Trottingham

To call the doctor’s residence a hospital would be a flagrant lie in the honest opinion of Punch-Clock Joke, Pegasus and Cultist for the Laughing mare. He had seen all manner of things in his service of the Cult of Laughter, macabre dolls made of traitors, demons from otherworldly locations, pillars of faces, even some of the cult’s grotesque mockeries of leaders, but never managing reach to this level of clinical emotionless horror. No, this place would be better described as an abattoir, stinking of iron and rot whilst jugs of daffodils and chemicals perfumed the air, in turn only making it more putrescent. Unless specifically guaranteed safety by cult authorities, the doctor had a tendency of making his patients… disappear, what he did with them even made the upper echelons of the cult cringe at the thought. 

Unfortunately for them, he was one of the rare medical practitioners who were available for their more clandestine requirements. Most others had been drafted by the various governments of splintered Equestria, although Earthborn had gotten the worse end of that due to their dehorning policy. Still, no matter his actions, he was a required talent in the cult’s activities and thus his fouler experiments were either ignored or hushed up. There were even rumours of deals being made with the good doctor to ensure that such disappearances of his Cult affiliated patients ceased, in return for a supply of … other subjects.

As Punch-Clock walked through a long hallway of hospital beds filled with patients bearing the most gruesome of injuries, he was surprised and disturbed by the quiet that ruled over the place. Usually a hospital was filled with the bustle of nurses, the coughing and choking of patients or even muted moans of pain. This place however, was entirely silent asides from his muted breathing and the clipping of his hooves on sterile white flagstones.

Looking around he passed the more aware patients of the good doctor and shuddered at their emotional responses to even the movement of hooves. Many huddled into tight balls of white linen blankets, covered in bandages and staring out in utter terror as he made his way through them. For a moment he was struck by an image of a stoat in a warren, its hypnotic gaze set upon a huddle of baby rabbits as they stared in paralytic fear, waiting for the animal to move in for the kill.

It seemed to take hours before he neared the end, a small stairway made of the same white ceramic stone as the floor arched up suddenly to a browned, rusted iron door. He paused and looked to his left where he saw something curious. A small unicorn foal was working tirelessly on a strange mechanical puzzle box, her horn aglow with flickering bronze magical energy as she attempted to push and probe the device. She looked perfectly healthy to Punch-Clock, a pale white coat with bronze hair and blue-green eyes and it took him a while to realise why she was here.

Below her waist she had no legs.

On further inspection he noticed a two wheeled device which must have aided her in moving about, but what was most noticeable was the presence of a large arched chip near the base of her horn.

An attempted dehorning.

From what he had heard of the Earthborn’s practice it sounded like utter agony, the horn of a unicorn -even more so than any other horned creature- was a sensitive part of the body and several arteries ran beneath the bone amongst the soft tissues. In the early years it had been almost a miracle if the unicorns didn’t bleed to death or die of shock from their dehorning, although Earthborn had been steadily developing their brutal craft since the introduction of the policy.

Not that they had much interest in keeping crippled ponies alive anyway…

He was surprised when she looked up from the device and raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, almost accusatory for his transgression. He looked away, blushing at his poor manners. 

For a moment there was silence before she spoke up in a clipped Canterlot accent.

“Tell dearest uncle that I am nearly finished with this one and for him to send me something more challenging” she said, returning her gaze to the puzzle box as part of it slid away. Asides from the slight clicking of the changing form of the box, the world became silent once more.

Confused, Punch-Clock nodded slowly towards the foal, and turned back towards the door. Walking up the steps he paused and took a deep breath of the sickly air before mustering his courage and tapping on the door.

The metal clang of the door was uncomfortably loud in the silence of the hospital and he stood there waiting as sounds of clinking metal and shuffling hoofsteps made their way steadily towards the door. With a small creak the door opened and two brooding eyes caught him in their icy gaze.

 For a moment they simply looked at each other before a refined voice broke the silence and a grey hoof motioned to him.

“Come in.”

Dr Charred opened the door more fully, and the light of the hospitals windows showed that which darkness had hidden. He was covered in a surgical apron and a rolled up shirt, everything seemed to be coated in blood and viscera and he smelt of iron and cinnamon. A surgical mask hung loose around his neck and a thin smile cut jagged across the doctor’s cold features. 

Punch-Clock paused as the doctor turned and strode back into the near darkness of the tunnel, disappearing into the gloom like a wraith. He shuddered in fear and entered; surprised by the sudden drop in temperature as he did so. Looking around he found the cause of this in the form of magical devices made of sapphire gems, artificial refrigeration devices.

Trotting along into silence he eventually spotted flickering blue lighting ahead and the dark silhouette of the doctor standing before the door, beckoning with one hoof. The image was disturbingly surreal and for a moment Punch-Clock’s mind switched towards that of flight. It was almost too suggestive of horrible outcomes, but still he pulled through and made his way past the shadow of the doctor and into the surgery room. 

The room much like the rest of the hospital in design, large arched windows covered the far side, showing the stars and moon bright in the midnight sky. White tiling covered the walls halfway up and the room was illuminated by pale electric Tesla lamps which produced a continuous glow of contained purple-blue lightning. Large cabinets sported an array of medical devices and large esoteric machinery covered the better part of the room, emitting a droning noise like the sounds of thousands of flies. Dark substances bubbled and frothed in an alchemical lab to the right side of the surgery and a nearby desk was littered with the same type of puzzle boxes seen in the hooves of the foal before he entered.

Whilst he had been staring the doctor had moved to the centre of the room and began working on the operating table, Punch-Clock couldn’t quite see what he was working on, but it looked like an Earthpony of considerable size, perhaps even a Juggernaut. Whatever it was it was obviously dead, the flayed skin and bodily organs lay in a bucket, and Punch-Clock felt an overwhelming feeling of nausea spread as he heard the wet slice of knife upon flesh.

“I assume your masters sent you here for a reason.”

The disinterested tones of the doctor echoed around the chamber, startling him out of his observations.

“The Cult always wants something… I assume some battle or terrorist attack they are attempting tonight or in the future? Some pointless dribble no doubt.”

“Yes Dr Charred.”

The doctor turned his head and gave him a withering look.

“We then, get to it.”

“The cult recently suffered an ambush by Moon and Star inquisitors; we have injured that need tending to for an upcoming retaliatory attack. Our leader offers the usually payment and …” he paused, the words foul in his mouth “test subjects for your experiments”.

“How many injured?”

“20”

“How many Filth ponies?”

Punch-Clock bit back a retort and breathed through his nose angrily “… ten”.

The doctor was silent for a while, the only sound in the room that of floating blades and machines on bone and muscle. Then he spoke.

“I will require an increase in test subjects in exchange for this, preferably Juggernauts… the last batch they gave me is almost depleted… then I will consider helping your… comrades.”

“The cult will not stand for a change in our established deal!” Punch-Clock seethed. 

The doctor only eyed him again, and his skin crawled at the look of patronising pity on his face.

“The Cult is not in a position to made threats, I am one of the only surgeons willing to deal with your injured in this city, and I know enough of your activities to do some considerable damage to your operations. An increase in test subjects, take it or have your companions die from unsanitary conditions and infections in your hideouts, tell your master that.”

“Your niece…”

The doctor’s face visibly darkened, a barely restrained expression of fury being clouded by his traditional Canterlot pose.

“You touch her, and you and your masters will quickly find yourselves flayed alive, it has not been the first time I practiced that technique, and it won’t be the last.”

“… we will consider your request.”

“Good, now go, I tire of your prattling... but before you do, take this to my niece.”

The Doctor levitated a similar puzzle box into the outstretched hooves and motioned for him to leave. As he left through the darkened corridor he privately raged, he knew the cult would have to give into the doctor’s request, as he had said they didn’t have much choice. 

Still, it was degrading.

A loud noise startled him from his thoughts, for a moment he didn’t realised what it was until he heard Dr Charred’s voice echo down the tunnel.

“So… you are awake again are you? Excellent, the stars are beautiful tonight, and look! A meteor shower, maybe you'd like to wish upon a star? After all, feeble hope is the only thing you have left.”

Punch-Clock didn’t waste any time in voiding his dinner over the floor of the tunnel, before fleeing in horror towards the exit… and away from the moaning of a pony he had thought was dead.