My first and most hated memory of this place is cold.
"Huh? Wh-" I say, my crusted eyes winking blearily before a violent shiver wracks my body. 'Step one of the operation, regain vision.' I think to myself with a tiny bit of humor in my lips. I blink several more times, before groaning as a minor migraine pierces me at the sight of all the blinding white. Having never been one for bright days, this one is especially awful.
"Christ, who turned on the lights? Who turned on the fan?" I continue, trying to get up to my hands and knees as my tiger-themed blanket slips off my back. The soft and squeaky crunch of snow is my first warning that something is terribly wrong.
The second sign leaves my guts wrenching with fear, and it comes from my vision finally clearing to the sight of a seemingly endless plane of unbroken snow, coated in a whipping, violent white wind. In the distance, spires of what look like ice are coated in a malignant aura, and some part of me shudders independently of the cold as a second, new, and unnamed fear awakens in my heart.
The third sign, for anyone else, might have finally pushed them from fear to terror, though in my case, I only feel a short moment of shock as my eyes discover some facts to ascribe to the current feeling of numbness that leaves my fingers and toes totally insensate. Looking down, I scramble back just far enough to sit, waist-deep in the snow, as I lift my limbs up to find them finger-free.
Recognition flashes in my eyes at the sight of white, fuzzy hooves and I look behind me, craning my neck to check for the best possible result for me right now.
"No wings," I say, my concern growing, before, with some dread and clumsiness, I slowly reach up, and-
"And a horn," I finish, the fear from before turning into dread.
Most in my situation would probably be overjoyed if they equated "Horn" to "Magic", but those same people would receive a scathing retort if they tried to convince me of that right now. Sure, anywhere on... I'm assuming Equis? Anywhere on Equis that isn't this place right now, and they might be right about that, but where a set of wings might keep me warm, and, with luck, give me a way off the freezing ground-
I try to stand up, mindful of the fact that every second of me sitting down in the snow will just make me cold faster, I immediately doubt my previous assumption as the wind chill feels so much worse.
-and I'm certain an Earth Pony's natural hardiness might have given me the greatest advantage against the elements overall, this useless lump of unknown arcane biomass is currently a liability to me. With nothing but a blanket, my wits, and magic with no convenient passive benefits, my only routes to surviving the hours to nightfall, much less reaching civilization, in one fell swoop have all fallen directly into the coin slot of random chance.
If that spire in the distance is the Crystal Empire, then it's currently lacking the Heart, as I immediately feel something awful and cloying just looking in its direction. A feeling that I would be a fool to ignore when it comes from nowhere in my own mind that I can recognize. And if it's missing the heart, then that means Sombra's in the picture.
(If it's not the empire, then it's a total unknown, and going there could just as easily be as bad or worse than walking into that smug caricature's grasp.)
Of course, the alternative is staying out here and most-likely dying in a few hours from frostbite, or wandering off to try and find civilization elsewhere, and absolutely certainly dying in a few hours of frostbite.
I look up to my horn, a frown on my face. "And then there's the other gamble," I say, feeling dumb and colder for having stood up in the icy wind like this for the past few minutes while trying to decide on a course of action.
Feeling cold, dread, and its fizzier cousin, fear, I'm now sitting in a larger hole in the snow, and they will erect monuments to my craftsponyship, I'm certain. Despite my best efforts, no combination of faces, hooves, and failed magic attempts made the attempt at an Igloo any easier, and it's only by crouching down and laying on my blanket near whichever side of my pit is against the wind do I feel even the slightest relief.
Another shiver wracks through my body, and I'm certain that I'm dying. The fear in my gut converts itself entirely into painful dread, feeding the sensation of my gut crushing itself that much more. Even though my body isn't shutting down yet, per se, I am certain that I'm dying. The sun slowly meanders across the sky, and in what I'm roughly measuring as an hour, I've only been getting colder.
If there's one thing worth saying about my life before this, it's that I've always had the morbid desire to die screaming. The idea of dying in my sleep, or drowning, or, as is relevant here, freezing, is terrifying. Far more terrifying than pain of any sort I've felt or can imagine. To that end, I've always felt that I'd much rather die burning or fighting, so that, up until that last moment, I'm awake and aware.
An almost childish desire to not have death creep up behind me, when I least expect it, but instead face me directly. Of course, all of those intelligent, mindful thoughts characteristic of calm pondering in one's own home fall away like a broken car window when I'm facing it myself as far away from home as I can possibly be. I don't want to die.
It's around this time that the petty part of my higher brain function decides that I'm better off angry than moping over my demise as I look at a lump of packed snow in the corner of my hole, a collapsed attempt at a roof. Of all the times, and all the places, and all the races, I've been consigned to the one combination of those three that, as far as my knowledge tells me, has the lowest chance of survival.
I didn't even die in my own world to get here, and now I get a measly day in this one before it comes to an end from exposure? The impending doom that my stomach is trying to remind me of quickly turns into heat in my ears as I grow frustrated with what I feel is effectively grand-theft-remainder-of-my-life as perpetrated by fate, and stomp the edge of my blanket until my front leg aches.
"Piss!" I shout, and then I shout it a few more times, just to be certain that I've shouted it enough.
I glare at the frozen lump, completely free of any shame on my own incapability to make a proper shelter against the snow, in my own mind blaming it on the circumstances. While silently resigning myself to spend my last hours spitting curses to any gods or almost-gods that can hear, the hot, feverish feeling of annoyance and hate in my ears leaves me practically blushing with anger.
It's only moments later that with an almighty shout of yet another curse word, I feel something that douses me in ice water, both metaphorically, and very literally as the back of my hovel melts into my mane and blanket. The vitriol of the last minute fades at the same time as the almost purple aura I see in my vision's periphery. The hot black flame at my horn's tip, however, lasts long enough for adrenaline to flood my veins, and for me to try to use it some way, any way, before it's gone! In that brief moment, my desire to use the fire is matched by a sudden surge of seething rage to match that need.
The resulting boom rattles my ears and ruins my hole, leaving the walls a smooth, only slightly larger crater. In the center, where the frozen lumpy target of my hatred once lay, I stare directly at the pitch-black bonfire that is now roaring, eating away at the ice and water itself. My eyes widen, and I shiver even worse as exhaustion from the strain hits me. With caution, I slowly step over to the flame that sucks away at the migraine-inducing brightness of the blinding, almost reflective snow around me.
As soon as I'm within a body's length of it, I immediately feel it. A warmth seeping into my bones from the flame's mundane component, and a strong hatred, my hatred, for the ice that I failed to tame for protection. I'm immediately reminded of a quote I once read somewhere or other.
"Your anger keeps you warm now, but will leave you cold in your grave," I can't help but mutter word-for-word, before shaking my head. I'll concern myself with the cold of the grave when I'm put there. I immediately feel a greedy ambition as I look into the swirling, warm depths that my magic turned the ice into, one I am absolutely certain is my own.
I start to chuckle, and then, I start to laugh, "Grave?!" I chortle, "Why, it seems my anger may very well keep me out of it!" I laugh hysterically against the wind's howl, before dimming back into chuckles disguising relief as my mouth is occupied dragging my blanket over me to guard against the aforementioned wind. I huddle near my fire and try to ignore how nippy my rear is by focusing instead on the sensation of pure heat from the warmth in front of me.
As I curl up and keep myself occupied thinking, I spot the simplistic black silhouette of a fire branded proudly on my hips now, its color the same shade as my own hair. A concerning development, all things considered, but thinking to myself, if there's one thing I've always been talented at, it's justifying a bad attitude.
As the sun is slowly cranked down over the horizon, and the wind is relieved of its duty by the cruel chill of night, my little bonfire has begun to smoulder down into nothing, leaving strange ashes and coals behind. I clamp down on my curiosity and end my pondering. It's almost time. In the time it took the sun to wander, I bitterly considered my options.
Three months. If I remember right, that's how long it takes a human to succumb to starvation. I'd rather not find out that I'm wrong to think that a pony lasts that long by any means other than a book, which means I'm once again given a choice that isn't really one. Go into the city, or go deeper into the frozen wasteland. To that end, me and myselves reach an accord. I'll let greed and ambition take the lead when night falls, and follow my mostly baseless assumption that it will be simpler to sneak in at night.
"Said the spider to the fly," I grimace, feeling that unnamed fear take hold again.
Less than an hour later, the sun had set completely, and it was around that same time that I began to realize that I'm an idiot. I hadn't considered that I should start walking to the city before sunset so that I would reach it by nightfall. I suppose I can blame that on the mesmerizing sight of my own magic hours before, which had turned those hours into minutes as I stared, transfixed in quiet awe at the ice-drinking, light-eating fire. During that time, my mind had been practically flooded with ideas for how I could use it in the future, assuming I survived that long.
I didn't dare try to summon up the black flames again, concerned about impairing myself mentally with what my memory of the TV show told me was undeniably dark magic. In the situation I'm in, keeping my head on straight will be one of many things staving off a terrifying death.
Having shaken my grim thoughts aside, I fumbled for the better part of ten minutes, stumbling, gnashing, pawing the ground, and generally making a fool of myself as I tied my blanket around my neck as firmly as I dared to with only hooves and teeth to do the job. The dyed portrait of a tiger in cotton sits on my back by the end of it.
"Not much of a cape, but it's mine," I say, sucking down what comfort I can from what I now realize is the last piece of home I'll probably ever see or feel.
Drinking as much as I can of the water that's melted near the remains of my bonfire, I take a sharp, strong breath and turn to the looming Crystal Empire in the distance. Less than a minute later, I'm flat on my stomach with a smacked, bloody nose as the giant icy bowl I've made resists my efforts to climb out of it the first time, sending me slipping back down at high speed.
The second time, I come to the conclusion that I'm forced to use force to crack the ice and pound the thin layer until it breaks apart. I then scrabble my way up the cracks of it like a clumsy dog. With that comparison in my mind, I shake off the remaining ice that's tried to cling to me as fast as is reasonable and begin the slow, methodical walk to what I desperately hope isn't my inevitable and painful doom.
After violently and angrily patting out the last embers of black fire that I made the poor choice of igniting in my mane, thinking that the rule of cool might keep me warm and unburnt in transit to the city, I commit my first crime.
"Crystal berries, crystal bread, crystal cheese..?" I mutter to myself, rooting through the pantries of a house, one of many in the outermost edges of the Crystal Empire.
"I get the other two, I guess, but where are they getting the milk for that?" I continue, before deciding not to think about it too hard as a realization nearly hits me. I take the thought, and viciously shove it back down into the cage named "Why would you even think of that", and the rest of the budding idea is sealed within its close cousin, "God, I feel sorry for any mind-readers that make it in here".
Dumping my pilfered food in the middle of my blanket, along with a healthy helping of stolen linens, I begin fumbling around, trying to tie the whole thing off. A great deal about the situation immediately confuses me. The fact that I can metaphorically taste the malice and fear in the air leaves no doubts in my mind that this place is currently not the Love-and-hope capital of the world, but if that's the case, then why would Sombra let them keep this much food for themselves?
I'm obviously not going to be checking, but it implies that these ponies are still living in their homes and not some kind of crystal-mine slave camp. The only thing that absolutely makes sense is that there are a number of broken windows, one of which had been cleared out and low enough for me to slowly pull myself in without outing my innards.
As I figure out how I'm going to tie a blanket into some kind of sack, a small voice startles me. "Why are you taking our food mister?" the squeaker squeaks as I wheel about.
'Shit, I'm being Cindy Lou Who'd' I think hysterically at the small, faceted crystal pony child who walked in on my burglary. One who looks very nearly as frightened as I am.
'Well, when in Whoville...' I take a bracing breath and wrack my brain for a lie.
"Well, you see, all this food is... Smudged. I've been sent to take it to my workshop. I'll polish it until it's glittering again, and bring it back just in time for breakfast!" I force a smile.
"That's a load of ponyfeathers mister," the little rat glares at me.
I find myself filled with a characteristic annoyance "Ok, you come up with an excuse then if you're so God Damn smart," I retort.
They tilt their head like small confused quadrupedal creatures are want to do. "What's a god dam?"
I pause for a beat. "Don't worry about it. Now is this the part where you start screaming your head off, or can we skip to where I try to convince you not to do that?"
After a moment in clear thought, the foal decides to answer my question with another question, and responds "I thought King Sombra got rid of all the homeless ponies?"
I find myself disturbed by the implications, but decide not to question that further right now. "I'm not homeless. I'm just not from around here."
My comment causes the foal to perk up.
"That's not possible. Nopony's been able to get in or out!" she shouts, before I rapidly shush her.
She continues more quietly "The guards show up whenever anypony tries, like they knew about it already."
This prompts me to think. Ultimately, I am forced to face the fact that I have no idea why I didn't just get tackled at the border, then. Maybe I just got lucky? As I look at the kid's sad little face, I'm stricken with what is absolutely a malicious intent to lie and get the hell out of here, and not at all an urge to pull some noble Robin Hood nonsense.
"Tell you what. You let me walk out of here with this food, and I'll figure out how I gave those guards the slip, and you'll be the first to know."
"Sound like a plan, Stan?" I finish, holding up a hoof.
"My name's not Stan, it's Glitter Miss Priss," she says, unsure and looking at my outstretched leg as though it's a viper someone's trying to convince her to pet.
"I will forever call you Stan unless you go along with this," I ultimatum her.
If looks could kill, I'd be deader than chivalry I suspect, as she looks ready to start screaming just to spite me.
Her resolve to introduce herself to the fine art of pissing me off finally cracks like a pre-omelet and she bumps my hoof. "Fine."
"Good call Priss," I say, strapping the crude sack of food and cloth to my back as best as I can.
Before I start to heft myself out of the window and run like makeup, she decides that she simply MUST ask the most awkward question possible. "Where will you be going?"
"Oh, I've got a magnificent palace of the highest possible quality waiting for me just outside," I trail off sarcastically as she glares softly at me.
"You don't have anywhere to go, do you," her verbal arrow strikes, annoying me.
I glare right back. "And? I can't exactly stay in Sombra's glass bear-trap," I gesture awkwardly around me.
"You could hide here though, the guards obviously don't know you're here," She points out logically, like some sort of irrational sadist.
"And your parents?" I raise an eyebrow, secretly hoping she has an answer that means I don't have to go back out in that damnable cold yet.
She matches my raise, putting her own eyebrow in the pot with a respectable poker face. "They don't know you're here either."
'Well, she's got me there.' I think as she leads me to a closet under the stairs that looks big enough to fit almost two adults if they stood on top of one another. Harry Potter, eat your heart out. I crunch my way through some of the pilfered crystal berries and grimace at my picky taste buds rebelling against the sour-sweet flavor. I never notice the obsidian eye that had rolled into the kitchen before my conversation with Priss as it follows me. I also fail to notice it's soft purple light from under the closet door as it softly pings out a signal as I sleep.
I wake up to loud pounding, not from inside my head for once in my life, but from the vile and bright outside world. After a respectable moment spent realizing that this is real, and last night wasn't just an extremely long, complex, and realistic dream, I slowly pop the door open. I peek out into the adjoined hall to see a trio of ponies talking to a trio of guards. Looks like Priss and her parents are being questioned.
The mustached amber-colored stallion seems to be explaining in no uncertain terms that the guards can search the whole house, and that they won't resist. Of course, at the same time, I realize what this means and calmly panic as the three guards make their way in, having gotten all they need out of Priss's parents and prepared to get all that they need out of their house, namely, me.
I slowly, calmly, and above all else, quietly step on something that crunches loudly. Thankfully, the crash from me slipping on it is more than loud enough to catch their attention, if the thing I just stepped on hadn't been loud enough on its own. As I tumble to the floor and smash my nose for the second time in as many days, I hear stomping that easily reminds me of what I'm facing, heavily armored, well-fed looking guards who do not necessarily understand what "Police Brutality" means. With these thoughts in my mind, I mentally shove the panic off my neck, swallow my currently absent pride, and bolt!
It's around this point that I'm made aware of a pretty simple fact, trained, healthy and motivated crystal pony guards will run faster than a hungry, effectively day-old unicorn. The thing that makes me the most aware of this is that within two seconds, my lungs are expelling my precious air, and my spine is pressed down along with the rest of me by what feels like a metric ton of crystalline armored stallion.
My limbs are painfully bent behind me, and I summon up black fire for some desperate attack. Before I get the chance to waste my remaining energy on an attack that has almost no chance of helping me escape, I feel their grip on me slacken and I take advantage of this to scramble free, kicking and yelling before slipping free of the dead weight.
I turn around, ready for a fight now that running has failed and my blood is boiling with annoyed anger, I'm confused to see the guards just stand there, slackjawed and blank-faced. I take a few steps back, but they just sit there like they can't see me for what feels like minutes to me, but is more likely mere moments. Looking up at the black fire on the tip of my horn, and back to their glazed, far-off expressions, I decide not to look this gift horse in the mouth, and stumble away, wanting nothing more than to beat them into a pulp, but cognizant of my opportunity to escape while they're off in la-la land.
I feel more pain than almost any other I've felt before as I stumble over to the window, throw myself out of it slowly, and try to limp my way out of town while holding the black fire spell on my horn like a lifeline, feeling nothing but anger and distrust for the idiotic rubes who are staring at me fearfully from their windows in the early hours of the morning. It seems to take forever, but after slow, meandering and stumbling step after step, I walk out of the Crystal Empire and into the blistering cold beyond with nothing but stained cotton and mashed food to show for it.
Angrily flicking my head at the hated snow to start a new bonfire burning it, I feel like splattering that damned brat across the frozen wastes when I realize her and her traitorous parents had followed me right out of the city. This thought in my mind, I black out from exhaustion as the last drop of magic finally completes its task in summoning up the ice-burning fire.