Not a New Story Idea (Probably)

​ “This is the beginning of the end,” a male voice claims with a somber tone. A weary sigh escapes his nostrils.

​He refers to the bright orange book in his left hand with the title “History” on the cover. Steely eyes stare at the paper in his right hand with a red 57 in the right hand corner of the paper. His gaze focuses on the young boy sitting in a red leather arm chair. The boy with his black haired head low stares at the ornate rug.

​A small smile tugs at the edges the man’s mouth. “Allan,” the man speaks, which makes the young boy twitch, “I am neither disappointed nor angry with you. Lift your head.”

​Allan looks up at the man towering before him. The man’s smile grows wider looking into the yellow eye all his progeny carry and the crimson eye his granddaughter had inherited to pass to Allan.

​“Really, grandfather?” Allan asks.

​His grandfather kneels to his eyelevel, “Really.” He throws the paper into the crackling fire place to the right. “Humans,” he starts with a sigh, “they think they erased us off the face of Pyae, so they are erasing us from history. I told you to follow what the book said, but, knowing you, that grade was expected.”

​“If they want to erase us from history, why did they have the right answers on the test?”

​“To reveal possible Ancients in hiding.”

​“But you are the Grey Whulphe—the God of Crafts, Survival, and Singing! You could make all the Humans pay!” Allan exclaims passionately.

​A sad smile flashes on Grey’s lips. “Not anymore, Allan. There are no more ‘Gods’—just us ‘Immortals’. Most Ancient kind decided to leave Pyae. All ties to the divine were severed.”

​“Even my mother?” Allan inquires timidly.

​Grey leans back and sits on the desk behind him. He heaves a heavy sigh. A silence hangs between the two of them like a thick fog. Allan tries to study his grandfather’s weathered face and sees the battle going on behind those steely golden eyes.

​“I think it is time you learned the truth,” Grey states with a thin grin.

​“The ‘truth’ about what?”

​“About—” Grey stands up abruptly with his head tilting to the side as he listens. Approaching vehicles—a lot of approaching vehicles—rings alarms in his head. “Get to the bunker!”

​Grey strides over to the window to see helicopters fast approaching from the air and the lights of dozens of vehicles winding up the mountain road. He looks back to Allan.

​“Now!” Grey’s voice booms.

​Allan jumps up from the chair and bolts out the double doors of the study. He ran to the cellar of the mansion to the bunker, the closest safe room and the most fortified. Grey’s drills and preparations finally pay off when Allan reaches the hidden door in record time. Heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs into the cellar. Grey rounds the wall with rifles hanging off him and ammunition strapping his large frame. The renounced God steps beside Allan and opens a hidden number pad from the brick wall beside a wine rack to type in a code. The wine rack rises into the ceiling, revealing a vault door with a retina scanner.

​Grey steps in the middle of the door and scans his eyes. More security devices emerge which he quickly unlocks. The door handle spins open. Metallic sounds and thuds accompany the opening vault door. Grey looks down at Allan, worry hidden behind a practiced calm countenance.

​“Allan,” he kneels and hugs his progeny, “your mother loves you. She wishes to be here but circumstances and responsibilities keep her away. Her name is Umbra Anise Whulphe Shadeko. She is not in hiding like us, as I had said in the past, but. . . working.” He grabs hold of Allan’s hand and they walk inside the bunker down a dark hallway. “Anaeus Allan Whulphe Umbraides. That is your full name. Share it only with those you feel you can trust.”

​They enter a large room where the lights turn on automatically to reveal a large room, about the size of a gym auditorium. Rows of green metal lockers line half of the area,the other half on the right is empty. Screens line the far right wall. Grey pulls out a tablet from the wall. He kneels before Allan and presents the device to him.

​“You remember how to use this, right?” Grey questions.

​Allan accepts the binder size device with a nod.
​Grey taps on the tablet and turns his attention the right wall. When the screens switch to black he smiles, takes off the necklace he always wears, and places the black leather around Allan’s neck. The wolf head pendant holds the similar countenance as Grey.

​Grey presses his right hand on Allan’s chest, sandwiching the pendant, “I will always be here.” With a kiss on Allan’s head, Grey runs out the way they had entered.

​Moments later, Allan watches the first door close, the other six follow closely. Metal fills his vision. His breathing fills his ears.

​“What have I done. . .”

​ The clock in the top right corner of the tablet informs him that the two hour mark draws near. Having stood at the door for the entirety of two hours, Allan walks to the back of the bunker. His canvas shoes drag across the floor as he slowly makes his way. He stops in his tracks. His grandfather, the Grey Whulphe, is up there fighting off those damn Humans. Grey had never lost a battle! He definitely is not losing today. Allan slaps himself a few times and puts on his “big boy pants”.
​He begins his to do list Grey’s emergency evacuation entails.

​Step One: Transportation. Allan walks over to the empty area of the bunker while tapping on the tablet. When he stops at a orange square on the ground, a terminal rises from the ground. The display screen of the terminal blinks to life.

​“Hmm,” Allan hums. “Land, Marine, Air, ATV,” he reads as he swipes his hand across the screen. “Let’s be practical. . . tank!”

​The screen flashes red, voicing its disproval as two short alarm beeps.

​Allan purses his lips in a pout. He clicks on the “ATV” selection. His sour mood brightens at the selection of vehicles. He clicks the “filter” icon and types “turret” in the search box. Three selections to choose from, six alarm beeps of denial bring a frown to his face. With a huff, Allan picks a bus like RV. Seconds later, the ground opens up to reveal the chosen vehicle rising to the concrete floor.

​Step Two: Equipment. He already keeps a suitcase of clothes in the bunker so Allan retrieves the suitcase from a nearby locker to load in the RV. He returns to the row of lockers designated just for him. Grabbing a hiking backpack, he begins to stuff the essentials inside the bag. A sleeping bag bumps against his rear as he walks to the bus.

​He stops. A shadow had disappeared quickly in his peripherals.

​He turns around to focus his attention on an object in the far left corner of the bunker. A nagging sensation draws him towards it. He walks over to the tarp covered object. In the past three drills he had not seen the object in here. He dismisses the object and turns to walk away.

​The tarp falling to the ground stops him in his tracks.

​Hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. The hairs on his arm prickle. Slowly he turns around to face the object: a mirror. A mirror, about eight feet tall, stands before him reflecting his awestruck face as his eyes inspect the white marble frame.

​“Beautiful,” he whispers.

​He shakes his head. Why is this thing here? Grey hates big mirrors like this. But… how could he hate something as elegant and innocent as a mirror?

​Right.

​Allan remembers the story. Grey’s eldest daughter was taken from this world through a similar mirror. Actually, this mirror kind of matches the description of that mirror…

​A strange blurry white image appears on the mirror. It looks like the mirror is dirty. Maybe if he cleans the glass, the image will be clearer. He pulls his right sleeve into his right hand to wipe the mirror. His hand sinks into the mirror as if his hand touches the surface of a pool.

​“Woah…” he awes. A tug pulls him in to his elbow.​“Woah!” he interjects with alarm.
​

---

“Still awaiting her return, Sombra?”

“Nnnnnyes,” the stallion confesses as he hangs his head down. A dark gray hoof with a dark blue metallic boot presses against the golden frame of a mirror.

“Ready for the morning report?” the mare inquires.

His green eyes shift from his form to the alabaster pegasus mare reflecting in the mirror.

“Anything good, Shade?” the king asks with a small amount of hope in his voice.

The pegasus flips through the papers in her left hoof. “Nopony died today,” Shade informs with a small smile.

“That is always good news.” He grins and looks back at the mirror. “My ponies. . . They deserve better than I have been able to provide. She, Princess Celestia, helped me get them this far. I fear with her evil counterpart here and Luna joining her side, there is nothing we can do.”

“There is something we can do,” Shade corrects the king, “But the consequences are unfavorable.”

King Sombra heaves a sigh. “Yes, I do not wish to kill them; it will cause my beloved’s death and her sister’s. Unacceptable.”

Shade steps up to the mirror. “Have you found a way to operate the mirror?”

“Sadly, no,” King Sombra answers dishearteningly.

“It is quite the show of craftponyship,” Shade comments as she runs a hoof along the gold frame of the mirror.

At her touch, the surface of the mirror ripples like water prompting her to retract the appendage.

King Sombra’s face splits with a smile. “What did you do?”

“I just touched it. . .”

“Please, do it again, Shade!”

Shade touches the glass again. This time she feels something latch onto her hoof. She struggles to retrieve her hoof.

“Something has a hold of me!” she exclaims.

King Sombra’s Horn ignites as his magic envelops his close friend. They strain against a powerful force for seconds before they feel the force weaken. With a might strain, the two of them use all their might to move away from the mirror.

“Aaahhhhh!”

A scream alerts them.

A young tan pegasus colt with black and red mane lays in a ball at the foot of the mirror. His eyes stare up at them in horror. Shade cocks her head at the familiarity of the different irises the colt has. Almost like she has seen them before. . .

“Wah!” the colt interjects and tries to scramble to his hooves. Failing miserably he backs himself up against the mirror.

He turns around. He brings a hoof up to his muzzle. Tears well up in his eyes.

“Grandpa!” he wails.

“Oh dear,” Shade says and walks over to the colt.

The colt quickly snaps at the voice and approaching white winged-horse thing.

“What am I? What happened to me? Where am I?” he blabbers.

“Shhhh,” Shade hushes the colt. She stretches out a wing to wrap the colt. “Everything is fine.”

The colt recoils from the gesture and scrambled away from the aproaching animal. “I’m not fine! I’m a horse! With wings!” the colt shouts.

Shade glances back at Sombra. They share a knowing gaze. Shade looks back to the colt and smiles.

“Are you from Pyae?” she questions.

“Mm-m-maybe. . .”

“I am not from the world either. I came from Pyae, too. You can call me Shade.”

Why does that name sound familiar?

“I’m. . . I’m called Allan. . .” the colt introduces himself after a moments hesitation.