Picks bomb collars

My head was pounding, my brain trying to claw its way out of my skull. There was a warm, wet stickiness dribbling out of my ears and nostrils. My abused horn protested, the effort it took to pick the lock on the last collar seemed more than it took to once float a boxcar.

The collar snapped open, and I shut off the broadcaster one last time, slumping against the wall. We were in what was left of Doctor Glue’s laboratory. My gaze lingered over all the unicorns. I had only turned on the broadcaster for a few second for each collar, but the cumulative toll was devastating. I was out of healing potions. And four of the ponies hadn’t survived.