Mad Science: Chapter 5

Mad Science

By IceMan

 

Chapter 5

 

“I just don’t know what to do about Anonymous.”

>You are Twilight Sparkle, having a meeting with your friends at Sugarcube Corner.

>“Well, at least we know he’s not loco in the coco now. He doesn’t have some insane obsession with debt,” Pinkie Pie states, taking a sip of her milkshake. “He’s just a bit of a grump, Twilight. Let it go. He’ll come around if you give him some space.”

“This is different than Cranky Doodle Donkey, Pinkie. This is . . . more serious! He’s blatantly lying to people about how he feels about them,” you snap.

>“He hasn’t done anything of the sort!” Rarity argues. “He was quite helpful with my gem hunting a few days ago.”

“Yeah, but that was because he knew he was indebted to you. He knew that you could be an ‘ally’ to him, and didn’t want to –”

>“Twi, I think you need to calm down a mite,” Applejack interrupts. “You’re speakin’ faster than a two-ton wagon rollin’ down a steep mountain road.”

“You two should be angriest of all about this!” you shout, waving your hoof at Applejack and Rainbow Dash and almost toppling one of the milkshakes on the table. “He was the one who revealed all this to you!”

>“Nah, Twilight, I think I have it figured out,” Rainbow starts. “Anonymous has only been here a couple days, right? Well, imagine he hadn’t said what he said a few days ago, about his relationships being a façade, but he still went to the bar. I think then he would have started making false friendships. Up until then, he was being –”

“Genuine,” you finish.

>You sigh.

“I think I’ve found what I like least about this. Anonymous reminds me of myself. Before I came to Ponyville. But for me, it was easy to just realize, ‘Hey! I don’t have to shut myself in and study all the time! I can have friends!’ I just don’t get why Anonymous hasn’t come to the same conclusion.”

>“Ponies and humans are different, Twilight,” Applejack consoles.

 

>You are Anonymous.

>It has been nine days since you arrived in Equestria.

>You are currently in the fields outside of town, so that you do not accidentally set a building or a tree on fire with your experimentation.

>A bright fireball launches two feet into the air with a column of smoke and sparks, falls on the ground, and explodes a second later, singeing the dirt around it like a piece of burnt bread.

 “Dammit,” you mutter to yourself.

>That’s the fifteenth today.

>The first didn’t make it out of the tube, but, fortunately, didn’t explode either.

>The second launched a few inches out, then burst into flames on the earth.

>The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth ones launched barely a foot into the air, then didn’t explode.

>And finally, the seventh through fourteenth ones functioned much like the last: a few feet higher into the air than the previous, then a fall to earth and detonation.

>After each attempt followed the tedious process of assembling another firework.

>You have enough supplies for about thirty more.

>They currently sit on a wooden table you arduously dragged out to the clearing.

>The best conclusion that you have come to is that you need more lifting powder.

>It differs from the explosive powder, like the type you made a week ago when you first began obtaining supplies, in that it contains more charcoal for fuel and less saltpeter.

>However, you will eventually run into the problem that all rocketeers must face: the rocket must be able to lift its own fuel.

>So you have been increasing it in small increments of five grams.

>Things you learned from the internet at age six have not completely failed you yet, so it is simply a matter of trying a few different designs.

>You grab two paper capsules off the table, fashioned of a few dozen layers of brown butcher paper stacked together and curved into a hardened hemisphere.

>Then, you carefully weigh out twenty-five grams of explosive gunpowder on the scale and load it into the shell along with a short fuse that sticks through a hole in the bottom, made of a thin paper tube filled with wax and black powder.

>You have timed them for exactly five seconds of flight time.

>Like any good scientist, you have a constant in each of your tests.

>In this case, the explosive powder.

>You fill two wide cylindrical paper tubes with sixty grams of lifting powder (up ten grams from the last shell, rather than the usual five) and a string dipped in vegetable oil (to function as the igniter), then adhere the two parts together, forming a firework shell.

>You write these specifications down in a small notebook, along with the fifteen other experiments you have done.

>An old metal pipe, scrounged from the junkyard, repainted in scarlet, and dug vertically into the ground, acts as the mortar.

>You strike a match and light the igniter, then drop the shell down the mortar and run for cover.

>With a bang and a whoosh, the shell launches fifteen feet into the air, a trail of inky smoke following it, before it explodes in mid-air.

>You can’t help but grin.

>Now for the color.

>You have decided to go with potassium nitrate for the sparks, because you have a surplus of it.

>It produces a violet color when burnt.

>A bowl of pre-made potassium “stars”—small spheres of potassium and salt that provides chloride ions—sits on the table, awaiting a successful launch.

>You fill the top capsule of the firework shell with five grams of potassium stars, compensating with twelve extra grams of launching powder.

>Once again, you ignite the fuse, drop the shell into the mortar, plug your ears, and duck.

>The rocket fires about two feet into the air, lands on the ground with a thump, and explodes, showering the clearing with glowing purple sparks.

>You frown.

>More lifting powder is necessary to compensate further for the added weight.

>For the next rocket, you add an additional eight grams of black powder to the cylinder at the base of the shell.

>You repeat the process you have done sixteen times over the past morning, and watch as the shell rockets into the air and detonates in a puff of smoke and a burst of brilliant purple sparks.

>With a successful launch, you scribble down the exact specifications of your design, and prepare to purchase more supplies.

>You expect to make 3000 at a total cost of 230 bits.

>Materials are cheap because most of the chemicals you make yourself.

>Already, most of the gunpowder is prepared, and you have enough sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate left over in case you run out.

>The assembly process is somewhat tedious, but you have another week of nothing to do before the Sun Festival.

>You could probably sell them for two bits each and -

>Something darts into the bushes as you walk back towards your house.

“Show yourself! I don’t take kindly to spies and thieves,” you call.

>“Okay . . .” you barely hear over the rustle of the breeze, and a yellow head with pink hair pops out of the shrub.

“Oh, hello. Fluffybutter was it?” you ask.

>She has never come around here.

>Then again, no one comes by your house very often.

>Not that you care.

>“Fluttershy,” the pony mumbles.

“Fluttershy,” you repeat. “Thank you. Now, what is it? I’m very busy right now.”

>“Just, could you maybe perhaps possibly . . . keep it down, a bit?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

>“I’ve heard at least a dozen explosions coming from here. It’s scaring all my animals and –”

“Well, unfortunately, I can’t make fireworks silent. That’s beyond the realm of scientific possibility,” you explain.

>“Okay, well, I’ll just go then. Sorry for bothering you . . .”

“That being said, I am taking a break to obtain more supplies, and I don’t think I’ll be launching any more rockets.”

>“Oh, thank you,” Fluttershy responds, her voice increasing in volume slightly.

>She walks down the path towards town and out of sight.

>All you have to do now is find someone to sell the fireworks to, and you think you have an idea as to whom that may be.

>You tread down the path towards town as well.

>“Yes, there is a Royal Pyrotechnics Committee,” Twilight responds to your question once you arrive back home, not looking up from the book she is poring over.

“And? Will they buy fireworks from me?”

>“I have no idea. I could mail Princess Celestia about it. They generally have a good supply for events like the Summer Sun Festival, but I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t appreciate a few extra.”

>You pick up a quill, a scroll of parchment, and a pot of ink from Twilight’s desk and begin scribbling a letter addressed to the Royal Pyrotechnics and containing the specifications of your fireworks.

>You tie the letter with a string and head downstairs to put it in the mailbox.

>You begin to search through the bookshelves for another piece of reading material.

>You finished “A Complete History of Equestria” a few days ago.

>You pick a book called Mysteries of Magic off a shelf and head down to the basement.

>The black tome is marked with a pyramid symbol surrounded by sparks.

>You poke your head through the doorframe again.

“Maybe tell your pegasi friends to turn down the heat a little bit,” you vent with a smirk.

>The sun shone through the windows of Twilight’s tree like the light from a magnifying glass striking a helpless ant.

“No can do, Anonymous. Crops need the summer heat,” Twilight explains.

>You frown acerbically and trudge downstairs, wiping the sweat from your brow.

>A few days later, a grey, yellow-maned mare with eyes like a chameleon rams into the door.

>“Message for Mr. Ay-non-nee-mouse!” she shouts, muffled through the wood.

“Anonymous,” you correct as you open the door. “And thank you.”

>You tear open the letter with your thumb and yank out the thick parchment.

>“Dear Mr. Anonymous,” it reads.

>“Thank you very much for your generous offer. We never expected someone to sell violet fireworks so inexpensively, and your specifications allow for mortars to be easily made. Expect a representative of the Royal Pyrotechnics to visit you shortly to pick up the shipment. We hope to see you at the Summer Sun Festival in a few days.”

>“Sincerely, Sergeant Roman Candle.”

>Four hundred fireworks sit on your kitchen table, already prepared.

>2600 are yet to be made.

>You have six days.

>It’s time to get to work.

>“Hey, Anonymous?” Twilight says, trotting into the basement.

>“The girls and I were going to go out to the lake to enjoy the sun. Do you want to –”

>“No. I have work to do,” you state.

“But you could apologize to Rainbow and Apple –”

“No.”

>Twilight walks away, and you lock the door to the basement.

>You don’t want any distractions.

>In fourty-four hours, it is done.

>You haven’t slept.

>You never took a break longer than five minutes to grab a piece of bread, an apple, or something to satiate yourself or to go to the bathroom.

>Three thousand brown shells sit on the table.

>You think the shells are staring at you, mocking you, before you pass out in your chair and awaken in a black room with swirling gaseous walls.

>Your vision is fuzzy and framed by a black ellipse, and your stomach suddenly drops as if you fell from the top of a rollercoaster.

>“I sense a new presence in the darkness of the Nightmare,” a female voice calls out.

>“Tell me, what is your name?” it inquires.

“My name is Anonymous the Human.”

>“Ah . . . so you are the one my sister spoke about those weeks ago. A strange being from an alternate dimension, brought here by his folly.”

“What are you? Where am I?” you shout into the void.

>“You are in the realm of dreams and nightmares. And I am Princess Luna, Lady of the Night and guardian of this realm,” the voice explains.

>A tall, indigo equine figure steps out of the smoky shadows.

>You have learned of her in A Complete History of Equestria.

>Much like her sister, Celestia, Luna stands with her head up to the bottom of your chin and her horn barely reaching above your forehead.

>Her star-filled mane rustles with an unfelt wind.

>She also carries a pair of pegasus wings.

“This is a physical manifestation of my subconscious?” you ask.

>“I assume so, though that word is unfamiliar to me. Along with many others. Tell me, what exactly is a ‘boson?’”

“Stay out of my thoughts. They are my most sacred possession,” you command.

>“I shall tread no further,” Luna promises. “Walk with me.”

>She steps back through the smoke.

>You follow into an immensely tall, wide, metal corridor, like the bottom level of a prison, walled with hundreds of steel doors separated by a few feet of concrete and luminescent green circuit lines.

>The corridor seems to have no ceiling, just a bright, glowing white ceiling, like the inside of a giant fluorescent light.

“What drew you to my subconscious?” you ask your dark blue guide.

>“I’ve been drawn to it for some time. I simply decided now would be appropriate. It is different from the minds of frightened fillies I normally visit. So cold, so orderly. Like an abandoned library.”

“Anything else?”

>“You are an oddity in this world. I could not help but be curious.”

“Well, if that’s it, then get out of my head. I prefer a peaceful sleep.”

>“Wouldn’t you like some companionship? I can see it all here. Every desire that you’ve had, every grievance. I can show you the aspirations you repressed, the truths you know but refuse to accept.”

“Get out of my head,” you repeat.

>“Very well. Good night, Anonymous. May a flight of angels bid thee to thy rest,” Luna states as she departs.

“Stay away from my Shakespeare memories!”

>Luna chuckles as she flies off and fades in the blinding ceiling of your subconscious.

 >The ellipse around your vision suddenly closes until only blackness remains.

>The blackness is then replaced by the red glow of light streaming through your eyelids.

>Another day dawns.

>Or, rather, has dawned several hours ago, as a quick peek outside reveals the sun just beginning to disappear behind the trees in the west.

>Your body aches from awkwardly dozing off in the chair you were working in.

>You catch your ghastly face in the reflection from the metal sink, your eyes encircled with light purple marks and your long hair and beard an absolute mess.

>Aimlessly, you pick up Mysteries of Magic and begin to read.

>“Chapter 1: The Origin of Magic”

>“The energy that we call magic permeates our world. It is a powerful, binding force, capable of great good and great evil. Magic can teleport objects across vast distances, transform the fates of others, and even manipulate the heavens themselves, so long as the magician can control it.”

>“The origin of magic is not exactly certain. It is known that all unicorns possess the ability to produce the bursts of energy we call ‘magic,’ but where these bursts come from is completely unknown. They seem to defy physical laws, most importantly the Energy Conservation Principle. Magic seems to have no source. All that is known is that the unicorn horn is an amplifier for magical energy. Beyond this, the origin of magic remains a mystery.”

>Well, that’s unhelpful.

>Magic comes from nowhere and has near-infinite potential by those who can learn to control it, you summarize.

>This universe continues to defy your logic.

>You came from a world where nature made sense and was orderly and beautiful.

>Now, you are trapped in a world without logic, what appears to be a hybrid of your universe and a new one.

>The result is illogical and disorderly.

>Your blood runs hot.

>Somewhere, you suspect, the cosmos are laughing at you and have been laughing this entire time, watching you scuttle about like a trout flung onto a pebbly beach.

>A knock at the door interrupts your train of thought.

>Three brass-armored unicorns, two hauling a wooden cart, one carrying a large sack, stand at the entrance to your abode.

>“My name is Sergeant Roman Candle. I believe we have corresponded before?” the first asks.

>He has a light scarlet coat and an iridescent orange mane sticking out a bit under his helmet.

“Right. My name is Anonymous. I think you will be quite pleased with my work,” you state.

>“May I see the rockets?”

“Yes, of course. Come inside.”

>“Follow me, I’ll need some help moving these out,” Roman Candle orders to his men.

>Roman Candle marches and you stumble into the basement.

>You display your wares.

>He picks up one with his magic and examines it.

>“These are the fireworks?” he asks.

“Yes.”

>“They are a bit oddly shaped,” one of the other soldiers remarks. “They aren’t like anything we have back in storage, boss.”

>“I know. Do they work?” Roman Candle responds.

“Quite well. Let me demonstrate.”

>You pick up one of the fireworks, a match, and the mortar.

>The three soldiers follow you.

>You march them out to the fields, where you set the pipe in the ground.

>You strike the match, light the shell, and drop it in the tube, then run for cover.

>The firework rushes out of the tube and explodes into a shower of pinkish-purple stars.

 >“Ha!” Roman Candle exclaims, applauding. “That was amazing. Great work.”

“Thank you,” you reply.

>“Here’s your money,” he states.  “Six thousand bits. Should be enough to keep you in business for some time.”

>The sack is lighter than you thought it would be.

>It’s likely that the Equestrian Mint enchants their coins to be lighter for practical purposes.

“Yes. If you ever need any more, just send me a letter.”

>“I probably will at some point. This is high-quality craftsmanship here,” Roman Candle replies.

>You head back to Twilight’s tree.

>“Alright, ponies. Start loading that cart!” he orders.

>The three unicorns quickly fill their cart with brown spherical firework shells, carried up by the dozens from the basement.

“They are very simple to use. Just light the string, drop it in the mortar, and get some cover. Store in a dry place away from fires.”

>“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Roman huffs.

>“We’ll be seeing you,” Roman Candle states as they trot off.

>You step back inside the tree-house and shut the door.

>You now have the funds you need to build your transporter.

>You could almost do a little jig.

>It will be at least another week before you even know if you can get the parts, but, for now, you are quite pleased.

>You trudge upstairs, stash the sack of money in a closet, and fall asleep in your bed.

 >Rising out of bed the next morning, you aren’t quite sure what to do with yourself.

>It will be another week at least before you know if the parts for the transporter will be made.

>You decide to go for a walk, and find a purple unicorn at the door to the basement.

“Hello, Twilight. Is there something you need?”

>“Why did you lock the door?” she asks, getting straight to the point.

“So that you wouldn’t bother me while I was constructing fireworks. I needed to focus.”

>“Anonymous, you are infuriating.”

“I don’t care. I didn’t want you bothering me about apologizing to people I don’t need to apologize to. It’s not in my nature, nor is it my priority. I am not here to make friends and be nice to people, Twilight. I am here because of my own hubris. And in a few months, all of this will be a distant memory.”

>“But there’s more . . . Anonymous, why did you take advantage of the Cutie Mark Crusaders?”

>You chuckle.

“They wanted to earn their science cutie marks. I told them finding their life purpose wouldn’t come easily. But, I didn’t want to be rooting around for bat fecal matter all day, so, why not get three naïve girls to do it?”

>Twilight groans.

>“Anonymous! What did I tell you a few days ago? This isn’t about just making friends! It’s about making sure that you aren’t run out of town with pitchforks and torches! You can't go around making unfair bargains with innocent children that don't know better. You knew you couldn't get the Cutie Mark Crusaders their Cutie Marks!"

>You give her a deadpan glare, and return to shutting the door.

>“Wait!” Twilight cries.

>“I do think people deserve second chances. Anonymous, would you like to go to the Summer Sun Celebration in Canterlot with the six of us?”

“Why should I?” you inquire through the crack between the door and the frame. “I don’t particularly like parties or celebrations or anything of that sort.”

>“Your fireworks will be on display. And you’ll be able to mend your reputation with my friends.”

>The second part doesn’t exactly win you over, but you have nothing better to do anyways.

>Might as well mend what you can for now.

“Alright, I’ll go.”

>“Great. The train leaves tomorrow at 8:00 sharp.”

>You finally close the door.

>The next morning, you walk over to the train station with Twilight and are received with three frowns and three neutral expressions.

“Hello,” you greet the six ponies in front of you.

>“Hello, Anonymous,” Twilight says, brightening up a bit. “Glad you could make it.”

>“Don’t you have something to say?” she prompts.

>You grunt.

>On one hand, you don’t really see any reason to apologize to any of these ponies.

>You have a justification for every action.

>But Twilight will probably turn what little reputation you have in this universe to shambles, revealing you as an opportunistic, friendless prick.

>You need people to trust you and not think they are being taken advantage of, or no one is going to give you what you need.

>You make your decision.

>You turn to Rainbow Dash and Applejack.

>These two.

>They have been the source of your vexation over the past few days.

>You have no reason to apologize.

“I owe you a more formal apology as well. I shouldn’t have been so rude when you were just trying to help me have a good time,” you lie through your teeth.

>Applejack’s eyes narrow.

>“Ya really think we’d be that gullible, Anon?” she probes. “We know all about you. You’d never apologize for what you did.”

“Do not call me Anon,” you state. “And I am being honest.”

>“Calm down you two!” Twilight interrupts. “Anonymous, are you lying?”

“No,” you answer, your voice unwavering.

>“See,” Twilight gloats.

>“Fine, Twi. I accept your apology, Anon . . . ymous,” Applejack responds. “And, we need to apologize to. We should have known that you don’t find drinking fun.”

>“Yeah, we’re sorry,” Dash adds.

 “I accept your apology. Now let’s go.”

>The train arrives a few minutes later and, after an uneventful few hours on the ride to Canterlot, you stand on a balcony overlooking the palace courtyard.

>A gold sun statue stands in the middle, where Princess Celestia, flanked by guards and her sister, prepares to perform the traditional salute for the summer solstice.

>Or, at least, that’s what Twilight has told you.

>The sun reaches its apex and Celestia leaps into the air and showers the courtyard in light.

>The crowd cheers.

>While the spectacle is impressive, you make no show of your interest.

>A few hours later, you are in a fancy palace ballroom.

>Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, the walls are coated in the finest white paint, and the upper crust dance and chat around you like fancy flies.

>A large window looks out onto the courtyard, where you can faintly distinguish a few ponies setting up mortars for fireworks under the lamplight.

>You sit in a corner by one of the glass panes, reading Mysteries of Magic quietly and sipping a glass of fine wine.

>“So, I can finally meet you in person,” someone says.

>In response, you look up from your book.

“Hm? Ah, Princess Luna and Princess Celestia, your highnesses.”

>You look at the darker mare.

“Pleased to finally be acquainted in a more formal manner. One that does not involve barging into my dreams. That did occur, didn’t it?”

>She only chuckles and wanders off, leaving you with Celestia.

>“My pyrotechnics told me you created some magnificent fireworks for them. They are going to be displayed tonight,” she states.

“Excellent. I’m sure you will be quite impressed.”

>She nods and also trots off to some other noble guests.

>Good.

>You read a few chapters on various magical skills (teleportation, telekinesis, energy attacks, transfiguration) when Applejack and Rainbow Dash saunter over to your corner.

“And what can I do for you?” you inquire.

>“We know you lied to us, Anonymous,” Rainbow asserts. “You think after a rant like the one a few days ago that we’d ever trust you?”

>She deepens her voice to make a decent facsimile of your own.

>“You guys are vermin, you disgust me, bleh bleh bleh.”

“So?”

>Four glasses of Canterlot vintage wine in, and the alcohol is getting to your head.

>You can afford to be hungover tomorrow.

>Applejack hands you another glass of wine from a waiter.

>“Twilight trusts me a hecka lot more than you. We won’t tell Twilight nothin’ if you do somethin’ for us,” she whispers, a devious look in her eye.

“Blackmail isn’t exactly the best way to make friends.”

>“Neither is lyin’.”

“Point taken. What do you want?”

“A song,” Rainbow says, barely containing her snickering. “And we don’t want you to just sing it to us, no no no. We want you to sing it to the whole crowd.”

>You scratch your beard.

>You do have a song to sing.

>It’s the best damn song you know.

>What do you have to lose?

“Very well, then.”

>You stand up from your chair, wobbling a bit, take the glass of wine, and down it in a gulp.

>Then, you walk over to the stage, where a chamber orchestra quintet is playing a slow waltz.

>The band suddenly stops when you climb up onstage and grab one of the microphones in front of the players.

>You hear a few gasps from the audience.

“I didn’t write this song,” you shout into the mic. “But it’s the best one I know.”

>You give the orchestra a ¾ motion.

>They don’t respond.

>Regardless, you begin to sing:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3IfWQhgfIQ

"Ain’t it a laugh, ain’t it a treat

Hobnobbing here, among the elite!

They’re goes a prince, there goes a duke

>You point to a few ponies in the crowd.

“That one’s a queer, but what can you do?

>You point to a particularly flamboyantly dressed earl.

Paris at my feet, Paris in the dust!

And here’s me breakin’ bread with the upper crust!

Beggar at the feast, master of the dance

Life is easy pickings if you grab your chance

Everywhere you go, law abiding folk

Doin’ what is easy but they’re mostly broke

Singin’ to the Lord on Sundays

Prayin’ for the gifts he’ll send

But we’re the ones who take it

We’re the ones who make it in the end!

Watch the buggers dance, watch ‘em till they drop

Keep your wits about you and you’ll stand on top.”

Masters of the land, always get our share,

Clear away the barricades and we’re still there!

We know where the wind is blowing,

Money is the stuff we smell

And when we’re rich as Croesus, JESUS, won’t we see you all in hell!”

>You chuckle a bit as the crowd stares at you in shock.

>Your giggling soon turns to a maniacal cackle.

>Then you trip and fall off the stage, stumbling back to your corner, where Applejack and Rainbow are rolling with laughter.

“Happy now?”

>“Very!” Rainbow guffaws, wiping a tear from her eye with her hoof.

>The conductor restarts the waltz, and a loud bang followed by an “Ooo!” alerts you that the fireworks have started.

>As the ballroom is showered in pinkish-purple flashes of light, you begin to laugh again.

>Who is to say that Logic can’t enjoy Chaos sometimes?