Crushing Defeat

There are plenty of days in a pony's life. Many of them are pretty mundane, usually weekdays on which ponies go to the same workplace as any other day, doing the same work as any other day, before relaxing at home the same way they always do.

Of course some days are simply magnificent, a gift from Celestia herself. The sun shines extra bright, the birds sing extra sweet, and the flowers look extra lovely. Those are the days when you can't even dream about anything going wrong.

On other days however, everything seems to go wrong. Every step is a trip, every try a failure, and every word an insult, may they come from you or at you. Those are the days a pony wishes he'd have just stayed in bed instead.

Then at least once in a lifetime, there is a day were staying in bed would only send the bedroom ceiling crumbling down, hitting the bed and said pony within multiple times, painfully reminding him that he had plenty of reasons not to put the ceiling there in the first place.

Red Shirt intuitively knew his day would fall into the last category. Reluctantly, he got up nonetheless.

His subconscious kept telling him that it had been a bad idea to return to Ponyville. He in turn kept telling his subconscious that it hadn't been his choice to come back, that he had been pretty much forced to do so, unless he wanted to start cashing in checks from social services. His subconscious didn't care. Like most subconciouses, it only liked one-sided arguments in which its reasoning was so flawless, that if the other side was bright enough to actually understand it, the argument would be over already. Therefore it just kept repeating its point with never-ending zeal.

While he didn't have a choice whether or not to return to Ponyville, Red Shirt admitted that it had definitely been a mistake to stay with his mother; he could have easily canceled on her and stayed at an inn instead. His pesky subconscious chose to disagree: If he hadn't accepted his mother's invitation, he would have never heard the end of it.

He brushed his teeth and gave himself a catlick, before walking down to the kitchen. His mother was already waiting for him.

“Good morning, dear. How did it feel sleeping in your old room again?” she asked.

He told her it felt like any other bed he had ever slept in as he went looking for a plate. A well-prepared breakfast already awaited him, including toast, juice and fresh fruit. He eventually found a plate and started filling it.

“You know, it's really nice to have you back,” his mother said. “The house feels so empty when I'm all by myself. It's just so big, while I'm so small and all alone, while the house feels empty.”

What his mother might have called casual small talk, Red Shirt's therapist might have called passive aggressive subjugation. But he knew, this was just the usual way his mother would ask for anything; she didn't seem to know any other way. As he took a seat, he asked whether she couldn't just spend some more time with her neighbor, Butterscotch, casually proceeding to inquire about how she was doing.

“Butterscotch and her husband are doing fine. They say their daughter, Minute Maid, just bought a house in Vanhoover, while their youngest, Minty Fresh, finally got a job. We were just talking about it the other day, over a game of cards, when she– ”

She stopped mid-sentence and gave her son an angry glare. He knew that glare all too well. It was always accompanied with the silent treatment she was also giving him. They both meant that he had made a mistake so painfully obvious, that she needn't even tell him, and unless he were to fix it on his own, she would never ever speak to him again; a principle she would keep rigorously. To this day she was still not speaking to the mailmare, her best friend from high school, and her own mother, who followed a similar mode of behavior.

Red Shirt frantically looked around to see what got his mother so upset. Once he found his faux pas, he grabbed a coaster from a shelf and placed it under his glass. His mother's expression softened and she continued as if nothing had happened.

“ –admitted that she had always been worried about him, since he was much too easygoing to settle for a steady job, but fortunately he did.”

Red Shirt only nodded politely, trying to keep the conversation as light as possible, while avoiding any further mistakes. One repressed childhood memory relived was more than enough for one day.

After breakfast, he was getting ready to leave – he had a busy schedule ahead of him – when his mother started to rattle through the full extend of her personal anguish.

“You go ahead and leave, dear,” she started. “An old mare like me can handle herself. I'm sure I won't have a problem unclogging the kitchen drain, and oiling the back door's squeaking hinges, and repairing the broken cupboard, and finally getting around to lift that heavy armchair up to the attic...”

He sighed and grabbed the toolbox from the storeroom. He wasn't off the hook just yet.

He went through the list as quickly as possible, the last item being putting up a new picture frame on the wall, as his mother watched from behind.

“So,” she said, “have you finally gotten a fillyfriend I can meet?”

He screamed loudly as hammer met hoof (which was quite an accomplishment, as he used his magic to handle the hammer). It was the only question Red Shirt had feared even more than the silent treatment. With tears in his eyes, he restrained himself from cursing, and tried to calmly explain to her that he did not have a fillyfriend right now and that he currently was under a lot of pressure from work, which allowed only little time to find one.

His mother chose not to listen and to just continue her own train of thought instead; in that regard she was pretty much like a certain subconscious.

“I don't understand,” she said. “You have a good job with a steady income, you look handsome enough, I brought you up with proper manners, taught you how to properly treat a lady, and still you're not even close to getting married. Where did I go wrong?”

He tried to reassure her that she did nothing wrong and that she has always been a wonderful mother. He tried to explain that his life did, could, and should not revolve around the pursuit of the mare of his dreams. If he found her, great. If he didn't, that would be okay too. But no matter how much he tried he couldn't force a thing like this.

“And that's where you're wrong,” his mother informed. “There are a lot of ways to accelerate the process. If you allow me to help you, we could get you a fillyfriend by tomorrow. Let me show you something.”

He expected the worst, the address of one of the neighbor's daughters, or a ticket for a speed dating event, and was very surprised when she only hooved him a pamphlet.

“It's called Dr. Cupid's love camp, and she guarantees that all participants leave as a couple or get their money back.”

The pamphlet was intriguing: Dr. Cupid (which he could only assume was an alias, and an honorary if not fake doctorate) painted the picture of a shelter in which ponies could find their true love, despite obviously being lonely, desperate, pathetic, and completely impossible to place, while staying as far away from any of these words as possible.

Red Shirt promised his mother to give the camp some thought, putting the pamphlet into his saddlebag, before they hugged each other goodbye. He had to hurry, as he still had an appointment to keep and still planned to visit his father, although he now had to cut the visit a little short. His father probably wouldn't mind. Probably wouldn't even notice.

Once he had reached his father's house, he knocked, and was promptly let in.

“Hey, son,” his father greeted. “Did you bring the fishing license?”

Red Shirt opened his saddlebag and handed him the form; this had pretty much been the first thing he had expected his father to say.

His father was a simple stallion with a simple stallion's dream: to sign every last legal form and document that floated around the convoluted apparatus that was Equestrian bureaucracy. It was a dream he cherished and valued above everything else. For instance, the only reason Red Shirt's parents divorced was his father's desire to sign the divorce papers – a move to which his ex-wife had responded with glares and silence. It was also a dream that was sure to lead to misery and tragedy, at the latest when he would finally have to sign his own death warrant.

Red Shirt and his father sat down at the kitchen to talk a little over a cup of tea.

“How's work going?” his father asked.

Red Shirt tried to explain the Equestrian Department of Transportation's newest plan in full detail, although he had to admit to knowing very little about it. In the end, his boss had only told him that he had an appointment to inspect somepony's house and workplace, which was kept up by a government grant and thus should be easy to purchase should they decide to do so. He had been given a sheet with detailed instructions on how to sound that pony out without her noticing, but he hadn't gotten around to read it, as the entire situation left him very uncomfortable.

His father only nodded indifferently. “That's good to hear,” he said. “Say, do you think you could help me with getting my arms certificate? I've already filled out all the necessary forms, but I figured you might help by greasing the old bureaucratic wheels a little, you know, to make things go a little faster for the sake of your old stallion.” He gave his son a nudge followed by a conspiratorial wink.

Red Shirt sighed and told his father he'd see what he could do, before putting the application for an arms certificate among the other papers in his saddlebag. He decided to cut the visit even shorter, and with a quick goodbye, went on his way towards the appointment.

With extra time to spare, he decided to take the scenic route towards his appointment, which was through a dried-out river bed close to the edge of the Everfree forest. It was close enough to give a panoramic view of the forest, while keeping enough distance to keep a passer-by safe from any predators that might be lunging out of the Everfree onto their unsuspecting prey; although he had never heard of any wild beasts lunging out of the Everfree anyway.

He tried to focus on the beautiful landscape around him, but all Red Shirt could focus on was his work. The Equestrian Department of Transportation recently had the idea to build a new railway to directly link Las Pegasus with Manehattan and the other cities on the east coast. His trusty work ethic had granted Red Shirt a seat in the planning committee, but because of his late addition nopony really knew where to put him. So basically everypony else just ended up dumping every thankless or annoying task on him, which had also granted him that little field trip to Ponyville.

In fact, this had pretty much been his entire life for the last couple of months: Somepony asking him to do something, while he silently obliged, which only ended up giving them incentive to ask more favors. He knew there was something significantly wrong with this vicious circle, but he just couldn't get himself to say no.

He was so lost in thought, he didn't notice the ferret that crossed his path out of nowhere, causing him to almost stumble. He stopped to check on the contents of his saddle bag. All the papers were still there. All the vexatious, aggravating papers he hated so much. They all reminded him of his current dilemma. His mother had coaxed him into looking into that silly love camp, his father had persuaded him to go about his arms certificate, and his boss had forced him to deal with this entire espionage mission. With all theses chores, he practically felt the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.

Moments later, he felt the much more physical weight of a half-a-ton boulder on his shoulders, crushing him dead in an instant.

*  *  *

Red Shirt felt wonky when he got up, which soon turned to worried once he realized that he had already opened his eyes, but couldn't see a thing. He aimlessly staggered through the darkness, his arms extended in the hopes of grabbing something he could hold on to, to get a rough idea of his surroundings. He stumbled forward until he was engulfed in a bright light, which turned out to be the Sunday sun, shining on a beautiful meadow beneath, behind the end of a dried-out river bed.

All was so beautiful, so peaceful, so calming that he almost couldn't believe his eyes. He also couldn't believe his eyes had been blinded not even a second earlier.

He turned around, and suddenly it made perfect sense that he had been unable to see, for the simple reason that light simply doesn't shine inside a rock. The present question was, however, how he had been able to get inside the boulder in the first place.

He tried touching the rock, trying to get a feel for what's going on, but that was a feeling he definitely could have lived without. His hoof phased right through the rock, sending a tingling sensation through his whole body that felt uncanny, as if a hoof and a boulder were never intended to occupy the same space at the same time.

He took a step back to get away from that unpleasant feeling in his hoof, and this way managed to take a better look at the boulder as a whole. Below it, he noticed something which, in the context of the situation, might be referred to as his earthly remains.

That was the reason for his current confusion and discomfort. It was the fact that he was dead.

Well, not as much dead as bodiless, translucent, more undead really, in the form of a – he'd probably want to go with the word ghost. That seemed to fit the situation best.

Red Shirt realized that he had been screaming this whole time. He had only not noticed before, because his screams came out completely silent, his lungs seemingly unable to draw a breath. This ghastly discovery, unfortunately, only lead to more panic and more screaming.

After getting over the initial shock of seeing his dead body lying crushed beneath a boulder, by virtue of some amazingly effective breathing exercises (he didn't know if what he was doing was technically breathing, but that didn't matter as it got the job done), he was calm enough to try and assess the situation.

Yes, he was dead. Yes, he was a ghost. Yes, he would have preferred to be neither, but in life (and in death apparently) you can't always get what you want. All he could do was try to make the best of the situation and he wanted to start by figuring out what it really meant to be a ghost.

He had already established that he couldn't touch objects as he would just phase through them, except for the ground below, which he was thankful for, as he did not want to make the acquaintance of the earth's core, and decided not to question this any further. Speech was apparently a no-go, while his sight, smell, and hearing worked perfectly fine, even better than before.

He wanted to try to fly, or at least hover. To him, that seemed to be a thing ghosts should be able to do. He leapt upwards with all his force, but merely managed to get airborne for about a second before falling right down to earth again. He tried jumping a couple of times more, but always came up short. He figured that, as a ghost, he was still unable to fly. He also figured that, as a ghost, he was still able to feel pain whenever he fell flat on his nose.

Maybe flying was reserved to pegasi, those who were already able to do so in their lifetime. Maybe as a unicorn he'd get to use magic instead. He tried focusing on his horn, and then to pick off a daisy that sprouted on a small, isolated patch of grass with his magic. The daisy bent back and forth, but once he realized that was only due to a small breeze, he gave up. Magic was something else unavailable to him.

No magic, no flying, no touching – those seemed to be the ground rules. They weren't what he had expected, they weren't ideal, but they were something he was okay with. Once he'd get used to it, being a ghost might actually prove tolerable, or even enjoyable.

But there remained the questions when he would get used to it, and what he would do in the meantime.

The latter was indeed a vital question he would have to answer sooner or later. What was the purpose, what was the meaning of his existence as a ghost? What was he supposed to make of his new self?

The meaning of life was a mystery that had plagued ponykind for centuries, millennia even. While there was no conclusive answer, many great minds had dedicated their lifetimes to working on this subject and had published their thoughts in countless books. These books could always help and inspire whenever a pony was faced with the most existential questions of all, like: 'Where do we come from?', 'Where are we going?', and 'What would happen if one's planet was demolished to make space for an intergalactic railway, and one would find oneself traveling the universe with the president of the galaxy, one's best friend who turned out to be an alien, and a surprisingly large amount of towels?'.

Similarly, many great minds had worked on finding an answer to the great enigma of the afterlife. But as far as Red Shirt knew, there was no word written on the meaning of the afterlife, the purpose of one's existence once a pony had found its place in heaven, or hell, or on earth resurrected as a ghost, like in his case. No, this seemed to be completely new ground. He'd have to come up with something all on his own.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was already a solution in some book Red Shirt had read. After all, there were plenty of ghost stories, one of which was sure to provide him with at least an idea of what he was supposed to do.

So what was it the undead did in those ghost stories, he thought to himself. Many tended to feast on the flesh and brains of the living. But this would probably prove rather difficult, with him being unable to touch anything. Plus, there was the ethic issue of him not wanting to feast on the flesh of the living, as this might prove quite unpleasant and unwanted for the living in question. No, feasting on brains, he determined, should rather be left to ghouls and zombies.

Ghosts usually did something entirely different in such stories anyway. They tended to haunt places and scare away any pony that dared to enter. Maybe that's what he should do: Haunt the old family barn. But unfortunately his family did not have a family barn, and if he wanted to borrow somepony else's, he'd have to ask permission first, which would lead to the awkward question why a family would need a ghost to haunt their barn in the first place, which he would be unable to answer, as he did not have a voice to speak with. No, it was better to save himself the embarrassment and go with some other idea.

The only other popular depiction of ghosts he could think of, was that of specters aimlessly floating around with one of those restless-spirit-bound-to-this-earth-until-he-could-fulfill-one-last-deed-which-would-set-his-soul-free type of deals.

That could be it. There could actually be something which he was unable to do in his lifetime, something he had put off far too long or even completely forgotten about, something only he could complete. But what in Equestria could that be? Red Shirt didn't have a clue.

He decided to take a long walk to get his now only figurative blood flowing.