You can tell it’s cold out there.
Just by the way the snow falls past the window you can tell. All of those snowflakes daintily falling down in their thousands. It’s actually quite weird why we have Hearth’s Warming Eve in the coldest time of the year; granted, it warms us up, gives us an hint of how it would’ve been over a thousand years ago, but c’mon! Hearth’s Warming in the summertime! Doesn’t that sound fudging cool? They do that in Oatstralia, why not here?
“So, what are you thinking right now?” says the lean, hairy young-adult unicorn next to me with a raised brow and a concerned look. The usual look of the great psychologist, Dr Brainstorm, especially when it’s at me, his project.
“I think I should get myself a sweater.” I reply. Probably not the best answer to that question; but as you can tell from the mini-rant I had above, I was holding back. Heck, my mini-rant was even more held back compared to what I was really thinking. Judging by the smile my psychologist gave me after I said it, he can see that I was trying to.
My name is Woundsalt. Apparently, it’s my momma’s instinct after the birth of me that named me. Probably the same instinct that told my mom whatever made her make the decision to drop me here at Saint Diamond Heart’s. I like to believe she looks like the statue of Diamond Heart, standing right in the middle of the courtyard with her fronts hooves open wide and a caring smile. That’s how I want to see my mommy at least. Not somepony that looks like most of the folks around here. West Canterlot is scary.
“Hey,” I tell my… I don’t really want to call him my ‘mentor’ like he wants me to, but the words I would call him would be a bit ‘beyond my reading level’ as he says it. “Is this going to take longer?”
I ask this because he is dyeing my mane. Winter months as an all albino colt makes it quite easy to get lost in the snow. Oh, boy let me tell you, I had fun in the snow. Especially before I got my cutie mark. Just sit in the snow, close my eyes and… wait until the bullies give up looking for me and give up. So glad the Curaçao brothers got adopted and moved to the Ohana Islands a couple of years ago.
“What’s with the sass?” Brainstorm asks as he tilts back my head a bit more. “Didn’t you say want to have your mane dyed?”
“… No. If anything, you said you wanted my mane dyed. Multiple times. All I did was decide what colour it’s going to be. See, I find that a common thing with you lately; say something you want us to do repeatedly and then eventually give me a choice in the matter that makes us do it. Like how you decided to go to this shin-dig while all I can decide not to wear a suit to it? But then again, it’s a better habit than just signing me up for some competition without my say so.”
He’s silent. Usually, when he’s silent like this is either because he thinks I have a point or too mad to continue the conversation. Both are possible in this case. The reason why he wanted to do this to me is to not only spot me in the snow, but because he thinks I’ll look better with a different coloured mane for this party. A Hearth Warming’s Eve party for the Canterlot Horn. Some music magazine that decided to expand it’s demographic to all art’s forms so they put some competition where they have an art competition for kids. If that sounds like fun to anypony out there, I am not letting them near me; even if they’re ponies willing to adopt me.
“Here we are. One new look.” I finally hear from above me. A mirror appears into my face. “I got to say, it was a good choice of colour. It says an awful lot about you.”
… You know something? He’s right. Still kind of want a professional hair stylist and not my own psychologist, but he’s right. A lot of ponies would say that black isn’t a usual choice of mane colour I the world of candy-coloured… everything. Quite a shame, though. Black does go with anything. Especially a pony with a white coat and red eyes like me. I’m never going to regret this new style. Never.
“So… about this party.” Brainstorm says after I had a good look in the mirror. “I have to say that this is a very important thing for you. This is a very good chance to prove you deserve to win that contract. You could work at this magazine, you know.”
“Or somepony else.” I say as I jump down from the chair.
“Oh trust me, I’ve seen the other kids. There is no pony else. Just keep cool and it’ll be in the bag.” The psychologist smirks. “No offence on the other kids, but most of them would not be considered prodigies. The only one that could be considered as threat to you getting this job is the cellist, but even then I highly doubt she’ll win. The Canterlot Horn wants to prove that it is more than a music company now. Hiring a musician sounds like the last thing they should do.”
He left out the part that this cellist is a filly and that girls are yucky, but even if he did, I still do not feel like this is in the bag. Especially as I can feel that the owner of the magazine doesn’t like me. Printed Mint’s a spazzoid.
That being said… I want to win this. One of the prizes is a contract there. A job. I need a job. Jobs give me money. Money can buy me a place away from here when I’m older. Away from an orphanage is where every orphan wants to be. Adoption’s the best way, but I’m… well, I don’t want to be known as the ‘special’ kid, but I…
“Now, Wound.” Brainstorm says, like he’s about to ask me a very important question. “When was the last time you had one of your blackouts?”
Oh, speaking of which. “Uh… about breakfast time.”
This news puts the doctor’s hoof to his chin. “Meaning you’re overdue to have another; we can’t risk you having one at the party.” He ponders for a moment, then smiles. “Woundsalt, I’m banning sweets from the orphanage grounds!”
“What! Why? How could you…
…AND I HOPE YOU GROW FAT AND BALD, FUCKER!”
Oh shoot, it happened again.
Brainstorm’s face is a little flustered. He’s still not particularly used to getting insulted by me on a frequent basis. I’m not entirely used to this myself. Then again, it’s very hard to get used to your blacking out and having your mouth still going and saying mean things. Don’t get me wrong, I like saying mean things… when I want to say mean things. Not randomly. And not with words like the big F. Got to be a good colt for Hearth’s Warming.
“R…” Brainstorm finally utters. “Right… Well, that solves that problem… I hope. Let’s get going.”
I nod as we head towards the exit of Saint Diamond hearts.
“Hmm… say, Woundsalt. Have you had any dreams lately, by any chance?”
Uh… That question seems a bit out of the blue.
“No. Why?”
“Well, I have a few associates who claim they know what could cause these blackouts. It’s a bit of a stretch, however. They can’t be certain it’s actually what it is until you dreamt up something prophetical. Or…” He pauses as he looks into my eyes puzzlingly. “Woundsalt, when you cry, do you find anything strange about your tears?”
I shake my head. “There’s nothing wrong with my tears.” I cry ink like everypony else.
“Precisely what I thought.” Sighs the doctor. “Well, that’s that theory gone out the window. Shame really, you could’ve been the second ever pony to be diagnosed with what they thought up. The first pony didn’t want to be examined by my associates…”
I snort. “Can’t blame them. Most of your associates are poopyheads who are afraid of coming to the west-side.”
“That they are.” He chortles as we walk out of the gate.
Gee, the streets are crowded today. A lot of ponies shop this time of year, the day before the season. Please don’t ask why this late, I don’t know the reason. Maybe their lids aren’t screwed quite right, maybe their horse-shoes are on a tad tight or maybe the most obvious answer of all: The brains they all have are two sizes too small.
“Hmm... Say, Woundsalt? What did you ask Merry Jingle for this year?” Doctor Brainstorm asks, raising an eyebrow.
I know what this translates to. This translates to ‘what do you want me to give you and say some magical and possibly non-existent mare called Merry Jingle gave it for me.’ You know, I don’t like it when grown-ups lie to me… I’ll let this slide though, if it gives me cool presents.
“Well, besides from ‘get adopted’ like every other orphan, which I have a feeling she’ll need more magic than Celestia to make happen…” I reply. “Can’t think of anything.”
By hearing this, his eyebrow raise higher. “Really? Then you better think of something quick. One could say you’ve been a good colt this year… given the circumstances.”
Hmm…
“Maybe a… Foam crossbow?”
“No.” He says flatly.
“What, afraid I’ll shoot my eye out?”
“That and having something that looks like a crossbow on orphanage grounds sounds like a terrible idea. Especially in the hooves of, and I mean this is the nicest way I can make it, the kid who talks to no-one but a psychologist.”
… Okay, a little bit insulting but I see his point.
“How about… a chipmunk-sized loop-de-hoop?”
“I… I don’t think she would know what a loop-de-hoop is. Nor how to get a chipmunk-sized one at that. Why do you want it that small anyway?”
“Maybe I can train a chipmunk to use it?”
“… Seriously?”
“Fine… Maybe a… a My Hairless Monkey doll?”
…
“You do realise that the other kids think you’re weird as it is, don’t you?”
“I know, but… I’m grasping at straws, okay?”
He puts a hoof to his mouth. “How about a new book?”
Huh. Did not think of that.
“Alright. I’ll let Merry Bell pick out a random book for me. Are we anywhere near the place?”
“Actually?” He says as he stops. “We’re here.”
Oh! Oh…
I don’t think I like this place. I can tell just by looking into the glass of this very tall building. Everything in the reception area is very… Printed Mint. Yeah, it’s definitely Printed Mint. I can see a pony like Printed Mint designing this office. It’s so high end it’s not even funny. Practically everything has at least one diamond on it.
The desk? Got diamonds on it.
The Walls? Got diamonds on them.
The chandelier? Well, it could be made out of glass, but I doubt it.
The receptionist? Wearing diamonds.
The pictures? Of diamonds… with diamond-studded frames. Okay, now that’s just overkill.
We go in.
The yellow stallion with a black mane at the reception looks into our direction. “Ah! Doctor Brainstorm and Woundsalt! Welcome!”
Doctor Brainstorm smiles. “Hey, TypeFont. How’s your daughter?”
The stallion smiles sweetly. “She is doing wonderfully. It’s actually quite a turn around since she got her cutie-mark. She knows what to do with her life now, she’s got a nice coltfriend… Though I have a feeling I might not like this Morning Glory down the line. Not like I’m judging a pony by name alone, but…”
Ugh... There is nothing as boring in the world than two grown-ups talking to each other.
“Well, if she ever wants a full time job, our old receptionist will be retiring sometime next year. Are we allowed to go up?”
The golden stallion’s suddenly changed his move to calm to shaking. “Well… M-maybe not right now. We had an issue with one contestant’s mother breaking one of the other’s instrument. She’s saying it was an accident, but you know how blood-thirsty the parents have gotten in this competition.”
Woah! That’s a way to spread the Hearth’s Warming Eve message. Breaking some other kid’s instrument to eliminate them from a competion. Happy freaking holidays! Have some humbugs!
We hear a ping coming from the elevator doors. Looks like someone is coming down. I hope it’s not Printed Page, the owner’s son. Goddess, what an annoying pest. Especially when he got his cutie mark. He’s been in my face a lot more with it. Like he’s trying to tell me something about it.
The door’s open to reveal… Wow. She’s... Wow.
Wow.
… I’m at a loss of words. Why am I at a loss of words? Is it…? No. Come on now, Woundsalt. You know there’s no such thing as love at first sight… And fillies are yucky. But what’s causing this rare occurrence that I am stuck with nothing to say?
Maybe because… she’s crying.
“Mama…” She whimpers. “Mamma, è la donna senza cuore.”
Uh… wait. Something’s not right here. I thought she was supposed to be coming down alone. That’s what the script says at least. Why is she with these two stallions? I turn to the director Dream Weaver. His head is in his left hoof, and I can feel him about to shout the words.
“CUT!”
I look back at the two stallions. One is a red unicorn with a slicked back, black and white mane. And the other… oh gosh, it’s not him is it? Me? The real me?
… Judging by that scowl, I think it’s safe to say it is.
Mister Weaver finally releases his face from his hooves to finally say. “Can I help you, gentlecolts?”
“Uh… Mister Weaver? I’m afraid me and my associate have some complaints towards the script of this.” The red unicorn says. I have a feeling this is supposed to be the real Printed Page. He doesn’t look as annoying as our one does. But then again, the Obviously Outstanding Clones™ factory might have added some extra annoyance.
The purple unicorn sighs. I heard this isn’t the first time the original Woundsalt had issues with Dream Weaver’s scripts. In fact, there was a fic that Woundsalt cancelled completely because he didn’t like it. The actor from that one told me to expect this. Jack’s a good acting coach.
“Alright, Woundsalt.” Mister Weaver finally speaks. “What’s the matter this time?”
“This is…” My real self speaks. “Without a doubt… The biggest bucking joke against Hearth’s Warming since that one year they did the play with all the roles played by cats! It doesn’t talk about the holiday or what it is about, It’s clear you shovelled in that My Hairless Monkey plug…”
“My character looks like the most annoying brat in the world.” Printed Page adds.
“Uh… sure.” Woundsalt stumbles before he jumps back on again. “And all the humour is pretty much taking human Christmas shit and referencing it!”
I look back to the director as he tries to smile off this accusation. “I have no Idea what you’re talking abou-”
Woundsalt didn’t even let him finish.
“The rhyming part on the shoppers was stolen from Doctor Seuss’ Grinch, The ‘You’ll shoot your eye out’ gag was a clear nod to A Christmas Story, That chipmunk-sized What-ever-the-fuck-it-was is a painful take on that very annoying Christmas song by some rodents, the have some humbugs line... really? fucking really? And the guardian angel at the near the end of this train-wreck…”
The head of the guardian angel comes out of the box he was hiding in. “What, did I miss my que?”
I turn to him. “No, Pineapple Rice, sir. Woundsalt was just talking about you.”
This caught the fiery, red eyes of the poet. “Pineapple Rice? You’re the guardian angel?”
The pegasus stand up from his hiding spot. “Well… I take whatever job I can, dude. Especially since ERRA’s gone.”
There was only a brief pause before Woundsalt returns his gaze back to the director. “The stallion’s great to work with, what can I say?” He shrugs.
“Oh, does he?” Woundsalt sarcastically replies. “Well, I’m certain that excuses the fact that your guardian angel who ‘has to help somepony before he gets his wings’ already has mother bucking wings!”
“Well, maybe it’s metaphorical?” I ask, putting my two cents in… that was probably dumb on my part.
Woundsalt looks back at me, with one hoof stretched out in my direction. “You. What’s your name?”
Jack warned me he’ll try and get me involved in this somehow. If I remember correctly, he said to be as honest as possible.
“I’m… I’m Woundsalt Clone; Mode Colt, Rating 8, +Cute, +Cute, +Innocence.”
…
This makes the two poets look at each other.
“Well buck me, you’re right, Page.” Woundsalt uttered to his… friend? I guess they are now. “Those bastards at OOC™ did get our DNA.”
“See, I knew the way those guys were giving us drinks were suspicious.” The red poet grumbles in reply.
“Looks like we’ll have to make a detour to the factory on our way home. Right now though, Page… can you take these two out of here?” Woundsalt asks him. “There’s something like swearing in front of my former self that’s a little… off-putting.”
Page nods. “The Octavia one, too?”
Salt nods.
“Stiamo andando a ottenere pistacchio gelato al?” Asks the Octavia, also, as you may have guessed, not the real one.
The poets look to me for an explanation.
“They don’t have a way to make us bilingual, so she can only speak Neightalian.”
Woundsalt nods in understanding and then says to the filly “Sì.” The he turns back to his former employer’s son. “She wants ice-cream... I don't know why, maybe these things aren't made with the concept of heat, neither. Take them to the parlour we passed.” As he walks back to Dream Weaver to yell some more insults in his face.
As we walk out onto the cold roads that are Dressed-Like-a-Dream studios, still snowing lightly like it did when we entered this morning, I turn to my co-star. You know, she is very… um… I know there’s a word… right on the tip of my tongue… Ah forget it. Fact is, if she is anything like the original Octavia Woundsalt goes crazy for, I’m not surprise how she’s making me question my belief that girls are icky.
“Hey… I was hoping maybe you and I can… you know… hang around more when this film is finished?”
She turns to me in a very indescribable way. “Stiamo per essere inceneriti quando questo è finito.”
I don’t know what that means, but whatever she said warms me up inside. There maybe a language barrier, but the way she said that made me feel like she said, “Happy Hearth’s Warming.”
"And a Happy Hearth’s Warming to you, too."