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The Conversion Bureau: The Coldest Dish

by Silvertie

Chapter 4: In Memoriam

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In Memoriam

The Conversion Bureau: The Coldest Dish

By Silvertie

Part 4 – In Memoriam


Marble opened his eyes, and looked at the razor-sharp chisel embedded in the desk next to him, quivering with the force of the strike, and then looked at me, eyes wide.

“You reminded me,” I continued. “I’ve forgotten her smile, her way of life. She lived and let live. And now, in death, I should honor her memory and do what she would want me to do.”

I stepped back, looking at Marble, who sank to his haunches with dumbfounded shock.

“I’m never going to forget what you did, Marble. And I don’t know if I could ever forgive you. But Sarah would; and so that’s what I’ll do.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled, bowing his head.

“Don’t thank me,” I said, jerking a head at my beloved’s statue. “Thank her... she was the best thing that ever happened to me, you know.”

“...I know that now.”

 I nodded, and with one last look at the statue, slipped out the door into the rain before the tears started flowing, leaving one penitent sculptor in his studio, shaking as he cried tears of his own.

======

I left Marble Shatter’s mansion in the confusion that followed, slipping out over the wall completely undetected with Null’s help.

I sat on top of the clouds afterwards, watching the moon trace a slow path through the unobstructed night sky while the storm raged below me, and wondered what I’d do with my life from here onwards - I hadn’t planned this far ahead, hadn’t thought beyond the act of revenge.

I was a pegasus now, in Equestria, and I’d made the move for all the wrong reasons.

As the moon drifted below the horizon, and the sun began to rise, I had my decision - it was time to make a right reason.

======

Marble Shatter Released From Prison

The self-confessed murderer and famed prodigy sculptor Marble Shatter was released from prison today, two years after surrendering himself to local law enforcement and demanding to be arrested for the crime of murder following an assault on his person during a party at his residence in Canterlot Terrace.

He has been released early by order of Equestria Penitentiary’s Head Warden, Verdant Green, who had this to say: “We cannot keep Marble Shatter imprisoned any longer – he has made no progress in his rehabilitation, simply because he was genuinely remorseful from the very beginning – we sincerely doubt he is any threat to society, and would be surprised to see him back here again.”

The pony who assaulted Marble Shatter at the party remains unidentified to this day, despite claims from party guests that he seemed to know Marble Shatter regarding personal business. The victim, Marble Shatter, has never attempted to press charges.

I folded up the newspaper, and put my hooves back down off the counter and got up, checking the time as I smoothed out my red and white striped vest. Twelve o’clock sharp. I adjusted the sit of my hat, pulled a lever, and the shutters of my narrow workspace were lifted, revealing a wide opening in the side of my wagon, below which small foals clamored and cheered my emergence.

I have no name that matters to them; to them, I am “Mister Ice Cream”, purveyor of frozen and chilled weapons to do battle with against the onslaught of hot weather. I arrive as if by magic; none see me arrive or leave, and yet, I’m there one moment, and gone the next. I am a source of wonderment for all, not just the foals.

As with all magic tricks, there’s a secret – a little metal box on the underside of the counter. It still works; a true testament to Null Point’s profession. Last I heard, he was working on Equestria’s first ever space program, designing some sort of gate thing.

How does a pony like me have a talent for making ice cream? It’s a long story - but probably just as long as Marble Shatter’s.

It was always Sarah’s dream, you know - to make ice cream. We’d sit on the sidewalk outside our houses, watching the ice cream truck roll on by, cheerful tunes clinking out of its loudspeaker, a small horde of children pursuing it, and wonder what it would be like to be the one selling it. The one making it, taking payment in money sticky with whatever the children had touched last, and in their satisfaction as they enjoyed a cold treat on a hot day.

But such a dream was always a pipe-dream as humans – the world fell into darkness and despair as we grew older, and nobody had money for ice cream. And if they did, they’d never hand it over; you never trusted anyone handing anything out of trucks.

Equestria revived that dream of hers – it was a land of sunshine and innocence, surely in need of frosted treats. The skeptic that I was, I’d been unwilling to go along with it, and so we’d lingered in the city, watching our neighbors, friends and associates drift over to Equestria in torrents, then trickles.

Her death was, in a sense, my fault. I didn’t want to live her dream, and put her in a position to be killed.

I had vowed to remedy that; I used my winnings from my bet with Thunder to purchase the materials. I worked hard at creating ice cream, and before I knew it... my flank was adorned with a picture of ice cream in a cone, and my work became famous with the foals of my new neighborhood. How ironic that I should trade one chilled meal for another.

The purification came and went, not a year and a half after I finished my business with Marble, and I moved back out to my old neighborhood; the one I’d grown up in, once more in the splendor I remembered from my childhood; with the addition of the construction work going on just down the road, of course. Blue skies, white picket fences, green grass, hot pavement and cold ice cream.

Only now, I am the stallion behind the cart. I am the one who makes the ice cream and takes payment in grubby change and smiles – a just sentence for the crime of putting a halt on my beloved’s dreams.

It warms my heart, fills the space that Sarah’s death left behind.

I’m snapped out of my reverie by a cleared throat from a pale blue unicorn, and I bow slightly in apology. “Sorry, zoned out for a bit there. What can I get yo-“

“Oh, it’s you!” The unicorn said, cheerfully, small child in tow. “Remember me? The intern at the hospital? How’s the lung?”

“Oh. OH! Yeah, I remember you! It’s been a long time! And my lungs are fine... how’d you recognize me?”

“Oh, don’t ask,” he said, indicating his flank; a silhouette of a Polaroid photo adorned it. “I’m really good at recognizing faces, apparently; not medicine.”

“Speaking of, did you ever –“

“Nah, change of plans after all; found a nice girl, made the change, got hitched, had half-pint over here-“

“Dad!”

“-ha ha, just messing with you – and moved back here when I heard it was habitable again.”

“Good for you, man,” I replied, nodding.

“Anyway, the tyke wants some ice-cream, got any cookies and cream?”

“Sure,” I replied, fishing the requested treat out of one of the chilled compartments, and handing it to the colt, who eagerly accepted it. His father reached for his bits, but I held up a hoof.

“No, no – this is on the house. I owe you a favor, remember?”

“Oh, really? Say thank you to the nice stallion, son.”

“’anku!” the colt mumbled around a face and mouthful of ice-cream.

“Alright, go run off and see what Mum’s doing. I’m going to have a chat with the ice cream pony for a while.”

The colt nodded, and tore off at high speed. I nudged the ex-intern with another ice cream for him, and he took it.

“So, what name are you going by these days?” I asked.

He took a quick lick of the ice-cream and smiled. “Well, when I made the shift, I couldn’t decide for a while - But I settled on Picture Perfect. What did you choose?”

“Still haven’t chosen,” I admitted. “I got kind of caught up in some... personal business.”

“All this time, and you still haven’t picked?”

“It was very personal. Besides, nothing really springs to mind.”

“How about...” Picture looked at me, and tilted his head slightly. “How about just rolling with Ice Cream? It IS what you do, after all; and it’ll save the local fetlock-biters learning a new name.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, okay – from now on, I am Ice Cream, purveyor of frozen treats!”

“I like it,” Perfect stated, “It suits you and your mane.”

“Really? How?”

“Well,” Picture said, licking his lips free of ice cream, “Your mane is just like your ice-cream – it’s got that little something in it that sets it apart from all the others, but unlike your mane, I can’t put a hoof on it.”

“Oh, thanks. I do make it by hoof, perhaps that’s it.”

“Perhaps, indeed.”

As I mulled that compliment over, Picture Perfect straightened up, and scarfed back the last of his cone. “Now, I gotta go; my spawn has contrived to get ice-cream all over him, and my wife’s starting to look a bit irritated. I’ll catch you later, Ice; we gotta go out for a drink sometime.”

“Catch you later, Picture,” I waved to the unicorn as he cantered away to a waiting mare and his son, and looked at the sky. The day was pretty much over, so I began packing up the cart.

As I did, I turned over my new name in my head. Gone were the days of introducing myself as “The ice cream pony”, now I could just say, “I’m Ice Cream.” It would make an excellent tagline for my wagon, too. I don’t just make ice cream, I AM Ice Cream. I imagined myself slamming a hoof on the counter, and fireworks being deployed from the rear of the cart – one day, perhaps. Maybe if I ever started franchising.

As I warmed to the new name, and embraced my new identity, I felt a burden that I didn’t even know I was carrying slip off my shoulders.

Brandon Sykes finally dead. Shot in the chest two years and seven months ago, to the day. He just hadn’t realized it. With him died the love of his life, Sarah; both killed by a man who was not Marble Shatter.

Surviving him, a pegasus named Ice Cream – with coat of light brown and mane of dark blue and a streak of red, he could not possibly be Brandon Sykes.

I sighed, as I sat on the top of my wagon, and watched the sun set from a tall hill. Where the city had once been, a small town now sat; in the central park, even from here, I could see the statue of a human woman standing tall, marking the spot where Brandon had perished. Put there by Fancy Pants himself, on behalf of an anonymous sculptor. Humans might be gone, but at least in Penance, the best of humanity lived on.

I ran a hoof through my mane. Selling ice cream was all very well and good, but it was time to get out of town, take a holiday. I’d give everypony a week’s notice, then wing it somewhere.

Canterlot, probably – stop by at Marble’s, offer my congratulations on his release, and leave him with fond wishes for his career; maybe go catch one of Thunder’s matches at the ‘dome. Then swing by at Silver Tie’s place – he writes stories now, I hear. Perhaps he could listen to my story, spin a tale out of it.

I’m looking at the sunset, and for the first time in a long time... the pain in my chest is gone. It used to be a missing half-lung, and then it was half my heart. But now, I am whole again; no pain, left behind with the burden that was unseen, back where it fell off, never to be picked up again.

They say that when you become a pony, you change. Priorities, tastes. Hay becomes full of flavor, meat turns to ashes, and the coldest of dishes, revenge: a once-sweet dish becomes sour, acidic. Unlike my lemon-flavored ice cream, it’s a dish that few can truly stomach.

I passed that dish up, and deep in my soul, I can feel Sarah loving me for doing that - and at the end of the day?

It’s all I lived for, her love. Always was, always will be.

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