Well, At Least Time Flies

by shortskirtsandexplosions

December 16 3736 7:25pm

The trans-dimensional slide culminated with a deafening clap of thunder. Scootaloo burst through the snow, skimming blindly to a stop in an alarming new darkness. She gritted her teeth, shivering from the intense wave of cold. Far far colder than her lackadaisical romp through yesterday's Ponyville. The filly took her first breath—and it was barely enough to fill her lungs. She had experienced this sensation before; she was at a high elevation. But it wasn't a comfortable thinness: the liberating kind of fresh air that she had experienced multiple times in Canterlot or her most recent visit to Cloudsdale.

This air was both frigid and dirty. Every breath felt like her lungs were being pumped full of dirt and dust. Her eyes teared and she felt like coughing. Holding a shivering hoof in front of her muzzle, Scootaloo stared up at the foggy shapes before her. Her eyes squinted, waiting for the foreboding environment to come into focus.

At last, she started to make sense out of her surroundings. Her sled had come to a stop in the middle of a cobblestone alleyway. Crooked buildings built out of soot-stained masonry leaned over the filly. Foggy windows flickered with dim candlelight from within, and deadly icicles clung to dull lampposts and dangling store signs. There was a stench of filth and equine waste lingering in the street corners, and Scootaloo heard the tell-tale squeaks of scurrying rats in her peripheral. When she tilted her head up, she saw two layers of darkness plastered against the sky. One canvas belonged to the dead of night, but the stars were obscured by the second layer: countless columns of smoke being channeled blackly into the heavens from grimy chimneys. The air smelled burnt... like ashes from a dead fireplace, and the few random flakes of snow that fell from the sky were blackened to a charcoal-gray.

Needless to say, Scootaloo was grimacing hard. Teeth chattered as she attempted to produce the words: "This is Canterlot?"

In a blink, her eyes flashed to the compass halfway up the sled's silver brace. Indeed, the counter had rolled back to "0000." Scootaloo's eyes next wandered to the numerical field at the base of the sled. In the faint penumbra of starlight, Scootaloo managed to read: December 16 3736 7:25pm.

"Mmmmmmmkay..." Scootaloo pensively stepped off the sled and trotted slowly towards the nearest street corner. The cobblestone street was slick with frosted moisture, and she nearly slipped more than once.

Nevertheless, she reached an intersection of coal-stained buildings and craned her neck. If she stretched just enough, she could make out a sliver of vaguely familiar architecture amidst the nightmarescape. Towards the north, peeking through the columns of chimney smoke, Scootaloo spotted the unmistakable ramparts of the Royal Palace. Even amidst all the gloom, they looked just as bright and majestic as they did one hundred and fifty-five years later.

"It's Canterlot alright..." Scootaloo blew out the side of her muzzle. "...what a dump."

Wagon wheels. Rattling loudly.

"!!!" Scootaloo instinctively hopped backwards and hid behind a lamppost.

Coming up a slanted cobblestone street, an aristocratic carriage thundered. The ornately-furnished vehicle was being drawn by four stallions—all of whom were wearing gothic black overcoats over like-colored suits. Scootaloo blinked, spotting tricorner hats flecked with snow. She saw a muzzle or two—neither smiling—as they swiftly pulled their passengers around the bend and towards some important destination, grunting and snorting at anypony who might dare to stumble across their path.

As Scootaloo peered her head around the lamppost, she took note of other ponies gathered in the distant streets. Stallions and mares—faces grimy with impoverished scowls—stumbled from one path to another, huddling under multiple layers of rags and occasionally lingering around iron stoves situated strategically in front of densely-packed apartments. They muttered and bartered amongst themselves, casting forlorn looks to the ashen night sky. There wasn't a single moment when somepony somewhere wasn't coughing or wheezing or sputtering up mucus.

Scootaloo nervously backtrotted into the alleyway where she had first arrived.

"Well, that's not very..." She gulped. "...festive."

She looked back at the sled, tail flicking. All it would take was locating an ice-riddled sidewalk, and Scootaloo could easily push her way back to a more agreeable century in a single blink.

But something told her to stay...

"There's gotta be something worth finding here..."

So, with swift hoofsteps, she grasped the sled and pushed it into an even narrower alleyway. The blades of the vehicle scraped against the cobblestone, and Scootaloo had to stop more than once to make sure she didn't arouse too much suspicion with the sound.

She struggled for a brief moment to find a sufficient hiding spot. At last—to her relief—she discovered a narrow lawn sandwiched between two rows of apartments that cast shadows over the elongated niche. A thick layer of snow had gathered over the dead soil, and while the "garden" bent at an angle and was strewn with occasional junk, Scootaloo judged that the sled could easily build up speed and accelerate down the grade in a way that would make the next time jump simple... or at least simple enough.

There was a series of dead brambles growing out of the earth, and Scootaloo found a hollow spot directly behind it where she could hide the sled in the crook of two adjoining buildings. Judging from the lack of hoofprints in the snow, she suspected that nopony had ventured there in hours... maybe even days. Besides, it was so hoof-bitingly cold that she had to have been the only moron who bothered to visit that location.

It wasn't enough that she simply hid the sled. The cold was starting to get to her—to the point that she realized she had to look after her own health. So, reaching deep into her saddlebag, she pulled out a jacket that she had packed for the trip. It was halfway through putting it on that Scootaloo froze, stricken with a sharp thought. The few ponies she had spotted so far were either wearing rags or gothic aristocratic finery, and here she was with a thick puffy orange jacket that she had been given as a gift from a modern day Barnyard Bargains on her last foalday.

"... ... ..." The filly shrugged. "Ehhhh... buck it."

She slipped the jacket on, relishing in the warmth of the pastel insulary fabric hugging her. She tightened the scarf around her neck, plucked the plug from the silver brace of the sled, and left her saddlebag with the vehicle as well. Just as she was about to set out, she paused... blinking in thought. After a contemplative breath, she pulled her crystalline pendant off her neck and slipped it deep into a pocket of her orange jacket.

Feeling a great deal safer—and warmer—Scootaloo wandered stupidly into the streets of Thirty-Eighth Century Canterlot.

Dozens of eyes immediately snapped to her. Ponies gawked, their soot-stained muzzles grimacing in mixed curiosity and apprehension. Commoners in patchwork suits and dresses stared with beady eyes. Shifty-looking stallions and black-lung'd chimney sweepers peered through squinting expressions. A pony on stilts—wandering from lamppost to lamppost to light the dormant candles—nearly fell over upon spotting the filly in her pastel orange getup.

Scootaloo gulped. She smiled awkwardly at the myriad faces studying her every movement. For a brief moment, she contemplated waving back at them... but decided against it. Hugging the orange jacket tighter around herself, she hurried her steps, rushing around the next street corner—

"Oi!" A snow-battered filly in a dress held a flower out towards Scootaloo's face. "Pretty li'il bird!"

"Gah!" Scootaloo hopped back, wincing.

The emaciated foal batted her eyelashes from where she stood at the street corner with a basket full of flowers. "A thousand pardons, ma'am. Ah dinnae mean t'scare ya with me looks. Pretty please, li'il bird, will ya buy me flowahs?" She waved the item in question again, snifffling with great melodramatic poise. "Me Mum will beat me 'orribly if Ah dun make a coppah or two..."

"Uhm..." Scootalo blinked at the flowers. The buds had lost most of their petals, and the stems were bent from countless hours spent in the poor filly's rickety basket. "...a copper?"

"If it's no troubow, miss." The filly smiled, teeth blackened like tar. "Fink it's right propah to have bloomin' buds t'match ya blouse, a'ight?"

"Uhhhhh..." Scootaloo looked behind her, spotting multiple adults in wooly dress garb peering curiously at the scene. "Uhhhhhhh..." She flashed the filly a nervous smile. "I... can give you a coin!" She pulled a shiny bit from her pocket and held it over. "It's not a copper, but it's all I've got."

The filly curtsied in her raggedy dress. "Celestia smiles on ya, miss!" She hoofed a flower over and took the bit. "Celestia smiles on—" Suddenly, she froze... her eyes bugging out at the sight of the coin in her grasp.

Scootaloo blinked. "What's wrong?"

"Ah..." The filly trembled and trembled. "Ah cannae believe me mincers!" She cracked a wide grin, ears flicking in the dirty snowfall. "Gold! Actual bloody gold!" Dropping her basket of flowers in a burst of joy, she turned tail and scampered up the steps to the nearest apartment. "Motha! Fatha! Have a butcher's! Ah fetched us some real gold! Let's ferry our arses to Tro'ingham!"

Gulping, Scootaloo looked over her shoulder again. More ponies had gathered—from various classes—and they were murmuring in a rising commotion. Whistling innocently to herself, Scootaloo side-stepped towards the nearest doorway she could find. She felt a wave of inviting warmth, and she dashed inside without a second thought.

It turned out to be a tavern. Scootaloo had assumed that stealing herself inside would hide her from scrutinous eyes, but it was just as nearly packed inside the place as it was outside. Dozens of stallions in various qualities of suited garb huddled at rickety tables over mugs of ale. A second floor balcony loomed overhead, with lonely souls from the street fraternizing with one other, accompanied by drunken snickers. As soon as Scootaloo entered, a phalanx of bleary eyes swept her way. Some of the surlier patrons snorted while others huddled by a large, bright fireplace, saying nothing as they warmed their mangy forelimbs.

"Hey!" a raspy voice echoed across the rustic establishment.

Scootaloo's head tilted up. She squinted in the flickering firelight.

A big-bone'd bartender leaned against the front counter, frowning and pointing in Scootaloo's direction. "This ain't no place for lil' orphans!"

Scootaloo blinked. "Orphans?"

"Shoo!" The bartender waved his hoof. "Off with ya, grimey urchin!"

Scootaloo frowned. "I am not an orphan."

Patrons chuckled and wheezed.

Growling, the bartender made to march towards her—

"Let the darling be, Smithers," said the most eloquent voice Scootaloo had heard since arriving there.

The bartender turned to sneer at a soul seated near the fireplace. "I ain't runnin' no orphanage, Saltlicky!"

There was a metallic tinging noise, and Scootaloo's eyes followed a pair of coins flipping throuth the tavern air.

The bartender caught the silver bits awkwardly, blinking at them.

"Can't you see she's with me?" the well-dressed gentlecolt said. From afar, Scootaloo saw a top hat and a stove pipe. "For Tartarus' sake, Smithers, have a little Hearth's Warming cheer."

Bittersweet chuckles lit the air.

"Hrmmmph..." The bartender pocketed the coins in his apron. "The only cheer, Saltlicky, is the kind you can afford." He spat, then squinted an angry eye at Scootaloo. "Have a squat, pixie." He motioned towards the fireplace. "But dun try'n swipe anythin'. I've got me eye on you."

Scootaloo gulped. Without hesitation, she scampered across the musky tavern. More than a few eyes trailed her, and drunken patrons let loose a guffaw or two from their tables.

"Look at 'er!"

"Bloody fair must be in town!"

"She looks like the ol' prize of Princess Diamond! From the history books!"

"Hahahahah!"

Grumbling to herself, Scootaloo nevertheless ventured to the one spot in the tavern that now felt safe. She scooted up in a chair and sat across from the richly-dressed stallion who had tossed the coins to the bartender.

"There, now, madame," the stallion murmured in a low, deep voice. He sounded fairly young, but his muzzle was blanketed in contrastingly gray mutton chops and a matching mustache. He flicked the ashes out of his pipe and leaned back in his chair. Before him on the table lay sheets of parchment with half-scribbled paragraphs. A quill pen rested lazily in an inkwell. "Get yourself nice and warm by the fire," he continued in a soothing tone, despite his deadpan expression. "I know this place looks and smells rank, but I assure you that it's immeasurably more agreeable than an orphanage."

Scootaloo's ears rolled back angrily. "I am not an orphan."

"As you wish." He stifled a yawn and adjusted the sleeves of his overcoat. "Nevertheless, I know a soul in need when I see one. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need shelter for the night?"

Scootaloo blinked, suddenly touched by the rich fountain of sincerity being shown to her in the heart of so much filth. "Uhm... no, I'm..." She sighed, nevertheless rubbing her forelimbs together as she basked in the warmth of the fireplace. "I'm fine, sir."

"Are you certain of that?"

"I'm just visiting." Scootaloo gulped. "...from out of town."

He raised an eyebrow. "From out of town? Madame, you will have to make your lies far more convincing."

She blinked at him. "Huh?"

"Even as the wind carries, a pegasus your size couldn't span the continent in this inclement weather." He took his hat off, revealing a balding skull. A sigh. "... ... ...no doubt you were deposited on this mountain by the heartless denizens of Cirrusham? Stratospinople?"

"Uhhhhhh..." Scootaloo's brow furrowed. "...are those... pegasus cities?"

"Hmmmmm..." The stallion re-lit his pipe, giving it a few puffs. "...I see they don't teach basic geography in the schools for lost foals. 'Tis a shame."

"I'm not an orphan!" Scootaloo hissed. She then calmed. "It's... it's just like I said. I'm visiting." She gulped, glancing aside. "I-I guess I can't really explain it..."

"Neither do you have to, madame. My apologies for pressing too hard. I was simply concerned for your well-being. Seems to me that the most innocent of souls these days get tragically overlooked during Hearth's Warming."

"Yeah..." Scootaloo looked across the grimey tavern full of grimey ponies. "...to be honest, I was kinda expecting ponies to be... celebrating more."

"In another district of Her Majesty's royal capital, perhaps." The stallion shook his head. "In places where mirth and merriment can be afforded—most assuredly." He weathered a melancholic breath. "But the warmth dwindles. It wasn't always like that. Almost makes you wonder how our ancestors conjured song from the stone and ice that once imprisoned them."

Scootaloo cocked her head to the side, studying the stallion up and down. "Can I say something weird...?"

"'Weird?' Madame, are you going to bewitch me?"

"I mean..." Scootaloo chuckled briefly. "I mean a silly question."

"You are more than welcome."

"Why are you so much more polite and... like... intelligent than these other dudes?"

The stallion puffed from his pipe, shook it, and exhaled smokily. "Mmmmm... simply a matter of upbringing, my dear. Some of us are far more fortunate than others."

"What brings you to a dive like this?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Uhhhh..."

"You're curious as to why I choose to loiter in such a domain of squalor?"

"Yeahhhhhhhh..."

"Mmmmmm... I'm doing research," he explained. "I'm a writer, you see."

Scootaloo blinked. "No kidding...?"

"I assure you, this is no attempt at jocular misdirection," he said. "I sit here and I listen to the local color, hoping to gain insight on how the common populace communicates with one another."

The filly fought the urge to grimace. "Can I ask why...?"

"Authenticity is a tragically-missing element in romantic literature," he said. "While I strive for pathos, the realistic details I learn from taverns such as this afford me a much needed contrast that can move the hearts of those who read my material."

"Huh..." Scootaloo nodded. "...that's pretty cool."

The stallion's eyes narrowed. "Madame, is it not warm here by the fire? If you are still feeling cold, then perhaps you have fallen ill—"

"No no no I mean..." Scootaloo rolled her eyes, then smiled. "I think you have a good idea."

"Ah. Cheers."

"And you definitely don't want to try writing the way that I talk," she said, giggling. "At least not for another century and a half."

"I... shall adhere to your wisdom, my dear," the stallion rasped with a nod.

"Heehee..." Scootaloo smiled. "You're kinda funny, sir."

He bowed his head. "Saltlicky." He introduced himself. "Sir Jump of the House of Saltlicky."

"Uh huh..." Scootaloo's eyes shrank. "...wait." Her muzzle hung agape as she remembered every holiday-themed reading assignment that she had ever undergone at school. "Jump Saltlicky...?" Gasping, she pointed at the stallion. "Of course! Duke Jump Saltlicky! You're the author of A Hearth's Warming Tale!"

The stallion blinked. Hard.

"Oh dude!" Scootaloo's wingtips fluttered as she smiled. "I once played the part of Snowdash in a school play! My friend—Diamond Tiara—was Snowfall Frost and... hahaha... the role fit her perfectly! I mean... sure... she's a whole lot nicer now. She's even thinking of playing the role of the Spirit of Hearth's Warming Presents next year, but I don't think anypony can do that role better than... Pinkie... ... Pie... ... ..." Scootaloo's words trailed off as her smile faded.

The stallion had grasped all of his parchment and dragged them towards his chest. He threw a suspicious glare in Scootaloo's direction. "Who... have you been talking to...?"

Scootaloo gulped. "Uhm... uhhhhhh..."

"I've been working on A Hearth's Warming Tale for months," Saltlicky stammered, starting to shiver slightly. "My loyal editors have been dogging me at every turn. Tell me—child—did one of them send you to hound me?"

"What?! No—!"

"It's about the latest draft, is it not?!" The Duke's teeth showed in a white flash of anger. "Flintheart wants to sabotage this entire work! I swear to the Goddesses—"

"No! Jump—er... Sir Jump of the House of Saltlicky!" Scootaloo stood in her chair, clasping her forelimbs together. "I-I knew nothing about that! I swear..."

"Then how do you know of the names of my chief characters?!" His steely eyes peered. "Was my story spoken of in the streets? Well? Out with it!"

Scootaloo shivered slightly... then her whole body deflated in a well-practiced sigh. "Okay. You caught me red-hoofed." She plotted her words out carefully. "I was... rummaging through back alley trash, looking for something I could burn to keep warm. And I... found these crumpled-up sheets of paper with words written on them. I... I guess I spent the entire night reading and enjoying myself..." Her ears twitched. "... ... ...but I'm totally not an orphan."

At long last, the stallion's frame relaxed. He let go of his parchment, sitting limply in his chair with a sigh. "Damnation, I know I should never have thrown those early drafts away..."

"But... but it's good!" Scootaloo exclaimed, perking up. "Your story is super, super awesome!"

"No it isn't."

Scootaloo blinked. "Buh?"

"I have reached an impasse," Saltlicky said, mumbling out the side of his mutton chops. "And no matter how many attempts I make at rewriting the narrative, my editors are not happy with the material being produced." His nostrils flared. "Especially Flintheart."

Scootaloo loosened the folds of her orange jacket as she relaxed beside him in the fire's glow. "Why? I mean... what's wrong with the story? In... in their opinion?"

"Their opinion is one that I happen to share—at least for the most part," the Duke grumbled. "As you well know, my dear, Snowfall Frost is the protagonist, despite how conniving and antithetical to good proper Canterlot citizenship she may be..."

"Uh huh..."

"It is my grand plan for the character to undergo a dramatic emotional catharsis," Saltlicky explained. "Switching from a diabolical villain who seeks to destroy tradition to a sympathetic soul who learns to embrace the values and mirth of Hearth's Warming." He gulped. "But I've no means of properly dramatizing this shift in her personality."

"How come?" Scootaloo asked, blinking curiously.

"The three spirits of Heart's Warming visit Snowdash and proceed to lecture her on the consequences of her actions... as well as the joy of social communion of which she's not participating." Saltlicky sighed. "Alas, it amounts to a poor modern revisiting of Canterburro Tails, only without the whimsy that's most notable in Geoffrey Canter's praised writing to legitimize the flagrant antiquated reliance on pure dialogue." He lazily rotated the top hat situated on the table between them, his eyes glazed and lethargic. "For a story that relies on spectres of magic delivering morals to the main character, I fear that my latest work is sadly lacking in fantastical merit."

Silence—save for the crackle of firewood and the distant belches of ale-drinkers.

Then—rather explosively—Scootaloo sat up with a beaming smile. "Time travel!"

A few nearby heads turned.

The Duke stared right through her. "What did you just say?"

"You should totally have Snowfall Frost travel through time, dude!"

"My dear..." Saltlicky's left eyebrow twitched as she struggled to contemplate the discussion at hoof. "...how exactly does... a soul travel through... through..." He nearly spat out his pipe. "Did you say 'through time?'"

"Yeah!"

"But..." The Duke scratched his furry muzzle in deep thought. "...that is something a mortal pony simply cannot do..."

"Well, duh!" Scootaloo grinned. "Snowfall's being visited by the Spirits of the past, present, and future—isn't she?"

"Indeed."

"Then have the spirits do crazy spiritual things! Have the Spirit of Hearth's Warming Past literally take Snowfall to a moment from her own past and show her stuff from a third-pony-perspective!" Scootaloo's tail wagged as she went on. "Have the Spirit of Hearth's Warming Yet to Come do the same thing—only in the future."

"You mean... like a soothsayer might prophesy?"

"I mean have them both actually go to the future and then bring Snowfall back to the present for when she's ready to learn from all the stuff she's been through! It's a heck of a lot better than forcing the readers to endure a whole bunch of Talking Ponies Syndrome," Scootaloo said. "And if your editors can't wrap their heads around it... pffft... just pin it all on 'magic!' Ha ha!"

"Hmmmm..." The Duke scratched his chin again. "Magic. Yes... yes, it just might be a certifiable solution..."

"You wanted to get 'fantastical,' right?" Scootaloo leaned back with a nervous blush that she tried to shrug off. "What could be more fantastical than t-time travel..." She chuckled out the side of her muzzle. "Eh heh heh heh..."

Sir Jump Saltlicky leaned back, taking a deep breath. "Yes... yes. Why... this just might actually work." He cracked a smile for the first time... but it just as quickly extinguished itself. "Although..."

"What?"

"Mmmm... I do fear that my chief editor—Flintheart—will take exception to the concept." He gulped. "He already thinks that Snowfall Frost is far too quick to accept the morals being impressed upon her. According to Flintheart, Snowfall loses all merit as a believable character the moment she allows the Spirits of Hearth's Warming to trot all over."

Scootaloo looked left. She looked right. "... ... ...you mean Flintheart thinks your characters' a doormat?"

"That is hyperbolic way of putting it, although accurate."

"Pffft..." Scootaloo waved a hoof. "Buck him!"

The Duke blushed. "My dear! Your tongue—!"

"I mean it!" She smirked devilishly. "Go full-fantasy! Do something nopony's ever done before in writing! We crazy! Be imaginative! Be magical!"

"I... admittedly find the entire prospect to be most... alluring," Saltlicky said, his ears twitching with delight.

"And for the cherry on top...?" Scootaloo winked. "...name a total jerk in the story after somepony who's been a real butthead to you. That'll immortalize their stupidity for all time. I guarantee it."

"Hah hah hah!" He leaned back in his chair, adjusting his sleeves with a smile. "Well, I do not know about that... but I will most certainly think about it."

"I'm tellin' ya, Sir Duke..." Scootaloo smirked. "Do whatever it takes to make your vision a reality. Generations of ponies will adore you for it!"

"Do you truly think so?"

"Mmmhmmm! Totes, dude!"

"Well..." He shook his pipe again, smiling gently at her. "...I must insist on utilizing my own vernacular in the process, little one."

"Heh... that's fine."

"I simply..." Saltlicky shifted a bit in his seat, staring off across the tavern. "...I simply wish to share the tenderness in my heart whenever I allow my mind to wander back to the Hearths Warmings of youth. Perhaps this is a fault of my own aristocratic upbringing, but I find that the joy and poignance of holiday mirth fades over time. I very well know that most ponies in Canterlot never felt that merriment to begin with, but if I could only share it with them through my literature, then maybe—just maybe—they can experience such emotional vibrance anew..."

"Hey..." Scootaloo shrugged. "...nothing's wrong with getting a little nostalgic over things."

"Quite." He bore a bittersweet smile. "If only we could actually travel through time like our misguided Snowfall Frost. Imagine the sheer catharsis of spiritual awakening we could experience... and re-experience. I suspect the Spirits of Hearth's Warming—in their multiplicitous devotions to the ages—are the lucky ones."

Scootaloo weathered a long, warm breath as she stared into the fireplace. "It's pretty snazzy, actually..."

Saltlicky raised an eyebrow. "Miss...?"

Scootaloo stood up, curtsied, and politely said: "Sir Jump of the House of Saltlicky? Thank you most kindly. I do believe I got what I came here for."

"Is that a fact?" He pursed his lips. "Why—my dear—I greatly suspect that I have gained far more than anypony else in this establishment tonight."

"Hey! Whatever works!"

"If only there was a way I could repay you for your fortuitous precociousness," he said. "Do you need a warm meal? A place to stay? I happen to be in good favor with the local magistrate who surely would find you a family willing to provide shelter and learning."

"Nah, I'm cool," she said, trotting out. "And I'm not an orphan."

"Well, if you insist." He waved his top-hat. "Ta."

Scootaloo wandered back out into the bleary streets of Canterlot with a dumb smile on her face. She shuffled and giggled her way down the narrow straits, her head swimming with possibilities and visions. In some perverse way, she just became responsible for generations of frustrated schoolfoals angsting over stale literature homework.

"Dang it, I should go back." She looked over her shoulder with a smirk. "Tell him to add penguins with rocket launchers." Chuckling she turned to look forward again.

A wall of soot-faced colts and fillies stood in a line, glaring angrily at her.

"Whoah!" She hopped back, shivering in the coal-tainted snowfall. "Uhm... h-hey! Uh..." A cheeky smile flickered between them. "...I don't suppose you're here to set up a paintball match?"

"See!" A raspy-voiced colt pointed at Scootaloo as he whispered to the others. "Bright as summah tomatos! Just like Ah said!"

"Stands out like a bloody clown," another muttered, hooves grinding against the snow-speckled cobblestone. "Time t'give, li'il bird."

"Uhhhhh..." Scootaloo's brow furrowed. "Give what?"

"Ya've got some shiny gold on ye," the largest and oldest of the colts said. "So says Flowah Molly."

"I... I think there's been some mistake," Scootaloo stammered.

"Bit yer tongue!" A colt motioned with his hoof. "Give it."

Frowning, Scootaloo leaned forward. "And just how are you going to make me?!"

Scch-sschiing! Each of the foals suddenly brandished a shiv, club, knife, and can-opener.

Scootaloo leaned back. "Oh. Right. Um..."

"Come, now..." A scarred filly was the first to march, leading the pack towards her. "...give t'gold or yer guts!"

"I'd love to! But... erm..." Scootaloo breathed and breathed. "You're forgetting one thing!"

"Oi? Whazzat?"

Orange jacket flaring, Scootaloo pointed dramatically behind the mob. "What in Tartarus is that?!"

Flinching, the entire group spun to look—

WHUMP! Scootaloo galloped straight through them, knocking several of the street fillies and colts to the cobblestone. She made a break for it, sprinting madly down the smoky alleyways of Canterlot.

"Oi!"

"Bloody nob!"

"She's ge'in away!"

"After dat 'orse's arse!"

Scootaloo panted and panted. The streets behind her thundered with the pitter patter of grimy little hooves and scraping blades. Dashing around corners, Scootaloo passed dumb, heavy-lidded adults who just stood back in the snow, watching the bloodbath-to-be.

"Crud!" she cursed, making straight for the niche hidden behind the thicker apartments. "Frickin' peasants!"

At last, she made it to the shadowed snow-blanched garden where she had hidden her sled. Jumping behind the brambles, she fumbled madly through her jacket. She yanked out the pendant necklace by accident—cursed again—and threw it over her neck before fiddling once more for the plug to start the sled.

"Where'd she go?!"

"Back 'ere! In da garden!"

"Ach! I smell 'er!"

"Filvy rat!"

"Give us da gold!"

At long last, Scootaloo grasped the plug. In shivering hooves, she struggled, strained, and finally shoved the thing into the time machine's silver brace.

Vrommmmmmm! The crystalline cylinders beneath the chassis hummed to life. Their purple glow illuminated the mangy faces of street urchins pouring into the garden.

"'Ey! You!" One made a running leap. "C'mere—!"

"Httt!" Scootaloo simultaneously jumped on the sled and bucked behind her. Whap! She kicked the jumping foal aside, then kicked against the apartment wall. Wooooosh! She glided down the sloped niche of snow, curving around the bent and blackened building faces.

"Bloody 'ell!" somepony shouted from behind. "Where does da bird fink she's goin'?"

"???" Scootaloo looked behind her to see the foals standing in a distant line, gawking. Fwoooosh! The mountain air suddenly opened up around her. "Huh...?" Scootaloo looked forward, squinting in a crisp wind. She saw nothing but horizon. "Whoah—!"

As it turned out, those particular apartments had been built on the very precipice of southwest Canterlot, and Scootaloo was just two snowbanks away from plummeting into pure atmosphere...

"Ghhhhh!" She steered hard to her left. The sled sped in a half-circle, but the downward momentum was just too much. She flew straight for the edge, smashing through a flimsy wooden fence. "No—!"

Crash!

Splinters flew.

Scootaloo flew.

The sled flew... and then fell. Scootaloo felt her lungs emptying as her eyes filled with a bowed landscape full of forests, rivers, lakes, and farmland—all glinting beneath her from the deathly night sky. Wind howled past her ears, for soon gravity was taking control. She plummeted like an anvil towards sea level as the height of Canterlot Mountain blurred behind her.

A whimper escaped her lips. Her mind went into overdrive. Falling or flying—the fact of the matter was that she was accelerating.

"!!!" Scootaloo pulled the handles out, left and right. Click! She spun the dials at complete random, listening to the gunshot clicks of the numerical counters built into the sled. The compass spun. The counter blurred. No matter—she slapped the handles back in with vigor. CLACKKK!!!

The crystalline cylinders beneath her bubbled, glowed, and FLASHED with chronal energy. The tunnel of snow re-formed, this time a vertical cyclone that spun her in maddening circles. Her ears tickled with a hundred thousand Scootaloos mirroring her very screams. And then—as the doppelgangers and their shrieks converged upon the astronomical center—she burst through the wall of frost...

Comments

[Booster Spice]

Somehow, I dont think one of those foals is called Sergei.

Wells however.

[FanOfMostEverything]

I have to wonder how Canterlot got so Londonized this century. I can only assume Celestia took a personal Silly Accent Day and everypony else just ran with it.