Chapter One: Waking Places
I wake with a yawn, and I can’t help but notice that I had tossed the blanket onto the floor, again. I grumble as I reach over to pick it up. It is soft to my touch, and when I move it to my face I smell nothing but oil.
Oil? Why does it smell of oil? I let it sit on my face as I continue to ponder over it. It isn’t until I remember that I helped oil a foal’s scooter yesterday and hadn’t bothered cleaning myself off. It must have stained, or at least covered the blanket with some oil. I grumble and think to myself, great, now I have to clean it a few days early.
Well, regardless. I stumble to my hooves. It was time to get up, no matter how much I wanted to revel in my bed, about: whatever it is I want to revel about on this particular morning. I trudge my morning legs to the door of my room.
My room, the second from the entrance of this compound apartment building’s second floor, is not far from the door out. It isn’t the only room here of course. A kitchen with the basic supplies: stove, sink, refrigerator, and some cabinets. A dining room with… well, a table; it is for dining there isn’t much else we do in there. Next is the small living quarters, also known as a room of living (though I keep getting told I say it wrong). It has all the things anypony could ever wish for: a couch, and a chair or two. Finally there is the bathroom… no reason to get into that.
I make my way into the kitchen where I begin to scrounge around for a pot, skillet, or really anything that can be heated up for some oats. It takes a long while but I eventually find a small skillet with high walls, perfect for making oats into a meal. The metal skillet, while it has a yellow enamel coat on it, is a nice charred black underneath. I fill up the skillet with water to the halfway point, before placing it onto one of the stove burners.
If I had lived on a farm, I would most likely have a wood-fed iron stove; but because I don’t, I have the non-standard pump stove. It takes electricity and makes you push a pedal to keep the power going. And I can even set the stove to keep the burners at a certain heat level. Though I generally only use it at one of the lowest settings.
I start to pedal the pedal. And after a few minutes I notice the water starting to boil. I take a moment away from the wood pump to add in the oats, though, like everything else, I end up needing to look for them. Turns out they had been trying to hide on the top shelf of the farthest cabinet from.
Each cabinet is colored. My neighbor, who is more of a roommate, went and colored each one of them a different color. I believe it was acrylic paint, but I’ve never been into paint… leaving me without a clue of what it could be. But the cabinet closest to the room of living, the room one has to go through to make their way into the kitchen, was a simple red. The next, in order, are yellow, blue and finally green (green being were the food is mostly stored).
I am glad that I am a unicorn; otherwise, it could have been so much harder to reach the oats. After I confirmed that the oats are, in fact, in the water; I begin to pump hoof-to-the-metal. I pump and pump all to keep the heat flowing at the correct temperature. Even though it gets a max output for the heat—based off of the dial chosen—it has an almost unlimited input. As far as battery goes, it doesn’t have anything in the slightest. Storing the power in some sort of electrical matrix isn’t possible.
As the water and oats fix slowly attach and become something new. I notice that my roommate was standing by the door, I hadn’t even noticed him. He can be really quiet at times; and sometimes, especially at night, he can make many-a-pony jump witless.
“You’re not taking the stove apart are you?” he asks with a yawn, clearly having just gotten up. He mumbles a little more, but much quieter. “We don’t need to buy a new one… again, since it would be the third one we’d have to buy… this month.”
“Well, not entirely no. I am simply making some meal of oats.”
He gives a pained groan and is silent for a moment before speaking again. “It’s called oatmeal. Is it that hard to remember? Oatmeal!”
“No, it isn—”
“Then get it right!” he shouts, clearly far more awake than he was moments ago.
I am rather used to this. He has a strong distaste for ponies saying things wrong. Before I can say anything else, I notice that the oats are at the perfect point. I telekinetically lift the skillet, and grab a few bowls to put the meal of o—the oatmeal into.
Like most other stuff our bowls are colored as well, and exactly like the cabinets; they are all primary, and basic colors. I pour until the bowl is a little over half-filled, my normal amount. I search around until I find two spoons, and set the extra one into an empty cup.
After having set the skillet back onto the stove, away from the burner, I place the other bowl onto the floor by the stove. I make my way into the room of living before heading to the left to the dining table—a large mahogany table with a smooth finish, double-layered, that can easily seat seven or eight.
“Yours is on the floor if you want it. Just fill the bowl,” I say lazily. I know that it is a little mean, but if I wasn’t so familiar with him, then I would have offered to pour.
“I’ll pour my own, thanks,” he says. Soon enough he comes into the room of living, before turning to the right—where the entry room is—he changed his mind and strolled to his bedroom. With a soft pat the door closed behind him.
I shrug and lift my spoon with my magic. But with the amount of practice I have done with using my telekinesis, the spoon might as well have been weight of a ton. “I can lift a skillet, but not a spoon,” I mumble a complaint to myself as I pick a spoonful up and bring it to my mouth.
I sit there and continue to eat. I think about my dream. A great dream. A dream that can be done by any and everypony. I wanted to be a heroine, somepony who goes and helps others at the cost of myself. I sigh. “Why is it the meal of oats tastes like cream of wheat?”
Maybe it would be better to say banana flavored. How, though? I added just the oats; yet it has gained the flavor of bananas. “How bizarre,” I proclaim with a certain level of vigor matched only by a snail.
I start to grow tired of waiting. So I use my magic to lift the bowl as well, and I’d be lying if I say I didn’t drop the spoon, taking the spoon in my grasp again. I begin to shuffle the food down. I stuff Bite after bite into my cheeks. I can swallow once I get the rest in; by the time I empty the bowl, my cheeks, and consequently my mouth, are stuffed to the brim with meal of oat.
When I attempt to swallow I run into the slight problem of my mouth being a little too stuffed. As a result, the food gushes out of my mouth, almost as if I was vomiting, and lands sloppily in the bowl, though most of it misses and lands on the table instead.
I swallow whatever remains in my mouth. “Whoops…” I groan and stand to my hooves. I know what I have to do, and that is to head back into the kitchen and grab a rag to clean the table with. Well, that and finish the meal of oat left in the bowl.
As I head to the kitchen, I can hear a door open behind me. “Hey, I think I should tell you something.” Yet, before I could ask him a question, he continues talking. “I made some banana… something yesterday, and might not have cleaned the skillet well enough.”
I blink a few times. “That… might explain the banana flavoring. But I spilled on the table, I’m going to grab a rag. Are there any rags left?” I ask. He was the last one to do anything when it came to cleaning. I had eaten out the last few days.
“Yeah, there should be. Gotta go,” he says as he drops the bowl into the sink and runs out the front door ( which actually leads to the hallway and at the end of the hallway are the stairs which lead down). I couldn’t even bid him farewell.
I check around the blue cabinet and get lucky. Because there are three rags, I grab all of them. I set down one of them on the floor—had there been a counter, I would have put them there—and I move the rest to the yellow cabinet, where they should have been in the first place. I take the one on the floor in my teeth—using magic is rather repugnant and drains me of energy if I use it too much—and leave for the dining room.
Back at the table, I notice that most of the spill is now in the bowl. I look around with a slight glare. “Still gone…” I mutter. Tilde, my roommate, must have picked up a little of the mess while I was gone. He has an interesting cutie mark: it was a tilde, simple and swirly. What it can possibly stand for is beyond me though.
I start to wipe off the parts of the table, making sure to just wipe the entire thing. “Wax off, wax on,” I mutter to myself while scrubbing the table clean. Well, now that that is done it is time to move on, I think to myself.
I throw the dirty rag onto my back. It is at this time that I realise my fatal flaw, something so bad that I might end up dead from it. I just threw a dirty object onto myself, therefore making myself dirty. “I’m so vulgar! Just a dirty, dirty mare!” I yell out in frustration, using a tone of sarcasm.
I shudder as I walk back to the kitchen. I have my bowl in my telekinesis carefully balancing on my back right behind the rag. I can’t help but shudder again as I feel the rag move a little on my back. It feels all slimy, and gross. I even groan a little.
In the kitchen, I set the bowl on the floor by the sink, and place the rag inside of the sink. Turning one of the nobs water begins to shoot out of the faucet. Once wet I set the rag in one of the corners of the sink’s tub. It had turned the water a really bright yellow and brown mixed into some sort of hybrid color.
I levitate the meal-of-oats-filled bowl up to me from the floor, and using the spoon I shuffle some more of it into my mouth, where I quickly chew it before swallowing. It really does have the strong flavor of bananas. When I finally am able to empty the bowl I place it in the sink filling it with water.
With water now in the bowl, I smile. Time to leave, I think to myself with a bit of a smug bravado. I turn around and make my way to the room of living. It is time to leave, but I know I am forgetting something. I look around the room trying to find what it is I might be looking for.
I can see that in the far corner of the room is a small water damage spot. It has been painted over several times. With an array of colors too: brown… and brown. I am lying to myself. It can count as a different color, since it went from a natural brown to a more smoother looking brown.
The walls look the same as well: just a simple, soft brown, which matches the rest of the room. We have a few pieces of non-furnished furniture… well, that is what I keep calling them. I forgot what they are actually called, but they are things like side-tables, coffee tables (which have not and will never see the likes of coffee), and a vase or two: empty, yet still here, just sitting there waiting for something, anything to fill them.
Deciding that I wasn’t going to find it out here, I head back into my room. And I see it. It is a small bag lying on the foot of my bed, or rather on the floor at the foot of the bed. I trot over to it and pick it up in my mouth. I set it on the bed, looking it over and making sure everything is still inside of it.
After I note everything is there, I sling it on. I smile softly as I head for the front door. I close the bedroom door behind me, quickly crossing the room of living to the hall of entry, where the door out of the apartment lies.
I open the door, and turn my attention down the long corridor. The hall has doors lining both sides of itl and a carpet running down the middle. A nice gold-edged, blue carpet that is soft on the eyes (something I am always glad about, since if it was rough on the eyes it could cause some confusion in the brain or something and cause that pony to run into something. And if they run into something they will get hurt. And if they get hurt, they will need medical assistance. And if they need medical assistance, then they need help with the assistance. And that is what I could help them out with.)
I shake my head. Time to go. As I take a step, I feel the floor shake slightly. Even though it was really subtle I felt it. As I take another step it, the shaking increases. I wait a good twelve seconds. Nothing. I take another step, and this time I hear a loud crashing noise outside.
“Do I dare risk it?” I whisper to myself. “I must be a monster.”
I spend all of ten seconds deciding. I dare, I think boldly, taking another step. I become blind as light fills the shaking corridor. As my eyes are adjusting to the change in light levels, I find that I am lying on my side. Apparently,at one point in my slight blinding I must have fallen over.
I try to stand but find that I am not able to do it. Looking down at my body I can see why: part of a wall, the ceiling, and a door have all landed on top of me. Looking at my body, the weight and pain begin to register.
I scream out, and not that “ow, this really hurts” scream. No, I meant the “this is going to kill me” scream (most commonly known as screaming bloody murder). I reach out with my magic and I imagine a really large hoof scooping up the debris. I grasp at my head, as pain breaks my concentration and I fail to perform the telekinesis.
Wincing, I try again. This time I imagine just pushing up on the debris. I slowly feel my magic grip the pile, but as I go to lift it, I fall flat. It feels as though a sledgehammer smacks me every time I try to do anything with the stuff. It is simply too heavy, and I don’t have the strength to lift it.
As my vision begins to blur, I find that I am slowly running out of air. Not because I am suffocating from the debris trapping me in a pocket, but because I am slowly being crushed and any air inside of my lungs is getting squeezed out of me. I try to desperately push up on the debris using my hooves, but to my dismay it doesn’t budge. Not even to the slightest amount.
I reach out with my magic again. Please work. Please. After having found a hold, I push up with all of my force and hooves. With the extra-force and the effort of my magic and hooves, I find that it cuts just a tiny slack. Using that slight slack, I adjust myself a little better as I keep pushing.
As I start to push, I find something strange: the debris has not only gone up more, but it is levitating away from me. I begin to feel sick. And with that sickness comes vomit. I vomit all over the dusty, scratched carpet.
“Not… the carpet,” I breath.
A thud came from the floor next to me. Though, the sound came from both sides of me. On one side, there is the debris; and on the other, a purple unicorn. As my vision straightens, I can see that it is actually a unicorn with wings.
Wings!? Then that would mean that the unicorn is an… I look upwards a little and try to concentrate on the figure. They are saying something, yet I can’t make out what they are saying.
My vision straightens more, and my focus deepens. I can now see that it is a mare, a taller mare than I. Her mane is messed-up. Ruffled I’d say. I imagine that if it is combed then each strand would measure the same length. What an OCD pony.
“Are you alright?” She asks. I am now absolutely sure that this is a mare. It would help if she wore some type of name plate. Wait. I know this mare. Yeah, I’ve seen her around town on multiple occasions.
Her name is Sparlight Twinkle… er… Princess Sparlight Twinkle. She is one of the six Alicorn Princesses; Sparlight, Luma, Solarsta, that baby, the mother, and—
“Princess…”
She gets closer as soon as I mutter. The look of worry, or at least concern, is spread across her face. “Yes?”
“Princess Sparlight. Did you save me?” I ask, and she is taken aback… for some reason.
“Um,” she starts hesitantly, “my name is Twilight. Twilight Sparkle. And to answer your inquiry: yes, I did help you.”
I blink a few times. “Oh, sorry. And thank you.” I silently start dreaming of what it would be like to save others as she does. I would be so happy to be her.
No. I shake my head profusely.
“Are you okay? Well, other than just having most of a building drop on you…” she trails off.
I cough, not the exaggerated “grabbing attention,” but the “might lose a lung” cough. “I’m peachy,” I hack out a reply, trying to hide my face under my hooves.
“That’s a relief. Don’t stay here. It’s dangerous. You should get somewhere safer,” she commands. Before I can say or do anything, she spreads her long pointy wings and takes to the air.
I don’t bother standing quite yet. Instead, I stay on the floor, or what is left of it. I can see that the carpet is hanging lower. Which can mean a few things: the wood below it is gone, the threads got thinner, or it is on fire. And seeing as there is no fire, I go for the former most. I hear another loud crash from outside. What could be making all that noise?
I slowly and clumsily stand to my hooves. Already they feel achy, sore, and painful. I attempt to move, but it comes only as a slight hobble, or more accurately a wobble. As I drop down to the bends of my legs, I can feel the bruises forming already.
But the thing that distracts me the most is the fact that my side has no feeling in it. It also isn’t the right side, but the left (the side I fell on). I feel constant pain from the right, yet nothing from the left. Without spending anymore time thinking on it, I travel as much as I can to… well, anywhere.
Preferably somewhere that is out of the structurally unstable building. I don’t need it coming down on top of me… again. I survived once, and I was lucky Tarlight saved me. But I doubt I will get that lucky once more.
I move to the debris, each step as if I taking a screwdriver and jamming it as far into myself as I can (only to find that said screwdriver is actually a knife). Once at the base of the debris, I attempt to climb. It takes a couple tries, but I am unable to rise up farther than my legs in height. Something about this is unsettling to me.
Giving up, I turn the other way. “You can do this Night. You’ve got this,” I tell myself aloud, silently thinking that I am a complete and utter failure.
I ignore the throbbing as I walk as lightly as I can. I almost make it several steps without falling; but a rumble knocks me over, following a loud crash. I grunt as I hit the threads, covered with splinters. They break my skin.
I squirm at the blood that is coming from the shallow penetrations. It hurt so much… I quit. I close my eyes, ready to let the pain carry me away. To my dismay I hear a soft pat on the wood close to my resting head, even closer are my ears.
“Come on. let’s get you out of here,” a voice, coming from a light blue hoof, says with a hint of pain.
It is at this point that I an struck by a realization: my head is pounding, and I am in the air. “Don’t up look down,” I am told. I begin to look down anyway. The ground is moving farther and farther away. I can’t tell if it is me who is moving or the ground. But regardless, I am shaking.
“Hey, stop moving so much!” the raspy voice demands.
It is the same voice from the building. I listen to it and find that a small stallion is carrying me. He is slightly bigger than I am, though.
We fly (one of my biggest fears now it seems) from above my apartment building to the ground—the far, far below ground—landing just a matter of seconds from take-off. “There you go. Now get out of here,” the voice demands wearily.
He takes off once more and flies around in a circle a few times before diving down at a building. With one hoof out-stretched, he kicks the roof of it; but it doesn’t break. No, it throws its own attack back.
I miss the rest after I realize I could get buried again if I stay here. I run as fast as my hooves will carry me. I run past all sorts of things: trees, broken trees, buildings, broken buildings. But no ponies. I dismiss the thought from my head. Right now I needed to focus on running.
I arrive at a small, circular stone structure which towers above the street. I push against the door. It is barred shut. My sight falls upon a rather thick beam of wood on the outside being held up by cast-iron bars. I look up to the top of the door—another beam.
Now this is interesting. It seems that somepony isn’t trying to keep things out but rather trying to keep something in. I lift the first one, the one on the ground. With a thud, it lands on the hard dirt (though I wasn’t sure if the thud was the beam or another shake). I lift the top one by reaching up and pushing it free.
I teeter, before falling over with it on my fetlocks. “Owie,” I moan, surprised. Everytime I lift heavy objects I fall over. Does the world hate me? Does everypony hate me?... No, Tilde doesn’t hate me.
Or… at least, I don’t think he hates me. I sigh—is it still called lightly when not of the heavy variety? I shake my head once, twice. It should matter very little what it is called.
I roll over to my side and practically jump to my hooves. “Ready or not… open up?” Well, I started it out strong. Why do I keep failing these simple phrases?
While wishing for the answer, I push the the open, only to find it that it won’t budge. Darn you, stupid door… oh. It is only until I pull the door handle that the rough surface begins to creak open, the cast-iron of the handle cold upon my fur and hoof.
The light floods inside the room immediately. As I step in, I can feel another tremor beneath me. Some of the first things to come to my attention are the torches still lit upon the walls, and the next is the cold floor, and stone walls. I find that the only metal in here is on the door.
Hanging on a little wooden peg by the door is a solid brown cloak. By what I can tell, it has a hood on it (a low hanging one at that). It is the type to conceal the face and body of the wearer. Generally, it is only used by ponies who work in the underworld of the crime syndicates or by ponies who want to hide their identity. Which is why the underworld enjoys using these types of cloaks.
But this one is a type used by the royal guards. I got to see them up close a few years back, and they have a small unique stitch in them to discern it is a guards cloak. I touched the cloak with a hoof. While the stitch is close, it has a slight twist in it—something a copycat would add because of the difficulty of the stitch.
I took a class at the Carousel Boutique a week ago, and I still remember the class about cloaks. The material even feels a little too light; that can be for a few reasons. “Fake cloak made to blend in with the guards. Why would anypony want this?”
Losing interest—mostly out of knowing I won’t get an answer—I turn to find that the torches illuminate a staircase which leads upwards. I move to the first step. Each step is painted. And for some sick reason, each step is painted a different color. Differing from light to dark in a completely random style.
I touch them. Acrylic paint. Heavily added by what I can tell. Not something one does normally, or that at least I wasn’t aware of. And I had that construction job where I was a painter for a few months a few years back.
Everything in my bones is telling me to get out, but what could possibly be in here? I take a deep breath. And release. I exhale, letting the breath leave me completely. Before I take another inhale, I proceed to breath normally again.
I might regret this in a few minutes, but I’ll climb this tower-like structure… with it’s vile stairs. As I climb the first few stairs, another tremble can be felt; yet this time it felt dampened. Weaker. Less. I sigh. “Must be this staircase?”
I keep climbing, higher and higher. Until I come face to wood with another door. This one is resting maybe halfway up the stairs, by my guess at least. I push it open—for once it isn’t locked or a pull door—I am met with near darkness, the only light coming from the torch several steps down.
What will come from this room? Is whatever in this room the reason the door at the base was barred shut? So many questions and no way to know the answer. Well, that is except for one thing.
I gulp as I ready myself for whatever might happen next. I hear a creak as I enter the room. Must be a loose floor board, I hope. An awful aroma fills my senses; it almost makes me feel blind. But that is the darkness’s doing.
Because not being able to see is disturbing to me, I walk out to the hallway. I grab a nearby torch in my mouth and take it into the room. I can now see that the room is set up like a bedroom of sorts. There is a mattress (well, I say matress, but it is really just a few blankets laid out), several crates each with papers on them, and some different foods scattered about the floor.
I trot over to the first crate and scan over the paper. They are coated with drawings of what seem to be blueprints. They look like really advanced technology. I couldn’t begin to understand what they might possibly be or what they could be used for. They look like scientific instruments, or some sort of transportation device. Machines maybe.
Quickly I leave that crate. Becoming confused isn’t a very good thing. I move to the next one. It is covered in papers with loads and loads of writing. An ancient language—I have seen it before once, while on the construction job; a small little pony had left a book opened—I can’t speak or read it though.
Without being able to read them, I decide it is time to leave the room. I scan it one more time: nothing out of the ordinary, except maybe the smell. With a hoof covering my nostrils, I walk out into the hallway.
The torch still in my mouth, I head up the stairs. At the top is a caged room. I say caged, but metal bars, as one would see on a cage, line the would be open edges. From the very top of the stairs, I can see the stallion still attacking the building. And I can also see Sparlight using magical beams against it. Others are there as well: a yellow pegasus, an orange earth pony with a cowpony-like hat, and a white unicorn (her name was a rarity for me to remember, but she runs the Carousel Boutique).
On closer inspection, I realize that the building isn’t actually a building. It turns out it is something rather large. As in larger-than-my-apartment-building large. Two massive appendages stick out of the front with a much larger one in what I guess to be the back. The front ones are pincers, while the back one is much more dangerous: a stinger, which means poison.
Large red, glowing dots spread across the front. “Those look just like… eyes,” I say, shuddering. Somehow giant red beady eyes is far more distressing to me than anything else.
I have to help them. They need help.
I turn around and run down the stairs, only stopping to place the torch in the holder. It slides in, giving a small click which tells me it is locked in place. I continue to run down the stairs. Grey fills my vision as I leave out the door. Stone is something that will never grow on me. Stone is everywhere here. I don’t like here.
I rush down the cobblestone-covered street (which I also don’t like). The humongous stinger flies right at me, or at least in my direction. It misses and slams into the place I was standing in seconds ago. Does it know me? I have no time to worry about that now. I should get as close as I can. If I’m close, it shouldn’t be able to hit me. And if I get closer I might be able to figure out what it is called.
Its attention turns toward me. “Oh no you don’t,” that raspy voice from before shouts. I watch as the stallion flies straight down at one of those… large… beady eyes. His hoof lands square on one, causing the creature to shriek out in pain.
“No, what are you doing? We need to lure her out and attempt to calm her down,” the yellow pegasus says. She has a very lovely pink mane, I note.
The stallion flies over, and waves his hooves rapidly. “Really Fluttershy? Really? This is a she now?”
“No,” Fluttershine says. “She has always been a she. You just didn’t take the time to ask.”
“What!? and you did?” The stallion yells.
Fluffershine huffs a little. “No, I can tell.” She sounds as if she is trying to yell, but it comes out barely louder than a normal talking volume.
“You’re such a—” the stallion doesn’t get to finish. He gets smacked out of the sky, like a fly being swatted out of the air. He crashes down next to me.
“Bad day?” I ask, as he groans.
“Ugh…” he barely grunts. Sparlight flies down landing next to him.
“Rainbow Dash! I tried to tell you to watch out,” she says. Rainbow Dash… isn’t that the hot new Wonderbolt? And if he is Rainbow Dash, then that means he isn’t actually a he. I wince at my realisation.
“Are you okay?” I ask
“Yeah,” Rainbow says. Then she looks at me, squinting her unfocused eyes. “Hey, I thought I told you to run.”
Sparlight casts a shield spell right as one of the large pincers comes to strike at us. “No time to worry about that right now. Let’s work on taking this outside of Ponyville,” she yells.
The others seems to all agree with her immediately. I guess that is why she is a princess. Because she is good at getting others to do what she wants. Why else would somepony hold the status of princess?
The orange earth pony throws a rope and it catches onto one of the pincers. “Woah-nelly. This is one strong varmint,” she says, through her teeth. Her name is Appletack. She runs the local farm with her family (which is why I know her name). They make really good cider.
She tugs on the rope, and the pincer snaps shut. I can see the tension on the taut rope, as it is practically screaming in pain (the rope, not the pincer. Pincers can’t scream out in pain). While Appletack holds the rope, the curly-purple-maned unicorn yells insults at it.
The pink-maned pegasus continues to say how they shouldn’t fight and just lure it out of the city and back to her bed. The Princess shoots beams at it from the sky, and the stallion-turned-mare continues to launch high-power kicks at the thing.
It isn’t until the tail of the thing strikes into the light blue mare that I realise what it is. “A Scorpion!” I yell out in astoundment.
“Well, almost. This is actually a Giant Scorpion from the ancient Athenian mythology from—”
“Pinkie! Stop talking, and help us out,” the light blue Pegasus yells out.
I watch as Pinkie Pie bounces to the aid. She taunts the creature with spitting of the tongue, before jumping out of the way of the slam. “Can’t catch me! I’m the Pinkie-mare~!” She sing-songs tauntingly.
The scorpion smashes one of her pincers into the ground, destroying another building, before turning fully to the pink mare. It stabs down with its stinger, but Pinkie jumps to the side (and she is humming a tune while hoping about). The creature continues to strike at Pinkie, but Pinkie’s chipper nature and usage of the dodge make it very tricky to hit her.
Together, they lead the scorpion out of Ponyville. And I watch them. It is awe-inspiring to see such an example of ponies taking turns and helping each other without the need of my help.
I gallop after, because they are leaving me behind. I watch as the scorpion continues being led by Pinkie and keeps on the path of destruction. For a good ten minutes, Pinkie just hops about dodging the scorpions attacks and casually singing a song as if nothing is happening. Something about sunshine, rainbows, and a hint of dash... oh, and something about numbers being up.
Outside of town, they fight the beast in a plains… or the plains. It is right next to the forest. “Take this,” Rainblow yells. She flies down and delivers a mighty kick to the top of the scorpion’s head. It retaliates with a mighty swing of its tail. The head of the stinger smashes right into Rainblow’s body, breaking her wing.
It wouldn’t have mattered all that much. Rainblow crashes into a rock on the far side of the field. She doesn’t look like she is moving. Now is my chance to prove myself… for once.
I take off into a full gallop. The tail slams down several paces in front of me, but I manage to jump over it. “What’s she thinkin’?” The orange one yells. I clear the hurdle but just barely. When I land I work on regaining the speed I lost from the jump.
A misdirected magic beam nearly lands on my head, and I can feel the heat scorch some of my mane and fur. “Whoops. She’s going to Dash,” Sparlight yells a reply several seconds late.
“Girls, we should ask her if she will leave peacefully,” I hear Flumpyshine say. I reach Rainblow and proceed to try to pry her from the rock she is indented in.
“Ya know what Fluttershy? If you want ta ask ‘er to scamper off, then be mah guest.”
I manage to free Rainblow from the rock, though I did have help from the scorpion who smashed the rock with its left pincer. “Fine,” Fluttershine declares. I barely see her fly in front of the towering beast. I can’t hear what she says though.
I gallop as fast as I can while carrying the mare on my back. Whoops, she is going to get all dirty now. Within a few steps she starts to slant on my back. No, no, no, no. As I try to adjust her on my back, she ends up sliding off in the other direction. I let her drop with a thud.
When I glance around, I see the wagon I had worked on the other day. It looks much cleaner. I trot over to it, taking the handle in my mouth, and pull the wagon over to Rainblow as she lies groaning on the ground.
I struggle to move her, for being so small she has some lean muscles, that and she is heavier than she looks. Not long after I push her onto the wagon bed, I whisper, “I hope you won’t get mad.” Then I notice she is asleep, or perhaps knocked out. “Good, you won’t want to be awake for this.”
I reach into my bag and pull out a piece of rope. I begin to meticulously tie her to the wagon. “Ouch,” I yelp suddenly. I had tied my hoof into the knot. Grumbling, I pull it free and analyze my work. “Rainblow tied to this decent-sized green wagon? Check. Time to get a move on.”
I check my surroundings before I feel confident. Slowly, I start to tug at the handle, it barely moves; but it does move, at least just a little bit. We are rolling down the street, where the grass won’t hinder our movement. We are on our way!