Cathode Ray Mission


                                            >The hum of electric lights bear down on you, assaulting your eyes and making you perpetually squint

                                            >It's another late night at the video store, the place where Quentin Tarantino allegedly got his start

                                            >You've been watching movies pretty much all day, you never thought you'd get tired of it but most of them have been kinda bad.

                                            >Lots of porno flicks your co-workers put in, not really your thing but there was plenty of it to choose from at your store

                                            >Hell, the only thing keeping you all in business and your pocketbook full of a meager fortnightly allowance was boomers who hadn't yet figured out that the internet had all the porn you sold and more for free

                                            >You brushed your hair out of your eyes with a scratched up hand, your flesh wasn't sacred

                                            >Heh, new flesh

                                            >The one good film that you had watched tonight was Videodrome... you really needed to go through and watch Cronenberg's other works

                                            >Well, you'd seen Scanners, quite liked that one too

                                            >The mind force!

                                            >Scanners, their thoughts can kill!

                                            >"Yo, Anon? Can you close tonight? I've got to help my grandfather out tonight."

                                            >You gave Herb a nod, even though you knew that both of his grandparents were dead

                                            >You liked closing after all, it was time and a half and you could eject this wretched porno to enjoy something else for the last few hours before you clocked out

                                            >As soon as Herb had gone, you signed your name on the closer sheet and relaxed a bit more into the office chair you usually chilled in; pulled out a cig, and put on "Pulp Fiction" for the millionth time

                                            >You're pretty confident that you'll only have one or two more customers tonight, and despite a "no smoking" sign being clearly plastered on the door, most of your customers were coming in with an aura of shame and wouldn't report you.

                                            >You had smoked during at least half of your closers now and never heard a peep from the owner

                                            >You manage to get to the part where Mia Wallace is dancing with Vincent Vega before the little bell on the door tingles and you turn your attention away from the screen

                                            >Doesn't particularly matter if you watch or not, you know the movie by heart after all

                                            "Need any help, sir?"

                                            >The man in the soaked black hoodie just grunts and walks into the back where all the dirty films are

                                            >You shrug, not like it's an unfamiliar sight

                                            >He pays his $8 two-night rental fee for "Transvestites Vampires After Dark" and leaves without a word, letting you enjoy your mental fixative until Butch picks up his watch from the kangaroo

                                            >It's about then that a guy comes in wearing a suit and tie

                                            >You're a bit caught off guard by this to be frank, as most of the customers in this shithole tend to have barely put in the effort to comply with "no shirt no shoes no service"

                                            "Can I help you?"

                                            >"I'm looking for a certain film, can you check this number for me?"

                                            "Um, our system doesn't really do numbers... can you tell me the name?"

                                            >"Just try it, I'll leave you in peace if the number doesn't register anything."

                                            >You type in the long alphanumeric string, fully expecting for this guy to be able to leave you alone after this.

                                            >But no, son of a bitch. It comes up.

                                            "The... huh. I've never heard of this one before."

                                            >"It's a personal favorite."

                                            "I see. Well, the catalog listing says that uh... I have to go into the attic for it. Looks like nobody has checked this out since 1987."

                                            >He laughs coldly

                                            >"That was most likely me as well."

                                            >You mentally shrug, time and a half after all, and go into the back to pull down the cord for the attic

                                            >The video store is really a converted suburban house, single story with an attic overhead. There's nothing much up in the attic but backstock and a few tapes the owner says not to touch because they have sentimental and monetary value. You're guessing this was misfiled somewhere up in the backstock.

                                            >The ladder is just as creaky as you remember it, and the ceiling not any less nerve-wracking than it was the last time you came up here. Damn, how long ago was that? The store hadn't been popular since... one of the passably decent Avengers movies?

                                            >Jesus, you've been here a long time.

                                            >You flick on the flashlight next to the ladder, put it between your teeth, and start digging through the pile of disorganized backstock. After about five minutes, you're pretty confident it isn't there.

                                            "Sir, I'm sorry. It's not in stock."

                                            >"Did you check the owner's personal collection?"

                                            >A chill runs down your spine. The only people that would ever possibly know about the archives are employees and former employees. The owner kept valuable reels in them in addition to his home videos, so now you feel as if you're hiding above...

                                            >A predator of sorts.

                                            >Or at least a plant by boss to try to get you to slip up and get yourself fired

                                            "Sir, there is no such private collection."

                                            >"Personal collection."

                                            "Whatever, it's not up here."

                                            >The sound of laughing comes from below, a great bellowing orchestra of horns and woodwinds all tuning and practicing before a concert.

                                            >and then, it ends.

                                            >The conductor raises his baton...

                                            >and you're on the ground, the suited man above you, the VHS in his hand.

                                            >Melancholy in Grey and Grey.

                                            "Wait! You can't be up here?"

                                            >He laughs again.

                                            >"Anon, Anon... I can do whatever I wish. You enjoy movies, I enjoy a good show. We're quite similar, you know."

                                            "I..."

                                            >"Don't worry! It's one you'll like. I just know it."

                                            >He holds you in one hand and the VHS in the other, effortlessly dropping 12 feet to the porno show floor below with not so much as an inch of bend of his knees on impact

                                            "Are you... God? Am I being punished?"

                                            >"No, no. Nothing like that. In fact, this is a reward, of sorts. You've put up with a lot haven't you, Orwell?"

                                            >Your blood runs cold.

                                            >Your memory has just been sold.

                                            >"Na na na na na na! Precisely. You're going to have the time of your little life."

                                            "D-discord?"

                                            >He chuckles.

                                            >"Guessing names won't make me put you down, sweetheart. But no, not Discord, or Eris, or Q or any sort of other magical trickster you might be thinking of. I'm a sort of... hitchhiker. I've picked up things on my way, here and there. One of them was the knowledge that this existed."

                                            >You struggle, but it's futile as he ejects the Pulp Fiction Blu-ray, switches the input to VCR, and starts the tape.

                                            >It's...

                                            >It's you.

                                            >Eating alone at lunch back in high school

                                            >Well, not entirely alone. You were sitting in the creative writing teacher's classroom.

                                            >God she hated you, you could always see the disdain in her eyes.

                                            >"Why are (You) here, Anon?"

                                            >TV you lets out a long sigh.

                                            "Because the end of my shared writing exercise story involved someone shooting up the high school reunion."

                                            >"and?"

                                            "Because I wrote from the perspective of a serial killer for my letter writing exercise."

                                            >"aaaaand?"

                                            "I don't know."

                                            >"I'll let you think about it."

                                            >So TV Anon sits there.

                                            >and doesn't think about the shitty, obvious cry for help stories that the teacher doesn't like, but about the world full of pretty ponies that feels more real than all of this

                                            >Then, the lights flicker out in the video store. All except for the TV.

                                            >Orwell is standing there, she looks at you quizically. Grey on grey, light grey coat with a dark grey mane. A stylized bag of popcorn as her cutie mark. Just like you designed her.

                                            >"Hello, Anon. You're me, and I'm you. We're about to share a body, but we've always shared a mind. Let's take better care of the body than we have the mind, huh?"

                                            "No! You can't do this to me sir! I have..."

                                            >"Come on, Anon."

                                            >The hitchhiker chuckles once more, looking at Orwell, who looks a little bit hurt by your outburst and initial rejection, but focuses on him too, hope beaming in her eyes

                                            >He then trains his eyes on you.

                                            >"If you can give me a single reason you are attached to this world, I will let you go back home. You wake up in your bed, and believe whatever you want to believe. And be genuine now, I'll be able to tell if you're lying."

                                            "My mother."

                                            >He winces.

                                            >"Your little sob story with her was how you managed to pass that creative writing class and got a good word in with that teacher, but Anon. You should know that I know she's long gone."

                                            "I... I'm scared."

                                            >Orwell gives you a slight smile

                                            >"I'll be here for you, I've already figured out how to walk and do earth pony magic things like open doors for you! You've got a little living space set up for you, isn't that great?"

                                            "Yeah, that... actually does sound kind of great."

                                            >"This is going to hurt. A lot."

                                            >Orwell presses her hoof up against your hand and the agony begins, your screaming would probably have awoken the entire block if the suited man hadn't covered your mouth as it began.

                                            >When it ends, you're a panting mess on the floor and there are only two warm bodies in the video store.

                                            "I'm... a mare."

                                            >"You knew what you were doing."

                                            "What if I didn't?"

                                            >"You did. There is one last part of the spell, I think you know it already."

                                            >You continue to pant in the dark like a dog, your heartrate still recovering from the trauma of assuming the new form.

                                            "I don't."

                                            >"Come on, you just said it in your mind. Almost, anyways."

                                            "Oh, oh god! Right. Silly me..."

                                            >"Are you ready?"

                                            "As I'll ever be. Wonder if this place will survive much longer..."

                                            >"I'll let you in on some insight, half the reason the place is still open is because you were considered attractive by the elderly people who rented gay pornos here. Once they figure out they can't ogle your ass when they pull the same bad knee excuse again and again to get you to bend over to pick up-"

                                            "Gross. Okay, yeah. Definitely ready to go now."

                                            >You take in a deep breath.

                                            "Death to Videodrome. Long live the new flesh."

                                            >As your body goes partially incorporeal and time and space folds itself in around you, you catch a glimpse of the store sign on the door.

                                            >The store was called Videodrome! You had forgotten about that!

                                            >You want to share the joke with someone, anyone, but as soon as the folding begins it's already over.

                                            >You're a little pony in your little apartment, so you just climb into bed and giddily whisper to yourself over and over again:

                                            "Well played, well played."

                                            End of line.