[Anna’s eyes, which had been flickering wildly, suddenly snapped back to their usual deep, cloudy brown. But now, there was an otherworldly glow bordering her irises, as if a power inside the Anna’s skull was struggling to escape, but was being held in check by the girl’s willpower alone. She began to stand. Pam, kneeling by her in the snow, gasped in shock and relief, and cautiously scooted away. (To be completely honest, Pam’s gasp was due to shock, relief, and fear. So much fear.) As Anna stood, her robotic arm did not come with her. It remained on the could ground, lifeless and motionless metal once more. Covering the stump where the cybernetic arm had previously connected to Anna’s shoulder, there was now a shimmering glaze of the same slowly pulsing light that struggled behind the girl’s eyes. Again, as with the eyes, Anna seemed to be holding this power back, keeping it from shooting out of her shoulder in a solid beam of chaotic creation. Anna looked around the clearing as if seeing it (and everything) for the first time. The cat and the boy had stopped their conversation to stare at her, as had the city and the woman. Even Acorn had stopped his nonsensical horse bullshit to watch Anna Harley, Pony Pal. Anna walked to the center of the clearing and tilted her head to the sky. She spoke in an icily sharp voice: “I am become Author, destroyer of texts.” At last, the night listened. At last, it was silent. And then it was silent no longer. Every small noise was audible now, practically to the point of being visible; sounds etched in bas-relief, like the grooves on a record or the pins on the cylinder of a music box. You could almost see them embedded in the heavy, viscous air: the crunching snow under Pam’s feet as she cautiously stood up. The quiet whispered stream of “fuckfuckfuckfuck” that tumbled from Dirk’s lips like an obscene waterfall. The swish of Minos’ tail, once again emulating that eternal pendulum. Pawnee and Jeanne Betancourt’s little grunts as they angrily bumped each other with their shoulders, continuing their argument pettily and nonverbally. And, of course, Acorn the pony’s huge, gulping breaths of air as he recovered from his (final?) freakout. “Acorn,” Anna said as she fixed her phantasmagorical gaze on her pony. “I’m glad I got to see you again.” She slowly walked to the pony and put her hand on his mane, stroking it lovingly. Acorn rested his head on Anna’s shoulder and nuzzled her neck. He too was thankful for this moment. And he too knew its cost. Like Pam’s earlier speech to Anna, this moment was too private — no, too sacred — to eavesdrop on. The silvery light began to drip from Anna’s shoulder, each drop bursting into a flash of prismatic rays as it hit the ground. She and the pony were— it was still hidden. Too sacred, too secret, sacrosanct, sacrament, Acorn was… sacrament, consecrate, desecrate, desiccate, dissociate Why can’t I describe what’s happening? It’s de-scribing itself.] #DetectivePony
