//------------------------------// // Act 1- Chapter 1: Hazy Daze // Story: Icon: Remnants of the North // by Vixavior //------------------------------// Hazy Daze Proofread by TehSporkBandit It starts small: a dull intrusive drone here or faint instances of static noises there. They pick and nibble around the very edge of consciousness until a hideous clamour shatters the glassy veil of sleep entirely. In its wake, you emerge with a bewildered cow-eyed expression. “Hah! Suck it Wondercolts!” Your right ear rings thanks to an explosive shout less than a foot away. You wince and shoot the offender a vicious glare. The oblivious grin plastered on the young man's face does nothing to help your mood. “That was right, correct?” you strain to hear the question as half of it is swept away in the sea of applause echoing all around you. Is 'what' right? You nose up the bridge of your glasses and rub your eyes. Waking up amidst a horde of a few hundred people packed like sardines on the bleachers in a school gymnasium wasn't particularly pleasant. You glance over at the expectant face of your brown-haired friendly neighbourhood 'alien'. “Yes Frank, you're doing very well.” the patronizing tone venomously drips from your lips . Your willowy friend's response is merely a wrinkle of his nose, but his pinched frown says volumes as he returns to watching something beyondthe press of bodies. You knew he'd hate that. You nearly deafen me, François, I Americanize your name. Deal with it. It's tough seeing past the standing masses; they're staggered here and there, allowing only a token glimpse of the school gymnasium's floor below the foyer. At least the red-lit scoreboard iimparts a hint. The 'Wondercolts' are winning, 54 to 34. Twenty points and indoors. Hmm, must be basketball. Who thought that competition would be the best way to showcase the new sister school? Either way, it's a novel if unwelcome way to end the week before Thanksgiving. You hear the hurled insults from a frustrated albeit lethargic crowd towards the guests from your visiting 'sister school'. Canterlot Academy, you hadn't heard of it before now which had been a surprise. The announcement after summer vacation of twinning schools was just as much a surprise. You were pretty sure you already had a sister school in...Osaka? Oslo? It was something like that. You sigh and try to make your escape from the overcrowded gymnasium with one inelegant excuse, “I'm going to go and get a drink or... something, I'll be back in a bit.” “I'll come too.” Your long-haired classmate replies before hopped down from the bleachers. You both inch your way out from the crowded grandstand, trampling over crumpled napkins from discarded hot dog boxes litter the ground around the nearby plastic garbage can, and the vending machine next to it blinks like an old neon sign. It was an old school, it was a cramped school, and it was currently a loud school. Half the student body was packed into that gym with another 'phantom' half coming from the Canterlot Academy. Rushing past one unfamiliar girl, her polite 'sorry' and beaming grin almost puts you off. All around her your own classmates were baying for blood and she was wearing a rightly emblazoned C like the Denver Broncos on a gaudy cardigan. Not only that, as if to make it all the more clear where she's from, she sports a blue and yellow headbands, fake triangle ears, and a swishy tail belt that wouldn't usually be seen by anyone outside of conventions. Whatever other thoughts you have are swiftly drowned out by an ear-splitting cheer followed by a ragged chorus of boos and muted curses. As you leave the gymnasium the red-lit board flickers again: 57 to 34. ♣ “So let me get this straight... you can turn right on a red or left on a one way street?” your friend gives you an incredulous look. “Yes.” “And you won't get a ticket?” He asks again, pulling you through the thankfully deserted hallway on the other side of the school. It was quiet here. Glassy windows overlook ableak scene of dead twigs and fallen leaves past cracked potted plants in the atrium outside the library. The display really went unheeded these days, first because of the weather then the mid-terms. “Well, if tickets aren't an issue then you can pell-mell through a red while singing if you wish.” He shoots you a strained roll of his eyes, “No no, it's true...” you insist with a grin, “It's only eight demerit points. Ten if you're singing Le Marseillaise.” he groans and laughs, shaking his head. “And you know what would happen if you did that where I'm from, eh?” Frank offhandedly flicks his wrist for emphasis. “I'd probably get shot by the Sûreté, I know, I know.” Crossing in front of the library, a sigh leaves your lips. “But it doesn't really matter, because you don't own a ca-” the library door rockets open, its edge smashing into your shin. The jolts of pain and sheer surprise rips a gasping yelp from your throat as you clutch your throbbing leg. A demoness emerges from the doorway and looks over her shoulder. Her intense glare practically bores a hole in the door through her thick bifocals as if questioning what excuse it had for not opening to her satisfaction. As she scuttles away, arms filled with dusty old tomes and raven-black hair streaming behind her like a pennant, she mumbles a token "sorry." It sounds more like a question than an apology. Frank takes a breath, “See the Ice Queen in her natural habitat, eh?” You bob your head. Twila Smythe was indeed 'the Ice Queen'. She was prudish, prissy, and perfectly suited to being an oblivious bookworm at the top of every single honour roll of every class and enrolled every advanced placement course she could take. Nursing your tortured shin, you sit down against the concrete wall against the metal heating vents that rattle like a thanks to years of abuse and neglect. Out of the corner of your eye you notice something, “Twila, you dropped your ...” you reach out to grasp the book, “Sweet's ninth edition Anglo-Saxon primer...” A morbid curiosity sweeps over you as you stare into a page of what looks like incomplete hieroglyphics. Twila was taking the same English AP course you were saddled with next term. That does it. If that's required reading, I'm transferring. As you leaf through the book, a small scrap of paper slips from the front cover. Picking it up, the texture was rough and uneven, slightly pebbly and a dull aged rose hue with imperfections in the grain. You'd handled parchment and velum before, this wasn't just that fake artistic stationery. Flipping it over, violet cursive sweeps across the square in a thick flourishing scrawl: Thou hast chosen and been chosen, to relocate to one of Our finest urban centres. We trust that our note findst thou well and of the utmost disposition this day-of-days. All things shall be accounted for, as We have made all suitable preparations in advance of thy arrival. Harken to the Canterlot Academy marker five minutes afore the fifteenth and one-half hour. ~Noctum Regina The violet ink is spattered here and there while other areas near the edges bleed from a nib being left in place for longer than an instant. It was still pleasing to the eye, but the imperfections made it seem genuine: some lunatic had actually gotten parchment and written this with a quill pen. Is it a pen-pal in the English AP course? “Twila. Tw-Twila!” you call out, voice bouncing off the walls. She'd long since darted into one of the other school wings. A hand on your shoulder and another on your forearm pulls you upright. “There. Bien rangé.” You can't help but smile a bit as the bell rings. “Ah, English.” “Yes please.” you laugh a bit, but by now you were getting better at what Frank was actually saying, regardless of language. Frank rolls his eyes, "Vous êtes un âne, monsieur!" After a quick punch in the arm he takes off in the same same direction as Twila with a parting wave. You're left to meander to your locker with the strange book and note in hand. If Twila needed the book, she'd be wherever the note said to meet the writer. You could go bring the book down to the office, actually that seemed like a pretty good idea in retrospect. But if you did, you would certainly be late for class and even a good excuse was still an excuse for some teachers. The hell with it; this way you would get a chance to yell at her, and that marker wasn't far removed from your usual after-school route. For now though, you have a class to get to. ♣♣ Alright, so History class was about as rousing and rip-roaring as you expected, given the dulcet call of the approaching long weekend. Half the class was missing, your teacher was going through the motions, and you were lazily browsing the internet the whole time. Now you're outside in the freezing cold... Joy of joys. You'd gotten out a little early and took to standing in front of the large glass entrance of the school near the flag pole, just five feet from the stone marker. The shrill winds set the square of sun-bleached cloth snapping overhead while its metal washer clacks and bounces noisily against the hollow metal-pole. It's a miserable sounding afternoon as the naked trees clatter and clap their denuded branches all along the packed boulevard. Buses line up, choking the air with diesel exhaust, and other students peal out of the reserved parking lot in their raggedy convoy of cars and trucks. You could have been one of them, warm or at least warmer, but now you stood out here. Alone, heroic, watched by teaming masses of junior students, you stand near the flag pole as if awaiting a martial challenge. A hero of old, a titanic leviathan: imposing, looking over the scuttling mortals that dash across the slippery stone between the front doors of the school and the sidewalk to the buses. Not for the first time or the last a younger first-year unexpectedly slides across the icy sidewalk. “You good?” you ask, drawing a blink and a happy bob of her head as she hunches her shoulders against the tempestuous winds and scurries up the bus steps with her tail between her legs- Damn Canterlotians. You run those thoughts together with a contemptuous sigh. Their whole 'nice and cheery' thing had to be an act, they were too happy and too cheery. It was a momentary distraction as you look at your phone's display: 3:19. Your thin jacket is buttoned-up completely and you rub your palms together, but your skin is still starting to freeze. A hat would have been a good idea, but ignoring reasonable advice was a pass-time for almost all of humanity. Why wear a toque when it musses up your hair and made you look like some antiquated fisherman? Well, the reasons were becoming more self-evident as you scratch a frost-bitten ear. Surely Twila had to be on her way. You once again look at your phone: 3:21 Well, it was still going to be another four minutes. It gives you time to survey this new marker that the sister school brought. It's basically an overly extravagant concrete monolith, with four flat sides, three plaques: one for each school with an etched mascot of your respective schools, and one that showed a great deal of care put into the agreement of the twinning. The fourth was bewilderingly blank, just smooth concrete with its usual slightly grainy texture like a highway barrier. Something seems missing; there should be some sort of statue on top. It begs for your inspection and you slip over towards the concrete plinth in obedience to that urge. But running your hands over the frigid stone feels unerringly like nails on a chalkboard. A shiver courses up your arm from the uncomfortable touch. Where the hell is Twila? 3:23 Screw this. It's cold, it's uncomfortable, and you have a sneaking suspicion that at that moment you were seen as a lunatic for fawning over a rock. After all, you're standing around outside when there's a perfectly warm bus no more than fifteen feet away and a school twenty feet away. “Hey, it's cold out you know, eh?” The familiar accented voice of your bilingual friend greets you. Frank just grins and waves, skidding across the wind-swept slickness of the sidewalk with contemptuous ease. Thick jacket, thick gloves, strong constitution, “Happy Thanksgiving!” Your diplomatic response includes a wayward smirk and four flexes muscles as you extend extending a middle finger in his direction. He laughs and scrambles on the bus. If he got out now, it had to be late enough. For a persnickety brat Twila sure wasn't a stickler for punctuality like you expected. "Yeah, well screw you too, sister," you mutter and lick your chapped lips. Stamping your foot to get the circulation back, there's a sudden give as you nearly slide to the side from a small patch of ice. Steadying yourself with a muted curse, it was a good reminder not to do that again. Rising up and down on your toes, the frigid weather is swiftly becoming unbearable. You had a home to go back to, you had TV to watch, websites to visit, and time to waste. You couldn't afford to spend all your precious free time waiting here for some girl who didn't give a damn about appointments. The bell rings again, a last reminder that the school day was over. You didn't need to check your phone this time, it was 3:25 and the buzzer confirmed it. Twila was late. You dig out the dog-eared paperback and tuck it under your arm, all in preparation to simply toss the blighted book to Twila and leave, it was getting too late and too cold for gloating speeches. A gaggle of students blocks the doors as it opens. You catch a glimpse of flaxen hair, purple earmuffs, and a glint of glasses thicker than your own. S'that her? You duck and weave, rising up on your toes again in the hopes of being certain. Despite that, you still can't see through the twenty-some herd of band students flocking outside at once. Neither did they respond to the mental impulse you had for them to 'shut up and move!' A small hop up was reflexive as you try to get four inches of height to confirm your suspicions. That four inches of height confirms it: yes, the 'Ice Queen' was just hurrying out the door laden with a ludicrous amount of books in her bulging backpack and clasped in her arms. But you didn't have time to savour that as you land, feet skidding out from under you. The patch of ice catapults you backwards into an eldritch miasma of jarring kaleidoscopic colours, but there was no end to that stomach-churning lurch. Your surprised yelp disintegrates; the sound fractilizes as if filtered through a synthesizer. A sudden snap and smell of burning ozone greets you long enough for a sharp blow to the head to rob you of consciousness completely. ♣♣♣ Darkness greets you at long last. It's no night-time penumbral expanse governed by hazy shapes and faint outlines masquerading as blackness, but a vacant void. There's a sudden sound, a slow-building pitch like a finger dragged around the rim of a crystal glass. A simpering note passes your lips with an uncomfortable sigh. Reaching out, your hand probes the wet stone edge beneath the back of your head. Despite the blow your brain arranges the edges into 'stairs'. Your fingers follow the wetness back to your scalp, only for a sudden pulse of pain to send a wave of nausea washing over you. Even the cold press of marble on your cheek can't halt the rising tide of bile in your stomach as you leave the torn skin alone. “Be still.” A feminine voice shatters the encroaching darkness. Movement echoes through the void: a harsh taps of feet, like jack boots on tile. “We did not summon thee, so how is it that thou intrudes upon us when we expect another...” it didn't sound like a question: she was pondering something unexpected and evidently unwelcome. The ensuing bids you to hold your tongue and lay still. It stills your quivering stomach, but the cold aura of uncertainty forms beads of cold sweat on your brow. The voice sniffs, and finally something appears in the void. A pale white light forms in the vacuous world in front of you. Silvered threads of light weave together with a harmonious chime like resonating crystal, illuminating Corinthian columns stretching off to your left and to your right. The void takes shape as if touched by the subtle hints of moonlight before you saw its origin: a spiral of blue ivory rising above two glowing pools of pale green. There is no face, just a hazy indistinct form that hovers like a wraith in the impenetrable gloom. Your unsteady voice croaks out, “where am-” “Silence.” she cut your question short, “thou seems poorly and We must think.”