//------------------------------// // Do What? // Story: 3:14 PM // by SugarPesticide //------------------------------// Finding his address wasn’t hard. It was time-consuming, certainly, what with Equestria’s extensive records on its residents, but it wasn’t hard. That room of the library, normally watched over by sharp-eyed guards, lay abandoned, letting Pinkie practically waltz into the place. Where the guards were now, she wasn’t sure — maybe setting out to meet the dragon, or maybe starting on a Canterlot patrol to keep the damage at bay, or maybe heading off elsewhere for some other crisis. It was telling that these were the more optimistic possibilities that occurred to her. Eventually, she made her careful way through the streets of Canterlot. The afternoon sun hung red in a smoky sky. As she went on, working her way down from the palace, the buildings grew less and less opulent — though of course this was hardly to say they weren’t opulent at all — and the ponies seemed less and less keen on spending more than seconds outside. Though Pinkie had rarely ventured outside since arriving, the streets looked especially unfamiliar. If not for the direction of a helpful blue unicorn, she doubted she could have found her way at all. As it was, she found herself in front of a box-like, single-story building nestled right against the side of the mountain. The roof was in tatters, the walls were worse, and Pinkie had to triple-check the address to make sure she was in the right place. Slowly, as if the house might bite her, she leaned in and tapped on the door. A wheezy voice called from within. “Trixie? ‘Zat you? … C’min, ‘s unlocked …” Inside sprawled a maze of possessions. Loose boards formed makeshift shelves for a variety knickknacks, most of which were unidentifiable, though many of them sparkled with glitter. Pinkie picked her way through the relics of past decades, taking care to avoid the stuffed bear head mounted on the ceiling. “Nice o’ ya t’ drop in on yer ol’ stallion,” the voice said plaintively. “D’you bring any of ‘em ca-ra-melized carrots? ‘M hopin’ t’ get a li’l more mileage outta these teeth.” The stallion lay curled up on a couch, facing the wall. His unkempt gray coat hinted at a past of youthful green, and his mane was a few strands of wispy hair. As Pinkie watched, his horn lit up, and the glass of water on the upside-down box next to him floated shakily toward him in an aura of yellow. Pinkie cleared her throat. “You’re Double Whammy?” The glass paused. “Yer not Trixie. Sound like one o’ the other grankids — wossername, I think. ‘Aven’t seen ya lately, Butterfly. This about the huntin’ trophies agin?” “Uh … no. I just wanted to ask … do you know anything about time loops?” She winced as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Nice going, you social klutz. Whatever happened to subtlety? “Whazzat?” The stallion pushed himself onto his front hooves, trembling as he began to turn. “Girlie, y’mind talkin’ sense? Whaddya even—” Their eyes met. Silence fell, and Double Whammy went very, very still. His eyes bored into her, and then, unblinking, they flickered like camera shutters from yellow to blue. Pinkie stumbled backward, overturning a sizable collection of bizarre items. “What—” Her hooves flailed for a moment before finding the floor. “You’re the … must be … magic pony … moved the books …” “Yes,” said Double Whammy. “And more importantly, no.” He stood up, disregarding his delicate bones. “However did you figure it out?” She swallowed. “Well, I, um. If somepony was pulling the strings somewhere, then they’d know what’s happening to me, which means they’d know the events going on in my life, which means they’d know I’d be able to figure out a vague clue like that based on recent events … I don’t know what I just said.” “Clever girl.” It was impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic. The shift in voice, strengthened from quavery to firm, was disconcerting enough. “I knew you’d realize that it wasn’t a coincidence that Fluttershy and Trixie are related. Clearly you figured some changes had been made.” In fact, Pinkie hadn’t thought about that mystery too deeply, but she decided not to mention that. “Who are you, exactly?” “Call me a friend you haven’t met yet. Double Whammy is just a go-between, really.” He cracked a half-toothed grin. “This must be what it feels like to be you.” “What are you talking about?” “Never mind.” His smile faded. “We don’t have much time. I’m supposed to give you a message.” “A message? From who?” “Mm, that doesn’t matter yet. And, well, it’s not all at once. More will come later.” He beckoned her closer. “Are you ready?” Logical response was clearly not an option at this point, so Pinkie simply nodded. “First: find a chronomancer. Second—” “But there aren’t any more chronomancers!” she blurted. “The book said the council was—” “The council is gone, not the chronomancers themselves. They’re out there,” he said. “And by ‘out there,’ I mean not too far off. They’re not all that hard to find when you know to look at their cutie marks. Though by 'chronomancers,' I mean ponies who are conscious of using chronomancy to even the smallest degree. Not exactly Star Swirl the Bearded material.” “I … oh.” Pinkie thought of the residents of Ponyville, most of whose cutie marks had been a blur to her. “That does make sense. Time-related cutie marks; got it. What’s second?” “Second: don’t worry.” He nodded sagely, as if he’d imparted a state secret. She blinked, then blinked again. When nothing else was forthcoming, she said, “What else?” “That’s it.” “That’s it?” “For now.” “‘Don’t worry’? Are you serious?” He rubbed his chin, and a faint, unpleasant creaking filled the room. “Well, as a bit of personal advice, I’ll add that you should stick close to your friends unless the situation absolutely calls for it.” She almost snorted. “I think ‘get out of a time loop that’s killing you’ counts as calling for it.” “Yes,” he said dryly. “Because that worked so well this time.” When her ears drooped, he added, “You might not believe this, but right now friendship is all you have. Don’t let that be taken away, too.” “Please, Mr. … whoever you are. Can’t you be more specific?” “There’s no time. Sorry.” His eyes roamed over toward the clock on the wall, then to the window, and he bit his lip. “3:06. If I don’t act now, all of this will be set in stone. Do you trust me?” “Not really.” “Oh.” His face fell. With a little concentration, he cast his horn in a blue glow, hardly sputtering the way it had before. “Well, in any case, we have to set things right. Pinkie, I’m very sorry. I want you to know that before we meet again.” And he snapped her neck. ∞ “Oh, my! You’ve certainly been productive, haven’t you?” The muffins steamed. The building stood. The clock read 3:14. Pinkie stared. She rolled her head around, testing and then savoring the sturdiness of her spine. Then, slowly, her face broke out in a fragile smile. “W-what the hay just happened?” “Pinkie? Are you all right?” “Yeah. Wow, um. Everything just reset itself already? Would it have not reset if he hadn’t killed me?” Would that have been so bad, though? “Pinkie, do you need to lie down?” “Can’t do that, Mrs. Cake! I need to bring some ponies together.” She rubbed her chin. “And maybe a little something on the side …” And, mulling over the bizarre advice she'd been granted, she tried to distract herself from the horrible, horrible implications of being deliberately killed by someone — or something — that looked like a pony.