So I finally finished this chapter and edited it together with its prologue, which was the last thing I posted, so it will make more sense. -SL

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: UNDERWORLD

October 11

Sharp moonbeams struck the eastern stained glass windows of the throne room. Each thirty-foot pane caught the light and bent it, colored it, transformed it, until the resulting reflections took on an otherworldly and quite frightening appearance. A mosaic of deformed shapes shone through the gaps in the drapery.

Every so often a black cloud might obscure the moon and blot out all incoming light, and when this happened, the wall sconces were the sole light source. It gave the hall a dim and barbaric aura. Within these walls, time seemed frozen five hundred years in the past.

From the floor to the ceiling was a distance of exactly one hundred and sixteen feet. The walls rose vertically for the first eighty and in true Pintorian architectural fashion, the walls were crowned by a collection of steep roofs and minarets that stabbed skyward like gilded scepters. In daylight, the massive marble edifice glowed as if lit from within. When it was completed, two hundred and fifty-two years into Celestia's reign, the Palace's architects had placed crystal-studded glass panes in the central spire, directly over the throne room, with the intent that both sun and moon would illuminate the space in equally striking ways. More often than not, however, looking up at the nighttime ceiling was like staring into a very dark tube.

As the hours in Night Court ticked away, more clouds crept in to blanket the castle. Soon only the torches' wavering flames were left to fight off the darkness that seemed to, quite literally, crush the crowd from above.

The oppressive atmosphere wasn't helped by the fact that two of Princess Luna's guards had, only moments ago, dragged a mentally unstable and bleeding pony from the room- a pony that had attacked her and received a stunning spell to the face for his efforts. The assembled ponies shuffled and mumbled in low voices. Their unease was palpable and the Princess could hear it, low and insistent, like a hive of wasps buried beneath the floor. Nervous faces stared up at her.

Just one more reason for them to fear me, Luna thought dully. Come to Night Court and see the show! Ponies cursed for your entertainment! Watch the not-so-reformed Princess Luna dispense cruel justice!

She regretted casting such a forceful stunning spell. True, it had demonstrated to the crowd the foolishness of assaulting a monarch, but it also possessed all the power of her simmering temper, a temper worsened by dragons and bureaucrats and a trying day that showed no sign of slowing down.

With one simple incantation, she had probably damaged a year's worth of her own efforts to improve her public image. Months of smiling at festivals and listening to ponies' sob stories in these dreadful court sessions were thrown out the window. At least that is the thought I see in these citizens before me. They lower their heads in terror and speak in whispers, as if they expect to see Nightmare Moon burst through my skin. Ruefully, she looked at her trailing black cloak, covered in burns from errant dragonfire, and the dented plating. I should have left the cloak and the armor in my chambers. Perhaps the resemblance is too distinct?

Only an hour had passed since she and her sister had returned from Manehatten, singed and weary from the dragon attack. Her choice was a disheartening one. Either take time to freshen up and arrive in Night Court behind schedule, or go right to her appointment while still in her battle raiment and fighting temperament. Regardless of what option she chose, it left her the loser. The Canterlot ponyrazzi will have a field day with this.

Luna breathed deeply and tried to let the earlier stress fade away, without success. The ponies below her throne were not helping.

"Apologies, Excellency, for our abrupt intrusion," said the stallion on the left. A private in her own guard, he wore simple plate armor and a helmet, sans plume, over his short black mane. He bowed and his muzzle nearly touched the carpeting. "The situation is one of rage."

By the Elements, what more will go wrong on this infernal day?!

"Are you certain?" She found herself standing, without the memory of having done so. Flash Sentry took the smallest step backward.

"Yes, Princess. There is no doubt."

So it is happening. It is happening as I feared, as I warned my sister against, and it falls to me to clean up the mess. I shall not let the Elements fall. "Very well. Tonight's Court is dismissed and will resume at the scheduled time tomorrow night. Flash Sentry and the rest of my airborne guard, with me." As she strode down the throne's carpeted steps, the nearest Pegasi left their posts and took up positions around her.

Rainbow Dash, still standing on the podium along with the attendees from Cloudsdale and Vanhoover, looked less like a fearless speedster and more like a lost filly for the briefest of moments. Then she found her voice and with it, her characteristic brashness. She stepped forward. "Your Highness, what's going on?"

"Rainbow Dash. I feel you have had an exhausting night, but you also have a stake in Equestrian security concerns and a duty to defend our nation. If this news is true, it will concern you too."

The sentence she then whispered into Rainbow's ear was inaudible to even the guards standing only a few paces away. It was meant for the mare's ears only. If Luna intended for the reply to be similarly inaudible, she didn't know Rainbow Dash.

When she heard the words 'Pinkie' and 'danger', Dash uttered a shrill gasp that carried to the back of the chamber. "Do you know where Pinkie is?!"

"I meant to convey the information to you quietly," snapped Luna. "All I know is what you have heard. She is, apparently, in the Undercity, although what she is doing there is a mystery to me. The option to accompany me is still yours."

"But- what the hay is she doing there?" Rainbow Dash exploded, stamping her hooves in anger and forgetting for a moment who she was addressing; she lowered her head. "Your Highness."

"This is a topic best discussed in private. Darkmane?"

All she had to do was nod, and his thundering voice filled the room. "By order of Her Highness, Princess Luna, vacate the throne room AT ONCE!" His was not a voice to be debated or reasoned with. The ease with which he used the tones of military command was equal to the Princesses', and with his size, he needed no voice amplification spells to make his point. The assembled Canterlot citizens headed for the exit without encouragement. Even those in attendance to 'see the show', as if the official Court business was some sort of vaudeville performance with the climax yet to come, filed quickly through the main doors.

"If something bad happened to my friend, I want to know!" said Rainbow Dash loudly, unable to hold back her frustration. "It makes no sense that she'd be here in Canterlot, Celestia knows where, when the last time we saw her was in Ponyville two nights ago. All of us are worried sick about her."

Luna regarded her with great interest. "And I, or my sister, was not informed of this?"

"I think Twilight came here to tell Princess Celestia but I'm not sure. Or maybe she wrote it in a letter. All I know is that on the night of the ninth, she invited us to a party and when we all got there, Pinkie was missing. Rarity and Applejack went looking for her this morning."

And if my considerate sister received this news in a letter, she did not share it with me. Luna ground her teeth and seethed. Each theory she considered made less sense than the one before it. Besides the fact that her sister was probably in the dark about Pinkie Pie's predicament as well, her presence in the Undercity made no sense to begin with, and became more fantastical by the second. A pony like Pinkie would never simply run off to Lower Canterlot with no clues or explanation, especially considering the passage of time; only a day had elapsed since the pony's disappearance.

"Flash Sentry, Storm Claw," said Luna, addressing the newly arrived stallions, "you will explain exactly what you know about an Element of Harmony being lost in the Undercity. To falsify such a claim is no joking matter."

"It's like this, your Majesty," said Flash. "I've been on Undercity patrol duty for the last few weeks and-"

"-Me too," Storm interrupted. "Darkmane told us to watch out for suspicious activity on the lower levels. Ever since those nightclubs and raves opened up on level nine and ten, it seems like somepony gets mugged or assaulted by the hour. That whole section of the Undercity should be condemned."

"Commander Shining Armor has us coordinating with the Undercity police because honestly, it's the only way to keep the place patrolled and we're short enough on ponies as it is. No doubt you heard about last week's riot." Flash Sentry glowered at Storm's interruption. "I've only been on the job for three months, your Highness. Nopony wants to get stuck on lower patrol but if it's the way to become a Palace guard, I'm happy to take any shift they give me."

"Rage," growled Luna. "The Element of Laughter. What did you see?"

"I didn't see anything, Princess, but around three-thirty this afternoon there was an incident at one of the big factories on Level Nine. Canterlot Ironworks operates two foundries down there. You know the company that makes the airship parts and the building frames? Those places are run like prisons, with armed guards and head counts and all of that... they use their own security and even we couldn't get in without a warrant. When the day shift went to work this morning, apparently there was an extra pony at the head count. By the time they sorted it all out, whoever that pony was had disappeared. The manager thought he saw an unfamiliar pony with a bright pink mane in the crowd and attached it to the incident report."

"What does this have to do with the Element?" said Luna impatiently. "My guard does not exist to find missing Canterlot Ironworks laborers or sort out the company's incompetence."

"With all due respect, I thought so too, until a police bulletin went out to all the Undercity guards twenty minutes ago. There's been an explosion and fifteen ponies have just been found dead at the same factory. Level Nine is on full lockdown."

"Then there is no time to waste."

---

Canterlot Undercity

14 hours earlier…

The two friends met, as they always did, in the walled courtyard just outside of the main gates.

It was their habit to exchange a hello or two upon meeting each other, but to say they were friends might have been a bit of a stretch. They were certainly not family or casual acquaintances. Their body language and chilly greeting was proof enough. Both would throw an occasional glance at one another but neither made an attempt at conversation; after all, both were here because the alternative- standing outside in the street, where the wind was fiercest, was far worse.

In several hours the pair would also meet here for their lunch break. It beat sitting in the lunchroom amidst scores of grubby, overworked, and desperate stallions. The cafeteria had wood heat- a luxury by Undercity standards- but the stench was often overpowering. It was as if somepony had bottled up hard luck and poverty and sprayed it around like an air freshener.

Oh, and the sweat. The reek was enough to make a pony lose their lunch.

The courtyard had fresh air but was not much better in the comfort department. It was the size of an average living room and with high stone walls, topped with sharpened iron wire, to prevent escapes and unauthorized entry. If the stonemasons had intended for it to look like a prison, they had succeeded.

Aside from the usual sprinkling of drunks, insomniacs, and returning night shift workers, the industrial district was as silent as a tomb. Today the lifts had been running much faster than usual, and the pre-dawn traffic around the docks and the textile mill was light enough that one could make the commute in ten minutes or less- an endeavor that might take the better part of an hour otherwise. With the exception of an industrial hauler that had crashed and spilled its cargo of fresh vegetables all over the southern terminal, the roads were clear. These ponies were the first to arrive for the morning's shift. Soon other workers would congregate and wander aimlessly around the staging area until the gates opened.

Trixie Lulamoon let out a gargantuan yawn. It might not have looked like it, but it was five forty-five in the morning, and unicorns such as herself were never meant to rise at ridiculous hours. A magician, after all, was never late or early. She arrived when she wanted to. Not a second more or less.

But if Trixie came to work even three minutes late...

She knew what the outcome would be. Her employment, precarious as it already was, would be terminated before she could say "Ursa".

With a sigh, she tried to make himself comfortable on the stone bench. It was impossible. Besides being as cold as the surrounding air, it was clammy and crumbling from the constant drip of water from high above. Condensation and evaporation produced a blanket of mist which, when coupled with the mild acidity of the rocks themselves, eventually ate away at whatever it touched. The bricks were pitted and cracked with age and the razor wire mounted above the wall showed streaks of rust. Thin creepers and tendrils of moss grew down the wall like slimy green snakes.

"Why the hay does it have to be so cold all the time?" she groaned, smacking her hooves together for warmth and pulling her tattered cape close around her withers. The pony sitting opposite her merely sucked on his cigarette and chuckled wryly at her discomfort.

It was simple physics, of course, and she knew it. Wintry air was sucked into the mountain where it mingled with the geothermally heated drafts rising from the pitch-black caves below Level Ten. This left the upper regions of Lower Canterlot in a state of eternal breezes, where warm and cool air collided, and the cold air settled to the bottom of the chasm to mingle with its natural moisture.

If enough turbulence and water vapor were present, a thin simulation of rainfall would be produced within what most Undercity citizens only half-lovingly referred to as 'the shaft'. So the Great and Powerful Trixie can be soaked AND freezing when she rides to work each day. Wait... if there's no sunlight or moonlight, can you still call it a day?

Millennia of dripping water had produced impressive stalactites hanging from the rock overhang nearly six hundred feet above Trixie's head. They gave the disturbing impression of giant teeth mounted in the mountain's rocky jaws, poised to devour her and all of Nine.

The pony sharing this particular bit of misery with her was not a talkative fellow; indeed, on most mornings he would not make a sound besides positive or negative grunts. He wore a simple black hat (to conceal his thinning and graying mane) and the wiry stubble on his jaw was at least a week old. Today, the hat was pulled down low over his eyes, and in one moment he had produced more words than he had in the last three weeks. He spoke in a world-weary rumble roughened by years of smoking.

"Not a fan of the weather, eh?"

Trixie snorted. The other continued, in that strange accent of his, that was somewhere between a Manechester commoner and something more... urban. Something harsh and unlettered and suggestive of many years seeing the absolute worst parts of life. The tones of his voice made her fortunes seem to fall by the second. "Seems you got yourself in the wrong place then."

"The Great and Powerful Trixie does not mind a little bad weather," she said, trying to cover up her embarrassment.

"That great-and-powerful rubbish again?" said the stallion, with a snort. "Come to think of it, this ain't the right line of work for somepony such as yourself. You been here near a month and can't imagine the reason for you still bein' at it."

"Another neighsayer, here to doubt my magical talents." His derisive mention of her title made her conjure an umbrella out of thin air and levitate it above her head; the periwinkle shimmer of her magic flashed like starlight on the wet stones. Am I not great and powerful, you crude peasant? she thought. "I believe they speak for themselves."

He made a "hmph" sound and concentrated on the cigarette, while Trixie kept up what she considered to be a dignified silence. She was used to the taunts by now. Teasing was trivial compared to what she had endured in the past months. Besides, any animosity over the insult was buried under her amazement over her companion's sudden talkativeness. The mysterious pony was in a conversing mood and, whatever the reason, it certainly meant something.

A month of living down here in this hell, working this dead end job until Trixie forgets the time of day and the days of the week, and Trixie still doesn't even know his name.

"A lady has to take what she can get," said Trixie, to break the silence. She couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice, though. "Trixie guesses that you must have also lost everything, if you are stuck working in this dump."

"Aye, but have you really lost everything?"

The question was framed in such an offhand, flippant way that Trixie found herself on her hooves and breathing through her muzzle in anger. "What in Celestia's name does it look like?"

"You still got your health, and your magic, and all four o' your hooves. Don't see what all the fuss is about."

"So being made a laughingstock by a good-for-nothing, goody-two-horseshoes mare from Ponyville and her friends, and losing the respect of every town in Equestria, and going hungry because even a rock farm would not keep Trixie employed, and somehow ending up in a flea-bitten hovel on Level Six while Trixie has to work long days at this place, is nothing to worry about? NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT?!"

The words had just tumbled out of her. She hadn't meant to unload her frustrations on her 'friend' but, in the absence of any other sympathetic ears, any listener was fair game. "And don't give Trixie some story about how this is your true calling in life." She waved a hoof at the ponies beginning to line up outside the factory gate, visible through the bars of the fence. "All of these ponies are here because they have nowhere left to go."

"Ponyville, eh? Never met a Ponyville pony before. Although my third cousin twice removed, or some rubbish like that, she's an apple farmer in those parts. Never met the mare, meself." He took a long drag on the cigarette and cast its nub onto the ground. When he spoke again, it was aimed directly at Trixie, and in a harsh didactic tone. Two icy gray eyes surveyed her from beneath the hat. "Nopony can turn their nose up at honest work, 'specially a pony who just needs to get 'er shit straight. Now folks like me, old worn-out buck-ups moving from one shit job to another, this is all we got. You've got potential, still. You're young."

Which sounded good, but he wasn't the one that had experienced the fall firsthand.

It was hard to believe that five months had already passed. Five months since the day that her traveling one-pony show had rattled over the bridge into Ponyville and set in motion events that would bring her life crumbling down around her.

That day played like a two-bit cinema in her mind. How could it not? It occupied most of her waking thoughts, and at least half of the nightmares as well- at least those not already claimed by rampaging Ursa Minors. "Step up, everypony, and see the Great and Powerful... TRIXIE!" Then carefully timed fireworks would ignite from the framework of her wagon.

Trixie was a weak magician at all but conjuration spells. However, like any great entertainer, she compensated. She was a master at mixing magical powders. Earth ponies, who made up the lion's share of the crowd, would never know the difference anyway.

It was a sleepy Sunday summer morning in Ponyville, nearly half past ten, and the only ponies up and about were shop owners and a gray mailmare. So to say that Trixie's arrival soon had the town's full attention would be an understatement. She rolled up to the town square, donned the handmade shimmery gown and wizard's hat, lit her first salvo of firecrackers, and the show began.

The crowd was putty in her hands. She augmented her magic with a few flashes of flammable powder and they were ooh-ing and aah-ing as if they'd never seen spells before. These simple earth ponies... five unicorns could rule over the whole population, if they wanted. The Great and Powerful Trixie could do it herself.

Why did that Luna-cursed mare have to ruin Trixie's day?

There was no use in dwelling on the events of that day: how two colts had attempted to test her by luring a gigantic magical bear to town, and how Twilight Sparkle had saved the day (and disproved her great-and-powerful boasts) with just a bit of clever spellwork.

She had analysed every angle and every theory and now believed that Twilight, citizen of Ponyville and overall enemy number one, was only defending her home from the Ursa that those colts had so foolishly lured to town. Any pony would have done the same. Well... perhaps not in such style, but still.

If the Great and Powerful Trixie ever comes across Snips and Snails again, I will torture them into insanity for what they have done to me. They will pull my golden throne around Ponyville after I conquer it and all its citizens. Without wheels, naturally, because Trixie does not trust wheels, and it will make them suffer as Trixie suffered when their legs break from the strain. As Celestia is my witness, Trixie Lulamoon will have her revenge.

The good-for-nothing colts were the epicenter of her misfortunes; if not for their actions, Twilight would never have had to contain the Ursa-sized mess in the first place. Trixie couldn't blame her.

Although hating the uppity lavender mare felt good, so she did it anyway.

The three weeks following her ill-fated Ponyville engagement were a descent into grief and misery. She wasn't sure how the news traveled so fast: one day, ponies were paying good bits to see her flashy showmanship, and the next they were vandalizing her wagon, taunting and jeering as she passed through, even throwing rancid apples at her performances. Appleloosa had been the worst. The mixed crowd of frontier ponies and buffalo began to boo before her introduction was half finished and, by the time she was into her famous rope tricks, pelted her with apple pies.

Answering the insults did no good, either. "Fraud" and "swindler" and much more hurtful epithets were hurled at her from Los Pegasus to Baltimare and every two-horse town in between. For the first few shows hence, Trixie insisted that she was a legitimate magician and performer and that defeating Ursas was a little beyond her repertoire. She yelled until her voice was hoarse. Far from earning bags of gold at every tour date, she was soon struggling to keep oats on the table and the wagon in working order.

A circus gig in Vanhoover kept her from starving- for the moment- but soon she was in the same circumstances again, one bad turn away from being on the streets. One low-paying manual labor job bled into the next. San Palomino rock farm or night shifts at a Canterlot diner, it was all the same.

With winter came a brief streak of better luck. A month ago, Trixie found herself in a sleepy Pegasus town by the name of Rainbow Falls. It originally began as a suburb of Cloudsdale but was a haven for those looking to escape fast-paced urban life or those on the run from the city authorities. Perhaps a little of both. Besides a show or two at county fairs and high-profile cuteceaneras, she was reduced to working at the airship docks alongside some unsavory Pegasi who would have made a meal of her had they not been afraid of her magic. At least the work was not backbreaking and she went to bed with a full stomach. When tourism traffic dried up, she was out of a job until one coworker mentioned an opening in the Canterlot Undercity. Warehouse work, said the stallion, and good pay for a hard day's labor. Trixie hates caves and dampness and darkness but what choice did she have?

And now here she was. Her days were spent at the Ironworks and her nights were spent in a drafty tenement house in a seedy part of Level Six, huddling over a fire and wishing for bygone days.

One thing could be said for Undercity life, though. Its artificial weather beat freezing to death on the streets above. Even Rainbow Falls had taken its toll on Trixie: constant bone-chilling winds, morning after morning with hooves cramping up from the cold and the strain, and a vague sense that there was nothing left in all of Equestria to live for. That all the happiness had been vacuumed from the world and only despair left in its place.

Here, although she was at a dead end, she had purpose. Six bits per hour, to be precise. And, thought Trixie with mixed pride and regret, a place to call home.

"I've been all over Equestria," the grizzled stallion said, talking more to himself now than to Trixie. "Been a Vanhoover fisherpony and a brick hauler before that. Lost a fortune playin' at bloody Los Pegasus card games, bits that I worked hard for. S'pose I just never knew how to settle down in one place and enjoy my luck when I had it."

"Trixie wonders, where did you make your fortune?"

"Oh, aye, I bet you'd love a little easy money, way things are right now. Thing is, it's never easy. Ten years o' working in the northern Manetana gold fields, getting rich, and see what I have to show for it? Workin' here because my ex-wife took the two fillies an' most everything else I didn't lose gambling. Caught 'er with another stallion and when I kicked his buckin' face in, they told me it was either hard labor or prison. So don't gimme some sob story about how sorry your life is, mate... I've seen it all." He dragged deeply on a fresh cigarette and heaved a deep sigh, looking for a moment as old as the rocks above. "Damn things'll be the death of me."

"Trixie's uncle used to smoke," said Trixie offhandedly. The comment seemed to die in the air as she said it.

"Easiest thing in the world, to quit. I've quit fifty times... It's stayin' off 'em that's hard." He puffed on the stinking thing in silence and tried, unsuccessfully, not to chuckle. In the three or so weeks he had known Trixie, the haughty unicorn had never failed to refer to herself in the third person. Ridiculous as it was, he found it endearing, and forgave her attitude. Most of the time.

The gate of the courtyard looked out onto one of the larger Level Nine thoroughfares. With so much of the potential real estate on Nine still in the process of being excavated and developed, the open locations were a tightly packed sprawl of slum houses, nightclubs, and other nondescript stone buildings. Canterlot Ironworks owned such a building. It was a short distance from the airship terminal but, as with most of Nine, in a sector that put the detriments of Lower Canterlot life on full display: miscreants, loose morals, alcohol, and crime. As Trixie watched, two burly police stallions chased down and tackled a mare as she attempted to flee from them. A bystander (equally inebriated) joined the scuffle.

An empty wine bottle shattered and her drunken shrieks, coupled with the police ponies' shouts and the sounds of sticks hitting flesh, echoed on the largely deserted street. The whole exchange took place within shouting distance of the courtyard. "Trixie cannot believe this! In broad daylight? Well, crystal light, anyway."

"Told ya, things're gettin' worse. Why'd you think our admirable employer has this place here, in the bloody bowels of Celestia knows where? It ain't for tax writeoffs, that's for sure." The old pony flicked the spent cigarette into a puddle, where it fizzled and died; he promptly lit another. "D'you think those fancy princesses truly care for the ponies livin' down here?"

When Trixie had no ready reply to the question, he pressed on. "Instead of fixin' the problems, they send in more police and guards. Ponies start a riot two weeks ago, tryin' to get fair wages out o' places like this- the ironworks, the docks, the textile mill over in Southern sector- and what do they do? Beat and curse the livin' daylights out o' the crowd when things get hairy."

"The Great and Powerful Trixie cannot say if the Princess is a bad ruler, because she has never met her."

"A bad ruler? Aye, dependin' on who you ask, of course. Those royal folks throw parties and hobnob with foreign royalty, without knowin' what's going on right under their hooves. The Ironworks, now... there's a reason it's down here, and that's 'cause companies like this don't want nopony knowin' how they run things or really what they do behind their doors. Rubbish wages and rubbish workin' conditions. No regard for safety. And Celestia knows what's goin' on in the restricted sections of this place. Sure as the sun sets, we're fixin' for another riot before long."

Restricted sections...?

Again, Trixie wondered what had made this pony so chatty.

A bell rang. "It's that time, innit? Another day. Another twelve hours of breathin' smoke from the furnaces. Well, don't just stand there, time's wasting." He rose to his feet with a groan and flicked away the second cigarette. "Looks like that bloody idiot Brawny's on security again." He and Trixie left the courtyard, remembering to shut the gate behind them, and joined the loose group of ponies heading to morning check in.

Unlike the natural blue crystal lighting found throughout most of Nine, the outside of Canterlot Ironworks's factory was lit by electricity. This alone showed her employer's great power and influence. Electricity was such a new concept for most ponies to grasp, let alone the balky and extremely dangerous generators needed to produce it, that it was almost unheard of to see it in operation. Yet here it was, being used to power some of the factory's machines as well as the abrasive, blinding spotlights on the exterior walls.

Trixie hated them. They glared down onto the courtyard like the eyes of some evil beast.

Shift Seven (herself and about thirty others) collected in front of the security checkpoint and the outer gate shut behind them with a clang. For the next ten hours, there was no leaving this place.

"All right, you lot line up for head count! You bloody know the drill. Front and center, one deep." The ponies shuffled into position with a soft chorus of snorts and grumbles. Many of them were still half-awake. Time of day was impossible to tell in the Undercity, but it was only six in the morning and the security staff were more somnambulent than the workers themselves, as demonstrated by their short tempers and incessant yawning. Once the laborers had formed a unified line, Brawny and the rest of the security team verified each pony's credentials: a stamped copper badge, bearing that worker's name and likeness, and hung from a thin cord around their neck. Each one was double-checked and marked on a clipboard.

Trixie was fifth in line and the guard had started at the opposite end from her. There was no sound apart from the workers' movements and the sharp scratch of the quill. Partway along, a sharp outburst caught her attention.

"Flower Wishes?" the guard growled. "Something wrong with your badge?"

As the guard squinted at the embossed badge, trying to read it in the dim light, a few of the others had leaned forward, wondering at the delay. Trixie looked to her left and was amazed to see the mare standing there. Not that mares were forbidden from the sort of manual labor jobs the Undercity offered, but- definitely an oddity. She was the only female pony present apart from Trixie herself.

"New manecut," said the mare, in a dull voice.

"Get that fixed at human resources." Brawny handed the badge back to its quivering owner and moved on to the next in line. Trixie, however, took a closer look at her. Her mane was of uncertain color and hung limply around her neck like a wet curtain. She trembled and shot nervous glances from side to side; her demeanor suggested a pony uncomfortable with attention or perhaps one up to no good. An alcohol addict, probably. Just look at her face. She could have passed for a healthy Ponyville earth pony if not for her saggy, bloodshot eyes and oddly vacant visage. It was like looking at the shell of a pony that vitality had long since abandoned. Trixie shivered, without knowing why.

"Never seen her before," said the stallion standing to Trixie's right. "Maybe she's new?"

The bedraggled pony was lost in the milling throng of new arrivals, mostly from shifts one and four, and Trixie was left with her own thoughts. Has the Great and Powerful Trixie fallen so far that she is keeping company with such vagrants and low-class failures? She looked at her cloak that once had been studded with applique stars. It was now stained and tattered from her travels and tribulations and her matching hat was long gone- sold to a Los Pegasus thrift shop when times were hardest. She was no different from this unfortunate mare (apart from her remaining pride). It was a sobering thought.

Trixie shivered again and suddenly realized what had caused that sudden apprehensive feeling. It was her eyes. Flower Wishes's eyes were like looking into a pool without a visible bottom, two murky orbs that somehow seemed unhealthy. She couldn't put her hoof on it. Her own eyes sparkled back at her when she gazed into a mirror, quite unlike the mare's dull ones.

Once all the Shift Seven ponies were cleared through security, a guard ushered them into the building proper, and the day began.

---

Every day was the same. It started the same and ended the same. There was no reason to believe that this day, regardless of its beginning, would be any different. The baby-blue unicorn took her place among the procession of yawning, grumbling stallions as they began to head through the inner doors. No less than three sets of drab, depressing gray stone doorways lay between Trixie and 'hoof-count', or the attendance check for the specific department in which she worked.

From the janitors to the upper management, over six hundred ponies worked beneath the Ironworks' stone roof. Trixie, in particular, had a single job, and that was to pull a cart. It seemed a bit silly really- pull a cart? All this training Trixie endured, going through the motions about job safety, and they make it sound like lugging this bucking cart around is a dangerous thing to do. It's a cart. Although it was a cart specially modified to mount a water tank, moderately loaded at the start of shift, it was still only a cart. Her task was to ferry the tank around the gigantic warehouse and supply the thirsty ponies at the forges and testing stations with fresh water to drink.

The forges ran night and day; even though tending them was a grueling and filthy chore, they at least had the luxury of readily available water. The Ironworks wasn't that heartless. As she signed in at her station and strapped the heavy harness around her chest, she was thankful that he only had to handle a water cart. Other poor stallions had to pull backbreaking loads of metal or worse, shovel coal into the furnaces and breathe smoke for ten hours straight.

Pulling a cart is interesting for about ten minutes. Now, once those ten minutes are up, imagine pulling it for the next nine hours and fifty minutes, then doing it all again the next day- and for months after that, until your entire body is an amalgam of aches and saddle sores. Management was kind enough to take her gender into account and only fill the water tanks half-full, so that pulling it was not a crippling task, yet ten hours of hauling the cumbersome thing taxed Trixie's physique to no end. The straps rubbed against her sensitive abdomen and flanks. It was not enough to break skin, but enough to pinch and scratch painfully against her coat. Every day she trudged home with stabbing hoof pains.

Together with the lack of real sunlight and the awful hours, it would drive even the staunchest pony insane; to pass the time, she let her mind wander where it would.

Normally she might think about happier times in life (and, inevitably, become depressed at her rotten luck) but today, as Trixie wrestled her cart through narrow spaces, her thoughts turned to something that old pony had said.

The Ironworks, now... there's a reason it's down here, and that's 'cause companies like this don't want nopony knowin' how they run things or really what they do behind their doors. Rubbish wages and rubbish workin' conditions. No regard for safety. And Celestia knows what's goin' on in the restricted sections of this place.

The restricted sections.

Trixie began to sweat as she tugged the uncooperative cart underneath exposed industrial rigging. Those same pipes and corridors haunted her dreams at night, dreams of being lost in an unending building with no way out, before the stone crushed her to death.

Now that she thought about it, every nightmare since moving to the Undercity involved being crushed under stone.

When she was hired and shown around the areas of the building for which she had clearance, she had noticed that the structure was far larger than it appeared from the outside. This was partly because its short side faced the street. It was also because here, in this vast steamy inferno of clanging metal and throbbing machinery, only some of the floor space was visible. There were sectors off-limits to her and the majority of the other workers.

"Do your job and keep your nose out of the restricted areas, and you'll get along fine," the mare at the reception desk had said, handing her a freshly stamped copper badge.

Which is exactly what Trixie has done. Walk inside the lines, pull this cart around and never talk out of turn.

Her route led her past one of the newly installed backup electrical generators. It was under full load, its boilers red-hot and spitting steam like enraged dragons; the racket was such that her ears rang for ten minutes after leaving the area. Three of the ponies tending it had badly singed manes. They gave Trixie nonplussed stares as each one took his turn at the water tank. Only after she weaved her way back into the hoof traffic did she look back at the clattering generator and think: Why in all Equestria are they running these things so hot? It wasn't as if the lights and the conveyor belts required that much power. She knew next to nothing about the production of electricity but if it required such enormous machines and dangerous conditions, she wanted no part of it.

Trixie kept her steady pace, lost in her own private world, when she heard a gravelly voice behind her. "Sir, we just can't physically push these generators any harder. Do you see those pipes straining?"

"I've had enough of your excuses, Faraneigh. To complete the experiment we will need every ounce of power. Perhaps if we use a little unicorn magic to speed up the process..."

A group of three stallions and a griffon walked briskly past Trixie and paid her no more attention than a worm on the ground. The nearly pure-black griffon was, from what she could see, somepony of authority, and the other three tagged along in his wake. His voice oozed contempt and the reddish feathers around his neck were spread angrily.

Instinctively she moved the cart to the side of the walkway, out of the path of impatient management; this was part of her training. It was not part of her training, however, to ignore suspicious conversations, and the words being rapid-fired around the group weren't any Equestrian words that she knew.

"We've tried that and for whatever reason, a unicorn's magical energy does not agree with the electrical output. Not to say that it doesn't work but- there are complications. Depending on the strength of the unicorn's magic, and the angle from which the spell is cast, the windings can either become supercharged or break apart. Those outages we had last Tuesday were-"

"It's a risk we will have to take."

Faraneigh, a stocky pony with a light gray coat, pressed his point further. "As you know, sir, energy sufficient for the process is only achieved with one hundred ninety percent output from the generators, which we have only achieved for several seconds at a time. Enough to produce crude samples of the metal, but nothing more. Full production capacity is only at one hundred and fifty-five and the motors are at breaking point as it is. With all due respect, sir, I'm surprised these things haven't blown us all the way to Five by now."

Intrigued, Trixie began to pull the cart at a safe hearing distance from the group. "The process will require every generator running at peak capacity, Faraneigh. See to it that this is so," the griffon growled. "I am sure you know that converting iron to gold is something not easily done. The actual conversion takes place only when our magicians' transmutation spells are combined with a very high electrical current. The higher the current, the more pure the finished product will be. So get me more power." His talon pointed sharply at the others.

Trixie's route took her out of earshot of the group and they, just as she might have guessed, passed through an unmarked iron door with the menacing word RESTRICTED printed in red letters above its frame.

And just when Trixie thought this was going to be another boring day…

She moved to the southern quadrant of the factory, where the ponies in finishing were awaiting water with eager hooves. Here, freshly forged components were cleaned and checked for weakness before they were shipped to customers all over Equestria. These chunks of hammered iron might be destined to become bridge foundations, or supports for the next Manehatten skyscraper, but they needed to be free of defects before they could do so.

Trixie's mind was on anything but supplying the workers with water. She was thinking over what she had just overheard.

As far as she knew, it was impossible to simply cast a spell and completely change an element, like iron, into a different one, such as gold. The laws of matter might permit a few additions or subtractions- depending on a unicorn's magical skill- but otherwise they did not allow it. The only option was what Trixie's foalhood teacher had called 'artifices'. They were incantations of the Illusion school and often cast with the intent to deceive: for example, the iron would look like gold to all but the most discerning eyes. It would even feel like real gold. A simple counterspell, however, would reveal the truth.

Somehow the Ironworks had found a way to break these boundaries. But if they do not have the power- and why in all Equestria would they be doing it in the first place? The kingdom is rich with gold already.

Trixie moved the cart to the next station. She hoped that her trembling would not transfer to the cart and upset the water barrels; the truth was that she was very frightened. Nearly as frightened, in fact, as she had been when confronted by an angry twelve-foot-tall Ursa.

Angry crowds? She could handle that. What she couldn't handle, though, were things out of her control. Magical rampaging bears, for example. Or a factory filled with unstable machinery that was being run to the breaking point by a psychotic griffon.

She put her shoulders to the straps and moved on. Trixie wishes she could stop sweating...

Much like hoof pain and physical exhaustion, sweat was a constant in her life. Yet the sweat on her neck was as cold as the stones above. It was the chilly, clammy sweat of fear. The fear sat in her gut like an undigested meal and made her queasy.

The last stop on her route, at least until she refilled her tank and began again, was the main generator. The monstrous roaring thing was against the north wall and required no less than thirty ponies to fuel and control it. It was powered by twin boilers, both hunks of cold iron standing fifteen feet tall but, even so, these were dwarfed by the engine itself. It nearly brushed the ceiling and was a hideous contraption of gauges, pipes and valves of every shape and size. Day in and day out, it roared its unending metallic songs. The rotors and machinery inside its housing were what kept the Ironworks in business; if a backup generator went down, its loss could be suffered. Not so with this machine. The lights and superheated forges and conveyor belts were only secondary organs dependent on a heart.

Today, the heart beat with furious energy. Trixie approached the area with trepidation, and as the first workers lined up for water, shouts began to break out all around her.

"The main control valve's loose! Shut the bucking thing down NOW!"

"Somepony get over to safety and tell 'em we got a serious problem here! Those clamps can't take much more pressure-" then something hissed sharply- "get this thing powered down until these leaks are fixed!"

Things happened very fast after that. A mob of thirsty workponies rushed for her cart, their dirty coats streaked with soot and embers. They fought over the remaining water and, underneath their clamor, was a steadily growing shriek- the shriek of boilers pressurized to the breaking point and of an overloaded motor far exceeding its limits. Soon the ponies lost all interest in their water break. Many rushed back to the generator and their arguments were drowned by the clamor. Trixie found herself unable to move as the chaos unfolded around her. The noise built to an earsplitting scream; stallions hammered at various valves and turned knobs and in mere seconds the rotors were spinning at blinding speeds, too fast to see.

The beating heart of the factory was in cardiac arrest.

And then, when she began to back away from the scene, the unthinkable happened. A panicking stallion shoved his fellow- who, in turn, crashed right into Trixie's cart- and both stallion and cart went over with a crash, bringing Trixie with it. Water and splintered wood cascaded everywhere. The flames' long shadows made the cobblestones appear slick not from water, but fresh blood.

It would have been easy to break loose from the straps if not for the cart's frame, which held Trixie airborne and horizontal to the ground- not to mention the wet stones which were impossible to brace against. She had to use a levitation charm on the entire vehicle and, once the weight was held steady, conjure a pair of large scissors to snip away the tangled pieces of canvas. It was exquisite spellwork.

But does the Great and Powerful Trixie get any compliments? Of course not. She got to her hooves just as a series of explosions went off and a heavy iron pipe landed just inches from where the cart had been. A pony rushed to close the boilers' grates.

"This thing ain't gonna take much more!" he bellowed. "You there! You're a unicorn, use your fancy magic an' hold those two valves open so the boiler'll lose some o' its juice. Ya see that valve there on top? If that thing goes, this whole place's comin' down on us!"

Had she hit her head when the cart rolled? It took Trixie a few moments to realize that the stallion was, in fact, talking to her. More valuable seconds went by while she searched her memory for the necessary spell. Trixie thinks a locking spell should do the trick. She fed the power into her horn…

…and stopped. The dizziness was becoming unbearable. She could barely see, let alone manipulate spells, and the generator screamed like a dragon being boiled alive. Where was her pain coming from? Trixie brushed a hoof across her face and it came away scarlet with blood. Concentrating on the magic only made the sudden pain in her head intensify. All around her were shouts and crashes; she noticed none of this. The workers ran in slow motion.

A pony now stood in Trixie's path. This pony was not the same one that, moments ago, instructed her to shut the valves. It was a mare with straight hair and a bright pink coat strangely untouched by the smoke and steam.

With comic slowness, this unknown mare turned to the nearest boiler and yanked the grate shut with a clang. She then turned various knobs and stood back as the thing began to build up insurmountable pressure. Trixie needed no advanced training to know that the boiler had only moments before its imminent destruction. Where is the blood coming from?! She wiped her streaming eyes again, harder this time, and dislodged a ragged shard of metal from her forehead that was nearly the length of her horn. Funny, Trixie does not remember it going in.

Removing the sliver brought a blinding spike of pain, but also a moment of clarity, and in that moment the mare turned to her and smiled. It was a thing of horror, a frightening evil leer with bulging eyes. In a fraction of a second the whole boiler exploded.

The closest pony simply ceased to exist. This was the one who had yelled at Trixie to close the grates. Being only a foot away from the detonation, he was instantly flash-fried and pulped by a piece of boiler three times his size; the stallion next to him met a crueler fate when a flying pipe impaled his chest and he was conscious for a few more seconds- seconds to scream as his body was scalded by superheated steam. These two deaths paled in comparison, though, to what came next. Due to whatever genius had placed the boilers close to either side of the generator, the shockwave threw airborne metal right into the intakes and a poor pony along with it.

All it took was a single foreign object, and the motor became a spinning meat grinder of loose parts. Three more workers were chewed to bloody ribbons by the rotor as it detached from its axle, tore through the protective cowl around it, and went sailing right at Trixie.

She summoned the last of her magic and conjured a shield. The wreckage ricocheted off the barrier as if from immovable stone. Seconds later, the other boiler succumbed to stress and went up with a ringing boom. As debris flew in slow motion all around her and shimmered harmlessly against her defenses, she could only think of one thing.

That pony… She smiled as she set the boiler up to explode.

Trixie remembers her! The pony at check-in this morning, with the weird eyes! It was she that set the generator to explode, but why?

The detonation had obliterated her along with the rest. Her final gesture, though, would stay with Trixie until her dying day.

The eyes… like black pools of death, staring into her very soul and dissecting it.

Trixie was so transfixed by the maelstrom of death around her, and the memory of the mysterious pony, and the crippling effort it took to maintain the circular magical barrier around her, that she completely forgot to look up. The rotor had bounced off her shield and ate into the ceiling with all its kinetic energy, freeing many thousands of pounds of stone.

Stars danced before her eyes as the roof collapsed onto her.