//------------------------------// // Chapter Seven: Who Will Be Best Pony? // Story: A Thief at the Gala // by hastypixels //------------------------------// Vallade said I'm pretty, Ditzy thought sullenly. Just like Dinky does. Why did he say that? Ditzy understood that love motivated her daughters' sweet words. Associating Vallade with that notion filled her with dread. Of all the recent regrets, foremost was the nature of The Doctor's request: “I need you to do this.” Hurt, betrayed and confused. Ditzy had wanted to pull away from The Doctor's hooves on her shoulders. When had he mastered such a firm grip? “Why? Why?” It was all she could think to ask. “There is a very dangerous man out in that ballroom, Ditzy. I need somepony in there I can trust! You are that mare! Come on, you know what we've been though. You've helped me before. Won't you help me again?” “But ... my dress ...” “I am sorry about the dress. I am sorry about everything, but Vallade will do worse than Nightmare Moon. More than darkness, he'll consume the Moon and us with it. We are all going to die.” “I don't care.” Sullen, hurt and a little foal, weeping, head buried in blanket. “What?” “I don't, I don't! Why should I? How can I help? Why should...” I care when I'm so miserable over you? Her heart echoed the strike of memory, but bitterly. Instantly this faded, replaced by a desire she knew well: Nurture. “Doctor, because you asked me. I'll go.” You foal, it hurts me, but ... “I'll go. Stupid dress. Stupid gala!” “Thank you.”' Ditzy Doo half-galloped out of the room, unable to understand The Doctor's complex heart. He watched her, starlight reaches of sympathy trailing after. He murmured, “I truly am, sorry.” The Gala preparations had been proceeding as ordered by the Princess and organized by her guard, requiring minimal interaction and guidance. The royal staff was competent, most teeming the joy in service, others proud and regal. Of one fact Celestia could be certain: It would be a night to remember. In the furor of the threat, it was to her regret that she was whisked away to greet every attendee, unable to remain by her beloved sister in time of need. How it must hurt the Princess, Ditzy thought. I am sorry for her. I really am. A side exit presented the long line of Gala-goers, brushing their hooves on the pavement as far back as the palace bridge. Ditzy gaped, but as she did another thought entered her mind: Who would know? The Doctor said I should be where he needs me! And I will. She flitted back into the palace and through the halls, memory guiding her back to the garden where the TARDIS was parked. Nopony questioned her, and guards did not give her a second glance. She was the trusted companion of a Knight of the Realm, after all. In the beautifully maintained garden square sat proudly the mysterious blue box, magnificent in the moonlight. Excitedly she trotted up to it, and then stopped, inches from its locked door. Tears flowed easily, head bowed forward with a thud. “What was I thinking?” she muttered, voice wracked with despair. “He doesn't love ponies. He's a human-is-was-whatever. He's a Time Lord! I'm so stupid. Just ... stupid. How could I have thought he'd love me?” Her shoulders shook with the tension of her sobs. “Why do you always screw things up – 'DERPY'?” she railed, lips curling back as she ground her teeth. Click. Her head dropped, no longer supported by the rigid door. Head lifted, yellow-gold eyes examined the gap, unbelieving. It was open! How? Was the TARDIS really alive? Shaking a little she wiped her eyes with her forehoof. “Maybe ... you understand me, a bit?” Ditzy whispered. “He is a blockhead, but we're stuck in love with him.” Ditzy trotted to her room where the dress lay, placed carefully on her bed, exactly where she left it. She took care not to rush, minding the necessity of a proper fit. Being alone made it awkward to get her wings in, but with caution she could avoid undue strain. Once done she took a moment to admire the fine outfit in the narrow, standing mirror. The Doctor's words spurred her to leave the TARDIS, though they had been none-too clear. At the door of the TARDIS, Ditzy beheld The Doctor's silent ward and protector. “I'll protect him. I promise. Oh I will.” She turned and drew the door closed and headed back toward the ballroom at a gallop. Two, three hallways and not a soul to be seen. Why was there a bitter tasting mist in the air? Where had everypony gone? Uncertainty gripped her. Something's wrong. Really, really wrong. I can't hear anypony around! Where's the ballroom? Where am I? Ditzy was not the detail oriented sort, and had not noticed the change of atmosphere. Hoof clicks echoed behind her. “All dressed up and nopony to dance with. Oh ... what a vision you are,” intoned that voice. Ditzy turned with a protective snarl. “Vallade.” “Blight. Shattering Blight,” he drawled, eyes half lidded. “Does the Doctor know you're wearing that? You're a rare one. Yes, but not really. Rare for this place, but not rare for one of his companions.” Ditzy unfurled her wings, half crouched. “W-what do you mean?” “Oh he hasn't told you about his past companions. I wouldn't. For such a noble beast, half-man, half-lord of ruins. He does omit so many facts. Facts I know. Facts I'd share ... with you.” “You can't trick me, Vallade.” She knew almost nothing, except that he threatened The Doctor. Nothing threatened The Doctor. Nothing that wanted to live. “You can't hurt me.” “Blight!” he flared, but calmed almost instantly. “Now look young mare. It's 'mare'?” “It's...uh, yes it is,” she replied, confused. “Hurt you? Nonsense. Now, 'Blight' is a sensible a name for anypony. Discord? Nightmare Moon? Stage names. 'Shattering Blight' is my stage name. It purses your lips in a pleasing way when you say it. Say it again.” He's not just flirting. He's in love with me! Ditzy thought, befuddled by this dilemma. No, no, that makes no sense. It's not possible. “By no means have I any desire to feed on you. You are the kind, the very kind kind. You want to help, the valiant aide, honorable heart and giving mother. You've tried so hard to help your friends, and not friends. Look at you, you have scars from the effort you've selflessly given to them, and they've not showed you any gratitude. Not. One. Bit.” She squinted at him, the tension in her body sapping gradually. It's like Forelock. How does he know? “Why do you always talk to me like that?” Ditzy snorted, putting up a valiant effort to maintain her mistrust. It wasn't succeeding very well. “Pray tell.” “What?” He sighed. “Talk to you 'like what'?” “Nicely.” He grinned something quite unsavoury. “I do, don't I. I do it because you're unique. Like me.” She shook her head. The handwriting didn't match the signature. He was speaking like another pony that wasn't ... him. Did he mean that being a pony was some kind of performance to him? His logic made her brain ache. “No, no, no! I don't eat planets! I don't hurt ponies! I don't threaten the people who help me!” “But you do. You threaten everypony around you. You step on their hooves, you break their buildings, you smash their belongings. You destroy their worlds. Ditzy Doo, you are the most beautiful pony I have ever met. I want you to be my wife.” Ditzy went blank, her pupils black dots floating in the white static of her eyes. “What?” - - - Dr. John Trotson lowered his eyes, angling his head to the left shoulder, where the holster for his weapon lay concealed under the thick leather of his coat. Apparently he had not understood. Glaze was a delivery pony, not an accomplice, yet it was unclear the role he played. What had he meant by 'Nopony carries away memories from th' fightin', John'? “I'll forgive the intrusion, naturally. Yours was not company I had anticipated.” “That doesn't sound right to me. Your friend invited me in,” John stated coolly. “I have better things to do, I could just leave.” “I can't allow that. Your friend is very much my opponent, and I need to constrain him. Oh, I promise I won't harm you. I have no reason to.” “So who are ... you, exactly?” “Doctor John Trotson, you came looking for me. Here I am, so won't you tarry a while?” stated the concealed voice behind a wall of shadow. “You tease me.” “I do not. I don't even know if you're my type,” he laughed half-heartedly. “Honestly I can't tell if you're a stallion or a mare. Your voice keeps changing pitch,” John Trotson remarked, feigning wit. Holmes is much better in these situations. Immediately the colt's expression darkened. “Glaze.” The green toned pony gestured mutely at himself. “YES.” You tottering imbecile. “Oh. Comin',” answered the fellow briskly. Once at his side they both huddled away from Trotson's view. “Why have you brought me this stallion? He's of no use to me. Worse he's a waste of my time,” he declared. Glaze looked offended. “Oi gov, you tol' me the d'tective was trouble. Got you 'is mate, din't I? Job's a job, ain' it? I do ya wrong? Glaze don' do no wrong.” The pony seemed to reflect on this explanation. “That's not Forelock Holmes, you glue-stuffed imbecile. That's Dr. John Trotson, his sharp shooting companion. You've not seen him use that Sig. If you've any sense in your head you'll not tempt him to.” “But what gives y' that idea?” “Shut it. He's getting antsy and now is not the time to upset the cart,” he snarled at Glaze. “For now we keep the peace. My ship's got no energy, and needs time. Time!” “If you're not going to tell me, I'll just have to guess,” called Trotson, surprised by his own boredom. They turned to face him. “Judging by your mane and eye color, you resemble the pony described to me as Jesper Vallade.” “It. Is. Shattering. Blight!” Dr. Troton grinned. Right on the bit, but any foal could do that. “So it is. Shall I imagine you are the pony who threatened the Princess and the crown? Both? Neither? You were taken into custody, so I have to wonder how you are here.” “Oi gov, he's gettin' wise ... How'd he b' knowin' that?” John tucked away a satisfied grin. “Well, I could admit that I was following you and saw you meet Mr. Blight when he told you to find my friend Forelock. I guess can be pretty clever.” “Shards,” Vallade cursed. John seemed somehow taller, less ordinary, shoulder straightening, eyes daring. “That door was a pretty impressive trick. I could believe you got out. You do seem to be very well connected.” “Not another word, Doctor,” Vallade gritted. “Glaze... I've had enough of our guest.” A broad, dangerous smile broke out across Glaze's mouth. “You herd the gov, Doc. Time's up.” Just then an alarm, or what John recognized as one, began bleeping and whining as reddish lights flashed. Vallade forgot John and angled his head at a screen to his left. “Core! What now!?” On the screen a white mote expanded on the horizon, clouds scampering away from the vibrant source of light. Vallade paled. “Who is that? Celestia?” “We, 're, boned!” Glaze cried. “Gimme outta here, I want out!” Gradually, but not gradually enough for Vallade's liking, Celestia's luminescent winged form neared his vessel. Angrily he shoved Glaze away, galloping toward a control panel. He stopped before a shower of sparks and the deft report of a gunshot. Vallade rounded on John and growled. “What have you done?!” “Put a hole in your plans, I hope,” he replied calmly, voice and hooves steady. “Back away from the controls. Glaze, I'll shoot you if you so much as twitch. Understand?” “I warned you...” Vallade hissed at Glaze. “How was I t' know?” “Do you understand!” John repeated. Fearfully, Glaze nodded. “Yeah I got it!” “Now what...” Vallade groaned. - - - Forelock was rooted. Firmly rooted. The muttering of voices, scuffing of hooves, dragging of air through pony lungs, wisp of air at the window, distant music, burr and hum of nascent chatter in the palace ballroom like a swarm of dragonwisps teasing his ears. “What's he doing?” The Doctor lifted a hoof to silence the intrusion of audio. His respect for the deductive intellect of the formidable pony was demonstrated by his immediate recognition of the depth of concentration required for the delicacy of process. Letters easily disregarded, a foe captured with no effort, a monster tamed by exhaustion. Vallade protested quite loudly in his confines, to be heard of us all. A radio network for what purpose? John missing without a trace. Glaze is trustworthy. Erratic, even unbalanced, but not dangerous. Questions began to form. The right questions. “Doctor, what do you know about this Vallade character?” Forelock requested briskly. “He's not a pony. No, not at all. Rare fella, I'm afraid. Quite. Nomadic alien called the Kinsora. Vallade is a tough one, and boy I'd say a lot for their lifespan. He's probably half my age, if I figure right. For Kinsora that is old, very old. How has he lived this long? A good old fashioned mystery, unlike how he managed to land here, isn't that right? That's plain as the shoes on my hooves! I'd like to tell you what the Kinsora do that isn't like ponies, but he's modified himself. Risky business, that. Anyway, the Kinsora don't eat planets, just him. Oh but that's a trick and some, a scary tale for the fillies and faint of heart. He doesn't even eat them. Breaks them down for resources, you know, such as fuel. Brilliant. A rare mind.” Everypony in the room had affixed an accusing eye on the Doctor for the tone of respect with which he spoke, apart from Holmes. “And what would you say about his condition?” “Oh, he lied. Not about the teleport, but it shifting dimensions. If he could shift dimensions, why would he stay here?” Forelock's stern regard echoed The Doctor's assured confidence. “My thought exactly. Modifying his own body to stay here? He traveled to Equestria to get what he wants. I surmise that Blackpool has much to do with his condition. Why don't we go ask him?” “Yes, yes, why not ...” The Doctor mused, retrieving his sonic and waving it in the air. It chirped and he grinned. “How peculiar. I appear ...” he paused and gave the sonic a whack “... to have located the source of Jesper's power.” “You're certain?” “Very.” “Then he has lost,” pronounced the calm, deep tones of the victor. Forelock Holmes raised his head and cried: “Let us go!”