Skyzantium, Pre-Unification Era: It was not a dark and stormy night when the silver pegasus arrived. She had flown in on a cool and dry afternoon, introduced herself as a tactical advisor and weapons expert, and immediately locked herself in a lab. It had not been a dark and stormy night when the first body went missing, nor the second, nor any others. Dark, yes, but quite clear and crisp. Nor still could the weather conditions be described as either dark or stormy when she was promoted several ranks upward, as those who had been filling those ranks had been lost in a vicious skirmish with the unicorns. But now, she thought as she filled a very anachronistic syringe with a reflective purple liquid, it really should be a dark and stormy night. May as well fill the genre stereotypes. And then the Rani put such trivial concerns from her mind and focused back on the project at hand— or rather, hoof— the pursuit of science.
Cloudsdale College of Flight and Weather Management, Autumn of 9 BAT:“That will be all for the day,” Professor Swift said, turning to face her class as the bell rang. “Please remember to do your assigned reading and homework, as it will be due Monday… and have a good weekend.”
A low murmur arose from the crowd as the assembled pegasi rose to their hooves and made for the door. Professor Swift made to exit through a side door, but paused at the last moment. “Miss Scootaloo! A moment of your time?” she called, turning about abruptly.
The orange pegasus froze in her tracks. The grey stallion standing next to her gave her a quick, questioning look. She shook her head. “You go on ahead. I'll catch up.”
Scootaloo’s hoofsteps were faltering and slow as she trotted toward the maroon mare at the head of the room. The professor regarded her with solemn stoicism, though not without sympathy. “Is something wrong, Professor Swift? I didn't lose an assignment, did I?”
The teacher exhaled slowly. “No,” she said. “You’ve got all of your homework in, and your reports. That isn't the problem.”
”I didn't blow that last test, did I? I knew I should've focused more on the theory—”
“Your grasp of flight theory is not the issue,” Professor Swift interrupted. “In fact, it's precisely the opposite of that.”
Scootaloo's heart sunk. “What do you mean?” she stammered.
The maroon pegasus leaned forward on her lectern, examining her student through tired, aging eyes. “Let me put it this way. Your grasp of theory is masterful, young mare. Truly astonishing. In addition to what Dr. Hypotenuse tells me, you could go far in flight coordination, or some other mathematical profession.”
Scootaloo looked down at her hooves. Professor Swift rubbed at her cheek, her mouth half open. “Scootaloo. I’ve spoken with your advisor. He told me about your condition.”
The orange pegasus’s head jerked up. “He WHAT?”
The teacher continued as though Scootaloo hadn't said a word. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to continue on this career path.”
The younger mare bridled, flushing. “I don't see how that's any of your concern,” she snapped. “It's my life.”
“That's entirely my point of view. It's your life, and I won't let you throw it away, or, Celestia forbid, lose it in pursuit of this impossible dream!” She took in a deep breath. “I'm sorry. But weather management is not a viable option for you, nor is any other career requiring extensive time in flight.”
Scootaloo's expression had soured, and her eyes had gained a disturbing glimmer. “I can learn to fly.”
Professor Swift looked at her for a long moment. “You know that's not true. The medical reports clearly say—”
“Geld what the reports say!” Scootaloo shouted. “The medical reports said I’d never get off the ground! The medical reports said I'd never be able to run, let alone do all the crazy manure my friends and I got up to! The medical reports said I probably wouldn't live past age two! I've bucked the medical reports where the sun don't shine every day of my life, and I'm not going to stop until I'm dead.”
Professor Swift's jaw set. “This isn't a matter that's up for debate. The risk is too great. Your practical flight and weather classes have been dropped from your schedule, and you have an appointment next Monday with your advisor to determine a more… appropriate career path.”
“More appropriate,” Scootaloo parroted, her voice full of chili powder, dry and hot with emotion. “For instance?”
The elder mare coughed. “Well, off the top of my head… meteorologist?”
“Meteorologist?” Scootaloo echoed, disbelieving. “Meteorologist?! METEOROLOGIST?”
And then, it was as though all her strings had been cut. “Meteorologist,” she said quietly. “Right. I'll keep that in mind. That all?”
“I— yes. That will be all.”
With her wings, too small and weak to support her body, stuck firmly against her sides, Scootaloo trudged out of the classroom, her head hung low.
Rumble sat on the steps outside of the Weather Management building, hunched over his books like a gargoyle. He barely even flinched when the double doors flung open, ruffling his mane. Instead, he glanced up mildly at his friend. “Bad news?”
“Worst news. They’re changing up my classes ‘cause of my little ‘problem’. Is that discrimination? It feels like discrimination.”
“Probably,” Rumble replied, snapping his book closed. “But they’ve still got a point. You’ve been trying to fly for… how long?”
As long as she could trot. As long as she could see the clouds. As long as she could tell that there was a difference between her and everypony else. “A while.”
“Years.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Scoots…” he sighed. “I’m not saying that you should give up on dreaming about being with the Wonderbolts someday. I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to be like Rainbow Dash. But maybe, just maybe, you should focus a little more on the here and now. Set some… more attainable goals, that’s all. You know you’re not a strong flyer. You’ll basically never be a strong flyer, no matter what you do.”
The orange mare winced and glanced back at her wings. They were well-maintained, perhaps, but ultimately too weak to allow more than a hover. “I… it could happen,” she said weakly.
“Maybe it could. Maybe it will. Maybe there’s some kind of miracle cure that’s gonna get discovered tomorrow, Wing-gro or something, that’ll help you fly like Rainbow Dash. But you can’t bank on that.”
“...” Scootaloo sulked. “Alright then. What do you think I should do? ‘Cause I’m sure as Tartarus not being a meteorologist.”
“I don’t know,” Rumble admitted. “Something with math, maybe. You’re good at math.”
“Math,” Scootaloo scoffed. “What’s awesome that involves math? Nothing.”
Rumble started to object, but she cut him with a look. “No-thing,” she enunciated.
He held up a hoof in surrender. “Alright, alright, none of my business, I’m sure.”
“...Yeah,” Scootaloo said, drooping slightly. “All up to me.”
The sudden silence was louder than any noise. “I’m going to go visit Ponyville,” Scootaloo said abruptly.
Rumble said nothing. The orange mare nodded. “Yeah. Go talk to Dash or somepony. Maybe she’ll have some ideas on how I can get back into the practicals.” She trotted off purposefully, then paused. “Uh. Can you give me a lift?”
The grey pegasus smirked softly. “Alright. Let’s go see what’s up in Ponyville.” He grabbed his friend about the barrel and slowly lifted her off the cloud. “Jeez, Scoots, what’re you eating? Clouds? You’re about as heavy as a feather duster!”
“Gotta stay light if I want to get off the ground. Anyway, I’ve always been good at burning off calories.”
“Mhm,” Rumble’s brow was creased with concern. “You should weigh more than this, though. I can pick you up like a rag—”
“Hey, who are you, my auntie? Quit complaining that you don’t have to carry a heavier load, and get us to Ponyville.”
“Alright, alright. But seriously, Scoots, you have to eat more than this, it isn’t healthy…”
“Yeah, yeah, neither am I. Move your flank, flyboy, I wanna be home for dinner.”
Rumble rolled his eyes, but flapped off in the direction of Ponyville, the college in the clouds quickly fading away into the distant expanse of blue.
Scootaloo stared down, oddly quiet as she watched the hills and fields roll by, turning into forest and lake and back again. Occasionally, the odd settlement would rush by, and then just as quickly vanish again. The whole world was a patchwork quilt of green and blue from up here, something that most ponies never saw, never knew. From the ground, Gallopston couldn’t see Phoenix, but from up here they were so close you could almost reach out and touch both at once, picking them both up and wrapping the cozy green quilt of the world around your shoulders. Maybe you could see it from the TARDIS, too, or a hot air balloon, or a flying chariot, but it wasn’t the same. You couldn’t get the same motion, the same illusion, from them. You had to be flying, actually flying, to see the truth. To see that the whole world was connected.
“Hey. Scootaloo.”
“Hm?”
“We’ll be there in another five minutes.”
“Kay.”
Rumble looked down at his friend with his lips pressed together tightly and his forehead wrinkled in concern. Her moments of spaciness were rare, but when they struck, they hit hard.
They had been friends for nearly… Celestia, had it really been nine years? He remembered the day Scootaloo had suggested trying to hang glide. He remembered the time she’d convinced them all to try parasailing. He remembered Cutie Mark Crusader Hot Air Balloon Pilots, Aeronautical Engineers, Sky Pirates.
He remembered the day when Scootaloo had fallen in the middle of one of their Crusades, breaking her wing in three places. Pegasus bones were hollow, and more fragile than those of unicorns or earth ponies. Scootaloo’s bones were even more fragile than that, according to her mother.
Rumble remembered that afternoon, when Sweet Apple Acres was visited by a big white chariot all the way from Canterlot, a red cross marking it as emergency transit. He remembered the raw, open panic on Rainbow Dash’s face, and he remembered the drawn, worried faces of Holiday and Lofty.
He remembered that evening when Thunderlane had taken him aside after dinner and explained, over unusually large slices of cake, why Scootaloo would never be able to fly under her own power.
He remembered the next day at school, when Miss Cheerilee informed the class that Scootaloo would be out for the next week. He remembered Diamond Tiara puffing up like the odious pink toad she was, a snarky remark forming on her lips when Miss Cheerilee said, “She’s in the Canterlot Hospital.”
Diamond deflated like a balloon in the sun, and had been very quiet for the rest of the day. Everypony had.
He remembered the next week when Scootaloo had returned, so covered in bandages that she might have stepped straight out of a pyramid. She quietly went up to Cheerilee’s desk and set down a stack of papers, the homework that had been assigned in her absence.
That same afternoon, still looking for all the world like the lovechild of a ball of tape and a pharaoh, she arrived at the clubhouse and said, “So, I think maybe today we should try BASE jumping.”
Rumble glanced down at the orange mare again. Her brow was drawn and her eyes were focused on something invisible to the grey stallion. She was unstoppable, unyielding, unrelenting in her desire to reach her ultimate goal. Terrifying.
Far below, he saw Sweet Apple Acres rolling by. Almost unthinking, he went in for the gentle swoop down to the ground and the town. He felt Scootaloo flinch slightly, wriggling in surprise for the briefest of moments before falling still again. It was different now, though. The spell had been broken, and Rumble wasn’t sure how relieved or concerned that made him feel. How relieved or concerned it ought to make him feel.
Orange hooves touched down in Market Square, grey ones soon following suit. “Thanks for the lift, Rumble,” Scootaloo said, shaking off the last of the enchantment. “Sorry to drag you all this way.”
“No problem. I kinda wanted to bug Thunderlane anyway, and I know Cloudy will have some kind of cookie stash. Meet you here tomorrow at three?”
“Sounds good,” Scootaloo called over her shoulder. “See you then!”
Rumble watched her trot away, a small scowl on his face. Then, he turned tail and trotted in the opposite direction. He would see his brother and the twins eventually. First, though, there was somepony else he needed to see, and he knew just where to find her. Winding through the crowds, Rumble made his way back the way he had come. Back to Sweet Apple Acres.
Scootaloo took a deep breath as she stared at the door. Pasting a smile onto her face, she lifted up a hoof and knocked. From the other side, she could hear the familiar surprised rustle of papers. For a moment, her smile became much less plastic. Same old Aunt Holiday.
Then, the door flew open, revealing a peach mare with a carefully-kept orange mane, run through now with the occasional greying streak. “Scootaloo!” Aunt Holiday cried happily. “Is it spring break already?”
“No, Aunt Holiday. I just wanted to come home for the weekend.”
Romane Holiday, eminent historian and scholar of the Romane Empire, smiled at her, her magenta eyes gleaming like precious gems. “Well, it’s good to see you either way, dear. Come in, come in! I’ll fix us up some… mm…” she trailed off, frowning. “Sandwiches. No, hold on, I think we're out of bread.”
“Is that Scootaloo?” Auntie Lofty shouted. “I’ll put the kettle on!”
“Good idea, Lofty!” Holiday shouted back. “Put out those gingersnaps—” She cut herself off suddenly and squinted at her niece more closely. “Scootaloo Breeze Windfall, whatever is the matter?”
Rut it. “What do you mean?” she asked. Yeah, that’s it, play it cool.
Her aunt fixed her with a curious, expectant raised eyebrow. Scootaloo glanced away, but she could still feel its presence. It was burning into her, nagging her more sufficiently than words ever could. She had to say something. “What was my mom like?”
Her aunt blanched. Related question, why am I such a colossal tool? Scootaloo wondered, scrunching her eyes closed.
“What… brings this on all of a sudden?” Aunt Holiday asked slowly.
“You said my… problem… was genetic. You said dad could fly just fine, and so can Grammy and Gramps, so it must’ve been mom’s side, right?”
“Scootaloo, are you being bullied again? I swear, I will write a letter—”
“Aunt Holiday! No, it’s not like that.” She considered for a moment. “It’s mostly not like that. I just can’t do the coursework I need to do to get on the weather patrol. Is there something I can do to, like, make it less…”
“Oh, Eurus,” her aunt sighed, gently pulling her niece into a hug. “East wind, I wish there was something. If there was, don’t you think I would have told you by now? Don’t you think that I would have helped you every step of the way?”
Scootaloo groaned, but let her aunt embrace her and usher her inside.
“To answer your question…” Holiday exhaled. “Well, I suppose it’s about time I told you the whole truth about your parents. Come help me fix dinner, and I’ll tell you the story.”
A fragrant breeze blew out of the east as Rumble approached the farmhouse. Granny Smith was sitting on the porch, reading. She glanced up over the cover as she heard hoofsteps coming up the porch stairs. “Oh, evenin’ Mumble.”
“Good evening, Granny.”
“Bloom ain’t here, Ah fear, but iffin ya wanna wait inside, Ah don’ reckon she’ll be vurra long.”
“That’s okay, ma’am, I wasn’t here to see Bloom anyway. Uh, what’s that book?”
Granny grinned toothily, showing off her dentures. “Ooh, it’s just m’ book club novel. Get a few other sweet old biddies together over tea or cider, knit a bit, talk about books and gossip. Good, clean, innocent fun.”
“Sounds… interesting. What’s the book you’re all reading?”
“Sixty Shades o’ Puce.”
Rumble stopped to think about that, then immediately regretted it. “I’ll just be going to wait inside.”
The old mare waved him on. “Go, fix yerself a snack."
He trotted inside, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it of the mental image that had formed.
Granny let out a low, hissing chuckle, before returning to the book. The mare was about to shatter into a thousand pieces again, and that was one of the best parts.
Rumble trotted into the parlor, where a large red farmer was shuffling a deck of cards for another round of solitaire. “Hi, Mac.”
“Howdy.”
“I’m looking for Rainbow Dash?”
“Upstairs, in AJ’s room. Uh, knock first. RD likes ta think she’s bein’ stealthy-like, see?” He rolled his eyes. “Can’t imagine why she’s botherin’.”
“I can,” Rumble said flatly. “Ever been to Pegasopolis?”
Mac’s blank look was answer enough. “Really homophobic place. Everypony thinks that our ‘noble pegasus forbears’ would have frowned upon the… what was it? Wanton immorality, that’s it. Which is, apparently, embodied by you, Applejack, Dash, and myself, among others.”
Mac snorted. “Horseapples. They ever read Pony th’ Elder? Saddlecres? Sapphire Verse? Th’ ancients were a heckuva lot more open minded than most folk reckon. Look at the ancient Minoan civilizations! Heck, look at th’ modern Zebra, or Buffalo! Look at mosta th’ rest o’ Equestria!” Mac huffed, hooves firmly crossed.
Rumble stared. Never had he seen the large earth pony say so much in so short a time. “Uh… no argument here.”
“Eenope.”
“Pegasopolis is just crazy.”
“Eeyup.”
“Right, okay, good. Three goes on eight.”
Mac’s expression cleared as they laid down the next card. “Thank ya.”
Rumble trotted upstairs, his hooves loudly echoing down the hallway. “Now, where can Rainbow Dash be?” he asked, projecting as much as he could while trying and failing not to be too blatantly obvious.
A muffled flurry of curses and fluttering wings sprang up from behind a closed door, several of which were flavored with a distinctive Southern twang. Rumble sighed and rolled his eyes. After a few seconds, he knocked on Applejack’s door. “Rainbow Dash? Are you in there?”
“Uh… No?”
Rumble didn’t say a word. “Okay, yes. Just… hold on for like… two seconds, okay?”
“Why?”
There was a long silence. Applejack started to say something, but Dash cut across her. “No reason! Just, uh, I’m learning how to be more patient. Yeah. Applejack is teaching me.”
Rumble stifled a snicker. He could almost hear the eyebrow being raised.
The door, at length, swung open to reveal a very disheveled Rainbow Dash. “Hey, kid! Long time, no see! How’s college? How’s Scootaloo? How are classes, how’s Thunderlane, how are—”
“Howdy, Sugarcube.” A similarly unkempt Applejack waved from over on the bed. Her mane, freed from the bands that usually bound it, surrounded her head like a corona. “What’s new?”
“Oh, y’know, college. I’m doing pretty well for myself, and I’m pretty much set up for a degree in Climate Science.”
Applejack stared politely. “Pardon?”
“Basically the guys who make the clouds and rainbows and stuff,” Rumble clarified. "It could get me a job in the Weather Factory, or a nice managing position on a weather patrol."
“Ahah. Well, nice as it is of y’all ta visit, what seems ta be the problem?”
Rumble didn’t even ask how she knew. “Scootaloo.”
Applejack frowned. Rainbow nearly choked. “What? What’s happened? Is she alright? Is she hurt? Is she—”
“She’s okay,” Rumble said. Dash relaxed slightly. “Physically.” The tension immediately returned.
“She’s been taken out of the weather patrol program because of her disability,” Rumble said bluntly.
“Oh,” Dash said, sitting down. “Oh.”
“Then Professor Swift suggested she go into meteorology.”
Dash winced. “Ouch.”
Applejack looked between one pegasus and the other. “What, now?”
“Meteorology is basically the lowest rung on the ladder in terms of weather duties,” Dash said. “Basically… y’know how you think all your growth surveys are boring?”
Applejack rolled her eyes. “Mac says they’ll be useful, but Ah ain’t seein’ it.”
“Imagine doing that for every cloud in a ten-mile radius. Every day.”
The farmer blanched. “Ponies do that?”
“Usually as an internship in weather management,” Rumble said. “I did it for a month, and by the end of the first week I felt like punching something in the face.”
“Lousy work, lousy pay, lousy hours,” Dash listed, shaking her head. “I didn’t even last three days when I had to do it. Scoots could probably outlast me, but not by much, and definitely not forever.” She sighed. “This is my fault.”
“What? How?” Applejack asked.
“Like you always say, it’s better to be honest,” Dash said listlessly. “I wasn’t. There was never any way in Tartarus that she’d ever be able to fly, but I told her there was. This is— is—” She broke off, and with a sudden, strangled half-sob, took off through the open window into the darkening twilight.
“Dash!” Applejack called, rushing to the window. “Dash, get back here!”
She was already lost in the gentle orange glow of the setting sun. “Dagnabbit,” Applejack muttered. “C’mon. We better go see Twilight ‘bout this.”
The door to the little cottage burst open. “Scootaloo Easterly Breeze Windfall!” Auntie Lofty shouted. “You get back here right this minute!”
Scootaloo paused only for a moment, her cold expression softening for the space of a moment. Then, as soon as she laid eyes on her aunts’ panicked, angry faces, she scowled again, picked up her spare scooter from where it was parked, and zipped away from the house, her aunts, and the past.
Lofty’s face fell, and she turned to look at her wife. The historian turned back to look inside for a moment. She could talk about the past for hours on end, any era, any person, any place. Any history at all, save for her own. She remembered how Scootaloo’s father had come into her life, so strange and sudden and abrupt, and how he had left the same way. She had been left saddled with confusion, shock, and an infant she had never planned to care for.
Heat Wave had left town scot-free, leaving behind only the ruins of so many lives. Holiday’s in particular.