The Highest Shelf

by re- Yamsmos

At Least I Thought So

Something has broken.

And this time, she has the option of physically beholding it before herself instead of finding it in a discarded shard of roadside glass, and so she does so, and as the pebbles first scatter and then dig little trenches into and across her jacket, she has to shake her head and stop from aptly, aggressively rapping on it for not knowing her trusty ride inside, out, and in again. A simple lesson or two— self-taught of course, or maybe with a literary aid—and a few spare minutes of her time, and she'd be all set to simply replace what all needed work and be back on her oh-so-merry way in the span of little less than half an hour or so.

Now she's lying on her back in a pile of sharp, multitudinous rocks, doing maintenance in the middle of the waning, bleeding, orange-ing sun leaving her life to replace it with cold brought upon by a distant—more accurately opposite—cousin, whose assuredly hurried arrival would mean nothing but halting herself in her winding tracks, slashing a dark red X on her eternal progress, and sticking around for much too long in a place she wasn't familiar with. The feeling and event weren't all too foreign or overall alien to her, in fact being something she'd pretty much experienced every day's end, but the groans and sighs that escaped her lips every time she begrudgingly met it told much more novice stories.

What's left of Celestia's bright Object peeks out at her from behind her prior shield of a curled hindleg, and she raises a fore this time, seethes, and pulls her neck waaaay back to try and stop blindness before it gracefully afflicted her. Bringing up her tail in a last-second idea, she reverts her attention back to the mess of parts—metal and plastic—that sit a bare inch from the end of her muzzle, scrunches up her nose, and shakes her head to ask nopony what in the Hell she's even looking at. It seems to be a silent argument; she crosses her forelegs in a lazy X-shape and pouts out her lower lip, taking the silent stretching minutes to glance about at things that looked to be a little out of place, then things that were obviously out of place. Both solo search parties end up as fruitless as winter, and the argument is resoundingly finished. Her motorcycle has won this time, adding another tally to its long list that easily beats her non-existent one zero-to-now-twenty-three. As if to try and get the last word in, she lays there still, then flops her forelegs out in a spread eagle with a more improper curse threatening to spill from her lips. The sensation passes, fueled by her recent interest and belief in constant superstition, and, stomach bubbling at the thought of what she's left with, she rolls her purple eyes, groans a long groan that comes out as more of a growling hiss, and scrambles out from underneath her motorcycle, jumping onto all fours and swaying at her instantly regrettable swiftness. Shaking the stars and ice from her head, she takes a second—or fifteen—to aggressively rub at her eyes, lull her tongue out for a drawn-out yawn, and strike a pose for nobody but the shrouding trees, distant hills, and much-too-close cliff to see.

Lips pursed, she looks so far to her left that it becomes her immediate right.

There's a small incline just past where her ride idly sits, going toward the shadowed grove of treeline and ending in an oddly flat section of grass and dirt that seems to become sparser and more inviting the longer she looks at it. She scratches at something on her cheek, lowers the hoof, then goes back at it at a different angle.

She sucks in a breath through her nostrils that croaks and snorts.

She puffs out her cheeks.

Well damn.

Here was as good a place as any.

She's barely even turned around to access her bag before she stops, glaring at the road... apparently.

BUT! She better make up for lost time tomorrow! Wake up early, skip breakfast, and try and make as much ground as possible before Luna's Grace greeted her again.

She tosses the condition around for a few seconds, her mind already becoming completely okay with it, and hums.

Well, that's fair. She did waste half a half hour just glaring at her motorcycle when it suddenly stopped on the road. Yeah, yeah that was fair. Fair's fair.

All right. Wake up early—probably around daybreak, so six or seven or so—skip her morning meal—which she was probably gonna do anyway—and put more distance between her and everypony else. The mountain seemed to be taking her up and to the North, so... maybe that was the best place to go. Just as long as she didn't get too far and end up finding visions of Sombrero or whatever... yeah, North seemed fine. Maybe she could take a visit to Rainbow Falls. She'd never been this late in the year, but the, well, the rainbow falls probably still looked just as cool.

She reaches to the side of her motorcycle, realizing her earlier mistake, and pulls out the long canvas bag from its hidey-hole. Lightly tossing it over to the bare patch of ground, she returns her gaze to her bike, kicks up the kickstand with a well-trained swing of her hindleg, and slowly wheels her friend over to their resting stop for the night. Taking a second to make sure of its sturdiness, she tests the ground with a free leg, remembers that that literally does nothing, and finally unlatches the kickstand to watch her ride stand perfectly upright. She hums a low note—the beginnings of a song she used to like—and double-checks her helmet's position before giving her full attention back to the canvas bag lying on the ground before her.

She loosens the binds that hold the bag closed, and first pulls out the thin base cover, which she lays flat on the ground, kneels over, and presses any creases and lumps out of. The wall and rainfly—bound by velcro—come out in matrimony, and she shakes dirt and other foreign objects free, walks over the base cover, and places the two atop it. Left rattling in the bag as she holds it are the extendable poles, which dangle and shimmy and shake before she curses at them, where they then increase their efforts and further dirty her tongue. Assembling the first curve, she sticks one end into the wall's grommet, minds her head, turns around, and does the same with the opposite corner. She puts together the second curve, and repeats the maneuver, then clips the pyramidion of the rainfly to the middle of the pole's criss-cross, loops its straps around the stronger parts of the poles, and brings the whole thing up with a grunt.

There.

Just as awkward, totally not right, and novice-looking as usual.

She really should've figured out how to actually put this thing together when she bought it.

Despite her utter misgivings, she cracks a smile to herself in the light of the orange sky, falls to her haunches, throws her forelegs against her hips, then claps them free of the dust that wasn't there in the first place. They return to her sides.

Home, sweet temporary home.

Rotating about to reach for the bags on her motorcycle again, she pulls out one of the longer bags in her collection, unzips it, and pulls out her lazy canvas chair, which she swiftly unfolds, sets into place next to her tent, and sinks down into... only to remember that the rest of her stuff is far, far away from her now. Groaning, she gets up, takes three steps back to her bike, and pulls out her little folding table, equally little canister of propane—which she notes, as she shakes it idly, to be less than half empty now—and camping stove. She sets the former out on the ground in front of her chair, then places the second, then the third on top of it, on top of... it. A soup pot, previously hanging off the left side of her rear wheel, goes on top of that. Table, propane, stove, pot. It's becoming a bit of a pyramid now.

A bottle of warm water empties into the pot with her aid, then goes into her mess of a backpack alongside some assorted snacks that have probably gone bad by now. She flicks on the stove with a hoof, shoulders the backpack, then drops back into her chair. The backpack swings around over her chest, then falls onto the ground and gets thoroughly dug into, finally relinquishing its hold on a small white rectangular packet lined with red logos, words, and instructions. She may not be in the mood for soup, or really much of anything right now, but a nice cup of hot cocoa was always welcome, no matter how set she was on starving herself. As the water heats up, she sits back and stares up at the increasingly appearing maze of stars above her head, bringing in more and more and more of their close friends, distant relatives, and familial figures as the sky's orange glow takes on a purple and black haze. The hoof pinching the top of the hot chocolate packet shakes loose the clumps and bubbles surely nestled inside. She lets out a breath, then, finding it visible and wispy, lets out another, and an odd giggle spills out her mouth, sending out more wisps that, in her new rest, slowly lift far and high above her head, disappearing into the reborn night.

The shadows of her though rather small fire dance along the stretched canvas of her tent in a bombastic, almost frenzied kind of coordination, and she can't help but crack a smile behind the warmth of her fluffy scarf as she catches sight of the little event.

She gives them a new friend with a pair of needle-pinned hooves, and despite its unlovable lump of a hopeless figure, the group welcomes it all the same.