Catalyst 2.0: Dreamcatcher

>”It's called a dreamcatcher.” Pinkie Pie told her.  Sweet Heart was on her haunches, tail-deep in the cushioning of the couch.  Her little head tilted, and she stuck out the tip of her tongue.  As the thing dangled before her, she let out an offhand raspberry.  It made Pinkie giggle.
>Your eyes went to your side, reclining upon Rarity while she smiled.  You didn't see the point in such a joy over such a small, unproven device.  Nor in the fact that it had been fabricated in a little under an hour, by a rather distracted Twilight.
>The exposed, crossing wires offer up a massive reception area, she'd said.
>The flash drive inside will let us review the signals, she'd said.
>There it was, spinning on a string. Shining white plastic, a web of neatly organized wires within the ring.  A small curve extended below it, embracing a small black ellipse, upon which you could make out the symbol of a tiny power button.
>Spirituality and superstition turned into a prototype novelty.  You had no understanding of the engineering, so could not adhere to the concept that it was in any way sound.
>It was all you had, though.  Not without putting Sweet Heart in an Isolation Collar, like you.  Somehow, for a child that had spent her entire life able to uplink naturally, you didn't agree with that particular idea.
“Who came up with this?”
>Rarity smiled up at your whisper.  “Pinkie Pie gave Twilight the idea when she got back.  She asked an old friend of Twilight's, when Sweet Heart told her she was having nightmares.”
“Really? Who?”
>”Her name is Zecora.  Poor old mare, she never did accept the technological movement.”
“Huh.  Maybe that's just what we needed.”
>You sigh, an inwardly embittered admission.  You were thinking like Twilight had been, about you.  The technical and scientific aspects that you knew about yourself, applying them to Sweet Heart, trying to perceive methods of improving or helping.
>”The only problem is that it's not finished yet!” Pinkie said.
>”What? But it looks like it's on...”
>”No, silly.  We need to make it yours! You know, add stuff to it.  Like colors, and little decorations, and...”
>As Pinkie went on and on, you couldn't help but muster a concerned smile.  There was some happiness in it, but so many worries twinkled in the back of your mind.
>Would it work?  Why should it?
>Further dangerous thoughts crept.
>Twilight's Canterlot visit.  Gilda.  God, Gilda caused a mess of worries herself.
>As if on queue, the doorbell blipped.  Before either you or Rarity could even take two steps, it blipped again.  You snorted, shaking your head; only one woman in the tower could be that insistent.
>You gestured with your head to Rarity, urging her to follow- not to lead.  You were already sick of being Gilda's personality filter for the rest of your friends, but having that job was far better than anything else you'd done in your current form.
>As the door opened, Rarity's mood instantly soured.  Gilda was, of course, prepared to hit that doorbell again.  Her foreleg slowly drooped down, as her bored expression melted to a smile of... Embarrassment?
>”Hiiiiii...” the word drained from her beak.
>You stand there.  Your face straight, stoney, and watching.  Rarity takes her place beside you, sticking her nose up, peering at the griffon with one eye.
>That orange mare, behind and beside her, jabbed at the purple-coated griffon. It went unrecognized.  As Gilda let out a little nervous laugh and sat back, her feline tail slithering about the floor beneath the long coat, the orange mare reared back and outright decked Gilda's shoulder.
>Even then, she barely seemed to feel it.  You didn't remember the coats being that impact resistant.
>Gilda's laugh bled away. “Ah heh, heh... Aw fuckit.”  Her eyes rolled back, and she pushed out her chest. “I'm sorry.”
>You blink once.  Twice.  You tilt your head, as your eyes widen to look at her.  Rarity thins her own, an ear flicking.
>”I'm sorry I ruined all your shit.  Or something.”
>The orange mare put a black-clad hoof to her face. “Oh goddamnit.” She hopped her top half along the griffon's back, and started to mess with the adjustment straps for the wing-holes on her coat.  “Say it!”
>”OW! Fine, fine! I'm sorry!  I'm really sorry for... Well, doing everything I did when I got here.  I mean, I could've just sent a letter or something right?”
“Wow.”
>”What? Never seen an apology before?” She scowled.
“No.  You're just really, REALLY bad at them.”
>She groaned at the ceiling, while orange-aid giggled.
“I mean really.  You could've hurt my daughter.  That's hard to-”
>”You're joking right?” Gilda asked.  “No.  I might have done a lot of things, but when I saw that screamin- uh.  Well.  Bad terminology...”
>Rarity grunted.
>”Point is, when I first got here, I told your kid to go and hide.”
“Huh?”
>Rarity silently mimicked your question with a raised violet brow.
>”She was the first pony I saw here.  I came in with full on intent to stir up the hornet's nest, and got a kid looking at me with big ol' eyes and a stuffed animal.  What was I supposed to do?” She shrugged. “I might be a bitch, but to be one you've got to be a woman first.  Real women don't hurt kids.”
“That's... Uh.  Profound? I... Guess?”
>”Whatever.” She waved it off.
>The orange mare lifted a hoof to the side of her own face, as if doing so would shield her voice. “She practiced that line for the past two hours.”
>”Shut it.” Gilda replied.
>You sat back, and shook your head.  Though, it was with a small, honest smile.
>”I'm not looking for an invite inside or anything, I'm just sorry is all.  For... Interrupting your life I guess.”
>You sigh, bumping your hoof along the iso collar while you rub your neck.  Rarity looked her up and down, giving another curt snort, and said nothing to the Griffon.
>”I don't know what it is you see that's noble in this woman, Scootaloo.  I'm only glad you're here to temper her attitude.”
>”Hey,” Gilda said. “I might not be fancy or pretty, but I get stuff done.  The things p0nies like you won't touch.”
>As Rarity started to reply, you stopped her.  Glaring toward you at first, she pouted.
“She's right, you know.  Who would you rather have getting shot at?  Me,”
>You pointed toward Gilda.
“Or the bitch who enjoys it?”
>Gilda lifted a single claw, upturned in an awaiting shrug.  Rarity, as you expected, again turned up her nose with an exaggerated hmph.  She gave you a simple look- one you knew all too well. “We are going to talk later” was coolly etched in her emotional mask, that bottom lip stuck barely stuck out from her chin.
>Gilda looked between the two of you.  You picked up on her intent, but far too late to interrupt.
>”Wow. You two need to get a room or something.”
>Oh godfuckingdamnit.
>The “immaculate” description had Rarity flinching a moment, a forehoof lifted and a “tch.” escaping her lips.   A few seconds later, though, you spotted her tail flicking nervously.
>”Hey, ain't none of my business.  But you two do NOT look happy.  Even if you just leave the house for a few hours, it couldn't hurt, right?”
>Rarity closed her eyes.  “Why would we EVER take advice from you?”
>”Advice?  I'm just calling it as I see it.”
>Bullshit, you think.  You try to change the subject, though keeping the current idea stowed in the back of your mind...
>You asked as politely as you could.  For Gilda, anyway.
“You just got gutted and strapped with fake organs, you gonna be okay with this?”
>Rarity eyed you pensively at your choice of words.
>”I already know I'm not.  Only one reason for a gun-for-hire to ever get attention in a court, and that's to stick their neck out.”
>You sighed.  Well, you didn't recall her being that much of a fatalist, but... You were comfortable with her reply.
>”Well, Twilight has planned for that, most likely.”  Rarity, against your expectations as well, offered up some comfort.  Or tried, anyway.  “She may be plain, but she is shrewd and is hardly lacking guile after being in the business so long.”
>”Aww, that's cute.” Gilda replied. “Never thought you would be worried about me.”
>”I was talking about Twilight. Since she seems to have taken a... Liking? I suppose is the word? You will be offered amnesty by proxy of her gaining it as well.”  Rarity returned a smug look. “Most likely by law or simple favoritism... Twilight is still Celestia's best, after all.”
>Gilda chuckled. “You know, for all that fancy talk, you sure do miss out on all the four letter words in making a person feel 'loved.'”
>Scootaloo verbally wedged herself between the two.  You had no doubt the amusing banter would continue, but having the two hate each other further was not something you wanted to tick off on a checklist.  Thank goodness for unfamiliar, if friendly faces.  “C'mon Gilda, let it slide.  You know you're both right.”
>”Aaaaah. Whatever.”
“Just don't let things get to you while you're in the spotlight.”
>”Like what?”
“Like Rainbow.”
>She closed her eyes, lifted her brows, and angled her head to the ground.
“You know they're going to ask.”
>”Yeah.  I know.  I don't know much about what happened, but...  If I see her there...”
“Luna wouldn't dare. After all, I'm not going, and I'm probably the biggest piece of existing leverage. I won't be there because she doesn't *want * me there.  Probably going to be the same thing with her.”
>”Yeah.  Yeah, you're right.” she sighed.  “Well, I hope you are anyway.  You always were better at this crap than me, especially when it came to talking with Luna at the field debriefings.”
>You didn't recall any trading of words with the Moon Princess.  From Gilda's insistence, it was likely in the fragmented portions.  All you could remember was the club...
>”Well, I got this new leash on life, and I feel like I'm about to lose it because I can't talk for shit.” she muttered.  She gave a little shrug, and sent you a smile. “been fun, though.”
> A bright rectangle lit up in one of her eyes, and she closed her lids.  Her head tilted drastically, as if she were trying to hear a distant sound; had she not been avian, her spine would have easily snapped at the angle.
>She twisted upright after a few seconds. “I.  Hate.  This interface.” she said. She gestured to Scootaloo.  “Me and the boss have to get going.  Scoots is going to stick around for a while, though.”
“Uh, we really don't have the room-”
>”Not in your place, dweeb.  Twilight's putting up with her.”
>Scootaloo rolled her eyes.
>”Anyway, keep an eye on her when you can.  She's trouble.”
>Scootaloo's expression flattened.  Yeah, you thought. She's totally the problem here.
>As Gilda moves away, you lean forward to put your head into the hall.
“Don't start anything out there, you hear me?”
>”Please.” She called back.  “I only start it, if it NEEDS starting.”
–
>Hours had passed since Gilda's departure.  A simple thought had gone across your mind, over and over, like flipping a coin repeatedly into the air.
>Had you ever actually been on a date with Rarity?
>Had you gone on one in the interim?
>Even if you asked, would you know where to take her? You were mercilessly sheltered, and now had no uplink with which to honestly study the world and make a decision.
>Then again...  You did know she cared a lot for you.  It was worth asking.
>So, while she was humming elegantly to herself, organizing some loose toys into a magically hovering jumble, you popped the question to her.
>She nearly dropped the cloud of plastic and fluff.
“Well... Pinkie could take care of her, right?”
>”What? You can't possibly be suggesting so soon-”
“Just a date. You know, those things we haven't even gotten around to doing since I got back?  A few hours, at most, with a great babysitter.”
>Rarity's mind was digging for excuses.  To which end she really wanted to fulfill, however, and what she *needed * to fulfill, you weren't positive.  “I'm not comfortable leaving Sweet Heart alone again, especially after last night...  And certainly not before we find out what the dreamcatcher is going to do.”
>You smirk a little.
“Alright.  Tomorrow then?”
>She smiled, placing the toys into an adorable little mountain.  “I'm not sure... There are so many things going on...”
“We'll have news from the canterlot visit by tomorrow, right?”
>She hopped onto the couch next to you, and flopped her haunches into the cushioning.  Her tail fell and curled around her front, giving her a catlike grace even as she sat.
“So if nothing happens by tomorrow, what then, Miss Rarity?”
>”don't you Miss Rarity me.”  You could practically taste the amusement in her tone of voice.  It was hiding under a thick layer of faux, angry bile.
“Why not? A lady should be addressed properly, and does deserve time to prepare.”
>Then and there, her defenses cracked.  They did not cave, but it was enough.  “I'll think about it.” she said.  For being such a lady, Rarity did have that tendency to be predictable in her vanity.  Sometimes, anyway...  “Well then, where ever would we go?”
>The smile crept up upon her face.  You knew exactly what she wanted to hear.
“Well, I'm not the expert you are in that department... Perhaps you could think of someplace in the meantime?”
>She chuckled.  “Oh, I know many places.”
–
>A quiet night of lavish, decadent decoration.  Food the likes of which you'd never seen, never found in your original research into the fresh, digital pony culture.  Music, a little bit of wine that had Rarity giggling, and flawless architecture.
>Decorations of holographic nature had swirled and crawled beneath you, the very floor having been embedded with a matrix of projectors.  They faded when you stepped upon them, and it made the restaurant feel as if merely walking was forbidden for the sake of appearances.  Thanks to a certain rich, pearly mare, it was an bizarre and appreciated indulgence.
>You, specifically, received incredibly strange looks.
>Eyes that lingered on your body.  Swapped glances between Rarity and the immaculately dressed waiting staff.  Even as you glanced about the glittering prisms that hung from the ceiling, refracting the soothing light from above, you couldn't help but feel out of place amidst all there was to pay attention to.
>Rarity herself, though, was probably the best distraction.  A simple dress, ruffled and violet, left her shining with the holographically enhanced trim.  Golden patterns mingled amongst themselves in gentle, creeping flow.  A choker latched into her uplink, fiber-optics woven into weave akin to muscle. It was awash with light to and from the blue gem that cradled, behind it, the battery that powered the show.  She'd even worn a modified, weaker version of her muscle suit. It gave her a gentler, lifting walk, tender and slow, with fabric that had been-of course- color co-ordinated.
>And there you were.  Gussied up by Rarity in some slick representation of a frock coat, entirely of silk; the shirt had been no less fanciful and smooth.  Perhaps it was the contrast that had left you the center of attention.
>Though, those that were scrutinizing you were not letting their gaze rest on your attire.  They focused on your eyes- the odd matrix that formed your cornea, the elevation of it atop your scilera.  They further waited upon either side of your throat, tracing the depressions that formed the lines of how your flesh had been placed on your bones.
>Uncomfortable was not enough of a word.  At least they were polite enough not to speak of it.
>The food was excellent, and plentiful.  The conversation with her was grand, and light.  You were honestly interested in everything she had to say- from frivolous events you had missed in your passing, to Sweet Heart's uncanny cleverness for her age.
>When she began to ask you questions, it did not feel awkward to answer her.  Even though they were difficult, though they came seemingly from places you never remembered, you were able to answer and smile.  Really, truly smile.
“Oh, the system? Well, it's kind of blank, really. But you can feel everything around you.  Touch it.  Taste it.”
>You pondered further.
“You know, I haven't told anybody that.  I wonder, if some actual programming happened- could a sensation be programmed?  Make digital clothes, try things on literally before you buy them, from a thousand miles away...”
>You traded thoughts with her. Amusing, delightful, and serene, the ideas you both came up with left you at an ease you thought impossible since your return.
>God. What else had you missed?  All in the time you'd tried to supposedly preserve it?
>”What does it look like?” she asked.
“Well, that depends on the system.”
>you sat back, sipping on wine.  It did nothing to dull your senses; you had a momentarily sour recollection of your drinking back in the LunaCorp. Club, before the divergence.
“Most of them... well, you can see the files, and they look like stars.  Every one I remember being in, they're absolutely full of stars.”
–
>With singed eyes and bruised bones, you laid as restrained, helpless witness.  Such a sensation did not fade, you came to discover, as you looked over the figure reclining in the bed.  Immobile, limp, and broken, the body whistled through a fractured muzzle.
>Black, puffy blotches drowned out the color from the eyes.  Wounds of blunt-damaged flesh, the color of  on ivory, bore the shape of hooves. Violet mane had gone untended, bent and neglect-darkened hair covering her face in unkempt, knotted strands.
>Rarity lay on the less wounded side, the devices enveloping her lower legs showing glowing activity lights straight through the sheets.  You didn't want to think about the ruin they'd received; in your head it remained, a 200fps high definition replay.
>The simpering arrogance of the stallion above her.
>The cracking as he twisted, the glowing dress crumpled and destroyed around her leg.
>The way she started to scream.
>The sudden thump of silence, as a rear hoof came down to pin her mouth shut against the cold metal ground.  The wet gush of red from her nostrils as her jaw crumpled, then broke under the force and weight.
>The sudden black rivulets of mascara from her wide, panic stricken eyes.  This is really happening to me, her sapphires said.  This is happening, and it's not being stopped.
>That look had fused into your brain.  Your core.  Whatever the hell you had.  It was there, a brand on whatever you called mind and soul, and it was not a singular frame.  Of course not; you may have been able to forgive yourself, then.
>”Y'know, I thought women like you would have more respect for themselves.” the words of the strange, large stallion at her back legs played out.  “These... 'things' you have back here.  How the hell do you even maintain a fake ass?”
>He'd pull.  He'd grunt and strain a little.  Pinned as you were, two stallions twice your weight keeping you against the alley ground, your inverted view gave a sickeningly dizzy perspective.  The perception of the lack of air played in full sensory reply, as one of the stallions holding you down pressed part of his weight down on your throat.
>After another squeaking, silenced shriek, her other leg was in twisted, floppy ruin.  One of her eyes had turned a vile, ugly red; she'd popped a blood vessel, you were later told, trying both to scream and breath through her crushed, blood-filled nostrils.
>Then, the unicorn provided a knife.  How such was still so common, in such a place you had once considered refreshingly civilized, you did not know.  You certainly began to care, though, as he tore the dress apart and started to cut.
>He did not go deep.  He was accurate, though.  As he flayed her flank, he dipped the tip of the blade below the holographic replacements below the skin.  He plucked the small pads from her flesh with a sickening pressure from beneath, and you watched as her skin stretched, as holes blossomed, and tendrils of very real flesh snapped and eventually pulled away in a wet crawl.
>Worst of all, he repeated the exercise on her opposite side.
>”How could you possibly allow yourself to exist like this?” he asked, peeling away the second mark.  It clung to her side, still attached, a thin, fleshy flap.  “God, so damned petty.  You're the kind of high-class whore that can't stand looking ugly for even an instant, so you resort to all this synthetic shit.”
>The pain of a falling hoof lit up your stomach and groin.  Laughter punctured your ears.  The taste of the vomit was relived to an eidetic perfection.
>You'd closed your eyes tight for the next few minutes.  They'd been so dry from staring, it had felt like dragging a tongue across concrete.  They wept, they stung, and they refused to open.
>The sounds remained. The wet slamming of hooves, seeming endless, as he began to beat her against your shocked blindness.
>When he did finally stop, the feel of lift, of impact on your throat, made you gurgle in reality.  You cried into the corner of the bed, whimpering only unheard apologies as you tried to avoid the recollection of why you couldn't breathe.
>”And you.” he said.  “You make me sick.  You have no right to be here.”  You felt the way his hoof had cracked upward, slapping the back of your head against something hollow and metal as his compatriots held you otherwise still.
>”A pseudo has no right to a real woman. HER lower half maybe, but for the rest of us? Tch.”  Your throat was clutched tight by weight and strength.  You started to fade again, nearly going unconscious in the real world as your body responded to the file.
>”Don't you EVER forget your place here, you understand me?” He said.  “Not one of you deserves to be alive after what you... THINGS, tried to do to us.”
>You didn't know how long you were out.  It was long enough.
>You were alone when you awoke. Her body was not far.  She did not appear to be breathing.
>The walk was a gauntlet.  Bruised joints, stepped upon, bent, and slammed, their breaking had been abandoned once they realized your body had been reinforced. The pain did not stop you.
>The fear of what would be there when you arrived at that still, bloody, white and violet frame is what made you limp.  You did not want to truly see it- gleaning the details with your eyes had you nearly locked in place, and the closer you got, the more the terror of it's reality had worked to freeze you.
>You cried for help. You voice had been hoarse, and barely with worth.  You ran from the alley, pleading, begging, and crying.
>Yet, those around you ignored you.
>They saw your eyes, the honeycomb of photosensitive cells.  They saw the emissive glow, the scarring from the way your flesh had been portioned atop the synthetic musculature.  They retreated from your hysteria, and all the while, Rarity was bleeding but a short distance away.
>You ran back to the alley where she was.  You circled her once.  Twice.
>She twitched, still alive, and let out a pathetic, wounded squeak.
>Those around you- they didn't give a damn for your sake, upon seeing what you were.  You were alone, with a dying woman, and not a single creature in your vicinity was bothering to give you the time of evening.
>You found the nearest incline you could; a dumpster. With a wide dent, it had been the one you had been beaten against.
>You slammed yourself into it.  Again and again.  You tried to hit the right spot; you slammed your head, your shoulders, your back.  Finally, the collar caught the corner, and you began to repeat the motion.
>Over and over, the pain grew.  The collar cracked, broke, smoldered and burnt.  When you pried it away, the hot prongs that had been in your neural jacks gave a debilitating buzz to your brain, shocking you with an incredible rupture of pain that left you feeling hollow and feverish.
>You had to fight to stay awake.
>You had to fight to send out the message.
>You had to fight to crawl to her after you received an acknowledgment from Twilight.
>And worst of all, you had to pick her up.  You had to hold her, make sure she was breathing the entire time, watch and feel her bleed, when the only things that arrived to greet you were a pair of very unprepared Twilight Firmware's medics.
>You had enough time to dream.  To re-experience it, in complete clarity.  Then, there was a loud and great crashing.  Yelling.  A voice you knew.
>It was not part of the memory. It was real.
>As you looked up to her, the most welcome sight met you.  Unhinged, nearly frothing rage, refined into a laser-like focus.  She was looking at you, breath deep, powerful, and heavy.  Orderlies scattered around her, she'd toppled at least five stallions to enter the room.
>”What happened?!” She asked.  She could barely speak, teetering between going simply berserk, and honest thought.
>You could only shake your head.
>”What the fuck happened?!” She screamed.
“What do you think?”
>You could still barely talk.  It felt like drawing lit matches along a wooden gullet.
>She grabbed your head, pushing you forward.  You felt a sting, which cooled as you were stabbed in the open, sore jack at your neck.
>”Show me.”
“Please, I-”
>”Do it, or I swear I will send you to whomever you worship.”
“It's... I labeled it, it's... It's the only one with a name...”
>The scene played in such an extreme speed, a violent rush.  You were able to pick it clean of every detail, once again, as you were held helplessly still for the duration.
>She yanked the plug free from your spine, tearing the wire away from her own neck as she started to storm out.  The automated door was not fast enough for her; she left it with long, dragging scars through which one could see the light of the hall outside.
“What use is it?”
>You cried back to her.
“What the hell could you possibly need it for?”
>Gilda stopped, her head turning to look over her shoulder. She moved in such spiteful, potent speed, the jerk of her head was missed in the blink you took.
>She shivered where she stood, putting her claw back to the floor. The sound of nails on a chalkboard, while her talons scraped the ground in an instinctive clutch.  “Get some rest.  Don't think about what happened.  I promise, I'll be here when you wake up.  And I'll have news you're going to like.”
“What are you going to do?”
>”You saw their faces.” she said. She held the connection wire up.  “Thanks to all the new shit in my head,” she tapped her own uplink, upon the back of her coat. “I have too.  And you know what?”  Her pupils flew open, the rest of her still. “Seeing your girl like that, Twilight's given me a very direct, very pissed off order.  I'm gonna follow it.”
>You turned back to Rarity.  Her blackened eyes, her comatose breath.  The orderlies followed her out, cautiously, as you ignored the entire outburst as best you could.
>You sat there at her bed, one hoof upon the edge.  You cried for what felt like a long time; you closed your eyes, wishing you could be somewhere else.
>The silence started.
>The sensation of long, drawn out sound. When you opened your eyes, tears filling your vision, there were things you could see with utter and complete precision.
>Pings.  Uplink nodes.  Twilight had not given the order to refit you with another iso collar.
>You could melt the fear Rarity would not survive. You could shunt, you could swim through the world and vanish, with only a goal in mind and a fleeting file of what it meant to have pain.  You could be that thing again. You could be the machine.
>For the first time since being transferred, for the first time in being copied, you were untethered.  Grief-maddened and struck with an absolute, broadly encompassing rage, you wanted only one thing.  Not just from Rarity, or Twilight, or even Gilda.  Watching Rarity breathe, unconscious, shattered, and covered in wounds, came the crackling, furious desire.
>You'd show them the look on Sweet Heart's face when you said mommy wasn't coming home for a long time.  You'd show them how Rarity had bled in the first place, the look of her ruined spine in the open air on the operating table.
>You'd somehow decrypt those files. You'd peel every nasty, evil, bullet-riddled memory from your own skull. Every violent thing you'd witnessed and been forced to do, for the sake of ponies and reasons you never knew, you would no longer hide for the sake of their serenity.  You'd release to them every bit of the nightmares you'd seen that threatened to unbuckle their comfortable world. You'd show them the reflection of the consequences they'd wrought, and with sensory integration so deep they would literally feel what you had.  And they'd know how you'd stopped them.
>Then, you'd ask them:
”Am I real to you, yet?”
–