Dash sat uncomfortably on the sofa, making room as best she could among the old papers and books that covered every surface like a thick blanket of dust. Aunt Holiday had gone, as she had put it, to put the kettle on, leaving the athlete with Aunt Lofty in the midst of historic artifacts and out of her element. The walls, at least the small areas that were visible behind shelves full of old books and trinkets, were a dull shade of green. The carpet was a pale pink. Even Dash could tell that they clashed. The pile of books next to her tilted slightly, then collapsed into her lap.
Lofty sat up and dug Dash out of the pile, all apologies for the mess. Dash decided to stand after that and glance over the shelves. There had to be something to read that wasn't a total snoozefest. Lofty watched her, helpless, torn between speech and silence and feeling the weight of the awkwardness every bit as much as Dash was. “I’ll go see if Holly needs any help in the kitchen…”
Dash grunted and nodded as Lofty left. All the books looked totally boring. The statues were cool though, and the family pictures were kinda cute.
A small photo caught her eye. She looked closer and smiled. An orange pegasus filly grinned back, her mouth gummy and her eyes clear and sparkling. She was likely only a few months old, certainly less than a year. “Heh. Scoots was adorable,” Dash murmured.
Then, just as suddenly, she frowned and glanced around the room. Setting the picture down, she picked her way through the piles of dusty tomes and relics, inspecting every shelf. There were no other photographs of baby Scootaloo. There were, in fact, hardly any other photographs at all, and none showing Scootaloo under age ten. A cyan forehead furrowed as Dash’s brows knit in confusion. Holiday was a little lost in her work, sure, and Lofty was always out of town, but they were always a vital presence in Scootaloo’s childhood, and Scoots was a massive presence in their lives in general. There had to be some other photos somewhere, right? In a scrapbook, maybe? But then, why was that one photo left out?
Dash cantered back to the baby picture, her wings tucked tightly at her sides. Any breeze in here would be chaos, she knew.
She picked up the picture and stared at it intently. What was so special about it? Why was it the only moment of Scootaloo’s life that was worth preserving among all the rest of this history? Absently, she turned the frame over in her hooves. A sudden cry came from the door, and Dash’s head shot up. In the process, she fumbled the frame, and it promptly smashed open on the ground.
“Aw, geez, sorry…” Dash said, wincing at the sight of Holiday’s stricken face and Lofty’s nervous glances between her wife and her guest. She bent down to inspect the damage. “The glass is alright, it's just that the back fell… huh? Hey, what's this?”
Unnoticed by Dash, Lofty closed her eyes tight. “It's… a birth certificate,” she replied. "And a... a family tree."
“Oh, cool,” Dash said amiably, stuffing the papers back into the frame. Holiday’s lips twisted.
“No.”
Dash stopped. “Huh?”
Lofty looked at her wife, concerned. “Romane…”
Holiday took in a deep breath. “Take the family tree out and read it,” she said. “And then, I’ll explain everything.”
Dash raised a skeptical brow, a trick that she'd learned from AJ, but she took out the piece of paper and skimmed it. Then she read it again. Her eyes bulged. “I… you… Who?”
Holiday let out the breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. “Let me begin at the beginning,” she said quietly.
“I’ll pour,” Lofty said, taking the tea tray. “We’re all going to need a pick-me-up after this story."
~His name was Heat Wave, and he was perfect. I fell for him the moment I met him, but I was too embarrassed to say anything for two weeks. He was in Literature, you know, and I was in History. Well. You knew that part, obviously. Those two subjects tend to cross quite a lot, being in the equinities department, and we soon met properly at a staff function, and, well, we hit it off.
Not like that! Later, yes, sooner than was prudent, but not at first. He was… tempestuous, would be the word.
What's that, Dash? What’s ‘tempestuous’? Byronic would be close enough.
Mercurial, then?
Yes, like that.
Well, I was young and foolish and thought it was attractive. Anyway, let me give you an example. One night, we were out having dinner together. It wasn't exactly high-end dining, but it was a step up from where I usually ate.
Yes, like Garlic Orchard, if that's what you want to think of. I forget the name. I think it was Acacian cuisine… never mind. At any rate, Wave is sitting across from me, charm and elegance shining out like physical light, brightening my life.
It's not cheesy, Lofty.
Okay, it's a little cheesy. Pretty much everything else in that situation was cheesy, though, so I’ll just say it's setting the tone.
Anyway, we were at dinner. I had ordered tomato soup, but they brought me potato soup instead. I suppose the server must have misheard me. I was about to send it back when Heat Wave leapt to his hooves and started shouting, demanding compensation, lecturing about the laziness of youth. It was so utterly embarrassing that I just couldn’t look away. It was a depersonalizing moment, like I was watching a film. In the end, I got my tomato soup. He looked so proud, so smug, that I didn’t say anything. Not to mention, I was afraid that he would yell at me, too. I suppose that should have been the first warning sign.~
Lofty wrapped a sympathetic wing around her wife, whose cheeks were wet with tears again.
“Jeez,” said Dash. “He sounds awful.”
Holiday gave a long sigh. “In retrospect, certainly. At the moment, though, I was going through a rough patch. I’d just broken up with my long-term coltfriend and had a bit of a row with my mother. I was looking for something new, virile and powerful. Well, I found it.”
Rainbow was silent. She reached out a hoof and awkwardly patted the older mare on the back.
Holiday smiled slightly. “It was nearly twenty years ago, Dash, you don’t need to worry about it.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, Scoots’ dad was a jerk. That still doesn’t explain much of anything. Like the birth certificate? Why aren’t you...”
Holiday’s smile faded. “Yes… well. That was only the start of the story. It gets, I’m afraid, much worse. Let me go and refill the kettle, perhaps grab some cookies. We’re going to need them.”
Dash watched her go once more, then turned her attention to Lofty. “So, where do you come into all this?”
“At the end,” Lofty said, looking down at the table. “Long after I could do any good at all.” She fell into a reflective silence, and Dash did not break it again.
Scootaloo trotted down the thoroughfare, her hooves kicking up cloudstuff in her wake. Despite herself, she was rather impressed with the city. This era had some of the earliest known examples of cloud construction, the precursor to modern cloudhouses. It definitely wasn’t the same material that she was used to; it was fluffy, like cotton, and the structure tended to thin out in a stiff wind. Aunt Holiday had also told her that it was flammable.
She shook her head fiercely to loosen the intrusive memory, letting her mane toss in the breeze. “Scootaloo! Wait for me!”
The orange mare paused in midstride as Ditzy rushed to catch up. “We need to stick together. I know that you're upset, even if I don't know why, but you can't just run off half-flanked. Remember, this isn't just a different city, it's a different culture, a different time. If you get into trouble here, the Doctor and me are the only ones who can help you.”
Scootaloo grunted noncommittally. Ditzy sighed. “It really would help you to talk about whatever’s got you in such a mood,” she said, a hint of irritation tingeing her voice.
Scootaloo glanced around. “Do you have any money?” she asked.
The elder mare blinked at the non sequitur. “Well… no, none that anypony would take around here. Why?”
“Well, that makes going to the market kind of a stupid idea, doesn't it? We can't actually do anything but look at the stuff.”
Ditzy bridled a bit. “Well, where do you suggest we look for mercury, then?” she shot back.
“What's the rush? The TARDIS will get fixed either way, right?”
The grey pegasus hesitated. “Well… yeah.”
Scootaloo shrugged. “I’m not in any hurry to get back to the future. Meantime, we’re in this important ancient city. I say we go sightsee for a while, enjoy ourselves. I dunno, we can see the new Cloudiseum, the Hoofia Sofia, a bunch of places. I mean, we’re stuck here, may as well take in the sights, right?”
“I guess,” Ditzy agreed. “What part of the empire are we in, do you know?”
“Well, judging by the dome over there, I’m guessing Cantertinople, later known as Istable. Capital of Skyzantium, but right now it's just the biggest city in the East Roanan Empire.”
“Why did they change the name?”
“I don't know,” Scootaloo admitted. “But there should be some pretty cool stuff to see. Gladiators, military drills, displays of opulence… this is an era of culture and finery.”
Ditzy’s attention had already wandered to a message board covered with parchments and messages carved into the clouds. “It says there's going to be a spectacle in the Hippodrome. Wanna watch a stallion smash fruit with a giant axe?”
“Oh sweet Celestia, yes. For a second, I thought we were actually going to try and be cultured.”
The grey pegasus grinned. “Not a chance,” she said, draping a wing over the teenage mare. “Come on, it starts in half an hour.”
Some meters behind them, a violet mare glanced up from her conversation with a goldenrod stallion. Two sets of eyes fixed on the retreating tails of the two mares. Two sets of wings beat the air as the duo took off after their targets.
Commander Hurricane stood at attention as the pegasus before him closely inspected his stance and that of his aide-de-camp, Private Pansy. The politician, a former officer no less, cast her one good eye over them both for what felt like hours. Her bright golden gaze was nothing short of unnerving. At length, she nodded once. “At ease.”
Her chirpy voice and slight figure were very much at odds with the mare’s reputation. Propraetor, formerly praetor, even more formerly General Cyclone was considered by many to be one of the finest strategic minds alive, and even officers wondered if there was any truth behind the rumors of where her other eye was. The magenta stallion knew that tales of “General Cy’s Eyes,” roving eyeballs that could see anything were nothing short of fantastic, but even he had to wonder…
The golden eye flicked over him again. “I said, at ease,” Cyclone repeated.
“Um, permission to speak, ma’am?”
“You just did.”
Pansy squeaked. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
Cyclone rolled her eye. “Say your piece, Private, that's why you're here.”
“Um, I just wanted to say that that's as close to ‘at ease’ as the Commander ever gets.”
The magistrate blinked. Possibly she winked. “This is ‘at ease’ for him? He looks exactly the same!”
Pansy shook her head. “Oh, no. He’s started blinking again, and breathing more than once every minute.”
Cyclone cocked her head. “Uh-huh. Private, are you confident that this officer is still alive?”
Pansy swallowed hard. “Uh… as much as he ever is, ma’am?” the powder-blue mare replied.
The grey mare grinned. “Good answer. Now, can he talk, or is the icicle jammed too far up his flank to allow speech?”
That was too much. “I assure you that no object is unduly interfering in my bodily functions, ma’am!”
Cyclone raised an eyebrow. “Mhm. Well, I suppose that's everything I needed to know about you. I trust you were briefed before your departure?”
“Ma’am, we were thoroughly briefed regarding the parameters of our mission here, specifically regarding the work of recent acquisition Silver Pallas with particular regard to her work in the fields of armaments, defense, and especially the project code named “Mercury”.”
The grey mare stared, jaw slightly agape. Obviously she was impressed with his powers of rote memorization. He swelled with pride duly, within acceptable parameters outlined in the Colt’s Book of Military Excellence, when suddenly he felt a sharp nudge in the flank.
Hurricane wheeled around. “Private Pansy!” he spat, face flushing. “Unauthorized contact upon a superior officer is an infraction punishable by stern lecture and possible loss of privileges! You will explain yourself here and now or in front of a court-martial.”
Wide blue eyes stared back at him. “You forgot the pass phrase,” Pansy whispered.
Hurricane’s face went slack. “Oh. Yes.” He coughed and turned to face the general. “I prefer boxers over briefs,” he said flatly.
“...Yes, quite,” Cyclone agreed at length. “Well, I suppose that tells me everything I needed to know. And more. Oh, I trust your trip from the new colony was uneventful? And the construction is going well?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pansy replied with a bob of her head. “Expansion is ahead of schedule for Pegasopolis. Senator Pluto and his husband are funding the local government seat and the agora is nearly complete.”
“Hm. And you have an adequate military force to protect against any… problems?”
“The only ‘problems’ we have can’t even get off the ground,” Hurricane snorted. “The earth ponies and unicorns are running expeditionary forces at ground level. You’d think the ground-pounders would have learned to stay away from where they aren't wanted.”
The trio shuddered as an icy breeze suddenly sprung out of nowhere. “Well, quite,” Cyclone said. “Our examination isn't for another three hours. You are dismissed for lunch.”
Without another word, Hurricane saluted and flapped off toward the nearest barracks. Pansy looked at the general uncomfortably. “Um, any good restaurants?”
Cyclone grinned and flicked her tail. “Are you fraternizing with a superior?” she asked sweetly.
Pansy squeaked and shrunk away. The propraetor giggled. “Good. Come on, private. You’re off duty as of now. Let’s see what we can’t find in the market, shall we? Then, if we have time, perhaps we can visit the baths.”
As the two mares soared off, neither paid much attention to the stallion standing at attention next to an empty carriage. Silver eyes watched their flight path.
The room was cold and dark. No light, no life could conceivably exist here. This was a place beyond time, beyond reason, beyond anything other than ice and food, its inhabitants patiently waiting to be consumed.
Then the Doctor opened the fridge door, and the vast room lit up.
To be honest, referring to it as a fridge was nothing short of insulting, a bit on the scale of calling Olympus Mons a lump in the ground. Technically it was accurate, but the scale was nowhere near conveyed. The room was approximately the size of a supermarket, including shelves and signage, even tiled floors. The colossal larder contained leftovers from no fewer than five thousand dinners, and even that was a conservative estimate. Cake from pre-revolutionary France shared shelf space with hamburgers from the court of King Ronod of Frydon and the cheekiest Nandos that had ever existed, confiscated after the Master had tried to conquer the world with Anglophilia.
Right now, he was here for none of those delicacies. Ditzy had made a pie, she had asked for a pie, and she was going to get a pie. If he could recall where she had left it…
It would be somewhere near the front, wouldn't it? Let's see. Pease porridge (hot), pease porridge (cold), pease porridge (just right), no. Neptunian yoghurt, spinach flavor, no. Rock cakes, cupcakes, Wellington Boot cakes, definitely not. Empty shelf space, no.
Wait. Empty shelf space?
The Doctor frowned at the hole among the various foodstuffs. All that was on the shelf now was a few crumbs of pastry dough and scattered berries.
“That's not right,” he muttered. Everything on the shelves was kept in stasis for as long as the door was shut. There was no way that anything could have gotten in or out of here without being noticed. On the other hoof, he lived in a town that had Pinkie in it, so he couldn't really rule out anything.
He’d have to go and check the TARDIS logbook to see if any unusual activity had been recorded. Pausing only to pop a berry into his mouth, the Doctor spun around… and froze in his tracks.
There was… a figure… at the door. Vaguely equine in form, he could discern no other details other than its color, a dull, dead white. It was like a rough drawing transplanted in the middle of an oil painting. The very wrongness of its existence set the Time Lord’s teeth on edge. “No,” he muttered. “No, you can't be here. I’m fine. I’m not even a little bit dead. Just the opposite, generally speaking.”
The figure had no eyes, no mouth, no way to convey sentiment, and yet the Doctor could feel its unbridled contempt. Well. Self-loathing had always been something of an issue among regenerations.
The tan stallion stepped forward. “I’ve had my hand chopped off and my hearts broken. I’ve aged by millennia. I died in an alternate timeline. I absorbed an absolutely fatal dose of radiation. Hell, I got shot by a bleedin’ Dalek and all I did was regenerate into myself! Haven't you worked it out yet? I. Don't. Die.”
The pale figure said nothing, changed nothing. The Doctor could feel its nonexistent glare prickling at his face. He inclined his head sharply to one side. “Go on then, Watcher. Get away.”
The ghost of his next regeneration (was it a ghost? Could that word even be applied to the specter of a potential future?) bowed its head and backed out through the wide-open refrigerator doors. The Doctor smirked.
The Watcher’s head suddenly jerked up, and with a sudden, fluid motion, it made to slam the door closed. The Time Lord’s jaw dropped in incredulity as he was suddenly thrust into darkness.