You see things; and you say, 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say, "Why not?"

George Bernard Shaw

He shifted his weight from side to side as he waited, one hoof absentmindedly touching the lapels of his soft, velvety jacket. It was warm, quite warm, with the sun shining brightly against the rural Canterlot streets.

Foals screamed in the distance, playfully running after each other in a nameless game of wild abandon. A single mailmare flew from one doorway to another, dropping off letters and parcels with a happy smile.

Above, an airship wheeled around, its gaudy colours flashing in the sunlight, while ponies in rich garb leaned over the side and pointed below them with gleeful smirks. Nowhere else in Equestria would you see such wasteful luxury, he thought with disgust. It was a nice city, he had to concede, but one that was slowly filling with cruel corruption.

He looked up and into the camera that was angled down at his face, the familiar device lodged right in the archway, clicking silently. He had memorized the wiring schematics weeks before, from the width of the lens to the quality of the image. Excessive, yes, but he needed to know; it was once part of the dream, and now, the plan.

Lifting a hoof, the suited pony depressed the doorbell. Moments after the chime rang, he could hear the rustling of frantic movement as the subject approached.

Quite suddenly, the door opened, a chain snapping taut to keep it ajar. From within, a pair of curious yet uncertain eyes inspected the unicorn.

The visitor’s sky-blue face twisted into a gentle, welcoming smile, and his horn glowed a dull purple. “Hello sir, my name is Dreamer. I’m from Spectrum Security.” The purple glow of his magic encircled a small bag and lifted the nondescript object to eye level. Nothing was written on it, but that didn’t matter to the householder; the old stallion hardly even registered it.

“Why’re you here? You’re not supposed to be here,” the white and grey pony said as he frowned suspiciously at Dreamer.

“I’m very sorry, Mister Withershins, but the type of camera we installed here has been defective in other locations. I’m just here to replace one of the rotors and pay your compensation.”

The grumpy pony’s eyes widened at the mention of compensation, but his shoulders remained tense, his guard still firmly in place. “Nothing’s wrong with mine; been working fine for years!”

Dreamer nodded compassionately. “I see. Did you happen to see if it worked on your way here?”

The suited pony’s smile widened just a fraction on the edges as he watched Withershins wriggle with uncertainty. “Did I mention the compensation money? It’s not an enormous sum, just a few measly bits...”

Withershins’ scowl deepened. “Just a few bits? Why, I ought to receive more than that for a defective machine! Why, I could be broken into and have no record!”

Dreamer pressed a hoof to his chin as if in thought. “Well, you could call customer services. Does your phone work?”

“Of course it does! What sort of question is that?” he yelled at the top of his wheezing lungs.

The suited pony’s back bent a little, and he demurely took a step back from the old pony’s loud tirade. “I could come back another day, sir.”

“Come back another day?!” Withershins yelled. “Why, when I was younge—” The thick, heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of his rant. Dreamer took three quick steps forward, positioning himself near its edge. His horn glowed, just a little brighter than before. To anyone looking, it would seem as if he was having a bit of a hard time maneuvering with the heavy bag. Nopony could have noticed the small purple flash within the lapels of his jacket.

The door opened, and Withershins stood poised to continue his speech. He paused when he felt a cold thin piece of metal press against his throat.

Dreamer’s smile was gone, replaced by a look of pure apathy. “I’m very sorry, Mister Withershins, but I have to ask that you move back. And please, for both of our sakes, remain quiet.” The false modesty, the uncertainty of the unicorn’s voice, was gone, so was any trace of passion.

“Why, why I—” The blade pressed harder, a thin red line appearing on the earth pony’s wrinkled neck.

Withershins’ lower lip trembled as he slowly backpeddled into the house, spurred by the sharp knife. Dreamer followed him in, his gaze swallowing up every detail of the room.

It was a short corridor: one door leading into a living room where a decades-old radio was blasting classics that had long ago gone stale, the other leading to a small kitchen. With a surge of his magic, Dreamer silently shut the door behind him, his bag slipping in as he did so. “Kitchen,” was all he said.

Withershins backed into the spartan room, hooves clacking against the clean linoleum. In the centre of the room, there was a table with four chairs surrounding it, but only one set of scratches on the ground. The counters were bare, with no food or stray wrappers laying around uncared for. Dreamer walked over to the garbage can and flipped the lid open.

It was filled with empty cans, the meager eatings of an old pony.

“Climb onto the table.”

Withershins looked at him, face red with anger. “No, I refuse to listen to some ignorant young—”

Dreamer rolled his head back and began to laugh, the sound reverberating across the tight kitchen. “And I thought you’d be used to following orders. Oh well, Mister Withershins, seems like this dream will turn into a nightmare.”

“What are you blabb—”

“Celestia honoured you once, didn’t she?” Dreamer began, his voice still impassive, distant. “You must have been so proud. You were gallant, then. A true gentlecolt. My, have you ever changed.”

Withershins trotted over to the phone that hung on one wall, his hooves stomping across the floor. “I’m tired of your incessant talk. I’ll call the city guard on you! I know some ponies that’ll keep you in for a long time.”

The knife flew across the room, imbedding itself in the cheap plastic of the phone. “Is that how it started? Your corruption? A favour, then another. A few bits here, some whispers in an ear. Maybe you ‘forgot’ a thing or two... This is your punishment, Mister Withershins.”

They stared at each other: the old stallion with pride and passion, the unicorn with an utter lack of emotion. “Get on the table, Mister Withershins.”

“Never! You’ll have to drag m—” A purple glow wrapped around his muzzle and slapped it shut.

“We learnt a lot about you, Mister Withershins. We did our research. Six files of import went missing while you were on duty. On three occasions, objects you were responsible for guarding went missing without a single trace. Sometimes, you’d conveniently forget to file some reports. And at the same time, the bank would accidently drop some bits into your account.” Dreamer began to walk forward, hoofsteps loud in the otherwise quiet room. “And Copper Badge, poor little Copper. A guard who honestly wanted nothing more than justice.” He leaned forward, face inches away from Withershins’. “Did you really have to kill him?”

Tears stained the edges of Withershins’ eyes. “Get onto the table, Mister Withershins, if only for the sake of your secrets.”

Slowly, demurely, the old stallion climbed onto the low table, hooves trembling. The black briefcase opened, and out of it slipped two ropes: one long, the other short. The short one wrapped around Withershins’ hooves, securing the shaking limbs.

With one last burst of magic, Dreamer twirled the blade through the air, letting it stab into the table centimeters away from the old pony’s muzzle. “Try not to escape, Mister Withershins. It would be undignified.”

The longer cord wrapped itself around the table twice, its ends just long enough to make it around both pony and table. Everything had been calculated.

Dreamer walked out of the kitchen, abandoning Withershins as he exited the room. “Where are you going? Why are you doing this?!” the old stallion cried out. Dreamer paid no heed; he kept walking, his bag floating alongside him.

At the end of the corridor, past two unoccupied bedrooms, was a tiny room. It was there that Dreamer stopped, his eyes wandering up to the camera that was looking down at him. The briefcase snapped open under the tweaking of his magic, and two felt gloves slipped out.

Slowly, patiently, he put them on, then twisted the handle, opening the door with a creak. He shook his head. The pony was getting old; he had settled into bad habits, his good ones learnt through years of discipline and practice long gone.

Inside, three reels were spinning. Long bands of film slid up trays that entered the ceiling and ran to each camera. A small electric motor whirled quietly in one corner, powering the mechanism. Once more, he opened his bag and pulled out the proper tools. Hardly a minute passed before the three reels were warming his back as he headed back down the corridor.

Withershins was no longer panicked. Instead, he just watched Dreamer as he made his way across the room and to the oven. With a forehoof, he swung the door open and tossed the three reels in. A few seconds later, the oven was turned on ‘high’.

“Now, Mister Withershins—”

“Why are you here! What do you want of me? What I did was long ago. I don’t deserve this sort of treatment. I’m a hero!” Withershins interrupted.

Dreamer lifted a hoof, shutting the old pony up. “I’ll answer some of your questions. Remember, there are other ways to extract information, so let’s be civil. I left your mouth untied for a reason.”

The earth pony managed to bang his hooves against the table. “I want answers, dammit!”

Dreamer sat down, slowly and patiently. “Fine, ask away.”

“Why are you here? Why are you doing this? Why did you burn my tapes?”

Dreamer got up, and opened the bag. “‘Why’? Why do you think I burnt the tapes?”

“You-you don’t want there to be evidence? My memory might not be like when I was young, but I’ll remember your face! Unless...” Withershins’ eyes widened and he began banging against the table again. “Why are you doing this?!”

Dreamer removed a mask from his bag, and calmly placed the black device over his face, the two respirators hissing lightly as they emptied and filled. “You see things and ask 'why'. I dream things that never were, and ask 'why not'. I have questions, Mister Withershins. I need the answers, but I can’t let others know that I have them. Do you understand?”

Tears were beginning to appear at the edges of his wrinkled eyes. “But-but I worked so hard,” he whined, almost childishly.

“Yes, you worked very hard, Guardsman Withershins. You were an excellent pony. One of Celestia’s best. But you changed. I’m sorry.”

Out of the bag came a steel tank. It had no label, no markings of any kind. The tank twisted in midair “I-is that... Truth?” Withershins asked fearfully.

“Yes, yes it is.” Dreamer reached into the bag and pulled out another object, this one a sleek black recorder. He clicked it on.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Out of the little house sandwiched in a row of little houses, trotted a light blue pony. For all the world, he looked like a salesman or cable-pony who had helped the grumpy old stallion who had always lived in that house, even when he used to be a member of Celestia’s guard.

A few hours later, smoke began to curl out of the windows, billowing out and into the sky.

The dreamer was long gone by then, carrying with him Truth.

Wrote this in under an hour. Not sure why. Enjoy.

Edited, proofread and nagged by:
Burraku_Pansa
Bigdog117
Staplecactus
Cpl Hooves
Frederick the Saiyan

Seriously, they just stood there and poked at me. I think a few wish I’d worked on OCaK instead...