Off-season

by Cloud Ring

Chapter eleven, in which scary things cease to happen, and Midnight Shadow takes certain precautions

There were barely any signs of autumn in the fast train to Manehattan. It was outside the window, in the gray-blue, cloudless but dark sky, in the wide dark river along which the rails ran, in the empty brick suburban streets. Inside, the floor and air in the compartment remained warm, and firefly lamps were almost as bright as summer's sunshine in the Season long gone.

So long gone that Midnight Shadow, the sole passenger of this compartment, hardly remembered when Princess Luna returned. She was only three years old then.

As such, for the youngest founder of Littlehorn there was no nostalgia for summer except for some rare uneasy dreams, nor could there be.

Had she been born a little earlier, she might have remembered a bright, simple time when every monster was just a monster.

Had she been much younger, she most likely would have regarded herself among monsters or other Children of the Night, at least in part. Her bloodline left her no other option.

As she was now, at her sixteen, five years younger than Cutie Mark Crusaders, she was a completely normal unicorn, one of Princess Luna's few students, but still normal. Definitely, she was more adept in formal magic arts now than Beatrix Lulamoon ever had been. Midnight Shadow strongly resembled Beatrix by her coloring, Mark and facial features. Nevertheless, despite persistent rumors, Midnight Shadow considered herself neither Beatrix's daughter nor rival.

As Piercing Strike admitted, or rather, that half of her that resided in the purple batpony body did, this body was indeed stolen, but Piercing Strike did not steal it personally, nor she paid up for it with money. Moreover, the one who gave the body to her also did not participate in the theft, but received it, in turn, from the previous carrier as an empty, ownerless vessel. The same was true for all the other bodies of the four who caused a commotion in Baltimare. Or so Piercing Strike said.

Yes, they were once born. No, they never had their own soul, mind, or consciousness… until other souls settled in these bodies to eventually pass them on.

Piercing believed her words. Midnight Shadow had her doubts. In fact, no mother would believe Piercing. Nor any adult pony who had a hint of a thought about bringing foals up to this world.

For the soul and name to not come into the body for months and months before birth, something outlandish had to happen to prevent the natural course of life. Midnight had trouble imagining what exactly, and a thorough search of the Canterlot libraries gave her not a hint.

Such a thing simply could not be; moreover, a polite request through the portal received an equally polite response that briefly and dryly amounted to the same. "It does not happen; and it never did."

However, this still did not mean the batpony was lying. All but a foal herself, save her Mark, she might not have known.

The Central Station of Manehattan greeted Midnight with hustle and bustle. She was almost knocked down by a small string of ponies departing either to the center or south of the continent. Rumors that after the fall there would be the winter of the same kind were irrepressible, so Twilight Sparkle simply took migration into account. Midnight knew that Off-season did not manifest that way.

She walked past the trading rows next to the platform. She noticed flowers for sale, both for decoration and food, and some of them, it seemed, themselves would not mind something living and moving in their spiky petals. She looked them over but did not buy anything, as there was no mint, no hops, while chamomile and lavender cost an outrageous ten bits for a small bouquet.

Last year in Fillydelphia one of the blood relatives of this impossible purple batpony's body had sought medical help due to a serious flying injury. From there, an investigation was a question of not overly complicated but meticulous paperwork.

Midnight had the address

Along the way she clarified the route a few times with passersby. Just in case, she sent a postcard to the capital saying she was almost there. Not that she feared anything, just that Manehattan had never been especially adherent to Harmony. Rather the opposite. This was often the case with large cities, and for Manehattan it was barely anything to be surprised about. It was said one could run into adventures here, and that everypony for themselves in the big city.

Or as the saying went, "Keep an eye on your tail in Manehattan."

Before the last stretch to the destination, she had a snack at a cafe on an open veranda across from the exact address.

The red brick warehouse looked uninhabited, yet was definitely listed as owned by and home to the local Strikes family branch. Next to it, providing a calming contrast, lay a well-kept green lawn, separated from the asphalt by a thin edge of gravel. Several nameplates along the lawn perimeter also confirmed the address; no fences.

Something about it bothered her more than a little.

When a pony converses with a low-ranking changeling, the first few minutes of conversation may seem normal, but sooner or later the fact that such changelings are physically incapable to maintain a detailed personality will show up. Reactions will be too primitive, emotions too crude, replies off-topic and out of sync; and though it is almost impossible to describe exactly what is wrong, instinct would tell you — this pony is a fake.

The warehouse Midnight was looking at could not be a changeling, but she had heard Piercing Strike's story, had changelings on her mind, and could not help matching one to the other. The windows were at the wrong height, the door was not high enough that a ladder would be needed but one would have to jump up to the doorframe, the roof slopes sloped by uneven angles—

She took a sip from the cup of lime tea brought to her. When she looked at the warehouse again, it looked absolutely normal.

Midnight shook her head and cast minor detection and illusion spells. They responded but yielded no answer. She continued with minor dispel as well, taking care that the patterns remained unnoticeable and the true form visible only to her.

There were no illusions... or rather, there were in the first few seconds, yet by the time of the second, more complex spell they were gone. She checked for influences on the mind as well. Spells returned to her without a definite response.

Midnight frowned again. She took another look at the response in the corner of her eye. It was neither "no" or "yes" with attached details. Not even "unknown" or "error", whatever error it may have been. Her spells worked correctly but brought no answer.

She wrote a report on three napkins and with a flash of magical fire sent it to Ponyville. She chuckled and asked the waitress what she knew about this building.

The olive yellow pegasus rubbed her forehead and replied, "Nothing special? It's always been here. Three unicorns live there, they trade with outsiders from the portal, Gentleponies, know how to tip and remember my name."

Midnight blushed a little, but did not ask for a name, as it would have been too awkward. Instead, she asked something else, "Can I see them?"

"Maybe day after tomorrow? On Saturday. They're only open on weekends."

Midnight raised an eyebrow, "Just on weekends, not weekdays?"

"Well, maybe it's more convenient for outsiders," the waitress twitched her wings. "By the way, I'm Swift Delivery, or just Deli."

Midnight giggled awkwardly, repeated her name as she paid for the tea and pastry, and headed toward the warehouse.

By the end of her shift, Swift Delivery had forgotten about this customer. While cleaning the veranda for the next day, she noticed a note stuck to the back of the table top, written in neat, flowing hornwriting and accompanied by a replica of a Mark: a white seven-pointed star inscribed in a white crescent moon:

"If I do not return and you read this, let Princess of Friendship Twilight Sparkle know that I am in trouble. Midnight Shadow."

On the way to the post office the pegasus forgot about it twice, but each time the note in her cloth bag reminded her with a mild electric shock to her right thigh, and she remembered.

Having sent the letter, she forgot about it for good.

Author's Note: