//------------------------------// // No Good Deed // Story: Pale Imitation // by Drowned Owl //------------------------------// Her hooves crunched against the snow-dusted ground while dark, stormy clouds gathered above. She pulled her hood down as the town came into view. A sign in the distance read Lynville. She quickened her pace. This is it. This is the place. She trotted along the well worn road into town, her eyes scanning the surrounding buildings, searching for clues for where to go. Ponies glanced at her curiously, but made no move to bother her. All the buildings looked similar, made from stacked logs and wooden shingles, with only a few having signs denoting shops and the like. She hadn’t thought to ask where he lived. As she rounded a bend in the road, a larger log cabin came into view. A red plus adorned its front, right above the entrance. There, she thought. The building stood out from the rest, with glass double doors and tall windows. A comforting orange glow emanated from within. The door swung shut behind her, a whoosh of warm air replacing the crisp bite of the outside. A large stone fireplace dominated the side wall, its flames crackling pleasantly. The worn faux-leather couches flanking it sat empty, save for the lone mare stationed at the front desk, casting a curious glance her way. She approached. “Hello, I’m looking for Dr. Anon. Is he in right now?” She hoped that she wouldn’t have to make an appointment, but if so, she could wait. There were enough bits in her saddle for a few nights at a tavern. The mare blinked owlishly at her. “Dr. Anon? Uhm, I don’t think we have a… Oh.” She sighed. “Anon isn’t a doctor here. We would love to hire him, but he’s turned down all our offers. Was there something else you needed help with?” What? She pursed her lips in confusion. He’s not a doctor? But… “Do you know where he lives?” she instead asked. “I was… hoping to talk to him.” If what the family said was true, then he was her best chance. She had to find him. The mare’s expression flattened, her polite smile vanishing. “Ma’am, Anon doesn’t wish to be disturbed. It’s not my place to tell you where he lives. If you need help with something, I’m sure our staff can–” Tempest interrupted her by pulling down her hood.  No they can’t, she nearly screamed, broken horn on display. The mare’s mouth fell open. And then her brows knit together, forming a conflicted expression laced with… pity. Tempest bit her tongue. If the mare wouldn't offer the address, then she would just have to search house by house. The town wasn't small, but it wasn't big either. She could get it done in a day or two. The mare suddenly slumped in her seat, sighing in resignation. She raised her hoof and pointed at the entrance. “His house is on the edge of town. Head up the road until you reach a hill… can’t miss it.” Tempest left without a word, a bitter taste in her mouth. It was always pity that got to her the most. Fear she could understand—it was what she had grown used to working for the Storm King, but pity? It… brought unpleasant memories. Outside, the roiling grey clouds had grown, a veil of rain beginning to fall. Ponies hastily ran past her, eager to escape the light showering. She raised her hood. The rain pitter-pattered softly against it, while her breath frosted in front of her as she walked, the cold biting deeper everywhere the water touched. The plodding of her hooves echoed in her ears as she followed the path the mare had indicated. Just as she had said, there in the distance, she could just about make out a modest log cabin sitting alone atop the hill. It was far, with an arch of pine trees framing the dirt road leading up to it. The windows glowed with light. Tempest paused as she looked at it. Why am I doing this? After all this time, why was she still searching? Hadn’t she accepted herself? Hadn’t she accepted that nothing could give her back what she'd lost? All she was doing was re-opening the wound. Allowing it to hurt again. Nothing good would come of this. Nothing. Depending on others had only brought her pain and disappointment. This would be no different. So why? Why was she allowing herself to hope again? Her breath quickened. Against her will, her legs began to move, taking her towards the cabin. It isn’t going to work. Her legs shook, picking up speed beneath her. Nothing ever does. A memory surfaced, unbidden and unwanted. It was of her, when she was just a filly, staring up at the somber faces of doctors. She remembered their voices. Their words. Their empty platitudes. “...nothing can be done…” It was always the same. “...nothing can be done…” No matter where she went. Ragged, icy breaths tore at her chest. Soon, she was galloping towards it, but she was still so far away. The storm growled above. “...nothing can be done…” “You didn’t even try!” she shouted, voice cracking. The pouring torrent swallowed the sound. Her blurring vision had nothing to do with the rain. When finally she stood before the large wooden door, she felt like no mare at all. It was as if she were just a filly again, sitting in front of yet another hospital, waiting to be told that nothing could be done. Tempest squeezed her eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. Raising her head to the sky, she let it wash away her tears, her hood falling around her neck in the process. She would not meet him as some pathetic foal. She refused. Her pride would not allow it. Once her breathing had calmed, she slowly raised her hoof and knocked. In the basement of his home, Anon worked. Mechanical tools, books, and scrapped parts littered the tables around him. Countless prosthetic limbs hung from the walls; some resembling human arms and legs, while others were of pony and griffon appendages. In front of him laid an arm, his latest attempt at granting himself sensation. The top panel was opened, revealing the threads of magical fiber acting as tendons, and the central shaft of metal engraved with the new rune sequence. Runes were… frustrating. Interesting as well, but mostly frustrating. All magic seemed to follow loose rules that he could not for the life of him determine with any level of certainty. Runes were no different, but they were at least better. In many ways, it was like programming in his home world, with each symbol representing an instruction—a method—where you gave it the variables it needed and it would perform the desired action in a sequential fashion. But in many other ways, it was more like… like writing a book, or a passage, where each sentence was a function—a grouping of instructions designed to fulfill a specific task—and you were simply telling the story of how it happened. It felt so easy sometimes. But issues arose when the words you needed simply did not exist. There was no ‘feel’ rune, no ‘touch’ rune, no ‘nerve’ rune. There was not even a ‘brain’ rune; the closest thing to it being the ‘mind’ rune, but that one only served to take inputs from the mind and transmit them to other runes, not the other way around. It was like trying to write a scientific paper with the vocabulary of a child. Anon brought his prosthetic hand closer and mentally activated the laser within the pointer finger. He had a number of alternative prosthetic hands, each designed for specific tasks relating to his work, but this one was his ‘Enchanting Hand’. He snorted. Truly, a fountain of creativity, Anon. Focusing, he carefully guided the digit in a series of nearly imperceptible movements, drawing the final series of runes. One of the exceptions to the ‘passage’ analogy was that you could still reference variables, or ‘characters’ as some of the textbooks referred to them as, in disconnected sentences elsewhere on the object. You could even have them entirely isolated. In this case, he had five ‘contact’ runes engraved on the ends of each finger, connecting to a ‘link’ rune and a ‘self’ rune located on the central rod. Theoretically, it should allow for a muted sense of touch, if nothing else. Finished, he mentally shut off the beam. Unstrapping the enchantment prosthesis, he set it on the side table and reached for the new one. Not bothering to put the panel back on, he balanced the limb on his knee and awkwardly strapped it to his shoulder. Moment of truth, he thought. He sent the mental command for it to angle itself towards the table. Palm an inch above the wooden surface, he ordered all five digits to lower themselves. The tips tapped lightly against the wood. … Nothing. Anon let out a long, suffering sigh. He leaned his head back in his chair and closed his eyes, listening to the storm outside. Both arms hung limply beside him. Another failure.  Why was he even surprised at this point? It never worked. It never will. Anon grit his teeth. No... I have to keep trying. I have to. Sitting up straight, he reached for his copy of Thaumaturgic Enchantment Vol 2. Perhaps he had misinterpreted the ‘self’ rune, or maybe there was anoth– knock knock Anon stilled. Tilting his head up towards the ceiling of his basement, he frowned. Someone was at his door. Who would possibly walk all the way out to his house in this weather? … An uneasy feeling settled in his gut. Anon stood from his chair with a creak of wood and made his way up the stairs. Entering his living room, he walked to his front door and carefully brought his eye to the peephole. It was hard to make out much through the rain and darkness, but he could see… what looked like a pony wearing a cloak, with a drenched mane, a purple coat, and– Anon clenched his jaw. A broken horn.  Knock Knock! The mare beat her hoof against his door once more. He briefly entertained the idea that she wasn’t here for what he thought she was, but her expression… And so soon after he had made the filly her leg? “Doctor Anon? I-I wish to speak with you!” the mare shouted over the cacophony of rain. Anon knew what she wanted from him. He knew that tone of voice. That quiet desperation. He had heard it before. He didn’t know what to do.  Anon had only accepted the noble family’s request because he knew his work was still better than pony-made prosthetics. That the daughter would at least have the best possible replacement she could, even if it wasn't perfect. But he had nothing for a horn. Absolutely nothing. He didn’t even know where to begin. If he couldn't manage an arm or a leg, how would he ever manage a horn? I can't... “...Hello? Anyone?” Her voice wavered. It was barely audible over the storm. Something in his chest ached. His hand slowly raked down his face, trying in vain to distract himself from the guilt eating at him. It didn’t work.  He didn’t have the heart to refuse her—he just couldn’t. Either way, she would realize he couldn’t help her, even if he said no right now. No good deed goes unpunished, and the crushing weight of her despair was to be his. If he were a braver man, he would’ve opened the door and told her in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t fix her, just to get it over with. But Anon was not a brave man. And so, he would choose to delay the inevitable. Allow her to believe that he was her savior, until she inevitably realized he was nothing but a liar that couldn’t even save himself. Knock Knock! The mare banged against his door, more insistent. More desperate. “Please! I… I’ve heard of what you do! You’re the only one that can–!” He opened the door before she could finish that damnable sentence. The cloaked, dark purple unicorn took a step back in surprise, staring up at him with wide, green-blue eyes. They shone against the light from inside his cabin, reflecting his own silhouette back at him. She hadn’t expected his appearance. He wondered what she had been told.  The mare’s expression hardened, stepping closer, preparing to speak. He raised his hand to interrupt her. The real one. “Let’s talk inside.” The rain was bad enough, and he wasn't about to have this conversation in it. Without waiting for a response, Anon turned around and walked back into his living room, making his way past it and into the kitchen to start some tea. The mare was soaked and probably freezing. This far north, the weather was much colder, and there was only so much pegasi could do. He heard her trotting inside behind him. “Thank you…” she murmured. Anon could feel her eyes crawling across his broken body. The mare’s name turned out to be Tempest. Her horn had been broken over a decade ago when she was just a filly, and she’d been searching for a way to restore it since. She’d heard about him from Canterlot—the prosthetic foreleg he had made for that noble family’s daughter had apparently been featured in the newspaper—and from there she had looked deeper into it and asked the family directly where they had gotten it. They pointed her in his direction. Anon rubbed at his head. Because of course they did. Tempest remained silent on his couch, awkwardly looking around the living room, trying and failing to hide her glances at his arm and leg. The tea in her hooves was probably cold by now. She spoke, “So… can you do it? Can you fix my horn?” The hope in her voice was agonizing. It was such a simple question. The answer swirled in his mind, his tongue only needing to speak it. “I don’t know,” he decided. It was true even, but only technically. A veneer of truth, wrapped in comforting lies. His specialty. And yet, the unicorn across from him leaned forward with wide, hopeful eyes, grasping at his answer as if he had said yes. “It’s possible then? You think you can do it?! I-I don’t have much in the way of bits, but-but I can work. I’ll do whatever you wish, please just—” “Stop,” he said, holding up his hand once more. He needed to word this carefully. “I did not say yes. I’ve never tried fixing a unicorn horn, and I don’t even know where to start. Ponies would have more experience than me on that front, and given how much they love their magic, I imagine it would be a bit higher in priority than other things.” Anon sighed. “What you’re asking me to do is to find a solution to a problem that has existed for longer than I have. That has been examined by some of the greatest minds pony-kind has to offer—including an immortal sun goddess—and find an answer that they couldn’t. I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, but…” he trailed off. Anon could see her eyes glistening with every word; the subtle tremble of her lip marking the first crack in her carefully crafted mask. An old, old mask. A few more and the dam would break. He wasn't sure he could survive that. “...But I will try,” his traitorous tongue said. Anon watched as the cracks froze, then glued themselves back together using his own damn words. The scarred mare leapt at him. Dark purple hooves wrapped tightly around his chest in a hug that he didn't deserve. Stop, he thought. The mare sobbed into his chest, a broken sound from a broken soul. It reminded him of himself. Please stop, he begged. But Anon said nothing. His arms raised of their own accord and slowly wrapped around her, stroking gently through her mane. His false hand burned. He would try.