Midnight Belle (and the Case of the Vanishing Foals!)

Sweetie Belle came to feeling like her head was filled with cotton. She could taste something in her mouth that wasn’t her tongue, and it was bitter. She swished it around in her mouth, but didn’t succeed at spitting or swallowing. No matter what she thought, her body seemed in no hurry to respond.

Dark. It was dark. Even as her eyes managed to open, Sweetie could barely see in front of herself. She couldn’t see her hoof in front of her face because it was wedged underneath her chest. With considerable difficulty, she managed to pull, it out. She eyed her hoof as it came into view, luckily intact. As whole as it might have been, the rest of her didn’t feel nearly as put together.

The fabric of her costume was sticky against her fur. She wanted to take it off, but couldn’t find the energy to continue moving.

The sound of hoofsteps drew her attention. She had forgotten where she was for a moment. Right now, the revelation that she was not alone was not one she was happy with.

Sweetie’s heart stuck in her chest as she struggled to lift her head, dreading whatever might appear suddenly in front of her.

The sight that came through the dark couldn’t have been more different than what she expected.

“...Bonbon?” she asked. Her tongue felt like pulled taffy in her mouth, and it was a struggle not to slur her syllables as she spoke. Sure enough, there in front of her was Bonbon, candy-coloured mane and cream coat—and the same concerned smile Sweetie Belle was used to, with a head-tilt and eyes wide with motherly affection.

Bonbon nodded. “Are you alright, dear?” she asked.

Regardless of how she might be convinced to answer, Sweetie Belle did not feel alright. But Bonbon was here, and that was something. Wherever she was.

“I hit my head,” Sweetie belle said summarily. Her head hurt too much to say anything else.

“Oh, goodness. Does it hurt?” Bonbon walked closer and kneeled next to Sweetie, running a hoof through her hair sympathetically. Sweetie winced as Bonbon’s hoof touched her head. Her head was bare—somehow, her mask and hat had gone missing.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Oh, you poor thing. Here, let’s get you feeling better.”

From somewhere Sweetie couldn’t see, due mostly to the haze still clouding her vision, and not helped at all by the darkness of the room she was in, Bonbon conjured two things: a glass of water, and a small something with a blue wrapper. She set the glass of water on the floor for a moment, which Sweetie could just make out was stone, and unwrapped the something from its blue garnish. She held it towards Sweetie Belle—a plain, white candy.

Sweetie Belle managed to shake her head, though the jolts of protest her nerves gave back made her stop in short order.

“I don’t want candy right now,” she said. Her voice sounded far away, like she was several years younger by virtue of speaking.

Bonbon patted the back of her head.

“Shhh, I know dear, but it’ll make you feel better. Just open up, okay?”

Sweetie shook her head once more in protest, but Bonbon’s rubbing on the back of her neck and offering of the candy prompted her to open her mouth out of obligation. Her tongue felt thick as the tiny morsel landed on it. She couldn’t taste anything through the mouthful of whatever had pooled after her fall.

“Have some water to wash it down,” Bonbon said. She held up the glass of water, and Sweetie opened her mouth for it as well, more readily than she had for the candy. The cool liquid washed the candy off her tongue and to the back of her throat, where she swallowed it, along with several gulpfuls of water as Bonbon emptied the glass forward. Sweetie was grateful for the chance to clear the awful taste of tin from her mouth, and almost pouted in disappointment when the glass was empty.

“There,” Bonbon said, taking away the glass and standing up. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Sweetie Belle wanted to shake her head, but holding it upright for so long was tiring, so she lowered it back to the floor. The cold, stone floor.

“Now, you just wait here a moment, okay? Try to take slow, calm breaths.”

Bonbon vanished from Sweetie’s vision without another word. Before Sweetie could raise a hoof to ask her to stop, the creak of a door entered Sweetie’s left ear, followed by the shutting of the same door.

Sweetie tried to follow Bonbon’s advice, and breathe.

She also tried to remember where she was.

The last however long was a blur. She remembered it being dark, and before that, why she had put her costume on. But what had happened between then and wherever she was now? Bonbon was here, so it must be somewhere safe... but it was so dark, and cold, and Sweetie’s costume felt uncomfortable. She wanted it off, badly, but couldn’t muster up the strength to move. She wanted more water too.

Though her legs screamed at her in protest, Sweetie tried to stand. She managed to straighten all of her legs without difficulty, but one.

Her right hind leg, as she held it against the floor, jingled.

Something felt extra cold against her ankle.

Sweetie turned her head towards her back. The dark made anything of her costume even harder to make out, but the thing she felt above her hoof was easy to see, or as easy as anything could be.

A thick, metal chain, wrapped around her ankle.

Sweetie’s mouth fell open. She closed it again wordlessly.

Experimentally, she pulled at the chain. It held steady. She yanked at it again, harder.

The force of her tug against the chain’s resistance threw her off balance, and her legs gave out again. She fell back to the floor, and let out a pained ‘oof’ as the air escaped from her lungs. She took several long breaths, trying to do as Bonbon had said. To calm down.

But why had Bonbon left her with that chain around her leg...

The door creaked again. Sweetie could feel a draft against her face as it opened. She opened her eyes and lifted her head off the ground, trying to wish away the stars still in plain view.

A familiar bright green greeted her. Sweetie followed it up, along a set of legs and a torso until she reached a face.

Lyra’s face.

She could talk to Lyra. She needed to, before she left again. She needed to get this chain off, and her costume, and run home and tell Rarity about the clue she had found.

“Lyra,” she said. Her voice was too weak to yell, but she managed to pry herself off the ground again, still acutely aware of the chain around her back leg. “Please, you have to help. I hit my head when I fell, and somepony put this chain on me—”

“—before you woke up. I know. I saw you when you fell in through the window, silly.”

Lyra’s voice was as chipper and cheerful as it had ever been, but now it sounded different. Maybe it was the way it reverberated off the walls, or the way Lyra’s words were short and jumpy, but it felt off.

Sweetie noticed, though she hadn’t been able to see it through the stars in her eyes at first, that Lyra was wearing a mask. A plain one, black, that just covered her eyes.

“Lyra, please,” she said again. She still didn’t know where she was, or what Lyra and Bonbon were doing here, but surely one of them would help her. After all, they were the ones who had told her about... the house... in the first place...

Sweetie’s eyes fell suddenly.

She felt something welling up in her chest.

“That’s a cute costume,” Lyra said. Sweetie looked up at her and saw a smirk and playful eyes behind the small, simple mask.

Sweetie felt like she was still reeling from a blow she’d dealt herself.

Lyra had told her to come here. Lyra had known about the flickering light and the house on the hill. And now Lyra was here, and Sweetie was chained to floor of what must be the basement of that same house.

A soft rattling of metal interrupted Sweetie from her revery. She opened her eyes, which she hadn’t realized were half closed, and looked forward again. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dim light of the room, so she could see to the far corner now, or at least what she assumed must be the other side of the room.

She could see metal bars. Cages.

Sweetie opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“So,” Lyra said. She walked closer to Sweetie Belle, ignoring the look of shattered hope threatening to cascade from the filly’s eyes. “What’s your superhero name?”

Sweetie didn’t speak. She stared intently at the far wall, trying to make out all the shapes in the nearby distance. She didn’t see any milling about or thrashing against bars. She saw shapes, but they were barely moving.

“Hey,” Lyra said. She stepped suddenly in front of Sweetie’s view, and smiled at her. “What’s your superhero name?” she asked again.

Sweetie sealed her mouth shut. Lyra stared with her head tilted to the side, smiling, but Sweetie Belle clammed up, and turned her head to the wall on her left.

“Hey,” Lyra said.

Sweetie didn’t budge.

And suddenly her head was moving on its own, or guided by an invisible something on either side that she couldn’t make out, and it turned her towards Lyra, fast, so fast Sweetie’s neck hurt and she thought she heard it creak as it threatened to snap.

Lyra’s face was inches from Sweetie’s. Their noses were almost touching.

“What—is your superhero name?” Lyra asked again. Her voice sounded pointed at every edge, sudden razor-sharp serrations emerging from spiky energy and enthusiasm.

Sweetie’s breath caught in her throat. She panicked, and the sensation of the things holding her head in place didn’t help.

She thought she saw Lyra’s grin grow even wider.

“Midnight Belle,” Sweetie said breathlessly, hating the name even as she spoke it, because it could only be embarrassing now.

She felt the pressure on her head release. She let her neck bend as her head fell to her chest.

“Cool,” Lyra said. She stepped back from Sweetie Belle and turned to the side, as if striking a pose.

Sweetie Belle took in a long breath and looked up. Lyra stood there in silhouette, grinning to no one as she held a hoof to her head, right about her eye-cover.

“Lyra, why... what are you doing here? Can you please undo my leg?”

Lyra didn’t move an inch. She held her grin and pose the same.

Sweetie’s eyes moved to the black band across Lyra’s eyes.

“Why... why are you wearing a mask?” she asked.

“Uh, duh.” Lyra spun on her hind legs towards Sweetie and rolled her eyes. “I’m your nemesis.”

Sweetie swallowed. Her throat felt dry.

Lyra rolled her eyes again with as much exasperation as she could manage.

“The Evil Doctor Hand?” she said, with a tone of voice that obnoxiously implied everyone had heard this name and should obviously remember it.

“...hand?” Sweetie asked.

Lyra nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“Yep. I got it when my parents were brutally murdered by ancient humans. I took up the cause of their primal manipulation to crusade against Pony justice for the rest of my life.” Lyra’s face soured, and she stared at Sweetie, as though expecting some kind of response.

Sweetie’s legs felt shaky as Lyra stared.

After a few seconds, Lyra’s somewhat solemn deadpan broke into a smile.

“Naw, I’m just messin’ with you. I just think hands are neat.”

“Hands?” Sweetie repeated. Lyra nodded again.

“Yeah. You know, like humans had?”

Sweetie vaguely recalled the word, but she couldn’t remember its origins, given the present circumstance. She tugged softly again at the chain on her leg, but it didn’t give an inch.

“Humans were the coolest thing,” Lyra went on without waiting for an answer. “There aren’t any of them around anymore—I mean, some ponies say they are, but they’re either crazy, or me.” Lyra began to pace as she spoke, turning her head in different directions as though speaking to an invisible audience.

“They could stand upright all the time, and never needed to grow fur, and they fashioned tools and structures and conducted life, all with these things called hands. Pink squishy hooves that had different pointers on them called fingers, that they could bend and move and do whatever they wanted with.”

Sweetie Belle tried not to turn her head toward Lyra’s rambling, but she felt compelled. There was nothing else to occupy her attention but the cold, grey iron she couldn’t reach.

“The really cool t-thing about hands...” Lyra went on, slowing her pace a bit. Sweetie noticed the stutter. She couldn’t place it, but she thought she saw, in a blink of lamplight for a second, a flat trace of patted fur move along Lyra’s body, as though something were stroking her. She saw another small light in the basement—the glow of Lyra’s horn, green, like her fur.

“...is how verssssatile they are,” Lyra continued, slurring her ‘s’s considerably. Sweetie saw Lyra close her eyes when she spoke, and she let her mouth hang in an empty looking ‘O’ before managing to open her eyes and continue.

“You can... you can grab things with them,” Lyra said, and hissed as the last words passed her lips, sucking in air through her teeth. She closed her eyes again and shook slightly to either side. Her horn glowed even brighter, and Sweetie saw the traces of patted down fur move along Lyra’s body.

Sweetie watched Lyra spread her legs. She watched from behind, seeing Lyra’s backside suddenly stroked with invisible attention. She watched, because she couldn’t look away.

“And... and p-poke things with them...” Lyra went on. She began bucking her hips backwards in the air. Sweetie became vaguely aware that she should look elsewhere, or that what she was seeing was wrong—she felt it deep down, somewhere she couldn’t explain—but she couldn’t bear to stop, because Lyra was the only other pony in the room. If nothing else, Sweetie had to begin planning an escape.

Lyra snorted a rough breath through her nose and threw her weight backwards extra hard.

“Aaaaand... and you can... touch... what...whatever you w-want...” Lyra moaned, her body almost spasming as the invisible patches ran over her fur. Sweetie could see a trickle leaking from between Lyra’s legs, like she’d wet herself. But it didn’t smell like urine.

Lyra turned without warning. Her eyes were only barely open, but she turned to face Sweetie Belle, only a half a foot from her face, and still rocking her body back and forth, legs spread in the back.

Sweetie tried to look away, but a lock in her periphery kept her head forward.

Lyra noticed this. She opened her eyes to see Sweetie staring—as cagily as she could manage, but still staring.

Lyra bit her lower lip once, then opened her mouth with a guttural sounding ‘unh.’

“Spit,” she said after a few seconds.

“What?” It was an odd thing to ask, Sweetie thought, and she wasn’t sure she heard right. Somepony does not simply ask another pony to spit.

Lyra shook her head softly from side to side.

“Spit,” she said, still trying to sound understanding and impartial.

Sweetie couldn’t manage a head shake in return, but her eyes settled on going wide, watching the scene in front of her, a desperately thrashing Lyra, grinding onto nothing, asking her to—

Neck. Sweetie felt something on her neck, tight, too tight, and all of a sudden she could barely breath, and her head was yanked forward.

“Spit,” Lyra said. Commanded. Her voice bristled with unbalance.

Sweetie wanted to cry, but she also wanted the grip on her throat to go away, so she steeled up her saliva, including what felt a particularly big loogie, and spit.

Almost the whole of it hit Lyra right on the face. Some hit her in the chest, which seemed to be fine too.

“Ohhhh, ffff... uuunnnhhh...”

Lyra shook with a noise like a dying animal, guttural and low as her body quaked. Sweetie watched in horror at the thing she had caused, cursing her own spit and breath and mouth and brain—especially the part of her brain that had gotten her here in the first place.

“Hunh, hunh, hunh...” Lyra came down from her shaking with a series of dog-like grunts. Sweetie stared on as the trickle between Lyra’s legs intensified suddenly, then dissipated.

“Shiiiit.... fuck that was good.” Lyra untensed her muscles as her profanity was swallowed by the darkness of the room. She turned back to Sweetie Belle with a tiny shake in her step.

“So,” she said.

Sweetie Belle felt like she wanted to scream out everything in her chest.

“Normally I don’t play nice with ponies who break into my house. If you’re bad, you kinda deserve what’s coming to you,” Lyra said.

Sweetie flinched. She hadn’t expected there to be anything as simple as an apology, but having the option left open would have been better than being told ‘no’. Finally. So familiar. No.

“But,” Lyra went on, grinning her horrifying grin,” you’re not just anypony—you’re a superhero. Right, Midnight Belle?” Lyra grinned closer to Sweetie, close enough that protons fought and reconciled in the space between them.

Sweetie Belle wanted to be sick, but she held it in.

Lyra’s eyes burned brighter than the light of the lamp, and Sweetie felt them leering at her. She shook her head, squinting to try to blur away the darkness.

“Aw, c’mon. If you’re not a superhero, then you’re just a bad filly who wandered into my basement, and that would be even worse. I’d have to do bad things to you.”

The way Lyra’s voice was so cheerful and simple made ‘bad things’ sound more horrifying than they had any right to be. Sweetie shut her eyes and tried to wish herself away, back home, out the window, anywhere other than where she was.

She felt Lyra’s hoof on her chin, lifting her head up. She opened her eyes.

“I’ll ask again, kay? You are a superhero, right, Midnight Belle?”

Sweetie tasted tears on the back of her throat.

“...yes” she managed. She knew she wasn’t a superhero. But she was afraid to say anything different.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Lyra pulled her hoof from Sweetie’s face and turned her ear theatrically towards Sweetie Belle, placing a hoof to the side of her head for emphasis.

“Yes,” Sweetie said again after several seconds.

“Yes...?” Lyra goaded.

“Yes... Lyra?”

Lyra shook her head and gestured to her mask.

“‘Yes, Doctor Hand’,” she said in a voice like a schoolteacher giving instruction to one of her slower students.

“...yes, Doctor Hand.”

“Sweet! So now that we’re on the same page—”

Sweetie’s felt a tightness around her neck, suddenly, very tight, and then the breath squeezed from her lungs as her body was lifted off the ground by whatever was around her neck.

“—we can cut right to the chase. I figure I should torture you for information. Makes sense to you, right?”

Sweetie couldn’t speak. The thing around her neck, sight-unseen, was so tight. She managed a choked gurgle through her constricted windpipe. She kicked her legs in the air and thrashed in an attempt to free herself from the choking thing, but couldn’t even feel it budge.

“So, Midnight Belle, at last it is time...” Lyra put on a theatrical accent that sounded like an overblown stage villain of yesteryear, twirling a pointy moustache and cackling nefariously. “Will you tell me how you came to find my secret lair, or will I have to convince you further?”

Sweetie Belle coughed with the last trickle of air she had left. Her legs began to still as her muscles signalled their lack of oxygen, and her eyes fluttered as her brain began to do the same, begging her into unconsciousness.

Lyra placed a hoof to her chin, looking perplexed.

“Hmm,” she said. “Apparently Midnight Belle's famed resilience is well deserved. You sure you don’t want to talk the easy way?”

A final wheeze slept past Sweetie’s lips as she closed her eyes.

“Hmph.”

The grip around Sweetie’s neck vanished. With nothing to hold her, she fell to the floor, grateful only for the hard surface because there was no wind left in her to knock out. It took a few seconds for her brain to register she could breathe again, and then she did, sucking in air with a sound like an opening wind tunnel, clouded with coughing and wheezing and her body’s cries to move again.