Factory (SPG)


                                            > You are Lyra Heartstrings.

                                            > The knowledge is there, somewhere in the back of your mind as you drudge yourself out of bed and take the morning leak. The toilet is uncomfortably close, but it's better than not having it in your room.

                                            > Jail cell. Might as well call it what it is. A small, windowless box, barely long enough to fit a rudimentary bed and a filthy toilet. It's so narrow you have to put your forehooves on the bed to turn around.

                                            > You'd gotten good at waking up at the right time, anyway. Just as you flush, there's an ugly, electric buzzing sound and the door opens. The tiny, barred window in the door has been letting in a bit of light, but now you're nearly blinded and all your secrets exposed to the watchful eye of those...

                                            > Apes.

                                            > You grab your toiletries bag and make your slow way out to the showers and washbasins. All around you other ponies are doing the same. You know most of them from Ponyville, but you don't want to remember, so talking to them is entirely out of the question.

                                            > Except for one.

                                            > Bon Bon's yellow coat is just as bright as ever and the pink streak in her mane just as vibrant. You don't know how she does it, but she greets you with a smile each morning and it makes your day a little easier.

                                            > You get separated in the rush to get to the bathrooms. It's six-thirty and the work starts at seven. Ponies who are too slow to wash up and eat just have to go without breakfast.

                                            > This time you manage to win a washbasin and plop your bag on the edge of the sink. You take a look at the grimy, cracked mirror in front of you.

                                            > A couple of months ago you would never have recognized the pony looking back at you. The once-aquamarine coat is now a dull puke-color. You'd always had your mane short, but now it's ridiculously so. Even your tail has been cropped, supposedly to make it 'easier to manage'.

                                            > The largest difference, however, is in your face. At first there had been pain and loss, but now you're just... indifferent.

                                            > Indifferent and tired. There are heavy bags under your eyes. You haven't been sleeping all that well lately and the twelve-hour workdays aren't helping.

                                            > Heh. They call it work, but it's just gruelling, backbreaking slavery. No nicer way to put it.

                                            > Some days you don't know why you even bother with hygiene. Habit, probably. You squeeze a tiny bit of toothpaste on the brush and stick it in your mouth. The motions are automatic and you don't really have to think about them as you inspect the tube.

                                            > With luck it will hold until the next time they deign to give you a fresh one. The flavor is disgusting anyway. They don't want to spend any more money on you than absolutely necessary.

                                            > You're there to make *them* money.

                                            > Sighing, you splash a bit of water on your muzzle and rub the sand out of your eyes before gathering up your things and giving the spot to another frantic pony.

                                            > To be completely honest, you don't really care about breakfast anyway.

                                            > Bon Bon finds you again after the bathroom and joins you on your walk back to your room. Jail cell. Whatever.

                                            > "So, did you sleep well?" she asks.

                                            > You just give a shrug, unwilling to expend the energy to answer her properly. It's not like she can't see what this horrible place is doing to you.

                                            > "I hope they put a bit more salt in the eggs today," your friend continues, smiling hopefully. Some days you envy her positivity, but not today. It's not like either of you are ever getting out of here.

                                            > It's the same routine each day. You leave your bag in your room, not particularly caring if it's stolen by the time you come back. There's just a toothbrush, paste and a small bottle of shampoo in there.

                                            > Things you can just as well live without.

                                            > Bon Bon waits juts outside your door and smoothly falls in step with you as you head to the mess hall. There's already a line of ponies waiting to grab a plate of scrambled eggs and a slice of bread that is your morning meal. It's the same every day.

                                            > "Okay, I'm gonna go find us a table," Bon Bon tells you and walks off. You scrunch up your muzzle in lieu of a reply. It's the most reaction you're capable of at this time.

                                            > The line moves briskly, nopony willing to hold it up for others. They'd all been on the other end of the queue and had to skip breakfast when that thrice-damned whistle blew.

                                            > Your meal is unappetizing, just a pile of yellow gunk and a bit of stale, hard bread. You still take it, though. Working on an empty stomach is a different kind of hell. Six hours before you get a half-hour window for lunch.

                                            > You find the table where Bon Bon is already waving to you and sit down. You lift the fork with your hoof, unwilling to expand any magic for now.

                                            > It tastes just as bland as every day. Salt costs money, so it's an unnecessary luxury for the likes of you.

                                            "I miss the old times, Bon Bon. Before..." you sigh and wave a listless hoof, "all this."

                                            > Your friend shrugs and reaches over the table to lay a hoof on your shoulder. "It could be worse, Lyra. At least you're not dead. Don't give up hope, I'm sure they'll rescue us soon."

                                            > It's a belief she holds on dearly and you don't want to tell her she's wrong. Too many nights crying, it was better just to give up and go through the motions.

                                            > You focus down on your meal, concentrating on shoveling every last bit of the none-too-fresh eggs in your mouth. At some point you glance up and see that Bon Bon has her own plate.

                                            > Strange, you hadn't even noticed her leave.

                                            > Unfortunately the siren sounds and you're both out of time. She gives you an apologetic look and lifts the plate up so she can gobble down what's left. You just push yours away and stand up.

                                            > Some pony will come by later and collect all the dirty dishes. Sometimes you envy the ones working in the kitchens, which is why you don't feel even slightly bad about the oil spills you'd left behind.

                                            > The far door has a human guard on it and you pointedly don't look at them as you pass. Everypony is in a hurry to get to their position, so it's no wonder you'd lost Bon Bon once more.

                                            > Left, another left, then the big passage to the right. Walk the concrete hallway down to where a light bulb is flashing on and off, then turn left again.

                                            > You know the way well enough by now that you could walk it in your sleep. By the time you reach the lockers the crowd has thinned out, but you still can't see Bon Bon anywhere.

                                            > Then you're changing into the orange hazmat suit, which is its own kind of punishment even without the work. The whole stupid thing is made of rubber and it makes you sweat like crazy. Not to mention the itching.

                                            > You still put it on. Working without it would be a fate worse than death. You'd seen it, when one of your coworkers tore a hole in their suit at exactly the wrong time.

                                            > The worst part of it all is the face mask and the filter, which makes each breath a struggle. For the first few days you thought you were dying of suffocation.

                                            > Once you're suited up you try not to pant, which would inevitably lead to a panic, which would earn you a smack with one of those rods the humans have in their hands.

                                            > The pony next to you walks around you to make sure you don't have any tears or leaks in your suit while you stomp your hooves into the rubber boots.

                                            > You think you see the arctic blue of Bon Bon's eyes through the glass-covered holes. You feel safe in her hooves.

                                            > In return, you carefully check her own kit, running your hooves over any creases to make sure they're not hiding a cut or a tear.

                                            > Soon you're satisfied - well, you're never entirely satisfied that it's all safe, but the human guarding you starts looking pretty impatient after about ten minutes and you have to stop, or risk a slap, or worse, a reprimand.

                                            > These monsters have some horrible ways of punishment and you don't want to experience any more.

                                            > You pat the pony you hope is Bon Bon on her back to tell her everything is okay, then follow her through the next set of doors. At least, you think to yourself, the regular guards can't go beyond this point.

                                            > Maybe the guys up ahead are slightly less cruel. They have a job to do and can't afford to waste their time on pointless nastiness.

                                            > Not that the job is easy or forgiving in any way.

                                            > They call it 'froth flotation' and it has something to do with this world's fancy electronics. Having no magic, humans had to resort to technology to make their society work.

                                            > It's all the same to you, of course. Ponies aren't considered 'skilled labor', so all you do is lift things, carry them around, mix various fluids and metals. Boring, unfulfulling work with an added bonus of being very dangerous.

                                            > Your first job of the day is to oversee a large vat of some thick, gross-looking slurry and make sure no clumps are forming. Large, metal forks are being rotated by machinery to agitate the liquid, but the process isn't quite perfect.

                                            > One of the human overseers once told you that it could be improved with better machines, but that would be more expensive than just having a pony stand there with a big iron stick.

                                            > At least this part isn't too physically demanding, even if it is boring. After a while your head starts to hurt from staring at the stupid gunk, but you don't dare stop. Missing even one clump would earn you a beating if it was discovered.

                                            > You look around to where several other large vats are being overseen by ponies and try to guess if any of them are Bon Bon. A human comes into view along a ramp and you quickly return your eyes to the goop.

                                            > Just another normal day in this hell-hole. That's one of the human expressions you'd learned from the other workers.


                                            > ~~~~


                                            > The day is going even worse than usually. The vat you'd been assigned is even clunkier than normal, so you had to stir the thick liquid with your iron rod more times than you cared to count.

                                            > As a result, the headache of magical exhaustion is already settling in and it's not even time for lunch.

                                            > You're sitting on a bench outside the factory for a fifteen-minute break before you head to your next post.

                                            > Of course, the bastards who own this place know enough about ponies by now that they won't have you using your magic beyond your breaking point. That's lose them money while you recovered.

                                            > It's not a good investment if one of their unicorns collapses from magical exertion. The next part of your shift will be purely physical, loading barrels on a trolley, or unloading them, or something. Crap you can do with your hooves.

                                            > That'll give your magic time to rest, so you can use it again in the afternoon shift. Maximum utilization, that's how it was called.

                                            > Cute words for the process of wringing a pony totally dry before tossing them aside.

                                            "Smoke me," you bark at the human sitting beside you.

                                            > The low-level workers aren't much better off than ponies in this place, but at least they get to leave when their shift is over. You're kinda envious about that.

                                            > This particular worker - you didn't even bother remembering his name - isn't quite as bad as some of the others. He proves it by taking another cigarette out of his pack and holding it out to you.

                                            > Your mask and hood are hanging on your back, as are his. That gives both your lungs some time to enjoy the pleasure of unrestricted breathing before going back into that hot, sweaty piece of Tartarus.

                                            > Once you have the cigarette in your mouth, the man lights it for you and you gratefully take a drag. It's the one bit of joy you have left in the world, even if it is a disgusting habit.

                                            > You can't take it out of your mouth, so you just push it to the edge and hold it there with your lips while you breathe the smoke out through your nose.

                                            > "Another day, another dollar, eh Lyra?" the human says. You're long past feeling guilty that he knows your name and you don't know his.

                                            > You grunt, taking another drag on the cigarette. You can already feel it dissolving your headache and you puff once more before replying.

                                            "I don't get paid, fuckface," you snap.

                                            > Rather than making him angry, the insult just makes the man laugh. The unexpected chuckle makes him choke a little on the smoke and you take the opportunity to pull while he sorts himself out.

                                            > It's a sad moment when you realize you'd already finished over half of your cancer stick. That's another word you picked up from the workers.

                                            > "Yeah, it sucks," the guy finally replies, putting the cigarette back in his mouth for another pull. He keeps talking with the smoke coming out of his mouth. "Tell me about where you came from again."

                                            "Gimme another smoke."

                                            > Today of all days you really need it.

                                            > "Shit, Lyra. I only got ten left and it's not payday until Friday. I'll run out."

                                            "I'll trade ya," you offer.

                                            > Again the man laughs, but he isn't doing it to be mean even if it sounds that way. "You just said they don't pay you shit."

                                            "No, but I'll suck you off for a cigarette. Right here. Gimme."

                                            > He falls silent, his dark brown eyes suddenly watching you with interest. Then he lifts up a hand to show you a silver ring on his fourth finger.

                                            > "Married, remember? Not gonna cheat on my wife, Lyra."

                                            "Come on, it's not cheating you dick. I need another smoke today, dammit!"

                                            > You pull in the last bit of smoke before spitting the fag out, not even looking where it lands. Maybe the place will catch fire and you'll all be freed from it. A pony can hope.

                                            > The man is hesitating and you know you've got him. It's an effort, but you make your mouth smile.

                                            "Just do it. I'll be quick. Come on before the break is over!"

                                            > His hand reaches for the zipper of his orange suit and you relax. You're getting that cigarette after all.

                                            > Some of your coworkers just take a little persuading their first time.


                                            > ~~~~


                                            > Somehow you made it to lunch. You're still in the suit, simply because it's more effort to get out of it and then put it back on. By now your legs are swimming in sweat, but you're used to it so you just ignore it.

                                            > The mask is hanging from a strap at your side and you'd whisked your wet mane back so it doesn't drip on your muzzle.

                                            > Despite having had two cigarettes, your head is killing you. Probably dehydration, you guess.

                                            > Water is free, even if it smells like piss. Room-temperature piss, at that. You still drink down as much as you can before going to the lunch queue.

                                            > It's some kind of brown gruel which tastes of cardboard and has inexplicable crunchy bits.

                                            > At least that guy's cum had been salty, you think to yourself. Maybe it'll make this slop more bearable.

                                            > Not that it ever has.

                                            > "How's your day going?" Bon Bon asks, suddenly finding herself next to you in the queue.

                                            > None of the ponies mind her butting in. You guess they know by now that you're best friends. That you're more than that, or at least that you'd been, once.

                                            "Crap, like always. You?"

                                            > Bon Bon shrugs. Her mane slips and lines of sweat run down her muzzle, leaving clear tracks in the grime. Being an earth pony, she's often on the rock-crushing detail.

                                            > Most of the time that just means dragging carts of ore from where it's dumped out of large hoppers to the crushing machinery, but today it looks worse than usual.

                                            "What happened?"

                                            > The mare sighs and her ears fold down. "Number four crusher threw a tooth, so we had to pull it apart and replace it. Cost our output to slip by five points. Manager isn't happy."

                                            > You bark a dry laugh.

                                            "Managers are never happy, Bon."

                                            > Her muzzle scrunches up in distaste as she realizes the truth in your words.

                                            > Finally it's your turn to grab a plate and hold it out for the kitchen pony to toss some slop in. Man you envy those guys with their cushy kitchen jobs!

                                            > You'd rather wash all the dishes in the world than do your next shift.

                                            > As soon as you have your plate you jerk your muzzle for Bon Bon to step in front of you for hers. She shakes her head.

                                            > "Not hungry. Thanks, though."

                                            > Her loss, you guess and move forward. It's not like the gruel tastes particularly nice, but it's better than working with an empty stomach. Crap's tough enough as it is, without the need to go making it harder.

                                            > The two of you make your way to an empty table and plop down. You start shoveling the so-called food, if it may so be called, down your gullet. You're trying not to taste it, but it's futile.

                                            "I see they went with 'cardboard' again today," you say listlessly.

                                            > The remark makes Bon Bon chuckle in amusement. "Well, nice to see your mood is improving."

                                            "I had two smokes on my break. That helps."

                                            > Bon Bon gives you a genuinely happy smile. "Nice! See? Some humans aren't quite as bad as others!"

                                            > You shrug and swallow another mouthful of gunk.

                                            "Had to suck him off for it, though."

                                            > This time your friend's face darkens and she opens her mouth to berate you again. She's never approved of your methods, refusing to understand you're just making your stay in this shit-hole a little more pleasant.

                                            "It was nice and salty. Tasted better than this, to be honest."

                                            > Bon Bon heaves a sigh and lowers her gaze to her forehooves, which are resting on the table. She doesn't say anything in response to your little joke.

                                            "Look, Bon. I'm sorry-"

                                            > She suddenly stands up, interrupting you. "I gotta go use the bathroom. I'll see you at Precursor."

                                            > Before you can repeat your apology the mare is gone in the mass of ponies. You try to spot her violet mane, but you can't find it anywhere. Sighing to yourself, you go back to eating.


                                            > ~~~~


                                            > This is the part of your job you hate the most. Gasworks it's colloquially called among the ponies. You don't understand what exactly the humans are doing, but it involves pouring molten sulphur into a gas-filled container.

                                            > The work is particularly hot and it stinks something awful. It takes ages to wash the smell out of your coat each evening. So much for the suits being airtight.

                                            > It also takes precision and skill, so not many unicorns can do it. Luckily - or unluckily - you're one of the few ones who can handle the heavy crucible by yourself.

                                            > The human supervising you, a different guy than the one you blew today, watches carefully and gives you hand signals to align the opening.

                                            > It's hard to hear out of the suit, so you watch his gestures closely and adjust your magic accordingly.

                                            > Eventually he holds out his palm in a sign to stop, then pumps his other arm. You know exactly what he wants.

                                            > There is a lever on the side of the crucible which releases the molten sulphur out the bottom. The glowing, orange-yellow liquid gushes out and mixes with the gas already in the container.

                                            > You're happy that your hearing is muffled because of the loud, angry hiss.

                                            > There's a smell of rotten eggs, getting into your nose despite the filter. It reminds you of breakfast in an unpleasant way and each day it's a struggle to hold the contents of your stomach.

                                            > You do your best to breathe through your mouth, but even so you can't help but taste the awful odor. Luckily keeping the crucible steady doesn't take much concentration and you can gag to your hearts content.

                                            > Every now and then you glance up so you'll see when the thing is empty. Then you float it back to the oven to be refilled and melted once again.

                                            > You have a few minutes to rest your horn, but then it'll be the same process all over again.

                                            > The supervisor walks over to you and punches a few buttons on the nearby control panel. The metal cylinder above you starts to whir and clank.

                                            > After a few moments to make sure it's working properly, he beckons to you and you follow to the next station. Eventually, after passing through a couple more pipes and processing stages, the gas you've just made would become something called 'hydrogen sulphide'.

                                            > You'll be using it later with Bon Bon, but not this batch yet.

                                            > In some ways the humans are kinda ingenious when it comes to stuff like this. The sulphide you're making now won't be ready for use until tomorrow, but *yesterday's* will be done by the evening.

                                            > You and Bon Bon just have to wheel the canisters from the Gasworks to the Precursor station, where ground ore would be loaded into large, air-tight tumblers and mixed with the gas.

                                            > What all of this would achieve you have no idea, but it's how they do things here. After a whole night of mixing with the sulphide, the dust would be dumped in water and be ready for the stirring tomorrow morning.

                                            > There are probably other steps further down the line, but you haven't seen them, nor have you spoken with anypony who has. You're not that interested, to be honest.

                                            > Anyway, waiting for the sulphur to melt was the closest thing you got to a rest during this shift. You glance at the clock and suppress a wince.

                                            > One more hour of this stink, then another fifteen minute break during which you'll try and get another cigarette from whichever human you find, after which you're meeting Bon Bon at the Precursor stage.

                                            > A couple of hours of that, then showers, dinner and bed.

                                            > At least the humans don't own you while you sleep. You're just sad you've stopped dreaming lately, that had been the last bit of freedom you'd retained.

                                            > You guess they really own you now, after all, body and soul.

                                            > "Okay, it's ready," the supervisor says, snapping you out of your thoughts.

                                            > Sighing to yourself, you reach once more for your magic and pick up the crucible.


                                            > ~~~~


                                            > Eventually you're back outside, looking at the setting sun. Funny how it looks so much smaller than Equestrian sun.

                                            > You're nearly done with your cigarette when Bon Bon walks out the small service entrance. You can hear the thrum of machines for a second before she lets the door close.

                                            > The human standing a short distance away doesn't even glance her way.

                                            > "I wish you'd stop doing that, Lyra," Bon Bon says, like she has the past thousand times, glaring at the glowing stick in your mouth.

                                            "It calms my nerves."

                                            > The mare sighs and sits next to you on the bench. You can feel her warmth, but you don't move any closer. It'd just be a painful reminder of what you'd lost.

                                            "You're late."

                                            > Bon Bon lowers her ears and gives you a tear-filled look. "I went to ask them again."

                                            > For the briefest instant you feel a flicker of old hope, but it barely has time to register before being dashed against the black rock of despair.

                                            "Lemme guess. No?"

                                            > Bon Bon sniffles and your resolve not to touch her wavers. "It's not fair, Lyra!" she whispers, eyeing the human worker who is standing a few paces away. "If we could share a room we'd work better. Why can't they see that?!"

                                            "No special treatments, Bon Bon. You know as well as I do. They probably think we wouldn't get enough sleep 'cause we'd be rutting all the time."

                                            > Your friend points an accusing hoof at you. "Well, you're not getting enough sleep as it is!"

                                            > It's useless for her to argue about this, but you don't have the heart to stop her. You'd given up all hope long ago, yet somehow Bon Bon still clings to it.

                                            > Maybe breaking her heart would be a mercy at this point.

                                            "Sucks."

                                            > The earth pony visibly pulls herself together. "You have to promise you won't lose hope! Promise me!"

                                            "Too late. I already have," you reply, not even looking at her.

                                            > "They'll come and save us!" Bon Bon insists, like she has every day. She glances at the human again, biting her lip in worry, but he doesn't look like he heard her.

                                            > She still lowers her voice, just in case. "The Princesses! Or- or the Elements! Somepony will come and free us! I just know it!"

                                            > You shake your head sadly. It's been such a long time. If anypony was coming to help, they'd have done so already.

                                            > Still, looking in Bon Bon's eyes, you can't find it in your heart to crush her. Instead you reach out a hoof, stopping less than an inch from her muzzle.

                                            "Maybe someday."

                                            > Your foreleg falls back down to the bench and you spit the used-up cigarette out. You don't look at Bon Bon, but you can almost feel her smiling.

                                            > "Yeah. Someday. I'll drink to that."

                                            "We don't get to drink, Bon Bon."

                                            > She just heaves a sigh and doesn't say anything more. Not that you can blame her. You know your attitude is defeatist, but it's the only one that works.

                                            > Maybe you're already crazy and this is just how it shows.

                                            "How many lashes did you get for asking again?"

                                            > The humans didn't like frivolous questions, especially ones they'd answered before. Not that it had ever deterred Bon Bon.

                                            > "Twenty," she says quietly.

                                            "You have to stop doing that to yourself."

                                            > "Never, Lyra! I'll fight for us the only way I know how!"

                                            > She's leaning in for a kiss, but you're not in the mood. It'd just hurt once it was over, anyway.

                                            > You slip from the bench and head to the entrance.

                                            "Let's just get this crap over with, Bon Bon."

                                            > Besides, your head is starting to hurt again. Luckily there's not as much heavy lifting at Precursor.

                                            > Inside the factory there's already a stream of ponies and humans coming back from their break. You join them and lose the sound of Bon Bon's hoofsteps behind you.

                                            > Pretty soon you find yourself in the locker room, where you pull the headgear back in place and zip it up. You settle it down until you can see through the tiny eye holes.

                                            > Already your lungs are straining to draw breath through the stupid filters, but it's a familiar discomfort.

                                            > You turn around to find your partner already waiting for your inspection. It's important to make sure there are no leaks in the suit. Once you're satisfied you stand still and let your own gear be checked out.

                                            > A pat on the back tells you that everything is okay, so you follow the orange-clad pony out of the room.

                                            > Moments later you're joined by the human supervisor who leads the way down the metal ramps and stairs.

                                            > It's not a difficult job, at least. You have to go to the Gasworks and grab some of the hydrogen sulphide canisters. You get a cart on wheels, so at least you don't have to carry them all the way.

                                            > Meanwhile they will load the big tumbler with ore dust. There are connection points for the gas in the bottom and you just have to hook them up. Six canisters to each tumbler.

                                            > Nothing to it, but by this time in the day you're spent, physically and mentally.

                                            > The motions are automatic and everything passes by in a blur while you stack up the cart. What feels like mere minutes later you're already pushing the cart back.

                                            > You enter the Precursor room and the noise assaults your ears even through the rubber suit.

                                            > It's so loud that you sit down and put your hooves over your ears in an attempt to shut it out. Luckily Bon Bon is there and takes the cart over, otherwise you'd both get in trouble for slacking.

                                            > Except you don't want her to do it.

                                            > Not this time.

                                            > Not again.

                                            > You were so sure you'd gotten rid of all your emotions, but just watching her, walking on her hind legs to push the heavy thing along, is making fresh tears stream from your eyes.

                                            > She doesn't do it each time, but looks like today isn't your lucky day. The headache is spiking up and you beat a hoof to your head, trying at least to distract yourself.

                                            "Please don't do this to me, you asshole!"

                                            > She can't hear you without shouting, so you get up on your hooves and follow.

                                            > You have to make Bon Bon understand she's not doing you any favors by trying to help.

                                            > You're almost half way to her when it happens.

                                            > The cart suddenly stops, one of its wheels running against a pebble or something. The join gives way and the whole thing leans precariously.

                                            > Bon Bon is caught by surprise and loses her balance, gripping the handle to keep herself upright. That is what makes the whole thing fall.

                                            > Perhaps the cart wouldn't have tumbled over anyway, but you'd stacked it too high in hopes of making fewer trips.

                                            > Time seems to slow down as the pile of canisters sways past the tipping point.

                                            "NO!"

                                            > You try and steady it with your magic, but it's weak after a full day's work, and the cart falls.

                                            > One of the heavy gas canisters falls right on Bon Bon's leg and you hear the sickening crack even through all the layers of rubber. You try to run faster, but the distance between you seems to be increasing.

                                            > Her whimpering cry is echoed by your own voice.

                                            > It's going to be fine! Maybe her leg isn't broken! Maybe she'll be fine!

                                            > You curse at yourself for entertaining the hope. You ought to have learned by now.

                                            > With another whimper your magic slips and the cart shifts again. The second canister drops on Bon Bon's head.

                                            "PLEASE NO!"

                                            > You finally reach her and can only stare in horror. The circular bits of glass which allow her to see out of the suit are smashed. She's no longer protected by the filter.

                                            > She has to get out of here, right now! Before-

                                            > A long, drawn out hissing noise finally catches your attention.

                                            "FUCK!" you yell and look around for the human who was supposed to be supervising you. "I NEED SOME HELP HERE!"

                                            > Two of the canisters are letting out their poisonous contents. You rush over and try to press Bon Bon's head against your chest, hoping to seal the holes in her suit.

                                            "Don't breathe! Don't breathe, please! I'll get you out of here!"

                                            > You feel, more than hear, a gargle from under you and Bon Bon's hoof beats against your foreleg.

                                            > She pushes herself away, breaking free from your unresisting hug and lifts up her head to look at you.

                                            > There's blood flowing from a gash on her head down between her eyes, but she smiles at you.

                                            "Please..."

                                            > You're watching her face as her eyes roll up and she slumps. It only took one breath of the stuff.

                                            > Hands grab you and yank you back. You can't even fight them as your vision goes blurry and all the strength leaves your body.

                                            > The last thing you see is people surrounding Bon Bon and dragging her away.

                                            > All you can do is cry.

                                            > How could it have happened so fast?!

                                            > She just wanted to help you with the cart.

                                            > If only you hadn't hesitated, making her help you.

                                            > If only-

                                            > A sharp pain at your side brings you back to the present.

                                            > "Get fucking moving!" comes a barked command.

                                            > You draw a deep breath and blink your eyes clear.

                                            > The cart is still right in front of you. The tumbler with ore is some distance away.

                                            > There are no spilled canisters, no shards of glass from Bon Bon's mask.

                                            > It's been over four months ago already.

                                            > The stick slaps your flank again and you take a mechanical step forward.

                                            > Your partner pony, in his intact orange suit, is waiting to help you unload the canisters and looking at you strangely.

                                            > Well, you can't really tell, but he's staring at you and he's probably weirded out. Maybe he's worried you won't meet your quota, which would mean punishment for both of you.

                                            > You grit your teeth and go on with your work.


                                            > ~~~~


                                            > You stand still in the shower, ignoring how the cool water is making you shiver.

                                            > Once again you'd finished late so the other ponies had taken all the hot water.

                                            > Bon Bon enters the same stall, but you're barely seeing the fringe of her pink tail.

                                            > "Here, I'll help you with your mane," she offers cheerfully.

                                            "Seen you die again today, Bon."

                                            > The- you don't actually know what she is. Apparition? Ghost? Memory? Figment of your imagination?

                                            > She pauses and her smile slips away. "Yeah, sorry about that."

                                            "I wish you'd stop haunting me. I'm fucked up enough as it is."

                                            > The mare steps closer and shuts off the chilly water. When you blink and look again it's your own hoof there on the tap. But it's Bon Bon's at the same time.

                                            "I can't tell what's real from what's not. It's not fair."

                                            > You like to imagine she'd hug you right around now, but of course she can't. She's dead.

                                            > "Maybe if you stop beating yourself up, Lyra. It's not-"

                                            "It *is* my fault! You should never have handled that cart!"

                                            > The mare beside you speaks up sharply. "Look at me, Lyra!"

                                            > You wrench your tear-filled gaze up at her face. She's smiling gently, but it just makes your stomach churn with nausea.

                                            > She reaches out her hoof and places it against your cheek, but of course you can't feel it. Sometimes you can convince yourself you almost can, but then you remember it's impossible.

                                            > "It was an accident, Lyra. I'm sorry, but I hate to see you doing this to yourself."

                                            > You stay silent and look down at where water is dripping out of your coat to the floor tiles. It is making puddles, which merge and run to the drain in the middle.

                                            > After a pause Bon Bon speaks up again. "I'll stay at your side for as long as it takes, Lyra. You just have to hope, okay? Do it for me?"

                                            > You can't stop a sniffle from escaping you. It's a good thing you're already dripping wet. This way nopony will notice your tears mingling with the water.

                                            > Not that there are many observers left. Most ponies just want to get dinner and then go to sleep as soon as possible. It's going to be another hard day tomorrow.

                                            "What's there to hope for?!"

                                            > The demand bursts out in an angry, broken voice. How can this ghost, if that's what she is, find anything to hope for?

                                            "All I have to look forward to is more work, Bon Bon! We're like livestock to these... apes!" You spit when you say the word. "Less than livestock!"

                                            > Your breath comes in ragged pants now.

                                            "If I'm lucky, I'll die quickly, like you. Otherwise I'll work until I can't anymore and then they'll breed me!"

                                            > Bon Bon's ears are flat and there's pain her eyes, but this has been a long time coming and you have to make her understand she's wrong.

                                            "They won't even let a stallion rut me! I won't even get that! At least I could pretend, for a second, that I was okay! That I was still a pony!"

                                            > "Lyra..."

                                            "No, shut up! They'll just do it with a syringe, Bon Bon. Because we are livestock, understand?! So tell me again, what is there to hope for, other than a quick death?!"

                                            > "Then," Bon Bon says with unaccustomed sadness in her voice. "Then hope that we see each other again... Beyond."

                                            > Your muzzle falls open in shock. Is she suggesting-

                                            > Unfortunately the mare can read your thoughts. Or maybe she *is* your thoughts. "No, I don't want you to kill yourself, Lyra. But you have to hope. Hope that all this-" her hoof waves around to encompass this whole stinking, dirty place, "-all this will change someday."

                                            > Even dead, you don't deserve a friend like her. There was such conviction in her voice that you can't help but feel that long-lost flicker of hope in your chest.

                                            > You'll regret it, you know that. You'll curse her name again for making you feel it.

                                            > But she seems so earnest. Her eyes, large and glimmering. Her smile, loving and gentle. She's just like you remember her from Ponyville.

                                            > The brightest, most beautiful thing in this entire factory.

                                            "I'll- I'll try," you promise in a broken voice.

                                            > "Thanks. Don't give up, okay? I'm sorry I left you, but please remember you're not alone."

                                            > Your lips twist in distaste. She shouldn't be apologizing for your mistake. You open your mouth to tell her so, but Bon Bon is gone.

                                            > She comes and goes, in different places and at different times.

                                            > Some days you don't see her at Precursor; you don't see her die.

                                            > Maybe those are the good days now.

                                            > Maybe that's the best you can hope for in this life.

                                            > You shake your head to clear your mane out of your eyes. It's getting long again and some human is bound to notice soon. They'll shave it away again.

                                            > For now, you grab a fresh towel from the stack and begin drying yourself.

                                            > At least this time Bon Bon didn't ask you to try and get some sleep. You always feel bad for disappointing her.