The Bird Watcher (Silhouette)

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Her eyes opened in the dream and saw down twenty feet of beach before the fog’s thickness hid the land and sea from her. The air moved in front of her nose in whips of frigid, wet air carrying the odors of the tide: the foam riding on the water lapping the mud like the wet tongue of an old dog a day away from the point of never wanting to drink again, the smell of bits of shells, seaweed, and fish soaked into the ground. But something else permeated that air. It was a scent of grassy rot, of crushed fruit and flowers turning into a reddish blob of compost somewhere beyond sight, and sight ... was different. Shadows were dark and black, hiding details from her in such as a way she had never known. The seawater washed over her hooves on a gust of the ever-blowing wind, and her hooves sunk by inches into the silty shore, tiny puddles forming around them. Like that, she felt it, thought she heard it with Bat Pony ears, the first sign that this world could not possibly be her own. A lone vibration, deep and low, rippled the tiny pools of water. It came up into her chest and sat like the weight of ages, dwelled in her ear in a drone swelling and receding like the water. Somewhere in the grey, out in a distance long into that fog, a seagull’s squawk sounded out unnaturally long and shakily. It nearly covered the last, and perhaps most disturbing sound. Silhouette heard it by a twitch of her ear, the scissor-snip sound of a voice whispering “S” sounds so faint that the wind nearly blocked even that sound from her. It was enough to hide the words from her, leaving her with those whispered sounds weaving throughout the world like a snake or a fine needle through silk. But, shouldn't she have been able to hear more? What she heard ... it sounded dull and perhaps even suffocating. It was as though ear plugs where in her ears that she could not touch or remove. At the edge of the limits of Silhouette’s vision in that fog, a dark, pony-sized shape stood along the water, but away from the shore, where the wind swept like an obsessive’s brush over grasses long, hard, and brittle, other things seemed to glisten in the moisture like piles of nightcrawlers intertwining in a storm, but the fog hid details well. When the thunder rumbled and distant lightning sprawled out, it did so only to light up that dim like the dust of chalk tossed into darkest dirtiest machine oil. Nothing leapt out at Silhouette except the damp wind at her side. Nothing spoke save for the whispers. Nothing moved except the water carrying dark chunks of debris. She was alone.

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Silhouette had gone in well-informed. She knew there were two types of dream she could be stepping into; a beguiling paradise or a horrible nightmare. It might not immediately be clear which was which. But immediately upon opening her eyes, it was fairly clear to her that this was a nightmare—and a bad one. Normally, a bat pony could see, live, and sustain herself in the dark with no trouble at all. Shadows were a comfort, like a cool blanket that shrouded them, even a second home. But here... they had an inky darkness that was so alien to her, it immediately set her teeth on edge. After a moment, she realized why it was that they were blocked from her. This was not the dream of a bat pony. What she could see and hear was limited by what an Earth Pony might. ...Could be problematic. She would have to be careful. She swept her eyes and ears all around, identifying her surroundings as best she could. It wasn't pleasant, and there was something wrong about everything, something that went beyond black shadows and a rotten stink. This was a place that, by every instinct in her body, shouldn't be. She flinched a little at the thunder. With muffled ears, at least that part wasn't so bad. First things first. Silhouette closed her eyes, imagining a cool, gentle weight around her; the soft brush of steel against her coat, molded to her measurements. Sweeps of plate over a modest mail, painted in the dark purples and blues of a bruised night. And in the center; one gleaming blue eye. The symbol of the Night Watch. Maybe it held little meaning here, but to her it was a comfort, something to steady. She opened her eyes again, seeing her raiment formed around her. I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. She recited the litany in her head, one that had helped her many times through visions a thousand times more terrible than this. (So far, at least.) Fear is the little-death that brings obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over and through me... With a deep and steadying breath, she spread her wings and lifted into the air, as silent as a moth. The wind was cold and harsh, and threatened to numb her bones; but not more than the winds of the North. She flew toward where she had seen that shape earlier, somewhere out in the fog. Something told her that the sea was not a place she wanted to stay, here. Shadows could hold darkness here, but the cold blackness of water held shadows darker and deeper still. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing... only I will remain. Now where are you hiding, Synth Pop?

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As she flew, the behavior of the air proved to be different than normal. It was cold and damp. That much, perhaps, was not the surprise. Where the air was different was in its texture. While it normally felt as wind being parted, this felt silky, but not as a sheet. Rather, it felt to Silhouette as though she were taking her wings through soft, delicate cobwebs, nearly as insubstantial as silent ghosts packed into the sky. They did not stop or slow her as she passed. Rather, whatever it was, it just left fibrous caresses on her wings, cool, tickling nearly, like wet strands of celery. When she landed near the figure, just at the point from the water when the sand was dry though hardly warm, her impressions did not seem to be wrong. The shape was pony, and it trembled in that wind. Was it her, the Earth Pony she had come to save? The figure matched the picture, at least in shape. Her mane was straight, cut to the shape of a guillotine blade, as was her tail. Yet, the way the sky light shone of her in the dullest manner, Silhouette could see that something was not right. As in the air, it came to texture, yet until she approached closely, she could not make it out. But there, perhaps she lifted a hoof from the sand to approach, or opened her mouth to speak, she might have noticed then that the whispers in the wind were different. They were not an omnipresence of hissing, but a sound coming from one mouth. The pony’s mouth. Synth Pop’s mouth, yet ever hard to hear. As Silhouette approached, she began to see that the pony was utterly covered, head to hoof, in cords in wire. They were of all gauges, thick and thin, the black insulation frayed or missing in chucks, copper wire broken free in twists and bends, dry-looking, taking on the brittle patina of the metal going to waste in the saltwater air. Time had gotten those industrial wraps wrapped themselves by the stuff of the sea gone black. Sea weed was flopped over her eyes, ratty and wet. Moss clung on in patches. By the looks, the cords and wires clung tight to her thin form, painfully so around her neck looking so thin it would have seemed to be a wonder she was drawing breath, let alone whispering in the cadence of a deadening hymn, an emaciated chant. Was this a mare trapped? If so, were these wires her captors? Synth Pop kept up her whisper, still indistinct to Silhouette’s hampered hearing. “… don’t notice … she’s …”

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The sinewy air unsettled her, but Sil didn't see any immediate danger in it. It did indicate some unsettling possibilities, though... living in the caverns, you get a feel for what air is and isn't supposed to feel like—not all noxious cave gases, after all, have a distinctive smell. She would have to keep her wits about her. Even if she couldn't die in the waking world, something bad happening to her in the dream... well, it would mean she failed. She couldn't let that happen. She alighted near the apparent pony, silent save for a soft shifting of sand as she landed... and for a moment, though it nagged at her conscience to do so, just observed. The wires were thick and tied up tight; constricting her like thick, dangerous snakes. Was there a current running? With all that water over her, the seaweed and the moss... the raspy whisper just at the edge of hearing, words half-formed in that thick, muffling air... stars above, how long had she been like this? Unable to stand back any longer, Silhouette stepped forward, still silent, and tried to whisper to her. "Synth Pop. Stay calm. I'm here to help you." Reluctantly, she removed one of the metal shoes from her hoof and tried to move the seaweed off of the mare's eyes, as gently as she could—the ground was wet and she was still wearing metal. If she rushed into this, the both of them could get hurt, and she didn't want to cause the poor girl any more pain than she was apparently already in.

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"Synth Pop. Stay calm. I'm here to help you." She spoke, and the pony did not seem to hear her. She did not move in any way except to whisper to the sea some more. As Silhouette got close, she heard the whispers formed by a muzzle that showed no fur or skin, just green moss grown for so long and so damp that it looked to nearly drip off like decay. The smell was only of the cold sea. “… She flies in youth … she flies in Summer … there’s an instinct in her head …” The whisper was flat and faint without the slightest bit of emotion or rhythm. When Silhouette reached for the seaweed caked to her eyes, the pony responded to the touch just as she responded to the rescuer’s voice; she did nothing. Silhouette peeled off the seaweed and looked, and nothing looked back. The were no eyes. There was no skin or blood or muscle, just sockets, just bone cracking and weathering. “… She crumbles old … never sees a Winter … nestlings don’t know she’s dead … “ Wet wire insulation tightened aloud, sounding like the taut ropes of a flailing ghost ship, and the head turned and pointed at Silhouette. The mouth hung open, showing teeth yellow and brittle. Deep, in the dark inside the mouth, a little spark went off, and the pinching smell of melting plastic and sealife came out in a small smoke from the mouth, cracks between the wires. “… She flies in youth … she flies in Summer … there’s an instinct in her head … she crumbles old … never sees a Winter … nestlings don’t know she's dead … “ The mouth hung open again, the wires tightening again, and with a puff of smoke, Silhouette heard a sound like a bag of circus peanuts being instantly crushed underhoof as ribs, vertebrae snapped and collapsed from the pressure. And then Silhouette was alone again. The heap at her hooves was still, cracked skull resting its chin on the sand, looking out to the white ribbon at the head of a foamy wave. Somewhere in the fog, a seagull gave a long squawk. And then, from all around, the whispers started anew, the faint S-sounds slipping by Silhouette’s ears.

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She flies in youth ... she flies in Summer ... there's an instinct in her head ... she crumbles old ... never sees a Winter ... nestlings don't know she's dead. Silhouette wasn't sure what that meant. Was it a riddle of some kind, a puzzle? Or just the ramblings of a dreaming mind? Whatever it was, it didn't seem the mare was hearing her. Or, for that matter... seeing. She frowned, remembering the picture. The mare had blue eyes, not no eyes. There was something unsettling about this, something distinctly un-living about what was in front of her. She said nothing at first, just watched and listened from a close, nearly touching-distance. Until the wires started to smoke and crack. Her shoulders tensed up, and she immediately reached for her, discarding the other shoe. "Ma'am, please don't move. The wires are—" but she didn't get to finish. There was smoke, and a sound that wrenched her guts into a tight knot, and... if it—she—was a pony before... she wasn't now. She was a heap of inanimate stuff. A long, shaken breath eventually came out of Silhouette. Not even five minutes there, and already... no. No, she reminded herself, This is a dream. That wasn't real. Nopony died; it's a figment of this mare's imagination. And yet, she still knew she wouldn't be getting that picture out of her head anytime soon. Synth Pop was lucky, she'd likely just spread her own dreams to the mind of another. Hesitantly, she stepped back and replaced her shoes, looking around. There were more whispers. Was it just her imagination, or were they louder again? The sea was still out at her back; she heard a gull, which was at least some sign of life. Loath though she was to admit it, what she needed just now was light, something by which to see and gain purchase in this twisted place. What was it the mare had been whispering? Flies in youth, in summer... crumbles old... if this was a riddle, it could be the key to finding this mare. Her first thought was that it was some strange parable about the death of a mother bird, or possibly a pegasus. She looked down to the skull at her hooves again and thought. ...It was morbid, but... she knew that this had happened for a reason. Just not what, yet. Maybe she was just the mouthpiece for that riddle, but Silhouette refused to believe that she would be shown the perceptual equivalent of a death just for the sake of passing a message. If this mare could be a mouthpiece once... Okay. Deep breath. Silhouette once again drew upon her knowledge of the unreality of this place... and though it was a bit harder now, by inches, she fashioned a second helm and a bag for herself, and gently, carefully, lifted the skull from its place, bringing it to eye level. "Synth Pop. I don't know if you can hear me, but if not, I will find you and see to it that you do; my name is Silhouette, and on my honor as a guard of the Night Watch, I am getting you out." With that, she slipped the helm onto the skull and fit it into the bag, which she slung around her neck and over her shoulder, strapped in comfortably against her raiment. The bag was not closed, and so the skull had a clear view out. After ensuring the head was secure (and another brief, regretful glance to the rest of the remains), Silhouette took to the air again and resumed her search along the coast. Dreams were infinite, sure, but a prison was defined by its boundaries; she intended to find those boundaries and smash them to bits.

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The beach was long and the air thick as before. Underneath Silhouette, miles of beach passed. “… The webbing splits … the beak fouls picking out filth from her wings … the sea spits … for beaks open wide she sings … “ Inside the bag, the skull did not move or stir, but the whispers somehow came from within. Had something changed? She did not have to wait to find an answer to her question. Below, something was happening to the grainy grey sands below as she passed. Black spots glistened dully. In minutes, spots became pools, and the air swelled with the stench of unnatural things burning, as if she had flown over a toppled locomotive, burning goal scorching heavy axle grease ruptured from iron fitments dull, black, and smoldering. The fog meshed with a thin, black smoke that was warm where the fog was cool. Below, the sands, wet and dark, sprouted dark, jagged shapes that reached up from inches to feet to floors, metal like half-melted rebar coated in a shining, perforated black shell giving off a scent like rotten fish sautéed in waste oil. In the distance, lightning arced, but it was not in the clouds. In the light of that superhot arc, she could see more jagged shapes illuminated ahead and all along the beach, reaching up, reaching out, rows that were miles long of twisted fangs biting up into what little could be seen of the sky. Lightning reached out at random between those spires, and Silhouette could see wires, cords, hanging between them like strings of putrid saliva. And yet, the sea still swelled and fell to her right, and a seagull let out its long squawk. It was closer now. “ … A pinch … I insist … rest your face … stretch … twist … you’ll be replaced …”

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Silhouette was just beginning to wonder whether she should head inland or out to sea, away from this seemingly endless stretch of writhing blackness, when suddenly... the stench hit her. It was immediately recognizable; the smell of hot smoke and scorched earth. She felt it tickling her fur a moment later and had to fight not to have her left wing seize up at the sensation, even as the rest of her tightened up. Luckily, there weren't any open flames... but even the smell of burning was enough to put her teeth on edge. She swallowed thickly and tried to breathe through her nose. I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Her pulse slowly lowered... though not to normality. And it wouldn't. The adrenaline was already in her system. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration... This scene was so twisted, though... exactly what kind of pony was she saving here? Who would have something this dark and distorted festering in the back of their minds? Her thoughts immediately answered. You, idiot. You've had dreams worse than this without so much as a hint of magical influence. Suck it up and do your job. With a little nag of guilt, she shook the doubts off and tried to look at it anew. This was just a part of the job. If she couldn't deal with a little darkness now and then, she shouldn't have taken her oaths in the first place. The "path," such as it was, was pretty clear. There was no way she would be able to land safely in all that sharp, jagged metal; she had to fly inland, toward those large, dark shapes. Had she her own eyes to see with, she would be able to tell a lot more detail... But she wasn't seeing with her eyes. These were Synth Pop's. This was not a place of sight and sound, but of mind. The deepest pits of her fears and the summit of her knowledge. There was shadow, yes; but there was substance here, too, and in between the two was the boundless power of an infinite imagination. This world had not been conjured by any strange magic. It was still, at heart, just the dream of a pony. "Well... tally ho," she said under her breath, and began flying left, inland, toward the larger shapes. She made sure to watch her sides and her six; that lightning wasn't coming from any natural source...

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Silhouette banked and flew inland and the wind flew with her, pushing her along on currents of artifice and nature burning by electricity. The smoke and fog soon became not as puffs drifting in her way in a minute of flying. They mixed and thinned, but not towards clarity. Rather, what Silhouette saw was the formation of a single shade of funeral grey, a sheet of faded black over the world, a long, seamless, eternal haze. No bright spot marked the place where the sun might have been fighting to pierce through. There was no sun. There was no moon, just a vast, cold glow. And yet, Silhouette saw. Below, she saw streets, roads made of smooth cobblestones. She saw the palest buildings decorated with canopied awnings in stripes, arched windows held in curving frames. They were familiar, and perhaps they would have been more, but everything she saw below was pierced. Lines, cords, and wires ran through glass, stone, and canvas, wrapping it all taut in spots, loose in others. In many spots, Silhouette could not see what ran under the cover of these things. Shadows were not just deep and black, but where they were, they were actually flowing, glistening in the sickly light, coming out of fissures in the roads like springs of the blood-thick ink. As she passed those holes, the whispers grew into utterances, then abruptly, howls, shrieks, and begging in a thousand voices, all calling for brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, loved ones, all in names that brought to mind colors and cuties marks and smiles, all things that were absent now. They cried for the guards, they cried for Princess Celestia, they cried for a shield. In the end, their weeping and noise was just drool between the gums that outlined the jagged spires that came out of the world so tall that Silhouette flew in their shadows, twisting, thinning, congealing at random for, of course, there was no true source of light. Whatever her thoughts were then, they were interrupted when a drone as loud as ten locomotive whistles burst in the air so loud and full that it was felt in the chest and the skin. It was an impossible, artificial surge of sound, and it did not stop. Somewhere in the haze, a dozen ponylike shapes ascended from a black well over a hundred yards away. They flew, but they did not have wings like a Bat’s or a Pegasus’. Their wings whipped at the air so fast that Silhouette could barely see them, like the wings of a hummingbird or a bumblebee. Long, perforated limbs dangled, twisted horns glistened, and they flew on and away from Silhouette. Had they seen her? Perhaps it was the distance. Perhaps it was the wind in their ears. Perhaps they simply did not care. They flew, their drones holding the air tight, electricity passing between them as they travelled. Silhouette’s bag shifted. “… Pluck the worm … pinch on its wiggling … show it to the young … grinning and giggling … “

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Cobblestones. As sure a sign of civilization as one could get, at least symbolically. That meant she was probably on the right track. But the further she came into this... twisted version of a half-familiar city, the more unsettled she became. This was obviously meant to be Canterlot in some manner or another, but all those wires... they had to mean something, right? What was it about those wires that made them so prominent to Synth Pop? Without knowing the mare, much of this situation remained, to her, a mystery. For all she knew, so much as touching one of these wires would choke her in them, or set a current through to boil her insides... The wires weren't really what got to her, though. Those holes--dark, void pits of creeping black--those were where the whispers were coming from. Aside, of course, from the bag at her side. Were there more eyeless ponies down there? ... Would they all be meeting the same fate? No, she realized. They're not whispering the same things. It's almost... like... But the holes didn't stay quiet enough for her to complete her thoughts. They erupted into screaming, howling noise--yet, noise that was still muffled to her, one step removed for not being the shrieks she heard with her own ears. Somehow, though... somehow that twisted her guts even worse. If this was what she thought it was, then there was nothing she could do... Then came the great drone, and it rattled her down to her bones, causing her to drop abruptly before regaining her flight. That had NOT been one step removed. If there was ever a herald of trouble... And sure enough, in its wake, the black shapes began to come out from the haze. Of course she knew what happened, and she had seen the photographs like anypony else. But she hadn't been a part of it when the invasion happened. As soon as the creatures had come, Sil and the rest of the patients were put under emergency lockdown, and she was probably the only one who could hear what was going on outside--yet she had never actually come face to face with a Changeling. Synth Pop was a mare from Canterlot. She might not have been so lucky. She narrowed her eyes, doing a quick mental calculation. There were way too many of them for her to have a chance if she was spotted, or if she'd already been. But she couldn't turn tail, either. I guess... I don't really care if it's dangerous or not. I'm going to town either way. She's waiting here somewhere. Trying to block out the sound of the holes, Silhouette dipped down, near but not quite at ground level, and tried to attach herself to a wall in between a couple of buildings. It wasn't the ideal hiding place, but she was relying on the fog and some shade right now. For once in her life, she couldn't trust the shadows; she could only try to hide, and hope for an opportunity, or that the drones were simply passing by... Yet if push came to shove, she knew she would fight. She'd have to. Somepony had to...

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Silhouette hid on the side of a building. In front of her, a pair of window shutters swung open and closed slowly on rusted hinges, their lilac paint cracked, splintered, and grey. The droning approached. As Silhouette remained, she felt a chill at one of her back legs. It was the driest heat, as though her leg was surrounded by a coil-heater that was near but did not touch. Looking back, she saw one of the shadows leaking along the building towards her. A tendril of the darkness had curled around her leg with the slow, impassive grace of a snake. More shadows inched towards her, dew on the buildings slowly becoming vapor rippling over that creeping, filthy darkness. The droning was above her now as her leg began to sweat as a dim appendage found another. She saw them then. Changelings. And yet, pictures did not do them justice, or perhaps, what Silhouette saw was the dreamer’s view of them. They flew on green-grey blurs that sent ripples into the haze. They were as tall as princesses, their shining surfaces spiked, barbed, and in spots, revealing jagged metal, as though they were bred with old, rusting razor wire. Their limbs were perforated, but at this range, Silhouette saw sparks and arcs in those holes, electricity bounding along their limbs in small waves that hopped the inches like a school-ager’s toy coil. But what lit them up the most was not their charges, but their faces. Their eyes were bright and bulging, the flesh around them stretched and sharp like a lion’s in mid-pounce. Around their mouths, the flesh was pulled tight as well, this time by visible wire jutting from their jaws and hooking up through the shell under their chins. The teeth that were revealed were all like gleaming ivory cut into sharp diamond shapes. Not a single tooth looked to be made to grind vegetables or grain or even to crack an insect. These teeth all had one apparent purpose: to pierce. Silhouette saw their ears, ratty and ripped. The ears moved, but the Changelings moved on, faces frozen as if in a trance of rage and hunger. The drone, as loud as the howl of Tartarus itself, quieted to a mere electric thunder, and the Changelings left her as the second tendril of hot shadow gently wrapped itself. --- Synth Pop heard the drone, somewhere from behind her, as she always did. She shook and tried to move, but it was a move out of a moment’s panic, and it hurt. What held her there, forcing her to look out to the beach, was still, sharp, and unforgiving. She blinked slow and watched the birth of a seagull in a nest held in a claw made of twisted beams of steel, the nest itself made of fibers not of nature. She watched it crack its egg and force its tiny beak through the oil-stained shell, and the drone almost quieted in her ears.

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Despite the hot shadow curling around her leg, Silhouette stayed stock-still while the changelings saw her. Shadows could, presumably, be dealt with. These... They weren't monsters or wild creatures. The photographs she'd seen, black prints on harmless paper, did no manner of justice. Maybe it was just Synth's imaginings, but... for all the life of her, they looked like Deep Ones. Maybe it was just a childish imagining, but at the sight of those... things, a memory from childhood sprang back up. She had been exploring down in the tunnels below her colony, old daywalker mining caves from ages past. She was looking for... mushrooms, that was right; the green glowing ones, to decorate her room. But she saw something round a corner that glinted, and heard a soft rustle like scales... and then she had been flying back to her mother's arms as quickly as little wings could take her. Another memory came after that. Teeth. Teeth as big as railroad spikes and a bloom of black smoke and all that red in the snow under— No. She forced down the memory as best she could, with the image of a great big tamping rod shoving it back. Not now. Not tonight. But her thoughts were already jittery and at the knife's edge of panic; she didn't have the luxury of time to calm down. Once the changelings had apparently lost interest, flown off to other targets, and the second tendril touched, she abruptly kicked her leg and tried to pull herself up against the building, away from the dark, hot fissures below. This was all a product of Synth Pop's mind. The darkest, most unknown and fearful pits of it, no less; this was that old mineshaft. Synth Pop clearly couldn't get out of this on her own. But if Silhouette could bring something from herself here, plant an idea of light and safety in Synth's head... It came first as a burst of flame from the eye of her raiment, which sent her jolting and her heart up in her throat—dammit, no!—but with another image of the tamping rod, she forced it to change shape, into the form of a cool orb of bright silvery-blue glow, like the full moon on a foggy midnight. She concentrated, and the orb gained form—the glowing shape of a sparrow, bright enough to light the area. As it took flight and swooped around her, she continued pulling up against the hot tendrils, feeling her leg strain and threaten to pop. Maybe it wouldn't beat back the dark enough. Maybe this place was too thick, too mired in despair, and she'd get dragged down to parts unknown. But if a little symbol of hope didn't help... well. There was always kicking and screaming.

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The stifling shadows pulled once resisted. They pulled, their texture so faint that they felt like the most opulent, silken sheets torqueing and yanking, both gentle and murderous. The sound of hungry exhalation gusted from the center of the mass, half hiss and half gasp, the propelled air useless by virtue of its own heat, as though escaping from a forest blaze or any given inferno of Tartarus. That hot air flowed over, under, and past her, carrying wisps of nothingness like eels from an abyss. For a moment, the world felt like it was being held an inch above meat-caked gridiron smoking. For that long moment in the breath of the nightmare, could there have been said to have been hope, and where had the sparrow of cool light gone? Whipped by the wisps? Amidst those shadows thinning to nothing above, the sparrow dodged, found the air, then dove down, delicate wings locking, its light trailing, until the sparrow was an arrow firing down. It cut into the heat, past Silhouette’s back, its trailing light carrying the scent and cool of the mist of a cave waterfall. Its wings cut into the shadows pulling at Silhouette and cut the tendrils as cleanly as a blade through incense smoke. The darkness inhaled, and the sparrow dove into the hole in light and life. There was no shriek of evils unseen to mark the effect, to explosion or song. The sparrow disappeared into the darkness, and the darkness simply withered away like a weed soaking in acid, like burnt parchment scattered by a pour of water. Hope filled a hole, and Silhouette was free. --- The droning neared ever more, and Synth Pop forced her look to the nest. The lone chick tumbled out of the shell and panicked in its harsh, prickly nest as it always did, its shrill, frightened tweets sounding through the nearing roar of unnatural wings. It made its way back to its shell, but in its panic, knocked it off the nest. Synth Pop watched the shell fall, so light that it seemed to slow. It hit the base of the twisted beam, shattering like a pale light bulb, bits of it dusting down piles of broken shells piled a foot off the oily sand.

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As soon as the shadows set her free, Silhouette scrambled up the side of the building and over the top, tucking her leg under her. Her breath came in ragged, catching pants, hitching every so often as she pushed back a break. Stupid... sun-scorched... Princesses above, why did it have to be so hot...? Silhouette could handle a lot of things, but heat and fire... she'd sooner drown than burn. It took her a moment to pull her head out from the brink again. ...That bird, though, the little bit she'd tried to bring through. That had done something. She looked back for a moment at the pit between the buildings. In the grand scheme of this dreamworld it hadn't done anything, a dent on the leg of a giant, but... she was fairly certain it had just saved her flank. Maybe that meant this place could be beaten. She tested her leg for a second, first. A little patch of fur was gone, and her coat was standing on end everywhere else. ...I wonder if this'll fall out when I wake up, she thought. Probably not. But even if this wasn't a magic dream, psychosomatic symptoms aren't out of the question. With a grunt of effort, she stood again, looking off in the direction of the drone swarm. They had ignored her. A perfectly edible victim, whom they'd certainly seen, and they just flew on once they saw she was being held by a shadow. They seemed to be headed back in the direction of the beach. If she followed dream-logic and the sense of nightmares well enough, there was only one place they could be going... and that meant she had to get there without being seen by them. Ideally, quicker, too. "When we wake up, I'm putting my salary toward a counselor," she mumbled to the skull at her side, lightly adjusting the strap. "This mare needs a long talk about Canterlot." And maybe I need one too, I'm talking to a disembodied head... She looked again toward the direction of the swarm checked her six-three-nine, and took off, lower to the ground this time. There could always be stragglers—she would be relying on the unwelcoming shadows and this wing-drenching fog to hide her, and on her own muffled senses to figure out exactly where she was following. If she could just follow their path, cut under and get their first... It was risky, no doubt. But she'd promised herself to risk by coming here, right?

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Silhouette took off into the air between buildings and only ears could track the Changelings. After the first electrical arc passed between wires between the buildings, her eyes went to the task of charting a course through the glistening, sparking bindings of the streets. It was an obstacle course straight from a Night Guard cadet’s own nightmare; the only thing lacking was an NCO hollering in the background, replaced by the occasional well of pony wailing. Orders returned from memory as the low-gauge cords and conduits came into sight: bank, rudder, slow, speed up … there was a rhythm hiding in the chaos. She banked into an alley and felt a pinch at her wing, a spark from a high-gauge wire. Thankfully, being so small, it had not carried enough current to take her out of the air. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Changelings were more suited to hovering and precise, slow flight than linear speed, and it seemed that even here, the same held true there in the nightmare. She heard the droning getting closer. Another spark pinched at her wings; the high-gauge wire was just too thin to see in time with Earth Pony eyes, but if she could just keep at it, she could get past the Changelings. Another dodge after another bank, and she nearly ran a wing into an open shutter. Was there another way to get past these things? The tarp covering her body billowed and let in the misty wind, chilling her, the faint salt and chemical it held brushing dozens of pained spots like a fine-grain file brushing by scraped knees. She shifted and regretted it immediately. A dry breath later, her eyes opened, and before her, the fledgling had grown in its bed of shaved metals, primaries stretched, mottled and oily, eyes as black as punctures from her world into a world of still nothing. She watched the aged gull let out a distorted, long squawk and take into the air. It disappeared into the mist and Synth closed her eyes. It would be back when she opened them again.