> Not All Who Wander Are Lost
>  by RazedRainbow
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Stage One: Ponyville
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Stage One: Ponyville



~ Scootaloo ~
~ Daring Do ~


“Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow, but this same necessity of loving serves to counteract their grief and heals them.”

-Leo Tolstoy
> Chapter One
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter One


Scootaloo ran her hoof through the cumulus and watched the plumes drift off into the sky. They swirled, looped, and dipped. She leaned back, rested her head in her crossed forelegs, let out a blissful sigh. A performance just for her. The sun peeked out from behind a groaning white cumulonimbus. No risk of raining on her chillaxing session. She shut her eyes. For reasons she couldn’t explain, that simple act caused the warmth of the sun to increase tenfold. Eternities could be spent lying like this. Her mane flicked against her face, annoying yet so very cool. While she couldn’t say she knew exactly what paradise was like, she was pretty sure it was the spitting image of this.

She opened her eyes again, flinching as they adjusted to the sunlight. She turned her head and watched more thick plumes of cumulonimbus drift along below her. She couldn’t help but laugh. All her life she had wanted to harness the thrilling aspects of the sky: the daring tricks, the skull-crushing speeds, the endless freedom. As she laid upon the clouds, she realized that she enjoyed the meditative qualities of the upper-world just as well. She adored it all: the unceasing cloud ballets, the cooling drops of rain from a summer evening storm watching wisps of cirrus dance. She could spend hours listening to the ravens’ calls as they soared through the sky, nothing more than a pinprick against the expansive, blue backdrop. It was calming, enthralling, and she couldn’t get enough.

“Hey, squirt!” cried an unmistakable, raspy voice.

Oh yeah, Scootaloo thought, it's definitely paradise. She rose on dozing hooves. She stretched her wings, shook her legs, and craned her neck. Her legs were still pins and needles when she lifted off of the cloud. They'd just have to catch up. A real stunt flier waited for no one.

Flight was still an odd experience for her. When she was younger, it had escaped her like the answers to the universe. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get her hooves off the ground for more than a second or two. However, once she had harnessed it, the act became second-nature, like walking or breathing.

She hovered into the air and found herself face to face with an angel, complete with coarse voice, rainbow mane, and somewhat obnoxious attitude. Sure, Rainbow Dash was anything but perfect, but then again, who was? She was close enough. All that mattered was that she had taken her under her wing, taught her to fly, and shown her the pegasus way of life. They stared at each other intently, eyes filled with a hunger for speed and a desire for adventure.

Rainbow tossed her mane. Beams of light flickered off the colors nearly blinding Scootaloo. She kept herself mostly steady, but all it took was a single wobble to draw a rasping chuckle from Rainbow Dash. “So, are you going to lollygag on the clouds all day, or are you going to do something productive?”

“Oh, so taking twenty-two hour long naps like you do?” Scootaloo smirked. Bad move. Rainbow Dash's nose was against hers in an instant, nearly knocking her into a back flip.

“My naps only last seventeen hours, thank you very much!”

“Is there a difference?” .

“Are you asking to get your flank kicked?” Dash's mane whipped against Scootaloo's face. It smelled of lightning and rain. Scootaloo never could forget the smell. She titlted again in the air. Rainbow did not seem to notice through the fire burning in her eyes.

After a long pause (for dramatic effect, as she had had been taught), Scootaloo finally let out a scoff of her own. “I’d like to see you try.”

A grin tugged at Rainbow's scowl. “Fine! If that’s the way you want it to be. Here, to Cloudsadale, to Ponyville, then back here. No breaks, no water, no exceptions.”

“You're on.” The pegasi hovered down to a thin sheet of altostratus. Rainbow drew a line along its surface. Bits of cloud sailed off toward the horizon. The air had stilled, yet onward they marched. Scootaloo stared down at her hooves. Was this really what cloud felt like? It was nice, but almost too fluffy. Like a mattress more than a solid surface. She nearly fell to the side as she tilted. Focus, girl, she chided as she leaned down into a starting position.

“On the count of three,” Rainbow said, lowering herself as well. She met Scootaloo's gaze. The grin she wore could calm a storm. “One... twothree!” Rainbow was off in a flash.

“Hey!” Scootaloo cried out, flapping desperately to catch up. They fell out of sync, she pulled a barrell roll and nearly lost direction. She leveled out and stared down a distant rainbow tail. “That’s cheating, Rainbow!”

“If you aren't cheating, you aren't trying!”

“I thought we were flying an honest race!”

“Honesty ain’t my element, squirt.”

Scootaloo ignored her. Race first, retort later. One, two, flap. One, two, flap. Slowly but surely, she began to catch up. All it would take was one misflap from Rainbow. A rare occurrence, but probable. Said opportunity came in the form of a flock of crows. Scootaloo dipped below while Rainbow narrowly avoided a collision above. Scootaloo fell in line, laughing at Rainbow's string of curses.

They were neck and neck from Cloudsdale to Sweet Apple Acres. Fire shot up Scootaloo's wings. Her left one had lost feeling two farmsteads ago. Stupid, she cursed as she chewed down on her lip. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You should have stretched. You shouldn't have gone and wasted away instead of practicing. Her wing stiffened. This time, she did lose balance. The clouds spun and blurred before her. She righted herself again, swaying in the air, bouncing into Rainbow Dash. Good. She hadn't lost much time.

“You okay, squirt?” Rainbow called out. Her grin was gone. She almost looked concerned.

“Of course I am!” Scootaloo shouted, closing her eyes, hoping it would calibrate her bearings. When she opened them again, the world blurred and jumped as violent as ever.

“I don’t want you crashing on me." Rainbow's voice seemed miles away. Scootaloo bit back the fire. How'd she fall so far behind so quick? "If you need to stop, it's cool. I don't want you hurti—”

“I don’t need anypony’s help!”

Her wing cramped again, then locked. She tumbled through the air. Ground, sky, ground, sky—the world was a blur. Bile rose in her shifting throat. With each rotation, the trees below were closer. Celestia, she could count the leaves. Her chest went hollow and all went quiet.

I’m gonna die! I’m gonna to die! She kicked her legs in a panic. Maybe they would work. She shrieked. Said shriek continued even after her voice shattered. Scootaloo stole a flickering glance upwards.

Rainbow sped towards her, eyes squinted in determination. A cone formed around Rainbow. A cone that Scootaloo had only heard about in stories. She couldn’t help but smile. If the last thing she saw was a Sonic Rainboom, then she could die a happy mare.

She could feel leaves brush and crack against the back of her head. The cone had reached its breaking point. Too little, too late, but what a way to go out. She just hoped she could see the burst before she hit the branches.

This is it...

“Scootaloo...”

I’m ready...

“Scootaloo!”

Scootaloo was blinded by a wave of light


* * *


“Scootaloo! Wake up!”

She slowly opened her eyes and glanced around the room. Her vision was blurry. The air around her smelled of wood and ink. Her cheek was damp with drool, and there was a putrid taste in the back of her throat. She lazily licked her chapped lips and attempted to lift her head off of the book, but the parchment and ink beckoned her like a Siren’s call. Her face fell flat onto the pages.

“Scootaloo, get up!”

“Fibe muhr minutz, Twi’ligh,” Scootaloo mumbled. Paper tasted super weird. “I wasb habin’ dish aweshume dreham.”

“This isn’t a hotel, and my books are certainly not meant to be used as pillows. Now, hurry up... I'm locking up in a few minutes.”

“What?” Scootaloo lifted her head from the book and squinted up at Twilight, then out the window. Sunlight painted a warm scene. Fillies and colts raced around the side streets, book-filled saddlebags still tied tautly to their backs. “It’s, like, noon!”

“Actually, it’s two o'clock,” Twilight corrected.

“Like that matters. I thought the library stays open until seven!”

Twilight raised a forehoof and closed her eyes. Scootaloo's ears flattened, bracing for an incoming lecture. “Okay, first, you and I both know that you’re not allowed to be here for that long. Second, I have a very important meeting with a friend. I'm closing up early.”

"Alright." Scootaloo shrugged. "I'll be sure to lock up for you." She returned her head to the comfort of the book-pillow. She could get used to this. It wasn't that uncomfortable, despite its nerdiness.

Twilight rolled her eyes. “Now you’re just being silly. Fine then, I hate to do this, but you leave me no choice.” A purple glow and sense of weightlessness suddenly enveloped Scootaloo. Warmness coursed through her veins and cleared her groggy mind. She smiled for a second before realizing that Twilight was levitating her. “Come on, Twilight! I was reading!”

Twilight smiled. “Oh, really? I didn’t know one could read through osmosis.”

“Os-what?”

“Osmosis: The process of gradual or unconscious assimilation of ideas.”

Scootaloo stared at her, mouth agape. Were those even words?  “Look, Twilight... Come on, Twilight, put me down! I can walk myself out.”

Without hesitation, Twilight set her down. Unfortunately for Scootaloo, her legs were still asleep, and she fell with a thump as soon as her hooves touched the floor. Ow.

“Oh my goodness! Scootaloo, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Scootaloo winced but brushed off her blank flank with a cough. Stupid legs. Her wings betrayed her enough already, she didn't need them joining the rebellion. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just gotta wake up.” She stretched herself out. Sensation trickled down to her hooves, dusting off the pins and needles. She shook herself off and popped her neck before heading back towards the desk.

 Twilight rolled her eyes and followed. “Scootaloo, the door’s that way,” she said, nodding over her withers.

Scootaloo could hear the familiar fizzle of a horn powering up once again. She'd be prepared this time. "You think I don’t know that? I'll be there in a sec.”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” Twilight muttered.

“Look, I just want to check out a book, Twilight. That’s all.”

“Okay, but are you actually going to read it?”

“Of course I am.”

“I’m not going to let you check it out if you aren’t going to read it. I have no qualms with quizzing you afterwards.”

“And why do you believe I won’t read it?”

“You just don’t strike me as the reading type.”

“I bet Rainbow didn’t seem like the ‘reading type’ either.”

Twilight gasped and took a step back. Her ears folded against the sides of her head as she traced the ground with her eyes. The silence was cut by steadily rising breaths. Scootaloo's felt her eyes brimming. No. No, not now. “Sorry... sorry for that, Twilight.” She joined the librarian in staring at the floor. She heard a sniffle. She could not be sure it wasn't her own.

“It’s fine, Scootaloo. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” Twilight’s voice trembled.

Scootaloo began to take silent steps toward the table had been using as a bed. Twilight fell in line not long after. Two books lay upon the chair, and another lay open on the table, a stain still standing out on the page. Giving Twilight a sheepish grin, Scootaloo closed the book and took its spine in her teeth. The taste of old hayburgers filled her mouth. She nearly gagged. Salvation came in the form of a telekinetic spell. Twilight said nothing as she walked over to the checkout desk. She placed it on the desk and stared down. She blanched.

“Um, Scootaloo?” Twilight’s voice shook as much as her hoof as it ran along the cover.

“Yeah?”

“Why--” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Why are you getting this book?”

“Eh, I don’t know. Rainbow mentioned the books a few times. She said they were ‘awesome’ and ‘cool,’ so I decided to give ‘em a shot. I got to, uh..." Scootaloo racked her brain for a number, something that would make Twilight think that she had actually read the book, rather than passing out as soon as she had opened it to a random page. "Chapter five! It was pretty good. Love the part with the whips and the ponies doing the things and all that. Yeah, books!" She lowered her gaze. "I promise I’ll finish it.”

Twilight didn’t react; she was in a whole other world, her shoulders and back tensed, her head lowered to the point that her chin nearly brushed the cover. She stared at Scootaloo for but a moment before averting her gaze. “Scoots.” Scootaloo raised a foreleg. Twilight had never called her by that nickname before. Hay, Scootaloo had never heard Twilight use anypony's nickname before. She needed to sit down. Was it just her, or had the air stopped circulating? She sucked in a dry breath. Finally, Twilight continued. “Why did you come here?”

“To read, duh...”

“Yes, but did you, um, come here for this book specifically?”

“Well, a book in the series, yeah. Why? Is that a problem?”

Twilight blinked and wiped an eye with her forehoof. “No, I was just wondering.”

Silence overtook them once more. Twilight completed the proper checkout procedures without making eye contact. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere. For a moment, Scotaloo was thankful for the silence. No doubt a talkative Twilight would probably lecture her about damaging library property or something, but as the librarian stamped away in silence, Scootaloo found herself wishing for that lecture. Something. Anything.

Twilight pushed the book forward without a word. Scootaloo picked up the book in, gave Twilight a nod of gratitude, and stuffed it into her cyan saddlebags. Once the book was secure, she trotted to a nearby bookcase and collected the scooter and helmet leaning against it. She brushed her mane back with one hoof and placed her helmet on her head with the other. Two clicks of the straps later she was good to go. The scooter rattled across the uneven floor. At least it was a sound.

Scootaloo jumped from the top step, landing atop her scooter with a flutter of her wings. On a 'cool landing' scaled, she'd give it around an eight. She shook out her wings. Before speeding off, she once again looked at Twilight. As expected, she had followed her in silence. “Thanks, Twilight. See ya later!” Maybe that would get her talking. No dice. The unicorn merely nodded, eyes still downcast.

Scootaloo rolled forward, beating her wings slowly before picking up speed. She glanced back at the library and saw Twilight standing in the doorframe. Scootaloo stopped and called back. “Twilight... are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah... I’m fine,” Twilight replied. At least her attention was focused on the sky now. Scootaloo turned her head and searched the sky for what had caught Twilight’s eye. A faint rainbow hung just above the distant hilltops. Scootaloo felt a lump choke her throat. She swallowed it away with a gasping breath.

“Have a good evening, Scootaloo.” Twilight’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Yeah... yeah, you too...” Scootaloo couldn’t get out of there fast enough.


* * *


Maybe it was just her cocky nature, but Scootaloo was certain that nopony in Equestria could ride a scooter like she could. The speeds she could reach, combined with the tricks she could pull off, were a skill-set that made even the most gutsy of ponies’ jaws drop. Ironic then that her talent with a scooter was not, in fact, her special talent. If she was meant to get a scooter cutie mark, she would have gotten it months—years—ago. She looked at her flank out of habit.

Nope, still blank.

She sighed and focused on the road. Normally, she hated the long route from downtown Ponyville to her house on the outskirts, but this was one of those exceptions. The only sounds she heard were the clicking of pebbles and twigs beneath her scooter. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was flying.

The smell of grass and the water of a nearby stream covered her mind’s canvas with green and blue, while the sound of a cold wind rustling the autumn leaves added a layer of yellow and violet. The red handlebars shook in her hooves. She grinned and could taste the moist wind as it blew through her teeth, topping off her image with a hint of indigo. This must be what flying looked like: a spitting image of a rainbow.

Rainbow...

Mentioning her name in front of Twilight had been hard enough. The actual, unprovoked mental vision hurt even more. Scootaloo had tried being tough, tough like her, but that was impossible. Her vision blurred as her hooves started to shake. Handlebars twisting in her hooves, the scooter swerved across the path, nearly sending her sprawling. She came to a stop on the side of the path and sat down in the grass, inhaling and exhaling frantically. She looked to her right. There was enough light in the sky to see where she was going. She was only five minutes from home. She could take as long of a breather as she wanted. A smirk pulled at her lips. Her father always told her to be back before sunset, and Scootaloo loved to push that envelope. She looked in front of her and realized where she was. The smirk faded.

A garden of granite and shadows loomed on the other side of the fence.

Every muscle in her body shook. Stumbling over her own hooves, Scootaloo scurried onto her scooter and fled down the path. The air bellowed as Scootaloo sped down the path. She knew crashing at this speed would be dangerous, but that didn’t matter. The only thing she could think about was getting as far away from that accursed place as quickly as possible.

Glancing to her left, she saw the outline of a cottage. Its windows were dark, just as they had been for the past two weeks. Her forelegs turned slightly. She had time for a quick visit. A little bit of company never hurt anypony, even a pony as isolated as Fluttershy. Despite her forehooves' insistence, she dug a hind hoof into the gravel halfway down the path. Being around Twilight had left her shaking; seeing Fluttershy would break her entirely. She waited a few moments. The sky darkened around the cottage, but no candle lit. She listened for the distant song of birds or splashes of fish but only silence populated the area. With a sigh, Scootaloo turned her scooter around and returned to the main road.

As she crested a large hill, she could make out her house. Light shone from the first story, and she groaned. That meant her father was home and waiting for her. She looked to the left and saw that there was still plenty of light in the sky—at least by her standards. She gave her wings a hard flap, and continued down the dirt road. She rolled up to the front steps and hopped off of the scooter, hastily removing her helmet. After checking her saddlebags to make sure her book hadn’t fallen out during the ride, she ran up the steps as fast as her legs could carry her. If she got inside and up the stairs quick enough, maybe her dad wouldn't notice.

The door flew open as she reached for it.

Rats.

Her father stood in the doorway, fearful eyes darting from her, to the horizon, and back to her. He was breathing heavily, and she could see that every muscle in his body was tense. He looked at her and the road behind her several more times, his muscles slackening with each glance. Eventually, only his heavy breathing remained. He looked down at Scootaloo, glaring daggers.

“Inside. Now!”

She entered the gaudy living room and searched for something to focus on. Her gaze shifted from the pale-mauve drapes, to her father’s unfinished sculptures in the corner of the den, and finally to the single couch that occupied the center of the room. Finding no viable distractions, she looked up at her father.

“H-hey D-d-dad,” she said, trying to shoot an innocent smile. She missed. Her lips trembled.

“Scootaloo! Du bist spät Fräulein!” Maler scolded, slipping into his native Germane tongue.

“I’m pretty sure there’s still light in the sky, Dad.”

She had him there. If anything, she was earlier than usual. Still, she could hear his heart from across the room. His hooves paced in place as he stared her down, eyebrows furrowed. What would it be this time? Grounded for life? Bed without dinner? His expression finally slackened, and Scootaloo sighed. At least she'd get an opportunity to defend herself.

“Where were you, Töchterchen? Hanging out with friends?”

“I was at the...” The words drifted off. There was no chance that he would believe her.

He leaned forward. “Where were you?”

“The library,” Scootaloo replied flatly, eyes downcast.

“You? At the library? That’s the best excuse you can come up with?”

“Hey, I’ve got the book right here!” She yanked open her saddlebag and pulled out a large book with a red cover. The cover depicted a pegasus with a golden yellow coat, cocky grin and trademark hat fighting an army of skeletons.

“Daring Do and the Phoenix Pool." He chuckled. "Well, I'll be. I used to read these books when I was colt!

“Wow," Scootaloo said, "they’re that old?”

“Are you calling me old, Töchterchen?” He smirked. Scootaloo said nothing, choosing to focus on the floorboards once more.

“So,” he continued. “Why did you get this? I know you, and I know that you hold books on the same level as broccoli and cough syrup." He laughed again. "Not saying that it’s a bad thing to start. It's just... odd.”

“I...” She drifted off, not sure if she wanted to mention the real reasons. Reality hurt too much, but at the same time, her father could see through her like thin air. Any excuse she made—any lie she told—would be detected by her father’s ever-judging eyes. She sighed and continued, “Rainbow used to talk about how ‘awesome’ they were and, well, I could use some ‘awesome’ right now.”

Her father let out a slow breath and knelt down next to his daughter. He wrapped his forelegs around her and nuzzled her cheek. “Well, from experience, I can confirm that these books are... what you call it? Awesome?”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“Although...” His face tensed up again as he read the cover. “You do realize that this is not the first book, right?” He adjusted his glasses as he stared at the cover. "I've never even read this one."

“Oh, horseappl—” She covered her mouth, hoping that it would mute the profanity. It was not enough.

“Scootaloo C. Dronte, what did I tell you about using such vile language?” Her father's face bore a mask of forced disapproval.

“Never use it.” She guiltily sighed.

“You’re damn right.” His lips pulled up in a grin.

“Hypocrite!” she cried.

“Do you even know what that word means?”

“Yeah... well, no, but I’ve heard it used to describe ponies like you!”

He chuckled. “Okay, you’ve got me." The chuckle ended in a frown as he tilted the boom, studying it like a slab of marble. He sighed. "Yeah, I remember this one. I'll warn you, if memory serves correct, this book didn't get good reviews. Series really changed for worse after this from what I read, but I believe the series doesn’t have much in the way of... what is the word? Continuity? You will probably understand what you're reading even if it is not the first book. Though if you want to actually get into it, maybe a better one?"

“Eh, I'll be fine. I don’t want to go all the way back to the library just so I can get the first book." She winced and shook her head. "Especially not after how Twilight acted.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know," Scootaloo said. "She saw that I was getting one of these Daring Do books, and then she started asking me all these questions. Why I was getting it. Who I heard about it from. And then she got all sad.”

“Well, that's understandable."

“But why? It's just a book.” Despite the words, Scootaloo felt a hole being bored into her chest. She felt like falling onto her haunches.

“You'll understand some day, sweetheart. Hopefully not any day soon." He adjusted his glasses, then tapped his hoof on the floorboard. The sound of boiling water wafted into the den. He smiled. "Say, are you hungry?” he cooed, kneeling beside her again, and wrapping a foreleg over the back of her neck.

“As a horse!” Scootaloo exclaimed, giggling. Her father seemed to appreciate the joke. He shook his head but smiled nonetheless.

“Well, that’s good because I wasn't making anything you’d like,”

“Oh... what are we having?” Her ears drooped.

“Just some icky, gross... spargel!”

“Really?” Scootaloo took to the sky, fluttering her wings and landing on all four hooves not a second later. “Meanie! You almost tricked me.”

“You and I both know that my cooking is atrocious at best.”

“If by 'atrocious' you mean totally awesome, then yeah. Unless you’re baking. That...” Scootaloo shuddered as she thought back to the gingerbread cookie disaster two Hearth’s Warming Eves ago.

Her father rolled his eyes and grimaced. The house had smelled of burning vanilla until Winter Wrap Up. “Wahr, wahr. So, what do you say? You think you can handle it?”

"I was born ready!" Scootaloo yelled. Out of habit, she lowered herself into a starting position, and her father followed suit. Their eyes met.

Her father grinned. “Drei... zwei... eins... los!" The sound of clattering hooves and raucous laughter filled the house. It was but a moment, but it was the little things that helped Scootaloo forget. A moment was better than nothing.


* * *


Scootaloo stumbled into her bedroom. “Goodnight, Dad!”.

“Goodnight, Töchterchen! Sweet dreams,” Dad called out, his voice muted by the door to his studio.

"Okay, I'll see you in the morning," she said between yawns as she closed the door.She flapped her wings. Flight once again escaped her, but it was enough to plop herself into bed. It wasn't a marathon, but it was progress. Lying around and moping wouldn’t help anything anyway. 'You don’t learn to fly by sitting on your flank all day. You learn to fly by jumping off a cliff.'  That’s what Rainbow had told her. Sure, she had taken that message a little too literally at first, but over time she had grown to understand the meaning behind Rainbow’s words.

Rainbow.

Her mind really needed to stop drifting there. The nightmares were bad enough. She let her head sink into the pillow, and her mind drifted back to the dream she had at the library, specifically the fall. The tumbling, the pleading, the realization. What would it have felt like if she had hit? Would she have hit at all? It was just a dream, but.... She clenched her teeth and shut her eyes. The tears pushed and pried but she stood firm. No... I have to be brave. I have to be strong. I have to...

But she wasn't. A single tear broke free and trickled down her cheek. Then another. Then dozens upon dozens. She buried her face in the pillow to hide her sobs.

She slammed her hoof into the pillow with each gasp. Stupid. Weak. There were several things that she wanted to preserve—her mask of toughness was one of them. She hated herself for crying, but she just couldn't win. In the back of her mind, she had planted the idea that maybe, just maybe, her tears would bring those she loved back to her. Only that would make the stupid things worth it. Unfortunately, even in a magical land like Equestria, tears did little more dampen pillows.

She wiped her eyes and looked around her room. Most of her Rainbow Dash collection remained intact. The core from the apple Dash had eaten at the centennial meteor shower lay on a shelf, right next to a rainbow-wig. Wonderbolts posters and memorabilia lined all four walls (Scootaloo couldn’t recall what the walls underneath even looked like). Her gaze drifted to the nightstand, and the two items that lay upon it: a pair of goggles and a face-down picture.

Design-wise, there was nothing particularly special about the goggles. They were a generic set that one could buy at any local bit store, but they were special to. Rainbow Dash had worn them. They weren’t just Rainbow’s property, they were a part of her. Rainbow had simply given to them on a whim one day; Scootaloo had sworn to protect them. Back then, Rainbow had simply rolled her eyes, but it had planted something. It had to have. Not long after that, Rainbow had started speaking to her more often. Scootaloo placed the lens of the goggle against her ear. If she pressed hard enough, she almost swore she could hear her. "Rainbow?" she whispered.

Of course, she received no response. She sighed and placed them back on the nightstand. They bumped against the face-down picture frame. She let her hoof hover and tremble over the frame for a few seconds. No. Not now. Not tonight.

She reached for the floor and, after several missed swipes, found her saddlebags. She rummaged through them until her hoof smacked against something hard. Slowly, she pulled the book out and looked at the cover. Daring Do stared at her through the darkness, eyes still gleaming with determination.

“Why not?” Scootaloo mumbled. She hopped out of bed, reached under it, and pulled out a lantern filled with fireflies. How the fireflies were still alive was a mystery—she’d had the lantern stuffed under her bed for at least a week. She placed the lantern on her nightstand, hopped back into bed with a determined flap of her wings, and opened the book. The fireflies’ lights were dim, and Scootaloo had to squint to make out the words, but sure as the moon rises, the words came into focus.

“Daring Do and the Phoenix Pool.”


– – –




Prologue:

The strength of the gale threatened to blow Daring Do’s hat off her head. She could barely see through the stinging rain, but she could make out the outline of a mountain. The distance between her and her destination was still far more than she’d hoped, and the storm showed no signs of letting up anytime soon, but she had to keep moving.

Lightning strikes illuminated the world around her. The light was blinding, and Daring Do found herself looking down, shielding her eyes from the searing flash. She saw a face in a puddle—a face she didn’t recognize—and she turned to attack. However, nopony was behind her. Perplexed, she looked back at the puddle. Lightning flashed, and she couldn’t believe what she saw.

Dark circles surrounded her eyes, and water droplets cascaded off her unkempt, oily mane. Her eyes were red from nights without sleep. Her vest hung loose around her torso, and her leg muscles lacked firmness. Food had been hard to come by in the lifeless plains of Strideberia—not that she felt like eating in the first place. There was no time to eat or rest.

She didn’t know how much longer she could go on, but she had no choice. She needed to find the Phoenix Pool, find the spirit of her father, and return him to the land of the living. 

If only the journey had been so simple. This wasn’t a quest for treasure. Not anymore. This was for them all. Names, faces flashed through her mind. Pallah, Gordo, Silver Strings, Cay. Somehow her blood grew colder.

"You can think later," Daring Do whispered. She gritted her teeth, pressed a hoof to her hat, and marched onward. So many steps, so many miles. A few more, painful as they were, would not...




– – –


Scootaloo was already bored. I thought Rainbow said these books were awesome? All about action and adventure and treasure and kicking butts and all that good stuff. All I’m seeing is some girl walking.  She had not even made it past the first page. Rainbow had rarely been wrong, but could even the coolest pony in all of Equestria in the history of ever like something uncool? Scootaloo chewed the inside of her cheek.

She made a wager with herself. If the first chapter was five pages long or fewer, she’d read it. She flipped back through the pages, passing the table of contents. She cursed to herself and started to flip forward again. Before the first page had passed something caught her eye. She flipped back once again. On the inside cover was a map filled with lines, dots, and other weird symbols.

She could see a sketch of a mountain peak, with the words Phlegethon scribbled next to it. There was a dot near the top of the mountain, marked with the words Phoenix Pool. She scanned the map, studying every detail of the proposed route. Finally, her eyes settled on the starting point of the trek, and her heart stopped.

Canterlot...

The book fell to the floor.

Could it be? No, books were fictional. Well, good books were fictional, if ever a book had the possibility of being good. Canterlot was the capital. That's the sole reason why it was there. A common city. No, there was no reason to get excited. But... what if?

"Ugh!" She clasped her head in her forehooves, massaging her temples gingerly. Nopony had told her that this thinking thing was so hard. She got out of bed, picked up the book, and trotted over to her desk. Sweeping unfinished homework and detention notices away with a foreleg, she placed the book on the table and took a seat. The desk held little of use. A couple of unfinished comics, a crumpled love letter from Snails, a moldy daisy sandwich, a whole bunch of nothing. Finally, right at the back, she found what she was looking for: a map of Equestria.

She flattened it against the desk and placed the book next to it. She scurried to her nightstand, retrieved the lantern, and quickly tiphoofed back to the desk. Her eyes darted from the book to the map, constantly comparing the two. There was a forest on the real map, and a forest in the exact same spot on the book’s map. The location of Canterlot in relation to Ponyville matched up perfectly. Even the rivers seemed to follow very similar curves. And then she found it.

On the real map, way up in the far corner, in the exact same spot that the book said 'Phlegethon' was located, was an isolated triangle. She could hardly keep her eyes from blurring as she dragged a quivering hoof across the legend of the map. At last she found it. Triangles were the symbol used for only one thing: mountains.

There was no way. She rubbed her eyes and checked again. The triangle remained, its twin resting on the cover beside it. “Sweet Celestia,” Scootaloo muttered. She could not move. Her chest welled up to the bursting point. A desire to laugh, a desire to cry. She rose from the chair and shuffled to her bed. She sat down on the edge, mouth agape and eyes unfocused. She moved her hoof over to the nightstand, and wrapped her foreleg around the picture frame. Even in the darkness she could make out the distinctive rainbow-mane.

She gave the photo a melancholic smile and hugged it to her chest with the same gentleness that one would hold a newborn foal. Her eyes stung with fresh tears as she rocked back and forth on the mattress. In between heaving, shaky breaths, she whispered, "I'll get you back, Rainbow Dash...

"I'll get you back..."
> Chapter Two
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Two




Daring Do took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, downed it in a single gulp, and placed it back on the tray. All the while, Professor Brambor, the chairman of the math department at Oxcolt University, was expressing his ‘utmost sympathies’ through a thick accent. Occasionally, he’d pull out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes. She could not help but notice the light gray cloth had not darkened a shade. Brambor, while having a good heart, was obviously more of a showman than a sympathizer.

“Yout fathur… he was  good stallion. A good friend.”

“Yeah,” Daring Do replied, focusing on her wine. She had heard those words a thousand times, but at least the others had been intelligible.

“You know I loss my fathur ven I vwas only a colt. Three year old,” Brambor said between heavy breaths.

“Uh-huh.” Daring swirled the empty glass, downed it in a single gulp, and searched the crowds for somepony—anypony—that she could go and stand near instead of Equestria’s next great thespian. She rolled her eyes as he threw a foreleg upon her withers. The door to the balcony was only a few feet away. She longed to leave the party, but Brambor’s oxygen supply was as deep as his pockets.

Finally, she found her opening. Amid another brow-wipe, Brambor’s magic failed him, and the handkerchief fell to the floor. Muttering foreign curses, he bent down to retrieve the rag amidst a sea of hooves. Daring Do pounced on the opportunity and made a break for the door. It wasn’t the most difficult escape she had ever made—it didn’t even rank in the top thousand—but the relief she felt when the cool evening breeze hit her face was as radiant as when she had retrieved the Sapphire Stone.

The smell of salt tickled her nose, and the sound of crashing waves caressed her ears. She had to give her father credit: he definitely had an eye—and ear—for property. Looking around the deck, she noticed that she was, unfortunately, not alone. Four other ponies also stood under the stars, and all of them had turned their attention to her, eyes growing wide and then glazing over. She groaned. No matter where she went there were well-wishers and awkward huggers. Could she not have a moment to grieve in peace? Was that too much to ask?

A plump earth pony dressed in a tuxedo and smelling of cigar smoke began to waddle towards her. She waved him off with a hoof before making a beeline for the stairs. If he wanted to talk, he would need to catch her. She heard him come to a gasping stop before she had reached the foot of the stairs.

– – –

The sand under her hooves, the scent of the jungle, the call of tropical birds. Daring’s true home. Occasionally, with the right branch or bird call, she found herself glancing over her withers, bracing herself for a brawl with one of the gallery of thieves and ancient gods that always seemed to have a way of knowing where she was at all times. She let her muscles relax. Despite the rich vegetation, animal life, and general isolation, the coasts of Mexicolt weren’t exactly dangerous. There was the occasional temple  just off the beach, but the only treasures to be found there were tattered popcorn bags.

She noticed a soda bottle sticking out of the sand and kicked it. Sure, there would always be new 'lost civilizations' to discover, and the fact that relics were becoming something more than cobwebs and crumbling stone was a (relatively) positive thing, but Daring still could not help but cringe when she saw the hooves of the ‘Canterlot Elite’ trampling their designer horseshoes upon the same stones that the first ponies had. As she passed yet another pile of cider bottles, she couldn’t help but think that those ancients were more advanced than these socialites.

If Father could see this, he’d be rolling in his grave. Probably is. She sighed and flopped down on a nearby boulder, head cradled in her hooves. It still stung no matter how many times she yelled at herself to keep her chin up—to move on as if nothing ever happened. She just couldn’t keep her emotions chained up. They held the keys and they always had a way of freeing themselves at the worst possible time.

She thought about the time her father had taken her to a Fillydelphia Fliers game when she was a foal. How he had bought her her very first hat on her eighth birthday. How he had taken her to her first ruin when she was ten (which, in retrospect, was a rather reckless and dangerous thing to do). How he had made her exactly who she was now: a brave adventurer and lover of history.

And there, slumped against a rock, Daring Do—the most courageous, tenacious and ferocious pegasus Equestria had ever known—wept like a foal. Luckily for her, the ocean waves were loud enough to drown out her sobs. Her reputation was one of the few things she still had.

Over the roaring tides, she heard the calling of a gull. Its cries rose in a steady crescendo until she could make out what appeared to be words. She looked up and scanned the black skies, searching for the source. Despite the growing sound, there were no signs of life. Slowly, the words began to take shape. A single, decipherable word could be made out—one she had never heard before in her life. 







“Scoots!”

Something hit the back of Scootaloo’s head. She jolted up, muscles tensed. She dug into her desk for her sharpest pencil while her gaze darted around the room. Bats? Arrows? Maces of destruction? An object fell past the corner of her vision. An eraser. She ran a hoof through her mane but, no, no blood. That really was it. With a shrug, she let thoughts drifted back to her book.

Alright, where was I? Let’s see... found her opening... socialites... A-ha! Here we—

“Scootaloo!” the voice called out again, strained and seething.

She slammed her forelegs on the desk and turned, glaring daggers at the unicorn in the desk behind her. “What, Sweetie Belle?!”

Sweetie Belle glowered at her, thrusting her head towards the front of the classroom. Scootaloo stared at her with a raised eyebrow. Had Rarity forgotten to put jam on her toast or something?  Sweetie Belle muttered something under her breath and gave one last prod, pointing her horn at something behind Scootaloo. “Turn around, you dodo,” she said through clenched teeth.

Scootaloo’s eyes went wide and followed Sweetie’s horn. As she turned around, she noticed a tall shadow and gulped.

Mrs. Yardstick, Ponyville’s middle school teacher and resident crone, stood over her, wrinkled eyes set in a disapproving stare.

Scootaloo chuckled sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck with a hoof. “Heya, Miss Yardstick. Lovely weather we’re having.”

The mare sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know whether I should be mad at you for not paying attention, or impressed that you’re actually reading something.”

“Um... how about we go with the second one?”

Miss Yardstick shook her head again and returned to her lesson on… something. Scootaloo sighed, reluctantly stuffing Daring Do and the Phoenix Pool into her saddlebag. A glance at the blackboard signaled her doom. She bit back a groan. Math... I hate math. She pulled out her math book. If there was one thing visiting the library had given her, it was knowledge that books actually made decent pillows. Her math book’s cover was a bit too rough to doze off, but enough to allow her mind to wander. Te lesson droned on behind a sea of static. Sleep escaped her, but that was probably for the best. No doubt Miss Yardstick would be keeping an eye on her.

She sighed and reminisced about Cheerilee’s class two years before. Those were the days. Recess, cancelled classes due to other foals discovering their special talent, Hearts and Hooves Day parties. It just wasn’t the same anymore—it certainly wasn’t as much fun. Her eyes drifted around the room before settling on the blackboard, where Mrs. Yardstick had hastily scribbled some notes. It was a trick she had learned the previous year. If she looked like she was paying attention, the teachers would assume she was. Miss Yardstick, ancient as she was, fell for it daily. She glanced at Scootaloo in odd intervals, and Scootaloo nodded in return. The formulas went uncalculated, the graphs and charts ignored..

She glanced around the room. Most of her classmates were present, but she noted a distinct lack of bows. Checking to make sure that Mrs. Yardstick wasn’t looking, Scootaloo turned to a half-asleep Sweetie Belle.

“Where’s Apple Bloom?” she whispered.

Sweetie blinked a couple times before whispering back, “She got signed out early. Remember?”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Sweetie mirrored her expression, complete with head tilt. “Becau—”

“Scootaloo! Sweetie Belle! Pay attention! If I catch either one of you talking again, I will give both of you detention for a week.”

You’ll give me a week’s worth of detention anyway, Scootaloo thought. Still, compliance would rest her voice, so she turned around in her desk, and let her chin fall upon the book once more.


____


There were things, Scootaloo noted as she trotted away from the schoolhouse, that were more nurturing for one than food. Sure, her rumbling stomach twisted and tugged at her, but as long as she kept her soul satiated—as long as she gave herself a reason to move about—she could make it. Dad would get commissions again, he’d clear his head enough to scoop up a chisel, and the rumbling would cease. Until then, she just needed a reason to walk on.

“Scoots?” As always, Sweetie Belle’s voice was a beam among the storm clouds. If only her face could follow suit. She tilted her head, eyes wide and frown firmly set on her lips as she leaned around her lunchbox. “Aren’t you eating?”

Scootaloo waved a hoof, eyes rising skyward once more. It was nearly noon. “I’m good.” She would be doing her rounds soon. There was no way Scootaloo was going to miss it for something as pointless as food.

Sweetie Belle sighed. “You can have half of my daisy sandwich,” she said. Scootaloo could hear the unicorn’s ears fall flat against the side of her head. Scootaloo’s almost did the same. Sweetie was a good pony. Her sister may have been acquaintances with her father, but Sweetie had no obligation to like her. Yet she did, and Scootaloo had no earthly idea why. “Come on, Scootaloo, you gotta—”

“I’m good, Sweetie. Honest.” Before her friend could continue, Scootaloo bounded off across the schoolyard. Behind her, whispered under breaths yet thundering in her ears, she could make out the usual chorus of whispers. 

“What’s with the new girl?”

“Has she eaten anything since she got here?’”‘

“She’s crazy.” 

That last one came from a grey filly with dumb glasses, sitting at a literal dining room table set up near the slide. Her friend, a pink pony jerk with a pretentious tiara let out a chortle as she hissed, “Of course she is. Have you heard about her mother? She…”

Scootaloo snarled in their direction. She’d show them crazy, especially if they kept smirking at her like they were now. A couple hooves straight to the muzzle would set them straight but Celestia, what kind of first impression would that send to Rainbow Dash. Maybe she’d just laugh at them.

But it could also ruin Scootaloo’s one chance. Swallowing her bucks, she took a deep breath and marched on to the edge of the schoolyard. Behind her, Miss Cheerilee shouted something about not ‘leaving the school grounds.’ Scootaloo rolled her eyes but waved nonetheless. She wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

Her blood ran cold. Rainbow saw that. She scooped me up and brought me back here. Cripes, that probably screwed me. She fell back on her haunches and glared at the ground, kicking at a batch of clovers. Her stomach growled again as she eyed the plants. They weren’t daisies, but maybe they’d do?

A sudden sound rocketed through the sky, pulling her gaze skyward. Rainbow was less a pony and more a streak of light, zipping from cloud to cloud. Scootaloo blinked and a cumulus was on the other side of the horizon; another blink and the thunderhead forming over town hall had been reduced to tiny puffs drifting skyward. She grinned. Her heart swelled. Nothing in this world beat awesomeness, and Ponyville, if nothing else, had an endless supply of the stuff. 

Said purveyor of cool, as Scootaloo had guessed, slowed and came into form. Rainbow Dash always napped after each clearing, and for some reason the sky around the schoolhouse always held a preferred napping cloud. The ‘Queen of Speed’ flexed and flapped her wings as she settled down on a batch of cumulus, spinning in place as she stretched out the rest of her joints. It was in the middle of a neck crack that she opened her eyes… and stared straight at Scootaloo, smiling.

Scootaloo blinked, glancing over each wither, her wings buzzing as loudly as her brain. Surely there was somepony else around, but her gaze only met empty space for yards and yards. She turned back and found Rainbow Dash mere inches from herself. Squeaking, Scootaloo jumped into the air, her wings abuzz. They kept her aloft for approximately zero seconds. She nearly fell face-first into the grass as she landed.

“You do know you only get one lunchtime, kid.” It might have been a question, but the way it rasped out of Rainbow’s mouth made it sound like a statement. Scootaloo was too busy scooping her jaw off the grass to piece it together.

“I… huh-hey-a!” All the cool moves in the world were at Scootaloo’s disposal. Prop back on her hind legs and cross her forelegs in a pose, slick her mane back with a wing. All she could manage were a few choking giggles as her jaw shook. “Rainbow… Rainbow Dash, right? Know we’ve never really met, so, uh, how do I know that name, heheh, I guess your, uh, reputation… uh…” 

Rainbow wasn’t even looking at her. The prismatic pegasus glanced to the schoolhouse, before looking down at Scootaloo with a tilted head. Suddenly, she knelt down and poked Scootaloo straight in the ribs. It wasn’t a hard poke, but it sent Scootaloo flittering into the air once more. Rainbow let out a sigh as soon as she’d landed. “You gonna go eat your lunch or are you just gonna stand there tyin’ your own tongue all day?”

Now that was a question. Scootaloo laughed and ran a hoof through her mane. The strands fell flat over her eyes. She looked up toward Rainbow with a blind smile. “Heh heh, I’m good here.”

 Rainbow sighed again, stretching out her wings. “Good. Stay there for a sec.” A rush of wind blew Scootaloo’s mane back. Shielding her face with a foreleg, she squinted into the gale. Something fell into her her back. Not heavy, but the shock caused her to whip around, walking in circles and trying to catch sight. The wind died down around the same time she finally caught sight of the object.

Her wings fluttered. It was a sandwich. Pulling the top slice of bread back, she could see sunflower topped with tomato and nightingale. The ingredients alone probably cost as much as one of Dad’s commissions. She found Rainbow chilling on a cloud hovering overhead, forelegs behind her back. She opened up one eye and smirked, the smile fading to a frown the moment Scootaloo lifted her hoof aloft, sandwich still balanced, tomato juice dripping down her hoof. 

“I can’t…” Playing dumb wouldn’t do her any good. They were Rainbow’s favorite toppings, though she would never admit how she knew so. Somepony would make her take yet another bath then. “Dash, this is yours! I can’t take it. I couldn’t possibly pay you back.”

The mare rolled her eyes. “Then don’t.” She shot off of the cloud and made her way down to Scootaloo. “Consider it a… an autograph?”

Scootaloo frowned. “That makes no sense.”

Rainbow threw her hooves skyward. “Fine, a souvenir then!” Her frown transformed into a smile. “Now, you enjoy that. I’ll even toss a show in there, free of charge. Sound good, squirt?” She  reached down and ruffled Scootaloo’s mane. The filly swore she’d never wash her hair again. Scootaloo grinned, but could only squeak out a nod.

As she watched Rainbow shoot skyward, performing barrel rolls and front flips, Scootaloo could not think of the right words to describe any of it: the action, the stunts, Rainbow herself. Grinning ear to ear, Scootaloo took a bite of the sandwich and fell back into the grass as the flavors washed over her tongue. Her ribs ceased tugging on her gut, and her stomach floated like the clouds all around. As she completed another loop-de-loop and soared by sitting filly, tossing mane and condiments abound, Rainbow caught Scootaloo’s eye. Though it was for but a split second, the mare winked and smiled before moving into a series of corkscrews.

Taking another bite, Scootaloo finally found a word—the perfect word for Rainbow Dash. She wasn’t just ‘awesome’ or ‘cool’ or ‘amazinglywildsweetspectacular.’

She was her angel.


____


The school bell chimed, nearly sending Scootaloo tumbling to the floor. She raised her head, eyes flicking around the room as she wiped a trail of drool off her chin. Her classmates blurred and her eyes burned. Had she started crying again? Sniffing away the fleeting visions of the dream, she wiped her nose and gathered her things. 

Miss Yardstick hadn’t woken her, though. At least she had something to be thankful for.

“Scootaloo. Could I speak to you for a moment?”

The filly groaned. As usual, she’d been thankful a moment too soon. She stuffed Daring Do into her saddlebags and tossed them over her back. This meeting wouldn’t be a long one, of that she was certain, so tightening the straps could wait. Step by shuffling step she trudged up to Miss Yardstick’s desk. The look on her face was a surprising one. Scootaloo had expected a narrowed gaze over the rims of her glasses, but instead the old mare’s eye glowed with a warmth and her frown screamed anything but disappointed.

Scootaloo froze a few steps from the desk, wings flicking and hooves refusing to budge. She’d seen that face before. The look bore only a single word: ‘Concerned.’ Whenever someone opened their mouths with that gaze, nothing good every followed. It’d be best if she just left.

Miss Yardstick beat her to the punch. “I won’t be long, Scootaloo. I promise.”

Scootaloo sat back on her haunches, hooves wrapped around the straps of her saddlebags. “I know, I know, I fell asleep in class.” Maybe if she veered the subject, Miss Yardstick would avoid those rainbow-colored subjects. “Detention for a week. I understand. Sorry. Won’t happen again.” She practically sighed the final words, wings crossed.

Luck was not on her side. Though Miss Yardstick lit her horn and levitated a purple sheet of paper—her go-to detention notice—into Scootaloo’s open saddlebags, the conversation went no further in that direction. Miss Yardstick leaned forward, hooves together. “You’ve been distracted lately. I can understand. Not fully, thank the Sun, but these are… rough times for you.” The old mare’s ears sagged, eyes flicking downward to her desk. “Believe me, as much as I wish I could say I didn’t know how you feel… you’re not alone, dear.”

Scootaloo fought back her grinding teeth. “It’s cool,” she said. “I’m cool.”

Miss Yardstick smiled, and it made Scootaloo’s stomach churn. “I know, but if you ever want to talk—”

A loud slam echoed through the school room, straightening Miss Yardstick’s ears. It took Scootaloo a moment to realize that her own hoof had been the culprit. She looked down at the floorboards. No dents or cracks, just a crowing ache in her right forehoof. Shaking it a few times, she snorted and turned away. The teacher said something, but the words were useless. They were probably just more blind sympathy anyway. 

Sweetie Belle stood near the door, rubbing a hoof against the other, ears twitching. She opened her mouth, but only a squeak came out. Scootaloo snorted. Good. At least someone knew when to just be quiet. The unicorn filly pushed the door open. Somewhere behind the two of them, Miss Yardstick called out one more time. “Scootaloo? Please wait.” There was a catch in the old mare’s voice. Scootaloo sighed and glanced over at her friend. Though her mouth didn’t so much as move, the look Sweetie gave Scootaloo begged her to turn around.

Tightening the strap of her saddlebags, Scootaloo marched out the door.      


* * *


The streets of Ponyville were filled with screaming foals. Some were accompanied by their parents, who tried in vain to keep them calm with threats and pleas. Most ran around on their own, stirring up dust and song. In other words, it was Friday afternoon.

Compared to these bundles of energy, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo were slugs, slowly making their way down the cobblestone towards nowhere in particular. They had originally planned to make a beeline for some distant field to crusade for their cutie marks, but Apple Bloom’s absence had shot that down. Sweetie Belle suggested they go by Rarity’s, but a spa-date had ruined those plans as well.

“So... what are we gonna do?” Scootaloo asked.

“I don’t know. Llibrary, maybe? I know it’s not cool but… it’s somewhere,” Sweetie Belle said with a shrug.

"Nah, I was just there yesterday.”

Sweetie Belle froze, her jaw almost touching the dirt. “Wait. Hold the presses. Y-ou went to the... library?” she exclaimed, voice cracking.

“Yeah.”

“You? Library? Huh?” Sweetie’s eye twitched.

Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “What? Did they make a law saying I couldn’t go to the library?”

“Most days, I thought so.” Sweetie Belle stuttered. “Sorry, it’s just… well, it’s not a ‘you’ think, you know?”

“Not really. Eh, whatever.” Scootaloo’s wings twitched. The stillness was killing her. She needed to move. “Irregardless, we can’t go to the library. Twilight got really upset when I was there yesterday.”

“Regardless,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

Scootaloo cocked her head to the side. “Huh?”

“Regardless. ‘Irregardless’ isn’t a word.”

“Whatever, Dictionary. You know what I meant.” A giggle underlined Scootaloo’s words. It tasted of bitter berries. She refused to smile.

"Yeah, I do." Sweetie Belle gave a small smile, but it quickly vanished, replaced by a frown. "Anyway, what was that about Twilight?”

“Hmm?”

“You said something about Twilight getting upset.”

“Oh yeah... I don’t know," Scootaloo rubbed the back of her neck. The wind stirred up more dust. Had it gotten chillier all of a sudden? "She just got, like, really upset when I was checking out. I think she may have been crying a bit.”

Sweetie Belle gasped. “Crying? Scoots, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! Why would you even think that?” Sweetie Belle’s glare held. Scootaloo sighed. Distant, half-remembered curses and roars flicked her ears but she shook them off. “Honest, Sweetie! I was just there to check out a book. No manure.” Her wings slumped and twitched. “I think that was it, actually. It had something to do with the book I got.”

Sweetie’s glare melted away, replaced by curiosity. Celestia, she could pull a confession out of a statue. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s a Daring Do book,” Scootaloo said, voice growing softer with each word. Shaking her head, she pushed her scooter forward with the kick of a hind leg. She could hear Sweetie Belle trotting to catch up to her, but her eyes stayed locked on the road ahead. How could I have forgotten?

“Why would that make her upset?” Sweetie Belle gasped out, finally alongside Scootaloo once again.

A cloud of dust formed as the scooter skid to a stop. “Why do you think?” Scootaloo asked through gritted teeth.

"I don't know! I mean, sure, there's..." Sweetie Belle glanced at the ground, her entire body slumping beneath an unseen weight. “Oh...”

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” Scootaloo shook her head, gaze moving back to the road. “So, yeah. No library.”

“Well, what about Sugarcube Corner?”

“I’m broke.”

Sweetie Belle grinned. “My parents gave me six bits before they went on vacation. That’s more than enough for each of us!”

Scootaloo thought it over. She’d owe Sweetie Belle later, but she could use a milkshake. Nothing settled a shaky hoof like sugar. “You had me at bits,” She chimed, wings springing to life, fluttering so fast that another, much thinner cloud of dust started to surround them. Sweetie coughed and swatted at the air, but smiled, nonetheless. An honest grin tugged at Scootaloo’s lips as she tightened her helmet. “Race you there!”


* * *


Scootaloo scanned the orchard. Trees, apples, an occasional bird or squirrel, but no bows. No working ponies at all. She looked at Sweetie Belle, eyebrow raised.

“Why did Apple Bloom sign out early, anyway? Was she sick or something?”

“She had a doctor’s appointment.”

“Really? Like the dentist?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

“Was it her back?”

Sweetie Belle merely shrugged once again. “I don’t think so. The stitches don’t come out for another week, but she did seem to be hurting last time.”

“What about a psychiatrist?” Scootaloo asked. The very name sent chills up her spine. Her wings picked up speed, nearly knocking over the to-go cup they had picked up for the last member of their trio.

Sweetie’s ears fell against her head, but she could only sigh. “I don’t know.” 

They continued down the path in silence. Scootaloo caught herself glancing at the sky, but quickly pried her eyes away. Life seemed to be built on ironies, unfortunately and her eyes fell to an even worse place. They had cleaned up the clearing as best they could, but the fallen trees had yet to be removed. Their stumps and gnarled limbs spoke stories. The grass still bore the scars. Large holes where dirt had been kicked up by massive paws, blackened streaks of purple and blue.

That was nothing. Scootaloo found her eyes locked to the dark brown splotches. She leaned over the scooter bars, chest heaving. Why’d their clubhouse have to be here?

 “Howdy, y'all!”

“Hey, Applejack!” Sweetie Belle piped up.

Applejack trotted up the path, baskets filled with freshly bucked apples bouncing atop her back. She briefly removed her Stetson to brush a few damp strands of blonde mane from her eyes before plopping it back down on her head. “Y'all lookin’ for Apple Bloom?”

“Yeah, we are." Sweetie Belle paused and kicked at the ground. "Um, we can see her, right?”

“Ya got eyes, don’t ya?” Applejack laughed. Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo didn't share her amusement. Applejack cleared her throat. "Yeah, y'all can go see 'er. She’s right where you’d expect her." The farmer looked at the ground and sighed. “Reckon seeing y’all would be just what the doctor ordered right now. Feel free to stay as long as you like.”

“Thanks, Applejack," Sweetie Belle said. "Come on, Scoots.”

Scootaloo didn’t respond. She spit in the grass. Her mouth tasted metallic. Copper. Blood. The stench filled her nose. Fire burned in her eyes and the grass grew blurry once more.  Something wrapped tapped her withers. “Ahh!” She fell into combat position, teeth barred. Not again. This time she was ready.

Applejack took a step back, hoof raised. “What in tarnation?”

Crap. Scootaloo straightened herself and flipped her mane. Everything was cool. No need to worry. Deep breaths. She waved a hoof “It’s cool. Just got distracted there.” Like moths to a flame, her gaze drifted back over the razed trees and soaked grass. How could they leave it like this? How could they not clean it up? The bile rose once again.

“Oh… oh, sugarcube.” Something fell around Scootaloo’s neck. Fighting it off was pointless. Applejack was a creature of stubbornness, even when it came to hugs. The comforting fluff of the farmer’s chest beckoned, but Scootaloo tilted her head away, clawing her way out of her grip.

“What?” she asked, shaking her head and staring up at Applejack. She grinned. Only ponies who were fine grinned, and she was fine. She was fine.

“Ya okay?” Applejack said, her eyes quivering.

Scootaloo looked at the ground. She swallowed, grinned, and blinked away any errant tears. “Yeah, of course I’m fine.”  Her voice cracked. Applejack reached for her once again, but Scootaloo quickly jerked away.

“Well, uh, I guess... I guess we better go see Apple Bloom. Right, Sweetie Belle? We wouldn’t want her shake melting, right?” Scootaloo chuckled. The taste of copper coursed down her throat.

Sweetie frowned. “Scootaloo, look at the condensation. It’s literally leaking out--”

“Wouldn’t we?” Scootaloo repeated through clenched teeth. Sweetie blurred and doubled in her vision. A whimper escaped Scootaloo’s throat. Please.

Sweetie Belle sighed. “No, we wouldn’t want that.” The two continued down the path towards the clubhouse while Applejack wiped her brow and stood in place, expression blank.

“See you later, Applejack!” Sweetie Belle called over her shoulder.

“Huh? Oh… yeah, sure. See y'all!” Applejack waved her hat and let out a chuckle. It fell flat. Even as she rode away, Scootloo found herself glancing over withers. The farmer sat back on her haunches, head lowered. A chill crawled up Scootaloo’s spine.

“You coming?” Sweetie Belle yelled.

“Yeah...” Scootaloo shouted. After what seemed like forever, Applejack finally stood up and turned toward the other side of the orchard. Scootaloo could only make out her face for a second, but it was enough to burn the image of her bloodshot eyes into the back of her mind.

“Come on, Scootaloo! I’m hot.” Sweetie Belle whined.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming.” Scootaloo glanced at Sweetie, then back at Applejack, but the farmer was nowhere to be found.

“Scootaloo!” Sweetie Belle shouted.

“I said I’m coming!” Scootaloo shouted back. She gave the orchard once last look before chasing after Sweetie Belle. As the trees closed in around her, Scootaloo swore she heard a wail in the wind.
> Chapter Three
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Three


Should I?

Should I?

... Yeah, I should.

With a powerful flap, Scootaloo shot towards a low-lying tree branch, wings burning as they beat against her sides. Three... two... She crouched, bit her lip, and stared down the limb. For five years, she had never been the first to blink, but the game of chicken still caused sweat to form on her brow. She held her breath.

One!

Scootaloo kicked off her scooter and flapped her wings with all her might. She soared over the branch, pushing the earth farther away with each flap. She kicked off of the limb. The air currents picked up. A grin stretched across her face. This is it! I’m gonna do it! Blood tricked down her lower lip as she pushed her her wings even harder. Ligaments stiffened, muscle burned, but she flapped on. Come on. You got this. Just keep going. This is it! Goodbye gravity! Hello sky!

Her wings had other plans. Her joints stiffened, making each flap smaller than the last. Her scooter bowed and creaked beneath her hooves as she landed. It swerved toward a thick trunk. She yanked back on the handlebars and skidded to a stop, kicking up a large cloud of dust. When she opened her eyes, she found a foreleg resting against the tree. Too close for comfort, but still kind of awesome.

Sweetie Belle coughed, fighting her way through the cloud with a flailing foreleg. Scootaloo giggled at her, but was seized by a coughing fit as well. Tears stung her eyes as she rasped out, “So, how was my airtime?”

“Perfect,” Sweetie wheezed. Scootaloo frowned at her. Sweetie Belle sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine, it was five seconds.”

Scootlaoo’s heart sank. “Altitude?”

Sweetie kicked the ground. “Um… you reached, maybe, the next set of branches?” Her voice squeaked as she closed her eyes.

Scootaloo slammed her hooves against the handlebars. “Son of a... that’s the same as last time!”

Sweetie Belle gave a shaky smile. “No, last time you got four seconds.”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “Yeah. One milisecond is such an improvement...” She sighed and looked at the sky. That was all she could do—all she would ever do. Look. Not experience. She spit on the grass beside her and took off her helmet. Her bangs stayed matted to her eyebrows. Shaking them free seemed pointless. “Look, let’s just get to the clubhouse.”

They silently continued down the path, Scootaloo occasionally glaring at her wings. Am I cursed? She shook the thought away. No, you’re just sounding like a quitter. Quitters never win. Winners never give in. Win—

“Scootaloo!”

She turned around. Sweetie Belle had stopped and motioned for her to return. With a groan, she doubled back. “What is it this time?” Scootaloo muttered as she rolled up beside her.

Sweetie Belle kept her eyes on the treehouse, shaking her head. “I don’t know, it’s just... odd.”

Scootaloo studied the clubhouse. Everything seemed to be intact: no loose boards, missing shingles, or smoke to be found. Not even a splinter out of place. She tilted her head, stuck out her tongue, then shook her head, turning to Sweetie Belle. “Looks like the clubhouse to me.”

Sweetie frowned. “The door’s closed. The door’s never closed.”

Scootaloo looked up. Yeah, Sweetie Belle was right; the door was settled snugly in its frame. She placed a hoof under her chin and glanced upwards. Skies are clear. Wind isn’t bad. She sighed. “Nothing wrong with the weather. Think something’s up?”

“Maybe. But what?” Sweetie’s voice sounded almost desperate.

“No idea.” Scootaloo parked her scooter against the base of the tree and quietly followed Sweetie Belle up the ramp. A board squeaked, and a shadow moved in the window. Scootaloo raised a hoof. Were they here? She ground her teeth and braced for chaos. Only birdsongs filled the air. She groaned and broke into a trot. “Sweetie, wait up,” she hissed.

“What?” Sweetie Belle asked, voice quavering.

“I just saw something move in the window.”

Sweetie Belle tilted her head, seeming almost relieved. “Uh, yeah. Applejack told us Apple Bloom was in there, remember?”

“Oh, sure, but... it was weird. I don’t know. The door’s closed and, like you said, it’s never closed. Now I’m seeing things in the window, and I can tell you it looked bigger than Apple Bloom.”

Sweetie Belle stiffened, glancing over her withers. A breeze blew their manes. Had it gotten darker? Sweetie Belle’s breaths grew shaky. “How much bigger?”

“Like, Head-over-the-windowsill-standing-on-four-legs bigger.”

“Tha-that’s pretty big.”

“You don’t say," Scootaloo muttered.

“Did it look like… well, you know.”

Visions flickered through Scootaloo’s mind. Had she seen pointed ears? A fangy snout. She almost fell back on her haunches but pushed forward. “No, I don’t ‘know.’ Now, come on. Something’s going on here, and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

Sweetie Belle nodded and tiphoofed up the ramp. Her head darted around as she scanned the area for trouble. After a moment, she straightened herself up and knocked on the door. Scootaloo waited for a response. Movement within the treehouse, but the door remained shut. Scootaloo bent down. All it would take was a moment of distraction, and it would be game over. Teeth grinding, she nodded to Sweetie Belle, who knocked again, quieter.

Nothing.

Scootaloo huffed. So much for a defensive position. She marched forward, pushing Sweetie Belle aside and ramming her shoulder against the door. It wouldn’t budge. She grunted and rapped on the door. “Apple Bloom? You in there?" she said. "It’s me! Scootaloo! Sweetie Belle’s here too.”

No response.

She knocked again. “Come on, Apple Bloom. I can hear you in there!”

Still nothing.

 “Open the door!” she yelled as she gave the door a single crushing blow.

Something fumbled around inside, but Scootaloo received no response.

She groaned. “That’s it, I’m coming in!” She looked up at Sweetie Belle. “Be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

There was no time for a response. Taking a deep breath, Scootaloo reared her hind legs back and bucked the door with all her might. Her legs rattled, electric bolts streaking up her spine, but the lock broke. Apple Bloom shot into the air, knocking over a set of wrenches. She pressed her back against a shadowed object, panting heavily. “H-heya, Scoots,” she managed to stammer, “I—”

“We just knocked on the door a trillion times!”

“Oh, y’all did?" She shrugged. "I didn’t hear nothin’.”

Sweetie Belle peeked around the doorframe. “Is it clear?” she whispered. Scootaloo nodded, sighing loudly. Sweetie Belle smiled and skipped into the clubhouse, carefully hopping around the splinters of the door. “Hi, Apple Bloom!”

Apple Bloom grinned nervously. “Hey, Sw—”

“What do you mean you didn’t hear us?” Scootaloo pressed her hoof against Apple Bloom’s chest. “I knock pretty loud.”

“Scoots, calm down!" Sweetie Belle cried. "Jeez."

“She’s hiding something!” Scootaloo yelled. “And I’m gonna find out what it is.”

Apple Bloom stared at her with wide, darting eyes. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. “What are you talkin’ ‘bout, Scootaloo? I ain’t hidin’ nothin’!”

“Yeah, right. Why was the door locked?”

“The door was locked?” Apple Bloom glanced at the entrance, then back at Scootaloo. “Thought I, uh, kept it unlocked. Sorry.”

“Uh-huh, sure. And I’m a griffon princess.” Scootaloo pressed her hoof harder into Apple Bloom’s chest. “You better start explaining or else!”

Apple Bloom snorted. “Or else what?”

Scootaloo pushed Apple Bloom against the wagon. The mare winced in pain as her back smacked the wood. Whimpering, she slid down on her haunches. A twinge of guilt twisted Scootaloo’s heart, but apologies could come later. She thrust a hoof at the cringing filly. “You gonna tell me the truth now, or do you want more of that?!”

“Stop it, Scoots!” Sweetie Belle shouted, walking glared daggers. “She just forgot that she locked the door, Scoots. Calm down.”

Scootaloo drew heavy breaths, her pursed lips growing slack. Her glare softened as she glanced down at Apple Bloom. The filly sat on her haunches, reaching for her back and hissing. “I’m sorry, but—"

“Calm down, Scoots!” Sweetie Belle seethed.

Sighing, Scootaloo backed away, glaring. Arguing was pointless. Sweetie walked over to Apple Bloom and offered a hoof. “Are you okay?”

With a slap and a shake of a hind leg, Apple Bloom let out a lengthy exhale. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” She stood on quaking hooves, only sparing Scootaloo momentary glances. “Look, I’m mighty sorry I didn’t hear y’all come up. I was workin’, ya see, and—”

“Working on what?” Scootaloo asked. She saw no grease, no screws or nails. Maybe she was telling the truth, but there was something in the air. She could smell it, taste it..

“Scootaloo, knock it off!" Sweetie Belle groaned. "Would it kill you to be nice for two seconds?”

Maybe. Would it kill Apple Bloom to spill her guts?  Scootaloo looked at the floor and managed to keep any nasty language trapped behind her teeth.

“So, uh...” Apple Bloom rubbed the back of her neck. “Did I miss anything after I left?”

Sweetie Belle shrugged. “Nothing much. Scootaloo and I almost got detention for talking in class, but besides that, nah, you didn’t miss anything.”

“Where the hay’d you go anyway?” Scootaloo piped up.

Apple Bloom glared. “I ain’t gonna tell ya that, Scoots. It’s private, and I’m fine, so let’s just drop this crap before you wind up actually crippling me.” Scootaloo took a step back, foreleg raised. She hadn’t pushed Apple Bloom that hard. It was a small bump. No big deal, right? Apple Bloom snorted and turned back to Sweete Belle. “Sorry. Lost it there.” She ran a hoof through her mane. “So, what are y’all doin’ here?”

“Well, we didn’t have anything else to do, so we stopped by Sugarcube Corner and...” Her eyes brightened. “Wait! I just remembered...”  Sweetie Belle beamed and bounced over to Apple Bloom. She threw her saddlebags off and rummaged through them. After a few seconds, she pulled out a soggy cup and gave it to Apple Bloom. “You owe me a bit, by the way.” She giggled.

Apple Bloom giggled back and held the cup in a hoof. “Wow. Spoiled milk. Why, I’d pay two bits for this!” She sniffed the air and gagged, spilling the milkshake. Tthe treehouse shook as Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle burst into raucous laughter. Sweetie rolled onto her back while Apple Bloom swayed where she stood. Wiping tears from her eyes, she managed to choke out, “Sorry ‘bout that, Sweetie, but—“ She gagged again, throwing a hoof over her mouth. “Jeez, it smells like one of the pigs got sick.”

Scootaloo snorted and rolled her eyes. Why exactly was a waste of bits funny again? The ceiling creaked overhead. She leaned forward. “So, Apple Bloom. What’re you doing in here anyway?”

Apple Bloom frowned. “You ain’t gonna push me again, are ya?” Scootaloo growled, tapping a hoof against the floorboards, but nodded. Apple Bloom took a bite of a cupcake. Where had that come from? Sweetie must have given hers away. That girl was too good for her own good sometimes. “Well, ya see,” Apple Bloom finally said between bites, “I’ve been workin’ on fixin’ up the ol’ wagon for a while now.” Bits of pastry flew from her mouth with every syllable. 

“Why?” Scootaloo asked, inching away from a bit of chewed icing that landed near her. “It’s not like we’d be able to use it. I don’t think you two’d fit in there anymore.”

“Just practicin’. Workin’. I’ll be needin’ to help out ‘round the farm soon. Big Mac and Applejack can only do so much, y’know?” Her ears flicked against her head, gaze darting to the floor. She rubbed a hind leg with the other. “Besides, it… gets my mind off things, y’know? Gives me something else to think about.”

Sweetie Belle cantered over and put a hoof on Apple Bloom’s foreleg. “We understand.”

“Yeah, totally,” Scootaloo mumbled, her mind still burning with questions. If this was it, why was she hiding it from us? Hay, why was she hiding from us? Scootaloo made a note to ask more through questions later. “So, what kind of fixing are you doing anyway?”

Apple Bloom shrugged. “Just the basics. Patched a hole in the bottom yesterday and was replacin’ the wheels when y’all showed up.”

“Neat! How do you do that?” Sweetie Belle piped, bouncing in place. Uncool as it may be, Scootaloo had to admit that Sweetie could be quite adorable when she got excited. She welcomed it, really. Like a warm ray of sunshine on a rainy day.

Apple Bloom cleared her throat and tossed the now-empty cupcake wrapper aside. “Well, all ya have to do is…”

Scootaloo rubbed her forehead and groaned. So bored. She glanced around the room, taking in the large collection of junk that had accumulated over the years: a totaled hang glider, a few half-painted canvases, and countless boxes filled with the remnants of misadventures. How many failures did a pony have to go through before she received a cutie mark in just that? Scootaloo bet they were one wagon crash away. 

A series of giggles brought her back to reality. Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle sat on the floor, locked in an upbeat conversation. Hopefully something cool. Scootaloo leaned forward.

“... so Pip walks over to her an—”

Ugh! Scootaloo retched. Gossip. All the fillies loved that mush, couldn’t get enough of it. The very idea of it upset Scootaloo’s stomach. Groaning, she looked back at the boxes to try and avoid the mushiness. Instead, she found only uneasy memories. A roar echoed through the back of her head. She shook it away. It’d come back. It always came back. Maybe a little bit of reading could push it away.

If Rainbow could see me now. The thought brought a smile to her lips but, once again, she found her legs shaking and eyes burning. With a sigh, she reached into her saddlebags and pulled out the book. The voices stopped. In her periphrial vision, Apple Bloom had straightened up, probably staring right her. Scootaloo brushed it aside. Sweetie Belle would be able to explain it quicker and with less arguing than she would.

        

Chewing on a unruly strand of mane, Scootaloo opened the book, moved her Wonderbolts bookmark out of the way, and began to read.


– – –




Daring Do could not tell how long she had been staring at the waves. A minute? An hour? Did it even matter? Regardless, time had lost its effect on her many moons before. To her, it was just a series of numbers, produced so a businesspony would know when to take his smoke break. The only time Daring concentrated on—the only time she cared about—was time long gone.      

The waves crashed along the coast, adding another layer of salt to her already salt-lined face. She had managed to calm her emotions, but the carnage left in their wake was unpresentable. Even if she wanted to return to the party, she couldn't; one strand of mane out of place and she'd be found out. She was more comfortable out here anyway. She twisted her pith helmet in her hooves. They expected her back at the party, but what if she simply failed to return? Ripped off her dress, threw on her helmet and swung away from it all for good? It was tempting.

A limb snapped behind her, and she jumped, wiping away any remaining tears. She turned and stared into the jungle, expecting a journalist or stray partygoer to shuffle out from the brush. The snapping continued, growing closer by the second. She backed herself against a nearby boulder and got into a fighting position—a difficult action in heels. The snaps sounded mere inches away. A chill ran up her spine, and she gulped.

The moonlight illuminated a pair of eyes. As they drew closer, patches of orange and white fur appeared. These tufts stretched out, connecting to two large ears and a pointed snout. It wasn’t a creature from another world, but a simple—and adorable—fox. She sighed and slid down the boulder, onto the sand.

“Don’t scare me like that, little guy,” she chuckled. Her laughter died out as the fox continued towards her, stopping mere inches from her. Its eyes blank, as fox eyes often were, yet when the moon hit them just right, they gleamed with... something. She couldn’t put a hoof on it, but it seemed familiar. Her mouth dried, her heart beat a little harder on her ribs.

The fox craned its neck, gazing down a jungle path. “The hay?” she muttered, squinting to see if there was anything unusual, finding only dark trees and twisting shadows. She looked back at the fox, who still stared down the path. It turned back to her and cocked its head.

She threw her forelegs in the air. “What?” she whispered harshly. The fox continued to stare, unmoving, and from what she could tell, unbreathing. Daring shivered. “What? What do you want?”

It stared.

“I don’t have any food, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

It stared.

Daring shook her head and stood, but as she rose, the fox snatched her pith helmet and sprinted down the path. By the time she was able to process what had happened, the fox had vanished.

“Come back here, you!” With a powerful flap of her wings, she gave chase.

– – –

Branches scraped against her face, but she focused on the path, hoping to catch sight of the fox through the sea of leaves. 

As she progressed further into the brush, she began to hear a sound. It was faint at first—barely audible over her shaky breathing—but it quickly grew into a thunderous crashing. By the time she came to a clearing, she couldn’t hear herself think.

Not that she had much to think about; the sight left her breathless.

A dazzling waterfall towered above. Roaring streams of greenish-blue water crashed upon mile high rocks. She craned her neck, trying to guess its height, but a thick mist concealed the top. She whistled as she watched the water trace cracks in the mossy stones. Had this been on the maps? Had Father mentioned it before? No, she had spent many of her fillyhood years on these old trails; she would have heard it. Chills fired off down her spine, one after the other. She swayed on buckling hooves.

Through the cascading water she saw an orange and black tail disappear into an opening. She growled and gave chase, sprinting up a path that ran behind the waterfall. “Come back here, you! My father gave me that!” she yelled, thinking that that would somehow make the fox stop. It worked as well as she had expected; the fox’s tail flicked in and out of sight

She took a deep breath and unfurled her wings, flapping them to gain speed. Water splashed against her face, soaked her dress, as she rocketed towards the cave. Slabs of rock jutted out of the wall, giving her mere inches to squeeze through. A flash of orange briefly appeared in the cave’s mouth. “I see you!” Daring roared. Her wings burned, but the pain was outweighed by her searing rage. She shot through a tiny opening between boulder and wall, scraping the side of her face on the rock; cold air suddenly met her hind legs as her skirt of her was ripped clean off. Daring winced, muttering curses as she felt blood trickle down her face.

Daring shot around another rock and saw the fox staring back at her, helmet in mouth, tail swishing from side to side.. Daring grinned. “You’re mine now.”

"Daring..."

Her wings tensed. Her legs went numb. “What the—” A slab of rock cut her off.

– – –

Daring felt like she’d taken a mountain to the skull.

Groaning, she sat up, rubbing her head with her hoof. Pain was something she dealt with on a regular basis, and “flying into rock headfirst” fell into the top tier. She lightly touched her nose, and yelped. Blood soaked her hoof and the smell of copper filled the air. “Great,” she muttered. “Gashes AND a broken nose. Just perfect. At this rate I’ll be brain dead by sunrise.”

Somewhere in the cave, a rock fell.

“I hear you!” Daring yelled, stumbling about the cave with a foreleg raised. It scraped against rock, as did her wings. She spun in a circle. Nothing but rock.“Give me back my helmet,” she said through chittering teeth, “or I swear to Celestia, I will make you wish you were never born."

The only response was the echos of her ragged breathing.“Fine. You want to do this the hard way?! We’ll do this hard way!”

She ran forward but collided with solid rock. Her foreleg burned, but at least her nose had been spared. “Ugh, come on!” Shaking her head, she stuck out her forehoof again and pushed, but the result was the same. She reached behind and felt more rock. She gulped and thrust her hooves out to her side. A dull thud echoed through the cave. Her legs shook; she was trapped. Celestia, she really was trapped. “Not good,” she mumbled.

A pebble fell behind her and bumped against her leg. She screamed and flailed her forelegs like a madmare. She made contact with something soft. She pushed against it, but it didn’t budge. Then she punched it with all her might and felt it compress.

The thing grunted. “Ow! Ugh, strong as I remember.”

She gasped and fell to the floor. That voice. She was suddenly a filly again, listening eagerly to a bedtime story about daring adventurers. Tears stung her eyes. Between ragged breaths she was able to stutter out a single word: “D-dad?”

“Yes, honey, it’s me.” His voice was as gentle as she remembered.

“B-but... how?”

“That’s not important. Not now, at least.”

“Yes it is!" Daring shouted, clasping her hooves against her temples. "You’re... you’re dead. I shouldn’t be... this doesn’t make any sense!”

“Not much does.”

“I’m going mad,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “I’ve gone off the deep end.”

“I assure you," he said gently, "you are not mad.”

She snorted. “How can I take assurance from a figment?”

“Lift your hoof,” he whispered, his Caneighdian accent slipping through.

“What?” She felt like running. If only there was someplace to run to.

“Just lift it.”

Wincing, Daring did as she was told. She was greeted with the familiar feeling of emptiness: hot air, heavy emotions and the coarse strands of a—"

“Gah!” She retracted her hoof as if it were on fire. “No! This can’t... No!” She lifted her hoof, hoping that her mind was simply playing tricks. Once more she touched wispy hairs. A beard. His beard. A cannonball dropped in her chest.

“Told you.” Her father chuckled. A weight pressed against her shoulder, and she could barely suppress the urge to scream.

“O-o-okay, so I’m not crazy," she said. "That or a whole new form of crazy. But that still doesn’t explain anything.”

“Oh, but it does.”

“How?”

“Why do you think I’m able to talk to you? Why am I here and not sitting on a cloud, strumming a harp right now?”

“Because you’d be swimming in a lake of fire.” Daring chuckled, and her father echoed. The sound of his laugh still sent chills down her spine. “No, but really, I have no idea why. I have no idea about any of this crap.”

“Because there’s a back door, honey. It’s not as final as you think.”

“What’s not final?”

“Death, silly! What else?” Her father’s voice was halfway between a laugh and grunting frustration. “All these years and I still have to spoon feed you everything?”

“No, you don’t! I knew that, you… you just caught me off guard is all.” She exhaled and rubbed the back of her neck. I’m talking to a ghost, she thought to herself, I’m talking to a damn ghost and acting like it’s normal. She cleared her throat. “I get what you’re saying, Dad, but... I still don’t really understand.”

“Well, you remember that time that you sat in on one of my physics lectures?”

“Yeah,” she said

“Remember how long and boring that was?” he said.

She laughed. The taste of drool and ink drifted her mouth. She spit on the floor, coughed. It remained. “I fell asleep after five minutes.” Her smile faltered.

“Yeah, explaining all this would take way more time than we have. I’ll just give you the quick version, okay?”

“Alright.”

“Well, you see... Hmm, how do I explain this?" He sighed, and Daring could have sworn the distinctive sound of his hoof thumping against his skull—brainstorming in the manner he always had. "There are two ‘worlds,’ right? The world of the living and the world of the dead.”

“You’re already starting to lose me. That’s not physics, that’s mythology.”

“It is what it is. Deal with it as you must.” A hum filled the cave. Flashes of light flickered across the ceiling. Unfortunately, it was not enough to illuminate her father. If he were even there. Which was impossible. Yet the cough fired off and echoes as real as her own. “Yes, that’s the simplest way that I can explain it. There’s two worlds, and between them is a border. A barrier, if you will, keeping them separate. Well, as you know, even the most well-made walls have the occasional crack, and this one is no exception. There are holes. Holes the living and dead can enter each world through.”

Daring’s breath came as gasp. Cripes, she wasn’t just insane, she was in Tartarus. Of course. her father was here. She was dead too. That was the only way this could make sense.

"It’s not unguarded,” he continued. “There are hunters, ever vigilant, and nopony lasts too long on the wrong side of the veil. Too many minutes and the spirit can collapse, bereft of life or death. The body remains a hollow shell, and—"

The world suddenly shook, and a loud, animal-like roar echoed through the cave. Daring heard her father sigh. “Oh dear. I’m sorry, honey. I’m out of time,” he said. For the first time their entire conversation, his voice carried an emotion: pure terror.

Daring tried to balance herself. Hot air began to shoot up around her legs. “Out of time? What?”

“I’m sorry. Not enough time. Library, second floor, back corner, top shelf, red cover, page one sixty-four. It’ll tell you what you need to know.”

“What?” she screamed, barely able to hear herself over the roaring. Fire shot illuminated the roof of the cavern, thousands of feet overhead. She looked down. A shadow flickered in and out of existence. Her heart threatened to shatter her ribs.

“Sorry. I love you.”

“Wai—”

The roar escalated, the vibrations knocking Daring flat on her back. She covered her ears with her hooves, but the sound still pierced her eardrums. It seemed to drone on for minutes, for hours, for eternity.

And then it ceased.

The ringing in Daring’s ears was deafening. Her thoughts, her words, her breaths—all were muted. Slowly, she lifted herself to her hooves and stumbled around, bumping into unseen walls. Her senses filed back in, carrying her memories with it. She gasped and looked around.“D-dad?” she stuttered out, expecting a hearty chuckle and some good-natured ribbing in return. Only an echo responded. “Dad!” she cried out again, shaking from head to hoof. She clutched her head. “No... no...” she muttered.

The silence, the ringing, it all strangled her. “Daddy!” she shrieked with what little energy she had left. The ground trembled, and the roar came back, as piercing and venomous as before. Her legs fell out from under her as slabs of rock rained down on her back, snapping her spine, taking balance and feeling with them. She should’ve run—she could’ve run—but she didn’t, and now it was too late.

The earth gave one last heave, and the roof collapsed.

– – –

“Miss Doo? Miss Doo? Are you alright?”

A stick prodded her side, and she swatted it away with a foreleg. Groggily, she opened her eyes, but immediately regretted it. Another tropical day greeted her: the warmth of the sun , the scent of salt and the sound of water. “Perfect hangover weather,” she mumbled, leaning her head back against a boulder. Once her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, she opened them and glared at her alarm clock—a teenage colt dressed in a white shirt and bowtie. He recoiled, sweat obvious on his trembling, acne covered face.

“Let me guess: they sent you to—" She hiccuped. "To find... me.” She felt the desire to collapse back into the sand right then and there.

He nodded. She could hear his teeth chattering.

“Fine... you found me. Go.” She shooed him away with a hoof, and he complied. Once he was out of sight, she stretched herself out and groaned, rubbing her throbbing head. Her skirt was nowhere to be seen, leaving her back legs exposed to the chilly mist. She frowned and curled them inward. Walking back to the house would be fun. At least she could. Memories of the cave—no the dream—with the rocks raining down on her flashed through her mind.

     It had been nothing. Just a dream. That didn’t explain her missing skirt, but well, she had drunk enough. It was probably resting atop a pillar somewhere in Father’s mansion.

She turned her head and wretched, emptying the previous night’s poison on the unsuspecting seashells. Once the heaves subsided, she opened her watering eyes. Moaning, she stumbled to her hooves and shuffled to a nearby tide pool. She wet her hooves and rubbed them against her burning head. As she lowered her hooves, her reflection caught her eye.

            She was a mess. Her bloodshot eyes were puffy and  surrounded by thick black rims. Sand, vomit, and night-old drool caked her mouth and chin. Her mane jutted out at acute angles. She cocked her head. The hay? I coulda sworn I had my helmet last night.

Lazily, she glanced around for her helmet. Finding no trace of it nearby, she groaned. Movement was unavoidable. Muttering the curses of ancient tribes, she wandered around the beach, eyes fixed on the sand. She walked until she felt wakes sliding over her hooves then turned around. As she did, an opening in the jungle caught her eye. Daring shrugged and trotted towards it. I’ve found it in stranger places, she thought. She peeked around the boulder, down the path. There was nothing of note, save for a few interesting plant specimens and… were those paw prints?

Something heavy fell on her head, and she fell to her knees. Rubbing her sore skull, she caught sight of an object lying at her hooves. She blinked her vision into focus and gave the object a once-over. It was her helmet. “The hay?” She leaned down, picked it up, glancing at the rock. “How much did I drink last night?” She chuckled to nopony in particular. She flipped her helmet around in her hooves and noticed an object inside the crown. She pulled it out and smiled.

It was a single picture, a snapshot of her and her father outside of an old temple. She giggled at the sight of his bushy beard—so many times she had begged him to shave it, and each time he refused.

The sound of rustling leaves brought her out of her reverie. She scanned the treeline. For a moment, she thought she saw an orange flash disappear into a group of bushes. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, but she shook off the chills. “It was just a dream,” she whispered to herself. “That’s all it was.” Still, no amount of reassurances could stop the nagging feeling.

“Red cover. Page one sixty-four.”

Sighing, she donned her helmet. It clashed with her dress, but the waterfall--or rain, whatever it was--and missing skirt had ruined it enough already. She marched down the beach towards her father’s house, grogginess drifting off in the salty wind. The guests had probably departed during the night. That was good. No point in formality. She pulled off her dress and tossed it over a banister as she marched up to the house.

One of her father’s maids approached her, asking where she had been. She brushed her aside. Red cover, page one-sixty-four. As she approached Father’s study, she found herself chucking as she twirled the key in her pinions. All her life she had been forbidden to ever enter the room, and yet, even now, the door into the library just screamed… blandness. A basic cedar painted a basic white in the most basic wing of the manor. Her snark was swept away by the opening door.

Jaw swinging agape, she nearly fell back on her rump once again. If she had paid attention in her youth—if she had not bought the first train ticket to a foreign land the moment she got the bits together—she would have realized that a good fourth of the manor had been taken up by her father’s study. She took to the air, floating toward the back shelf, glancing at the spines. Books on griffon cultural practices, on the Wild Cats of South Amareica (conveniently next to book on the famous treasures supposedly buried within), books on pegasi burial practices. Her wings faltered. If only she had known, if only she had come back by every once in a while. Maybe her quests could have been cut in half, maybe he’d still be here.

She shook her head. No, focus, Daring. The book she was looking for stood out like a sore feather amidst the shadows. Many of the spines lined upon the back shelf lacked spine, covers peeling and gathering dust. There was but one red one. Thinking better of a mouth hold, she sprinted over to a nearby stepladder and brought it over. The book was jammed tight between two ancient tomes. Dust clouds shot out with the book, yet as she stared down at the cover, she could not help but notice a lack of dust, not a scratch or peeling to its body.

Sitting down would have been a smarter option, but she had to know. If she fell, she fell. That’s what wings were for. She flipped through the pages. Four, eight, sixteen, forty-two, one-twenty-nine. The flipping pages came to a sudden stop at the start of a new chapter. Somepony had dog-eared the top corner. She knew what page it was before she even looked down. One-sixty-four. Her hooves tapped against the floor as she hovered back down, lungs burning. The picture upon the page blurred, the words formed a jumbled mess of letters she didn’t recognize, but the title hung in her eyes even as she clenched them shut, scrawled upon a note atop the strange symbols.

‘The Bridge Between Life and Death: Observations and Accounts on the Phoenix Pool.”

 



Scootaloo stood without a word, stepping on the pages of her book as she walked to the back of the room, body numb and mind racing. The box sat where it always had, its dust-layered pulling her forward like a beacon.

“Uh, Scootaloo? What are you doing?” Sweetie Belle asked from behind, voice shaking. Understandable. The box may have looked like all the others, but the memories it contained were anything but. Scootloo’s wings locked against her side, pulsing rapidly with each step.

Sweetie Belle quickly trotted in front of Scootaloo, placing a hoof on her foreleg. “Hey, Scoots,  how about we go... uh... play a game of tag!” She tapped her hoof. “You’re it!” she cried out, voice squeaking, as she took a few steps back. Scootaloo did not stray from her path. She could not. Sweetie Belle whimpered  as Scootaloo reached the box, wedged her hooves under the lid. The box popped open like a coffin, sending a rush of dust and painful memories into the air. Scootaloo’s throat closed as she pulled a cyan-colored balloon out of the box. Four legs, two wings. She bit the inside of her cheek. A pony.

Scootaloo turned it in her hoof, flinching with each squeak. The nose sagged slightly—an expected side effect of time—but for the most part, it had retained its shape. Had it been Pinkie’s doing? She wanted to say it was Pinkie’s handiwork, but the animal was too clean and preserved. Twilight? Rarity? No, definitely not Rarity; she wouldn’t come within two inches of this thing. Scootaloo sighed and ran a hoof along the balloon’s rainbow ‘tail,’ squinting. No, it had to be Pinkie’s work. Only Scootaloo and her ever seemed to remember that it went ‘red, orange, yellow,’ not ‘red, yellow, orange.’

She set the balloon aside and rummaged through the rest of the items. They were mostly miscellaneous—a blanket, some matches, a half-eaten candy cane—but there were some that Scootaloo knew all too well. Items that warmed and crushed her heart simultaneously. She let out a whimpering chuckle as she pulled out an wrinkly sheet of painted paper. “Hey, Apple Bloom. Remember this?”

The painting, done entirely in watercolor, depicted what Scootaloo could only guess was herself flying beside a blue blob that she assumed was Rainbow Dash. They appeared to be locked in a battle with a monster—a dragon with a wolf’s face and tentacles for teeth. Considering the quality of the piece, they may have been baking a cake.

Apple Bloom shuddered but forced a smile. “Unfortunately. I gave ya that for your... seventh birthday? I think it was your seventh, but, shoot, were you even in town then? Whatever year it was, you said you wanted sometin’ that was ‘cool’ and ‘awesome’ and such. Our first birthday party as friends.” She chuckled. “Boy howdy, I sure’ve come a long way. Look at that! The coloring, the shapes, the concept. It stinks worse than Winona’s breath after she gets into the onion patch.”

Scootaloo tuned her out and glanced back down at the assorted memories. She tossed the poster back in the box and walked back to her book. Scootaloo picked it up and skimmed over the last sentence in the chapter before flipping it closed. It was crazy. Stupid. Books were not real—Daring Do was not real—yet she could not shake the feeling in her gut. The weight of the air. Yes, it was crazy.

But so was she.

Her gaze met the back wall. Somewhere off to the side, Apple Bloom’s ears fell flat against her head while Sweetie Belle spoke in wordless squeaks. Scootaloo couldn’t see her own face, but she was sure her expression wasn’t pleasant. Not that she cared what she looked like at that moment. She had an announcement to make, a fate to seal.

“I’m going.”

Apple Bloom stared at Scootaloo, head tilted, eyebrow raised. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a droning “Uh” came out. Scootaloo didn't look up, keeping her eyes on the book, scanning the final pages over and over again.

Two worlds... Barrier... Holes... The Phoenix Pool. Just pointless prose, yet it struck as true as her heart hammered against her chest.

“Uh, Scoots? Equestria to Scoots. Hello?” Apple Bloom waved a hoof in front of Scootaloo’s face. Tapped the floor. Scootaloo read on.“You’re ‘goin?' Goin’ where? Why? What the hay are ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Apple Bloom glanced at Sweetie Belle, as if expecting her to suddenly have an answer, but she merely shrugged.

“Yeah, Scoots.” Her voice cracked at the end. “What are you talking about?”

Scootaloo’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t look up. “It’s crazy. I’m going, I’m crazy,” she whispered, tapping her hoof on the ground as she scanned the pages. Was the library open? She’d need more books.

Apple Bloom let out a throaty groan.“Yeah. Okay. You’re goin’ somewhere. Where? Home? It ain’t that late, but I reckon I understand”

Scootaloo finally looked up. “I’m going.”

Apple Bloom buried her face in her hoof. “You said that a million times already. What the hay ya goin’ on about? Where the hay are you going?!”

“I’m going to get Rainbow back.”

The room fell silent.

“What?” Sweetie Belle’s knees buckled, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“I’m going to get Rainbow back.” Scootaloo thrust a hoof against the book, punctuating each word.

“Are ya serious?” Apple Bloom scoffed, taking a step back, shaking her head and scoffing, “Jeez, you really are serious. I know that look. You… you honestly think...” She trailed off, scrunching her nose and glaring out the window. "I got no words. Unbelievable," she muttered, just loud enough for Scootaloo to hear.

“Of course, I’m serious!” Scootaloo’s cheeks burned hot as the sun. She took a step forward. The page crinkled beneath her hoof. “What makes you think I’m not?”

“Well, let’s do the math.” Apple Bloom paced around her, nodding her head and mouthing silent words, before stopping in front of her. She tapped her chin with her hoof and glanced at the ceiling, as if its boards held the answer. “Carry the nine...” She lowered her hoof and glowered. “Oh yeah, because it’s reckless, it’s impossible. Hay, it’s stupid.”

Apple Bloom didn’t have time to react before Scootaloo dashed forward, coming nose to nose with her. “Stupid?” Her voice shook the clubhouse. “It’s not stupid!”

“Sounds pretty stupid to me,” Apple Bloom scoffed. “I mean 'gettin’ Rainbow back?' That—I’m sorry, Scoots—but that’s just crazy talk.”

“No, it’s not!”

Apple Bloom sighed and reached out, patting Scootaloo’s shoulder. “Look, Scootaloo. You’re taking this hard. We all are. And… I’m sorry, I know we all got our own ways of dealin’ with this stuff, but…” She stared at the floor and took a shaky breath. Her legs quaked. Scootaloo furrowed her brow. A sniffle trickled through the air. Was she crying?

Scootaloo backed away and cleared her throat. “Uh, Apple Bloom?”

Apple Bloom wiped her face with her foreleg and cleared her throat. “Damn it.” She rapped a hoof against the floor. “Scoots, you know I love ya. We all do, but... but this ain’t helpin’. Ain’t helpin’ you, ain’t helpin’ me, ain’t helpin’ nopony.”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow. “The hay are you saying?”

“ ‘The hay I’m sayin’?’I’m saying, hold onta Rainbow, grieve like you gotta grieve and Sweetie and I’ll be here to help ya no matter what, but…” The words trailed off and she moved her gaze to a window. She wiped her nose with a foreleg. “Death don’t work like this, trust me I know. Don’t hold onto a pipe dream. Ain’t healthy.”

“A pipe dream?” Scootaloo snorted. “That’s what you think this is?” She picked up her book, opened it to the first page, and pressed it into Apple Bloom’s face. “Look here, Apple Bloom. Look at this map! Notice anything familiar?”Apple Bloom shoved the book off her muzzle and glared.

“Scootaloo.”

“Look at it!”

Apple Bloom glowered but Scootaloo could see her scanning the map, raising a hoof to tap the page occasionally. “I… I don’t see much of anything here. It’s a map. Big deal.”

“Look right here!” Scootaloo tapped the lower right corner of the page with her hoof. “You see the name? Right beside that dot?”

“Canterlot.” Apple Bloom looked up and shrugged. “So? It’s the capital of Equestria. I could go through Mac’s books and find the same map a dozen times over.”

Scootaloo’s jaw dropped. “So? So, there’s a chance that this could be real!”

Apple Bloom tilted her head, sitting back on her haunches and shaking out a hind leg. “And what is ‘this?’ What am I s’pposed to be lookin’ for here?”

“Here! Look here!” Scootaloo tapped at the top corner of the page. “That mountain right there is where the Phoenix Pool is.” Or so she hoped. The line was leading right there, so there was no other explanation. Right?

“What the hay is a ‘Phoenix Pool’?" Apple Bloom said. "Sounds like a swimmin’ hole.”  She forced a chuckle. Scootaloo didn’t laugh along.

“A swimming hole?" she stammered. "A swimming... Really?” Massaging her temples, Scootaloo leaned back and stomped a hind leg. “It’s not a damn ‘swimming hole.’ It’s this... well, it’s basically a place where you can find... dead things and bring them back.”

Apple Bloom snorted. “What was I just sayin’ earlier, Scoots? It… It don’t work like that.”

“No! This is... there’s a chance.” Scootaloo closed her eyes and dredged for an answer that wasn’t there. Her lips dried out and her temples throbbed. “There’s gotta be a chance.” Sniffling, she waited for another blow, but the air remained still. Somewhere to her right, Sweetie let out ragged breaths. Hoofsteps approached, followed soon by a weight on her back. She pulled free, slapping Apple Bloom’s hoof away.

The farm filly’s expression remained flat. “This is important ta ya. She was important, but you got—”

Scootaloo slammed her hoof against the floor. “You’re damn right she’s important to me! And that’s why I’m going to do something about it.”

Apple Bloom groaned. “Scootaloo. Quit bein’ a fool. Ya—”

“Oh, cut the crap, Apple Bloom,” Scootaloo groused.

“Crap? What crap?” Apple Bloom's mouth curved into a disgusted frown. “Scoots, what’re ya—”

“You didn’t know her the way I did! She didn’t mean anything to you, and now she’s gone, and I need—"

“Shut up!”

Scootaloo nearly fell to the floor as Apple Bloom bore down on her. She backed herself against the wall, and stared up at her enraged friend through shrunken, shaking pupils.

“You... selfish...” Apple Bloom seethed, her face reddening. “You think you’re the only one hurting? You think that just ‘cause I didn’t worship the ground she stood on that I don’t care?" She slammed a hoof against the floor and growled. "She saved me too. You weren’t the only on there. I still can’t sleep ‘cause of all of it.” She turned her back and walked toward the makeshift podium they had set up oh so many moons ago. As she walked, the sun hit her back. The scars had healed but Scootaloo could still make out dried blood, still healing bruises. The doctors had called her lucky.

They had called Scootaloo a miracle.

“I…” Rocking back and forth, Scootaloo stared at her hooves and felt the heat seeping from her body. If she let out a breath, she might be able to see it, but she had none left to give. She opened her mouth several times before the words finally leaked out. “Apple Bloom... I... Look, I…”

“Stop. Just stop it, Scoots. You’ve been a real jerk the whole time you’ve been here, and I’m sick of it," Apple Bloom said, head lowered and eyes set in a glower. "I don’t need any more of you at the moment.” With that she trudged to the door, her left hind leg lagging a second behind. She stopped briefly to give Sweetie Belle a pat on the back and whisper something in her ear. They exchanged nods, and Apple Bloom gimped on out the door. Before descending the ramp, she turned to Scootaloo. “You… go on ahead and do what you think you should do. It ain’t gonna do you no good, but what do I know?” With that she disappeared down the ramp.

Seconds ticked by like eternities. Scootaloo found herself running a hoof along the opened book. The pages had become a little crumpled, but she could still make it out. The map, the markings, the one chance she’d have. “Can… can you believe her?”

Sweetie Belle stared out the window, horn flickering, biting her lower lip. “I—” She coughed and shook her head.

“Sweetie Belle? What’s wrong? You okay?” Scootaloo asked.

“She’s right,” Sweetie Belle said flatly, refusing to make eye contact. “You need help.”

Scootaloo frowned and cocked her head to the side. “Not you too’”

Sweetie Belle shot her a pleading look. “You’re scaring me, Scoots. This is eating you up, and… stars, I just want to do something to help. Help you let it out somehow.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. Unlike Apple Bloom, she didn’t even bother wiping them.

Scootaloo laughed nervously. “Scaring you? How? I’m as big as you are? Hay, you… heh, you might be taller! I...” Her throat caught hold of her tongue. She was going to be sick. “You seriously think I’m scary?”

Sweetie Belle rolled her brimming eyes. “Not like that, you dodo. The… the way you’re acting. It scares me. It’s scaring all of us.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sweetie Belle sighed and shook her head. “Come on, Scootaloo. You think I’m that stupid? Just an hour ago. were acting like you’d seen a ghost. You froze up right there in the middle of the orchard. Hay, you acted like you were ready for something to attack us when we got here.” She trotted to the front window and stared off into the orchard. “Then you finally get here and just blow up in Apple Bloom’s face.” Her voice shook. “Then you say you’re going on some wild goose chase, it—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Wild goose chase? Sweetie, don’t tell me you don’t believe me either.”

Sweetie Belle sighed and lowered her head, biting her lip, eyes darting to the floor. Scootaloo cleared her throat, and Sweetie Belle jumped with a squeak. Her misty eyes met Scootaloo’s. “I’m sorry. I want to believe you, but... I don’t know. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

Sweetie Belle tapped her hoof against the floor and glanced around the room. “I don’t know why I can't, I just can’t—”

Scootaloo slammed a hoof on the floor. “Why?”

Sweetie Belle recoiled, lowering her head, and trembling. “Please, Scoots. Don’t be mad,” she whimpered.

“Answer me!”

“I... I...” Sweetie Belle stammered. She lowered herself to the floor and began to shake. Sobs followed not long after.

Scootaloo looked away. Stop it! She scolded herself. She didn’t do a damn thing. Don’t take this out on her. She moved to the table and picked up the Rainbow Dash balloon, rotating it in her hooves. This isn’t how she’d act. She placed the balloon back on the table and stood on shaky hooves. Two steps were all she was able to take before falling back on her haunches. “Sweetie Belle?”

The prone unicorn sniffed. “What?” she asked through a muffled voice.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but right now. Yeah. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.” Through sheer will, she was able to get her legs working long enough to make her way over to Sweetie Belle. The filly glanced up at her for a second, but quickly looked away. Scootaloo bit her lip and wrapped a foreleg around her as she lay down as well. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

Sweetie Belle kept her muzzle buried but she leaned into Scootaloo’s foreleg. “It’s okay.”

Silence overtook them once more. It ticked by with a shifting light. Scootaloo glanced out the window and noticed that a hint of orange was starting to grow in the sky. “Wow, that late already?” she muttered. “I’d better get going.”

“Yeah, same here.”

Scootaloo lifted herself up and, after stretching some feeling back into her legs, trotted out the door and down the ramp, Sweetie Belle on her heels. Once they reached the bottom, Scootaloo retrieved her scooter and flapped her wings, warning her tense muscles. At this hour, they’d soon be working double-time. She kicked the dirt and rolled up beside Sweetie Belle. “Want a ride?” she said.

Sweetie Belle shook her head, horn alight and tightening her saddlebags. “Thanks, but no, I’ll pass.”

Scootaloo shot a grin. “What? You chicken?” She leaned forward on the handlebars.

“No, I’d just prefer to not break my neck.”

“There are worse things.”

“Not really.” Sweetie Belle shook her head and glanced skyward. “It’s not you, I’m just scared.”

Scootaloo pushed her helmet back, frowning. “‘Not me.’ Uh huh, sure. Look, I’m not that bad.”

“Sure, whatever you say Miss ‘I Only Crashed Two Times This Week.’”

“That’s a personal record!” Scootaloo laughed.

Sweetie Belle giggled and trotted down the path, Scootaloo rolling close behind. They were almost out of the orchard when Sweetie Belle spoke up: “So are you still going?”

“Huh?”

“That whole ‘getting Rainbow Dash back’ thing. Are you still going to do it?”

Scootaloo looked to the sky and sighed. Of course she was! What would Rainbow say if she just gave up on her like that? All it took was one sight Sweetie Belle’s pleading look to brush the honesty aside. “Nah," she said, rocking back and forth on the handlebars. "It was a silly idea. I wish it wasn’t, but you two were right.”

Sweetie Belle smiled. Scootaloo’s ears fell flat. Lying sucked. Lying to Sweetie Belle was like a knife to the wing. “Okay,” Sweetie piped, skipping for a moment. “So, you want to meet up here tomorrow?”

“Do you think Apple Bloom will let us?”.

“She’ll be fine. She just needs some time to cool off. Just like you did.”

Scootaloo nodded. “Well, I’m not sure about tomorrow. Gotta do some chores. How’s Sunday sound?”

“Sounds fine by me,” Sweetie Belle said, her grin radiant even in the growing shadows.

“Great," Scootaloo said with a frown. If it wouldn’t have been such a loud act, she would have punched herself on the leg right then and there. "See you then.”

“All right, see you Scootaloo.” Sweetie Belle waved and gaily trotted in the direction of Ponyville. Once she was out of sight, Scootaloo let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and rolled down the bumpy pathway home.
> Chapter Four
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Four


Scootaloo made her way down the path at a snail’s pace, eyes focused on the dry earth. A cool wind brushed against her back, rustling her already disheveled mane. She lifted a hoof and wiped her bangs out of her eyes for the umpteenth time, and as she lowered her hoof, she caught sight of the red leaves that loosely hung from their branches as they swayed in the breeze. Shivering, a smile crossed her lips.

It was almost time for the annual Running of the Leaves. Goodbye boring old dirt path, hello red and orange blanket. Slick to the wheels, sure, but the crunching made it worth it. Scootaloo smirked and let her gaze drift skyward. The coming months had so much awesome to them. The Running of the Leaves was always memorable, but there were also the pumpkin muffins at Sugarcube Corner, the clouds of fallen leaves shooting out behind her scooter as she rushed over them, the long evenings spent crusading with only the fireflies to light the way. Good times, good times.

The smirk was short-lived. Scootaloo doubted that there would be much crusading this autumn. Her sigh harmonized with the breeze as her chin fell against the handlebars. Apple Bloom’s bitter words still rang in her ears. Losing Rainbow was hard enough, but was she really willing to lose one of her awesomest friends over such a silly argument? Sure, Bloom could have been a little less… brutal in her word choices, but had she also not been right? It was just words in a book. Her chest hollowed, she shook it away. No. But, still… she leaned back. The clouds held no answers, but at least they’d calm her nerves. I’m going to fix this. Somehow. Her inner voice shook. Normally, she would have puffed out her chest and charged at the problem headfirst, but there was something about what Apple Bloom had said. Or rather, the way she had said it.

She sounded like she hated me.

Scootaloo stopped her scooter. She sounded like she really hated me. She sighed and leaned forward on the handlebars once more, letting the sun beat down on her troubled mind. Thinking too long about all of it was a dangerous road to go down, yet memories flickered in and out. Everfree branches slapping her face, jaws nipping at her heels. Rainbow. A familiar copper stench drifted up her nostrils and filed through her veins. She shook. Maybe Bloom was right to hate her.

A squeak pierced the silence. Scootaloo’s ears perked up, aiming up and down the path. Not a single soul was on the road, but the squeak filled the air once more. Wings twitching, Scootaloo slowly rolled forward, keeping her ears and eyes open for anything suspicious. She couldn’t think of a beast that squeaked, but good hunters adapted. Her wings betrayed her, shifting from a flutter to a beat, pushing her forward way too quick.

Suddenly, there was a loud splash. Scootaloo yipped and fell backwards, landing painfully on her haunches. She staggered to her hooves, coughing and brushing the dust off her coat. Eyes darting, she searched for her doom. Trees, fence posts, a couple bunnies hopping into nearby brush. Her glare turned to a grimace. Mumbling, she hopped on her scooter and rolled forward, and within seconds was beside a stream, staring up Fluttershy’s cottage.

Passing by Fluttershy’s home was a daily routine. No matter what direction she headed home from, the route always seemed to cut by the cottage. Between the bears and the cockatrices and whatever else Fluttershy might be harboring within the fields, Scootaloo had always made sure to kick her wings into high gear as she passed it by. Nowadays, she had no doubt the fields harbored even worse beasts. Memories, emotions--both those that would never be felt again and that would never cease.

Fluttershy had changed since the incident. It was expected, but it was still enough to twist Scootaloo’s gut. It had been weeks since anypony had seen her. Not even a candle or shadow had been glimpsed in the windows since Rainbow’s passing. There were rumors, however. Featherweight had weaved a tale at lunch once, claiming that he’d seen Fluttershy standing in the pond beside her house. Not swimming or watching a family of ducks or anything. Just standing in neck-deep water. Featherweight had a habit of sewing together lies, as the Foal Free Press headlines still sometimes showed, but there had been a glint to his eyes, a waver to his voice. Just thinking about it now was enough to turn Scootaloo’s blood to ice.



The squeak pierced the air again. It seemed closer, but Scootaloo still couldn’t make out where or what it was. Ears falling flat once more, she swallowed a lump in her throat and turned from the skulking shadows of the cottage. Rocks kicked up around the wheels. “Just my imagination,” she muttered.

“Nope, it’s me!”

“Gah!” A red blob filled Scootaloo’s vision. She veered her scooter to the left. It flipped onto its side, throwing her into a stumbling gait. Celestia, she was going to hit it. Biting her lip and squinting her eyes, she raised a forehoof. It had to have a weak spot. All beasts have a weak spot. Her hoof connected with... something rubbery. Instead of a grunt or roar, a honk and foalish giggle perked Scootaloo’s ears.

Pinkie...

“That tickles. Do it again!” Pinkie Pie squealed.

Scootaloo shook her head and tried to catch her breath. “Jeez, Pinkie, you scared the feathers off of me. What are you...” Scootaloo tilted her head. “Uh, why are you dressed like a clown?”

Pinkie grinned, stretching the white and red paint on her face out into a rather disturbing smile. Another squeak rang out as she stepped forward. Scootaloo looked down and saw that extra-large flippers adorned each hoof. All she needs now are some balloons, Scootaloo chuckled at the thought, but stopped when she noticed two large red orbs floating behind Pinkie’s frilly mane.

“Why not?” Pinkie piped up, somehow managing to smile even wider. Scootaloo groaned and placed a hoof on her scooter, spreading her wings. It was only Pinkie. Those simple words should have been enough to calm her nerves but her wings kept twitching at her sides. Pinkie always had her reasons, but dressing like a clown out near Fluttershy’s place? Even by Pinkie Pie standards, that was weird.

Scootaloo cleared her throat. “So, uh, Pinkie. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was just here to see Fluttershy.”

“Ah.” Scootaloo slackened her guard, but her wings twitched on. “Um, how is she?”

“Fluttershy and I are having a party!”

Scootaloo’s jaw fell agape. “Wha-what?” she stammered.

“A party,” Pinkie repeated. “You know? Balloons, cake, music, games, punch, smiles, balloons—”

“I know what it is, I’m just... it’s just weird.”

Pinkie blinked, still smiling. “Why? There’s nothing weird about parties.” She placed a squeaking shoe to her chin as she hummed. “Well, okay, maybe there are some weird parties. Like the mango-themed one I threw a few years ago, but besides that they’re not weird at all!”

“They are when you...” Scootaloo cut herself off, looking away. Her mind always seemed to drift back to Rainbow. Mentioning her wouldn’t change anything, but darn it, it still hurt to say her name.  She cleared her throat.  “Well, they are when… when you just lost somepony close to you.”

Pinkie’s reaction was devoid of emotion. She simply tilted her head, smile unwavering. “Really? That’s the best time to party!”

Scootaloo grunted and waved her hoof. A spark reignited the fire in her gut. She scowled. “Yeah, yeah. 'Think of the good times,’ ‘celebrate her memory!’ All that sappy stuff. Irregardless, I’m--”

“Irregardless isn’t a word, silly.”

 Scootaloo thrust a hoof. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I’m just pretty sure Fluttershy’s not in the partying mood. I mean, look at it”--she framed the cottage in her twitching wings--“it’s like nopony even lives here anymore.” Scootaloo found her next breath to be a shaky one.

The words seemed to have no effect on Pinkie. She blew a raspberry and placed a squeaking shoe on Scootaloo’s foreleg. Pushing it away didn’t even draw a reaction. “Well then, you clearly haven’t been looking much, have you?” Pinkie eyed her balloons. “She’s always in town. Why, just this morning she was in Sugarcube Corner for, like, forever. Even ate five muffins. It was crazy! Then there was...”

Scootaloo receded into the less spastic comforts of her mind. Pinkie could--and would--talk forever. Ignoring her was a lesson Scootaloo had learned quickly. She had learned more about the mating habits of bunnies during her sixth birthday party than she ever wanted to know. As Pinkie blathered on, Scootaloo occasionally bobbed her head in an agreeable nod, but most of her attention was set on the cottage. The very thought of Fluttershy partying at such a moment was a real head-scratcher.

Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash had been friends since the dawn of time. The fact that ponies of such different stripes could tolerate each other, let alone become best friends, was sometimes difficult for Scootaloo to swallow. She was one to talk, though. Sweetie Belle had been  her closest, bestest friend for as long as she could remember. They had next to nothing in common, but friendships always seemed to work in mysterious ways.

I guess opposites do attract. Scootaloo’s wings twitched. She lifted a forehoof and tried to calm them. Still, mysterious as the ways of ponies were, the idea that Fluttershy was willing to even get out of bed nowadays, let alone party, was one Scootaloo found difficult to believe. While braver than she let on, Fluttershy was still a timid and fragile mare. Something like this would break her. A knife stuck itself in Scootaloo’s heart and twisted.

Maybe if the partying involves a bottle or three. 

Pinkie was still yammering on. Blinking, Scootaloo shifted her attention back to her. “... And Rarity jumps up and yells, ‘Not my debutante gown, you produce producing dolt!’ So, Applejack stares her down, and you know what she does?”

Scootaloo shrugged, completely lost. “What?”

“She tosses the rest of the outfit into the mud, including the headdress!” Pinkie Pie burst into a fit of laughter and fell to the ground, rolling in the dirt and clutching her stomach. “It was hi-larious!” she managed to squeak out between gasps.

Scootaloo did her best to chuckle along, but she knew she was far from convincing. Not that her performance mattered. Pinkie’s laughs were loud enough to wake the dead.

Not to mention loud enough to mask approaching hoofsteps.

“Hi Pinkie.”

Pinkie stopped laughing and sat up. Scootaloo turned her head and gasped. Fluttershy stood before them, two songbirds perched on her back. She smiled at Pinkie Pie, chin up and back straight. Scootaloo couldn’t remember a time when Fluttershy had stood taller. Chills shot up her spine. She waited for Fluttershy to glance over and throw a warm smile in her direction, but Fluttershy kept staring at Pinkie, seemingly unaware of Scootaloo’s presence. Endless questions and theories floated through her mind. Something resembling an answer came to light as the sun passed behind a cloud, then brightened once more. It wasn’t much of an answer, just a glint on the edge of Fluttershy’s eyes, but it was enough. A hint of something Scootaloo couldn’t put her hoof on. Desperation? Torment? Scootaloo didn’t have time to find an answer before Pinkie Pie scooped Fluttershy up in a bear hug.

“Heya, ‘Shy!" she squealed. "You ready to par-tay?”

“Of course. I always am,” Fluttershy replied without mumbling or shying away. She even laughed a little. Scootaloo narrowed her eyes. Were the changelings back?

Pinkie interrupted her string of thoughts with a squeaky hop. “Well, then. Let’s get this party started!” Pinkie shouted.

They broke their embrace and quickly trotted towards the cabin. Scootaloo followed as quickly as her shorter legs would allow, but the two mares had disappeared behind the cottage long before she could reach a steady gallop. As she neared the cottage, she caught a shadow out of the corner of her eye. Skidding to a halt, she squinted into the woods. A sea of trees, a couple squirrels and birds moseying about, nothing out of the ordinary. Something orange flickered at the edge of her vision, but when her vision focused on the are, she found only trees. No movement--nothing at all out of the ordinary.

“Must have been my reflection,” Scootaloo muttered before turning and trotting towards the cottage once more. She didn’t know how realistic the statement was, but it calmed her throbbing heart enough to keep her from collapsing.

Behind the cottage was a small table with a vase full of wildflowers and tea set resting in the center. Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy sat on opposite ends of the table, chatting and sipping from their cups. Well, Fluttershy was sipping. Pinkie was downing cups of tea like they were shots of punch.

Scootaloo slowly walked up to the table, eyebrow arched, debating whether or not she should leave. She plopped down in the grass, peering around the wall and starting at Fluttershy. She studied every detail of her—the flicker of her eyes, posture, whether or not her lips quivered—searching for a hint. Something smelled fishy, but the answer escaped her.

“... Mr. Cat and the Mice family have finally settled their differences,” said Fluttershy.

“Great!” Pinkie blurted, downing another cup of tea.

“And Ms. Bluejay’s sore throat has finally healed up, thank Celestia. I was so worried that I’d have to find another contralto. Do you know how hard it is to find one at this time of year?”

Pinkie shrugged and shoveled three chocolate teacakes into her mouth. “I have no idea.”

“Difficult. Really difficult.” Fluttershy sighed and stared into her cup.

Like ‘losing your best friend’ difficult? Scootaloo thought. She could see through the facade—could see the hurricane brewing right below the surface—but she had no idea what to do about it. A hug may let Fluttershy release her emotions, but hugging wasn’t Scootaloo’s thing. Prodding her with questions wouldn’t do much good either; Fluttershy would probably just shrug them off and continue chatting with Pinkie while ignoring Scootaloo completely. Still, Scootaloo felt the need to do something. Leaving the safety of the cottage wall, Scootaloo marched into the unknown.

“So, umm, Fluttershy.” Scootaloo found her voice shaking almost immediately. She covered it with a cough. “Uh, what’s up?”

Surprisingly, Fluttershy looked down, giving a warm smile. “Oh, the same old stuff. Feeding the animals, spending time with my friends. It’s really nothing interesting.”

Not buying it. Scootaloo cleared her throat. “You sure nothing’s bothering you?”

“Oh, no.” Fluttershy shook her head vigorously. “Why ever would something be bothering me? Should it?” A crack appeared in her armor: a sideways glance at Pinkie. The flash of panic and pain lasted only an instant, but it was enough.

Scootaloo cocked her head. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Fluttershy flashed a too-wide grin. “Everything’s been just fine... just fine... just...” Her smile faded, and she glanced downwards, seemingly enthralled by the tablecloth. Pinkie had stopped chowing down,  now looking on with flattened ears, crumbs falling out of her still-open mouth..

"Fluttershy?" Pinkie asked through a mass of cake.

The sound of wood sliding on grass filled the air as Fluttershy pushed her chair back. She turned and trotted away from the table, eyes downcast and a blank expression on her face. Pinkie Pie swallowed a mouthful of cake—chasing it with the rest of the tea in the kettle—jumped up and pursued her distraught friend. Scootaloo looked on, unsteady legs shifting between ‘follow’ and ‘don’t follow,’ as Fluttershy disappeared into the cottage. The door slammed behind her, nearly clocking Pinkie’s nose. The party pony paused for a second, forehoof raised, before quietly opening the door and shutting it silently. A chorus of voices arose within the house not a second later.

“Fluttershy? What’s wrong? Answer me!” Pinkie pleaded .

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?! You know what’s wrong!” Fluttershy’s voice cracked as it reached a volume Scootaloo had never heard it reach. Her ears fell flat. She’d really done it this time.

“Fluttershy, please, don’t yell at me.” It was Pinkie’s turn to waver, her voice sounding off like a deflating balloon. “I... Fluttershy, you’re crying?”

“Of course I am,” Fluttershy sniffled.

“Why?”

“Why? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t? One good reason!”

A tapping of squeaks sounded. The mental image of Pinkie, still in costume, trying to console a broken friend might have been slightly funny in different times. As she leaned against the wall, Scootaloo felt what was left of her heart break. “Because…” Pinkie sighed. “Because you have us. Be… because being sad, totally understandable as it is… it won’t—”

“I know!” Something shattered inside the house, followed by the familiar clinking of porcelain bouncing across the floor. “I know it won’t help, okay! She’s gone. I have to live with that. I know that! It’s just... Scootaloo." There was a long pause before she continued, "She’s so... I. Celestia, Pinkie, I can’t take this anymore!” Fluttershy burst into a loud series of pathetic sobs.

“Hey, now. C’mere,” Pinkie said quietly, energy extinguished, voice only carrying barely-contained sobs of its own.

“I... I’m barely holding it together as is, Pinkie,” Fluttershy wept, her words muffled. Pinkie always went straight for the hugs. “I can’t even leave the house without seeing something that reminds me of her. Even… even then there are the books, and the pictures. A-and then there’s Tank always wandering around the yard, looking so confused and scared and... alone. And... and... then Scootaloo. She was always so… and, and Rainbow was..." Her voice shattered as she wailed the next words. "I miss her, Pinkie. I miss her so much. I want to wake up. I want her back. Celestia… I just want her to fly back in through that door.” Fluttershy’s voice dissolved into a series of squeaks, sobs and whimpers.

“Shh,” Pinkie whispered, her voice sounding like it belonged to a completely different pony. “It’s okay, Fluttershy. I do too. It’s okay...” Pinkie’s voice cracked, sending a chill down Scootaloo’s spine. Fluttershy breaking was one thing; to hear PInkie collapsing under the strain of it all was enough to make her scream. She pressed her ear close to the wall, listening carefully, wondering if the conversation was going to continue. Debating whether she should walk in that door and give Fluttershy a hug as well. Maybe it would help. Maybe it would make her feel better too. 

A sudden, shaky inhalation floated out the window, but it was followed only by another series of sniffles and muffled sobs. Scootaloo sighed and stood up. Her presence had caused this. She deserved no peace. Step by shaky step, she walked down the path. Is this all I am? A problem causer? She wanted the answer to be 'no,' but all she could see was a giant, glowing ‘yes.’

Her mind was elsewhere as she neared the stream. Her eyes were downcast, yet she still managed to almost trip over a green rock. As she skidded to a stop, a head poked out from the ‘rock’ followed by four legs. “Tank?” Scootaloo grinned, leaning down and patting him on the shell. The tortoise looked at her with expressionless eyes, but the hint of a smile rested on his weathered lips. Although she sometimes questioned Tank’s intelligence, she could tell that he recognized her. She hadn’t spent much time around him, but the times she had were interesting moments to say the least.

“Hey, dude. How’s it hanging?”

Tank blinked.

“Fluttershy treating you good?”

Tank blinked again.

Scootaloo looked over her shoulder and sighed. “Look, Tank, I don’t know what you know or don’t, or what you’re going through, but I want to let you know that… she’ll be back. I’ll get her back. Rainbow, that is. I know you miss her. I... I do too, and that’s why I’m going. Not just for me, but for you... for Fluttershy... for everypony.”

Tank blinked and smiled, and Scootaloo grinned, rubbing the top of his rough head. The explanation had been more of an excuse, but Scootaloo thought it was good enough reasoning, and Tank seemed to be buying it. She chuckled and gave Tank one last pat on the shell before standing and trotting towards the path. She looked over her shoulder and saw Tank watching her. Scootaloo smiled and waved a hoof. “See you around, bud. Keep Fluttershy company... she needs it.”

Tank blinked and smiled.

Scootaloo waved one last time before pushing off and speeding down the path.


* * *


Voices carried out of the house as Scootaloo climbed the steps. One was the accented voice of her father; the other made her heart stop. She had run into Rainbow’s other friends today. Only one remained. One she would have no choice but to deal with. Perfect. Just perfect.

She peered through the window near the door. Her studied a map pinned to the wall, squinting and rubbing his chin. “So, the sculptors will be set up on Main Street?” He placed a hoof on the wrinkled sheet of paper.

“That is correct,” Rarity replied, hovering a quill and scroll before her and making a check with her magic.

“And the painting booths will be on Goldwire?” He pointed to the other end.

“Mhm.”

He shook his head, tilting it to the side. “Aren’t we being a bit unfair to the potters?”

“The potters have gotten Main the past two years. The sculptors got shoved into the botanical gardens last year. That’s much too far away from their fellow artisans.” She took a step toward him, patting his back. “It’s only fair that you be given the opportunity to actually show off your goods this year. Some of the works you came up with are… I haven’t seen that touch from you in so long.”

Her father nodded, but stepped aside, eyes still locked on the map. “Yes, but pottery brings in a huge profit. If we shove them into the alley, aren’t we doing more harm than good?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about that. I have some splendid designs all set up. Extravagant, luxurious and, most importantly, valuable. We’ll be able to turn a healthy profit without those lazy potters. Good heavens, Sand Blast, for a sculptor you sure are intent on selling yourself short.” She looked to the corner of the room. “As I said, some of your best work yet..”

He shrugged. “I don’t think any of them are in my top five.”

“Well, it’s not about what you think, now is it? It’s what the public desires, and I can guarantee that every single one of them will be purchased by the end of the fair.”

“Maybe, I don’t know” 

Scootaloo groaned. When her father talked shop, he always managed to make it sound so boring. She pushed through the door and flopped down in a chair next to the unlit fireplace. Letting her head sink into the aged fabric, she stared at the ceiling, tracing a few cracks before closing her eyes and sighing.

“Looks like somepony’s home early.” Her father smirked. Scootaloo looked out the window. The sun was, once again, nearly settled below the horizon. Very funny, Dad. She stifled a rebuttal and instead looked to the unicorn peering over her father’s withers.

“Hey, Rarity. Sweetie Belle said you were at the spa. Get out early?” Scootaloo ran a hoof through her mane. “She’s going to be in for a surprise when she gets to the boutique.”

Rarity’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. She went back there already?” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the far corner of the room and frowned. 

“Uh, yeah.” Scootaloo pushed her head deeper into the felt.”What are you doing here anyway?” she mumbled.

“Bother.” Rarity sighed before turning to Sand Blast. “Looks like our meeting will have to resume at a later time.” Sighing once more and muttering something about ‘leftovers’ under her breath, Rarity trotted to the door.

“You didn’t answer my question!” Scootaloo called out. “What are you doing here?”

“Scootaloo, that is none of your business.” Her father stepped forward. Too late. Rarity had stopped in the doorway, tail swishing.

“No. No, Sand Blast, she has every right to know,” Rarity said, lifting a hoof and turning to Scootaloo. “I was in the area, and I remembered that I had yet to discuss the upcoming Arts Faire with your father. He and I are in charge of it as you know.”

“So you didn’t go to the spa?” Scootaloo tilted her head in confusion.

“What makes you think that?” Rarity asked, briefly giving Sand Blast a shaky glance..

“Well, the spa’s like... on the other end of town. Not exactly in this area.”

“I...” Rarity tried to reply but only a series of squeaks and murmurs came out. Scootaloo groaned. They all played out the same. Uneasy words and secrets barely hidden. Rarity briefly placed a hoof over a silver locket that was draped around her neck before looking over at Sand Blast, eyes wide. “I... I, uh... should really be going. Um, I’ll be here at around, uh, four tomorrow afternoon to finish the planning, okay?”

Sand Blast nodded. “Sounds perfect.”

Rarity smiled and quickly exited the house, forgetting to close the door behind her. Scootaloo’s father walked over to the door, watching Rarity gallop down the path. He let out a long sigh. “Poor girl,” he muttered as he closed the door. He stood still, staring at the door for a few moments, ears flicking against his receding mane. The room seemed to grow hotter, more compact. Scootaloo cleared her throat but the breaths wouldn’t come. Finally, her father turned, eyes like daggers. “Go to your room,” he said sternly.

Scootaloo sat up, nearly falling out of the chair, eyes wide. “What?”

“Go. To. Your. Room!” Each word shook the walls.

“But. What? Why?”

“Because you were exceptionally rude to our guest. That is not acceptable. A close friend of the family even! Absolutely unacceptable.” He grunted and shook his head, looking out the front window once more.

Scootaloo jumped out of her chair and stamped her hoof. “Well, she should stop being so secretive! Everyone should. I’m tired of everypony hiding stuff from me! I…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. How she longed to be outside where she could spit the bile clean but she’d just have to push through. She stamped a hoof. “What was she doing over here anyway? She’s been here, like, every single day this week.”

“She’s been here to help me prepare for the arts show. As she does at this time every year.”

Scootaloo shook her head. “No. No, I saw the way she looked at you. There’s something else going on here. I’m not an idiot, Dad”

“No, but you are disrespectful.” He glared down his spectacles at her. They seemed to magnify the heat of his glare to a boiling point. “What goes on here is none of your concern, Töchterchen. It’s adult business.”

“I’m old enough to know!”

He gave a deep laugh. There was no mirth in it. “There are so many things you aren’t ready for, honey. You have no idea just how much you don’t know,” he whispered to himself, barely loud enough for Scootaloo to hear. Sighing, he turned away from the window, locking eyes with Scootaloo. He was no longer glaring, but his face was still set in a stern gaze. “Now, go to your room.”

“But—”

“Go!” He thrust his hoof towards the stairs.

Scootaloo grunted. Tyranny! Tyranny and lies! She stomped up the stairs, nearly sending picture frames crashing off the walls. Good. Who needs them? When she reached the top-step, she turned and glared at her father, trying to form the most menacing scowl possible. He stared back, eyes narrowed. Scootaloo snorted before trudging to her room, slamming the door, and screaming into her pillow.

She’d show him. She’d show all of them.


* * *


Flames spread across Scootaloo’s body. Or so it felt as she thrashed about on the bed.

Sweat poured down her face, dampening her covers and making them impossible to lift. The air boiled and froze at the same time. Thunder pounded in her ears, rattling her brain, and she pushed against the weighty covers with all her might.

The thunder transformed into a voice.

“Just remember, squirt. Keep your wings moving and your wits about you.”

“Rainbow!” she called out, the words echoing around the void. Scootaloo grunted and cursed, bucked and thrashed, but escape seemed to be millions of miles out of reach. Despite the python-like grip of her sheets, she continued to fight. She was either going to escape or go down swinging.

‘Quitters never win. Winners never give in.’

Then the voice filled her mind once more; the faded echo of a ghost. ‘Sometimes the best way to fight back is to relinquish yourself. If your wings aren’t lifting you, don’t flap harder. Let the air grab your wings. Feel the magic, squirt. It’ll lift you up.’

Scootaloo bit her lip, closed her eyes and lightly pushed against the smothering sheets.

The covers fell off her, and through the floor.

Scootaloo hopped out of bed and looked around. A vast plane stretched out around her: dead quiet and ghostly white. It was barren, save for her bed and a small speck in the distance. Her legs quaked, her wings stiffened, but she saw no other way. Taking a deep breath, she scampered off in the direction of the spot.

As she drew closer, the speck began to grow and take shape. Soon, it was no longer a blank black dot, but a towering obsidian door. Around the door’s body were carved figures. Ponies were the most prominent, but Scootaloo could also make out dragons and griffons, as well as species she didn't recognize. She trembled as the monolith’s shadow washed over her. Her raspy breaths fogged the brass door handle as she stared at it with quivering eyes.

“Push it. Open it,” said one voice.

“Don’t do it,” said another.

What would Rainbow Dash do? It took her less than a millisecond to conclude that Rainbow would barge right in without hesitation. A move that, Scootaloo had to admit, was anything but a smart one. Listening to the latter and exploring the area for better, less risky options would be the smartest thing to do.

But where was the fun in that?

An unseen force pushed against Scootaloo’s back, throwing her at the door. It flung open before she made contact.

Scootaloo landed hard on an oak floor. She rolled over onto her belly and gasped for air. Slowly, she raised herself up onto numb hooves and looked around. She was standing in the hallway outside of her bedroom—or rather an imperfect replica. Everything was exactly as it should, except for one thing.

The pictures.

Her father had removed all the pictures of her mother years ago, yet they seemed to be the only ones covering the wall. Every square inch of the wall contained her mother’s warm, grinning face.

Scootaloo gulped and ran towards the stairs. She tripped on the fourth step and rolled head over hooves all the way to the ground floor. The world spun around her, and she wasn’t sure which way was up, but she recognized the sound.

The sound of somepony sobbing.

Loud, heartbroken wails seemed to seep through the walls. Scootaloo grinded her teeth as she searched for the source of the ungodly noise. Her father sat on the couch, forelegs wrapped around a quivering white form. Scootaloo stood once more, checking for broken bones, and tiphoofed towards her father. As she got closer, a distinctive dark-purple mane became apparent against his orange coat. It was not as curly as Scootaloo was used to it being, but rather flat and soaked through. Scootaloo was dizzied by a sudden burst of deja vu. She couldn’t even make out the words being spoken between the two ponies—it was all echos and static—but the pain in the mare’s voice was haunting, just as it had been the last time Scootaloo had witnessed it.

The moonlight seeped through the window just long enough for the rest of Rarity’s coat to shine. There was so much blood.

A board creaked behind Scootaloo and she whirled around. Her mother stood atop the stairs, facing away from her, staring out into a black abyss.

“Mom?” Scootaloo called out. Her mother didn’t respond. She simply unfurled her wings and soared out an open upstairs window. “Mom!” Scootaloo cried, chasing after her. She jumped through the window as well, wings spread and beating relentlessly. The figure faded. She couldn’t keep up. She couldn’t even stay afloat. After only a few measly meters of flapping, her muscles cramped. Gravity took over.

She fell, and fell, and fell. The descent lasted minutes... hours. Or was it a matter of days? She wasn’t sure; there was no sun nor moon in the sky, and the ground wasn’t growing any closer. Yet she could feel the air scratching at her face and the energy being siphoned out of her body by the passing eternities.

Escape and defeat were both out of reach. She simply floated, disconnected and desperate. “Help me!” she cried into the abyss. The abyss didn’t respond.

Then she saw it. A crystal-clear prismatic figure soaring out of the shadows. The figure grew closer and more apparent. “Dash?” Scootaloo squeaked, her voice a mere hiccup in the void.

Rainbow Dash smiled and nodded. Scootaloo sighed in relief. She was safe now. Rainbow Dash was there. Everything was perfect.

And then a roar pierced the silence.

Thunder burst a hole in the blackness, and streaks of lightning shot across the sky, illuminating it like the sun. Rainbow Dash shattered into a hundred pieces, raining out across the darkness, smacking Scootaloo in the face and sending her somersaulting into the darkness. She fell...

… and fell...

… and fell...


* * *


Scootaloo shot up in bed, gasping for air, hooves tearing at the mane plastered against her face  Darkness surrounded her.She yelped and jumped out of her bed, landing awkwardly on the floor, slipping on her sweat-soaked hooves. For a minute she lay there, trying to keep her spooked mind at bay. The nightmare had been the same one she’d had the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that.

She sat up and looked around, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. She noticed that she was staring right at her bedside table—specifically, the picture that rested atop it. She sighed and placed her hoof on top of the frame, debating whether to place it face down or not. The sight of it tore at her insides, yet she couldn’t help but smile..

There’s a chance...

Scootaloo sighed and looked out her window. It was a beautiful night—a cloudless night. The perfect night for an adventure.She snuck over to her saddlebags, moving slowly as to not wake her father with a creaking floorboard. Layer by layer, she tossed out any useless items: textbooks, calculators, a ruler, and so on. By the time she was done, only Daring Do and the Phoenix Pool remained. Yawnining, Scootaloo stretched and walked over to her closet. Inside were some of the bare necessities--a sleeping bag, a canteen, a first aid kit and a compass among other things. Through diligent effort and a little bit of fabric-tearing, she was able to stuff the items into her saddlebags. She scooted under the strap and stood, lifting the bags with her. Or trying to. She could barely take two steps without breaking a sweat, her legs creaking and wobbling beneath her to the point of snapping. Maybe she should have packed lighter, but she could see a principle to it all.. If she wanted to get something, truly wanted to get something, she would have to work her feathers off—labor to the brink of death—to earn it. 

She rolled her eyes. What a load of crap. Read a few pages of a book and boom! I’m an egghead. Still, as she found her balance, the words flowed through her body, carrying a sparking energy. Motivation. She took a deep breath and her legs steadied.

Without the help of another pony the saddlebags couldn’t be tightened, but Scootaloo didn’t mind. As long as they remained on her back, they were tight enough. She still needed to grab a few more materials anyway. Then she’d be off.

Right before she opened her door, she reached over and grabbed the picture of Rainbow Dash off her nightstand. It still made her smile--made her eyes burn. She had little space, but she could spare the room. Carefully moving her wing, she slipped the photo into the side pocket of her saddlebags. Then she grabbed Rainbow’s old flight goggles and slipped them over her head, letting them slide down around her neck. Scootaloo looked at herself in the mirror, smirking at the sight of her new necklace. Now this was jewelry she could handle

Once she was certain that the photo was secure, and that the goggles were not too tight, she opened the door. She looked up and down the hallway, checking to see if the coast was clear. Finding no sign of life, Scootaloo tiphoofed out of her room and towards the stairs.

Her father had fallen asleep at his workbench—an all too common occurrence in the weeks leading up to the Arts Faire. Normally, Scootaloo would have woken her father up—sleeping while slumped over a table wasn’t doing his back any favors—but waking him up was the one thing she did not want to do at the moment. His coin bag was laid out on the table, right next to a tipped-over bottle, probably tossed there carelessly when he had begun to work. It was so close, right in a hoof’s reach, yet she sat frozen. She needed the supplies, but… what would he say if he awoke? If he knew? How would he react to her grand scheme? Hugs? Scolding? There’d be tears either way. Desperate times called for desperate measures. The mere idea of taking her father’s bits filled her throat with bile, but If a stain on her soul would erase the pain--hers and so many others--then dirty hooves were the toll she’d have to pay.

Sorry, Dad.

Scootaloo carefully leaned over the table, mouth open and ready to grab the bag. She could feel her father’s breath on her face as he snored heavily. Eyes locked, lungs tightened like a vice, Scootaloo could feel droplets of sweat poking at her brow. All it would take was a single exhale, and her mane might brush against his muzzle. Centimeter by centimeter, she moved forward, heart racing a little bit faster with each movement. She could taste leather on her tongue and she eased her mouth shut, grasping the pouch between her incisors. Her forehoof tapped the bottle as she retreated. A small cling sounded, a canon blast in the night air. She froze, eyes fixed on her father. He stirred slightly, snorting obnoxiously, but his eyes remained shut. Within seconds, he returned to steady snoring.

Scootaloo waited until she was out of the studio before she took a breath.

She opened the bag and quietly sorted the bits on the kitchen table—coin by coin—and counted them. There were one hundred bits in total, so Scootaloo took fifty; only half of them should do. There were plenty left. It wouldn’t break them. She dumped the bits in her saddlebags, and placed the rest into the coin pouch. Scootaloo then tiphoofed over to the pantry and pulled out what little food she could fit into her saddlebag: some berries, a few apples, carrots, she was even able to fit a potato in. Any other food she needed she could get from a merchant or find it on her own. The path to the Phoenix Pool may have been off the beaten path, but it couldn’t be that desolate. She was bound to come across at least the occasional village or farmstead.

Smiling in satisfaction, she pulled the drawstrings tight. The basics were all there. She was good to go. ‘Go.’ The word weighed heavier than the saddlebags as she slung them over her back once more. Was she really doing this? She shook the question away. Nopony ever earned anything by sitting still. 

She crept out of the kitchen, and across the living room, stalling at the front door. The house was dark and quiet. It pushed in on her chest, suffocating her. How would he react? Again she shook the thoughts away, pushed as hard as she could. It would hurt, it would enrage him, but the journey would be worthwhile in the end.

Right?

“See you later,” she whispered in a voice that she could barely hear herself. “I love you, Dad.” Blinking away the tears that had welled up and drawing in one last breath--getting one last taste and smell of her home to keep her company on the road--she opened the door and walked out. Her scooter bowed and groaned beneath the bags’ weight, wheels digging into the muck. Looks like she was just going to have to hoof it. 

By the end of the pathway to her home, her face was damp with sweat--certainly not tears--but she pulled in just enough energy to turn and waved goodbye to her house. She knew that nothing would see the wave, but she had to do it. She had to say goodbye.

Then, with a loud sigh, she turned and marched away from her home.


* * *


An odd glow illuminated the headstones. It wasn’t frightening, but something about it made Scootaloo’s legs shake.

She slowly moved around the weathered granite stones, eyes locked on the ground as to assure herself she wasn’t stepping on any memorial wreaths or stuffed animals. Numbness seeped into her hooves as she passed grave after grave. Death was one of the sad inevitabilities of life, and that made Ponyville Cemetery all the more discomforting. The idea that she could be talking to somepony one minute, then watch them take their last breath the next, twisted Scootaloo’s gut into tighter ribbons than it was already knotted in.The only solace she could find was that very few names were familiar, and most of those ponies had passed due to natural causes after a long, happy life.

This peace was immediately erased by the unweathered, elaborately decorated grave at the top of the highest hill in the graveyard, nestled directly below a large oak tree.

Objects of all sorts had been set out in front of the grave: flowers, photographs, a silver locket, a ratty copy of Daring Do and the Quest for the Sapphire Stone, a Wonderbolts pin. There was even one of Pinkie Pie’s famous quadruple-chocolate-chunk cupcakes leaning against the slab—although, due to birds, squirrels and the weather, it barely resembled a cupcake anymore. Just a wrapper. Hollow.

Scootaloo sat down in front of the grave and stared directly at the rainbow lightning bolt that had been delicately painted on the front of it. Her breath shook. Her eyes did not burn; rather they froze. She placed a hoof on an earthy hump in the ground and atted the mound.

“Sorry I haven’t been here yet, Rainbow.” Scootaloo paused, waiting for a response she knew wouldn’t come. The only sound on the hill were gusts of wind and crickets chirping amongst the neatly trimmed grass. She swallowed heavily before continuing, “I guess... I guess I have trouble facing the facts sometimes.” She chuckled to herself. “Although you probably already knew that.” For a brief moment she smiled. A chill breeze flattened it out.

“Things have been a bit crazy. Everypony’s been acting really weird. I get it. I’ve been losing it for awhile now.,” Scootaloo mumbled, scratching the back of her head. “First… first mom, then you.” Her voice drifted off with another gust of wind. What the hay was someone supposed to talk about here? The weather? Their own selfish feelings? No answers came, just more wind. She sighed for what felt like the hundredth and kicked at the dirt. Maybe the sky would hold some answers. As expected, no solutions resided there either.

Scootaloo bit her lip and picked ‘everyday life,’ and began to speak softly. “Uh... the weather patrol’s been pretty ineffective. I guess that’s to be expected. It’s hard to replace the... the greatest flier, well, ever. Rarity and Twilight have been closing up shop earlier and earlier. Applejack and Fluttershy have been steering clear of town altogether. Thank goodness Big Macintosh can carry a load into town on his own, because the Apples would be doomed without him. Kinda like how this town is doomed without you.”

Scootaloo paused and tried to blink some heat back into her eyes. “No, that’s harsh. But, they really do seem broken beyond repair. Can’t say I blame ‘em. Pinkie’s still Pinkie though. A little bit on the fragile side, but she’s probably handling you being...  being gone better than anypony else.” Scootaloo chuckled. “Heh, the world could be ending and Pinkie Pie would still be trying to get everypony to smile.” Scootaloo paused and briefly glanced at the goggles draped around her neck, a heavy lump forming in her throat. “I uh… I hope you don’t mind. I don’t do them much justice, I know, but I’m working on it.”

I can’t do this.

Scootaloo rose to her hooves, turning from the grave and looking over the valley. She couldn’t force herself to talk to Rainbow like this. It was totally uncool. It made her look like she was giving in. No. No, this site was but a motel: a brief stop for Rainbow to rest her weary bones before she could burst free into awesomeness again. Scootaloo was sure that, in a few days, the grave would be unneeded—the items strewn before it, pointless—and Rainbow Dash would besoaring along as though nothing ever happened. She had faith, and that was enough.

That had to be enough.

“I’m going to fix this,” Scootaloo whispered, her words lost behind a sudden gust of wind. “I’ll get you back, and I'll fix this.”

Without turning to look at the grave, Scootaloo began to make her way towards the exit. She’d have plenty of time to talk to Rainbow in the future. Words, apologies, and tears could all be spilt at another time, to a far more alive face. She pushed the iron gate open, flinching as the loud squeak rattled her ears. She dug her hooves into the ground, gaze darting to her left and right, finding nothing but empty paths. For now, she could breathe easy, but not too easy. Her father could awaken any minute and, after going up to her room to apologize or simply check on her, discover that her bed was empty.

She needed to move. The coast was still clear. She cantered down the path. At a fork in the road, she reached into her saddlebags and pulled out Daring Do and the Phoenix Pool. She opened the book to the map, studying the page as best she could in the moonlight.

A route through Canterlot was the quickest option, and also the easiest. She looked up at the Ponyville clock tower and noted that the time was eleven forty-five. A train—used mainly to transport ponies who worked the graveyard shift—departed from Ponyville’s train station every night at midnight. From what she had heard, it was usually near-empty. For once, she had luck on her side. Smiling, Scootaloo shoved the book back into her saddlebags and galloped towards the station.

As she made her way into town, she stole a glance upwards. The skies were clear and the moon was bright. What a perfect night. A grin tugged at her lips. The great unknown beckoned her and she was all too eager to comply. But that could wait. For now, she had a train to catch. Scootaloo began to lower her gaze, halting when she caught a flash in the top corner of her eye. She craned her neck toward the vacant spot in the sky for a few seconds before shaking her head and continuing towards the train station.

Still, the image kept sneaking into her mind.

The image of a grey rainbow streaking across the sky.
> Chapter Five
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Five
 





– – –

“Ah, Dr. Do.” Dean Gavel Bang lifted a hoof and motioned across his desk. “Please, I have a seat.”

    Daring snorted, twisting a breath mint with her tongue. She hadn’t time to brush her mane or toss on one of her good dresses, so the least she could do was make sure her smile wouldn’t kill her employer. Though, on second thought, that didn’t sound like a bad idea. “I’ll take my chances. Wooden backs and me don’t get along.”

    “As is the case with deadlines, I’m assuming?” The balding unicorn straightened a pen. As was often the case during her visits, all their tips pointed directly at her. “Midterm grades were due at noon today.”

    “Must have slipped my mind.” She leaned against his bookshelf, nearly knocking over a snowglobe containing a cheap model of Mount Aris. It was nowhere close to accurate. One twitch of a feather, and Dean Gavel would be rid of the mistake for good. She’d be doing him a favor. She pulled her wings tight to her sides. “If this is going where I think it’s going, you do realize I have tenure, right?”

    The dean cupped his hooves over his mouth, then let them fall flat on his desk. “Oh, yes, I have read your contract. Clearly more thoroughly than you have.” Daring rolled her eyes. Why did her bosses always have to be Law School grads?

    “Yeah. Probably.” She glanced at the clock. Five past noon. She should be in bed. Between going over the languages of the book with Pallah and trying to get Pallah to focus and quit trying to flirt, she’d be up all night. Just like the night before. The letter would come right when I was getting comfortable.”

    Gavel Banger groaned. “Dr. Do. I assure you I have not called you in to terminate you. However, missing a grading period is a strike. I take it you are a mare who watches baseball.”

    Daring shrugged. “Season tickets to the University games. Good napping atmosphere.”

    “Then you should understand me crystal clear. I understand that times have been tough for you, and you have my empathy, but all the professors must follow the rules.” He straightened his glasses. “You have until tomorrow at noon to send me the grades for you classes.”

    Daring nodded and dismissed herself, waiting until the door closed before she allowed a chuckle to escape her lips. It wavered, her wings twitching at her side. There were no grades. Hay, she hadn’t held a lecture in weeks. She felt inside the front pocket of her coat. The notecard was still there, thank the stones. The library beckoned her. She could sleep when her father breathed once more. 



– – –

 

Stay awake... stay awake… 

Scootaloo lay the book flat on her lap as she repeated the phrase, hoping that mere words would stimulate her drowsy mind. The book certainly wasn’t doing her any favors. Stay… Stay awake. Her eyelids drooped. “No!” Punching one foreleg did the trick, pulling her eyelids wide, but they began to slacken before the pain had faded.  

Though her stop was a good half-hour or so from Ponyville, Scootaloo refused to fall asleep. Once she entered slumberland, it was nearly impossible to get her out. A weary chuckle escaped her as the memories of a school assembly flooded her. She couldn’t remember exactly what it was about—the words 'food' and 'nutrition' came to mind, but nothing specific. All she was certain of was that it had been boring as all get-out. She’d passed out almost immediately, and when she woke up, she found herself in an empty auditorium, moonbeams showering her through the skylight.

Looking back at it now, it made her stomach ache even more. Nopony had tried to wake her? Maybe they had; she was just so out of it that any shakes fell upon numb withers. Yes, that had to be it. She yawned and stretched her forelegs above her head, the rough fabric of her seat brushing uncomfortably against her back. Although twelve bits could have bought her a seat in one of the more luxurious cars, she’d decided against it. Food and supplies were far from a guaranteed commodity the further north she went, and the higher-end cars were at the front, along with most of the staff. She was a filly, all by her lonesome, on a midnight train. If that didn’t raise suspicion, she didn’t know what did. How she had not been turned away at the ticket booth, she had no idea, and she would be damned if she got turned back now.

The train hit another bump in the track, the sudden tremor nearly knocking her onto the floor. She nervously looked around as soon as she’d regained her balance, a blush heating her face. Even though she knew it wasn’t the case, she thought that she heard a mocking chortle. Luckily for Scootaloo, her fellow occupants in the passenger car were seats, windows, and open air. Still, she couldn’t help but be a little embarrassed by her lack of grace.

Her nerves slowly settled and she lowered herself back into a relaxed position. Occasionally, she’d glance at the lonely seat beside her, a strange feeling building in her chest with each shifting gaze. It was a strange experience. She had only been on the train to Canterlot twice before, and both of those journeys had been filled with laughter, loud conversations, arguments over who got the window seat, and so on. Now, everything felt empty. No sounds, no ponies, nothing. As much of a slog as the book had become, Scootaloo had to stay awake, and so she opened Daring Do and the Phoenix Pool once again. It might have gotten a bit boring quite fast, but she had to push through. Valuable information might rest in the shortest of sentences.

… Daring Do de... delft? Detlt? D... Dcvt? The train had long since left behind the street lights of Ponyville, and the lanterns in her car flickered at only half glow. Scootaloo squinted, rubbed her eyes, but the words bled together, forming solid black, unreadable lines. Muttering a curse, she reached to her right and shook the lantern that hung on the wall. She could see the fireflies in the glass—breathing, conscious and very much alive—but they refused to light their bulbs any brighter. “Come on,” she grumbled. “Come on!” Her animosity fell on deaf lightning bug ears. She flung the book back into her saddlebags. “Fine... have it your way...”

Another heavy sigh escaped her lips as she slouched in her chair, forelegs crossed over her chest. She was bored out of her mind. She needed to do something to pass the hours. Reading wasn’t an option, and there were no ponies around for her to prank—not that she would do that. Pranking would only lead to her getting kicked off the train at the next stop. She slumped in her chair and rubbed her eyes. “So bored,” she mumbled.

“Scootaloo...”

She shot up and, gaze darting about the car. It was as empty as it had been seconds earlier. Scootaloo squinted and stared down the back entrance, expecting a horn or wing to poke out from behind a chair, or at the very least the echoes of hooves sneaking through the gangway.

I know I heard someone...

Scootaloo turned and glared down the front of the car. She was positive that someone had snuck up on her to play some stupid game, but there was nobody to be found. Grunting, Scootaloo lowered herself out of her seat, and slowly walked to the back of the car. “Show yourself!” she said, just below a yell, glancing down each row of seats. “I hear you! I know you’re there.”

She paused just before she reached the last row of seats. There was no way that nobody was there. Like a cat after a mouse, Scootaloo crouched, then pounced. She rounded the corner of the seat with an accusing hoof outstretched, pointed directly at...

Nothing.

“What?” Scootaloo stuttered. She was positive that the culprit would be hiding right there. Perplexed, she turned to the door that connected the train cars. Maybe they’re hiding back here. She slid the door open and tiphoofed through the gangway—a difficult feat that resulted in her painfully bumping against the sides more than she’d like. Once she reached the other side of the shaking gangway, Scootaloo lifted herself up onto her hind legs and placed her forelegs on the windowsill for support. She peered into the next car.

It was completely empty. No sign of anybody whatsoever.

Grumbling, Scootaloo lowered herself from the window. She slid the door closed and placed her head against it with a heavy thunk. I’m hearing things... She shook her head and thumped it against the cold door. There had to have been something. She was not going crazy. She couldn’t be. Her mouth froze, solid and dry. She clenched her teeth, squinted her eyes, pushed back on the memories.

Was this how she’d felt?

“Scoots...”

Scootaloo slammed a hind hoof into the door. “That does it!”. She turned and charged towards the front of the passenger car. “I’m going to mess you up so bad your mother won’t even recognize—huh?”

The front of the passenger car was devoid of life, just as the back had been. Frantically, she dropped to her knees, peering underneath the seats. Finding nothing, she jumped to her hooves and glared through the window leading to the next car. Again, it was desolate. She lowered her head, tearing at her mane with her hooves as she ground her teeth to dust.

I’m losing it...

Scootaloo roared, punching the front wall. “This isn’t funny!” she screamed. Her voice echoed through the empty car, but there was no underlying giggling nor sound of hooves shuffling against the floor as they tried to sneak out. She was completely and totally alone.

And something was calling her name.

Scootaloo slowly walked back to her seat, mind and body numbed. I’m losing my mind, she repeated over and over again to herself. I’m losing my mind. She lifted herself back into her seat and slumped down with a sigh. No. No, she was just tired. She had gotten maybe an hour’s sleep in the last few days. A little shut-eye and she’d be good to go.

Nerves satiated, Scootaloo placed her cheek against the back of the chair, and watched the scenery. The world outside was pristine. The night sky was cloudless, and the stars and moon shone as brightly as Scootaloo could ever remember. She had never realized how many stars made up the midnight sky, but now she found herself enthralled by them. She wanted to fly up there and swim amongst them, maybe even stopping to take the occasional nap on a passing comet.

The dream shone as bright as the moon for a split-second before quickly fading.

Her dream, as awesome as it sounded, was a lost cause. School might have never fallen high on her list of priorities, but she had paid enough attention to know that ponies don’t go to space—even Rainbow Dash had told her that flying into space was impossible. Scootaloo wouldn’t be surprised if she’d been speaking from experience.

Even if ponies could fly through space, Scootaloo doubted she'd be one of them. She could barely hover in the air for more than five seconds. To fly thousands of meters into the air was a desire she doubted would ever be fulfilled. For years she had been trying to master flight, and for years it had evaded her. With Rainbow Dash’s lessons, she’d been getting better, but then...

She shook the thought from her mind.

In the distance, strange lights began to appear against the horizon, far more yellow than the stars that dotted the sky. Scootaloo lifted her window and stuck her head out of it, craning to get a better view . A large collection of lights hovered along the peak of the mountain. Tears sprung to Scootaloo’s eyes as the air whipped against her face. Soon, the shadowy outline of a large spire became apparent against the starry backdrop, smaller silhouettes quickly becoming clear nearby. The lights and shadows rose higher and higher, until Scootaloo the act of watching them sent electric jolts down her neck..

The train entered a tunnel, shooting a deafening burst of air into her ears. She pulled her head back inside. Pressing her forehead against the glass, Scootaloo angled her head until she caught sight of  a small blue circle at the end of the tunnel. She watched, mouth set in a dumb grin, as it grew to the size of a house. Right before the train exited the tunnel, Scootaloo stuck her head back up to the open window and yelled out. “Woo hoo hoo!” The echo of her voice, while nearly drowned out by the speeding train, caressed her ears and sent a chill down her spine.

The feeling of the night air rustled her mane once more, sweet smelling and as cool as a winter’s nap. Above her, the stars sparkled and beckoned her. It was breathtaking. Lifting her forelegs out in front of her, she leaned back out the window. She pressed her hooves together and closed her eyes, a grin tugging at her lips. It was just a feeling, nothing like she knew the real thing had to be, but if she pinched her eyelids tight enough she could almost smell the cirrus drifting below her.

Static crackled through the train’s intercom. Scootaloo screamed, head shooting upward and bumping against the top of the window frame. Rubbing her throbbing skull and stiff neck, she glared up at the speaker in the roof of the passenger car as muffled words came out.

“Now approaching: Canterlot Station.”

Scootaloo replayed the voice in her head a few times. The voice she’d heard earlier had been raspy and deep. Smooth, even, despite some of its gravel. This voice was more high-pitched and rag out in a dozy monotone. The culprit remained at large. She yawned and looked out the window, questions burning in her mind. That voice. I know I’ve heard it somewhere. But where?

The train’s whistle blew out in a shrill tone. Fields of stars an open valleys gave way to concrete, dim lantern light, and gaudy advertisements. The train slowed to a stop, covering  the platform with a thick veil of steam. Scootaloo squinted, but saw nobody walking amongst the vapor. She leaned back and smiled. No ponies meant no wasted minutes, and she liked to think that every second wasted lead to dire consequences. It kept her moving.

She dared say it kept her alive.

If somepony were to board—in her mind, she was picturing a hefty heiress to a cardboard box manufacturing plant—she would have to wait at least ten minutes for the hundreds-upon-thousands of suitcases and hat boxes and pet carriers and what have you to be loaded into the baggage car. Then she’d have to wait ten more minutes for the bulging beneficiary to inch up the steps and into their posh sleeper car.

The train hissed and lurched, flinging Scootaloo out of her reverie. The train was out of the station before she could get her wits about her, and she soon found herself isolated once more. A cacophony of squeaks and rattles carried on—growing louder and more annoying with each passing bump—and Scootaloo bumped her head on the shaking glass more times than preferred.

The sooner I get off this thing, the better.

She snorted in and stretched. A fetid stench--like milk left in the sun to soak rotten eggs--snaked through her nostrils. Throwing her hooves over her muzzle, she gagged and blinked back tears.  Beside her, something chuckled in between ragged coughs. Every joint in Scootaloo’s body went stiff, and her blood ran cold. She glanced out the corner of her eye, her neck refusing to turn, and noticed a shadow falling on the chair beside her.

No way. No freaking way. Her stomach and lungs curled into one another for shelter, and her breaths came out in metallic rasps. She was certain that nobody had entered the car in Canterlot, and she hadn’t heard either door slide open or shut. Is this the dude who was messing with me? Scootaloo asked herself, dredging her mind for clues. The math didn’t work out; that smell was something someone couldn’t just put a mask of cologne over. Her neck was fused tight while her mind raced. A little peek over her shoulder wouldn’t hurt, but at the same time…

 The train bounced once again, and she quickly turned her head, deciding that the bumpy track would be a feasible excuse if the pony behind was not in the mood to be gawked at. Celestia knows I’d be embarrassed if I stank that bad.

She prepared herself to come face to face with the incarnation of Tartarus.

She didn’t prepare herself enough.

The thing was directly across from her, its form a solid and shapeless mass of shadows. Its face was equally featureless. Black cheeks--she wasn’t sure how she could tell, but it seemed obvious--curved up and around a mouthless black head. A scentless smoke billowed out the top, forming mane-like wisps that floated and danced above its head, seemingly immune to gravity, breaking apart and reconnecting with a faint hiss. 

What stuck out to Scootaloo—what made her heart crash against her ribcage like a jackhammer—were the eyes. They were a sickly shade of yellow. What little light there was in the train car reflected off the figure’s eyes with a blinding glow that rivaled the sun itself. She blinked. Black spots danced through the air but Scootaloo saw no pupils amongst them, nor any expression or movement from this creature. They were not of this world, and they were most certainly not what Scootaloo wanted to stare at.

And yet she couldn’t look away.

What the hay was this thing? Was it a figment? An apparition? Or was it an actual, living and breathing thing? Bizarre as that may be, there was always that possibility that this thing was actually there. Scootaloo allowed herself to take a breath, and her nostrils were once again filled with that unpleasant aroma. Cigar smoke had joined the mix, and she tasted the bile filling her mouth. The current flowing through her open window did nothing to cool her soaked brow. The thing continued to stare, unmoving and unbreathing.

Just ignore it. Just ignore it. It’s not real. If you ignore it, it’ll go away.

Her eyes betrayed her and darted over to the thing.

It stared, head completely still despite the incessant rattling of the railcar. And Scootaloo stared back. Look away. It’s just your imagination! She roared to herself, trying to lift her hooves so she could grab her head and force it away. She remained paralyzed, her forelegs seemingly stitched to on the arms of the chair, and no amount of lecturing or sweating or swearing was lifting them.

Move. Move you fu—

A loud roar ripped through the railcar. Scootaloo recoiled backwards, throwing her now functioning forelegs over her face. Almost as soon as it had happened, the roar ceased--no echo or growl left in its wake--and Scootaloo fell back against the side of the car, sliding off her seat. The only sound was her breathing—the only feeling, her back bouncing against the wall as the train chugged along—yet she refused to lower the shield over her face. That thing was out there, possibly  looming over her at that very moment, waiting for her to open her eyes so she could watch it strike. Kill her, gobble her up, Scootaloo had no idea what it wanted, but the air was heavy with ill omens.

The squealing hiss of the brakes suddenly sent her body rolling to the side. Instead of tossing out a leg for balance, she let her head thump against the back of the bench. The train came to a rest with a loud hiss, and Scootaloo could make out an intense glow against the inside of her eyelids. She grunted and lowered her forelegs, keeping her eyes firmly shut. Behind them, a battle raged.

Don’t be such a coward! Suck it up!

No. That thing... it—

Don’t give me that crap! Are you really this weak?

No, I—

Then open your eyes and take this thing on!

Scootaloo inched her lids open. The train was already rolling again by the time they were fully open. She faced the floor, then the ceiling, the shaking metal bars that made up the luggage racks garnering her attention. Better to stare at that than a beast straight out of tartarus. A voice in the back of her head told her to face forward; she shoved it away. It came back again. Stop being such a chicken! Again, she ignored it.

“Scootaloo...” The voice slithered through her ears, down her spine, and pierced her heart. She clamped her eyes shut once more, leaning into the bench and curling into a ball.

“Gutless...”

Scootaloo shook her head. “No, I’m... I’m not...”

“Scaredy cat...”

“No, I’m not.”

“Weak...”

“No.”

“Coward...”

Scootaloo leapt up, nostrils flared and brow furrowed. “Shut up, shut up, shut—.”

The passenger car was barren. She was completely alone. As she had been the entire time, hallucinations be damned. The train lurched suddenly, the familiar shriek of brakes filling the room. She leaned back, breathing still heavy and mind stuck in unease. What’s wrong with me? She found herself asking that question with each rattle of the car.

The intercom crackled once more, though no words were spoken. Scootaloo’s ears perked up. What stop was she at anyway. They’d passed through Canterlot, and this was their… second stop? Her eyes grew wide as she ripped open her saddlebags and rummaged through the contents, eventually making contact with a hard book cover. With a grunt, she pulled it out—along with half of her supplies—and opened to the front cover. A folded up piece of paper rested beside the book’s map and she yanked it free of its binding, unfolding it and placing it beside the book. She had to squint to make out even the largest shape, and the names were little more than foreign squiggles, but she could still see the truth. Something was wrong.

She moved her focus over to the rail map, cross referencing both maps. Crayon lines spread across the fold-out train map—a rough estimate of her route. Her eyes darted between the two maps, noting similar landmarks and curves. Her heart sank in her chest. The line on the book’s map curved to the north; the rail line began curving west. She had missed her stop. She was supposed to have hopped off at the first station after Canterlot. Not the second. Not the twentieth. The first.

“Crap,” she muttered, hastily stuffing the book, map and whatever objects now littered the floor into her saddlebags. The whistle blew loud and shrill, and Scootaloo squeaked at an equal pitch when the train started to roll forward. Once she was sure that every last item was in her saddlebags, she flung them over her back—not even bothering to tighten them—and made a break for the exit. By the time she reached the door, the train was already out of the station and picking up speed. She considered jumping, but that was too risky. Getting to a distant mountain was hard enough with four working hooves. Judging by the endless line of trees and grass around her, nary a lantern in sight, a broken leg might be death out here. But, staying aboard the train would only take her farther from her destination, closer to major cities and a ruined chance to fix this stupid world.

She glanced down at the ground before her. It seemed soft enough: grass as far as the eye could see, no obvious boulder or tree trunks—though with the thickness of the grass and lack of light it was difficult to tell. If she tucked and rolled, she might just make it out okay, but. No! She was talking crazy. This isn’t a comic book. A pony can’t just jump off a moving train and walk away. But she had little choice. She ran through a list of past scooter accident in her head--wincing as the phantoms each cut and bruise seemed to stung her once agian--and noted that she had walked away from all of them. Cuts and bruises, but no broken bones. No complications she could think of.

Scootaloo closed her eyes and took a deep breath. You don’t learn to fly by sitting on your flank all day. You learn to fly by jumping off a cliff. “Here goes,” she whispered before leaping off the train. As her hooves left the safety of the floor, she felt a tug at her back and a sudden disappearance of weight. She turned her head and saw her saddlebags flying away from her, its contents spilling out over the side of the track.

Son of a—

She hit the ground back first and rolled through the grass awkwardly. A mud puddle greeted her when she finally stopped, and she quickly flipped over onto her back. For a while, she lay there, limbs askew and chest rising rapidly as she gasped for air, cursing herself for moving. She’d hit back first--if a broken leg wasn’t a death sentence, paralysis certainly would have been. A comet streaked through the vast, starry sky, but Scootaloo was too busy trying to regain her breath to care. The train whistle echoed through the valley like the song of a small bird.

Scootaloo forced herself to sit up, though her back provided heavy resistance. She kicked one hind leg, then the other and let out a steadier breath. Wincing and trying to rub the pains out of her wings, she watched the train rapidly speed away, the lantern-lighted back window of the caboose shrinking from a volleyball sized orb to a golfball sized speck in a matter of seconds. That she had survived jumping off such a fast-moving object was a miracle, but her mind was more focused on what hadn’t survived her impromptu exit. She stood, groaning as her back fired off more lightning bolts of protest, and hobbled in the direction she’d seen her saddlebags fly. “They couldn’t have rolled too far,” she whispered, scanning the darkened weeds. “Should be right about... here!” She slammed her hoof onto a patch of vacant earth. She cantered a few yards to her right, and checked the area, finding nothing. The process was repeated for what felt like hours.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Scootaloo muttered to herself as she paced up and down the side of the track. Had they gotten caught up in the wheels? No. No, she couldn’t think that way. They were around here somewhere. She  just needed some sunlight. As she searched for a place to rest, the sound of ripping paper suddenly greeted her. She looked down, lifting her foreleg slowly. On the ground was a familiar sheet of folded parchment. In the pale glow of the moon, she could see the word “Equestria” written on the top. She scooped it up in her mouth and took a few steps forward, coming across a blanket that had inconveniently landed in one of the many puddles that littered the field. Soon, she was coming across a new object with every step, and in a matter of minutes she had gathered all her items, including the saddlebags.

For the most part, they were in good condition. Sure, the blanket was a little soggy, and there was a small crack on her compass, but those things could be ignored.

The map, however...

She tried to tape it together with bandages, but she couldn’t get the signs lined up right. Her hooves weren’t exactly the most precise or versatile, and to make matters worse, the wind had started to pick up. It wasn’t that strong, but it carried just the right amount of intensity to rustle the map and rip the pieces apart a little further with each gust. Scootaloo had tried using one of the rocks that lined the railroad track as a paperweight, but most of them were too large and simply got in the way. She reached into her saddlebags and pulled out her coin purse. They weren’t the heaviest things in the world, but maybe they’d keep the map steady while she patched it. Carefully, she extended her hoof, and began to turn the bag over. In such dim conditions, any bits she spilt would be lost until morning.

Clickclickclick

The sound of coin on rock and grass filled the air, igniting a hurricane of undiluted rage within Scootaloo. She bit her lip and counted to ten. It didn’t stop her anger, but it cooled her off just enough that she could scour the ground for her lost bits without being blinded. She kicked and pawed and scanned every single speck of dirt, but her bits were nowhere to be found. Groaning, she slammed a hoof down on the muddy ground, sending water and gunk flying into her face. A yelp escaped her lips as a few drops of the muck landed directly in her eye. “Great,” she mumbled, rubbing her burning eye with her foreleg. “Just great!” She ended with a scream, which reverberated through the wide open like a pebble in a cave. 

Scootaloo had felt alone at many times in her life. Now she realized that she didn’t even know what ‘alone’ truly felt like. Canterlot was the farthest from Ponyville she’d ever ventured. While that could be considered a good ways away from Ponyville, at least she had been accompanied by somepony during those visits to Equestria’s capital. If she had walked to the edge of the gardens in the royal palace, she would still be able to see home. There she’d had a bed, food, shelter from the rain.

This was different. She was alone and there were no familiar faces or places to be found. Nopony was there to hold her hoof. Though good samaritans willing to provide food and shelter for a filly such as her existed, there were no guarantees. She couldn’t walk into any village and expect someone to give her a warm bed and three square meals. No, she was on her own.

What had she gotten herself into? 

She trotted up to the track, looking up and down their darkened length. The train was long gone. The only whistling she could hear were the occasional pitchy tunes of a confused songbird and the static chirping of colonies of crickets. She mumbled and turned her attention down the track. A few hundred yards away was the station. It was as small stations could get. Only a single lantern lit its platform, and even from a distance she could see that there were no benches on the loading platform. The station itself was merely a small building, no bigger than a garden shed, surrounded by nothing.

As she neared, it seemed to shrink and break apart even more. The sides of the station were unpainted, and the wooden walls were a model of degradation. There were so many cracks in the weathered boards that it was nearly impossible to tell where they connected. The roof was covered in holes and the windows were dusty. Scootaloo walked up to the building and peered through the window, but all she saw was a reflection of her own face.

The platform itself was in no better shape. There seemed to be more holes than actual floor—pony-sized gaps surrounded by rotten plywood. A sign near the hanging lantern read “G-something-na” At least she thought it was a ‘G’. One of the faded letters looked like an ‘h’ or another ‘n.’ She supposed it didn’t matter. Her stop was supposed to be long before--miles away by this point. Scootaloo noticed an old newspaper rack near the edge of the platform, but decided to let it be. Considering the state of the station, the ratty newspapers in the rack were probably published before Princess Luna had been banished to the moon.

Scootaloo cautiously trotted behind the station, stepping around countless papers, bottles, tiles, splintered boards with rusted nails sticking out of them, and brown globs that were surrounded by hundreds of buzzing flies. She hoped they weren’t what she thought they were, but considering the state of her location, it wouldn’t be surprising. After pushing her way through the brush that had accumulated near the back of the station, she came to the edge of a towering forest. Even in the dark she could tell that the trees were much much taller than any of the ones in the Everfree Forest. She observed the tree line closely, hoping that she’d catch sight of civilization. A lantern amongst the black. There had to be a town somewhere. Rail stations weren’t built in the middle of nowhere. Only darkness stared back. Groaning, she turned her attention back to the station.

It seemed to be the only building, dilapidated or otherwise, in the area. As far as the moonlight stretched, she saw no shadowed rooftops, no lanterns hanging in shop doorways—not even the stumbling silhouette of a drunken pony making their way back from the local tavern. There was the station and nature and nothing else.

She sighed and walked back to the derelict shed. A loud yawn rumbled her chest and she rubbed her numb face with a hoof. Movement was necessary, but getting some shut-eye tasted so, so much sweeter. It’d be easier to find her path in the daylight anyway. She wobbled up to the station door, and studied its state. The hinges were rusted and the latch hung lazily against the door. She pushed against it lightly, and it swung open. Scootaloo gave a blissful sigh and thanked Luna before tiphoofing into the musky station.

The interior consisted of one room. A table and chair rested in the corner, faced directly towards the door. Beside it was a smaller table, covered with old papers and books. And against the back wall, barely visible amongst the shadows, was a sight that made Scootaloo grin from ear-to-ear: a bed! She threw off her saddlebags and practically bounced over to it, flopping down and sending a plethora of loud squeaks into the air. Scootaloo placed her forelegs behind her head and sighed contentedly. Normally, a foreign bed wouldn’t bring forth such relief, but these were far from normal times.

A chill wind blew over her, sending chills through her body. Reluctantly, she rose from the bed, closed the door with a gentle nudge, and pulled her blanket out of her saddlebags. It was still damp and smelled of wet dog, but it would have to suffice for tonight. She fell forward onto the bed, burying her face in the mattress while giggling foalishly.

Sleep... thank you...

It didn’t take long for the excitement to wear off, however, and she soon found herself lying on her side, mud-covered blanket draped over her curled-up form. Those hollow feelings had returned, pressing down on her chest like a lead weight. She wanted to be able to be lulled to sleep by her father’s loud snoring. She wanted to hug her pillow close to her and fall asleep cradling it like a pet. She wanted to stay awake for hours, sending Marse code messages to Apple Bloom with her firefly lamp.

All she could do now was curl up tighter and hope that the Sandmare was on her side tonight.

Scootaloo closed her eyes and lay still. She started to hum an old lullaby to herself, one her mother had sung to her. The lyrics escaped her, but she remembered the tune. It was majestic and warm and... loving. Scootaloo kept humming despite the pressure building up in her chest. It subsided eventually, along with most feeling, and the cold tail of slumber coiled around her. In those final moments, as her hums died off, a few of the lines came to light.

“Sleep tight, my angel in flight.

Rest your wings, 

Embrace the night.

Close your eyes, my little dove

I’ll stand watch

Daughter I love.”
> Chapter Six
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Six


Scootaloo awoke to a suffocating cloud of dust. Bleary eyed, she blinked, snorted, and wiped at the assailants before pulling the blanket over her face and groaning. The mattress smelled of rotten cheese and the blanket didn’t fare much better. Gagging, she tossed it across the room, and sat up. Her gaze lazily drifted around the room as she tried to blink some moisture onto her dry eyes . She hunched over, rubbing her face and suppressing another retch as the fetid smell of the mattress wafted up her nostrils once more.

A half-remembered dream pulsed in her mind—weak but steady. She had dreamt about her mother. Her best dreams—and her worst—always seemed to be filled with visions of her. It was a memory. That much she did know. When it had occurred, she was not certain, but it had happened. It wasn’t a cherished memory, but it wasn’t a haunting one either. It simply was. Groaning and swiping at a buzzing gnat, she let her mind drift.


___


They were in Cloud Nine, one of Cloudsdale’s finest boutiques. Dozens of mannequins stretched from corner to corner, donning frilly gowns and frumpy hats. Plastic roses lined the walls. Clothes racks spray-painted gold and tall mirrors covered every inch of the shop’s floor. Scootaloo stood on a stool in front of one of these mirrors, a purple and gold pegasus wrapping measuring tape around her posterior. Her mother, Flare Chaser, sat nearby, skimming over the latest issue of "The Equestrian Inquiry," occasionally glancing up at her daughter, smirk growing even larger. Scootaloo trotted in place, looking at her mother with eyes that said, “Please let me leave.” The pleas fell on deaf ears. Flare Chaser grinned on.

“Do I have to wear this?” Scootaloo whined, stamping her hoof—much to the ire of the dressmaker.

“You know how your father is,” Flare Chaser said.“ He always wants to look presentable at every show.” A hint of bitterness crept into her tone as the words faded, but Scootaloo paid no mind, focusing instead on the pins she was sure the dressmaker was just waiting on pricking her with if she turned away.

“Yes, but why does that mean we’ve gotta wear these dumb things?” Scootaloo rose an ornate-stocking-covered foreleg for emphasis. “Nopony would be caught dead wearing these.” The dressmaker grunted bitterly.

“You won’t hear me argue,” Flare Chaser said with a hearty laugh. “If I had my say, we’d be going to these expos with nothing on at all, but they’re important to your father. If we didn’t dress up, he wouldn’t sell any of his pieces, and then where would we be, hmm?”

"Happier,” Scootaloo said, flicking a hind leg as the fashionista tried to wrap a measuring tape around it. Flare Chaser covered her mouth with a wing and turned away from an increasingly agitated and tangled Scootaloo. “What?” Scootaloo asked. “What’s so funny? You asked a question, and I’d definitely be happier if I didn’t have to dress up like a loser every other week.”

Flare Chaser squeaked, guffaws threatening to burst forth. Suddenly, she groaned and doubled over, one foreleg reaching for her belly while the other covered her mouth. Scootaloo hopped down from the stool and hurried to her mother as fast as she could in a frilly dress. By the time she reached her, Flare Chaser had let out a belch and lowered her hoof from her muzzle. 

“Mom?” Scootaloo tilted her head, wings fluttering madly. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Flare Chaser looked at her daughter and smiled through clenched teeth. “I’m fine,” she said softly. ”Just a... just a stomach cramp. Ugh.” She threw a hoof over her mouth once more, doubling over.

Scootaloo leaned down, wings numb and hooves shaking. “You sure you’re fine?”

Though her wincing face told otherwise, Flare Chaser nodded. She stood and stumbled past Scootaloo and over to the dressmaker. After a brief, whispered conversation, the dressmaker nodded and trotted behind the counter. She dug around, tossing aside various scarves and ties, before emerging with a key in her wing. Flare Chaser took it in her mouth, retching then immediately dropping it into her feathers. She gave Scootaloo a gentle nuzzle on the cheek and cantered to the back of the shop. 

Scootaloo watched, her wings slowing to a stop, the cloud seeming to sway beneath her hooves. She took a shaky breath and stepped back onto the stool. The dressmaker finished the fitting without a single kick of protest.


___


Scootaloo lifted her head and sniffled. The memory was quickly lost, replaced by a thick and pungent whiff. Celestia, had it managed to get worse? The rotten and musty stench wasn’t reserved to just her bed—it seemed to seep from the walls. Scootaloo gagged and coughed, spitting on the floor. Outside, the songbirds were already chirping away, their melodies chipping at her nerves.

The sunlight did provide a few positives. For one, she could finally get a good look at the inside of the station. She took in the room, bile building with each darting glance. The interior was just as forsaken as the outside—if not more so. The walls weren’t painted, giving Scootaloo a lovely view of fractured walls and rotted supports. In the front corner, right next to the door, she could see the remains of a long abandoned wasp nest. Above her, exposed cross beams bent and sagged, some hollowed out by termites, some waterlogged and cracking, every grain--from end to moldy end--colored a sickening green. She was lucky it hadn’t rained during the night; if it had, there was no doubt that she would have been drenched to the bone come morning. What sunlight peeked through the broken blinds reflected off the shards of broken glass that littered the floor alongside the faded candy bar wrappers and rat droppings.

She’d never wanted a bath more in her life.

Her back still ached from the previous night’s fall, and she itched all over—a result of the insect-ridden mattress, no doubt. As she scratched her irritated chest, checking for bed bug bites, she noticed a black lump on her foreleg. Assuming that it was just some dried mud, she wiped at it. Despite at least a dozen wipes, the lump remained. She lifted her foreleg close to her face and noticed that the dirt had tiny moving legs. She let out a sound between a shriek and retch. 

Give me strength.

Hesitantly, she clamped the tick between her incisors and pulled. Luckily for her, it hadn’t burrowed in deep yet and came off with little effort. That was where her luck ended. Warm liquid drenched her tongue as the tick burst. She tasted blood. Moaning, she spit it on the floor and stomped on it for good measure. Assured it was dead, she opened her saddlebags and pulled out her canteen. She sloshed the lukewarm water, then spit it out. There were quite a few red streaks in it. How much of it was hers? She spit again. Some things were better left unknown.

Between gags, she clicked the top back on her canteen and tossed it into her saddlebags. She checked the rest of her legs for ticks, but thankfully found none. What parts of her wings she could see looked clean as well. Sitting in place would make her a resting buffet, so she hopped off the bed and headed for the window. The debris outnumbered actual floor, making the walk a difficult task. She tiphoofed around the shards of glass and feces, stumbling on occasion like a foal taking their first steps. Each stumble was followed by the reverberations of sliding glass and hoof-on-concrete. No pain, though. That was good, though it did nothing to quell Scootaloo’s growing hatred for the station. 

It came as no surprise that there was no way to raise the blinds. She grumbled and dragged shuffled back to the bed, not even bothering to be cautious this time. Shards of glass slid across the floor, but once again she was not greeted by pain. With a loud gunt she threw her saddlebags over her back, remembering to tighten them before she hurried out the door. The sun had yet to fully crest the mountains, but it was still  bright enough to force a squint. She stumbled forward, trying to navigate the world through a burning, blurry gaze. She took only a couple steps before tripping and falling flat on her face. 

Today is not gonna be my day.

She lifted her head. Much to her relief, the area around the station was still very much desolate. Not a pony in sight. Her father had likely awoken and reported her missing by now. Her gut twisted; luckily, she had her sore nose to distract her. She pressed her hoof to her snout, wincing as pain shot up it. It wasn’t the worst pain, and her fur had picked up no blood. Not broken. Satisfied, she rose to her hooves, prepared to give whatever had tripped her up a swift kick. The culprit still lay at the top of the stairs. It was a small felt pouch. Scootaloo tilted her head to the side, eyebrow raised. Is that my bit pouch? She walked up to the stairs and leaned in close. Upon the pouch, messily stitched with frayed threads sticking out, was a Wonderbolts logo. The bottom fell out of her stomach. She’d asked for an official Wonderbolts bit pouch, but times had been tough back then. Her father had lacked inspiration, and her mother had turned into a hollow shell. Far from a pleasant Hearth’s Warming Day, but a memorable one--for all the wrong reasons. After the smoke had cleared, she’d managed to talk her father into buying her a Wonderbolts patch from the local general store, and he’d done a halfway-decent job of stitching it on.

Her legs shook as memories of the previous night came back swinging. She’d found her pouch, sure, but there was still the matter of the lost bits. She could question the hows and whys after she’d found her lifeline. Sighing, she picked up the pouch, stretching her wings out for a lengthy hunt They fused to her sides as a jingling graced her ears. The pouch fell back to floor, the distinctive clamor of bit-on-bit ringing out when it hit. Scooping her jaw back in place, she fell to her knees and opened it up. The blinding glint of sun on gold flashed her eyes. She yelped and thrust out her forelegs, knocking the bag over. Bits rolled and shook, but none left the safety of the top step. Scootaloo breathed quickly as she climbed atop the stairs and meticulously counted and recounted the spilled bits, her jaw falling further agape with each count of ten. Fifty. Not a bit missing.

Not even the five she spent on a train ticket.

The door to the station slammed shut, nearly making Scootaloo fall down the steps once more. She trotted over to the door and pushed with all her might. It wouldn’t budge. A chill shot down her spine, cold sweat trickling and matting her disheveled bangs. Something about this station was wrong—very, very wrong—and she wanted nothing more than to be hundreds of miles away.

She gathered her bits back up in the pouch and tossed it into her saddlebags. Without a second glance, she made a break for the woods. Despite the growing light, a thick shadow draped over the outside of the station. The entire structure—from the top of the platform to the chipped stairs—seemed to sag and wither, a dying station long forgotten by pony and time.

Scanning the woods, she spotted an opening in the tree line. It wasn’t wide enough for a stallion or even a bulky mare, but for Scootaloo it was the perfect breadth. She ducked under a low-lying tree branch, then jumped over a fallen log and down a steep embankment. By now, the station was well out of sight—though not out of mind—and she slowed her cramping hooves. She leaned against the trunk of a tree, gasping heavily as she pulled out her canteen. A wave of relief rushed down her throat as she took a quick swig. It seemed colder and fresher. She poured some on her head, the chills rushing down her spine a welcome relief for once. Her throat burned and a metallic taste pooled in the back of her mouth. Her legs might have been some of the strongest in her class, but her lungs never could keep up. On field day at school, she dominated the obstacle course, but always finished near the back when it came to the races. Sprinting probably had a lot to do with that--pacing might have been healthier but there was nothing cool about it--but her lungs always seemed to betray her even when she took on a lame pace. Even at a sprint she wasn’t the quickest. No, running was more Apple Bloom’s game.

Scootaloo tightened her canteen. It was lighter than she thought possible. A sea of trees surrounded her, nary a stream or cabin in sight, but… well, she was on a path--though, judging from the overgrowth, not a frequently traveled one. All paths lead somewhere, and with ‘somewhere’ there was, more often than not, water. She was sure that she’d come across a means of refilling her canteen if she kept pushing forward--either by town or river. After all, there were trees and plants everywhere; you couldn’t have greenery without a water to feed them, right? 

She nodded, silently agreeing with herself, and trudged forward.


* * *


… And come to think of it, what kind of special talent does a silver spoon represent anyway? Her name’s Silver Spoon, does that mean that her special talent is her name? What the hay are you supposed to do with that talent? “Hi, I’m Silver Spoon. I’m a spoon and I’m silver. That’ll be ten bits. Tips are expected.” And then there’s the coincidence. Did her parents know what her cutie mark was going to be, then named her after that? Hmm... my name’s Scootaloo. The thing I’m best at is riding my scooter. Scooter. Scootaloo. Wait a minute...

Scootaloo passed a tree. It was identical to all the others. A long and thin trunk, adorned with thin limbs and faded-green leaves. If there was one thing distinctive about this particular tree, it was that its trunk was damp, the soggy leaves squishing and stinking up the path, but she’d passed at least sixty-two trees with dew-soaked bodies. No, it was just another tree, which she’d reached with just another step, marking yet another minute spent walking. The only difference between this mile and the prior ones was the path itself. Worn down grass had given way to ankle-high shrubs and jutting roots primed to trip. She found her eyes set on the ground with each step, and all the while she continued to monologue.

… I mean, sure, Fluttershy sounds a lot like ‘butterfly,’ but there’s still a difference. A huge difference. If her name was Butterfly, yeah, that would be similar to my case, but it’s not. Did my parents know I would be a good scooterer, or did they force me to pick the thing up so they’d look smart? “Yes, that’s my daughter, Scootaloo. Notice how she SCOOTs. She’s quite a SCOOTerer, my SCOOTaloo.” But then what would the ‘-loo’ stand for?

She took a brief rest from her internal performance to wipe some sweat off her brow.

When she had first started hiking down the trail, the sun had just cleared the horizon. Now, it bore directly down on her, cooking her wings and back. Her mane sat plastered against her face, and she’d long since given up trying to brush it away. The canteen was bone-dry. She kept her ears perked, hoping that the distant sound of rushing water would grace them. Or even the voices of ponies. Fellow travelers would likely have a canteen on them, and she had no doubt that they’d spare her a swig or two if she gave him the ‘puppy dog eyes.’ Hay, I’ll take a flash flood or a mud puddle. Just give me something...

She noticed a fallen tree beside the path, and sat down on it. Her legs felt like they were being prodded with millions of lit matches and her joints locked a little more with each step. She laid back on the rock with a loud grunt. A steady breeze had picked up, though it did nothing to calm the sweat trickling down her forehead. Leaves and branches swayed with each gust, causing the light and shadow to dance like a kaleidoscope.  Her body began to relax, and her eyelids grew heavy. She kicked and forced herself into an upright position. She still needed to find water and shelter, and she wasn’t going to find either by laying on a rock all day. Hooves protesting, she lowered herself back onto the path and continued forward. Even her wings were beginning to ache, and she hadn’t even used them—a fact that only strengthened her disdain.

Flying would make this so much easier. Rainbow Dash would have made it to the Phoenix Pool and back by now. Scootaloo sighed and kicked a pine cone along the path like a soccer ball. This is what I get for being some half-blood. I’m not even a “real” pegasus. What’s the point of these wings if they never work right? I haven’t flown yet, have I? Nope. Nope, I’m almost at flight school age and I can barely hover a second. Yeah, Scoots. Some pegasus you are. If you could fly, maybe Rainbow would still be alive.

She screamed and kicked a pebble, sending it careening off the path and down a slope. It bounced off rocks and leaves, echoing through the forest. Soon, it was but a tiny crackling, only audible because there were no other sounds for Scootaloo to perceive.

And then she heard the splash.

At first, she thought it was her mind playing tricks, so she found another rock—larger than the pebbles around it—and kicked it down the same embankment. It bounced and tumbled and grew softer and softer. Then, after it seemed to have stopped, there was another weak splash.

Scootaloo practically bounced with glee, and bounded down the slope. She lost her balance at several points—bumping hard against a tree at one point and doing a somersault when her hoof got caught in a loose root at another—but she barreled forward, and the sounds of a creek started to sneak in between the crackling twigs and labored breaths. The path leveled off and Scootaloo skidded to a stop. She was in a vast, flat area of land. The trees were less tightly packed—sometimes dozens of meters away from each other—and the air was filled with a gray mist. The sun was nowhere to be seen.

She followed the sound of water. First a gentle trickle, building steadily into a strong roar. Within seconds, she came across a bubbling stream. It was roughly as wide as she was, and the flow was far stronger than she would have guessed. She couldn’t fight the grin spreading across her lips as she pulled out her canteen and let the icy water flow into it. Once it started to overflow, she lifted it to her lips and gulped it down heartedly. It chilled her burning throat, and she could feel it flow down into her stomach, then out to her sore extremities, cooling everything it touched. 

Topping it off once more, she snapped the lid shut and took a seat on a nearby log. Part of her demanded that she keep moving, but the sun still rested high in the sky and the burning in her legs had given way to numbness. Any attempts at walking would no doubt end in a mouthful of dirt. Sighing and letting the breeze caress her twitching wings, she dug through her saddlebags, eventually emerging with Daring Do clutched in her teeth.

The rail map had once again taken over the job of bookmark. Scootaloo removed it, twirled it around in her hoof, then opened it. Seconds later, she let out a groan and tossed it aside. The map was perfect if one was taking a train, but beyond the lines there were no lined paths, no trees to speak of. She glanced skyward, squinting into sun. It was past noon; that was as much as she could tell, but it was enough. The sun rested a little to her left, so… that was west? She groaned and buried her face in her hooves.

Just relax. She practiced steady breaths. They shook and faltered but her wings steadied. There’s a path. All paths lead somewhere.

Birds sang on somewhere over head. Scootaloo still found her face slightly numb, but she had bowed, not broken. It was something. She rubbed her eyes once more and found herself staring at the book. Biting her tongue, she flipped the page back and forth. There’s time for that later, she chided herself, but as she moved the paper in her hoof, the letters bled into words.





– – –

Packing tape. Daring Do had many foes in life--from the bizarre beasts like Auizohtal to the rival academics like Dr. Caballeron--but packing tape… packing tape was up there with the best of them. 

Swiping her covered wing at the air, along the desk, and against the brim of her hat, she took periodic glances at her desk, then the hourglass, and then the desk again. It was nearing ten. Pallah had said he’d be in contact, but so far the ashes in the dish had remained still and lightless. Thoughts of her last conversation with the linguist flashed through her mind. Cringey as the discussion had gone (Daring had been fine up until he’d asked if she made sure to dust ‘all the folds’ of the book), she had used some choice words. Should I send the first message? She grimaced, putting a wing to her mouth and nearly getting a wad of tape stuck to her lip. What if he takes that as an invitation?

A knock sounded at the door. Daring spun around, head tilted. Another knock. Daring gulped and took up a nearby paperweight in her wing. "It's open," she whispered, barely loud enough to hear. 

Still too loud. The door swung open, crashing into a bookshelf and sending several bronze amulets clinking to the floor. "Ayyy! Darey!” 

Oh, please, no

She blinked, hoping that her vision would clear and this all would be a nightmare. “Darey!” the voice shouted once more, and in he walked, clad in equally loud clothing. Tiki shirt unbuttoned to his chest, mane taking on a plastic sheen from the bottles of gel used to comb it back--some ponies simply never left college.    

Daring flopped face-first on a box as she groaned. “Pallah why are you here?”

“You told me you wanted to talk about that boo--”

“Yeah. Over fire. Not… in person.” 

“Uh huh.” He moved closer, but for once kept his hooves to himself. Groaning, he sat back on her couch, joints popping as he stretched out. “You ever try reading ancient script over firewire?” Pallah snorted, opening up a box and pulling out a box of mints. “Small, gray writing on paper smudged gray from the flames? Yeah, I’d do better here. Besides, I missed you.” He sniffed the mints then gagged, tossing them back in the box. “What’chu packing up for, anyway?”

Daring shrugged, moving back to packing her books. “Moving back to Father’s manor in Mexicolt for a bit. As you enjoy researching a real copy, so do I enjoy being near the source material.”

Pallah found an apple amongst another box and bit into it. “I can see the book right there,” he said with a point, spitting bits of apple on the opened book with each word. “That is what you’ve been sending me, right?” He turned his head, sending yet more apple guts raining on the ancient pages. “Ah, yep! I know those curls there.”

“I thought you’d recognize them.” Daring let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. Daring had noticed the book, but it appeared he had not been curious enough to check the letter from the Dean resting on her desk. She’d burn it later. Real fire instead of dragon flame. The latter could be saved for a witty retort.

Or finding yourself a better linguist. Sighing, she pulled out a strand of tape and closed yet another box. Once it was stacked with the others, she sat down at her desk, unscrewed the cap off a bottle of Yakyakistani whisky and took a swig. Cough as she did, the warmth definitely had a way of settling her nerves—especially the Pallah-induced ones.

“I didn’t realize you were having a party, Darey,” said Pallah, tilting his head this way and that as he ran a hoof along the pages. For all his quirks and flaws, he was a skilled linguist. A skilled linguist who took weeks to decipher tablets because he kept getting distracted by any mare who’d wander within a half-mile of his lab, but a skilled linguist, nonetheless.

“Yeah, and I don’t think I sent you an invitation.”

“Lame.” Pallah looked up from the book, eyes soft. “Hey, uh, you alright?”

Daring took another swig of whisky. “Yeah.”

“If you want to talk about it—”

“Pallah, you’re not the first pony to tell me that, and you won’t be the last. When I want to talk about it, I will.”

“Alright.” The stallion frowned as he moved the sticky-noted page back and forth. “These are Griffonian by the way. Ancient, but definitely Griffonian.”

“What?” Daring rushed over the table, pushing Pallah aside with a swipe of her wing. “You figured that out in two minutes, tops.” Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. “You knew this already. If you think this’ll win you any brownie points with me—”

“I told you: sending copies of this crap by dragon fire makes it all bleed together.” He flipped the pages, the text a blur gibberish. Stopping after a few pages, he pointed to a blocky paragraph covered in slash marks. “See these symbols? What do they look like to you?”

Daring shrugged. “You said it was Griffonian, so I’m going to say talon marks?”

“Exactly.” He smiled, looking too smug for his own good. At least this time, Daring had to admit he had earned it. “An ancient form, at least. Take a closer look.”

Daring leaned in close, nose touching the book. Pallah pulled her back. Giggling, she flapped her wings to steady herself. Yakyakistan whisky truly was as pungent as Dad had described. Her eyes burned. She slapped them with a wing. Not now. Not while there was work to do. Tears would be pointless if she did her job right. Peering once again at the book, she scanned a single line of scratch marks, back and forth, left to right, then right to left. “Just looks like a bunch of waves to me.”

Pallah smiled, leaning close. “Exactly.” Daring tilted her head but the whisky kept her hooves still. “Waves.” He pointed to a series of sideways marks shaped like a bunch of noodles. He pointed to another set of symbols, an arrow pointed skyward with slash marks through its middle. “Mountains.” Another symbol with the same point but with slash marks shooting upwards. “Fire.”  At last he pointed to a series of three diagonal slashes. “War.”

Taking a sharp breath, and one last drink, Daring let her wings fall upon the book, flipping through the pages. While her Griffonian was far from fluent, she could see what Pallah was talking about. Maybe the thin slash mark with multiple slashes shooting out of its top could be a symbol for ‘tree. The circle slash with waves around it… an island, maybe? Or maybe the alcohol was just getting to her? She chuckled at her own joke, then nearly choked as she flipped the page. The whisky flushed from her blood in an instant.

It was the sketch that had drawn her attention the most. While the book held a few interesting illustrations—a depiction of an ancient funeral service in the Zebracian art style, a dagger seemingly melded with bones (or maybe a fang, she couldn’t be sure)--but the drawing of the ‘Pool’ itself was the centerpiece. At least she had assumed it was the pool, as the words below it still ‘read’ like complete gibberish. Mostly complete gibberish. Taking the book in her wings and lifting it to her nose, she could barely make out the symbol on the side. An arrow pointing upward with tri-slash marks rising up out of its point. If Pallah were right, she’d found her first clue: “Fire.”

“Huh?” Pallah grunted. “What was tha--Woah!” He fell backwards onto the couch as Daring rushed over to a pile of boxes near her bookshelf. ‘Textbooks?’ No. ‘Dissertations?’ At this school, definitely no.’ ‘Academia Catalog?’ Sure, why not. Her wing found her whisky, and the vapors made her shake as she ripped off the masking tape and dug through the box. 

“Pallah,” she grunted, “if I turn around and you’re looking, I swear on my life…”

“I’m not. I’m not.” The stallion managed to sound truthful. He also somehow managed to sound worried. “Hey, uh, Daring… you never really told me what this book is about. Figured it was just research, but, sheesh, you’re acting like not deciphering this thing’ll kill you.”

“Exact opposite, really. Ah ha! Here we are! ‘Archeology Academia.’” Risking papercuts, she flipped through the pages at blinding speed. Within seconds, she had found the directory for ‘Griffon Archaeology.’ It only took up a single page, about four names, but if they held the answers, then did the quantity really matter?

Her wing settled on the first name. ‘Squall, Cay: Adjunct Professor of Griffon History, College of the Five Sons, Vanhoover.’ There was nothing special about the university--its history program was considered merely ‘adequate’ among Daring’s former colleagues--nor the title. What made the name stand out like a sore feather was the name itself. ‘Cay.’ The rest of the names started with ‘G.’ It was not a griffon’s name, far as she could tell, but a pony’s name. A pony was good. It meant she’d actually done the research to earn the degree.

Screw it. She jotted down the information, hastily scratched a note, and threw it into the fire. It was only after the green ashes had fallen still in the dish that Daring realized she hadn’t even thought about what she was writing. She went for another drink of Yakyakistani whisky, but found the bottle empty.

The world swam around her.

“Daring?” Pallah caught her before she could hit the carpet, walking her over to the couch. “Easy now.” Daring curled up. He’d even placed a cover over her. She made a note to give him a hug after she’d sobered up. “Daring? What… what’s this book even about?” He lifted it up, aiming the picture of the fanged dagger at her blurry eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Fixing an injustice, she wanted to answer. Righting a wrong. She reached across the desk, resting a hoof on an ancient fan, spread open upon the wood. She’d been just a filly with nary a helmet small enough to fit her head. Some Canterlot noble with deep pockets and an even deeper gut had purchased a large swatch of land to build upon. Father had tried for months to protect it, claiming there were treasures amongst the snares and caves. But words were just that: words. Daring, however, had a name to live up to and just enough of a lack of size to squeeze through the vines. She’d come out with an ancient fan in hoof. It was enough to buy the land, protect the potential ruin. But heavy pockets can push away even the most cherished of Caballan history, and her father insisted that the fan belonged in the university. She’d argued, she’d whined, but the lesson he’d taught her that day had carried on through the years.

Some things weigh more than gold. Some things are worth cherishing, protecting, and even if only a small piece can be salvaged—one fan amidst a treasure trove, a single worthy life amidst the millions—then it’d all be worth it in the end. 

She ran a hoof over the dusty blades as the stupor took hold. “Daddy…”

– – –

 



Scootaloo closed the book with a sigh. A bunch of pointless drivel, but… griffons. A ‘fire’ symbol. ‘Vanhoover’ had appeared on the map, and it had been mentioned in the chapter, so… maybe a little spoiler would help her get on her way. She flipped back to the map, put her nose right up to the page, and laughed. Sure enough, the symbol of an arrow pointing upwards, additional marks slashed up through its point, rested beside Vanhoover’s read lettering. A part of her wanted to get up and dance, but her legs were still in rebellion from all the running.

Besides, nice as a destination was, it would all be pointless if she never got out of this dumb forest. 

Much to the chagrin of her joints, she stumbled off the log and wobbled to the edge of the water, looking downstream. Its width grew as it flowed down the hill. The water rushed over stones at an ever-increasing rate. This is bound to lead somewhere, she thought.

The descent down the slope was a tricky one. The leaves on the bank were soaked and the ground sloshed and slid with each step. Her legs were covered in layers of mud by the time she reached the bottom of the hill. The rest of her body didn’t fare much better. She’d slipped nearly a dozen times, and now donned a patchy mask of muck. It smelled like a dog after a rainstorm. She’d still take it over the soggy wetness soaking through her flanks.

As the ground leveled off, she noticed a sound. Distant at first, but growing with each quickening step. A powerful thunder-like noise, constant and booming. Scootaloo began to run again. With each step it became more deafening. Her excited giggles were drowned out and erased by the rapids. She could barely hear herself think.

Rapids! River! Society!

Though there was still a chance—miniscule as it may be—that this river would lead her nowhere, she chose to get her hopes up. If there was a hint of civilization in the forest, be it a bustling village or a single hut with one insane occupant, it would be along the riverside. The town she was supposed to get off at the night before had been located right beside the river, if she remembered correctly. It was a long shot, but then again the whole quest was a longshot. With fresh air in her lungs, she trudged forward.

Only a few steps in, the trees came to a halt. Her wings burst into a flutter as she stared down, the tips of her front hooves hanging over open air. The stream she had been following fell off into open air, trickling down and darkening the moss-covered cliff faces. Below her, a river ran from horizon to horizon, flowing like a stampede. Boulders the size of houses jutted out of the foamy rapids, and limbs and tree trunks were carried downstream as if they were mere feathers.

It was frightening. It was beautiful.

She leaned out over the cliff face. The river stretched on forever, trees flanking it through every turn and dip. Occasionally, the trees would stop—the river briefly turning into a cascade—but resumed again when the river leveled off. Frantically, she scanned the span, searching for boats or docks or even a stray shack in either direction. Only more water, trees, and mountains replied. “Great,” she muttered as she kicked a pebble into the abyss.

Then she saw it. In the distance, hovering over the sea of trees, was a long trail of gray smoke. Not far from that, another. And another!

Scootaloo erupted into joyful, borderline maniacal, giggles. She fell back onto her haunches, the giggles mutating into intense belly laughs. Why am I laughing? she asked herself. No answer came, only more laughter. She didn’t bother asking again. Eventually, the joy subsided, replaced by a growing tinge of worry. She looked over the edge of the cliff once more. The river was at least thirty meters below her. Flying would probably be the safest way down, but that wasn’t an option. She scanned the face for vines or paths. The ledge she was standing on stretched out at a level height for quite a ways, before suddenly ending. No gradual decline to river-level. Just a few kilometers of land and then Bam! A wicked drop. As usual, all those hopes, only to be crushed. I bet that path I was on led straight down there. She kicked a stone over the cliffside, each bouncing scrape like clawing in her skull. Too bad you decided to leave it and get yourself lost! Idiot! Glaring, she scanned the path for more rocks to throw--maybe a boulder.

And once again, her eyes seemed to fall upon the right place at the right time.

About fifty or so yards away, and five meters down the cliff wall, was a tiny ledge. It was barely wide enough to be noticed without squinting, but it still appeared to be wide enough for a small filly like Scootaloo to balance on. From a distance, it was difficult to tell if the ledge was sturdy or not, stability was the farthest thing from Scootaloo’s mind. Her focus was set upon the downward angle of the lip, the sudden curve. The jutting rock angled down once more, then curved, then repeated the cycle all the way to the river. It was a path, a way down. A way out of this hole. Or, well, into, Scootaloo thought with a smile.

And straight into another, her mind retorted. She tried to ignore it, but the thought reverberated in her mind as she climbed down the paper-thin path at a centimeter-per-minute pace. For a minute or two, she thought about what would happen if she were to lose her balance. From this height, this location, it all ended the same. Broken legs, paralysis, cracked skull, each option would finish hundreds of kilometers downstream, in the middle of nowhere with the vultures feasting on her before a search party could arrive—if a search party even came out this far.

If they even sent out a search party.

Halfway down the side of the cliff, the path widened a couple of meters. Scootaloo seized the opportunity to catch her breath, flopping onto her haunches with a heavy grunt. The wind was picking up; even her stuffed saddlebags were swaying in it. There was a hole in the rock face. Scootaloo guessed that an animal had used it as a burrow at some point in time. It was in a good location—near water and food supplies, yet out of reach of most predators.

She looked up and noticed that the sun had begun its descent. “Have I been walking that long?” she said to nobody in particular.

A growl emitted from the hole in the rock face.

Scootaloo shot to her hooves, nearly toppling over the cliff then and there. Heart racing, she hesitantly leaned forward, peering into the hole. The inside of the cavity was pitch black. Even the noon sun failed to illuminate past the first few inches. It growled again. Scootaloo felt its breath against her face, warm and putrid. She looked to her side, debating whether she should make a run for it.

Attacked by some creature or a long fall onto sharp rocks. Pick your demise.

She looked back into the hole. Her body stiffened.

The creature was partially visible. The tip of its long rough snout was inches from her face, sunlight reflecting off its razor-sharp fangs. Though it was difficult to tell, Scootaloo could have sworn she saw bits of flesh hanging from its molars. None of that was what left her paralyzed with fear. What made her blood run cold was the eyes. They were narrow, piercing, and strikingly red.

She didn’t think twice. Her legs moved on instinct. Run, turn, run, turn, run, turn; the process repeated itself for what felt like hours. The floor didn’t appear to be getting any closer, and Scootaloo wasn’t feeling any safer. She heard what sounded like claws scraping on rock behind her, as well as the all too familiar panting of a ravenous beast. Not like this, her mind whimpered. Not like this.

Run, turn, run, turn, run, tur— Stop!

Scootaloo looked down, then across. There would be a uncrossable gap in the middle of the path. She looked behind her. Pebbles showered down from above, tell-tale signs that she was utterly screwed. Again, she had to decide: fall to her death or get eaten alive. She glanced at her wings; they twitched nervously. The cogs in her mind turned so fast she thought they’d melt. She looked across the gap and narrowed her gaze.

I can do this.

Behind her, the beast growled. Below her, the forest waited with an open mouth. She took a deep breath and flapped her wings.

I can do this.

She leapt forward, eyes closing as soon as her hooves left the ground. She flapped her wings slowly and with confidence. Focus. Don’t push the air, let it push you.

I can do this.

Her progress halted.

I can do this.

She fluttered desperately.

I can do this.

She craned her neck. The other side was barely visible.

I can do this.

The leaves of the trees had three points on each side. They were sharp and painfully scraped against her face.

I can do this.

A limb met her nose and everything went dark.


*


“What should we tell her?”

“Nothing. We tell her nothing.”

“Honey… I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, but she knew. She’ll ask questions.”

“And we’ll tell her nothing.”

“What good would that serve, Flare?”

“She doesn’t need to know.”

“But she should. Flare?”

“I won’t do it. I won’t. No. Shut up. Shut up!”

“Flare? Easy, honey. Just sit down. I’ll get--”

“I won’t!”


*


The world came back in waves.

First came the gasping breath as the world rushed in around her. Scootaloo took a breath, then another. She was alive. Not long after that came the waves of sensation: grass rubbing against the back of her head, wind ruffling her mane, droplets of liquid—rain maybe—pattering across her chest, thicker water lapping at her hind hooves. For a moment, she was thankful for the sensation—she had made it through with her nerves still connected at least.

And then the pain poured in like a tidal wave.

Her nose felt like railroad spikes had been driven into each nostril. Pains, dull and sharp, fired through her limbs. A metallic taste filled her mouth. She spit and felt the thick liquid fall back onto her face, mixing with the grime and rain. She began to roll over onto her side, but her bruised ribs screamed in protest. All the while, the rain fell against her—the tiny drops like red-hot needles.

She was alive. At that moment, she wasn’t sure if that was a blessing.

Scootaloo’s hooves slid around on the muddy earth as she tried to stand. Each movement felt like a hundred fire ant bites, but she’d rather be in pain and moving than laying there and withering away. No pain, no gain, right? She began to chuckle at her quip, but her tender ribs quickly ceased the laughter. Hoo boy, that was a big one. How’d I survive that? She rubbed her face with a forehoof, sending more fire and coppery scents rushing up her nose. What the hay was that thing anyway? She listened closely for the distinctive sounds of an approaching beast. All she heard were her own shallow breaths and the pitter-patter of rain. She stood upright, legs still wobbling like a foal taking its first steps, as she tried to regain her bearings.

Sight was finally returning to her. She noticed two things. The first was that she had been unconscious for quite a while. She had seen many thunderstorms in her life--from the five-second-long whimpers to the massive, hour-long monsters. She had seen enough to know that even in the largest, most ferocious storms, the sun was still evident. The clouds would block out most of the light, but you could still tell that it was the middle of the afternoon. The world around her now was pure darkness, save for the occasional flash of lightning. No, it was well-past dusk. Not to mention, the skies had been clear when she’d tried to jump the gap. She guessed that she’d blacked out for at least six hours, give or take.

Ugh… She blinked and rubbed her eyes. A ringing rattled her ears. Celestia. That can’t be good for my head...

The second thing she noticed was that she was nowhere near where she had fallen. She had hit a tree branch on the way down, yet there were only a few trees in the area she was in now. Far less than the sea of firs that she’d descended into. Even more perplexing, there were no cliffs anywhere near her. Sure, the river could have pulled miles downstream before spitting her onto the shoreline, but… there was a feeling beneath all the shocking aches and throbbing bruises. A hole bored into her stomach.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

She looked up and down the river, finding nothing but water and trees. Then she peered behind her. She instantly regretted looking behind her.

A pair of eyes glowed in amongst the brush. They watched her, unblinking.

She gulped. “Hello?”

They continued to stare. Scootaloo noticed they were a dark shade of rose. She began to back away, never once breaking contact. Just keep your eyes on it. If you keep looking at it, you’ll be fine.

A growl emitted from the darkness. Scootaloo’s heart raced. The sound of snapping twigs approached her. Closer and closer. The eyes grew until they were the size of dinner plates. They were mad. Ravenous. Hot, rank breath tickled her nostrils. Saliva dropped on her hoof—its consistency denser than the rain or blood. It burned slightly, though not as much as her sinuses. She began to quiver. All she could see were the eyes.

A bell rang out to Scootaloo’s left. She turned her head. The bell rang out again. She turned back. The creature had vanished. For a second, she could’ve sworn that she could hear the distant sounds of snapping twigs and rustling brush, but all noise was drowned out by yet another chiming of the bell. Once her breathing returned to a steady pace, Scootaloo trotted back to the bank, eyes set downriver. The bell continued to ring:

Four, five, six.

She leaned over the water and washed her face off. The water burned, and it was probably not the most sanitary way to clean her wounds, but it got the blood off. Or so she hoped. Her nostrils still smelled of copper. The bell rung on:

Seven, eight, nine.

Scootaloo craned her neck, peering down river. She could almost see around the bend, but her muscles were still tense. Every movement of her head sent jolts shooting down every nerve. Grunting with each step, Scootaloo began to walk towards the tolling as best she could. The ringing in her ears threatened to drown them out, but she pushed forward. At moments, she swore she saw lights flashing among the trees. Her hooves trembled, guided themselves towards the flashes. Every inch of her ached and sagged. Somehow, she managed to keep herself on the path. The lights were just another trick. Another reminder. Another punch to her restless gut.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

The bell ceased. Twelve. It was midnight, and she was in the middle of the forest, soaking wet and probably bleeding all over, with no shelter and no idea where she was. Scootaloo had decided long before now that someone on a higher plane of existence hated her guts; this only solidified that belief.

The walk was an arduous one. Each step hurt more than the last. She hadn’t made it a single kilometer before she had to stop and take a break. By the time she could move her legs enough to proceed, the unseen bell had already tolled once. The river curved to the left, and Scootaloo rounded the bend to find herself staring directly at a village. A fishing village by the looks of it—even in the dark she could make out fishing nets and rods.

Compared to Ponyville, the village was a speck of dust. Scootaloo counted five building—though there were probably others that were obscured by the night or other buildings—and only one of them was taller than a single story. The lit lanterns swinging on the sides of the huts showed that, unlike the station she had spent the previous night at, this village expected visitors to pass through—or at least living beings. A couple lanterns rested on opposite ends of a bridge over the river, several sat atop windowsills, and one large flame rose above the front door of the village’s one two-story building. It illuminated an old wooden sign. From a distance, she couldn’t read the words written on it, but the image messily painted on it spoke volumes. And what divine volumes they were.

A tankard.

She could barely suppress a wave of laughter as she scurried towards the beacon. Her legs groaned and trembled in protest, but they could just shut up. Luck hadn’t been on her side the whole day, and she knew that getting her hopes up would only lead to more disappointment or near-life-threatening injuries, but she would be damned if she didn’t believe. Luck always turns eventually. Sure, her bad luck extended back past the previous day, past the previous weeks, all the way back past the start of the year, but that just meant that, according to what she remembered from those boring statistics lessons, her luck had to change eventually.

Right?


* * *


The Gatehouse—an odd name for a tavern, considering Scootaloo saw no gates anywhere near the place—smelled of ales, cigars and rotten vegetables. A thick haze of smoke enshrouded everything and everybody. Voices seeped through the veil. Loud, slurred ramblings, spoken almost exclusively in four-letter by voices rougher than sandpaper. Scootaloo tried her best to ignore the diatribes and flying bottles, but each shatter and shout was like a hammer to the head.

She strolled up to the bar and hopped up on one of the stools. This is what you do, right? she asked herself, though she knew there was no known answer to that question. She was still in school. By law, she shouldn’t have even been allowed in the front door, but nobody had stopped her. Judging by how shoddy the bar was she doubted anybody cared whether she was of age or not. They might not even give a flying flip if she ordered something. She rested her hoof on her bit pouch. She’d seen her dad drink some of this stuff when he’d chipped a hoof while sculpting, so maybe it’d do her muscles some good. Jingling the bag, she sighed and let go. With her luck, she couldn’t afford to waste bits on anything but necessities.

Despite the rowdy atmosphere, the bar itself was nearly deserted. Most of the patrons were gathered around the many game tables cluttered together in the corner—the center of attention an intense game of Liar’s Dice between an eyepatch-wearing unicorn and a large zebra. The only other figure at the bar itself wasn’t a pony—wasn’t even equine at all. Rather, he was a griffon, and a large one at that. He wore a bandana around his neck, and the fur around his beak was just black, offsetting his ghost-white coat and feathers. He stared straight ahead, and Scootaloo stared at him.

She’d never seen a griffon before. She’d heard about them, sure, but before this moment they were but drawings in her head. Now, she could see the sharp talons and oddly shaped legs. She could feel the power radiating off him. Or her. How did they look different? Even in a madhouse, this griffon stuck out. Such strength. Such nobility. Such—

“The fuck you starin’ at?” the griffon growled. “Turn your eyes ‘fore I mess that nose up even more.”

Scootaloo didn’t even know how to respond. She looked down at the bar. Between the emptied glasses and ale residue were dozens of newspapers—some splotched in dust, some coated with fresh ink. Tilting her head, she could make out a few of the headlines. Bad Moon Rising: The Princess of Night Returns! Shadows on the Horizon: The Return of a Threat in the North? The Canterlot Times Investigates; Kingdom in Turmoil: The Striderian War Continues to Escalate; Where is Luna? The Mysterious Case of the Missing Princess.

Swallowing against an arid throat, Scootaloo ran a hoof along the last article. The pages wrinkled and tore from mere touch. Ancient. The date was a blur of ink. How old could this possibly be? There’s no way… Sighing, she pushed the thought aside with the yellowed frontpage, turning her attention to the headline of the paper beside it. Her blood ran cold.

Remember the Fallen! Element Slain, Dozens Wounded in— She pushed the paper away. It fluttered to the floor with an unceremonious ruffle. 

Some creature cleared its throat. “That’s what I thought, fledgling feathered fruit.” The griffon scowled on.

“Hey, Terry, I’m back. I tell ya—Oh, come on, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me! Another one? Terry, who’s the kid?”

The griffon looked up with glassy eyes. “Do I look like I know?” he said before gulping down his shot of scotch. He pointed a wing at the glass. “You’re lucky she ain’t all over the damn floor, way she’s gawking about.”

Scootaloo blinked her eyes back into focus. Standing just to the side of the clipping was a donkey. His black mane was long and unkempt, falling over his back and nearly touching the floor. In his mouth was a cigarette, smoked to the butt. He pulled a bottle of scotch from a shelf behind him and poured half of it into Terry’s glass. The liquid poured over the lip, through the cracks in the top, and all over the griffon’s talon. Terry glared, but the donkey’s attention had already shifted to Scootaloo. He leaned forward on the bar, stared at her through yellow eyes, and scowled.

“What are ya doin’ here, darlin’?” His teeth were as yellow as his eyes. The stench was unbearable. “Clearly ya ain’t a smart one—eyein’ Terry like that—but even a fool’s gotta know they ain’t s’posed to be here. Ya know that, don’t ya?”

“I was. I, uh. Um.” The words got caught in Scootaloo’s throat, held back by the smoke. She took a deep breath, but it only pushed forward more hacking coughs. “Uh… I was just... uh, wondering if you ha—" She wheezed and wiped her watery eyes. Clearing her throat, she attempted to finish her question. Do you have rooms?” The barkeep raised an eyebrow. “Like, to spend the night in, I mean?” Scootaloo finished.

“Normally don’t deal with y’all young folk ‘round here,” he said, eyes drifting to the game tables. Well, one eye. His other stayed in place, its emotionless pupil focused on nothing. “But lookin’ at ya… well, if ya got the bit, I might be of service. Ya got the bit, right?”

“How much?” she asked.

“Depends how much ya got.”

Scootaloo reached into her saddlebags and pulled out her pouch. She counted her bits several times before looking up, the smokey tendrils wrapping around her throat. “Um… Five b-bits?”

The barkeep put out his cigarette in an ashtray and pulled out another. “Normally charge two.” He paused and lit up. “But, if we got caught housin’ y’all young folk ‘round here, we’d get shutdown faster than ya can say ‘whiskey.’ Not to mention we’re packed tighter than a magic school honor’s student ‘round here, so that’ll cost ya extra.” He stopped yet again, chuckling at a joke Scootaloo must have missed. The laughter ceased almost as soon as it had begun and his chest lurched. With lightning-fast reflexes, he pulled out a handkerchief and put it to his mouth right as a series of harsh coughs burst forth. The fit lasted for nearly a minute, and Scootaloo began to wonder if she should call for help. The donkey noticed this and lifted a hoof. A few more rounds of coughing fired off before he lowered the handkerchief and wiped off his lips. He grimaced as he looked into the rag. Grunting, he tossed it underneath the sink and began to talk again. “Sorry ‘bout that. What were we talkin’ ‘bout?”

“A room for the night.”

“Ah, yes... as I was saying.” He took a drag from the miraculously still lit cigarette and blew out a near-perfect ring of smoke. It drifted directly into Terry’s face. Terry glowered and extended both his middle talon and feather. The donkey laughed. “Anyway. Normally, I’d charge ten or fifteen bits for a filly like you—fines for housin’ y’all minors are insane—but I’m in a good mood tonight, and ya look like you’ve gone five rounds with Tartaurs itself, so I’m gonna let ya off with three. Deal?” He motioned to his nose. “Ya want that looked at by the by? Been a while, but I can still clean that up and set it.

“I’m fine. Yeah, sure, whatever, three bits.” Scootaloo didn’t want to look at him. Something about him rubbed her the wrong way. She tossed five bits on the counter. The ants were on them before they stopped bouncing. “I’m beat,” she continued, stretching and yawning for emphasis. “Where’s my room?”

The donkey bent down and rummaged around underneath the bar. “Room Seventeen’s where you’ll be. I’m Sal, by the by. I’ll take ya to it.”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “I don’t need an escort.”

The donkey looked up, a dead serious expression on his face. “Oh, ya do, darling. Believe me, ya do.”

Scootaloo sighed. It was clear she wasn’t going to win this argument. The donkey looked over at Terry. “Hey, hold the fort for a few, will ya? And don’t drink my stock either.”

The griffon merely gave him another feather. “Up yours, Sal.”

Sal chuckled. “Never change, Terry. Never change.” Terry gave him a look of utter contempt, to which Sal responded with another gravely chuckle. Gunting as he grinned, he turned back to Scootaloo. “Ya really do look like crap, darlin'. What'd ya do, get into a deathmatch with a grizzly bear?”

Scootaloo shrugged and hopped down from the chair, legs nearly buckling once again, as Sal walked out from behind the bar. With his hooves on the ground, Scootaloo was surprised at how short he way; her head neared his chin. As they walked past the bar, towards a narrow staircase, Scootaloo noticed three steps leading to a raised platform. Probably to make him feel tall. Scootaloo thought, trying and failing to hold back a snort. The donkey either didn’t hear her or minded not. “What brings ya out here, anyway?”

Scootaloo straightened up. How long had he been talking? “Huh?”

Sal stopped and pointed at Scootaloo’s chest for a single second before turning and continuing forward. “Them goggles. They got the Ponyville flag on ‘em. That’s not exactly nearby.”

“Wha?” Scootaloo nearly tripped over her forehooves. “How do you know what Ponyville’s flag is? Are you from there?”

He gave a hearty laugh. “No, no. Oh, Celestia, no. Farthest east I've ever been is Hogwater.” Scootaloo raised an eyebrow. “That’s a farm a few clicks down the trail that runs through town. Not far from here, in other words. Jed, the stallion who owns that place is a mighty kooky ol’ pony. Best horseshoe player I ever met, though. I remember... oh, it musta been ten years ago. Me and ol’ Jed were playin’ horseshoes, and decided to make this bet, his chickenhouse or my outhouse, right? And I... I’m gettin’ off topic aren’t I? What were we talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Uh, Ponyville.”

“Ah, yes, of course! Ponyville." He shuddered slightly. "Yeah, I have a cousin who lives there. Name’s Matilda. Ya know her?”

Scootaloo shrugged. “I’ve heard that name before. Might have even seen her a time or two, but... no, I wouldn’t say I know her.”

“Thank the father.” He paused, shaking his head. “Nah, that’s not fair. Good girl, that Matilda,” he sighed. “Just don’t know why she decided to waste away in Ponyville. Not that Ponyville's all bad, just... boring and… never mind. Different story for a different time.”

“I’m looking for somepony,” Scootaloo said absentmindedly.

“What a coincidence, your roomies are too.”

“Roomies?”

“Yeah. Don’t ya remember nothin’, featherbrain?” Sal said with a throaty guffaw. “We’re packed to the ceilin’ here. Only got three rooms, so you’re just gonna have to share a room. Luckily there’s two other fillies here to bunk with so ya don’t have to deal with Gertrud.” He shivered.

Scootaloo stopped, hooves nearly falling over one another. “Three rooms? But you said my room was number seventeen.”

“It is. I don’t believe in number order and all that junk. Just give ‘em the number I want, and who doesn’t love seventeen?” He slid to a stop before Scootaloo could answer. “Ah! Here we are.” The door was as worn as Scootaloo expected. The number “seventeen” lazily hung near the top, written down in ink on scotch tape.

“If ya need anything just holler,’ Sal said, already near the end of the hall. “Would love to stay and chat, but Terry’s probably already tryin’ to start a fight.” And with that, he disappeared around the corner, leaving Scootaloo to stare at the door.

Alright, Scootaloo, take a guess. What’s behind door number seventeen. Ghosts? Gallons of blood? That... thing from earlier? Or is it something worse? ‘Cause you just know it’s gonna be something worse. How could it not?

She took a deep breath and placed the key in the lock, and that was as far as she got. The door creaked open, nearly smacking her tender nose. Eyes locked and jaws fell agape. Silence filled the air, threatening to smother the two petrified ponies. Scootaloo was the first to speak, her words nigh incomprehensible under a deluge of squeaking gasps.

“Apple Bloom?!”
> Chapter Seven
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Seven


Scootaloo held her hooves to her face, letting the water trickle down her forehead and onto her burning nose. At some point in the past hour, it had sprung another leak—though the crimson flow was now more of a dribble around darkened clots. She listened to the water drip into the worn bucket, the sound echoing around the outhouse as if it were a cave. In spite of the smell—which was, admittedly, dulled by that ever-present copper scent filling her nose—there was something calming about the small shack around back of Sal's inn. Maybe it was the sound of the water, or the sense of isolation, or the simple fact that Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle couldn't pester her here.

Yeah, probably that last one.

Still, her friends were never far from her thoughts. She dried her face off on an oak leaf as she repeated the same question she had been asking herself for the past half-hour. How did they know I'd be here? Sure, she had told them... well, pretty much everything, but she hadn’t told them where she would be staying. She didn’t even know where she was staying; she’d literally floated up on its shore.

She had already asked Apple Bloom how they had known where she would be but hadn’t received a straight answer. Mostly, she just yelled 'What they hay were you thinkin'?' over and over and over again. Sweetie Belle hadn’t been much help either, wavering between hugs and happiness, and slaps and scolding.

Slapped me right in the schnoz, too. Scootaloo tenderly rubbed her nose, wincing at the memory. That could explain the bleeding. She groaned, tossed the leaf on the floor, and headed back to the tavern. No amount of solace could mask the outhouse’s rancid stench.

The tavern had closed up not long after Sal had shown Scootaloo to her room. Even from outside, she could hear the drunken protests as Sal had to literally kick pony after intoxicated pony out onto the street. Scootaloo tried her best to ignore the slurred calls of a unicorn who had stumbled around the corner and into a pile of trash bags. Veering around a patch of shattered glass, she opened the inn’s side entrance, kicking a bag of flour she had been using to prop the door open. The door slammed shut.

She snuck through a barren kitchen—though it was more of a pantry than a kitchen—and into the equally empty main room of the inn. The lanterns had been extinguished, but a few lit candles had been placed on the bar—probably for late-night-bathroom-breakers like herself. While the little light made walking straight into a pillar impossible, it didn’t make walking to her room any easier. Half-empty bottles, peanut shells, and broken pool cues littered the floor. Every lowering of her hoof tightened her chest. To her, it wasn’t a question of if she was going to step on something painful and/or gross, but a question of when. Her hoof landed in something sticky and she halted. She shuddered and, without looking at the gunk, wiped it off on a tablecloth—a surprising feature for such a bare-bones joint.

When was the last time they cleaned this place? None of the answers floating through her head calmed her stomach.

Aside from a mouse scurrying behind a planter that held a withered shrub when she crested the steps, the rest of the walk back to her room proved uneventful. The second-story halls were long, narrow, and dull. Scootaloo wished for pictures lining the walls—flowers, waterfalls, or portraits with moving eyes; she wasn’t going to be picky—or trophies of some sort or even some loud drunk, stumbling down the corridor and making a ruckus. That would at least distract her mind from her room, her two friends within it, and the inevitable barrage of questions, pleas and other forms of verbal assault.

As she neared her room, bits of a hushed conversation reached her ear. Though a garbled mess, the up-front tone in Apple Bloom’s voice, combined with defensive and weary tone of Sweetie Belle’s, told Scootaloo that the two were locked in yet another debate. She tried to sneak up to the door so she could hear the conversation better, but her hoof fell on a squeaky board. Apple Bloom turned, her face fully visible in the crack between the door and doorframe and glowered. Rolling her eyes, Scootaloo sighed and entered.

“Hiya, Scootaloo,” Sweetie Belle said, none of her usual pep lost despite the hour of night. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah,” Scootaloo responded. “Nose is still a bit sore, but I think I’ll survive. No thanks to you.” She half-smiled as she trotted over to a small couch against the back wall and collapsed upon it. “Kidding, by the way. You’re cool.” The room had one single-bed, which Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle had already claimed—a tight fit, but they managed. Scootaloo had to resort to yet another rat-chewed resting place. Still, it felt safer than the previous night’s shelter. She turned over, facing away from her friends, counting sheep, desperately trying to fall asleep.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

“So, you gonna talk to us or just keep on ignorin’ us?” Apple Bloom’s accented voice was like cat claws on a chalkboard.

“I’m not ignoring you,” Scootaloo said, curling her forelegs a little tighter around her gut. The bedroom was very nippy, much like Apple Bloom’s attitude. 

“Then why aren’t ya tal—”

“Because I’m tired, okay? I literally took a tree branch to the face, so cut me some slack.” Scootaloo sighed, burying her face in the couch arm. “Look, I’ll talk in the morning. Tell you anything you want. But, please, for the love of Celestia, let me go to sleep.”

“Fine.”

She could feel Apple Bloom’s glare boring into her back. The heavy weight of anger did not make for a good blanket.

Scootaloo’s eyes shot open. A blanket! That’s what I need. She still had one in her saddlebags but considering the number of bugs that had no doubt burrowed into it by now, not to mention the ungodly stench, she chose against using it a second straight night. She rolled over, risking eye contact with Apple Bloom.

“Hey! Any of you got an extra blanket? I’m freezing.” Scootaloo made sure her voice shook slightly. As if on cue, a breeze blew through the room, causing Sweetie Belle to shiver and wrap herself up tighter in the covers. Apple Bloom remained still, though a wince deceived her. 

“Yeah,” Apple Bloom answered through chattering teeth, nodding over her withers. “There's a spare in the closet.” 

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow. “We’ve got a closet? No bathroom, but we’ve got a closet.”

Apple Bloom shrugged underneath her blanket. “Yeah.”

Scootaloo stared at the door for a few moments, unsure exactly why, before standing and crossing to it. The door was already cracked. She nudged it open. It was a small closet—no wider than a book and not much taller. Scootaloo noticed that two saddlebags lay on the floor. Guess they weren’t expecting to find me so soon. How did they find me anyway?

The blanket rested on the top shelf. Scootaloo pulled it down, sending several years’ worth of dust into the air in the form of a thick cloud. It poured into the room, inciting coughing fits from each of the fillies. Scootaloo attempted to gag out an apology as she walked back to the couch, head lowered and eyes watering. All that came out were more hacking coughs. 

Flopping back down on the couch, Scootaloo curled into a ball, wrapping the blanket snug around her. The chill still stung, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. It would fade with time. For a second, she felt like she was floating through the skies, but it quickly ceased as the fingers of slumber curled around her and squeezed tight.


* * *


Ashen snow covered the graveyard of splintered trunks. Scootaloo tripped over the burnt-black bones as she made her way towards wherever.

“Where am I going?” she asked aloud. The words echoed through the trees. “Where am I going?” Scootaloo didn’t know if she had called again, or if it was simply the same call reverberating in her mind. She wasn’t even sure where she was, but that didn’t faze her for some reason. Neither did the stricken world around her. She simply kept moving, tripping over burnt-black limbs and ghost-white rocks and bone after bone after bone.

And all the while it was peaceful. It left a bad taste in her mouth and a chasm in her gut, yet she didn’t feel bad.

She inhaled deeply. Her lungs felt no fuller.

A shadow crept into her peripheral vision. She tried her best to ignore it. If she ignored it, it wouldn’t attack. Creatures in her dreams thrived off attention. They would only pounce if she looked in their direction—would only sink their fangs into her if her eyes shone with pure terror when they made contact. No, she wasn’t going to look. That was an invitation.

“Hmm... I’m dreaming,” she announced to open air. The revelation failed to spark anything. Not even desire to wake. This world was horrific, yes, but at least that was all it was. It was predictable. Here, she didn’t have to worry about somebody lifting her spirits only to stab her in the back. Here, the desolation was static. It was almost nice.

The shadow still lingered in the corner of her eye. She wondered what would happen if she stared it down—dared it to move first. She had only looked at it two times before, and both of those times had been an accident. And both of those times, the creature had lunged at her, had bitten her with the ferocity of a ravenous hound, but it had let up. It had never finished the job.

An old saying came to mind. “If you die in your dreams, you die in real life.” She wondered how true that statement was.

She turned her head and stared directly at the... thing.

It hung from a tree, its smoky tentacle wrapped around the lone branch. At the tentacle’s base were those eyes. Those yellow, spine-chilling eyes wide and emotionless. Two perfectly symmetrical orbs. The rest of its body—if it could be called a body—stretched out like normal: hundreds of finger-like tentacles jutting out for miles; slender torso, fading into wisps near the bottom. Yes, for the most part it was just like it always was.

For the most part.

At first, she thought it was just an optical illusion, but even after blinking a hundred times, they remained. Two, smaller yellow eyes, right where the creature’s stomach would be.

Scootaloo gasped. “No,” she whispered. “No.”

And then the sound poured forth. The sound of crying.

Scootaloo turned away.

And came face-to-face with a ferocious beast.

A roar pierced the air, drowning out her cries.


* * *


Scootaloo awoke to monsters, seizing her in a tight grip and holding her down, staring at her. She thrashed and wailed and swung her forelegs aimlessly, fighting back against the weight holding her down. 

“Scootaloo! It’s all right! You’re fine. You’re fine.”

Each yell of protest tightened the grip, and she realized she was slowly suffocating. Against all odds, she calmed her breathing and held back the swings of her legs. Her vision cleared with each rapid beat of her heart as her ears popped and ached, a sudden and familiar flare of pain shooting up her nose. Had she managed to hit it again? Grunting between pants, she stopped moving and simply lay there. If the beasts wanted to get her, she’d be a free buffet. Her eyes ricocheted around the room. It was still the dead of night; she couldn’t have been asleep much more than an hour. Two hours, tops. Asleep. “Oh,” she sighed. 

Whoever was holding her didn’t slacken their grip; they squeezed tighter. “It’s okay. It was just a dream.” Scootaloo recognized the voice as belonging to Sweetie Belle, the voice cracks giving her away. When she squinted, Scootaloo could make out her curly purple locks reflecting the moonlight.

This sight calmed Scootaloo, and her breathing slowed until it was but small, shaky gasps.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Sweetie Belle whispered, leaning in closer. Her breath tickled Scootaloo’s ear. Something about her tone made Scootaloo actually believe those words. Across the room, the mattress squeaked. 

“She all right?” Apple Bloom called out. Her voice was low and weak; Scootaloo wasn’t even completely sure she had spoken until Sweetie Belle replied.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just having a bad dream.”

“Oh… she good now?”

Sweetie Belle sighed. Her grip tightened, pulling Scootaloo’s head deeper into her chest. After a long pause, she replied. “Yeah.”

“That’s good.” With that, Apple Bloom rolled over, covers rustling and springs creaking. Before long, loud snores filled the air. Sweetie Belle giggled. Scootaloo smiled a little herself.

“You okay?” Sweetie Belle asked after what must have been half an hour.

“Ye—” Scootaloo’s throat burned. The nightmare still weighed heavy, and she found her gaze darting around the room. She swallowed. “Yeah...”

“Think you can go back to sleep?”

“I... I’m not sure.”

“You want me to stay here?”

Scootaloo exhaled, long and deep. She didn’t want to keep Sweetie Belle up, but at the same time there was a feeling of safety in her grip. Comfort. After a long moment of silence, she replied: “Yeah.” She rolled over on her back, giving herself space to breathe.

She closed her eyes and began to count heartbeats. She reached four hundred sixteen before she lost track. The creaks and smells of the room still drifted assaulted her mind. Sleep, she figured, was too far away. It must have been close to dawn, anyway. While she had never been an earlier riser, she could learn.

Rising from the couch proved to be much more difficult than she originally thought. Sweetie Belle had fallen asleep with her forelegs still locked around Scootaloo’s withers, her foreleg lolled back over the armrest, mouth agape, a thin line of drool, barely visible in the dark, trailing down her chin. Though her consciousness had fled quickly and completely, her grip on Scootaloo hadn’t lessened at all, and even now the pegasus was finding it hard to breathe. She needed air. She needed to get out of that room.

With the speed of a sloth, she moved out of the embrace. Inch by inch, she lifted Sweetie Belle’s forelegs off of her withers, sliding downward with what grace she could muster in her weary state. A part of her begged to stay—bury the back of her head into Sweetie’s chest and embrace the warmth—but the embrace was only more weight on her chest, more snags for her gut to catch on. Sweetie stirred a little as Scootaloo’s head wriggled its way out of her grip. Scootaloo didn’t dare breathe until she was sure that she hadn’t woken. Maybe she had, and she’d pull Scootaloo close once more. She might even embrace it this time.

A snort and a sigh, and Sweetie drifted back off into slumber, mouth hanging agape once more.  With a heavy heart, Scootaloo used her hind legs to pull her upper body over the couch’s other armrest, landing on the creaking floorboards as quietly as possible. Apple Bloom—or at least the covers that hid her—stirred, then fell still. Taking a deep breath, Scootaloo tiphoofed across the room and out the door, nudging it closed. No voices or gasps rang out as the door clicked shut; just more muffled snores.

She had made it out without being noticed. A solid victory. Yet, as she stood in front of the door, staring deeply into the grains of wood, listening to her friends, her legs trembled as much as ever.


* * *


The world, both inside and outside the inn, was suffocatingly bleak. A chill hung in the air, unwarmed by the lightless hearth in the corner. The ruckus of the previous night no longer reverberated through the room, and the debris that cluttered the floor mere hours ago had been swept up. Now all that was left were bare floors, bare tables, and an ever-growing silence. Scootaloo took a seat at one of the tables, glancing between the window and the bar top.

It was an overcast morning. Fog still filled the streets and the windows were coated in a layer of condensation so thin that Scootaloo could wipe it away with her hoof if she chose to. Her forelegs screamed in protest the moment she considered doing so. Maybe at another time, in another place, she’d draw a smiley face in the glass to pass the time, but here and now? The only two things she wanted was to keep moving and sleep. The latter, beckoning as it was, rested far away; the former made her lips tremble.

It’ll be dangerous for them. You’d be doing them good just to leave now. Though the thought ran clear through her mind, she found herself as paralyzed as ever, moving a hoof back and forth across the bar top. She’d wait until they rose. Maybe she’d go with them back home, maybe she’d run off once more. But they’d follow. They always followed.

Sighing, she opened her saddlebags. The blanket that had taken up a good chunk of its space had been left forgotten on the floor in the corner of room seventeen, free to stink up the already fetid inn as much as it pleased. That gave her room for more supplies. Glancing around the inn, she found no pony and plenty of goods. Behind the bar she could see multiple fruits and vegetables; the cabinets might have held bread; and then there was the kitchen, a trove of potential treasures locked away in the dusty pantries. Her ears flicked back and forth. Not a cough or shuffle to be heard. All she had to do was stand up, stuff her saddlebags, and march on toward Vanhoover. Someway, somehow.

But she wouldn’t. Running was her go-to move in most cases, but in this case, it wasn’t the coward’s way out. Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle would find her down here. Groaning, Scootaloo rubbed her temples. She was thinking in circles. There had to be something she could do. Something that made sense.

Absentmindedly, she pulled Daring Do out of the bags and set it on the table. For a moment, she sneered down at its cover. Going straight for the book. Was this the first symptom of ‘eggheadedness?’ Stars, she hoped not. The cool fibers of her demanded she toss it back in her bag. But there might be answers, she countered. For the moment, she was in control. She flipped the book open and tossed her Wonderbolts bookmark aside.


– – –




The quill tickled Daring’s nose as she tapped her chin. She eyed the book sitting alone on her desk before scribbling a note: ‘This is going to sound weird, but I’m going to send you a page. Tell me if it’s hard to see. ` The note, as well as an already-removed page from the red-jacketed tome, fell into the ashes simultaneously, a green streak of flame shooting up from the bowl. Daring only needed to wait a good ten seconds before the flames sparked up once more, a torn sheet of parchment floating down into her waiting wings.

‘I see a bunch of symbols, Dr. Do,’’ thee paper read. ‘Is that what I’m supposed to see? Definitely can’t make out any words.’

Daring smirked, running through responses in her head, ranging from long-winded to poetic to simple. The final option seemed the most appropriate. ‘Yeah. I was just curious.’ Setting that note ablaze as well, she leaned back in her folding chair, crossing her forelegs, rolling her eyes at the smoke drifting up from the tray. As she had expected, Pallah had just used the dragonfire ‘glare’ as an excuse to meet up with her. Figured. She made a mental note to not tell him when she was moving back to her father’s manor. That’d spare her a few days peace.

A shame he was actually good at his trade.

Frowning, Daring stared at the tray on the desk. Everything else was packed up. Come morning, she would be out of her university office, probably for good. Sleep beckoned her, yet she kept her eyes wide. The time difference between her and Cay had been messing with her sleep schedule, but… she’d take it. Those conversations were worth it.

And this was one she did not want to end. Daring sighed and scribbled out ‘Cay, you still there?’ As the embers faded, Daring found herself counting the seconds, holding her breath. Her wings trembled. At last, the flames shot forth.

‘I’m here, Dr. Do! I’m here! Just ran to the kitchen to grab something to eat.’

‘What are you eating?’ A few days ago, Daring would have slapped herself for asking such a simple question in such dire times. Especially, with the liquid dragonfire in the vial barely able to cover the bottom. Each letter was wasted bits, precious, yet now she leaned forward, forelegs crossed on the table, chin resting snuggly in the crook of the limbs. The crickets droned.

Fire flashed. ‘Just some noodles. Keeps me focused.’ 

The quill hesitated. Should she ask the question or not? Her gut said yes. ‘Shrimp or no?’ There were so many questions flowing through Daring’s mind about Cay’s ‘diet.’ When she had first mentioned that she was eating meat, Daring nearly vomited and moved on to the next candidate. But she had kept writing. Daring was thankful for that every moment.

As the plate remained dark, Daring pondered if she’d crossed a line. Then the spark came. ‘Not tonight. Makes me drowsy. So, I’ve been looking over some of those other pages you sent over…’ In the days since they had started communicating, the book rarely came up. When it did, Cay was the first to awaken the subject. While her expertise didn’t provide results as quickly as Pallah’s, at least she was a good talk. A good pony. Another flash of green and a scroll fell into Daring’s wings. Opening it, she found a series of photographs, sketches, and a scrawled note.

‘I’ve been looking through the sites around Flankorage, Dr. Do. Going off some of those things you said, I figure whatever you’re looking for is somewhere up north. Lots of griffon dig sites. I don’t see similar writing or architecture but… maybe you’ll see something I can’t.’

The pictures, as Daring expected, looked like a whole bunch of nothing. Interesting vases, similar enough symbols, but nothing concrete. Of course, they were nothing concrete; as much time as she’d put into finding the blasted Phoenix Pool, she still had no idea just what the thing was. She had a few images and symbols, and that was that. She buried her face in her forelegs. How she wished she hadn’t drunk all the whisky so quickly.

Dad, please. I could use another visit. A sign. Something! 

The flames burst. A strip of paper fell on her nose. Blowing it off and letting in settle in her hooves, she found her wings hesitant. Was it him? Had her prayer been answered? She unfolded the paper, and…

‘Are those pictures good, Dr. Do? I can send some more if you need em.’ 

Daring sighed but smiled with a scoff. Of course, it wasn’t a sign from him. He was dead. He was gone. Sitting around beating her head about something she had such little knowledge of would only give her concussions. She kicked a box underneath the desk. It had already cost her enough. She twirled the quill in her feathers.

‘How about you send over a picture of yourself. I like putting faces to ponies I like.’

The next note came the moment the flames faded. ‘Oh no no no. Trust me, Dr. Do, I’m not a mare worth a face.’ 

‘No need to be shy amongst friends, Professor Cay.’

‘Sorry, Dr. Do, I meant no disrespect. I just prefer working behind the scenes, you know?’

Daring groaned. Humble: no better word described the young—or at least Daring assumed she was young, given her way of writing—researcher. While not a bad trait to carry, especially in this line of research, Daring found a part of her admitting that she wished she had Pallah’s instincts. Head on down to Canterlot, show her face, get to work. Research worked better in proximity, after all—



A crash rang out from the kitchen. An all too familiar clatter of pots, pans, and spilling water, all harmonized by a rush of four-letter words stormed the room. Scootaloo jumped, forelegs shooting outward and knocking the book off the bar with a clatter of its own. She hit the floor, legs tensed and teeth bared. She’d be ready for the beast this time.

Seconds ticked by like eternities, but there were no wails of torment or roars of Tartarus, just a steady stream of muttered curses. Her ears flicked. The voice was raspy and aged. A series of coughs rang out, followed by more clattering pans. It was only Sal. Scootaloo slackened, though she kept her eyes locked on the kitchen door. 

The donkey entered the room tail first, dragging a large stew pot with his teeth. He caught her eye as the pot caught on the edge of the doorframe, the sight of the filly seeming to mute another string of curses. “Well, look who’s up,” he said, coughing and leaning on the pot. “Trouble sleepin’?”

Scootaloo climbed back onto the stool and shrugged, leaning on the counter. “Guess you could say that.” She shivered. Not enough to shake her chair, but enough for Sal to notice.

“Sorry ‘bout the heat. Or lack of it,” he muttered as he gave the cold hearth a kick, sending a cloud of ashes skyward. After a few seconds of stirring he dropped the spoon, looked up, and continued. “Damn chimney got knocked over in a storm last month. If I try to light a fire… phwomp!” He raised his forelegs in the air. “Whole place fills with smoke.” He paused, then added: “More smoke than usual. Only time I lit that thing since then—I think it was a week or two ago—the place filled up like a dragon’s den.” Laughing, Sal took the pot handle in his teeth and managed to push it up on the bar top.

A hint of light reflected off the pot, causing Scootaloo to flinch. Dawn was breaking, but with the cloud cover as thick as it was the sun’s rays didn’t make much difference—the glare vanished as soon as it had appeared. Sighing, Scootaloo looked out the window. It was still absolutely dreary, seemingly always a second away from pouring rain. Scootaloo both welcomed and abhorred it. It was a fitting atmosphere, but the worst kind of fitting. The kind that weighed down on her head, pushing her chin against the bar top as her wings slumped. 

“What the maker?”

Ears perking, she shifted her gaze away from the window. Sal was nowhere to be seen, save for a tail flicking over the counter. He groaned as he pulled Daring Do up from the floor and tossed it on the counter. The book had fallen open on the floor, and Scootaloo’s bookmark was nowhere to be seen. Before she could speak up, the aged donkey pushed the book closed.

“Hey!” Scootaloo slammed a hoof down on the table. “You lost my page!” 

Sal snorted. “Trust me, darlin’, ya ain’t missing much’a nothing.” His hoof hovered over the cover, close but each time it drifted closer, he pulled it back as though the tome was sending off electric sparks. “Surprised they still let this ol’ junk lay around. The series really—”

“—’went downhill after this?’” Scootaloo repeated, rolling her eyes as she pulled the book back over to her. Sal jerked back, his eyes widening for a split second. A flicker of fear. It was enough to send Scootaloo’s wings fluttering, but she swallowed it away. Just tricks of the light. Just a jumpy old donkey who needed to mind his own business. “Yeah, my dad said that already.”

“Then your father’s a smart stallion.” Sal moved reached under the counter, eyes never leaving the filly and book before her, and pulled out a large sack. He dumped its contents into the bowl before moving—grunting with each step—over to the fruits. As he cut into a banana, he cleared his throat and spoke again. “Half a brain. Still let a filly like you read a book like that.”

Fire raging up her throat, Scootaloo slammed her forehooves on the counter. “Hey! Don’t talk about Dad like that! He’s definitely a million billion times smarter than you!” She jumped down from the stool, stomping around the bar and scanning the sticky floor for her bookmark. The bar had seemed like a good place to get away from it all, but no, there appeared to be no means of avoiding jerks today. 

The edge of the bookmark peeked out from beneath the counter. A hoof stopped her as she reached for it. Sal stared at her, stone-faced and hunched over. “Meant nothing by it, darlin’.” His voice was more weathered than earlier, the fire and smoke having faded away, leaving only an ashen grunt. “But you got a look in your eye. Book like this ain’t good for ya.”

Scootaloo jerked away. “Meaning?”

Sal turned back to the counter, scooped up the fruits, and tossed them in the pot. “Meanin’ ya have plenty of time to think this over.” He took a spoon in his teeth and began to stir the batch of oats and fruit. Somehow his voice remained clear when he spoke again. “Go back home with those friends of yours, darlin’. It’s better—”

The book nearly crashed to the floor once again as Scootaloo threw her forelegs skyward. “Woah! Woah!” she shouted. Then, in a much softer voice continued, “Dude, I don’t know either of those—”

The spoon clattered on the counter. “Don’t give me that manure,’” Sal said with a wave of his hoof. “That yella one with the bow was goin’ on and on ‘bout a pegasus with an orange coat, purple mane, and bad attitude. And darlin’, you fit all those to a tee. And then some.”

“Bad attitude? You’re the one who called my dad a frickin…” Scootaloo cut off her mutters and chewed on her lip, staring at her hooves. Darn. He had her there. Without another word of protest, she scooped up the bookmark and clambered up onto the stool. Rotating her neck in an attempt to crack away the curses flowing through her, she opened the book. Several of the pages had bent in its tumble; others now bore stains of dust, grime, and discolored splotches she didn’t even want to think about. Twilight was going to kill her. She stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she searched for the right page.

‘Daring Do took a glass of champagne…’ No, not far enough.

‘Cay’s eyes widened as the arrows—’ Woah, no, too far. Way too far. She shook her head and straightened out what bent pages she could find, running her hoof along their creases. It wasn’t enough. Ears flicking, she glanced around the bar top. A bag of flour rested nearby—just about the size of the book itself. Perfect. Without asking permission, she scooped up the bag, checked for any openings, slammed the book closed, and placed the bag atop it. She expected to hear a groan from Sal, or look up to find him glaring at her, or even just watch her book fly off the counter as he tossed it away. Instead, she caught the sound of chuckles. Low and faint—more coughs than anything—but the upward twitches of his stubbled lips said enough. 

He shook his head, eyes shut tight, brow folded. As he laughed, the sound wavered, and his brows curled upwards. The air was free of smoke, yet Scootaloo’s lungs twisted into themselves once more. She glanced over her withers, expecting the shadowy corners to spring to life. They did feel off, but as the starting dragged from seconds to minutes, the darkened cabinets failed to take on any equine form. They were there, though. They were always there.

Something hit her hooves. She whipped her head around, eyes darting to a blurry circle in her hooves. It was warm. Swallowing and calming her flapping wings, her vision focused. A cup rested between her front hooves, jet black, steam dancing through the air. It held no smell, not even after she wiped her nose and gave it a few extra sniffs. She raised an eyebrow. “The hay’s this gunk?”

Sal smiled, gaps standing out at the corner of his mouth. “That ‘gunk’, miss, is an old recipe my grandma taught me when I was just a little tyke. Passed on for… who knows how many generations. It ain’t much, just a bunch of leaves and berries from the forest. Well, and a few other things.”

Scootaloo lowered the cup from her lips, throat burning. “Other things?” The urge to empty the cup upon the counter flowed to her hooves. Sal reached out and straightened the cup before a drop could spill.

“Just little bits of rock. Trust me, they do ‘lot more good than harm, darlin’.” Sal leaned forward on the counter, eyes still set on the book. “It’ll heat ya up. Like a cup of coffee or tea, but without the brewing or risk of burning your tongue off.” He paused and took a sip. “Go ahead, try some.”

With an uneasy smile she lifted the mug. Its lip was cold and rough despite the steam. Its contents weren’t much better. The liquid didn’t seem to have a flavor, and it ran down her tongue like a cascade of melting ice. The only word Scootaloo could think of to describe it was: ‘wet.’ Her face contorted as she swallowed the drink. She couldn’t feel any of the rocks bouncing down her throat, so at least that was good. All in all, it didn’t seem to do much of anything. Her mouth felt a little wetter, but that was that. She waited and waited and waited some more. Creeping up from the depths, there was... something. Her hooves felt a bit lighter, her coat felt a bit softer, her body felt warmer, and her mind felt calmer.

“Not bad stuff, huh?” Sal smiled, staring out the window as she held the cup aloft and let out a breath. Not bad at all. Not amazing, yet she found herself taking another sip. Then another. Her hooves, wings, mind: they all felt more alive somehow. She sniffed the cup, stuck an eye up to its opening as though squinting would reveal its secrets. There really was something magical about it. “Yeah. Not bad,” she said, clearing her throat.

Silence permeated the tavern as Scootaloo sipped on. Sal seemed to have retreated into the shadows themselves, leaning back against the counter, staring at her. Or through her—that’s certainly what it felt like. In the gray morning light, he almost looked like a different creature entirely.  “So, you actually think you’re gonna do it, huh, darlin’?” The glasses rattled ever so slightly—deafening in the empty bar. “Think you’re gonna bring back the dead?”

The stool toppled backwards as Scootaloo shot into the air, wings fluttering, the cup spilling over onto the counter. She landed on spread hooves, eyes wide and locked onto Sal’s calm and aged ones. The sound of liquid dripping off the counter and onto the floor were hammer blows along her spine. She cleared her throat, chuckled, ran a hoof through her mane. Cool, Scootaloo. Play it cool. “Dude, I don’t know where you got that crazy idea from, but—”

Sal cut her off with a wave of his hoof. The dripping ceased, and the only sound left was the thundering of Scootaloo’s own heart. “I wasn’t born yesterday, darlin’.” He smiled and chuckled, but the laugh carried no mirth. It was more of a flat cough. “You wouldn’t be the first one. You won’t be the last.” He lifted his cup in his hoof, settling it near his mouth but not taking a drink. The smoke seemed to be drawn to him. “Rainbow Dash. That’s her name, ya?”

Scootaloo’s hooves trembled. The air in the tavern had somehow grown colder. She took a step back. “Yeah,” she stuttered. “That's her. That’s her name."

Sal nodded. Scootaloo caught sight of movement in the corner of her eye. Turning, she found only the same shadows of cabinets and coats as she had before. She blinked. Had there been coats there before? The donkey cleared his throat, reeling in her attention. “Seen that name many times. Hero of Equestria: bringer of the sun, performer of the Sonic Rainboom—in a daring rescue of a fellow hero, nonetheless.” The cabinet creaked beneath his elbow as he leaned against it, bottles shaking as he let out a breath—possibly a chuckle. One of the newspapers on the counter fluttered in an unfelt breeze. “As you can tell, I’m a bit of a news junkie, and her name is quite prominent.” His ears fell flat. “Lately, especially. Leaders in ruins, harmony lost, a friend of the people lost. A tragedy in every sense of the word. I’m sorry, darlin’.”

As her heart cracked and lungs twisted, Scootaloo rose a hoof and tried to hide the trembles behind a wave. “It’s alright. Barely knew her.”

Sal leaned forward, at last coming into the light. Yellow. His eyes now shone yellow. Scootaloo hadn’t paid them much mind, but… hadn’t they been brown? Probably just the lighting. “You’re a terrible liar, kid. Not the worst I’ve met, and not the worst asset to carry on this path, but a truth nonetheless.” Something pressed against Scootaloo’s forelegs. Sal gave them a pat. “I am sorry. Ain’t lyin’ there.’” He tapped the counter. “Also, ain’t lyin’ when I say you gotta think this through.”

Scootaloo leaned back, still shaking. “You said that already.”

“‘Cause it bears repeating.” He tapped the book cover. “This ‘Phoenix Pool’—” A rushing gasp of a cough cut him off. Raising a hoof to his mouth, he touched his lips, pulled his hoof back, and sighed. His chest rumbled with muted coughs as he spoke again. “Kid, that kinda magic ain’t somethin’ you want any part of.”

Scootaloo’s ears perked up. “Wait. You... you know about the Phoenix Pool?” she asked, a tremor of both excitement and hesitation creeping into her voice. She rose to her hooves, righted the stool, and scurried up.

Sal kept his head bowed for a long time. “Don’t call it by that name. That’s an Equestrian thing. Out where I was born they called it Lak, for example. Names is names, though. Reason why creatures even know it, why they crave it, is its promise.  Danger, consequences. When you’re that brokenhearted, you’ll take anything.” He sighed and tapped his hoof on the table in a steady beat. “Ponies of all walks of life tryin’ to fix the unfixable. Shadows, how much blood has graced this cover?”

The air grew thick, seeming to sway around Scootaloo as she leaned against the countertop, hooves digging in to keep balance. “So, you know it” she asked. Waited. Sal frowned and nodded. Her throat clenched. “Is it... well, you know...”

“If it’s real?” Sal said, his voice a low rumble. He furrowed his brow and looked to the ceiling. “Can’t say. Heard about it enough, though. Questions, pleas, threats. Everybody spins tales about it, everybody seems to want to go chasin’ it, but the truth is I can’t say, kid’. From Canterlot to The Fang itself. Everybody’s got stories. Open this door, spill this blood, smash this log, toss in this rock, and so on and so forth. Story after story. Maybe there’s some truth. Maybe stories are all there is.”

Scootaloo frowned. “Alright…” The conversation had looped, and her eyelids had grown heavy. Sleep beckoned, yet every moment the weight seemed to press her eyes shut, a shadow twitched, pushing the weight away. Her gaze rested on the corners, the windows, more often than Sal. 

“Of course, you can never be too sure.” Sal continued, “Everyone said the Nightmare Moon thing was just a story. An old mare’s tale drawn out of fantasy and lies. I believed it was just a story, too. I’ve seen some crazy stuff in my days—bad, good, and everything in between—but I think it’s only logical for us to doubt. Dark spirits behind the moon? Sounds like a bunch of hogwash, y’know?”

He sat back, his eyes locked on the door. “One night there was this stallion that stumbled into the inn, mane frazzled, coat matted, eyes wider than dinner plates. He was goin’ on and on about how ‘The Nightmare has risen!’ Now, I—most of the bar—just thought this old fool was... well, an old this stuff that sounded crazy. ‘The sun’s dead,’ he’d said. ‘The day has passed. Night reigns. T fool. Good for target practice and jeers. Go to any city and you’ve heard these kinds of apocalyptic ramblings more often than you’ve heard the wind. The end’s been nigh for generations, yet here we sit. Just a load of manure. Headlines had tossed the rumor around. Poor sod’d probably stumbled across one of ‘em conspiracy headlines and been driven mad. I kicked the coot out, told him to go home, cool off, and leave them fool stories to the back of his mind. Forget about what ain’t—can’t be—true.” Sal sighed and moved one of the newspapers on the countertop, gaze in a distant location—time—as he stared at the wrinkled parchment. “Damn hypocrite, I am.”

Scootaloo cocked an eyebrow. Sal continued on before she could speak up.

“‘Course when the mornin’ came... it wasn’t mornin’. See that clock over there?” Sal pointed over to the bar. Above a pyramid of vodka bottles was a large clock, both hands hovering over the 'VI.' The clock seemed like it should be in a mansion in Canterlot, not a tavern in a small village unworthy of a mark on a map. “A merchant friend gave me that many moons ago. Good friend. Good merchant. A bit stingy with his pricing, but his goods were always worth it. Anyway, he gave that to me after I’d escorted his wagon to a zebra village far to the south. Three month-long trip each way. That... that was quite a story. Not important right now.

“Fact is, there’s magic in that clock. Keeps it exactly on Canterlot Time. Always. And, on that day, the day that batty crone said the sun wasn’t gonna rise, the day Nightmare Moon was s’posed to drown the world in eternal night. Well, it was noon, and it was darker than the underside of a lump of coal. The old fool had been right all along. ‘Course, he was only ‘bout half right. The sun rose ‘bout four in the afternoon, but still. Right is right. The sun had, at least for a few hours, died. Then the newspaper reports started pourin’ in.” Sal lifted his hoof and dragged it through the open air, as if writing out the headlines. “‘The Nightmare Cometh!’ ‘Nightmare Moon Rises!’ You live and you learn, and kid you’ll be amazed what’s not impossible.” His hoof found the cover of Daring Do once again. Minutes passed with the ticking of the clock. The sun weaved in and out of the clouds, bathing the tavern in blinding light and suffocating dark. Wrinkles seemed to form and fade with his uneasy breaths. “Even this.”

For a few minutes, Scootaloo sat in silence, pondering what had been said. She wanted to speak up, but the words caught in her throat. When words failed, she resorted to frowning.

“But possibility is just a part of these schemes, ain’t it? Bringing’ back the dead: how often you hear of that workin’ out well?” Sal said. “Even in a filly’s fairytale books, it never ends on a happy note. Always a cost, always consequences that turn everything on its head.” Coughing, he reached over and scooped up Scootaloo’s mug. He wiped it with a rag, eyes locked on the filly. “Is it worth it, kid?”

Scootaloo nodded. “It is. It will be.”

Sal sighed and placed the steaming mug back onto the table. Dark liquid lapped against its lip. “You sure? You know this how?”

Scootaloo frowned. “Because Rainbow Dash is worth it.”

“And why is Rainbow Dash worth it?” Before Scootaloo could answer a hoof from behind stopped her, pressed against her withers. She jumped, gaze shooting to her side. Sal’s hoof rested there, comforting yet cold. She frowned, moved her wings. Yeah, she could feel it, yet… there was something else. A weight floating beneath the surface. “I gotta go outside and heat up breakfast. Ya drink up and think this through. Is she worth it?”

Pushing his hoof away, she growled, “What the hay kind of question is that?”

Sal’s gaze remained steady as he scooped the pot onto his back. “Is she worth it?” With nary a grunt or misstep, he cantered out of the tavern. Chills shot up and down Scootaloo’s spine. The mug shook in her hooves, yet not a drop fell onto the countertop. Closing her eyes, the liquid met her lips, and swept her away.


___


Flower petals bobbed in the wakes. A few clung to Scootaloo’s hoof, but she quickly brushed them away. They had little weight and could be snapped in half by a gust of wind, but at that moment they were the coarsest thing.

The pond had become her haven. Larger ponds lay around Ponyville, most of them deeper, many of them bluer, but this one was the only one that was hers. Nopony—nothing—could take it away from her. During the day, it was like a little slice of paradise. During the night, it was cold and empty. The perfect setting for another sleepless night.

She had been going to the pond for a while now—twelve straight nights, to be exact. So long as the walls threatened to crush her and the covers gripped her throat, she’d remain spending her nights among the bullfrogs and fireflies. She’d wake up, go to school, go home, and lock herself in her room. Once Mom stopped yelling and Dad started caring, she would sneak out of the house and into the heart of the Everfree. Most of her friends still feared the Everfree. That was good. More for her. What kind of pony was scared of a bunch of plants, anyway?

It was a nice place. A quiet place. No thundering, slurred diatribes aimed at ghosts. No painted-on smiles. No sympathetic pats on the shoulder from ponies she had never even seen before. It was just her and her thoughts, and tonight she had plenty of company.

Cold droplets splashed across her face as she slapped the surface once more. She’d tried to occupy her mind with anything—the syncopation of a cricket’s chirp, the number of birds still awake and active at this hour, the number of petals in the pond—but the screams always crept along in the background. Now, she was counting how many ripples a single slap of her hoof would produce. The number varied, falling between one and one hundred. Blurring together. In the moonlight, they almost formed the outline of a house. She sighed and slammed her hoof into the water, washing it all away.

Something in her said that she should just go back home, make sure everything was okay, but she ignored it. She couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t. Not yet. Maybe never.

The stars were out in full tonight, twinkling and shining and taunting.

She groaned and rested her chin on her sopping forelegs. There wasn’t much else to do—there was never anything to do—but she kept coming back. She could ask herself why she went a dozen times over, but never received an answer. It was automatic. Natural. She had her theories. There was a serenity to it, a calmness. Or maybe her hooves carried her here because it reminded her of a better time.

Or maybe it was because of who it reminded her of.

Snapping branches roused her, and she jumped to her hooves, searching for a place to hide. That could be dad. She jumped into some nearby bushes and crouched down, her shaking body rustling the leaves and giving away her position. If he finds me out here, I am soooo screwed.

The steps grew closer. Scootaloo held her breath, occasionally peeking out through a gap in the twigs. A silhouette became apparent, walking down the path in a slow but steady gait. Scootaloo noticed a pair of wings flair out and she relaxed. It wasn’t her father. However, that solace was short lived, ending with a whimper when Scootaloo noticed the pegasus’ figure. It had all the trademark curves of a mare.

Mom? Every fiber of her being fought against her wings. A flap brushing against a branch would give her away. That could end in a hug or end in death. Neither seemed good at the moment. She bit her lip and held her breath.

The figure stepped forward out of the tree line. Her body glowed in the moonlight, the beams reflecting off her mane and brightening the area to the point where Scootaloo had to shield her eyes from its multi-colored glow. As her vision cleared, the heavy weight lifted off Scootaloo’s chest ever so slightly as her throat still threatened to close.

Before her stood Rainbow Dash, as awesome as ever. Even in the middle of night—when her normally colorful mane should have been dull as a rock—she was the archetype of dashing coolness, awesomeness, and radicalness. Rainbow trotted over to the side of the pond, dipped her hooves in, and splashed some water on her face. Even from a distance Scootaloo could hear her panting, grunting. Heavy and rough. Dash must have just finished a late-night training run; she practiced all the time nowadays. Not that she needs to practice.

After splashing her face a couple of more times, sputtering between heavy breaths, Rainbow lowered herself to the ground. She lay in the moonlight, glancing at the water, then the sky, then the trees in a seemingly systematic pattern. Water, sky, trees. Water, sky, trees. Scootaloo felt the boredom coursing through her veins. Her legs grew heavy and she felt herself losing balance. Desperate to keep from falling, Scootaloo started to flutter her wings.

Instead of keeping her from falling forward, her wings propelled her forward. She crashed through the bushes, landing face-down on the chilly earth. Never before had she desired to be invisible more than at that moment, lying on her face, her wings still fluttering fecklessly against nothing. Almost as soon as she landed did the sound of raspy cackles enter her ears. Scootaloo’s wings seized up and she immediately curled up into the smallest form she could muster. A wave of heat rushed across her face.

Suddenly, she felt a hoof reach under her chest and lift her up. Even in the dark she could see Rainbow’s vibrant eyes. Energetic and beautiful.

“You alright, squirt?” she asked, some repressed chuckles sneaking out with the words. “That was a wicked landing.”

Scootaloo kept her eyes on the ground. “Yeah... yeah, I’m good.”

The chuckles stopped as Rainbow tilted her head, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing out here anyway? It’s, like, two in the morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Scootaloo muttered, shrugging her shoulders. It only made the weight press down on her back harder.

“Uh huh.” Dash looked into the woods behind Scootaloo, narrowing her eyes. Scootaloo turned around, trying to catch a glimpse of what Rainbow saw. She saw the faintest glimpse of a distant light, and soon she realized what it was. She had forgotten to turn the lights out when she had snuck out. Mom was probably beating down at that very moment.

Rainbow sighed. A hoof pressed against Scootaloo’s withers, inciting a flinch from the filly. “Can’t sleep, huh?”

Scootaloo shivered. The screams still echoed in the back of her mind. “Nope.”

A sigh. “You’re not alone in that boat, Scoots.”

“You?” Scootaloo scoffed. “Rainbow Dash—Equestria’s greatest napper—can’t sleep?”

“Heh, when you put it that way, it does sound pretty crazy...” Dash trailed off, moving over to a nearby stump. She sat down and patted the space beside her, inviting Scootaloo to join her. Scootaloo obliged.

“Anyway, what’s up?” she asked.

Scootaloo sighed. She could tell where this was going. It would start with her telling Rainbow that she was feeling down. Then, Rainbow—even though she knew exactly why Scootaloo was feeling that way—would ask what was wrong. The conversation would drift, skirting around the answer, before Scootaloo would finally break and admit to the truth that they all knew: it was her mother. It was always her damn mother. And then all the consoling and sympathy would spew forth once more. She hated that. To make matters worse, she thought that if there was anypony who would avoid such things, it was Rainbow Dash. But it looked as though even the brash and radical weren’t immune to pathetic attempts at therapy.

Instead, Scootaloo just shrugged. Maybe that would push the conversation away from where it was ultimately heading.

“Ah,” Dash said under her breath, looking off into the distance. Scootaloo averted her gaze. Her brain pounded against her eyelids. Maybe home would be better. Suddenly, something warm draped over her back. She looked up and saw Rainbow Dash’s wing, stretched out and wrapped around her. In the light of the moon and the lake, she almost looked like Mom. Invisible tendrils wrapped themselves around Scootaloo’s heart, squeezing tight, trying to push the sobs up from her gut, but she held fast. She couldn’t cry. Not in front of Rainbow Dash.

“I know it sounds crazy coming from me, but I love places like this,” Dash said. “They’re calming. Normally, I hate all this quiet and calm crap, but... heh. What can I say? It’s pretty cool.”

Her feathers flicked against Scootaloo’s side, then tightened, pushing into her fur. “First time I came here was right before the Young Fliers Competition... shoot how many years ago was it, now? Two? Don’t tell me we’re at three!” Rainbow laughed, but only silence echoed. She snorted, flicking her mane out of her eyes. “Whatever. Anywho, I was doing some late-night flying, nervous about the competition and all that. Yeah, I get nervous. Don’t tell anypony.” Scootaloo pressed her head closer to Dash’s chest. Rainbow held her closer. “I actually crashed into this place. That tree right over there.” She pointed to an oak on the other side of the pond with a noticeable dent in its trunk. “Probably concussed me a little. Everything was a blur. Like lightning strikes in my skull, y’know?”

Scootaloo didn’t. She probably never would. There was a lengthy pause before Rainbow finally continued. “Anyway, it didn’t calm my nerves. I was still a wreck the next day, but still, I always make sure I come here when I’m nervous about something. Seems to at least make me feel better.” She shrugged. “If nothing else, it’s a tradition—a good luck charm—and, hey, it ain’t let me down yet.”

Silence became the night’s song once more. Scootaloo dug her hooves into the dirt. “What are you nervous about now?” she asked

Rainbow chuckled and ran a hoof along the back of her neck. “Oh, nothing you’d like to hear about, squirt.” Flakes drifted by Scootaloo, barely in the dark. What little moonlight graced them shone blue and purple and maybe a little pink before they vanished among the shadowed dirt. “Trust me. Some things are best kept close to one’s chest” Her hoof fell on Scootaloo’s shoulder. The dimness did nothing to cool her eyes’ vibrant rose. “And some things are better to let out.”

Scootaloo sighed again. She had been doing a lot of that lately. “I guess...” She didn’t know what compelled her to speak—she would have preferred silence—but she did. “I... I guess I’m feeling a bit... not good.” Her tongue went dry as her eyes brimmed.

The wing over her back tightened.

“I just,” Scootaloo continued, voice shaking, “I miss her, you know?” She could feel her throat closing around the words, but they poured forth. “I mean, it’s frickin’ stupid. She’s here. I can touch her, talk to her, but… it’s not really her.” The tears began to fall. She feebly wiped at them a few times, hoping Rainbow didn’t see them in the dark, before just letting them cascade down her quivering cheeks. “It’s stupid. Just… a stupid filly.” Her mother’s voice echoed that final crack. She burst into sobs.

Rainbow’s wing wrapped tighter and tighter until she was completely enswathed with blue feathers. They smelled like spring rain. Even as she wept and sniffled like the fool child she was, Scootaloo couldn’t help but feel like she could fall asleep in them.

The screams faded. The only sounds were the crickets, her rasping breath, and a gentle ‘shh’ being whispered in her ear.

She could sleep like this. And so she did.


***


Scootaloo awoke to blinding sunlight and a weight against her side. At some point, Rainbow Dash had fallen asleep. Gentle snoring filled the morning air, drowning out the songs of the waking birds.

Every fiber of her being told her not to move. She didn’t want to rouse Rainbow Dash. The moment was perfect. She sighed. For once it was a good sigh.

But nothing lasts forever.

Rainbow stirred, wings loosening and eyes fluttering open as she let out a heavy snort. “No, Pinkie. Not the sprinkles,” she mumbled, drawing a tiny giggle from Scootaloo.

This sudden movement caused Rainbow to shoot up into the air, knocking Scootaloo flat on her back. A few dozen meters into the air, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. From her position, Scootaloo got a perfect view of Dash’s sheepish grin as she lowered herself back to the ground. “Heh, heh. Sorry, squirt,” she said. “Thought you were... eh, it’s not important.”

Scootaloo rose back onto her hooves, shaking out the cricks in her joints. Her breath tasted of morning and her eyes were bloodshot, yet how long had it been since she’d slept this well? Months at least. “It’s cool.” She ran a hoof over her mane and looked in the direction of her house. The screams came back, but only faintly. Hopefully they’d stay that way. Her wings fluttered. “I guess I'd better get back.”

“Yeah, guess so.” Rainbow glanced at the sky. “I’ve got some clouds to clear, anyway. You need a lift?”

Scootaloo stretched out her legs. “Nah, I should be good.”

Rainbow’s wings flared to her side as she lowered herself into a crouch. “Cool. Sorry to dash off, but Mayor Mare’ll have my hide if I don’t get the farmlands cleared by noon.” With that, she rocketed off into the sky, sending Scootaloo spinning. 

Digging her hooves into the ground, Scootaloo ground to a halt, nearly falling flat on her face. The world spun and swayed around her, but she managed to steady her tongue just long enough to yell out, “Hey, Rainbow Dash!” She raised a hoof and stumbled. “Wait!” 

Dash lowered herself to the ground once more, hooves on her hips and a peeved look on her face. “My butt’s on the line here, Scoots. What is it?”

Scootaloo’s wings twitched at her sides. “I just wanted to say… thanks. I needed to...” She pawed at the ground. “Hard to say. You know, I needed to get that off my chest, and all... I’ve really had nobody... there for me to talk to...” Scootaloo trailed off. “Like… really talk to, I guess.” She hit one foreleg with the other and ground her teeth. Stop being so awkward!

Rainbow Dash smiled and waved a hoof in the air. “It was nothing, Scoots.” She leaned down and patted her on the withers with one forehoof, the other lifting Scootaloo’s chin so they were looking directly into each other’s eyes. “Look, if you ever need anypony, I’m here. Just find me. Flick your bedroom lantern on a couple times and I’ll be over before you can say ‘Rainbow Dash.’ Okay?”

Scootaloo grinned, barely able to hold her excitement. “Okay!” she squeaked. A smirk tugged at her lips. “Rainbow Dash.”

The speedster rolled her eyes as she hovered into the air again. “Don’t cry wolf, squirt” She rotated her neck, sending a series of pops ringing through the clearing. “All right. See you around, Scoots!” And with that, she was off.

Scootaloo stared, her mouth hanging open as Rainbow Dash soared off through the sky, looping and twisting until she disappeared behind the tree branches. She sighed for what felt like the millionth time in a few hours, but once again it was a happy sigh. The screams were gone. Only the distant sound of a Sonic Rainboom graced her ears. Humming a tune, she turned and trotted back to her house, an extra skip in her step.


* * *


The ringing of a bell and loud grunt pulled Scootaloo back into the present. “Little help here, kid?” The donkey had returned, now-steaming pot of porridge stuck against the lip of the door. She jumped down from the stool and hurried over wings abuzz. Skidding to a stop and tilting her head, she kicked a hoof against the floor.

“I can’t fly over it,” she groaned, kicking a little harder. “But if you bend down, maybe I could climb—”

“No time. Get the door.” The donkey’s voice rang surprisingly clear around the handle. Scootaloo obliged, pulling the door open. With a grunt, Sal hoisted the pot over the lip and dragged it over to the center of the dining area. He fell back in a seat while Scootaloo walked forward. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the screams had come back. A shadow stirred in the corner.

“So...” Sal’s voice roused Scootaloo from her thoughts. He took a deep breath. “Is she worth it?” He fell into a fit of coughs, raising a hoof when Scootaloo took a step towards him. Grunting, he raised a napkin to his mouth. When he lowered it, it was stained red. “Is Rainbow Dash worth it?”

“Yes.” Scootaloo trailed off with a look to the side. The shadows twisted and twitched. “She’s worth it.” The screams beat against her brain, causing her to wince. “Because she deserves better. She gave her all for everyone. Someone’s gotta pay that back.” 

Stupid filly. The shadows inched forward.

Scootaloo bit down on the inside of her cheek and looked Sal dead in the eyes. “That a good enough answer for you?” she said with a scowl.

Sal simply nodded back. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, took a drag, and blew out a long, curvy trail of smoke. “Suppose. Nothing anybody’s gonna say gonna change ya mind anyhow. Am I right?” He coughed again.

“No,” Scootaloo said. She glanced to the stairs. The shadows gathered on each step. “I know my friends came here to take me back. I don’t know how they found me, but they did. And now they’re gonna take me back.”

Sal nodded once again. “Yep. Those friends of yours won’t stop ‘til you’re all back in Ponyville...” He drifted off and blew out another ring of smoke. It was darker. Blacker. “‘Course, you’re marked.” He pointed a hoof at Scootaloo’s chest. 

Scootaloo looked down. The goggles—Rainbow’s goggles—rested around her neck. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A cloud passed over the window, dimming the light. If she squinted and tilted her head just right she could see it. A rainbow, hanging in the corner of the lens—like a reflection. A trick of the light? She swayed the goggles back and forth, but the rainbow remained firmly in its spot in the upper corner, even when she flipped them around to face her. 

“You’re right, kid. She is worth it.” Sal blew another smoke ring. “If your friends think they’ll bring you back to that Ponyville, they’ll have to drag ya. Kickin’ and screamin.” He took one last drag before stomping the cigarette out on the floorboards. “My money’s on you. You’re a strong one.” 

Scootaloo shrugged, eyes still set on the goggles. “I doubt that. Apple Bloom’s legs are definitely stronger than mine.”

“While that may be, I can tell you that you have got something she ain’t got, kid?”

Scootaloo leaned forward. A draft went through the room, sending a chill through her limbs. “What’s that?” she asked.

He leaned his chair onto its two back legs, propping his hind hooves up on the table while cradling his neck in his forehooves. “You know exactly what it is.”

She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, dude. You’ve been talking in circles all frickin day. Just give me this one.”

Sal tsked and shook his head. “No. It’s for you to figure out. That’s the only way it’ll mean anything.” He pointed to her chest. “Those’ll be the guide. The answers are up to you.

What a load of lazy philosophical manure, Scootaloo muttered inwardly.

A veil of silence fell over them once more. Somebody coughed upstairs, but no floorboards creaked and nobody stumbled down the steps. For a while, it felt like time had stopped. Maybe it had. Scootaloo looked out the window. The sun had cleared the clouds. Blue sky surrounded its yellow body. Her friends would awaken soon.

Soon, it would be too late.

She wiped her chin and made a beeline for the staircase. Right as her hoof touched the first step, she turned to Sal, a smile etched across her face. “Thank—” A shadow rushed her. She let out a squeak and covered her head with her hooves as a book and saddlebag crashed into the stairs behind her. She glowered at the donkey, who simply chuckled as he lit another cigarette. Glaring daggers at him, she stuffed the book into her saddlebags, her other forehoof still resting on the goggles. “Thanks,” she muttered.

The last thing Scootaloo saw before turning up the stairs was a cloud of smoke. A voice trailed out of it. Low and distant. She swore she heard a sigh. “Think nothin’ of it, darlin’.”


* * *


Voices seeped out of the door as Scootaloo trudged down the hall. She could clearly make out the drawl of Apple Bloom as she neared the door. That didn’t come as a surprise. Apple Bloom had been rising at dawn since she was just a foal. Scootaloo kicked the door open to find a wide-awake Apple Bloom sitting in bed, a book resting on her lap, and a still droopy-headed Sweetie Belle laying on the couch—chin still resting on the armrest.

“Mornin’, Scoots,” Apple Bloom said. “Ya alright? Where ya been?”

“Downstairs,” Scootaloo hastily replied, walking over to the couch. Sweetie Belle snorted and tried to turn to face her, but her head just lulled back with a groan as her hooves dug into her eyes.

“Breakfast set up?” Apple Bloom licked her lips. “I’m starving. I sure could go for some apple cobbler right ‘bout now. Ooh, tell me they had that down there.”

“Nope.” Scootaloo jerked the blanket off the couch, much to Sweetie’s squeaky chagrin, and stuffed it into her saddlebags. “Just talked with Sal for a bit.” With a grunt, Scootaloo clicked the bags shut, then ran a hoof over the goggles. She was worth it.

Apple Bloom cocked her head. “Talked? ‘Bout what?” She stopped as Scootaloo pushed the door open. A clatter of hooves chased along the floorboards after her. Apple Bloom threw a foreleg in front of her. She glared. “Where the hay are you goin’?!”

“Leaving.”

“Leavin’?” Apple Bloom let her foreleg drop as she laughed. “Train ain’t gonna be here for a few hours, Scoots. Have a seat, and we’ll talk a bit, then head downstairs to grab some breakfast. Bit silly headin’ home on an empty stomach, don’t you think” 

“I’m not going home.” Scootaloo pushed past the farmer and marched down the stairs. Behind her, chaos erupted. Apple Bloom hadn’t given chase, but instead rushed back into the room and over to the couch. She shook Sweetie Belle several times before hustling over to the closet and throwing the door open.

Sweetie Belle squinted at Apple Bloom through half-lidded eyes. “What?” She yawned. “What time is—” A flying saddlebag to the chest cut her off. “Ow! What the hay, Apple Bloom?”

“Scoots runnin’ off again,” she muttered as she tightened the straps around her back. 

Sweetie Belle’s eyes shot open, jaw swinging. “What? Again?”

“I’m ‘fraid so,” Apple Bloom said as she helped Sweetie get her saddlebags on as well.

They rushed out the door as Scootaloo turned to march down the steps. “Scootaloo! Wait!” Even with the thundering clatter of hooves filling the stairwell, she could make out Apple Bloom’s words. “Girl’s lost her mind.”

Scootaloo found an extra gear, slinging the door open and slamming it shut. Pale sunlight washed over her. A deep rumble—almost like a laugh—slithered through the tavern walls. She ran a hoof over the goggles. No, Apple Bloom. If anything, she’d regained it.