare for a while. I put the clipboard down by the door, and I stare. Watching her twist in the restraints, hearing the little brushing sound as her tail flicks back and forth under her.

“Wh-who’s there?” she calls out, her voice shaky.

I almost don’t answer. My stomach feels like a pit, my throat tight and burning. She sounds so meek, so frightened. But I have to say something, don’t I?

“It’s me, Green,” I say, stepping up to the bedside. She lets out a startled squeak and starts to struggle violently. The foam bonds around her seem to flow like water, stretching and sliding around her so that no matter how she twists she can’t lift herself out of them. “Green! Green, it’s okay! It’s okay!” I urge, rising up onto my hind legs and putting a hoof on the bed’s edge, reaching out to steady her with the other. “Green, it’s okay. I’m right here.” My leg meets hers, and I take her by the ankle. I can’t exactly restrain her with a hoof, but feeling me there gets her attention. She’s still panicked, but now she reaches out to me with all four legs, wrapping herself around my hoof and ankle as much as her bonds will allow. It’s mostly her forelegs really; the rest can’t quite reach.

“Siren?” she asks, her hoof traveling up and down my leg for a moment. What’s she doing? “Is it really you?”

“Of course it’s me, Green. Everything is—”

“What happened when I found you in my apartment?” she demands, sharp, suspicious. I can hear the tremor in her voice, but even when she’s completely helpless, she still has that edge to her. It’s beautiful in a dark sort of way, something wild and honest instead of her usual, cultured appearance. “Describe everything we did and said.”

“I woke up, you’d been tending to me. I thought you were a doctor. I made myself at home in your apartment and rifled through your things, and then you came home and I hid in your bathroom stall,” I explain, keeping my voice calm, soothing. “Then you hypnotized me, and pretended not to enjoy having another pony fawning over your humble self.” It’s not really funny, and under the circumstances, I can’t even manage a joking tone. My throat hurts too much. She seems to calm down a little though, holding my leg against her.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she says, her voice cracking, her face all scrunched up behind that blindfold. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You weren't supposed to end up here.”

“Green, it’s okay. Everything is going to be alright,” I repeat, keeping the words soft and reassuring. It’s a bit awkward, but I reach out with my other hoof to pat her side through the covers all around her.

“No, Sweetheart. No, it’s not going to be okay. Now I need you to listen to me, and do exactly as I tell you.” Her voice is urgent, quick. “Do you remember that thing you did at Doctor Stable’s? The thing that made Berry look so silly?” What? What is she talking about? “I need you to do that now, you understand? Just the way you did before.”

“You mean, run away on my ow—”

“Don’t say it!” she snaps, trying to yank me towards her. She can’t get a good grip through; the bonds won’t let her and her hooves slip down my leg. “Don’t ever say anything in the Pavilion that goes against her! Not when you’re alone, not so much as a whisper. She always knows! She knows and she doesn't like it!” She’s so tense, she’s shaking. There’s not even anything I can say to that. All I can do is reach out to her side and make soothing noises until the tremors subside.

“Okay, Green. I hear you,” I say to her. “I won’t say anything I’m not prepared for Rarity to hear. I promise.”

“You have to wait until she’s out in the city,” Green whispers, her rear legs tucked in against her. “She’s different there; she can’t keep it all straight in her head at once. Sometimes she misses things. You could escape then. She’ll have heard me say that, made sure that there are guards around you whenever she’s away. But they’re only ponies and you’re very brave, Siren. You can do what you need to do, right?”

I don’t know what to say to that. What can I say to that? My legs feel stiff, my motions are mechanical and rote. My brain goes ahead without me, and I mutter, “Of course, Green,” in the most bland tones of reassurance. It’s wholly unconvincing, and Green knows it. I can see her curl up a little tighter. My breath isn’t coming easy, all wound up inside me.

“Why are ah...” I start. You in restraints? Because you’re obviously ready to strangle the doctors with their own stethoscopes to get out of here. Because they’re afraid you’re going to hurt yourself. Because no matter how scared you are, you’re still a murderer. That was a stupid question, Siren. “The-the restraints.” I push against them with a hoof. “They aren’t causing you any pain, are they?”

“I mean it, Siren!” she snaps, her voice surging with anger even as it retains that wounded tremor. “Don’t you patronize me!”

“Well what am I suppose to say to that, huh!?” I demand, and now I’m shouting as well. “She’s a clever pony with some goons, not Sombra’s ghost!”

“Oh because y’all—” her voice chokes up for a second, and she seems to spit the words “—because you know so much.” She snaps the line out, snide and bitter. “You don’t know this city! You don’t know her!”

“So tell me! She’s a sorceress or something? Listening in on us with her dark powers? Is that what you’re saying, Green?” She doesn't answer, curling up tighter. “Well?”

“I don’t know,” she squeaks, quiet. All that anger has faded as quickly as it came, but it’ll be back, coming and going in waves. Like a frightened animal lashing out.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

“Ah mean Ah don’t know!” And there’s that accent again, thick this time, the anger not the only thing coming and going in waves. It sounds so fake, too sudden in its onset to be real—like she’s a bad actor forgetting her character. “She just—she just knows these things.”

“So, she knew a few times when you were plotting against her, and from this, you concluded that she was an evil supernatural force in the shape of a pony, instead of that, oh, she has some spies and you’re kind of easy to read.” The words come out sharper than I had intended, and they keep coming, like water out of a broken dam. “Why are you so determined to argue with a decision that’s already been made? We’re here! You’re here. And even if I did believe you, even if I could run away, I’m the only reason you’re still alive.”

“She’s gonna kill me anyway, she’s only humorin’ you,” Green whimpers, trying to reach up my leg to my body, but the restraints won’t let her move that far. “Sweetheart, you gotta—”

“Don’t you ‘Sweetheart’ me!” I wrench my leg out of her grasp and slide my hooves back to the floor. “What’s done is done! We’re here. We’re here and we’re both getting through this. Going back home, you hear me? I know what I’m doing.”

“You—”

“I said I know what I’m doing!” I snap, turning away from her. “I’ll be back, okay? I need to go meet with Rarity.”

“Siren, wait!” she calls out, reaching after me but she can’t reach. “My makeup kit.”

“Your what?” I ask, incredulous, turning back to stare at her. “I don’t think this is really the time or place to be touching up your eyeliner, Green.”

“I know, I know, I’ve just... I’ve never been without it. I know it’s somewhere around here.” Her voice is pleading, really worried. No, frightened. As frightened as she was when I came in.

It only takes me a moment to put it all together. “Your makeup kit, huh?” I ask flatly, my tone dry. “I guess I should have wondered why you pulled that thing out at every opportunity.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not like that,” she pleads, insists.

“So what is it like, exactly?” I demand. She doesn't answer. “What stops working if you can’t file your horn every day?” She doesn't answer. “I know ‘would you kindly’ is your hypnosis. So what’s the makeup for? Your longevity? I know that you’re not actually eighteen, Green, if that’s it. I mean, I have no idea what your other cutie marks might do, so I’m guessing here.”

“Siren, I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “Please.”

It takes a little poking around, but I eventually find her things in a plastic bin in one of the cabinets. It’s a motley assortment: smashed and crumpled energy bars, water, ticket stubs, loose change, a glass bottle of assorted pills, her horseshoes, lockpicks, a greying photo of some stallion on a farm, a lighter, and a host of other odds and ends I don’t care to examine. I find her makeup kit and file at the bottom, levitating them up and shutting the cabinet door.

“Fine, here,” I say curtly, tossing the little vanity case down onto her side, the horn file still floating beside me. I’m starting to feel sick again, all dizzy, my gut twisted into knots. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“Take... take the spots off my horn, please,” she says. “And brush up around my eyes.”

“Green, there are no spots or scratches on your...” I let out a stiff sigh, crossing to the bed’s edge in two quick steps. “Fine!” I say, snapping open the kit. I have no idea what I’m doing, but she can’t see the end result anyway. I just run the file over her horn a few times and brush some shade of green into the space around her eyes, or as close as I can get with that blindfold. It seems to calm her down, and after a few moments of that I give a brusque “Good enough?”

“Y-yes,” she says. “Thank you. Can you leave the—?”

“I’m leaving the kit and the file here, okay? Right on top of you so you’ll have them if you need them.” I put the vanity case and file back on her side, resting them over the padding there. “I’ll check on you later, okay?”

Green doesn't say anything, and I don’t wait for her to answer before I turn to go. On the way out, I notice the clipboard I left by the door, and I sweep it up. Most of it is medical gobbledygook, but there are summaries at the end I can understand. “Patient displays acute paranoia,” is one; “Prone to sharp mood swings and violent outbursts,” is another; assaulted an orderly; occasionally unsure where she is; expresses a belief in invisible ponies watching her; overwhelming phobia related to Rarity and the Pavilion.

“Excuse me,” the guard interrupts my train of thought, rising from behind his desk. “I heard things got a little heated in there. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I answer, looking up from the clipboard. I feel a little sick, but it’ll be fine. I slot the clipboard back into its little mount on the outside of the door. “Could you direct me to the reflecting room now, please?”

“So, um, are you a model too?” the mare in the reflecting room asks, after a few minutes of silence have passed between us.

It’s a very strange place, though I can see where the name comes from. At thirty paces across, it has room to spare, and the high domed ceiling makes it feel cavernous. That ceiling serves as an anchoring point for cranes, winches, steel and brass arms of all kinds, all carrying a vast array of mirrors, lamps and lenses. A menagerie of glass ponies circles the room, each one wearing a different dress or outfit. In the center of it all is a space where a pony is clearly meant to stand, surrounded by glass plates suspended from thin cables.

It’s a grand construction, but the purpose of the room is simple enough. When one of the glass ponies passes into the sight of the mirrors and lenses, the dress it wears remains visible, but the glass vanishes. A pony standing in the center of the room would seem to be wearing the outfit. Presumably, manipulation of the various devices here allows other feats, but at its heart, this is an enormously elaborate dressing room, allowing the operator to put the subject in any situation or outfit they like. I can see how it would appeal to a pony like Rarity, but she’s not here right now. She stepped out to deal with a minor emergency, or so the guard said. She’ll be right back. For now, there’s nothing to do but sit on one of the little couches by the door.

Well, that, and try not to make eye contact with the other mare waiting nearby.

“No,” I answer. “I’m an actor.” I’m not sure if this space is for waiting guests, or for observers to whatever process goes on here, but there are some books and magazines and stuff scattered around. Paging through one of the books passes the time, even if I’m not paying much attention. It’s about a fillyfooler unicorn fighting an evil stallion with a red eye. I think they’re an item or something though.

“Oh,” she says, interrupting me after barely a page. I grit my teeth and focus in on the book. There’s a fight scene now, and it’s kind of interesting. “I guess you must be a pretty good actor, to have Rarity do your work personally.” I shrug. There’s a zebra, and this pit— “So, are you fixing the scars, or are you having some other work done?”

“I’m meeting with her. I’m not here for surgery,” I answer. I’ve lost my place on the page now, and I try to find it again. Somewhere near the start, I think.

“Oh. That’s neat. You’re somepony important, I guess,” she says. I’m not even trying to find my place again at this point; I just know she’s going to— “I’m Epiphany, by the way.”

“Siren Song.” I introduce myself in kind, snapping the book shut and turning my head to face her. She’s sitting on the couch across from mine.

And she’s young and beautiful, of course. What else would she look like?

It’s like Rarity rolled her up in silver, baled her coat like metallic hay. Her barrel, her chest, most of her torso is radiant chrome, a pure metallic coat as lustrous and smooth as Green’s. Unlike Green’s though, it has so many subtleties, layers. The silver doesn't cover her whole body—her lower legs, flank, tail, mane, most of her face are a rich earth-brown, and when the silver draws near them, it disperses like smoke, coiling in these beautiful patterns that leave you uncertain where the silver ends and where the brown begins. Why brown? Because she’s an earth pony, maybe? Her mane is tousled, a mess, but I don’t think it’s meant to be fixed. It makes the brown seem earnest and real, and the silver seem all the more perfect by comparison.

She has four cutie marks that I can see. The one on her flank is a a yin-yang wheel. There’s a pony biting its own tail immediately below her shoulder, a pile of books on her back, and a dove with outstretched wings on the side of her neck. They really should ruin the effect, but they actually kind of work, and I can’t help but notice that her original cutie mark is surrounded by brown, while all the new ones are surrounded by silver. I wonder if that was intentional.

“Um...” she mumbles, tapping her hooves together. Of course, she notices that I’m sizing her up, but she doesn't say anything. She just stares down at the floor, her tail awkwardly flicking back and forth. I get the impression she’s been sitting there for a while, but she hasn’t touched any of the books near her. She doesn't have her modeling clothes yet—which makes sense in this room really—but there is a set of saddlebags on the couch next to her. They’re well worn, and a bit filthy. “Sorry, I’m new here.”

“It’s okay, so am I,” I answer, keeping my tone soft so it won’t show my irritation at the interruption. I’m really not in the mood to talk to anypony right now, much less one of them, but she’s so nervous, and it’s not like yelling at her will make this less awkward. “So, this is your first big modeling job?”

“Oh, um... you could say that.” She laughs nervously, still not able to meet my gaze. “It’s my first job in a while. I didn’t really apply so much as Rarity, you know... Picked me.”

“She must have thought you were very deserving,” I answer, thinking back to the coffee shop. If she can make anypony this attractive, I guess it does kinda make sense to give modeling jobs as gifts. Epiphany somehow manages to seem even more awkward by the time I’m done, but she nods.

“Yeah, I guess she did,” she agrees, but she’s clearly uncomfortable with the praise, her tail flicking back and forth as she finds ways to look at everything in the room but me. “We were just doing some color tests, now. I don’t really start until tomorrow morning, but Rarity wanted to do some last-minute checks.” I’m not really sure what a color test is, and I’m pretty sure she isn’t either, but it’s something to say. “So. Um. You want to see my before pictures?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask, peering at her a little more closely. That makes her glance up for a moment, catching my gaze with the cutest little blush.

“The before pictures. You know, what I used to look like?” I give a nod, and she reaches down into her bag with her muzzle, pulling out a bundle of photographs. I float them over and sort through them, little glossy pictures of a filthy, off-brown earth pony with a docked ear and a noticeable overbite. There are some closeups of her face, her jaw, her flank, and a few zoomed-out shots of her wearing those saddlebags. She’s really dirty, her mane a tangled mess, her sides smeared with something.

“Your eyes are the same,” I say, flipping through the photos and glancing up at her. That surprises her, and for a moment, she forgets that she’s afraid to look at me, glancing up and across the way. She was probably expecting me to say that she looks like a totally different pony, but I think I can do better than that. “She changed everything else, but your eyes are the same. It’s actually kind of conspicuous when you notice it.”

“You’re um... yeah,” she agrees, with an overeager little nod. “Yeah. Rarity knows best, I’m sure, but I said that I wanted to recognize myself in the mirror. Which I do, you know? I look totally different, but...”

“But it feels like you look totally different, not like there’s a stranger on the other side of the glass,” I summarize as I pass the pictures back, and she nods. Just like Green and the mirror, and her stupid makeup. “Still, that must have been very unsettling.”

“No? I mean, I guess it should be,” she says, looking at her hooves as she scuffs them against the couch. “But the whole thing feels so unreal that it’s like I’m dreaming. Two weeks ago, I was living in a crate under Spitfire Station and stealing food out of the trash. Now it’s like... I keep worrying that I’ve taken some bad pills and I’m curled up in my box hallucinating all of this.”

“What happened?” I ask, thinking back to the pictures and the ponies Green and I passed in the halls on the way to the tram station. Was she one of them? Did I walk right past her and not realize it? All their faces are running together, but I’m sure there were a few earth ponies there.

“A doctor got lost on his way to work, ended up somewhere he shouldn't have been. Two markers jumped him,” she tells the story stiffly and quickly, without much inflection, like she was embarrassed to even be associated with the events. “It happens, you know, but normally they just take the stuff and scram before security shows up. These two though, they had something against doctors. He dropped his bags, but they were going to cut him up anyway. So I shouted and threw a bottle at one of them.”

“And they ran off?” I ask. Giving her a modeling job for saving a doctor's life does seem pretty fair, more generous than most ponies in this city would be.

“Um... no. They got distracted, and when they turned their backs on the doctor, he ran off, so they um...” She falls silent for a long while, rubbing her forehooves together. “Rarity was there when I woke up in the hospital.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s only, the last thing I remember before is being on the ground and coughing up blood, and I was so sure I was about to die. And-and this place has a really bad reputation, but everypony here has been so nice, and Rarity said she thought she owed me, and that I could have whatever I wanted.” Her words come quick, nervous. She’s still rubbing her hooves together, back and forth, her gaze going this way and that over the floor. “I just said I didn’t want to have to live in a box anymore, but now she’s given me a job and she expects me to look good on camera and I really don’t know what I’m doing—”

“Epiphany!” I almost shout, and her head jerks up like it was on a spring, meeting my gaze head-on. Her eyes are wide, startled, but I give her a soft smile in return. One at a time, I unfold my legs, sliding back to the floor and crossing the distance to the other couch. “Relax. This is not all suddenly going to go away if you mess up once on camera.”

“I know, I know,” she says, though her voice is anything but convinced. “But, I don’t feel like I’ve earned any of this. I threw a bottle! The way Rarity talks about me, you’d think I was some hero who fought off an army.”

For a moment, I don’t answer—it’s a pause for emphasis, letting her build up some curiosity and lending weight to what comes next. It drags out the silence, one second, two seconds, three, and then just as she turns her head up to see my face, I give a slight roll of my eyes, setting my jaw. Reluctance, irritation, but decisiveness. A master putting up with her student’s foibles. “Here,” I say, levitating a pep bar, a bottle of water, and some gauze out of my belt, floating them over to her.

“Huh?” she asks, squinting at the items and then glancing back to me.

“Tomorrow is your first day, right?” I ask quickly and firmly. “That means they’ll be putting you through your paces—different lighting, different poses. They’re going to make you do exactly the same thing a million times under incredibly bright, hot lights, and you’ll have to do it while wearing a ton of makeup. It’s not going to be modeling, it’s going to be a workout. Only when you’re exercising, you get to take breaks.” I nudge the levitating items towards her, clearly indicating for her to take them. “Tuck these in under your dress so you can get them between shots. The gauze is for when you start to sweat. Dab it—don’t wipe. And gently. If you wipe your makeup off, the photographer will throw a hissy fit.”

“Oh,” she says, reaching out to take the pep bar with her teeth, tucking it into her bag. “Ah, tha—”

“And the water is for drinking,” I press on, and she gives me a funny little stare. “They’ll be working you hard and won’t let you take a lot of breaks. You’ll be tempted to stop drinking water so you don’t have to pee. You know what you get that way?”

“Um... sweaty?” she guesses, tucking the bottle away into her bag in turn.

“Heat stroke. Nopony ever said being a model was easy,” I answer, watching her nod, soaking all the information up like a sponge.

“And the pep bar?” she asks as she tucks the cloth away last of all.

“It’s for if you get hungry! What else would it be for?” I ask, chastising, but she takes it the way I meant her to, giving a timid little smile and looking down at the floor. “Eech. I can see Rarity didn’t pick you for your brains.”

“You’re kind of a pretentious jerk, you know that?” she asks, but she’s smiling when she says it.

“Uh, I’m an actor. I have to do all that too, except I’m expected to perform at the same time, Ms. Stand-There-And-Be-Pretty. Your job sounds so difficult, really,” I chide, and she giggles.

“Some actor you are. I’ve never heard of any of your films,” she insists, teasing back, her gaze hesitantly lifting, but this time, it stays up. “Or were you playing the all-important role of Background Pony #2?”

“Film? Excuse me? Film is where actors who can’t handle the stage go.” I make a wide, sweeping gesture around the room, like all its lenses and mirrors were the sandbags and cables above the Canterlot Opera House. “I don’t need editing and special effects to move a pony’s soul. I get it right the first time.”

“Oh, I get it.” She nods as though in sage understanding, an act ruined by the silly little grin on her face. “I’m sorry; you look so young I didn’t realize you weresuper old.”

“And precisely what is wrong with an older pony choosing to appear young?” Rarity cuts through our conversation, her voice close and sharp. Epiphany actually lets out a strangled, startled shriek, leaping to her hooves and scrambling to see where the voice came from. All I have to do is tilt my head to see where she snuck up on us, moving behind the mirrors. She looks like she did this morning, except that her outfit is clean. Or maybe it’s a new one? It’s made the same way, all shining and sharp.

“Rari—ah!” Epiphany shouts, scrambling for words. “I mean, I uh! We were just talking about films and theater and I was teasing and—and I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that. You can do what you like! I mean, not that I think you should try to look younger. I mean, you don’t look that old. I mean, not old at all! Very experienced! In a good way! Unless you think it would be better otherwise, I mean—”

At some point during her lengthy, panicked ramblings, Epiphany becomes aware that Rarity is laughing. It’s a polite sound, but she has to reach a hoof up to her face to hide her smile. Slowly, Epiphany starts to put it all together, her half-formed excuses and insistences fading away in the air, lacking the strength to make it all the way to our ears. Rarity only watches and smiles until Epiphany at last falls silent. Then she reaches out to ruffle her mane, like Epiphany was a little foal.

“For the record, dear, I prefer films as well, but the theater has its merits,” she says, light and playful. “For instance, say your escort for the evening is an absolutely charming stallion and you don’t want anything too exciting or interesting distracting you from the conversation.”

I blush almost immediately, but Epiphany needs a second to figure it out, and I can see the epip—the sudden understanding dawn on her face when she gets it. She giggles, a mischievous little smile appearing there as she looks between me and Rarity. “I suppose that is true,” she agrees. “You two are friends?”

“Oh, well, Siren is new here—but I’d like to think I make friends quickly,” Rarity replies, upbeat. “Could you give us the room for a bit, Epiphany? Siren and I have some private matters to discuss before you and I finish up for the evening. We won’t be long.”

“Oh, of course. It was um... nice to meet you,” she says, giving me a little wave before she trots out. Rarity waits a moment, letting the door shut behind Epiphany and giving her time to move away and down the hall.

Then Rarity sighs and smiles. “She’ll be so beautiful when she’s done.”

“Done?” I ask, glancing at the door. “She’s not finished with her surgery? She seemed to think she was.”

“Oh, no,” Rarity says, shaking her head, staring at the door as though gazing into a great distance. Her voice is quiet, her body language uncommonly still, for a pony who gestures so much. “Physically, she’s finished, but her spirit needs time to grow into what she has become. She’s strong now, brilliant and pure. Soon she’ll realize that there is nothing common ponies can keep from her. She can make them rise when she calls them, make them love her, die for her, bask in her presence.” She puts a lot of breath into the words. She’s smiling, but it’s not playful like before—soft and contented.

“And having come to this understanding, she will discover that it’s not enough—that no amount of glory or power for herself will wash away the suffering of others. The compassion that drew her here will compel her to use that power, to right the wrongs she sees all around her. Then she’ll be done.” Rarity says the words with air of finality, that last round of emphasis. “Beautiful inside and out.”

“She’ll be a hero?” I ask, not sure what to think.

“She’ll be a masterpiece,” Rarity answers, whispers really, with a wistful little chuckle. “Flesh and spirit turn to clay in my hooves—what excuse do I have not to work and work until the job is done?” She tilts her head to one side, watching me and letting the silence hang. She doesn’t expect me to answer that, does she?I just stare at her, and after a moment, she laughs. “This city may have gone wrong but... her, and the others. They won’t fade the way it has. They’ll be my legacy.” She seems to snap out of whatever thoughts have occupied her, shaking her head and looking back to me with clearer eyes. “And here I am getting all sappy,” she says, her tone snapping back to that practical cadence. “How are you feeling, Siren?”

“Fine. Or... well, not really, but better,” I say, giving a grateful little nod. I guess she really is a devoted craftspony. I suppose that’s nice. “Thank you for letting me sleep in.”

“Well, after all you’ve been through, I think a little bedrest is the least of what you need,” she says with a wave of her hoof. “I’ve scheduled you for a physical tomorrow morning, by the way—to make sure you don’t have any lurking injuries.”

“I suppose that’s a good idea,” I say, trying not to think too much about the possibility. What was it that Green said about permanent damage? Something about not exerting myself, right? She didn’t say anything about there already being internal damage. “I saw Green on my way here.”

“How nice of you to check up on her,” Rarity says a touch cheerfully—focusing on the positive. “I am sorry for her accommodations, but you do understand why they’re necessary?”

“She’s trussed up like a mental patient,” I observe, careful to keep too much accusation from flowing into my body language. There’s enough of it in the words as they are, no need to push my luck.

“Well, she injured several orderlies, didn’t she? The attending physician had concerns,” Rarity answers casually—dismissive of the entire matter. “She’s a very dangerous pony and obviously irrational. It seemed for the best.”

“I understand that you were just trying to make sure she couldn't get out, but she’s blind and helpless, living in fear that somepony is going to come into the room and do her in. She’s suffering,” I say, pressing the point as gently as I can, getting a feel for her reaction.

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Rarity says, with a polite sort of curiosity. “You don’t think I’m being a poor host, do you?”

Like putting a hoof on a frozen pond, and hearing the faintest crack.

“No. No, I didn’t—”

“You see, I pride myself on proper Equestrian hospitality,” she says, holding her hoof to her chest and giving a little nod of her head. Her tone never wavers from that causal cadence, but her eyes stay locked on mine, never breaking contact. “This city can be so terribly rude, you know. Anypony can just throw money at the poor”—she emphasizes the words with a quick flick of a hoof, as though to actually toss a pile of bits—“and call themselves charitable, but I’m always careful to keep my guests’ needs in mind. A little thoughtfulness goes a long way, and really, it is the least I can do.”

“I think—”

“Oh, that’s lovely, Siren!” she says, with a friendly sort of interest—like she was encouraging me as I talked about my hobbies. “Young ponies these days don’t spend nearly enough time just stopping to think. So tell me, while you’re pondering, do you think that letting Green wander free might be more hospitable?” She puts her hoof back to the ground, ears up as she looks at me head on. “Do you think that it might improve her state of mind? Mmm, do you?” Rarity asks, advancing towards me a half step, that stare wide and unblinking.

“I... no!” I say, trying to think of something! “I mean—”

“It’s only...” she says, with a little tsk, a sigh, and a back-and-forth wave of her hoof. “My initial thought was that it might be easier on the staff if she didn’t drag her putrid carcass around the building, polluting the hallways with her filth.” She presses on without pause, taking another half step forward as she stares down into my eyes, her tone never wavering from that gentle curiosity about my opinion.

I don’t...

“There’s innocent blood on her hooves, you know, and I put one of those little mats by the door, but somehow it never comes off, and she ends up trailing it everywhere,” Rarity says with a little laugh, a broad and inclusive sweep of a leg taking in the floor all around us. “It’s such a production to sterilize those hallways. Everypony has to pull an extra shift. But, if that’s what it takes to be properly accommodating...” The smile and laughter fade from her face, leaving a blank mask behind, her tone sinking into a dull, flat whisper. “I suppose I’ll have to adjust.”

The fabric presses into my hind legs, and I realize I’ve been backing away, pinned against the couch. She’s looking right at me, waiting for me to say something. “W-well,” I manage, pretty much nailing contrition. I-I mean, the stammer helps, I think. “I guess when I stop to think about it, you only promised she’d be imprisoned, nothing about her conditions. I guess I pictured a normal room but, ah, but that was pretty silly of me. Really, given that she definitely deserves to be put in a cell and that would be much easier for you, you’ve gone pretty far out of your way to make me comfortable. And-and to make her comfortable! I... I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, Rarity.” I swallow, buying a second to think. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, nopony says anything. She just stares at me, her face blank, eyes wide.

Then, she smiles and laughs—a cheerful little giggle.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Siren. All is forgiven,” she says, reaching out with her magic to straighten my mane where it’s become a tad ruffled. “Now, come with me,” she says, grinning ear to ear and leaning in to whisper the words to me like we were conspirators. “There’s something I wanted to show you while we’re both here.” She straightens up, turning to lead me across the reflecting room.

I think that went pretty well. Determined that Green is a sore subject, sounded Rarity out, no harm done and she likes me. Yeah.

Yeah, I nailed that.

“All anypony wants to talk to me about these days is politics: Trixie did this, security did that, hours and hours of ponies prattling on about their petty concerns. I put up with it, of course—I have my duties—but an artist knows there is richer earth to till.” Her horn shines, and above us, I can hear gears turning. Lenses and reflecting plates slide away into the ceiling, and mirrors are revealed in turn, falling from above like descending knives to cut off our view of the glass mannequins and their fabulous dresses. Soon, the entire elaborate collection of tools has vanished overhead and left us in an empty dome, surrounded on all sides by mirrors. After a moment, a small pedestal rises in the center, in the spot where Epiphany was meant to stand. “What do you think?” Rarity asks, breathless and eager.

It’s a muffin.

For a second, I think she’s putting me on—like when she upended the pot of warm water over my head. She’s having a little fun with me, putting me in front of a muffin and daring me not to praise it as a brilliant work of art. I’m about to laugh and play along with the joke when I glance up at her eyes, just to check. She’s watching me.

And she is in no way kidding.

“Uh...” I swallow that laugh down and away, luckily before it makes itself known, turning back to the muffin. “I didn’t know you baked.”

“Ah ah ah,” she chides me, with a little wave of her hoof. “No stalling for time. Your opinion, please.”

“Well, from an artistic perspective...” Yeah, it’s a muffin. I got nothing. Analytical Siren, you want to field this one? “The medium is the first thing that stands out to me, more than the message itself. You’ve chosen a perishable good, which means that the ravages of time are an inherent subtext to the message. Specifically though, you’ve chosen a perishable good wherein we can only derive value from it by destroying it. From that alone, I’d say you’re in danger of the medium overpowering the message. Whatever you meant to say, the takeaway is going to be that all beautiful things must perish, but there is value in their transitory existence.” I shoot her a quick glance, making sure I’m on the right page. Poker face. So, no missteps yet, but she’s not giving me the answer. “But, lets assume it’s more likely I’ve missed something than that the artistic mind that created that masterpiece you're wearing would make a mistake.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, dear, but it won’t get you the answer,” Rarity says, giggling politely. “Still, continue.”

“Visually, nothing stands out to me. Banana nut. The muffin cup is unremarkable, paper, disposable.” Something tickles my nose, and I lean in, sniffing at the air. It’s fresh out of the oven. Smells tasty too. That’s unexpected. I fall silent for a moment, biting my lip as I think. Vaguely, I’m aware that Rarity has started to watch me with more open interest, but only in the back of my mind. Now I’m curious.

“I see two possibilities. One is that you have some stagehooves under the floor waiting to put a fresh muffin on the pedestal right before it rises. Valid, an interesting point to be made there about the lengths ponies go to to maintain appearances, but it doesn't fit what I know of your character. You’re seeking depth for yourself, not mocking shallower artists.” Well, perhaps I’m a little more than vaguely aware that she’s watching me. My survival does depend on her liking me after all, and I look so enraptured that it sounds genuine. Multitasking is really something you’re born good at.

“Two is that you’ve somehow chemically treated the muffin so that it will always be warm and smell fresh, but what would be the point? It will still be destroyed when I eat it. Maybe there’s a point there about mocking markers who try to appear young since they’re all going to die eventually anyway, but earlier you defended that and...” It will still be destroyed when I eat it. “And...”

I bite my tongue a little, just to shift postures. That’s what you do with a muffin, right? You eat it, and then it’s gone. That’s the point. My hoof taps the floor to keep time, all the little cogs in my head turning.

“You could have enchanted it to be invulnerable. That way it will always smell nice and be pretty, turning it from a transitory object into... nnngh. No. Wait. No. That would significantly lessen its value in the process, and there is no way a pony who is still producing masterworks at your age is going for a twice-as-bright-and-half-as-long candle piece. Something when I eat it. Something to...” I’ve got Rarity on pins and needles now. She’s just about standing on the tips of her hooves, leaning in to see my face. “Something to...”

No way. “You’ve created a muffin that can be eaten an unlimited number of times.”

“Yes!” Rarity shouts, actually hopping up and down for sheer joy. “Try it, try it, try it, try it!”

I levitate the muffin off the stand, hesitating for a moment as I bring it towards my mouth. I mean, this has got to be a clever trick or something. I’ve never heard of magic like that. Entropy is one of the fundamental truths of the universe. Magic can fiddle with it for a while, but in the end, there’s no cheating the reaper.

Unless you’re Princess Celestia, of course.

I take the bite, trying not to look too unnerved as Rarity titters with glee next to me. It’s delicious, rich and crumbly. It’s still hot, steaming when my teeth tear through the cap, and inside, it’s full of chewy banana bits. When I swallow, there the muffin is in front of me, whole and unbroken.

It still smells good.

“I...” I don’t know what to say. Art is about observing the universe! Giving meaning to it all. Art is a reflection of the world. You can’t come up with your thesis and decide you’re going to make the world fit the piece. “This...” But you can, can’t you? If your thesis is that intellect and will triumph over all barriers, don’t you need to show that for it to be meaningful? How many artists have screamed that their works will live forever, but hers really will. More than that! It’s first. The first really eternal piece of art.

Without even thinking, I drop the muffin to the floor and smash it flat under my hoof. When I lift my leg, it’s whole once again, sitting there and waiting to be eaten. I pull the wrapper off, rip it in half, spit on it just to see what happens! No matter what, the muffin always returns, waiting for me. What can I do but laugh?

“Sun and stars, Rarity. You’re a genius!” I say, and it’s true! It’s like the first time I set foot in the palace—that tense excitement, the need to see everything there is to see, to know what it’s all for! “You’re the greatest artistic mind of your generation! What is this doing here? Forget your outfit; this should be in a gallery! This should be a museum's star attraction!”

“What, so those overmarked simpletons can whine at me about eliminating hunger?” she asks, shaking her head and smiling at my own bedazzled expression. “Art was meant to be appreciated, Siren, but these days, it doesn't seem like there’s anypony who really understands my work. You don’t know how happy it makes me to find a young pony with the true gift.”

What can I do? I need to throw myself at her hooves. I need to shout “teach me!” at the top of my lungs. But I can’t. Equestria comes first, getting home comes first, but... I can get on her good side a little. That’s the point of all this, wasn’t it? To get her to like me. Yeah, she thinks I have the true gift! I can play that.

“Well, I’m happy to observe a real master,” I say, hesitating for a moment. It might be overreaching but, double or nothing. “And... maybe while I’m here, you could teach me a few things?”

“Oh, it’s been years since I had a protege!” Rarity says, gleefully pulling me over into a hug. “We’re going to be the best of friends!”

Yeah.

Yeah, I nailed that.

Epiphany, Part 1

“Tell me, Siren. What is art?” Rarity asks, pouring a cup of tea for each of us.

We’re in what I assume is her office, or maybe a lounge, seated around a table that’s low to the floor. I don’t recognize the style in which the room is decorated, but it’s quite pleasing to the eye. Soft wooden paneling, a high ceiling and wooden support beams give the impression of an airy building on the surface. Intellectually, I know that there’s white stone behind those panels, but the room still feels very open, an impression helped by the large window to our left that overlooks the Pavilion concourse. Soft couches and reading stands are tastefully scattered about, but we sit on the floor. The table is directly against the window, positioned to let us watch the ponies milling about below.

“Art is the means by which we express the inexpressible,” I say, levitating the cup up towards my lips. It’s still a good few inches from my face when I realize it’s much too hot to drink, steam wafting off it in clouds. It has a foul odor, sharp and coppery. I notice Rarity hasn’t touched her cup, so I discreetly put mine back down. “It’s how we convey concepts that we can’t put into words: emotions, feelings, experiences.”

“A common answer,” Rarity replies, her polite tone and that little stiffness in her ears signaling that she considers it to be wrong. She doesn't look upset though. I think it’s what she was expecting me to say. “I know many spells that can induce emotions—that could cause you to feel rage, pain, regret you could not explain. Are those spells art?”

“No,” I answer, reflexively. I’m not entirely certain where she’s going with this though, so I take a second to consider my answer, letting my expression twist into the frown it wants to be. “Or... maybe. But not inherently. You might be able to cast a spell that would let me feel rage, but that doesn't mean I would understand rage. You could have enchanted any item the way you did the muffin, but the muffin was art, because when I experienced it, I learned something new about the world.”

“Then, to clarify your previous answer,” Rarity says, sitting back and folding her hooves in front of her, “art is the means by which we convey understanding. Comprehension, if you will.”

“Yes,” I agree, with a quick nod, focusing on her expression and leaning forward a hair so I’ll look respectful and attentive. It’s best not to offend her by being too slow to grasp the lesson, and I think she likes it. Makes a good impression. “Yes, that would be a better way of putting it.”

“It would be,” Rarity agrees, with an elegant little nod of her head. “But here we see the risk the artist faces, for if her understanding of the world is flawed, so will her creations be flawed. Consider how many generations of writers and painters and sculptors spent their lives trying to convey the transitory nature of beauty. Now, their thesis disproven, they are doomed to be forgotten.” She holds her nod, and for a moment, it’s like she’s bowing her head in mourning to those who came before. When she continues, her tone is firmer, more serious. “It was not their skills or their talents that failed them, but their wisdom. They were unenlightened.” She lifts her head and she pauses for a moment, lifting her cup of tea to blow across the surface.

“You have the true gift, Siren—in fact, from how quickly you’ve grasped all you’ve seen so far, I suspect you might be a more talented artist than I,” she says. She briefly shifts to a more playful tone, adding, “Unlikely as that seems,” with a little nudge of her muzzle my way. I reflexively glance down at the table, blushing faintly, and she eats it up.

“But, as it stands,” she continues, more restrained, “you will never produce a true masterpiece like what you saw yesterday. You do not have any wisdom worthy of such a work.”

“Well, if art is conveying understanding, then shouldn't you be able to fix that quickly enough?” I ask with a hesitant little smile, and she laughs. It’s an absolutely charmed sound, and I follow it up with a titter of my own. Perfect. At this rate, I’ll be out of here in a day.

“Oh, Siren, dear—these things take time!” she says with a little shake of her head. “But, I suppose I could show you a few pieces.”

“Of course.” I nod quickly. It’s what she wants to hear, and besides, I kind of do want to learn. She clearly knows what she’s doing. “How do we begin?”

“Well, first, you should drink your tea,” Rarity says, gesturing down at the table. I reach down to take my cup, but I can still feel how hot it is. If it’s not scalding, it’s close, waves of acrid-smelling steam rising out of the dark liquid.

“Um,” I mutter, glancing between her and the table. Is this some kind of test? Her expression is certainly evaluating, watching me closely to see my reaction. “Perhaps in a little while? It’s much too hot to drink now. And to be honest, I think it could stand some cream.”

“This particular sort of tea is not served with anything, Siren, and it is taken at this temperature,” she says, firm. She gives me a little encouraging smile though, and adds, “I promise, you won't be burned. See?” She takes a sip of her own tea to demonstrate before putting the cup back down on the table.

Hesitantly, I lift the cup to my lips and take a sip. The tea goes down like ice water, freezing and numbing my mouth. It’s like a very strong mint, but there’s no taste of mint at all—just the penetrating chill and a sudden dryness. It tastes old and stale, flows quicker than water, and burns in my throat like alcohol. I haven't even finished the sip before I start to reflexively gag, dropping the cup and spitting up what little I drank, my barrel shaking with an instinctive cough.

“Well,” Rarity sighs, giving a little disapproving shake of her head. “It is an acquired taste.”

“Okay, now show me the retiré devant,” the photographer orders. Epiphany has no idea what that is, of course, but the model next to her does. She’s a sparkling silver unicorn—Church Bell, I think—and obviously well used to being in front of the camera. Epiphany is considerably less experienced, and it shows, but that isn’t stopping her from having a lot of fun with it. She’s very good at posing, and with the two of them standing in front of the camera in identical silver dresses, the “pony see, pony do” game is putting a smile on her face. She mimics Church Bell’s pose, shooting me a glance to make sure she’s got it right. I smile and nod, right before the camera flashes.

“Now show it to me with the head up,” the photographer orders. Church Bell tilts her head up. Epiphany follows suit a moment later. Camera flash. “Now show it to me with the head down.” Church Bell tilts her head down. Epiphany follows suit a moment later. Camera flash.

“How am I doing, Rarity?” Epiphany calls to the back of the room. Rarity is there, but she’s not paying much attention—letting the photographer take the lead. There’s a table set up in the back with a stack of papers on it, and she and Quick March are quietly working their way through them. She glances up at Epiphany’s call, taking a moment to peer at her over a set of wire-frame spectacles.

“Lovely, dear! Keep it up,” Rarity calls, before turning back to examine something Quick March is giving her. I see her sigh and quickly affix her signature, but her attention isn’t on me, so I turn back to the front of the room and listen as the photographer calls pose after pose. He’s no artist, mechanically calling and snapping photos.

“Heh, thanks,” Epiphany says, though she says it so quietly I doubt Rarity hears. Church Bell shoots her an irritated glare at that, turning her head for a moment before the photographer shouts for her to keep her chin up. Epiphany doesn't notice, busy following directions.

“So, Church. That’s a funny name,” Epiphany says, light and friendly. Church Bell just mutters something incomprehensible. “Have you been modeling for a long time?”

“Yes,” she says, trying to end the conversation. At the photographer’s cue, she assumes another posture—hiking up her tail, one leg up, turning her head to the side. The rond de jambe attitude, if I’m not mistaken, although I’m admittedly less familiar with this sort of posing since it doesn't get used much on stage. It’s a complex posture, but after only a few moments of examining Church Bell, Epiphany mimics it perfectly.

“That must be nice,” Epiphany says, fumbling a bit for some common ground, but with good cheer. “I mean, working for Rarity that long. I heard that modeling is a job where you retire at twenty-five, but since she can make you young forever, you can really make a career out of this. I bet you’re crazy good at it by now.”

“Yeah,” Chuch Bell agrees. She can hide that tension from the camera, but not from me. So, somepony doesn't like competition. I try to warn Epiphany by shaking my head, but she thinks I’m criticizing her pose, and quickly tilts her hoof another way.

“Did she find you somewhere too?” Epiphany asks lightly. “I was homeless before this, actually, and uh... not so attractive. My head’s still spinning from everything that’s happened. I’m keeping the before pictures next to my bathroom mirror so I can remember what I used to look—oop!” She quickly stops talking, smiling just in time for the camera to flash. New pose.

“No. I wanted to be a model,” Church says, putting all four hooves to the ground. That’s not the next posture the photographer called. I make one last-ditch effort, waving at Epiphany and making a slashing motion across my throat with a hoof, but she doesn't notice. Oh well, no matter.

“Oh. Is that a hard job to get?” Epiphany asks, and I brace myself. Explosion in three, two...

“Yes!” Church Bell snaps, the photographer jumping back a half step. Epiphany jumps as well, stepping away with wide, shocked eyes. “Yes, it is a difficult job to get, Epiphany! So just stop talking and do the poses!”

The photographer glares at Church Bell, drawing a breath. He’s about to tear into her, and I actually grin a little in anticipation, but he never gets the chance. “Excuse me,” Rarity calls from the back, glancing up and adjusting her glasses. The photographer snaps his jaw shut at once of course. “Is there a problem here?”

Poor Epiphany looks so confused, but I catch her gaze and give her a reassuring shake of the head. Not your fault, I convey with my eyes. A little line in the air with a hoof adds, keep out of it, and she gets me, stepping away. There’s nothing for it anyway. Rarity will slap this prima-donna down and we can get back to it.

“Yes, there’s a problem here!” Church Bell says, moving out of the view of camera and up to Rarity’s table. “You’ve got both of us in next month’s dress, shooting us side by side. You promised I’d be modeling that!”

“Of course you will, darling!” Rarity says, spreading her forehooves wide over the table. Her tone is light and reassuring, but I can hear the strain in her voice. Irritation. “But she has to be wearing something for comparison, doesn't she? This way she gets her training, and I can get samples on both of you.”

“And what about the month after that?” Church Bell demands, as though Epiphany was intruding on her territory by so much as standing near clothes. It’s like she’s a dog, growling at an intruder in her cage. Honestly, even a patient director wouldn't let one of their actors take that sort of tone. I’m amazed Rarity is keeping her cool.

“Well, the dresses for that month haven't been finalized yet.” Rarity says casually, folding her hooves back up and keeping her tone noncommittal. “We’ll have to see.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that her coat is the same base color as mine!” Church Bell snaps. Wow, possessive much? Not the same clothes, not the same color. Want to try and say that she’s breathing the same way you do while you’re at it? I smirk a little, but it’s mostly to show Epiphany that everything is fine. “Can’t we just dye my head and legs brown? I can pull off that look.”

“Church Bell! Really,” Rarity says, fixing her with a stare over the top of her glasses. “This is getting a bit childish. Please, resume the exercise. We can talk about this later.” It’s a perfect dismissal. Rarity doesn't look mad or bossy, and she even hides her irritation, showing nothing but stern authority—a perfect “get back to work,” expression. And just like that, Church Bell slinks away.

She’s going to slink away. Any second now.

She’s... standing there?

“I can make that dress work,” she says, all that anger gone, her voice quiet now. “I’m better than her. I am.”

“Oh, Church Bell. It’s not about which one of you is better. You’re co-workers! You should be friends, not rivals. There’s plenty of work here for everypony,” Rarity says with a reassuring little wave of her hoof. “Now, let’s get back—”

“Her coat’s the same base color as mine!” Church Bell yells, words coming fast and hot. “She shows up the same on the lighting test as me. She has the same body type as me. You have her in the same dresses at me. The only difference between us is some splashes of color you could have easily just... done with dye.” Her voice starts to waver, trembling up and down, “What did I do wrong?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Rarity mutters, raising a hoof to her temples. “Church Bell, a model breaking down on set is a cliche, and you know how I feel about cliche. So, why don’t we pretend we’re professionals and get back to work?”

“I’m good at this!” she insists, slamming her hooves down onto the little table. Her voice is trembling now, and tears glisten in her eyes. “I’m good at this and I look good and—and I can be whatever you need me to be! I can look like her! I can be her! I can be whatever you want, Rarity!”

Nopony says anything. Then, Rarity turns her gaze to where Church Bell struck the table, glancing down at her offending hooves.

For a moment, Church Bell doesn't get it. When she does, she leaps away, pulling her hooves back like she’d put them on a hot stove. “I-I...” she stammers. “I’m sorry, Rarity! I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“I’m a very patient pony, Church Bell,” Rarity says with a faint shake of her head. “But there are limits. March, if you would? She can keep the dress.”

Quick March nods, making a gesture with his hoof in the air. Come here. I don’t even see anypony move, but when I look back, there’s a pair of pegasi orderlies on either side of Church Bell. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bell,” he says, “but your services will no longer be required.”

“No. No, wait, I’m sorry. Please, I need this job. I can train her!” Church Bell pleads, but Quick March only raises his voice in turn, mechanically talking over her.

“As per the terms of your contract, you will be required to relinquish any and all pieces of Pavilion property which you may have been issued, including your current housing, unless otherwise indicated, to wit: the dress.” He rattles the words off in a quick and efficient cadence. “The Pavilion retains the right to use your image or any modifications therein without prior permission. You do not have the right to reference these works in other jobs or commercial endeavors you may undertake,” he continues, raising his voice over the sound of her crying. She’s begging, but the words aren’t coherent anymore, tears streaming down her face and smudging her makeup.

I...

“I remind you that your non-disclosure agreement remains in effect. If you discuss any of your activities while under the Pavilion’s employ with any media outlet, we will be forced to pursue legal action.” Her jerks his head at the guards. “Go ahead.”

Then they drag her out the door, her shouts and cries fading into the distance.

“Well!” Rarity says, with a lot of breath, firmly shaking her head as though to clear it. “That was unfortunate. Take ten, everypony. Now, March, who else do we have available on short notice?”

I lift the binoculars, pointing them where Rarity indicates and peering through the window into the concourse. In the distance, I can see Church Bell, trying to get into one of the buildings, but there are two guards there who turn her away. She’s too far away for me to hear anything, but I can see that she’s shouting, pleading. The guards’ patience is about to run out. One of them goes for his club—reaching down to take it in his mouth.

Then I see another pony walk up to her—pull her away from the guards before it can get out of hoof. It’s Epiphany, her leg over Church Bell’s shoulder.

“And right on cue,” Rarity says, sipping her tea. “Epiphany asked if she could get an advance on her pay, and I suspect she’s also stolen some of the more valuable fittings from her room. Enough to ensure that dear Church doesn't end up on the street.”

“You...” I drop the binoculars, mind reeling. I feel numb, disconnected from it all. “She was an actor?”

“In a sense. Call it a command performance,” Rarity says with a faint laugh. “I’m usually not much for improvisational theatre, but this particular piece did come together very nicely. Church Bell learned something about the meaning of compassion and will end up a better pony for it, and Epiphany learned a lesson about the nature of this city she could not have come to accept any other way.” She pauses for a moment, to catch my gaze and give me a gentle smile. “It’s good for Epiphany, and I have to say, I’m quite pleased to get some use out of Church Bell. She’s such a dull, predictable creature. Normally when a star model disappoints me, there’s nothing I can do but use them for lesser works, but in this case, her unsurprising nature was an asset. She behaved exactly as I thought she would.”

“You... you set her up too...?” I sit back, looking up at Rarity with a stupid expression on my face. “That was...”

“Yes, dear, quite,” Rarity agrees. “Drink your tea.”

I manage to get a sip of it down before my stomach revolts and I can’t drink any more. Rarity isn’t too upset, but I apologize just to be safe.

Epiphany’s room is a lot like mine, except nicer, because she has a window and the servants put little mints on her pillows. I kind of want them for mine, but it seems petty to ask for them, so I steal hers instead.

The worst part is that I don’t actually like mints.

“Something strange happened today,” she says, and I look up from my book. She visits the city sometimes, but for me, there’s not a whole lot to do in the Pavilion except shop, and I was never the sort of mare who thought shopping was fun. I’m here to work on getting home, not to build a nest out of shiny junk, and besides, there’s more surgery and pills for sale than knickknacks for my room. Most of the time that Rarity is away, I just end up reading, and Epiphany and I tend to keep each other company. She’s not so bad.

“Mmm?” I prompt her, and slide my placeholder back into the book. It wasn’t that interesting anyway.

“So, I was going for a jog outside. I know I don’t technically have to exercise anymore, but I kind of like to, so I was... yeah,” she says, nodding at nothing in particular, her gaze more to the window than to me. “And I stopped in this one shop and I noticed that really sweet smell that’s always on set? And I thought, ‘That’s funny. Somepony here must use the same makeup the Pavilion does.’ But, then I noticed the smell was following me outside and I realized—that’s me. This whole time I thought that flowery smell was the stuff they put on me, but it’s been me sweating under the lights.”

I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to say to that, but she doesn't seem to expect me to say anything. She just goes on, staring at the wall. “And I felt pretty stupid right about then. Everypony knows that markers smell like Poison Joke. But I’m so used to my own scent, you know? It’s instinctive. I didn’t put it together.” She shakes her head, her words coming quick, her body tense.

“And I know you’re an abstenist. And I know there are a lot of abstenists who don’t have any problems with markers—they just don’t like Poison Joke themselves. And that’s totally okay!” she says, her pace picking up. “I can totally understand why you’d feel that way. It’s only, that one time I gave you a hug, I saw you wrinkle your muzzle and then sneak off to the bathroom first chance, and I thought that was because I smeared makeup on you, but there wasn’t really that much of it, so I guess I’m asking... do you think I stink?”

Her room also has a clock. Mine doesn't have a clock. I just tell the servants to wake me up at so-and-so time. I should get a clock so I can tell what time it is when I wake up. The only problem is it would tick. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

“Most ponies stink when they work up a good sweat, Epiphany,” I say, selling it with an awkward little smile. Embarrassed by the accusation, but quick to dismiss it.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “But... you know. Do you think I stink?”

“I don’t think unwashed-body funk or I-took-a-bath-in-perfume are particularly pleasant,” I assure her with a little wave of my hoof. “Does it really matter which one smells worse?”

“Yeah, but I’m not actually asking how you think I smell,” she says. Thanks, Epiphany, I really needed help putting that together. “I mean, I sort of am, but mostly I just wanted to know... you know.”

“It’s fine, Epiphany,” I say, opening my book and looking back to the page. Honestly, I’ve given her a perfectly reasonable answer. There’s no point in letting her pick at it until I happen to stumble upon exactly what she wants me to say.

“You know that markers don’t actually sweat Poison Joke, right?” she asks, like she was clarifying some quick question. “You aren’t exposed to it by touching us. We smell like it, but the smell in the sweat is just caused by sugar buildup in—”

“I understand, Epiphany. It’s all in your heart,” I say, keeping my eyes on the book. “You know, they brought a pony into the hospital last night? Severe chest wounds. Apparently a marker who was so far into withdrawal she was basically rabid tried to tear out his heart to get to the stuff inside. Security got to her first though. Another immigrant to the Wharf, right?”

For a moment, nopony says anything.

“I’ve really enjoyed our time together, Siren. You’ve been very supportive of me since we met. And-and very nice to me,” she says, gazing down at her hooves.

“So, you know,” she adds. “I forgive you.”

I look up at her.

“I need to be alone for a little while,” she says, rising off the bed, and I can hear a faint sniffle. “Sorry.” Before I can object, she’s scuttled off to her bathroom and shut the door behind her.

“You’re uncommonly quiet this week,” Rarity says, tilting her head a little and looking across the table at me. “Something you want to talk about?”

We’re studying a collection of watercolors. Rarity’s work. She doesn't really know the medium well, but they’re very different from other works I’ve seen. They’re dark, muddled, full of lurking shapes and regrets. The one that she’s showing me right now is entitled Unsaid. A depressing thing of blues and blacks.

I hate watercolors.

I don’t know. Is there something I want to talk with you about, Rarity? Is there something I want to tell you? Something that might get me out of this awful place?

I look up at her eyes. Does she like me that much yet? I’ve been able to sound out some of her feelings on Celestia, but it’s slow going. It’s such a risk. And I don’t have anything else to tell her.

“What made you pick these pieces?” I ask quietly.

“Oh, nothing particular—I thought it was their time,” she says airily, with a little shrug. “We did music two days ago and architecture the week before that, and you certainly aren't ready for my work with ponies yet. Why? Is the pace of your education... not to your liking?” she asks sweetly.

“Oh, no, it’s perfect,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s just, I love watercolors, but I don’t recall ever mentioning that to you. I was wondering if it was a coincidence.” My delivery is perfect of course, but that wasn’t the most inspired line ever, and I sip my tea to stall for time while I think of something to say. This stuff is always foul, but I think it tastes extra bitter today.

It’s Saturday, so the Pavilion concourse is packed. The way the guards tell it, ponies with golden tickets start lining up outside the gates at five in the morning, determined to get as much as they can out of the day while it’s all on Rarity’s tab. By the time Epiphany and I show up, every store is mobbed. We’re not much for shopping though, and we usually end up going for a walk through the twisting passages or sitting on one of the benches. I’ve never told her that I can’t leave the Pavilion, but I think she’s put it together. Besides, she says it’s nice to be able to wander without worrying we’ll stumble onto a bad part of the city.

And, you know. I keep her company. I’m a good friend like that.

“So. Um,” I say. Usually she’s the one who fills every silence with incessant chatter, but she’s been quiet lately for some stupid reason. “You wanna... talk about something?”

“Sure,” she says, with a little shrug. “What do you want to talk about?”

“No, I’m good, just...” You usually start the conversation. Because you’re an irritating box full of smalltalk. “You want to do something?”

She casts her eyes over at the many stores around us, but no new establishments have materialized in the five minutes since she last looked. “I’m good relaxing here. Unless there’s something you want to do.”

“Um... we could go get some ice cream?” I suggest, and she glances towards the little blue earth pony who pulls his ice cream cart around the concourse every morning. At the moment, of course, he’s not going anywhere.

“That line must be half an hour long,” she says, shaking her head. “Seems a bit of a wait.”

“Yeah,” I agree, turning my head down to the floor.

Then I look back up.

“You know what? Yeah,” I agree, scrambling off the bench and kicking a little enthusiasm into my voice. The sudden change gets her attention, and she looks up almost as sharply as I did. “Come on, let’s go.”

“You really want ice cream that bad?” she asks, though she unfolds her legs as well, stepping off after me.

“No, we’re not getting ice cream,” I say, pulling her along towards the stand. “We’re cutting in line.”

“Wait, what?” she asks, eyes refocusing on me. She tries to come to a stop, but I give her rear a little push with my magic, and she reflexively stumbles forward after me. “We can’t do that! All those ponies have been waiting forever! It’s rude!”

“That’s what makes it fun! We won’t hold them up long. Come on,” I say, but this time, she grinds her hooves into the ground, not letting me pull her along.

“Siren, I’m serious,” she insists, trying to get my attention—to get me to meet her gaze. “Those ponies have been waiting forever. If we cut in line they’ll beat us to death. You can’t do that.”

I pause, glancing at her, at her braced hooves. Once an earth pony digs in—in any sense of the phrase—there’s no point in trying to push them. No matter though. There are subtler ways I can play this.

“But you can ask, right?” I point out playfully, and she gives me a confused look. “You can ask somepony if you can have their place in line. That’s okay, right?”

“Siren! You can’t—”

“You can,” I say, gesturing out towards the line. “Epiphany, you’re not dumpster-diving anymore. You don’t have to scurry around like you’re worried about security busting you for loitering. Act like you own the building and ponies will treat you like you do.” She’s clearly not getting it, so I shake my head. “Fine. You can stay here then. I’m going,” I say, and I turn and trot off without her.

Trotting, trotting, any second now. Come on!

“Siren, wait!” Right. I slow my pace a little to let her catch me, but don’t stop, pulling her along with my presence towards the line. “Siren, this really isn’t okay,” she insists as we reach the far end of the line, trotting right past it towards the front. “Look, let’s just wait in the back and—”

“Excuse me,” I call sweetly, picking a promising candidate out of the line. Second from the front. An athletic unicorn stallion, blue with a silver mane. His real cutie mark is a yellow bolt of lightning, and a field of stars adorns his left cheek. He’s wearing a belt, but it’s ill-fitting, too tight around his barrel, and I spot one of Rarity’s charitable little tickets tucked into the side. I’m guessing he was not that toned this morning and hasn’t had time to, as it were, adjust his standards. He turns at the sound of my voice, and looks at the two of us.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” I say politely, careful to add a little amused kick to my tone. “But my friend noticed you from across the way.” Epiphany couldn't play her part better if she was trying, her blush and nervous glance downwards open to interpretation. Somehow, I don’t think ‘embarrassed about cutting in line’ is the interpretation he’ll settle on. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time, but, could we have your place in line? We’ve just been on our hooves all day, and, well, you know.”

While he’s struggling to string two words together, the line advances a step ahead of him, and suddenly there’s an open space in front of us. The vendor shoots the three of us an impatient look, nailing the stallion to the spot with his gaze. Like I wasn’t already doing that. “Yeah!” he blurts out, spastically stepping out of the way, his legs jerked into motion. “Sure, go ahead.”

“No, Siren—” Epiphany tries to object.

“Oh, don’t be silly. Say hello!” I insist, keeping the theme rolling. “Two, please. Vanilla and strawberry,” I say to the vendor, pretending I don’t notice Epiphany’s blushing glance at the line behind us or at the stallion beside her.

“Um... thanks,” she stammers, nervously meeting his eyes. “I’m Epiphany, by the way.”

“Dynamo,” he introduces himself. “So... what brings you here?”

“Oh, I work here. I’m a model, actually,” she says, letting out a nervous little laugh. I give the vendor the money and levitate the two cones alongside me. “So, what do you—?”

“Oh, gosh, Epiphany, we should be on our way,” I say. Splitting my levitation between three objects takes a bit of doing, but I manage to give her a little shove, and she obligingly steps out of line and after me. “Say goodbye.”

“Oh, what, but—” she stammers, and on cue, the next pony in line steps between her and Dynamo. “Um. Thanks! It was nice to meet you!” she calls over her shoulder, waving as we walk off. I’m assuming he waves back, but I don’t bother checking.

It’s not until we’re safely out of hearing range that I start to giggle. Epiphany makes it easy, blushing like nothing else. I’d swear I could feel the heat radiating off her ears. “That was not funny!” she insists, and it only makes me laugh harder.

“You enjoyed it,” I tease her, taking a lick of my ice cream cone. Strawberry is good.

“That’s not the point! We took advantage of that poor stallion,” she says with a firm shake of her head. Really, very firm. I’m totally buying it, Epiphany.

“Oh, please,” I say, giving a good-natured little roll of the eyes. “You just told him that rich, powerful, and hot mares think he’s cute. That made his day far more than ice cream would have.”

“That’s not the point either!” she says, giving a little stomp of her hoof as we walk. It’s so cute.

“So then what is the point?” I ask evenly, glancing at her as we move.

“That—that you’re a presumptuous, snobby jerk who takes advantage of other ponies and that’s not okay!” she says, with an indignant little snort.

Wait for it. Wait for it...

“And give me my ice cream,” she adds, extra indignant.

“Epiphany has seemed rather different lately. Have you noticed?” Rarity asks as we look out over the concourse, her ears up and alert. “Tense, but bolder. She actually corrected me yesterday. On set no less! Can you believe it? I’d gotten one of the poses wrong.”

“Well, she’s just coming into her own,” I say, shrugging and sipping my tea. I don’t need a pause to think, but it serves as a good method of emphasis, and Rarity gives me the gentlest of approving nods. I can kinda see the appeal now, even if it does still upset my stomach a bit. This stuff is so awful it sort of curves around the other side and becomes ironically good. “I’m sure she’ll level out soon enough.”

“Oh, you’re probably right,” Rarity agrees, smiling at me and making a little dismissive wave with one hoof. “I’m so picky when it comes to my projects, always afraid other ponies are going to ruin them with a touch. But she has been developing much faster than I had expected.” She raises a hoof to hide her smile, letting out a little hiss of breath. “I suppose it’s time I showed a little trust.”

For a moment, I think I must have misunderstood. There’s no way she’s saying she trusts me with... well, I mean. Of course she’s saying that! I am an artistic genius, after all. I’m careful to appear suitably grateful when I look up at her, wide eyes, a little blush, timid smile. “Thank you, Rarity.”

“Oh, think nothing of it, dear. It’s been an absolute pleasure having you as my guest,” she says, putting on a perfect poker face and delicately lowering her hoof back to the table. Not perfect enough for me of course, but, she’s good. “Although, we are going to have to do something about your tastes,” she adds, giving me a more critical look. “Herbal tea, cheap ice cream, honestly.” She shakes her head.

“Um,” I manage, looking down at my cup. How do I play this? She seemed happy with me a moment ago. “Right.” After a second, I add, “Well, nopony is perfect.”

“I suppose,” she agrees, noncommittal.

“Let me out! Let me out, ya stupid, worthless mules!” Green bellows, the sound carrying down the hall, echoing out from her little door. “Y’all know what’s gonna happen? Trixie is gonna bowl over this whole place, and she’ll kill all of you! She’s gonna bust me out of here, and I’m gonna watch y’all dance in the air! You hear me!? I’ll string you up from the rafters!”

For a moment, there’s silence. The nurse and guard look at me, faces worn, indifferent to it all.

“I’m sorry,” she calls out, her voice carrying down the hallway. I can hear that it’s strained, weak, wavering up and down as though threatening to cry. The rural accent is suddenly gone too, replaced with those clean Canterlot intonations. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to threaten you. I’m just having a little trouble dealing with this right now. Please, can you untie me? I promise I won’t run away. I just want to stretch my legs.” The guards of course, say nothing. “Okay. Okay, you don’t have to untie me. Can we just take the blindfold off? Please? I’ve been wearing it so long, I’m starting to think I’m actually blind.”

The guard and nurse say nothing.

“Fine! Up yours!” she screams, and I hear the metal bedframe rattling inside.

“She’s been like that all day,” the guard says, quiet enough that Green won’t hear him. “We could sedate her, but we’ve given her a lot of drugs already this week, and the attending thought it was worth seeing if she'd shout herself out eventually.”

“She was functional when she came in here,” I say, glancing at the nurse. “Do markers usually degrade this fast?”

“Oh, goodness no. That takes months or years,” she answers, shaking her head. “If she’s this bad, she was always this bad, she just hid it. Probably the reason we’re seeing it now is because she’s under stress. Widens the cracks, you know? We make sure she gets to walk around a bit each day, but the last time we let her up, she tried to gore an orderly with her horn. You understand we—”

“I understand,” I say, shaking my head. “Still, I can go in?”

“If you like,” the guard says. “Shout if you need any help. I’ll be right here.” I nod, levitating the little basket of grass next to me and trotting on inside.

“It’s me, Green,” I say, before she can panic at the sound of somepony entering the room. Her wild thrashing stops, and she tilts her ears to face me. Even if I know she’s been treated and allowed to exercise, it still feels like she hasn’t budged an inch since I first saw her here—all bundled up in those restraints. “Do you need me to prove it?” She nods. “When we were alone in Tiara Tower, a single drop of ice water hit my back, and you smiled at how silly I looked.”

“Oh, thank goodness, Siren,” she says, slumping back against the bed. She seems so tired—worn at the edges. “I knew you were alive because she was keeping me alive, but I didn’t know what was happening to you.” She tilts her ears around to hear if anypony else is in the room, and then drops her voice to a whisper. “I think Rarity was here. Watching me.”

“I’m fine, Green,” I assure her as I reach out to smooth her mane back, the motion complementing my gentle tone. I... there’s no point in addressing the other thing. She’s sweaty, and I can feel that cloying grease in her coat. At least her mane isn’t that bad. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t able to convince Rarity to let you out of the restraints,” I say. And it’s true. Rarity would never have said yes to that in a million years, so not asking her doesn't really do any harm. This way, I build up some good will with her, and we both get out of here sooner. It’s fine. “I brought you some grass though. Real food. I can keep you company for a bit.”

“Is she here?” Green asks, weak and fearful. “You should go. She won’t like if it she knows you’re here. You need to—”

“It’s fine, Green,” I say, pressing a hoof against her sides. She wraps her legs around mine, holding tight to me. “You... you don’t need to talk. Okay? I’m here.”

“Siren, please,” she says, and even though she can’t see, she turns her blindfolded eyes to face me. “Sweetheart, you need to get out of—”

“I don’t have to visit you, you know!” I snap, just to make a point. It’s a good point too! Getting all worked up over this will not help her recovery. She needs to calm down for her own good. “I got it the first time, okay? Stop harping on it!”

“Okay,” she whispers, going still at once, clinging as tight to my leg as the soft, padded restraints will allow. “Okay. Okay, Siren. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say after a moment, drawing a breath and moderating my tone. To show her no hard feelings. “It’s fine. You just need to keep calm. I’ll have you out of here soon. All you need to do is hold on until I do. Now, here, grass. Say ‘ah.’” I levitate a clump of it over to her, and she takes it thankfully, munching quietly.

“I mean it,” I say, after a few more mouthfuls of grass. “I’ll have us out of here soon. Rarity and I have been spending a lot of time together. She likes me. I don’t think she quite likes me enough yet, but she’s starting to trust me. Once she does, I’ll bring up my old mentor and see about getting us out of here.” Green doesn't say anything. “I know what I’m doing.”

She draws a heavy breath. Taking a moment to compose herself.

“Have you ever lost moments, Siren?” she asks, flinching like she expects to be struck. “Moved from one time to the next without seeing what happened in between?”

“Green, you’re in a very quiet room with a blindfold over your eyes. Losing track of time is normal. Actually, now that I think about it—why don’t I see if we can get you a record player in here?” I suggest. I should have put that together before. Sensory deprivation. No wonder she’s going crazy. I can do something about that.

“Have you ever seen something that shouldn't be?” she asks, so quiet I can barely hear her. “Stairwells that go down but take you to a higher floor? Liquids that are cold but burn you when you touch them?”

“Right, sure.” I let out an irritated hiss, seeing where this is going. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother visiting. I mean, I do, because she needs somepony to talk to, but I’m being nice to her here! She should repay me by putting her paranoia to one side for five minutes. Make some conversation. “Listen, I’m going to go see about that record player, okay?”

“Has she ever known something you’ve never told anypony?”

“I get it, Green!” I snap, ripping my leg out of her grip. “You know, I’m trying to be nice here, and you’re not making it easy. You just don’t appreciate her work.”

“I am her work!”

“Well her new work is nicer than you!” I snap. “She likes me! And...” And that’s all I need to say! “And I’ll see about that record player. And maybe getting the blindfold off.” I turn, headed to the door. “Goodbye, Green.”

“Mph!” Epiphany starts, reflexively spitting her sip back up into her cup. She actually gags, rushing to the bathroom to hack over the sink, and it’s only after I hear her rinse her mouth out that she speaks. “Oh, ponyfeathers. Siren, how can you drink that? It tastes like something died in my mouth! After rolling around in industrial waste!”

“You get used to it,” I say, sitting back on my bed. There’s a pile of books on the end table, along with a teapot and two cups. The books are mostly portfolios of dresses from Equestria and artificial cutie marks from Vision. All Rarity’s work, of course. I want to impress her when next we meet. “It’s got a really distinctive flavor.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you only think that because it’s killed all your tastebuds?” she asks, stepping back out of the bathroom to join me. She’s not much for art. She has a book on posture instead. I’m teaching her how to strut.

“You don’t get it,” I say with a shrug. “It’s about understanding. You experience her work, and it teaches you something about the world.”

“So precisely what do you learn from bad tea?” she asks, moving to the bedside and picking up her book, laying it out on the covers and opening it to her page.

“That real beauty takes time to learn to appreciate,” I say, taking another sip and paging through some pictures of Rarity’s gowns.

“Sounds snobby,” Epiphany observes with a frown. “So if you don’t like her tea, you’re not good enough to look at her art?”

“It’s not like that.” I shake my head. “It’s... Her work is often difficult to understand. Abstract. Like, she has this one piece. It’s a muffin that lasts forever.”

“What, like, it doesn't spoil?” she asks, confused.

“No no,” I say, making a wide, sweeping gesture with both forehooves. “Like, no matter how much you eat it, it’s never gone. You can take a bite, but the muffin remains. So, at first glance, it’s just a magical pastry, but when you think about it, it’s a ‘take that’ to every piece that’s been written about how beauty decays and you need to come to terms with the passage of time. It’s her way of saying that some work really is eternal.”

“Wait, wait, hold on. It actually lasts forever? Like, it is an infinite amount of muffin?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me, trying to puzzle it out. “There’s no like... reason you can’t eat it?”

“Right. That’s the point,” I say, gesturing to make my words clear, my tone bright and enthusiastic. “It doesn't lose any value with use. It’s a statement about the nature of time and our place in history.”

“That’s not what I’m getting from it.” She frowns.

“Oh, come on, you haven't even seen it,” I insist. “What do you think it means?”

“‘I think my art is more important than you starving to death,’” she says, with a disapproving little shake of her head.

“Uh...” I stammer. It should have occurred to me that she really just doesn't get art. Trying to explain it was a mistake. “Whoa. Um. Where did that come from?” I ask, putting a little disbelief into my voice. Not offended, but shocked, and I shake my head. “I don’t think a pony in your position can really criticize Rarity for not doing enough to help the city. Besides, the city produces plenty of food. I don’t think a muffin is going to make the difference.”

“I...” she starts, looking up at me. Then she stops, closing her mouth and pausing for a moment. “You know what? You’re right. I’m sorry. Why don’t you help me practice this?”

“You need to be more aloof,” I say, turning back to my book.

“I haven't even started yet!” she says, annoyed, but not really annoyed. She knows I’m right. “And you’re not even looking at me.”

“And? You always look like you care what other ponies think. It makes them respect you less,” I say. “Just try to look a little bit more aware of how pretty you are compared to them.”

“Pretentious jerk,” she grumbles.

“Says the pony practicing strutting,” I reply.

“Um... Rarity,” I say, glancing away from the window. The concourse is getting cleaned today. It’s the first time I’ve seen it without a crowd, the walkways empty save for lines of those white-suited workers and their mops and brushes. It seems a little excessive to me, but Rarity does like a nice sterile environment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always, dear. Go right ahead,” she encourages, glancing at me briefly before returning her gaze to the window.

“The muffin you showed me. It’s not sustaining, right?” I check. She glances at me again, this time with a puzzled expression. “That is, I assumed it was when I first saw it, but I’ve been thinking it over recently. Once, I saw an illusionist conjure a feast, and you could eat it and touch it, but it wasn’t actually food and you couldn’t survive on it. That’s how the muffin works, right? It’s some clever enchantment?”

“Siren, we were having such a relaxing chat. Why did you have to go and spoil it by reminding me who you’re related to?” she asks with a curt little sigh. Her ears fold back a little, and her mouth folds into a tight line—like she just tasted something sour.

“Oh, no! No, I didn’t mean—” Okay, okay, think fast, Siren! “Not her! Not that! I was just... wondering about the piece. I can’t keep it out of my head, you know? Wondering what other works you might have to show me.”

“Of course,” Rarity agrees, her voice flat, not so much as glancing my way. “Well then, to answer your question, no. It’s quite real in every way.”

“So, to make sure I understand, you could feed a room full of starving ponies with it. Right?” I check, glancing down at the table. “As a hypothetical.”

“I suppose hypothetically you could, yes,” she says, her sour mood at least partially replaced by a thoughtful air. She even raises her hoof to her chin. “That would actually be quite amusing. Pass it around over lunch. I dare say hunger would put an edge on its beauty.” For a moment, she seems to seriously contemplate the matter, looking up at the ceiling. “Sadly, I don’t think I’ll ever find enough ponies who really get my work to host that sort of party. But it is a nice idea.”

“I uh...” I nod. That’s fine. It’s fine. “Yes, Rarity.”

“I’m so out of shape,” I say, wheezing and huffing as I make my way up yet another stairwell. It’s not true, of course. I’m in great shape! That shape is just small and cute instead of optimized for physical labor. Like lugging heavy objects up all these stupid stairs! “Epiphany! You’d better be up here!”

“I am,” she calls back, although I mentally groan at how far above me she is. We’re in the center of the concourse, in the big structure in the middle that supports all the tram rails. I have no idea what Epiphany is doing up here, but one of the guards saw her come this way, so five stupid flights of stairs later, here I am. A unicorn. Lugging heavy objects for an earth pony. Ugh. “Up here at the top.” Yeah, thanks.

By the time I reach her, I’m sweating and panting, and I’m not too proud to admit my knees are shaking a little. We’re way up in the rafters now, a maintenance space, I guess. The floor under us is little more than a metal plate welded to some beams, with a thin railing around the outside. The ceiling is dripping, and where water hits, the floor has started to rust. It’s a claustrophobic sort of space, despite our height and commanding view of the concourse. All of the beams and equipment running from the ceiling down through the metal floor give it a closed-off feel, like they were pushing us towards the cliff edge. Not that it bothers Epiphany. She’s sitting right up against the railing.

“Epiphany!” I say, dropping the heavy mailbag that’s been draped over my back. That takes a little bit out of me, and I pause for a moment to catch my breath. She doesn't look at me, but one of her ears swivels back. “What in the vast and dark ocean are you doing... up... here?” I squint at her back, along her croup, just above the base of her tail.

An upraised ear beside a ringing silver bell.

“Oh,” I say. She nods, but doesn't turn her head. “That’s... new.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” she says, quiet. I should have noticed when I came up. She’s not usually that expressive with her ears, having them point in two distinctly different directions like that. “Sorry I didn’t mention it, but I knew you wouldn't approve,” she says, glancing back at me. “What’s with the bag?”

“Um,” I say, looking at her ears. One is pointed at me, along with her eyes, and the other is swiveled down to the concourse. I’d swear they’re bigger than they used to be, or maybe just fuzzier inside? More alert, certainly. “You’ve... um.” I shake my head. Don’t stare, Siren. “You’ve got mail.”

“Mail?” she asks, curiously, and I pull the bag up to her side. After a second, I sit down next to her, with the bag between us. So she can get to it.

“Yeah, mail! Your first bit ran two days ago, remember? With the earrings.” I rip the bag open, letters spilling out onto the walk in front of us.

“I got all this in two days?” she asks, surprised and a bit wide-eyed, leaning back to take in the heavy mail bundle.

“You got three of these in two days,” I say, grinning. I opened a few for her in advance. You know, for her own good. Just to make sure they weren't creepy or anything. “I only brought up the first one. Take a look!” I say, sliding the envelope over to her.

“Dear Epiphany,” she reads aloud. Epiphany reads pretty slowly, sometimes stopping to sound out the words. “My name is Spring Showers. I am fifteen years old and living in New Cloudsdale. I read the article on you in Quarter Horse and about how you used to be homeless, and you are an in... in... spear... oh, inspiration. I have always wanted to be a model, but my parents told me that couldn't happen since I am a stormworker’s app... ren... apprentice, and those jobs are given to ponies with rich and connected parents.

“I really liked your freeform pictures from Ceto Station. So many of the other actresses and famous ponies get themselves shot against fields or forests. As I have never seen the surface, these pictures are often very strange to me. Seeing you shot against a place I have actually been made it feel very friendly, and I’ve had my mane cut the same way yours was in that photo. I have seen the gear you were in front of, though the station crew don’t let you climb up there.”

For a moment, Epiphany puts the letter down. “I don’t remember doing any shots in a tram station.”

“They added the station in post,” I say, urging her on. “Keep reading.”

“When I was younger,” Epiphany continues, “my dad won the factory lottery and we got to visit the Pavilion. It was amazing, and I am gee... ah... loose...” She frowns, turning the letter to me.

“Jealous,” I supply.

“And I am jealous,” Epiphany continues, “that you get to live there. I have always made sure that he enters us in every drawing, but we have not won again. If we do, could you and I meet?

“Since I’m such a huge fan, I would love it if you would autograph your picture and send it to me to hang in my room to adore every day. I would appreciate it more than words, though I will understand if you don’t respond since I know you must have a busy schedule. However, if you would like to send one, I included an addressed and stamped envelope.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to read my letter. I know great things lie ahead of you.

“Sincerely,

“Spring Showers.”

Epiphany puts the letter down.

“Isn’t it great?” I ask, keeping my voice encouraging, upbeat. I know she’s just going to get all philosophical and serious about this if I don’t stop her. As is, she’s probably going to be one of those celebrities who actually answers every piece of mail. “They’re all like that! Fillies think you’re an inspiration, mares are glad their daughters have somepony virtuous to look up to instead of shallow pop idols, and what colts and stallions think of you is probably better left unsaid.” I blush a little when I say it, but come on, it’s true! “I’ll bet you there’s a marriage proposal in that bag.”

“Why would she write this?” Epiphany asks, and right on cue, I hear her getting all serious. Time to nip that in the bud.

“Oh, relax. It’s not actually all that personal. I used to get these from time to time when”—I lived in Equestria—“my acting career was a little hotter. She needs somepony to look up to, and you’ve got an inspiring life story.”

“But—but, I don’t!” Epiphany insists, getting agitated. “I didn’t do anything to earn this position! Rarity gave it to me! Spring Shower’s parents are right. Rarity treats being a model as a prize to give away to ponies she likes. There’s no way to get the job except for her to like you, or for one of her friends to like you. The one mare I’ve met who actually worked hard to get here was fired on my third day!” she shouts.

“Whoa, calm down,” I say, raising a hoof. I was expecting her to take it a little rough at first, but not that bad. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“What’s wrong is that a stormworker—a filly who probably spends ten hours a day jumping up and down on stormclouds to make lighting—feels that she needs to wish me well. She needs to wish me good luck. I should be thanking her for thinking I’m pretty, and she wants to build a shrine to me!” Epiphany yells, her voice and pitch rising as one. “That’s... that’s messed up!”

“Okay, okay, no more fan mail!” I say, turning the bag away from her. Eech. That wasn’t even one of the creepy ones. “Just... relax. Relax. It’s one teenage filly. She got overly excited probably.”

“Probably!” Epiphany snaps, her tail lashing to and fro. She turns away from me, ears focusing back down on the Pavilion.

I’m going to... let this silence hang a bit. No need to go poking at that.

“Sorry!” she shouts, in one of the most angry apologies I’ve ever heard. She draws in a breath, letting it out through her nose. “Sorry,” she repeats, voice still tense, but she’s trying to force some calm into it. Her whole body is stiff, and even with her head turned away, I can tell she’s glaring down at the concourse.

“It’s okay,” I say gently. I reach out with my magic, sweeping the other letters back into the bag and tying it up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you’d be excited. You always like it when ponies come up to you in the concourse.”

“That’s...” she sighs, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to make you drag that bag up the stairs.”

“You didn’t. I just was excited,” I say, turning down to the floor. “And it wasn’t that heavy.”

For a while, there’s quiet. Well, not really—the station clocks are ticking and the building rattles whenever a tram arrives and the lights hum and pulse, but there’s always so much mechanical noise in Vision that you learn to filter it out. I guess I got used it, and now I don’t even hear it.

I bet she hears it really really well though.

Right.

“Doesn't the tram bother you?” I ask. She looks up, and I catch her eyes. “The screech when it comes into the station.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She nods. “Yeah, that’s pretty loud. It doesn't hurt though. It’s just annoying.”

“Oh. Cool,” I say. “So um... yeah. Nice view up here. How’d you find this place?”

“Siren, I appreciate that you’re trying to be nice to me,” she says, her voice strained. She briefly shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “But you’re obviously really uncomfortable and... look, I know how you feel about mantles. You don’t have to pretend.”

“I know you know. But... it’s here and you’re suddenly really upset and I can’t help but feel those two are related,” I say, and I sell it. It’s not a stock pose, but, I’m good like that. Turn that stiff tone into a sweet big-sister sort of vibe. It’s subtle, but it’s there. “So, if you want to talk about what’s wrong, I can listen.”

She doesn't say anything for some time, turning her gaze back to the concourse in front of us.

“I like listening to ponies.” When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet. “I mean, I lived in a box. I begged a bit, dumpster dived, but for the most part, not a lot to do except listen to what ponies out on the street are saying. It was relaxing. Particularly when I was hungry and needed to take my mind off it. I’ve really missed that since I came here. The pony at the shop said this would let me hear every conversation in the concourse at once.”

“Can you?” I ask, and she laughs, shaking her head.

“Um. Not really, no. But I can make out individual conversations, as long as they’re talking a little loudly,” she says, adding, “Or sitting on the southwest lower level. The acoustics there seem to be a bit better.” She’s adding it to avoid talking about something else. She does like her small talk.

“And what do they talk about?” I ask.

“Some of them are happy to be here,” she says, quietly. “Some of them are nervous, trying to get as much out of it as they can, since they know they won’t come here again. But none of them really think it’s going to make their lives better, you know? They think they get a really nice weekend, or a chance to grab a bunch of free stuff, and then it’s back to the status quo. And do we ever see the same pony twice?” It’s a question, but it’s rhetorical, her words coming too quick for an answer.

“The stallions who come up to me in the crowd... I just liked that they thought I was pretty!” Her tail lashes back and forth as she talks, her tone growing strained. “It was very flattering. But that’s not it at all. That’s not going to be their day—it’s going to be their month, their year! Remember the time I went there and that mare who was so far out of my league said hello to me? They’ll brag to their friends about it! Everypony idolizes this place as this beautiful center of culture, but I’m not sure it actually helps anypony. It just shows them things they can’t have—it doesn't deserve the attention it gets. And...” She takes a breath.

“And I don’t like fan mail,” she finishes.

“Uh... Epiphany?” I ask, after a moment. She’s really emotional and has obviously been hit by a lot of things at once, and markers are not really known for mental stability in general, so this is probably nothing, in fact almost certainly nothing, but just to check. “You aren’t thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?”

She turns, and I catch her gaze. “No. Of course not.”

“Epiphany’s planning to quit!” I shout, bursting into Rarity’s office. It’s okay though! It’ll be fine. Now that I’ve told her, Rarity knows it’s not my fault. She doesn’t answer though. Why isn't she answering? She’s sitting there at the window, staring out over the concourse. Quick March is standing just behind her, a bundle of papers held with a foreleg. There’s a pot of tea and an incense burner on the desk along with her paper and pens and a bunch of other stuff. She must be thinking it over. She doesn’t think this is my fault, does she?

“Hello to you as well, Siren,” Rarity says, rubbing her hoof against an inkpad and then stamping it on a paper. She doesn't look at me. “Thank you for knocking.”

“Oh, I uh...” I glance back at the door. Nice going, idiot—smashing open the door to her office will really make her take the news better. No, it doesn’t matter—I need to press ahead. That was bad, but she’ll understand. This is important! “Uh... sorry. But Epiphany is planning to quit. In fact, I think she’s packing her things right now!”

“Is she really?” Rarity asks, frowning at something in front of her before stamping it twice. “Well, that’s very decisive of her, isn’t it?”

“Um...” What? I don’t understand. “Yeah... I... guess it is.”

“Siren, you’re young and emotional, so I’ll try not to judge you for your simply exquisite lack of judgment in this particular instance,” she says curtly, her eyebrows furrowed as she looks at the paper in front of her. She sounds really upset. Not mad though, not angry with me. I don’t think I’m in trouble? I guess I really should have knocked before coming in. “I know you are very bright when you stop to think, so why don’t you try that now and spare me the drama.”

“You. Um...” She’s not blaming me for this is she? It’s not my fault! No... no. That’s not it. She wants me to say something. But what? Think, Siren! Think think think think! “You...” She’s quizzing me. Not alarmed, not taking any action when she gets the news. “You planned for this?”

“Good. Keep going,” Rarity says, not looking up from her desk.

“This... oh, this is supposed to happen,” I say, picking up on her hint and running with it. “I mean, this is the next step,” I say, checking her for little expressions of approval. “Just like she was supposed to go behind your back over Church Bell, she’s supposed to quit now.”

“Good,” she murmurs. Her tone is flat, like she wasn’t paying me any mind, but I catch that little glance my way. Right answer! “Now can you tell me why she’s supposed to quit?”

“Because...” Because why? Because she hates her work? No, lots of ponies in Vision hate their work. She needs to grow as a person. But what about hating her job makes her a better pony? Think! What did she say to you in the concourse? “Because... her job doesn’t mean anything?” I say it without thinking—I can’t insult Rarity’s work like that! She doesn’t seem angry though. It’s like she...

It clicks in my head right as I catch the little hint of a smile.

“You gave her a meaningless job on purpose,” I say as it all comes together. “Wait... you didn’t just do that. You gave her a meaningless job and the power to see what’s wrong with—oh! Oh, that’s clever! That’s brilliant!” I shout, as all the last few weeks suddenly fall into place. Even better, I’m not in any trouble! “You also really messed up the last pony who offended you, and you made a point of doing it in front of her. It’s a test of bravery! She has to give up all of this and risk incurring your wrath just to be a good pony. She’s going to risk everything just for a chance to do the right thing.” I’m actually getting a little excited, seeing it all come together this way. “This is the big finale, isn’t it?”

“Oh. Yes. It. Is!” she says, drawing out a pause between each word and finishing the sentence by slamming her hoof down on the desk, whirling her head up to look at me. The noise makes me leap back, and then she’s on her hooves, springing across the room to cover the distance, sweeping me up with a leg and turning me around like we were dancing. “Today is the day Epiphany takes that last step! Compassion she has always had, but today! Today she pairs it with action. Today is the day she decides that whatever the cost, no matter how little a difference it will make, she will stand up for what she knows is right! Be a part of the cruelties of this city no longer!” Rarity pulls me tight against her side, knocking the wind clean out of me.

“Today, Siren!” she says, dropping me back on my hooves and leaving my head spinning. “Today she becomes a hero, and at that moment of triumph, I will capture her image”—she snaps her hooves together in front of me, like she was actually grabbing something in the air—“for future generations. Forget that garbage we shot on set! Today, the moment a hero is born is preserved for all to see. No sets! No poses! You will look into her eyes and know that it is so.”

She’s so over the top, so enthusiastic, it’s impossible not to respond in kind. I find myself smiling more and more as she talks, and, well, why shouldn’t I? It’s an amazing accomplishment, weeks of effort and so much skill just for a grand artistic project. And I’m a part of it!

“Oh my gosh!” I shout, grinning like an idiot. I’m part of making a masterpiece. A real legendary masterpiece! And-and after it’s done, Rarity will be so happy. That’s it! That’s the moment to tell her where I’m from. I’ll tell her and she’ll take me home and I’ll be a real artist! “What can I do?” I ask, so wound up I feel ready to hop up and down. “How can I help?”

“You’re her friend! Go have filly talk. Brush her mane, chat about colts, put some makeup on her. Make sure she’s ready for her big moment,” Rarity says, grinning down at me. “She’ll have to be alone with me for the shot. The hero confronting the villain! It’s classic. Besides, you hold her attention too much, and we can’t have her looking off-center—but you need to make sure that she’s properly dressed up for the moment.”

“Right... right.” I nod, thinking quickly. “You’ve prepared instructions? Picked a dress?”

“March?” Rarity orders, and soon a piece of paper is handed to me. I memorize it at once, reading through it two or three times just to make sure I’ve got it all. I’m so excited, my eyes are skipping around the page.

“Got it!” I say, passing it back to him. “I won’t let you down, Rarity!”

“I know you won’t, dear,” she says, smiling at me, so bright and encouraging. “You’re a very talented young mare, and though the part you played may have been minor, I consider this our first collaboration. Now get going.”

I spring though the door and dash out into the halls. I’ll need to slow down before I reach her room, of course. Don’t want to show any sweat, need to have even breathing. I’ll be casual. No! Apologetic. She had a bad day, and I could have been nicer. I’ll give her a hug and tell her the new cutie mark looks nice, and come on, let me brush your mane. The dress will be trickier, but I’ll think of something! I’m good like that.

It all goes so quickly. I find Epiphany, make small talk, play dress-up. Of course, she’s nervous. She actually goes out of her way to “discreetly” drop into the conversation that she can survive out in the city on her own. It’s so cute! She doesn't want to tell me because she thinks I’ll try to talk her out of it, but she doesn't want me to be worried about her. I’m pretty sure she’s actually planning to try to sneak off in the middle of the night instead of telling anypony, which doesn't strike me as very heroic, but I’m sure Rarity’s accounted for that.

It seems like I’ve barely gotten her in the dress before Quick March calls me away on some pretext. It’s going to happen in the reflecting room, which makes sense. Where else could you get a pony to stand right in the middle of a million cameras and stage lights without them wondering if something might be up? Most of the equipment is already there, but Rarity fiddles with it up to the last moment—cleaning, adjusting lights and mirrors, tinkering with the cameras, putting her personal touches on every detail. Then Quick March gets her attention from across the room and she shouts, “Out, out!” He rushes for the exit, and I’m dragged along with him. For a moment, I catch Rarity watching me go, see her encouraging smile—and then the doors to the reflecting room close behind us.

We don’t go far—just down the hall and around two corners so we’ll be safely out of sight of the main corridor. There’s a door there, and when Quick March holds it open for me, I can see it leads to a small lounge or a waiting room or something. Chairs and a table and carpet. “Go ahead,” he says, gesturing me in with a forehoof. It’s clear he doesn't intend to follow me though, his attention on the hallway. “I’ll let you know when Ms. Rarity needs you.”

“Can’t I wait out here with you?” I ask. No, I insist! I’m the apprentice here! I’m not going to be shuffled off like a foal sitting at the little table. He thinks about it for a moment, and then lets the door swing shut.

“Very well,” he nods. “But you must be absolutely quiet. Not a sound. You understand?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, and move to stand next to him as he waits. He’s not doing anything, just looking around the corner and waiting for Rarity to call us. The halls are quiet, not a sound but the ever-beating lights. I feel so tense, so wound up. This is it!

Okay, I’ll need to think of what to say to her. I start to open my mouth, but Quick March fixes me with a sharp stare, and I snap it shut. Shoot, no talking to myself. Maybe I should have taken the room. No! Have your dignity, Siren. Just run it through in your head. Right.

Right! First, context. Be honest with yourself—you’ve been stalling on telling Rarity who you really are, but that’s fine! It’s perfect even! Today’s the day she really accepts you as her protégé, starts to trust you. Besides, with how moody she is, it only makes sense to tell her after she’s gotten some really big bit of good news. Oh, but you can’t just blurt it out! It’ll look like I’m trying to use her genius for petty personal gain. I need to make it clear that I love her work and that I’m telling her because it’s time.

But? What am I telling her? That I’m Princess Celestia’s student. That I ran away from Equestria to study art and got shipwrecked here. No, that I ran away from Equestria searching for the Elements of Harmony and got shipwrecked here! Yeah, that’s just as flattering but a little more plausible. That I was afraid to tell her because of how the city feels about Celestia, but that I know I can trust her now. No, no no no, better! That I thought there was nothing good in the city, but she showed me things nopony ever has before. That I want to stay but I’m worried about the ponies at home, and that I know the Princess misses her. Yeah, that’s the stuff! Older mare, no foals, eager to take on an apprentice. Hit her hard with the “cute young mare” routine and then follow it up with a knockout blow right in the nostalgia.

And, it’s true, isn’t it? She’s brilliant. And more than that, she’s different. No pony in Equestria would ever produce art like hers. It’s so sharp, so unforgiving and stark. Like griffon art, a bit, but with a distinctly equine feel. I could be the one to bring that style to Equestria. Ponies would go crazy for it! Not that I’ll forget Vision, of course. It’s an awful, horrible place, but I owe it to the ponies here to convince Celestia to come and help them. I can mend that fence, the ponies who want to leave can leave, others can arrive. Rarity can hang Trixie and put the city back in order. I’ll bring glorious art and all of Vision’s knowledge to Equestria, and peace and harmony back to Vision. It’ll be perfect!

A thought occurs to me, and I can’t help but grin. I didn’t fail after all. Maybe I didn’t find Twilight Sparkle, but I’ll still be convincing the Princess’s subjects to come back to her. I’ll still be mending that old wound! And I’ll have done it all on my own. That’s what Celestia’s student should be! An artist and a diplomat. It’ll be wonderful! I can’t wait!

Of course. I have to wait. And wait. And wait. What is taking so long? Is Epiphany just being slow in making her entrance? Is Rarity taking her time to build up the moment? Is she doing additional pictures? It didn’t go wrong, did it? It feels like I’ve been pacing in the hallway for hours before I hear the distinctive whine of unicorn magic, and then a clatter of flashbulbs, dozens of them all going off at once. That’s it, it’s time! I leap forward, but Quick March blocks me with a leg across my chest.

“Why? That’s it! It’s done!” I say, trying to maneuver around him. He’s faster than I am though, and between a leg and a wing, he just about turns me in place, and I don’t go anywhere.

“Not until Rarity calls for us,” he says, and no amount of argument will persuade him. And then there’s nothing to do but pace, back and forth in the side halls. I try to sneak around Quick March but he won’t have it, making me just stand there until I think I’m about to go crazy!

Then, I hear the door swing open, and Rarity’s voice. “I! Have! Done it!” she calls, and I’m down the hall like a racing pegasus. The double doors to the reflecting room are open, and she stands in the doorway, mane wild and out of place. She’s panting for breath, her brow sweaty like she’d just finished a long physical effort, but she’s grinning ear to ear. I almost stop, but she gracefully steps to one side to let me pass, and I slide in.

It’s gorgeous.

After a second, I realize that my mouth has fallen open but... it’s perfect! All the reflecting plates in the room now show Epiphany’s image from a different angle, that moment captured in all its wondrous perfection. One shot that shows that tension in her body, one that emphasizes the little tremble in her throat, one that shows the set in her jaw. You feel her fear just looking at them, and you know that she’ll overcome it. But not a single picture shows her eyes. That honor is reserved for the center of the room, for the carving in the middle of all these pictures.

It’s made of crystal, a statue so perfect it’s like I stumbled into the Crystal Empire. It’s her, in that moment, hooves on the ground, neck up, eyes straight ahead. It’s the finest statue I’ve ever seen, and when the light catches the crystal and shines up through those eyes, it’s like I can hear her taking that stand, that final trembling breath before she said no. The statue is even in a mock-up of her actual dress, though it’s torn a little in places. The combination of the invulnerable crystal and the damaged dress is so brilliant, I actually let out a gleeful little scream. Just looking at it, it’s obvious that the pony inside is what really matters, and that the things around her are only that: things.

“Oh my goodness yes!” I shout, racing all around the room, trying to take in every picture and see the statue from every angle. “I’ve never even heard of anything like this! The framing, the setup, the medium. You’re a genius! Oh, and from a technical perspective. The presentation! I could write a book just on how you’ve used mixed materials!” My voice cracks a little and I don’t care. “I didn’t even know it was possible to work with imperial crystal!”

“It’s possible,” she says, with a laugh and a wide grin, “though only for the most powerful unicorns, and I detest using such an exotic material for lesser works. I practice with glass. You don’t know how gratifying it is to hear you say that, Siren. I was starting to think that my work would never be appreciated in its own time.”

“It is very impressive, Ms. Rarity,” Quick March says, and even he sounds a little taken with it. Excited, even. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile, and he’s grinning like a teenage colt who just got his first kiss. “I’m glad to see you took my suggestion about handling.”

“Yes! Yes, thank you, March. I had my doubts but the dress worked out beautifully,” she says, wound up but so excited. “I just went with what seemed right! Of course, I had to enchant it to hold that position after. That’s what kept me so long. Can’t have it tearing or shifting in the slightest. Took a bit of doing, but, it will always hold that shape even if it gets ruffled.”

“You did that now? No wonder you’re exhausted!” I say, stepping up and giving the dress a gentle nudge, watching it slide back into place, exactly as it was in that moment. “Is it invulnerable as well? And the glass?” I ask, lifting the fabric to inspect it. “If you’re going to move it, it should—”

The sigh of fabric. A thump of impact. Something hits the ground below the statue. Rolls to bump against my hooves.

A little bottle of water.

I look at it.

“How did that get there?” Rarity asks, puzzled, stepping up beside me and picking up the bottle. “Well, no matter. As long as it was touching the dress, it should...” she murmurs, watching as it picks itself back up and vanishes under the fabric. It only takes a moment for it to tuck itself away again, and for the dress to return to its original shape. “Yes, there we go.”

“But... how did you not...?”

I draw a deep breath, but I can’t seem to get any air. It’s hot in here, very hot, and stale, and stagnant and bright and it’s hard to breathe and much too bright. My legs have gone all stiff and my barrel is tight and I can’t seem to move my tail and my belt is too tight and it’s too hot! It’s fine. It’s fine. You know what ponies have? Flaws. That’s right. Scars and moles and little rough patches. And this statue does not have any! No, it does not! It doesn't have that... thing! That... Epiphany had! I don’t remember it but that’s not important! Still can’t get any air!

“Siren, dear!” Rarity says, reaching out to put a hoof on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

I look at Rarity. Normally when a star model disappoints me, there’s nothing I can do but use them for lesser works.

I look at the edge of the reflecting room. At the rows of glass ponies there, wearing dresses of real fabric. I detest using such an exotic material for lesser works. I practice with glass.

I look at Quick March, grinning at all the photos like it was his birthday. I’m not an artist, but working for her, I get that special sense of satisfaction I don’t get anywhere else.

I look at Rarity. “Siren?” she repeats. “Siren, what’s the matter?” I look into her eyes.

And I scream at the top of my lungs.

Epiphany, Part 2

Screaming.

I remember screaming. Clinging to Epiphany. Angry voices. Rarity’s orderlies, grabbing me, dragging me from the room. My hooves scrabbling on stone. A needle in my shoulder. Pain. After that, it gets a little fuzzy.

I don’t... I don’t feel well. I should be running, should be screaming, but I’m just sitting here. I don’t think I can move. The room is blurry. No, not blurry, I can see it clearly, but... muted? Distant. Like I was seeing it from far away. It’s so strange. Everything feels so intense. The pressure of my weight on the floor, the sensation of my mane falling over my neck, so sharp, so clear. There’s a buzz in my ears, like insects, but I can still hear the lights pounding under it. I think something is wrong with me.

There’s something in front of me. Rarity’s little table. From her office. I’m in her office.

Rarity is there now, but I didn’t see her arrive. She was not there one moment, and there the next. Things have appeared on the table as well—a pot of tea, a cup.

“Aww. There’s no need to look so forlorn,” Rarity says, reaching out to hold my cheek, tilting my head up. I can feel every ripple and contour on her hoof so perfectly, but something is different. Her hooves feel... empty. Absent. Everything in this room has little protrusions, little scratches, and I can feel them all so clearly. But her hoof is flawless, so smooth I can hardly sense it. I can only tell it’s there because of those hoof caps, and they feel... sharp. They have an edge to them. A real knife edge, dragging over my cheek. “How are you feeling? A bit calmer I hope?”

I nod. Slowly, evenly. I don’t want her to cut me.

“That’s good. You had me worried there for a moment,” Rarity says with a quiet chuckle. “You had my ears ringing, for that matter,” she adds, brushing her mane back and giving a little toss of her head. “You certainly know how to make yourself heard, don’t you?”

“Please don’t kill me,” I say. My voice sounds so rough, so scratchy, weak and torn. Rarity only laughs.

“Kill you? Oh, my dear Siren, why would I ever do that? You’re my guest, remember?” Her hoof gives my cheek a little stroke. “My protégé,” she says, smoothing out the last word as she straightens my mane with her magic, just a little tug. “I think what we have here is a simple misunderstanding. Is that what happened, dear? You saw my masterpiece and thought I’d murdered dear Epiphany?” I nod, and that makes her smile. Something is wrong with her face. I know that smile is light and amused, but she seems... angular somehow. Jagged. “Oh darling, don’t be absurd. What use would I have for a corpse?” she asks, with a smirk and a little half-laugh, shaking her head. “You touched her, as I recall. Did she feel like a corpse to you?”

“She... she felt like...” I say, quiet and shaky. I don’t know what she wants me to say. What can I possibly say? But somehow, I keep speaking anyway, my mouth running along without me. “Crystal. But not a rock. There was... give in it. Somehow. I felt like I was hugging a living thing.” A living thing you wanted to hurt. “I couldn't leave her.”

“Well, of course,” Rarity says, with an approving nod. “Crystal ponies are living things, after all. Thinking of imperial crystal as stone is like thinking of flesh as a pile of carbon. Technically true, but...” She pours a cup of the tea, taking in the coppery scent with a long breath, shutting her eyes to properly savor it. “You lose the wonderful subtleties.”

“Sh-she’s a crystal pony?” I ask, staring up at her. The tea looks different, like Rarity looks different. It’s not scalding, it’s boiling, churning angrily in the cup—but the air around it is frigid, like the steam was an arctic wind.

“Mmhmm,” Rarity nods. “Far better than simple petrification. It’s actually quite easy to physically transform one pony breed into another. Well, easy if you’re me, anyway,” she clarifies with a little wave of her hoof. “The problem is that a physical transformation alone is useless. I can cut off a pegasus’s wings and give him a horn, but he’s still a pegasus. His spirit remembers that its essence flows out of his wings...” She makes a slow gesture with one hoof, as though reaching out to capture something, and then spreading it out to one side. “Even if his body has forgotten. Her body thinks it’s a crystal pony, but her spirit knows better. She’s a pony of the earth, and her magic will not animate the stone. And so, she sleeps. Living in that moment forever.”

“I...” I look down at the table. I know. I knew. I saw it in her eyes, felt it when I touched her. “She was my friend.”

“She is your friend, and so much more,” Rarity says, reaching out to tilt my head back up, looking me in the eye. “You have the gift, Siren. She couldn't see you, but you could see her in that glorious moment. And now, you’ll have eternity to study her, appreciate her, watch the light sparkle through her and come to know every nuance of her being. You will understand and love her as nopony ever has. It’s a wonderful gift you’ve given her, Siren.”

“She...” I try to look down, but Rarity’s hoof is still under my chin, and I feel the silver cap press into me. It’s so sharp I don’t dare move, pinned in place by that knife’s edge. Is this what Green felt in the lift? Is this why she couldn’t move when Rarity touched her? “She didn’t want that.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Siren!” Rarity laughs. “What else would you have done? Release her? So she can decay and mutate and go mad like the others? Turn into a mockery of all she once was?” Her laugh runs through her words, but slowly trails away, replaced by a quieter smile. “No. You and I both know that this is better. This is the way things should be.” I don’t say anything, and after a little while, Rarity’s smile grows thin. It never fades completely though, never becomes open displeasure. She can be patient with her pupil, when that pupil is being a bit slow. “Tell me you disagree, Siren. Tell me that this isn’t more valuable than anything else she might have done with her life.”

“I...” My breath is coming in starts, weak and trembling. “That’s not the point.”

“Evading the question is poor form, Siren,” Rarity tsks. “But tell me then, what is the point? That Celestia wouldn't approve?”

Silence. My breath catches in my throat.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.” She laughs, a deep and amused chuckle. “Of course I knew. Really, how stupid did you think I was?” she asks with a playful, though somewhat irritated air. Tolerating me. “Trixie’s supposed to have been caring for you your whole life, but you obviously hate her; you never asked after any foster parents or friends; you’re wholly ignorant of the most basic facets of life here; and you showed up right after a ship from Equestria sunk in our waters. I somehow managed to put two and two together. You’re a gifted creator, Siren, but you’re... well. A bit easy to read.”

I... I don’t...

She lets out a little hiss of breath, pushing her hoof up under my chin, that knife edge forcing me to sit up straight—to move as she indicates if I don’t want my throat cut open. “You’ve learned very well, Siren, to your credit. The veil is parted from your eyes now, but you will never see clearly while you still cling to these ridiculous notions. I do have to admire Celestia’s work—she tried very hard to turn you into something you’re not. That mask is starting to slip though”—she flicks her other hoof, as though to knock something away—“and it’s time it was done away with.”

I’m not...

“Drink your tea, Siren,” she orders, pushing the cup towards me. The only cup on the table. “To those who seek the truth are all truths revealed. Drink it, and wish to know who you truly are.”

I reach down for the cup.

“I’m not in trouble, am I?” I ask for the third time, as Ms. Spring Breeze leads me into her office. She’s the orphanage matron, or ‘administrator,’ but I always think of her as the matron. She’s got that nice-old-pony feel around her and she smiles when I smile at her and she’s got a jar in her office full of sourballs and she doesn't mind if you take two. I’m always really careful to stay on her good side, and I’ve never had to come into her office like this before. Well, except that one time, but everypony told her that Fig Leaf started it, so I got away with that.

“No, Siren, you aren’t in any trouble,” she says, guiding me to the pillow in front of her desk. She’s one of those ponies who gets back pain in chairs, so she just has something soft to sit on instead. I mean, I think that’s good. I’m not really in trouble. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m probably in her office for other reason. I’m not in any trouble.

“You want a sourball, Siren?” she asks, sweetly.

I’m in trouble.

“Um. No, Ms. Spring Breeze,” I say, shaking my head and looking at the floor. What did I do? I haven't done anything wrong! Recently. That she can prove. I bet it was Rock. He blabbed about that time we made Glow Stick eat a glowstick. She didn’t even throw up that much. And she’s a jerk, so she had it coming!

“Siren, I—”

“It said non-toxic on the box!” I say quickly, and very, very innocently.

She looks at me for a while. A long, careful glance.

I kind of want that sourball now. But I shouldn't.

“Siren,” she says, starting again. “Ms. Dog Ear said that something came up during your trip to the library, which she wanted me to talk to you about. I’m pretty sure it’s a misunderstanding though. You’re not in any trouble. Okay?” she asks sweetly, and I nod, even though it’s not true. I’m in the worst kind of trouble. The kind where you messed up so bad they’re worried about you. That’s the kind of trouble that gets you held back a year in school or sent off to another home. I don’t want to have to go away! I have friends here! “Now, can you tell me what happened at the library?”

“Um. Yes,” I say, trying to think. What happened? I didn’t do anything unusual or get in any fights. I actually did exactly what I was supposed to! “We had an hour to look through the Young Readers section and pick our favorite story. Then we had to say what we liked about it and what we would change if we wrote it.”

“And what story did you pick?” she asks.

“Did I pick the wrong story? I can totally pick a different one!” I say, quickly. It wasn’t that good a story anyway. I can just do The Mare in the Moon. Half the group did that one because everypony knows it, so you don’t have to actually read it, and you can say that if you wrote it, Princess Luna would get over her jealousy right away instead of being banished.

“Siren, you’re not in trouble,” she says, reaching across to brush my mane out of my eyes. A unicorn could have done it with magic, but she’s an earth pony, so she has to lean all the way over. I bet that hurts her back. “Please, tell me what story you picked?”

“Um. I picked, The Daughters of the Unicorn King. It’s an old faerie tale,” I say. She doesn't seem all that mad. I bet Ms. Dog Ear just told her stories or something. She always hated me.

“And what happens in the story?” she asks, sitting back down behind her desk.

“Well, in it, the unicorn king has two daughters,” I say. Maybe Ms. Dog Ear was upset that I didn’t pick a foal’s story? I’m a really good reader. “The older sister is charming and beautiful, and the younger is a powerful wizard, but ugly. The younger sister is engaged to a knight, but even though he loves her, she constantly worries that he likes her beautiful older sister. So, one night, she curses her sister, transforming her into a hideous monster. But the knight sees that the monster isn’t evil, realizes what the younger daughter did, and disgusted, leaves her. She realizes that everypony loved her because of what was inside and not what was outside, and cures her sister.”

“Mmmhmm,” Ms. Spring Breeze says, nodding. “And what did you say about it?”

“I said that I liked it because the evil wizard is actually punished for her actions, instead of just realizing what she did wrong and everything goes back to normal,” I say. She’ll like that, particularly since I’m supposed to be in trouble. That does seem to go over well, and she nods for me to keep going. “I mean, it makes the story feel more real.”

“And did you tell Ms. Dog Ear that?” Ms. Spring Breeze asks, but she doesn't sound so upset. I knew it! Ms. Dog Ear was making stuff up about me like she always does.

“Yes, Ms. Spring Breeze. I don’t think I said it exactly that way though. Maybe she misunderstood me,” I say, a little more cheerful now. I relax a little too, and look extra cute, and Ms. Spring Breeze smiles at me.

“I think she must have, Siren,” Ms. Spring Breeze says, relaxing as well. Phew! That was close, but no harm done. “And, what did you say you’d change if you wrote it?”

“That I’d have the knight kill the older sister instead,” I say.

She pauses at that, going a little stiff, looking down at me more closely. Puzzled. Like she wasn’t quite sure what I said. Did I say something wrong? “I mean, when she’s a monster,” I clarify. “I’d have him slay her when he thinks she’s a monster.”

“You don’t think that’s a little sad, Siren?” she asks, but her voice isn’t relaxed anymore. It’s... guarded? Tense? I’ve never heard her talk that way before. What did I say?

“Well, I guess, but right now, the younger sister is only punished because she got caught. So, really, she’s only sorry that she didn’t get away with it,” I say, quickly. She’ll like that, right? Teachers love it when you talk about being really sorry instead of just sorry you were caught. “So, I thought it would be better if she never gets caught, but the knight kills her sister and she realizes that she’s murdered her only sibling. That way, her marriage is ruined and she lives in guilt for the rest of her life and it’s all her fault.”

What did I say?

I’ve never seen a grown-up look at me that way before. Stiff, tense. Not angry now, not worried, something else. She fiddles with the papers on her desk, even though I know none of that’s important. “Did anypony suggest that to you, Siren? Or did you get it from another story?”

“N-no. It just seemed more fun that way,” I say. I say it really quiet. Timid, worried. She should reach across the desk and tell me that it’s all okay. But she doesn't. She only gives me that stiff look. Why is she looking at me that way? “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, Siren,” she says, after a moment, letting out a tight breath, reaching into her desk to pull something out. Not random fiddling this time. A form. “I’m going to make an appointment for you tomorrow to see Doctor Ink Blot. Do you remember him? He was the nice stallion who—”

“You’re sending me to the psychologist!?” I ask, and she flinches. She thought she could slip that past me but... why!? I didn’t do anything wrong! “I’m sorry, Ms. Spring Breeze. I can just pick a different story!” I say, but she ignores me. She never ignores me!

Why is she looking at me that way?

“Going to the doctor is not a punishment, Siren,” she says, but she’s lying and I can hear that she’s lying! I sound frightened—I’m tearing up! She should be rushing around her desk to give me a hug and tell me it’ll be okay and she’s just staring at me! “We only want to make sure you’re completely... alright.”

Rarity refills my teacup.

“It’s not true,” I whisper, looking at the table. There’s blood on it, dripping off of Rarity’s hooves. Is that mine? I don’t feel hurt. “They said I was normal.”

“I didn’t choose where you went, Siren,” Rarity says, shaking her head. “But tell me, is the story better that way?”

“That’s not the point,” I answer.

“What is the point?” she asks.

“It’s not okay to torment ponies for your own enjoyment,” I say, still looking at the table. I don’t think that blood is actually there. It drips and drips but never seems to pool or congeal. “Artistic works about happiness and friendship are just as meaningful as works about pain.”

“I suppose you would know,” Rarity agrees. “As the Princess’s student, you must have learned a great deal about the power of friendship.”

I don’t... I don’t want to...

“Show me,” Rarity orders. “Show me the truth, Siren.”

I pick up the cup.

“I just wish you’d be a little nicer to me!” Cirrus Cloud yells, and it’s a herculean effort not to roll my eyes. I mean, I manage it, of course—I’m good that way—but she can be so childish sometimes. I wish she’d be a little more mature, but for now, there’s nothing I can do but look sympathetic and worried. It’ll calm her down faster. Besides, satisfying as it might be to yell back, I’m the Princess’s student. I can’t be seen shouting in the palace halls like some spoiled noble’s foal.

“Cirrus...” I ask, leaning over to her. I reach a foreleg out, like I was going to put it over her shoulder, but then I stop, returning it to the ground. The hesitation fits my expression well enough—a little unsure, a little concerned. “When was I mean to you?”

“All the time!” she yells, petulant and angry, and I make myself look hurt. The things we go through for our friends. “You always take credit for everything I do, and we always do what you want! Letting the foals from the city come and see the empty parts of the palace was my idea, but everypony thinks it was your idea and that you’re just so sweet!” She actually sneers down at me as she finishes speaking, letting out a snort and turning her head away.

“I know that was your idea,” I say, pulling away a little, glancing at the floor. She leans towards me on impulse, a reflex I doubt she’s aware of. “And I told Princess Celestia it was your idea. Lots of times. You heard me say it.”

“It was the way you said it,” she insists, but she’s not yelling now. Instead, she’s trying to hold a glare, her stare flicking between me and the floor.

“Oh,” I say, quiet, still—weighty but flat. A short pause and scratching the back of my head with a hoof sells it, and I quietly ask, “How did I say it?”

“The same way you say everything! You always say things were my idea, but all the adults think you did it! And nothing is ever your fault! Ever!” She’s shouting again, but her voice is increasingly unsteady as she starts to realize how absurd she’s being. “You keep taking my stuff and not giving it back, and whenever we get into a fight about it, I end up apologizing to you! You... you say things and I get all tongue tied and somehow you’re always right!”

“I uh... I didn’t realize...” Eyes to the floor, ears folded back. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Cirrus. I asked if I could borrow your things, and I didn’t think you...” And trail off like so, half turn away, tail down, move to walk off but don’t actually take the step. “I’ll just bring them back.” Finish the motion, walk off down the hall, start down the steps, but before I can get out of sight...

“Siren, wait,” she says, stepping after me. Thank you, Cirrus, you almost missed your cue there. “Look I’m... I’m not really that mad. You just can’t keep taking advantage of me.”

“I didn’t know you thought I was!” I shoot back, and yeah, okay, it’s a little emotional for an argument in the palace halls, but it’s not like anypony is around right now. Besides, I sound hurt, not petty, and turning to face her with that intense, wide-eyed look really nails it. “How long have you felt this way?”

“It’s not—no, Siren,” she says, stepping after me. “Maybe taking advantage was too strong. But you... you kind of always get your way, you know? It’s tiring. I know I said you could borrow my things, but that doesn't mean I really want you to!”

Silence is the best answer to that, with a hint of reservation in the eyes. Confusion, hesitance, stiffness in the legs. Show her that I think that’s absurd, but of course, I couldn't possibly say that to her. Not when she’s so clearly distressed. “Just, sometimes ponies get badgered into things, you know? They agree to stuff when they don’t really mean it.”

“Oh,” I say, scuffing the stairs with a hoof. “I badger ponies?” Wait, beat of silence, speak right when she’s about to respond, “Do the others... I mean, does everypony think I’m...”

“No! Siren, no,” she says. Now she has her wing around me, trying to tug me over to her as I look away. “I’m... sorry I exaggerated. I was upset. You don’t badger ponies. But you’re... you know. Pretty and clever and nice. You make things sound good,” she says. Cirrus Cloud can be childish, but she always comes back to her senses soon enough. She’s a good friend that way. “Sometimes when you say stuff, I agree to it without thinking and regret it later.”

“You could tell me. Instead of letting it build up this way,” I say, and when she nudges me with her wing, I finally turn back to her. It’s a little awkward on the stairwell, but she makes the effort, and soon, we’re hugging.

“I will, Siren. I’m sorry. Let’s... let’s just put this behind us, okay?” she asks, forcing a smile onto her face.

“Yeah... hey. If you want more credit for things, I was supposed to meet Princess Celestia later. Why don’t you come with me?” I suggest. I’m a little hesitant, but when she looks at me, I smile back. “You can tell her what you learned about friendship. That always makes her happy.”

“Oh, Siren,” she says, a little embarrassed, looking down and shaking her head. “I couldn't do that. I know how much Princess Celestia’s approval means to you. You should—”

“No, Cirrus... really,” I say, tilting her chin up. “I mean it.” She smiles at me. Soft and warm. Dealing with Cirrus when she’s like this is frustrating, but it is nice when she comes back around.

Princess Celestia will be really happy when she hears I was able to teach one of my friends such a valuable friendship lesson.

“It’s not true,” I say, tears welling up in my eyes. Cirrus. I’d forgotten her. “It didn’t happen that way.”

“Was the vision inaccurate?” Rarity asks. She’s... wearing something. Glittering gold. But it won’t come into focus. Laurels rest on her head, of red and blue flowers. The decorations in the room are there, but it’s so hard to see them. I only see the walls. An empty, perfect, sterile box.

“That’s not the point,” I say.

“What is the point?” she asks.

“Everypony has moments of weakness. When they’re cruel or selfish or... or dishonest,” I say. “What matters is that they make things right. That they learn from what they did wrong and become a better pony.”

“Ah, and I suppose you did become a better pony after that. Learned from the experience,” Rarity says with a nod.

I don’t... no. I don’t want to. No! Not again! “Understanding comes upon us if we would wish it or not, Siren,” Rarity says, letting out a disapproving tut. My hooves move like I’m a puppet on strings. I’m trying to pull away, trying to press them flat, but my body jerks forward without me, forcing me down, forcing me to pick up the cup, my mouth craning open.

“Don’t make excuses, Luna!” Princess Celestia bellows. I’ve never heard her shout like that, never seen her lose her temper. She pulled Luna away, of course—told me to wait outside and went off to some private room. But it’s not private enough—not if you know the little places in the castle where sound pools and lurks. “Your behavior out there was outrageous! You’re the Princess of the Night, and you berated a child until she cried!”

“Perhaps she deserves to weep,” Luna answers, quiet and even. I can’t see her, but I know she’s scowling. I rub the tears off my cheeks. She always hated me. Her voice carries through the old stone to the little nook in the wall I’m curled up in. It’s outside, behind the rose bushes, but with a little magic, you can hear the entire south wing of the palace from here, clear as a bell.

“Luna, you—” Princess Celestia snaps, momentarily left at a loss for words. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” she finally yells, shock and anger running together in equal measure. “She meant well, Luna. Even if her gift was a bit personal, you’ve no right to—”

“Her gift did not offend me,” Luna says, cool and controlled tones cutting off her sister’s hot and quick words. “It was the most thoughtful gift I have received since my return to Equestria—a reminder of better times and sweet memories I had thought lost. I am angry, sister, because she did not have good intentions.”

“She wants you to like her, Luna!” Celestia insists. That’s right, I did! “She’s a very bright young filly and—”

“It is that intelligence that I fear, sister,” Luna answers smoothly. “Her cleverness is hard and unkind, a thing of cogs and springs steeped in an oily mix of arrogance and prejudice. You have given her the knowledge of compassion, but it has only made her cynical, and she used that knowledge against me today. I would not bow to her wishes, and so she shaped my memories into a weapon—a weakness she could exploit to destroy me.”

That... that’s not true! I just wanted something that would make her smile.

“For the stars’ sake, Luna!” Celestia shouts, exasperated at how stupid her sister is being! “It was a birthday gift! She’s only a child!”

“She’s only one pony,” Luna answers. Her tone is strange, like she was agreeing with Celestia. “What can she possibly do?”

Silence. I couldn't say what makes one silence different from another, but I can tell them apart. I can see Celestia step back, her hoof hitting the ground, her face flat. She’ll step up now! She’ll step up and start yelling and tell Luna she can’t talk about me that way! Luna can make up all the lies she likes—the Princess will never believe her!

“This isn’t like that,” Celestia answers. She’s no longer bellowing, and she sounds... uncertain. It’s not like what? It’s not like what, Princess?

“Do you question her ability?” Luna asks curtly.

“No, I—”

“Do you question her will?” Luna asks again.

“That’s not the point!” Celestia snaps, left on the defensive. What’s not the point, Princess?

“Given the right circumstances,” Luna says, slowly and carefully, “she’d kill Equestria just for the pleasure of watching it die.” What? Where is she getting this from? From a birthday gift? I can imagine Celestia’s face, wide and confused, wondering if her sister has gone insane. She’ll back out of the room now. Make her excuses. Go figure out what to do, that’s it!

Celestia says nothing for a while, drawing a breath. “I know.”

What?

“Yes, under the right circumstances, she could turn into a monster,” Celestia says. What? No, I couldn't! “But there are lots of ponies with the potential to do harm, if the circumstances were right. I cannot, I will not condemn any of my subjects for things they might do.” Her tone is firm, but her voice is shaky, uncertain. “I’d expect a pony with your history to understand.”

“It is because of my history you should listen to me! You could not believe that your own sister would turn against you, and all of Equestria nearly paid the ultimate price for your inaction! The crystal ponies endured a generation of slavery because you could not accept that the foal you knew would grow to become a tyrant. Equestria starved and burned because you refused to... to believe that...” Luna trails off, and I hear the rustle of feathers. Something happening between them. When she continues, her voice is gentler. “You love your little ponies too much. It blinds you to what they’re becoming.”

Celestia says nothing.

“Sister...” Princess Luna mutters, so quiet I have to cast the spell again. Why isn’t Princess Celestia saying anything!? “Siren is not Twilight. You’re not the only one who misses her, and you’re not the only one who bears the blame. I should have been there. I should have been by your side. But I was a fool and let myself be manipulated, and I did nothing as my kingdom burned. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish I’d acted differently. But Siren isn’t her. Cut her hair, dress her up, teach her to be a wizard, it will not bring back what you’ve lost. She doesn't deserve Twilight’s place.”

“I know,” Celestia says. W-what? “But I can’t keep Equestria safe by sacrificing what it stands for. I won’t, Luna. Siren deserves the same chance as anypony...”

Celestia is saying more, but I’m already running, out of the little nook, through the bushes, and off into the palace grounds, tears streaming down my face.

My stomach hurts so much, twisted into angry, painful knots. The room seems to be spinning, swaying back and forth. I can see Quick March by the door, but his uniform is gone—and his wings too, like he was an earth pony. Instead, he’s wearing a cloak made out of knives, long shards of jagged metal.

Rarity is different too. Her outfit is gone, and instead, her coat is a pure snow white, without a single blemish or cutie mark to be seen. It’s like staring at a glacier in the sun, an infinite sheet of white. Her hooves are made of silver, and come to a sharp, bloodied edge. She still wears her laurels of blue and red flowers, and something around her neck—a golden necklace.

A golden necklace with a bright purple stone in the middle, cut into the shape of a diamond. It looks old, and tarnished, and the gem in the middle is cracked.

“It’s not true,” I mutter, trying to stay up straight. So disoriented, so confused. What’s happening? “Luna hates me. She’d say anything about me!”

“But didn’t Celestia agree with her?” Rarity asks sweetly.

“That’s not the point!” I shout, grabbing my stomach with both hooves as a spasm passes through me, tears running in rivers down my face. “What’s happening to me?”

“You’re beginning to see things as they truly are,” Rarity says, gentle and sweet. “To perceive that which has been hidden from mundane senses.”

“What... what is that?” I ask, pointing at her necklace. I know what it is. But it can’t be!

“It’s the Element of Generosity, dear,” she says, tapping it with a hoof, silver on gold producing a clear ring.

“The Element of Generosity is in Canterlot! It’s sitting in a display case! I’ve seen it!” I shout, but Rarity only laughs.

“You saw a necklace with a purple stone in a display case, but how would you know if it was real?” she asks, smiling, amused by the thought. “This one though...” She reaches out to take my hoof, pressing it to the necklace. I can feel it pulse, hum with power. It’s like the subtle tension when I use my horn, but magnified a thousand times. Like feeling the shake of an oncoming train, like touching a dam and knowing the weight of the water behind it. “How does it feel?”

It... “It feels good,” I say, the pain in my stomach seeming to subside. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m getting old, Siren. Oh, I’ve a few good years left in me, but stress and mantles have been unkind to my health,” she says, brushing my hoof over the gold. “The time when I must pass this torch to another will be soon upon me. I’ve seen it in you, Siren. You can give the ponies of Vision the most wonderful gifts, bestowing meaning and beauty into their otherwise empty lives.”

“No... no. Celestia wouldn't want that,” I say, and Rarity slaps my hoof away. At once, the pain returns, doubling me over and leaving me on the floor, curled around myself in agony.

“Celestia this, Celestia that! What does Siren want?” she demands, leaning over the table. The lights around us seem harsher now, and every time they beat, they casts her face into long, dark shadows.

“I don’t know!” I scream.

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to know?” Rarity asks, yanking me up. “Seek the truth, Siren, and it will be revealed to you.” No no, please not again! “Show me what you desire most in the world!” Hot liquid rushes down my throat...

I don’t understand.

“Who’s there?” Green asks. She’s lying back on a hard table, held in place by thin wires that cut into her flesh whenever she struggles against them. There’s no room around her—just darkness in which lurking figures can be half-seen, half-heard, whispering to each other in the gloom. She is alone in the center of it all, her head fixed in a brace so she can only look straight up, directly into the spotlight that shines down upon her.

“It’s me, Green,” I say, leaning over her so she can see me. Her eyes are red, bloodshot and wild, but they focus on me. “I’m here.”

“Siren?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me. Her voice is weak, confused, but she focuses in on me. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” I say, shutting my eyes. Tears run down my face, burning my cheeks as they go, and my voice cracks when I try to speak. “I’m so sorry, Green. I should have listened to you. I should have listened.”

“Slow down, Sweetheart. What’s happening?” she asks. I can tell she’s tired, but she’s making herself listen. She wants to reach for me, but even that instinctive little motion cuts her, a fresh wave of blood running out onto the steel.

“Rarity... she’s...” I can’t say it. How can I say what she’s done without sounding like the weakest, most pathetic sort of creature? How can I say I betrayed my only friend? “I don’t know what to do, Green. I don’t know what to do. She made me drink this potion. I’m supposed to see what I want. I don’t know why it brought me here.”

“I don’t know what you want, Sweetheart,” Green says. She sounds so weary, shutting her eyes and stilling her body as she tries to gather enough strength to talk. “But if you drank anything Rarity gave you, what you need is to puke right now.”

“I’m serious, Green!” I shout. “She thinks I could be the next Element of Generosity! She... she wants me to take her place! She thinks I have it in me!”

“Come now, Sweetheart,” Green says, opening her eyes again, looking up at me. She’s trying to reassure me, forcing a calm little smile onto her face, under those bloodshot eyes. “Do you really think you’re a monster like—”

“YES!” I scream, voice ragged, starting to sob. “Yes, Green! I am! I am and she’s right!” I cry out, barely comprehensible. “I could be her! I could run this awful place and I’d enjoy it! I’d be beautiful and powerful and everypony would adore me or die! I want it, Green. It’s horrible but I want it,” I say, looking down at her.

“Help me,” I whisper, and my voice is as strong as glass. She’s strapped to the table, but I’m the one at her mercy, staring into her eyes, begging.

For a moment, Green stares back at me, not sure what to say. Then she lets her head fall back, looking up into the light. “You got it all backwards,” she says, drawing a weak breath, trying to stop the wires from cutting into her barrel. “Ponies don’t do terrible things because they’re monsters. They’re monsters because they do terrible things. I would know,” she says, shutting her eyes.

“It’s your choices that make you, Sweetheart. I’ll believe that you might be a little... screwed up in the head but... who cares?” she asks, with a derisive sneer, a snort of breath. “You’ve got a lot of bad habits to break, Siren. Starting with the idea that the universe gives a care what makes you happy.” She forces herself to draw a breath, wincing into the cuts. “You know what you need to do! You just wanted somepony to push you into it. Quit whining and do it!”

I don’t...

“NOW!”

I reach under the table. I find the spot where her restraints connect to the metal, and I slide them off. They come free with a loud pop, the wires going slack. My horn glows, a telekinetic nudge down my throat...

...and I twist over Rarity’s table, heaving as I puke up her awful tea. It comes up black, like tar, splattering on her china set and oozing over the table.

“You wretched little brat!” Rarity screams. I see motion, and then her hoof cracks into the side of my face. Pain courses through my jaw, and I go flying back to the floor, hitting the carpet hard. My vision is swimming, but the room and its inhabitants are back to normal. I can’t see the Element of Generosity anymore, but on the table, whatever I puked up hisses and spits like an angry serpent, corroding its way through the wood and sending up thick rolls of black smog.

“It’s my curse,” Rarity says with a sigh and a heavy shake of her head. “It’s my eternal curse!” she shouts, voice raising the more she talks, becoming more hysteric with every word. “I give, and I give, and I give, but for all my generosity, I’m surrounded by INGRATES!” she screams the word so loud her voice cracks, taking on a rough, scratchy quality. I try to crawl away, but her horn glows, and she picks me up like I was a child’s toy, hurling me into the wall. I hit hard, feel the wood smash into my sides. There’s a flash of pain, the wind knocked out of me as I crumple to the floor, my breath coming in sickly wheezes.

“I gave you understanding! Purpose! Meaning! Joy! I offered you freedom! I offered you happiness!” I try to get up, but her hoof connects with my face again before I can, smashing my head back against the wood. This time, the pain is sharp, my ears ringing as the room wobbles and spins. “I gave you everything!” she screams, lifting me up to look her in the eye.

“You...” I say. It’s hard to speak. Like my mouth was full of mud, slurring the words together. “Epiphany...”

“What? Her? She’s why you’re doing this!?” Rarity shouts. “If I hadn’t found her, she would have died in her little box, nameless and forgotten! Now, future generations will stare at her in wonder. If I hadn’t found her, she would have died small, and meek, and cowardly! Just another face in the crowd. I gave her strength. I gave her beauty! I gave her greatness! I bestowed upon her wonders she could never have imagined. I wrought perfection in this unworthy world!” she shouts, her voice screeching, her hoof slamming to the floor to emphasize her words. She stares at me, wide-eyed, nostrils flaring as she pants for breath.

“And you,” she says, her voice sinking to a growl. I try to lean away, but there’s nowhere to go, her magic holding me hard in place. “You. You gazed upon my works and knew them for what they were. I gave you more beauty than you will ever again behold. And you repaid me with treachery.”

I... didn’t... no...

“And for what? So you could go crawling back to Green! Like a kicked dog.” She spits the words out. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Aww, that poor misunderstood creature. She only wanted to escape Rarity. Who can blame her for doing what she needed to do to survive?’” Rarity says, mocking me with a high, nasal, whining tone. She snorts. “She slit a mare’s throat for getting better reviews than her. That’s your company. That’s who you’re siding with against the pony who gave you everything!”

I try to speak, try to say, but it’s like my mouth is full of glue. I can’t find the words, everything is just so fast, so loud, coming all at once. I’m sorry, Rarity!

“Do you think she’s going to save you? You stupid child! How do you think she escaped last time?” Rarity demands. “Waiting until I’m busy, getting some poor victim to hold my attention? Right now she’s running out the back and leaving you to die!”

No, no she wouldn't! She... she wouldn't. She...

“Do you even understand what you’ve done? Who you’ve spurned? The magnitude of your crime!?” Rarity shouts.

I... I just wanted to do the right thing. You do the right thing and it all works out! That’s how it’s supposed to work!

Gradually, Rarity stills. Her wild motions and sharp gestures slow, her yelling stopping as her breath comes in pants. Her wide eyes narrow, fixing me with her gaze as her muzzle twists into a sneer. “Beg for your life,” Rarity orders me. “Beg for your life you miserable stain, and maybe I won’t skin you alive and turn you into a coat!”

“Please don’t kill me,” I say, trying to pull away from her, trying to break her stare.

“What was that!?”

“Please don’t kill me!” I say, sobbing the words out, trying to get away from her. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do! “I want to live!”

“Too bad!” Rarity snarls, her horn shining. I can feel that same tension as when she fixed my shoulder, the knife point under my flesh, traveling all across my body.

A pony screams, a stallion. Rarity turns her head, looking to the sound. The door to her office crashes open, one of her orderlies flying through it. He’s dead, you can tell by how he lands, twisting up around himself and sprawling out over the floor. Quick March flares out his wings, turning to face the entrance.

“Green!” I cry out. She’s here! She’s going to save me! She’s... she’s limping and covered in blood and armed with one of the guard’s clubs and a broken bottle, but she’s here! She looks at Quick March, but fixes her gaze on Rarity.

“Leave her alone,” Green says, her hooves set apart, braced for action, her horn glowing. She’s going to fight for me!

“I can kill her from here,” Quick March says. There’s something off about his wings. They flex too much, and the feathers are too straight. When he flares his wings like that, they seem to come to points, bent at the tips. Green turns to face him, ready to fight, but Rarity... laughs.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she says, waving him off. “This is a pleasant surprise, Green. I didn’t think you cared.”

“I—”

“I did not say you could speak,” Rarity says, shaking her head, and Green falls silent, her jaw snapping shut with a click. “It’s actually good that you’re here though, Green. You can make some suggestions about just what I’m going to do to both of you. Now, I have been on a transmutative kick recently, but for the two of you, I was thinking of bringing back the table.” She claps her hooves together, so excited. “Do you remember the table, Green?”

I hear the faintest of gasps, and Green’s sides go still as she holds her breath. The glow fades from her horn, her weapons fall to the floor, and Rarity smiles. No, no. Green, no! You can take her!

“You do remember the table! Oh, those were some good times,” she says, with a lighthearted laugh. “Of course, surgical techniques have improved since then, but I still have my old scalpel collection.” She says it all sing-song, like it was an enticement. Green is trembling, her tail tucked up under her. “Remember all the fun we had there? You just wouldn't hold still no matter how much I yelled at you.” Rarity says with a cheerful little smile. Green’s trembles have turned into shaking, like she was shivering uncontrolably, shrinking back away from Rarity. “Do you want to go back to the table, Green?”

“N-no,” Green whispers. Her voice so quiet. Her ears are folded tight against her head, her body scrunched in around itself.

“Tell me what happens when you struggle, Green,” Rarity orders.

“Struggling makes it hurt,” Green whispers, her voice cracking. I hear a quiet thump below her. Tears hitting the carpet. The table, the wires... she... the whole time I left her there.

“Yes. Yes it does,” Rarity agrees, glancing back at me and... and smiling. Thinking of what’s to become of me. “Do you want it to hurt?”

“No, Rarity,” she whispers, with the faintest shake of her head. “No.”

“Well then, you’re in luck. Turn around, and leave the Pavilion, and I’ll spare you, Green,” she says with a chuckle. “I’m bored of you. Run back to Trixie.”

Green turns, takes a step towards the door. Then, she stops, turns back to Rarity, shaking like a leaf in the wind as she raises her head.

“No.”

For a moment, nopony says anything. Rarity looks up.

“What?” Rarity asks. She doesn't even seem offended. Just... confused, angry, and surprised. Staring at Green through narrow, disbelieving eyes.

“I said... no,” Green repeats, and she raises a trembling leg to point at me. “Trade. Siren for me.”

“A trade? And why would I make any sort of deal with you when I can kill both of you here and now?” she demands, giving Green her most incredulous look and flicking her gaze between the two of us.

“Because if I die, your first work is always a failure,” she says, forcing the words out, heavy and slow. “Your... legacy. All those future generations of foals cracking open books to read about you. And page one, picture one, is me. Always me. That’s what they’ll remember you by. And every time somepony praises your work, another will point at me and say, ‘Oh but she wasn’t always perfect.’”

“You’re unfixable, Green!” Rarity snaps, dropping me to the floor as Green wholly takes her attention. The carpet slams against my rear, and I crumple. “I tried to make you beautiful, but you always turned out wrong!”

Green looks at me for a moment. A long look. “Maybe she’s better than you.”

Rarity looks at Green. Looks at me.

Green, what are you doing?

I see it in her eyes. Just a moment before Rarity does. “No! Don’t!” I shout. But Green only looks at me, and shakes her head.

What starts as an “aaah” in Rarity’s throat soon builds to a high-pitched squeal, and she claps her hooves together like an overexcited school filly. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe this is happening! Oh, this is so perfectly beautifully tragic. The horrible monster redeems herself for the love of this sniveling little stain! I could have done better, granted”—she makes a little circular motion of her hoof, a wide and open gesture—“but it’s a first work. History will forgive me for that. Oh, yes! Unbroken record!” she grins, drawing a breath in between clenched teeth. “Deal.”

“What?” Quick March asks, quickly stepping away from Green. “Ms. Rarity, this... do we really have to? Surely the intent to do the right thing is enough. We don’t have to actually let Siren go! You can’t let her go after she—”

“Not now, Quick March!” Rarity snarls, and he backs away sharply, like from a dangerous animal. She turns her gaze back to Green and holds up two hooves as though to frame a shot. “Yes... yes. I’ll take it. Say goodbye, Green.”

Green doesn't look at me then. She looks at Rarity, shuts her eyes. “Goodbye.”

Rarity’s horn shines, and a brilliant blue beam lances out, striking Green in the chest. There’s a terrible whine, like cracking glass, and her flesh turns to crystal around the point of impact. At first, it’s like her coat is shimmering a bit, but then it spreads outwards, and outwards, through her body, down her legs, up to her head.

...It only takes a second. Maybe two. Then... she’s still. Glittering there, her last moment preserved forever.

She just looks so sad.

“Quick March, get rid of Siren,” Rarity orders, trotting up to Green and running a hoof down over her side, nuzzling against her stone-cold cheek. “Mmm. I need to go appreciate the moment.”

He quickly nods his head, trotting over to me. I try to pull away, but there’s a wall behind me, and then he’s grabbing me, dragging me through the halls. I’m shouting and screaming and dragging my hooves over the stone and ponies are staring but none of them help me! None of them help me. I feel open air above us, and we’re flying. Flying high over the concourse. Towards the main gates. Past the shops and the tram stations.

Then we’re past the gate, and he drops me, still in the air. I try to land on my hooves, but my legs go stiff on impact and crumple under me. I come down at an angle, my shoulder slamming into the white stone. My head hits the floor, and pain runs through me, coursing all up and down my side.

“I trusted you. She trusted you, you cowering little parasite,” he snarls. He doesn’t land, hovering above me. For a second, he seems to debate killing me anyway, his feathers flexing in that unnatural way as he glares down at me. Finally, he just snorts. “I hope security rapes you.” A sharp flap of his wings carries him off, back over the gates. I’m able to push myself up, and I turn to watch him go. I watch him through the bars of the wide gates until he’s lost to sight, and the concourse is empty again.

It’s quiet.

Generosity

Dear Princess Celestia,

This will be my final letter. I know that you don’t like it when ponies say or swear things in your name, but please do not be offended. I know you can’t actually hear me—this is just something I need to say. I’d like to think you’re wise enough that you’ll know what I would have said if I’d had the chance. Your version will probably be more elegant than the real thing anyway.

Lights.

There is no sun in Vision, no stars. No sky to keep the time. Only the lights. Even the clocks tick to that pattern. I never noticed it before, but every time the lights beat, the clocks tick. There’s a clock in the concourse where the Rainbow Tram comes in, and one over the hospital’s doors, and another over the main gates. I can hear them ticking, all of them ticking at once, every time the lights hum and cycle.

But the lights aren’t quite regular are they? I think each cycle is about a second, but the beat isn’t exactly the same length every time. I can hear it. Humm, tick. Humm, tick. Humm, tick. Humtick. There! That one came faster than the others! In fact, I don’t even think any of the beats are the same length. If the clocks keep time with the lights, then they can’t keep time at all. They must be terribly inaccurate.

But... as long as all the clocks say the same thing, does that matter?

No, no! Of course it matters! I mean, is a day in Vision even a day on the surface? Could noon here be midnight up there? Is the day here even the same length? Could the days run fast or slow depending on the lights’ speed on that particular day? Is that why sometimes things here come so fast, and sometimes they drag on forever? I bet that’s it. That’s why! I can hear it. I should have known it before—with that irritating pounding in my ears and the sound of my own breath. I should have realized how messed up time here was! Always coming too fast!

I mean, it would make sense, wouldn't it? That’s why nothing here seems right—things are getting moved around while I’m not looking! I go into my room, which has no clock and I don’t think that’s a coincidence, and all the other clocks in the city can do whatever they like and I’m none the wiser! Clocks speeding up and slowing down to ensure I never get a second’s rest. Events getting shifted around so I always look bad. This city is alive and it hates me and it’s had it out for me ever since I showed up!

That’s it, isn’t it? The city is some sort of evil supernatural being, and it’s torturing me for fun! Or this is a nightmare and somepony has cursed me not to wake up. That’s not crazy! That’s the only thing that explains why everything here is out to get me. Why everything here exists to prove me wrong and hurt me. Why everything here exists to make it all my fault! Which it’s not! I did everything I could. I just can’t think with this stupid noise and the pounding in my ears and the clocks and the lights always thump humm buzz tick tock! Constantly noise, pushing in until I feel like I can’t even get a breath. Is a little quiet so much to ask for!?

Well it’s not! It’s not! It’s not! It’s a trick and I’m not going to fall for it. Just because this place can move things around and change the scenery doesn’t make it true. It didn’t happen that way! I did everything I could to help! I did and this city is trying to frame me because it hates me and it wants to make it all my fault and—

“See?” A mare says. “I told you we wouldn't be the first ones in line.”

What?

I can’t breathe. The world is a blur, a confused, jumbled mess, but I know I can’t breathe. I’m hyperventilating, my barrel so tight my breaths are coming as quick, shallow pants. I try to put a hoof to my chest, but I’m rooted to the spot. I can’t see. Only hear. Only that noise. Thump humm buzz tick tock! Thump humm buzz tick tock! The lights and the clocks and what is that pounding?

Oh, it’s my heart.

“It’s three in the morning! They don’t even open for four hours,” another mare says, exasperated. “I bet she’s not even here for that.”

Slow down, Siren. Slow down. Deep breaths, steady breaths. I can’t do it—I can’t draw a full breath—but I manage to slow down. Thump humm buzz tick tock! Thump humm buzz tick tock! Be quiet! Other sounds now. Dripping water. Running water. And something in front of me. Silver? No, steel. Steel bars. Like a prison cell.

The first voice is speaking again. But it’s so muted, so distant. Something about me? “Look, we’ll ask. Hey! Excuse me? Hey!” A pause, the sound of hooves on stone. “Excuse me, is this where you get in line for the morning opening?”

Steel bars, decorated with silver and gold finish. Not a prison cell, a gate. Beyond it, a waterfall, circling levels of white stone, tram rails, windows above it all. Rarity’s office. Why isn’t the window broken? The glass from the window should be broken where Green... Where she...

“Uh? Hello?” that voice again. Directly to my left. “Um, excuse me? Hi? Yoo-hoo?”

I turn my head. There’s a mare in front of me. Garish pink, with an electric blue mane. She’s in a corridor. A hallway.

“Uh... hi,” the pink one says, leaning away from me. “Um... is this the line for the Pavilion main opening?” Pink. I think that’s important for some reason. There was something about that. “Like, for the morning? I know it’s crazy early, but we won tickets in a raffle, and I heard that by five the line is—”

“Glitter, back away slowly.” Another voice. I turn my head. An earth pony mare, russet, with saddlebags. “Glitter!”

“Okay, okay!” The pink one scrambles away, taking a few quick steps back from me. Then they just stare at me. There’s something... about that. I look back at the gates. Steel bars, and a roaring waterfall on the other side, and a verdigrised sign above it: Carousel Medical Pavilion. “I was only... yeah.”

I can see the clock above the gates. Three-seventeen. That can’t be right. Can it? It seems to be moving so slowly.

“Should we... call somepony?” The pink one is talking again. “I mean, she might not be an addict. I don’t see any extra cutie marks.”

“Her hair is falling out, Glitter,” says the russet one. That’s not true, is it? The hair grew back on my sides, didn’t it? Or did I imagine that? I think that happened.

“Oh, yeah...” The pink one. I look down at my ankles. They’re still bare. Maybe I did imagine that. Things don’t make much sense right now, but that seems straightforward. My ankles are still bare, so I imagined my hair growing back. I look at the clock. Three-nineteen. That didn’t feel like two full minutes. “Do you think she can hear us?”

“I don’t think so.” The brown one, in the edge of my vision. “Rider’s ghost. Look at her eyes. It’s like looking at a statue.”

What am I doing here? I remember this.

I’m here because Quick March left me here. Because I didn’t stop Rarity. Because I’m sitting outside the Pavilion gates.

“That’s too creepy.” The pink one, shaking her head. “I don’t want to wait here if she’s going to be staring at us all night like that. Excuse me! Officer! I think there’s something wrong with this mare!” Security. Something about me, and security, and sitting outside the Pavilion gates. Something important. Something I’m supposed to be doing.

A hoof on my shoulder. A black uniform. “Ma’am? I’m going to need to ask you to come with me.”

Oh, right. I’m supposed to be running for my life.

I met a pony who knew you once, and we spoke of you. She said that you were a great craftspony and admired your skill, but said that your work was fundamentally flawed—that you tried to make me into something that I’m not, and learned that no amount of sculpting will change the nature of the clay. She said it to make fun of you, but I think it’s sweet. You must have known that you would not succeed, but you had to try. And you did try, not cynically or bitterly, but honestly. You wanted to think it would work, even if you knew better.

There are many ponies here who would call what you did foolish, but I don’t think so. Recent events have caused me to think about the nature of good and evil, and I think that good is doing the right thing even when it won’t make a difference. You taught me that, though it took me a while to grasp the lesson.

The floor of the train is cold and hard, covered in little bumps and dents that dig into you when you sit. The car rocks back and forth as it moves, and its wheels click against the tracks in a steady pattern. It’s a little thing, meant to carry a few ponies, and there’s nothing in it but me, Echo, some medical supplies, and a few folded blankets. He looks tired, his mane a mess, and I can smell the cheap liquor on his breath when he coughs and wheezes. It’s strong enough to overpower even the smell of his cigarette—like a miasmic cloud.

“On our way then, Ms. Song,” he says, leaning back from the controls to sit on the ground. He pulls out his flask, taking another long swig from it. “I must admit, it was a very clever strategy you employed there, sitting right outside Rarity’s home base. Her enforcers would never have seen it coming.” He chuckles, shaking his head, but I don’t laugh with him.

It’s cold, so I wrap myself up in one of the blankets.

For a while, I just sit there. Echo leaves me alone, sitting at the controls and occasionally taking a drink. I don’t do much—shiver a little until I warm up. I guess I should cry or something, but I don’t feel like it.

I don’t... I don’t understand.

Why?

She never... I didn’t... I wasn’t that nice to her! Not even when we were together! I spat in her face and told her that Rarity’s younger, prettier creation was my new friend, so she could go die in a hospital bed. I ignored her warnings and trapped her in the Pavilion! I sold her out to... for...

Why?

It’s not like she was a saint! It’s not like she was the kind of pony who would leap into harm’s way for a stranger! She was a hired killer. She was a vain, petty, washed-up has-been who blamed everypony else for her failings. She was a vicious drug addict who spent all her time looking for her next fix. She was a compulsive liar who betrayed an ally who trusted her, and then left them to die to save her own skin. The closest thing she ever had to a friend was a stallion who she never knew but just decided she loved! She was a bad pony!

So why did she do it?

It’s not like I’d earned it. I was the one who gave her trouble in the first place! If I just hadn’t panicked when she killed that mugger. If I just hadn’t run away from her and Berry. If I just hadn’t thrown myself off that bridge, or ignored her warnings about Rarity, or... or...

Or... gotten Golden Palm to accept a gift from a criminal. Or been such a witch to Swiftwing that she kicked me out. Or been so stupid as to sleep in the office of a doctor I knew might be a spy.

Or just stood there as Rarity petrified her.

I can feel my eyes starting to fill with tears, my throat so tight I can hardly breathe. It...

It’s all my fault, isn’t it?

All of it.

What did I think? What did I think when I saw this city? That Celestia somehow didn’t notice that many ponies vanishing from Equestria? That she redacted the official records of what happened for fun? That she concealed the downfall of the Elements of Harmony because...

Because she knew. She always knew. That’s why Trixie wasn’t afraid to ransom me back. Celestia was never going to ride to save the city. There was never anything at stake but me and the ponies around me.

Two dozen on the ship, drowned or burned. Quick Bit, stabbed. Golden Palm, hanged. Berry, hanged. Epiphany, petrified. Green, petrified. All because I wanted the Princess to love me. Because I wanted to be special like Twilight was special.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice rough and ragged. “I’m so sorry.” Echo doesn’t respond of course, just glancing back at me, wondering what I’m talking about. He doesn’t care. Nopony cares—it’s just me, crying to myself, alone. Because everypony who wanted to help me is...

“I didn’t mean it,” I whisper. There’s no answer—not from Echo, not from anypony.

Why should there be? It’s a lie. I wasn’t tricked. I knew all along. Trixie asked me outright, the moment we first spoke. “Are you willing to die for Celestia’s principles?” And I said no. I said no. And now twenty-nine ponies are dead because of me. Because I...

Because I should have said yes. Because I’m a cowardly, selfish, petty creature. Because Luna was right about me. Because I should have died.

Because I deserve it.

There’s so much about you I don’t understand. I suppose that’s reasonable. You’re thousands of years old—you can have a few secrets from a seventeen-year-old mare, but there are some things I still wish I had the chance to ask. Why did you pick me that day in the orphanage? Did you just think I was the prettiest, and later you figured out what I am? Did you know all along, and you thought you could fix me? When I was a foal and asked you why you took me as a student, you told me that I was going to change the world, that I was destined to do great things. I wish I knew what you meant.

“Well then?” Echo asks, breifly glancing back at me with a short, tight frown. I don’t understand. What does he expect me to do? I stare at him dumbly, and he clarifies, “What are you so sorry for?”

“A-a lot of things.” That he won’t care about. He’s supposed to understand that I feel bad Golden Palm is dead? He’s the one who hanged him! I just look at the floor. “What happened with Rarity, I guess.”

That makes him chuckle. “I must admit, Ms. Song, I was surprised when I got Trixie’s wire.” He’s smiling, lazily gazing out of the train’s window slit, like some amusing thought had come to him. “A lot of pretty mares go into the Pavilion, but not a lot come out. I’d written you off as dead.”

“Yeah, I...” I say. Before I can finish though, a thought occurs to me, and I lift my head up. “Wait... you... you know? You know what Rarity does? What she is?”

“Once upon a time, Ms. Song, it was my job to know,” he says, pausing to take another hit off his flask. “You think I’m some half-wit thug who’s only good for roughing up troublemakers? You think I don’t notice a whole bunch of missing pony reports, all tied together?” His smile vanishes, twisting down into a frown. “I ran these streets, Ms. Song. You so much as thought the wrong thing”—he taps his chest with a hoof—“I knew about it. And I’d hang you for it too.” He snorts. “Of course I know,” he spits the words out, his face tight and body still.

“Then again,” he continues, almost conversational, “you’d know more about the details then me. I hear you’re quite the artist.” He finally turns back to look at me head on. His expression is contemptuous—a sneer that doesn’t care enough to be a proper glare, like I wasn’t worth it. “I hate artists.”

“Does everypony know? Do—”

“Then again!” he raises his voice to talk right over me. “I might be biased by the number of artists in this city who turned out to be serial killers. I don’t like serial killers either,” he says, his voice’s volume meandering up and down unsteadily. He takes another drink. “Are you a serial killer, Ms. Song? Is that why Rarity let you go? Professional courtesy?”

“N-no!” I say, my voice cracking. “No! I didn’t know! I didn’t know what she was doing! I swear I...” I what? I meant well? “I didn’t know.”

“S’ too bad,” he says with a snort, turning back to the window. “Things would have been a lot simpler if you were a serial killer.” What? What would have been simpler? Me and Rarity? “How’d you find out?”

“She... she petrified Epip... one of the models. She told me I could be her protege if I’d help her with a project. But I didn’t realize...” What? That she was going to kill them? No, I just thought she was going to manipulate and abuse them. That’s so much better.

“What? That she was off her rocker?” Echo asks, not bothering to turn back to me. “That she had a few screws loose? That she wasn’t playing with a full deck? There were no little hints along the way that all was not right here?” His voice picks up the more he talks, words coming faster and louder. “It didn’t—I don’t know—set off any alarm bells that she collects scalpels? That ponies pee themselves with fear when she passes?” By now he’s shouting, and he finally turns to glare back at me. “The three-hour sessions cuddling her statues and making cooing sounds didn’t unnerve you a little!?”

It... it wasn’t. I...

“You want me to answer your question, Ms. Song?” he asks, glowering down at me. “You really want the answer?” I don’t... “Yes. Yes, everypony knows. Everypony in the entire city knows that Rarity is an axe murderer. Every. Single. One. And you know why that doesn’t matter? Because they’re all like you. They all want something from her, so they pretend they can’t see it. And then when she’s done with them, they end up in her special pieces.” He stage-whispers the last two words, drawing them out and shaking his head. “Oh, but not you, it seems. She liked you.”

I... I didn’t... it wasn’t...

“Rider’s ghost,” Echo snaps, rolling his eyes as I start to tear up, my throat burning. “Because what I really needed to make this day complete was to listen to you bawling like a foal with a skinned knee!” I shouldn’t be crying, I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop. I try to keep it in, I try! But all it does is make my throat hurt, hot tears running down my cheeks and falling to the floor. Echo pulls out another cigarette and a spark lighter from a pocket—one of those big ones with the lever so you can operate it by hoof. He presses the lever again and again, but all it does it make a grinding sound.

“Will you shut up!?” he bellows, throwing the lighter at me from across the cabin. I flinch, but it misses me completely, slamming into the wall behind me. “Keep quiet!” I don’t say anything, curling up into a ball and tugging the blanket tighter around me, trying to be quiet like he said. I can’t keep completely silent though, shuddering and sniffling. Echo is so mad.

I don’t suppose it matters much, but I forgive you for lying to me. About Vision, I mean, and what happened to Twilight. You were only trying to keep me away from all of this. It would have worked too, but you’re a terrible liar. No matter how many thousands of years of practice you have, you instinctively don’t like it. You have an honest soul, Princess. I know you think you do well when you and Luna play cards, but trust me, she’s letting you win.

“What happened to Green?” Echo asks abruptly, breaking the silence. I’ve been trying to sit here quietly, to stop sniffling, and he’s been doing his best to ignore me, but now he blurts the words out. “She was captured too, right?”

I look up, sniffling a little, my nose full of snot and my eyes burning. “Y-yeah,” I say, nodding. “Rarity turned her to stone. She... she’s how I got out. She sacrificed herself to save me.”

He tries to take another draw off his cigarette before remembering it isn’t lit, spitting it out sharply. For a little while, he doesn’t say anything, just staring out the window. It isn’t lazy like before though—his body is tense, ears up, tail twitching back and forth. “That’s too bad,” he finally says. “I liked her.”

“You had a funny way of showing it,” I snap, bitterness running into my tone. He ignores me.

“She was hot.” He shrugs. “And she was old school—for Sine and the City and all that. Paid the doctor who treated her when she didn’t have to. Believed in stuff. Crazy, but she seemed like the sort of mare I could hang out with after we did it. I could be, you know... Classy.”

“I’m sure you can find a whore who looks like her,” I say. He whirls on the spot, turning to stare back at me, his muzzle twisted into a snarl.

“Think that’s funny, Ms. Song? You know what else would be funny?” he asks, and when he flexes his ankle, the knife snaps out of his hoof device. “If I just killed you, here and now. If after all this political squabbling, all this drama, you ended up dead in a drainpipe because you couldn’t shut your mouth!”

“So do it then!” I shout back, tears forming in my eyes. Of course, he hesitates. “What, are you all talk? Is that knife for gesturing? Big scary soldier can’t actually go through with it? Do it!”

“You got a death wish, Ms. Song?” he asks, tilting his head and looking at me, evaluating me.

“Yes!” I yell, tossing off the blanket, standing up and glaring back at him. “Because it should have been me! I should have sacrificed myself for her! All I’ve done since I got here is get ponies killed. I should be dead! I don’t deserve to be here.”

“That’s right, you don’t.” He snorts, putting the knife away. Do it! “Know why? Because if she were here, and you were petrified, I don’t think she’d be sitting there crying to herself. She’d be thinking about how to get you out of there.” What? “I mean, I may not have a magic bone sticking out of my forehead, but I distinctly recall stories about ponies getting un-turned to stone. Petrification is something you can get better from, right?”

“It’s...” No. It doesn’t... “It’s not like that. Rarity has a special spell, that freezes—”

“You’re right,” he says, with a contemptuous roll of his eyes. “Rarity is the greatest wizard who ever lived and there’s no way to counter her spells. Nevermind.”

“It’s not like that!” I shout. It’s not! It’s not! “She has dark powers! She’s in an unassailable fortress with an army of guards! There’s nothing I can do!”

“So kill yourself then,” Echo snaps back. A bell starts to ring inside the control panel, and he turns back to it. “You’ve got two good knives. Do it. Get it over with.”

I look at the knives on my belt. I’m... I mean...

I pull the knife out of its sheath. It’s a good knife, strong and solid and sharp. I’ve seen Green use it before. It cuts through flesh quickly, cleanly. I don’t think I need to be strong to use it. Do I use the point or... no. Green always used the edge.

Echo is watching me as I levitate it up to my throat. It’s cold, and I can feel the edge against my neck—my flesh pressing into it a little every time my heart beats.

I just need to... just need to do it. Make it all right. Make things the way they should have been! Just... use the knife. Just do it. I’m holding the knife so hard it’s trembling, shaking against my coat. Do it, Siren. Do it! Do it! Do it you miserable stain!

The blade is shaking so hard that it catches me before I even try to move it. Easily slicing through the skin—

The knife hits the floor with a clatter. My throat! I cut my throat open! I press a hoof to my neck to stop the bleeding, but it’s not working! It hurts and I can feel the blood coming out and running down my ankle. I’m gonna die! I’m—

“Oh please.” Echo rolls his eyes. He reaches out and shoves my hoof away with a leg, his ankle pushing my chin up. He takes a moment to inspect the wound, and then snorts. “I’ve seen papercuts worse than that. You’ll be fine.” He gives me a little shove back as he lets me go.

I reach up. To my neck again. Touch the cut. Stare down at my hoof. It’s only a few drops of blood there. Only a few drops.

“I...” I say, putting my hoof back down. “Killing myself wouldn't have... b-brought Green back. It—”

“As if you were thinking about her,” Echo says with a snort. Our train’s deceleration is becoming more noticeable, the clicking of the tracks slowing. “If you actually cared about your friend at all, you’d have asked me if there was a way to save her instead of just focusing on your own self-pity. Rarity is a tough customer, but she’s not invulnerable. Back in the day, it was part of my job to have to plan to take her out if Rainbow Dash ever asked. Her fortress isn’t as unassailable as she thinks.” He takes another drink, and when he lowers the flask, he’s grinning. “The funny part, though, is that none of that makes a difference. Green could be guarded by a retarded mule and walls made of tissue paper; it wouldn't matter. The problem isn’t Rarity—it’s you.” He looks back at me for a moment, and snorts. “Can’t even take the coward’s way out.”

“If you’re so tough, why don’t you save her!?” I shout, but my voice is unsteady, pitch wavering up and down. He laughs, a dark, grim sound. As he does, the train comes to a stop, jerking back before finally going still.

“I didn’t like her that much,” he says, putting the flask away. “Let’s go.”

One thing that does puzzle me though—why does this city exist? If I was able to find it, you must know about it, and I can’t imagine you doing nothing while ponies suffer this way. Is there some reason beyond my understanding that this place has to exist? Or is there something that prevents you from intervening? There’s a phrase they have here, that the sun doesn't shine in Vision. Does that refer to the sun literally? Or is there something that keeps this place beyond your power? I asked a pony here, but they didn’t know.

“Brought the whole gang with you, I see!” Echo shouts as he drags me off the train, yanking me forward and making me stumble to the floor. We’re in a hallway of some kind, full of abandoned shops and streams of seawater that run around our hooves. There’s another set of rails on the other side of the road, and another train resting on them—eight ponies standing around it. One of the ponies lurking in the back catches my eye, a purple earth pony with...

Berry? She’s alive? She’s alive!? “I assume they’re all here to just... welcome Siren home,” Echo says, with a drunken, rolling cadence.

“Yes,” Berry says, with those same, dead tones. “We should—”

“Actually, Ms. Punch,” Echo corrects her, sliding a leg around my neck to hold me in place. With a twist of his ankle, the blade snaps out of his hoof weapon, held against my neck. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to take my money now and go.”

“The deal was to bring Siren all the way to Neptune’s Bounty,” Berry points out. She sounds indifferent to my fate, but the ponies with her seem worried, alert, focusing their eyes on Echo. Of course they are. That’s a good amount of money he’s got hostage there. I should do it. I should jerk my head forward onto the knife. I should!

But I can’t.

“While that is true, Ms. Punch,” Echo says, his tone lazy and meandering, “I can’t help but feel that I’ve outlived my usefulness to Trixie at this point. So I’m going to take the money now and be on my way.”

“Siren first,” Berry says. I can see the other ponies spreading out. Two pegasi lifting off the ground, the unicorns leveling their horns at him.

“And how’s Trixie going to take it if you get Siren killed!?” he shouts, giving me another whiff of his foul breath.

“Trixie trusts my judgement,” Berry says plainly, Echo glancing left and right as the others spread out around him.

“Not that much she doesn’t,” Echo sneers, tightening his stance. He pulls me against him, but... something’s wrong. He’s keeping my flank away from him, the wing that’s hidden by my body moving, shifting to touch something. “Now, here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to give me my money, now. Whatever you ha—” There’s no warning, no pause in his speech. He yanks something on his pack, there’s a loud twang, and suddenly, one of the earth ponies across from us has a feathered shaft sticking out of his neck. Echo is moving while the others are frozen in shock. He shoves me aside and spreads his wings. I go flying, crashing hard into the stone.

“Blast him!” somepony shouts. My eyes come open just in time to see Echo leave the ground, a blazing bolt of orange fire racing through the space where he stood. It strikes our train and lets out a brilliant flash, flames rushing up the side of the metal. Water splashes, hisses, boiling droplets flying through the air.

Landing on me. Running down through my coat. Hitting my ankles. Boiling water.

I shriek. I scream. It’s all around me! Currents, rivers, pools of it all, boiling water and fire and markers screaming! I can hear it all—fire, shouting, yelling, just like before! Something moves in the corner of my vision, blue and bright, and I instinctively duck. It crackles above me, making my mane puff up, hairs on end. I need to get out of here!

I’m on my hooves then, running, leaping over the water, trying to get away, get up, but I don’t see any stairs! Why aren’t there any stairs!? I make for the first door I see, crashing in through the front. Dust and a countertop and old clothes on stands. I run past it all, into the back, into the storeroom behind the counter. There’s nothing there, just shelves and piles of junk and an old phonograph on a table. Dead end! I slam the door behind me, holding it shut as tight as I can.

Behind me, there’s a noise. A scratch. Somepony’s in here with me.

“Hello, everypony.” Rarity.

I scream at the top of my lungs, turning around so quick and so hard I lose my balance. I try to catch myself, but my legs twist under me and send me falling to the floor! She’s here. She’s here and she’s going to kill me! “I’m sorry!” I bellow, pulling my hooves in over my head and curling up into a ball. “I’m sorry, Rarity! I’m so sorry! Please don’t! Please!”

“—Recent events, but I can assure you, the city council is doing everything in its power to resolve the crisis,” she says calmly. “All of our available resources are being put to finding a cure for poison joke addiction, and until a permanent solution can be found, we will be instituting an aggressive recycling program to ensure the city has a sufficient supply.” What? What is she talking about? I crack my eye open, slowly tilting my head up. The phonograph.

It’s a recording. “More details will be available in the coming weeks—” It’s a recording. “—but I can also tell you that we are taking measures to protect ponies from irresponsible alchemy.” I’m sitting on the floor, curled into a ball, shivering in fear of a recording. “Henceforth, doctors or alchemists working with Poison Joke will be required to obtain a license...”

My hoof connects with the phonograph, taking it clear off the table and sending it crashing to the floor. Somehow, the record keeps turning, the needle swinging down to another section. “Ek—ta—sit—king back. While we may wish we’d done things differently, we must look to the future and—”

“Shut up!” I scream, hitting the case as hard I can. The needle finally swings away completely, the record popping off the spindle as the phonograph rocks in place. “I hate you! I hate you!” I yell, over and over again, driving my hooves down until the phonograph is nothing but splinters, and the record is in a thousand pieces on the floor. I swing until I’m pounding wood chips, hitting it again and again until my muscles start to burn, until my throat is raw from yelling.

“I hate you!” I scream, my voice wavering. “I hate you, you stupid, cowardly...”

Then I curl up in the corner and cry, like the useless foal I am.

I always knew that I caused you pain, Princess, but I don’t think I ever understood why until now. I thought it was because I did the wrong thing—because I was petty or vain or cruel. But that was never why. I hurt you because the only reason those things bothered me is because they bothered you. I never cared myself. I understand now.

I go stiff when the door handle turns, ready for a fight, but it’s Berry. She sticks her head in, turning left and right until she sees me. Her mane is singed in places, and the smell of smoke rolls off her. “H-hi,” I say to her, not sure what else to say, trembling and pulling away as she comes close.

“You are uninjured?” she asks in her level, dead voice, leaning over to inspect me carefully, particularly my throat. She has a different set of saddlebags than before. I guess security took her old pair. Funny the things you notice when... when... yeah.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Yeah, I’m fine.” After a moment, I add, “I’m sorry I didn’t save you from security, Berry. I’m... I’m sorry, I—”

“I am used to it,” Berry says plainly. “Let’s go.”

She gestures me up, and I rise, letting her lead me back outside. Echo’s train is still red-hot in places, but the fires have gone out. I don’t see him anywhere. The whole hall smells like smoke and ozone, and there are two dead ponies on the floor: the earth pony, still with that crossbow bolt sticking out of his neck, and one of the pegasi. It takes me a second to even figure out that it’s a corpse. He’s unrecognizable, his coat and feathers burned right off him, his flesh cracked and split open like dry earth. Something is oozing out of the burns, forming a stagnant pool under him, dripping like...

One of the other ponies grabs me when I start to puke. There’s nothing to come up, and I dry-heave as he holds me. “Put her on the train,” Berry orders. “Security will be here soon.” I’m still heaving when two of them take me and haul me through the air like a sack of grain. They toss me in through the cargo door, and the rest pile in after. I’m still curled up, clutching my gut as pain shoots through it. Then the door shuts, and we’re moving.

Eventually, my stomach stops convulsing, the pain lessens, and I’m able to uncurl, to open my eyes. There are other ponies there, filling up the train, but they only stand there quietly. Nopony talks, and they’re all tense, worried. All of them but Berry anyway. She’s as flat as ever, sitting by my side, watching me.

“Berry,” I say. “Green isn’t dead. Rarity petrified her.” Berry doesn’t say anything. “She sacrificed herself to get me out of the Pavilion, but Trixie can still save her.” Still, Berry says nothing, just watching me with those cold eyes. “Do... do you think Trixie will?”

“No,” Berry says.

We ride like that for a long time. In silence, I mean. I just lie there on the floor. Eventually, the light outside the window slit changes. From white to red to blue. The sound of the wheels on the tracks shifts, becoming smoother and quieter. The ponies around me relax, and slowly, the train comes to a halt. I sit up, as outside, somepony pulls the door open for us, and light floods in.

There’s a sign, long neglected, corroded and loose in its brace, done up all in steel. “Welcome to Neptune’s Bounty.”

I know if you were here, you’d tell me that it didn’t matter, that I was forgiven. You’d tell me to come home, that it would all be okay. You’re nice like that. It’s not true though. Rarity told me something else. She said I wasn’t one of you, and it’s true. Even if I came back, Equestria can never be my home again. I don’t deserve it. This is what I have to do.

My quarters are plain: a bed, a desk, a lamp, and not much else. The walls are unfinished stone, dirty and leaking, and there’s a shimmer of oil in the water. I don’t think Trixie expects me to be here very long.

“You will remain here until the submarine is ready to depart,” Berry says. It’s clear she does not intend to leave, sitting right inside the door and looking straight at me. It’s more like a prison than a room.

I sit down on the bed and fold my legs under me. The old springs creak with my weight. “Berry?” I ask. “Why doesn’t Princess Celestia save this city?”

Berry shrugs.

“She must know about it,” I say quietly, staring at the floor. “That thing everypony says—about how the sun doesn’t shine here. Is there really some reason Princess Celestia can’t help us? Can’t help you?” Berry shrugs again.

“I think that must be it. She... she would help you if she could. All of you. She’s like that,” I say, so quiet I’m almost whispering. “Berry, you said I wasn’t the kind of pony you were expecting when you heard I was the Princess's student. Was that because you knew Twilight?”

“Yes,” Berry says.

“Was she a hero?” I ask. “I mean... a good pony.”

“Yes,” Berry says.

“I wish I was that sort of pony, Berry,” I whisper, eyes still downcast. “I wish I was, but I’m not. I’m weak, and I’m selfish, and I’m afraid. I’ve gotten ponies killed, Berry. I’ve lied and been cruel and I betrayed you. I left you to die.” Berry says nothing. “Do you... hate me for that?”

“I am incapable of hatred,” Berry answers plainly. “You are what you are. To expect you to behave in a manner contrary to your nature and previously established behavior would be irrational.”

“Is it that simple?” I ask, looking up at her. At her dead eyes. “Ponies act as it is their nature to act?”

“As opposed to what?” she asks, flat as ever.

“Free will,” I say. But it sounds silly even to me, and my voice falters before I can finish. Berry doesn’t answer. That was pretty stupid, I guess.

“Berry, before... you found me,” I say, slowly, “Echo said that there’s a weakness in Rarity’s fortress. That she isn’t as invulnerable as she thinks she is.”

“Echo is a drunk, as well as a disgraced officer prone to exaggerating his own importance,” Berry answers. “His testimony is dubious at best.”

“But... he knew private things about Rarity,” I say, running through our conversation in my head. “He knew she had a scalpel collection. And he knew her statues were petrified models—he made a crack about it.”

“That is not conclusive,” Berry says directly.

“I know. But... do you think it’s possible?” I ask, lifting my head a little. Sitting up.

“It is possible,” she concedes. “But very unlikely. Even if the weakness existed when Echo held a significant command, it may have been repaired since then. Further, a security officer planning to attack the Pavilion would expect to have City Central Security on his side. As it stands, they will no doubt rush to the Pavilion’s aid as soon as an alarm is sounded. Finally, the point is moot since we just attempted to kill him, and he is thus unlikely to tell us what he knows.”

“So,” I summarize, “the weakness probably doesn’t exist, and even if it does, we almost certainly can’t use it.”

“Correct.” Berry nods.

“Would Twilight Sparkle have tried anyway?” I ask. For a moment, Berry doesn’t answer.

“Yes.”

I reach back to my belt, feeling around until my hooves touch glass.

If I get a last request, please don’t let what happened to me reflect on you. You were always there for me. Nopony could have done better than you did. I don’t understand why you felt you had to call me your student instead of your daughter, but I never blamed you for it. You were always a mother to me, and I love you.

The bottle hovers in front of me, the silvery liquid inside sloshing and beading up with every motion. I pull the cork out, and it comes free with a loud pop. With the bottle right under my nose, I can faintly smell the mantle—a slightly acrid scent, like lemon juice. Alright. Last moments now. Dying to do the right thing—that’s pretty heroic. Don’t think I have a last request—not that Trixie would grant it. Is there something I should say? Last words? Yeah, I should... I should have some last words.

I hold the bottle under my nose, pressing the glass to my lips. Taking in the smell as I draw a breath. “Dear Princess Celestia...”

Thank you for everything. Goodbye.

Your faithful student,

Siren Song

I upend the bottle and swallow.

Letters from the Deep

Dear Princess Celestia,

It has been some time since I wrote you. I imagine you did not expect to ever hear from me again.

Much has changed since the last time we spoke. I have changed. I wonder—will you recognize me, next we meet? Will you recoil? Perhaps, yourself eternal, you are used to others changing around you.

You lied to me, Celestia. You called me your faithful student. You told me you would always be there for me. I’m not sure I can forgive you for that, but I understand why you did it. I know what you were trying to protect me from.

I’m rambling now. I suppose I owe you some explanation of where I have been all this time.

When I was a foal and asked you why you took me as a student, you told me that I was going to change the world, that I was destined to do great things.

You were right.

Acknowledgements

This story would have been impossible were it not for the support of the brony community and, of course, the power of friendship.

All art for the story is by Kuda, who is as gifted as he was good at keeping spoilers off his DA gallery.

My primary editor is Pav Feira, known to the bronies of FiMFiction as the Batpav. After his parents were killed by a double-space, he dedicated his life to striking fear into the cowardly writing element using his utility belt full of pony GIFs.

All chapters were prepared for publication by Pascoite, who gained his immense powers of editing from Earth's yellow sun after his parents sent him here from a distant star because he kept them up all night.

Assistance with storyboarding and character design came from Ether Echoes, best known for inventing the miniaturized Fave Reactor that transforms story likes directly into the energy that powers his super suit.

Secondary editing was provided by Warmblood and A Dragon Dreaming, whose powers involve mostly shouting "Wonder twin powers activate!" and being ambiguously incestuous.