Dawn looked down at her notebook, eyeing the empty, yellow parchment paper. It looked as if today was simply going to be another day where she recorded very little, if nothing at all, about her patient. Not so unusual, at least not in the last two weeks. It had been a pleasant, if unexpected, surprise. It certainly was telling to go back and look at the first week of notes and compare them with the scant lines that she’d been copying lately. Especially with regards to the change in subject matter and tone.
Like yesterday’s, for instance. She could still see the impression on the parchment where she’d written down a single, declarative statement—one that had little to do with the actual purpose of the meeting—as well as the marks of a sketch below it where she’d attempted to pass the time.
Note to self, she thought as she looked away from her pad once more. Perhaps now that she’s showing quite a bit more recovery, I might be able to get her to tone down the technicality of her explanations. I should ask the next time she gets too in-depth.
She’d have to play that carefully, however. That had been one of her earliest methods for helping her patient cope with her disorder, getting her to talk about the technical details of her numerous projects. Focusing on hard, material numbers and data had really seemed to help the pegasus sort out her own thoughts and feelings.
Not that she hadn’t helped with a few of those projects. That had been … less than common, but as a doctor she was inclined to do what it took to help her patients. And she had to admit, it had actually been a little fun answering some of the questions that Sky Bolt had posed…
She brought her attention back to the medical bay around her, her eyes scanning over every pristine surface. There wasn’t a single speck of dirt to be seen marring the gleaming white and silver surfaces, and she could still see the shine on the counter where she’d sterilized everything the night before. She circled the room with her eyes once, then twice, checking that everything was in its proper place. A quick glance down at her notepad, resting across her forelegs.
“Late again,” she said, letting out a faint sigh of disappointment. “What will the excuse be this time, I wonder?” She summoned forth her magic, a soft orange glow wrapping itself around her horn and the notepad both. Parchment swished as she folded the pages back, flipping them over the top of the pad one by one until she’d reached the last page of the notebook. There, written across the top of the page in concise, block lettering, was the word “EXCUSES.”
Below that was a list of each of the patient’s various explanations for tardiness that Dawn had been given over the last several weeks, each with a series of tally marks under it. It was solely for her own amusement, unless she noticed some sort of pattern that was relevant to the treatment, of which she had found none. But it was something she could keep track of for her own entertainment, provided that she destroyed it afterwards and didn’t abuse her knowledge. She almost shuddered at the thought. That would be a gross violation of her oath as a doctor.
Her pencil floated over the rough paper, pausing to tap alongside each heading. Which will it be today, I wonder? she thought. Lost track of time? Had to finish a project? A simple apology? Or the most alarming one— A faint, heavy thump shook the room, and she immediately jumped one row down to the excuse in question. Something exploded. There was a disturbingly large number of checkmarks under that one.
Well, that should give me another moment or two. She floated her pad over to the counter on the far side of the room and set it down. Maybe enough time to work on my mane.
She stood, the sound of her hoofsteps echoing across the medical bay as she walked over to the large mirror on one wall. In all honesty, she preferred the mirror in her quarters, which was much more personal, but since she had to stay in the bay waiting for Sky Bolt to arrive, it wouldn’t do to leave.
The towel she’d wrapped around her mane came free with a quick tug of her hoof, and she wrapped her orange mane in the matching shade of her magic, gently tugging it to one side and sorting out the tangles.
“Now, where did I—ah, yes. Of course.” She turned and glanced at her desk, fixing in her mind the position of her hairbrush in the top drawer as well as grasping the handle of the same. Manipulating multiple objects at once with telekinesis was tricky for any unicorn, though some were quite skilled, and while she wasn’t in any position to brag about her capabilities in that regard, her career as a doctor had left her with a multi-tasking ability that made most unicorns jealous.
The hairbrush floated across the room, and she turned back to the mirror, tugging it through her short mane with measured, easy movements. Even on her fastest days, an explosion always meant that Sky Bolt was at least two or three minutes away. She had time.
As she brushed, she checked over her coat for any signs of thinning or other abnormalities among the pink hairs. It was hard enough looking well when the light gradient of her coat made a wrong stroke or misaligned hair all the more pronounced, but if she acquired any of the signs of stress that manifested in her coat … ugh. It’d be apparent to anyone with an eye for detail.
Fortunately, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Her cutie mark—a bandage sitting across a syringe—looked just as vibrant and healthy as ever, and a further check at her tail and mane revealed that none of her hairs had gone grey yet. Not that she expected them to, not with her genetic stock. Only her great-grandmother had ever had grey hairs by the time she’d died, and that mare had married into the family long after her grandfather had been born.
Her mane styled properly, although shorter than she would have liked to have it—an unfortunate if necessary requirement of her position—she returned the brush to its proper place and gave her shoulders a little shake, striking a controlled pose in front of the mirror.
Adequate, she thought, giving her mirror image a small nod of satisfaction. She could, if the day required it, dress up further later, but for now the simple styling would do.
She’d just seated herself again when there was a faint knock on the door.
Of course, she thought as she floated the pad over. She still knocks here. Odd how that worked, that Sky Bolt was willing to knock on her door and wait before entering, when she simply charged into most other offices. The intrinsic nervous feeling one got when dealing with medicine, perhaps?
“Come in!” she called, raising her voice in case there was a need for additional volume. There had been on a few days, at least until she’d run a few healing spells over Sky Bolt’s ears.
The door eased open, and Sky Bolt—the patient, Dawn reminded herself—trotted into the room, a goofy grin on her face. “Hi,”
“Hello, Sky Bolt,” Dawn said, keeping her face straight, although her eyes couldn’t help but trace the faint lines of black soot etched across the pegasus’s grey coat and—singed—sky-blue mane.
“Sorry I’m late,” Sky Bolt said with a grin as she hopped into the chair that Dawn had set out for her. “I was working on a project, and it kind of got away with me.”
Interesting, Dawn thought as she flipped the bottom half of the notepad up, putting a tally mark beneath “Working on a Project” and “Something Exploded” both. “Are you all right?” she asked as she flipped the page back down.
“Me?” Sky Bolt asked, letting out a laugh. “Yeah, I’m okay. My ears were ringing for a minute, but I don’t think I did any real damage. It was just really loud.” She ran her hoof along the side of her head, tucking a bit of singed mane behind one ear. “And really disappointing,” she said with a frown.
“How so?” Dawn asked, setting her pencil atop the notepad. From the upbeat mood Sky Bolt was giving off, she likely wouldn’t need to do much writing today.
“Well, first of all because it didn’t work,” Sky Bolt said with a shake of her head. “I’m trying to adapt a teleport spell into a mod, but it’s just not working right! I keep building larger and larger spell circuits, trying to make it work, but every time the complexity of the spellwork and the amount of magic it uses overload the circuit and the whole thing goes up. And of course,” she said, fanning her wings and glancing at the askew feathers. “When that happens, most of the circuit can’t be recovered, which means I’m out a couple of grams or more of ethereal crystal, which I can’t get right now.” She let out a sigh. “I might just have to table it until I can get more ethereal crystal to work with.”
“Northgait is still shut?” Dawn asked. Sky Bolt tugged a feather out and then nodded.
“Yeah,” she said, spitting the feather into her hoof. “The Ocean’s completely off limits, and too busy to ship stuff out anyway. It’s getting pretty rough up there, from what I hear. But all it means to me is that I can’t get any of the crystal I need unless I import it from somewhere else, and that stuff’s expensive enough when it’s from the Ocean.”
“Even with your new budget?” Dawn asked. Sky Bolt’s funding since demonstrating her first mod for Celestia had been … substantial, but for her to balk in spite of that…
Sky Bolt nodded. “I’ve got money, but not enough to be blowing up progressively larger and larger models.”
“And you can’t create the mod without the ethereal crystal?”
A quick shake of the head. “Not even. The power attunement and the requirements just aren’t the same. I’d need to build something at least four or five times as large if I used the stuff I’ve been using so far. And this latest test is showing this mod’s going to need to be pretty big as is.”
“How big?”
“Big enough it won’t be a mod anymore,” Sky Bolt said, a dejected look on her face. “From this bust of a test and the math I was doing last night, I think to get one to work it’d have to at least be half the size of this room.”
“That’s quite large,” Dawn said, her eyes widening.
“Well, teleports aren’t like enchantments or those other spells,” Sky Bolt said, shrugging. “They’re active.” Another feather was plucked from her wing. “They rely on hundreds of small, incremental power changes based on all kinds of minute requirements. I’m not building something basic or static, it has to adapt and live. I’m trying to pack all the miles of nerves running through a unicorn’s horn into something small enough to fit on a pony’s back, and it’s just not going to work. At least,” she said with a disappointed look, “not with the technology I have on hand. Maybe with a microscope, and a carefully machined set of tools—” She shook her head. “Anyway, I’m going to table it, I think. Focus on the projects that are showing progress.”
Dawn smiled. “So some are coming along well? That’s good.”
“Don’t you know it,” Sky Bolt said, grinning. “I’ve got about seven mods that we can use now, and I figured out a way to store them on The Hummingbird so we can swap out if we need to. I don’t have enough to have one of the same thing for everyone, but we’ve got a good selection to bargain with.”
“So I’ll be able to make use of that shield mod you created?” Dawn asked.
“What, the bubble?”
“I’ll admit I’m not fond of the name and what it implies,” Dawn said, nodding. “Bubbles pop, and are inherently fragile. I’d prefer the term barrier, myself.”
“Eh, sure, whatever,” Sky Bolt said, another feather popping free of her wings. “Barrier works. It’s not quite as catchy, but it’ll work. But yeah, that one’s passed most of the testing I’ve come up with for it. Why do you want it?”
“What do you mean?” Dawn responded.
“Well,” Sky Bolt said, tapping her forehead with a hoof. “You’ve got a horn, for one. You can already make a shield spell, or at least learn one. Why would you want a mod that can do something you already can?”
Dawn smiled. “Simple. As team medic, I need to conserve my magic for health and care of the wounded. And while I am capable of generating a shield on my own, the area is not my speciality. And during a deployment, I’d not want to split my attention between a shield I can barely maintain and the work I am doing. Multitasking with spells is already difficult enough. The ability to simply create a barrier on demand, one much stronger than what I am capable of generating myself, and that requires far less oversight than it normally would, could be a great boon to me. Does that answer your question.”
Sky Bolt nodded. “Yeah, totally. Good thinking there. Half of that didn’t even occur to me.”
Dawn nodded. “Well, we each have our own talents and capabilities. Now,” she said, readying her pencil once more. “If I may further make use of my own, how are you feeling?”
“What, in general? Or just today?”
“Whatever you wish to answer,” Dawn said with a small shrug.
“Overall, I honestly feel pretty good,” Sky Bolt said, settling her still ruffled wings by her sides. “The nightmares have mostly stopped, and I haven’t had a panic attack in about two weeks.”
“That’s good,” Dawn said, pretending to make a note. She’d noticed very early in her sessions that Sky Bolt’s eyes would flick to the pencil every time that it moved, and that the mare’s tension rose if a long period went by without any markings. The solution, of course, was to fake the markings. It seemed that even if Sky Bolt knew they were probably faked, the motion helped her feel somewhat more at ease. “What about your work? Is it still being affected?”
“No,” came the response. “Working on some of the recovered golems helped. I still get a little nervous sometimes when I look at them, but then I remind myself that they’re just bits of wood, crystal, and metal, held together by some spellwork, it helps. I haven’t had a breakdown or anything in a while.”
“What about combat training?”
“I’ve never had a problem there,” Sky Bolt said.
“I misspoke,” Dawn replied, quickly. “What I meant to imply was to ask how you felt about the possibility of an upcoming mission.”
“I …” Sky Bolt’s mouth clicked shut, her ears folding down. “I won’t lie, I’m a little nervous. I did just fine on our last one, but at the same time, I don’t want to be the one who locks up the moment things go wrong or something unexpected happens. I don’t want to let everyone down.”
“Do you think that could happen?” Dawn asked.
“I don’t know,” Sky Bolt admitted. “We do the training exercises, even the combat stuff, and I’m fine, whether it’s against you guys or some of the other Guard. Everything there turns out just fine. But when it’s the real deal? I … I don’t know. I did fine last time, when we deployed for that hydra attack or whatever, but we didn’t actually fight anything. I am a little worried that next time we go anywhere or do something, I’ll seize up.”
“Do you feel nervous about the idea of a mission itself?”
“No,” Sky Bolt said, shaking her head. “Just that I’ll mess up somehow. Actually, it’s weird. I’m kind of excited for another mission. Just seeing a few of you test my stuff in action will be great!” Her wings flared out a little bit, shifting in excitement as her tail lashed back and forth. “But I still have that bit of worry that it won’t work, or that I’ll goof it up somehow.”
“Well, I’ll make sure that I stay nearby if at all possible just to check,” Dawn said. “I won’t deny that there is a slight concern that you might suffer a relapse the next time we deploy, but we can’t afford to leave you behind—not that you’d let us, I understand. Not when we’re using your equipment and need to see it in action. And you did perform without complication at all during the hydra incident. Were you worried that you’d have issues?”
“Yeah,” Sky Bolt said, nodding. She didn’t elaborate, but they’d spoken about it before, more in depth.
“And yet you didn’t,” Dawn said, smiling at her and making a real, actual note on her notepad. Patient seems to suffer more from a fear of lack of recovery than signs of a lack of recovery. Monitor. “Sky Bolt, I would classify your fears and worry in this instance as perfectly normal. They haven’t interfered with your work, nor your social life. You’re comfortable discussing them with me, but you don’t appear to suffer from them in any large regard. What you’re experiencing seems to be normal, ordinary fear of concern exemplified by a loyal desire to not let any of us down in any way.”
“Really?” Sky Bolt asked.
“Of course,” Dawn said. “You haven’t had any nightmares in forever, you’ve even exposed yourself—by your own admission—to elements of that which had given you the fear in the first place, and found yourself to be understandably wary but capable of rational thought and motion.”
“But I still get nervous,” Sky Bolt said, her shoulders sinking slightly.
“So do I, sometimes” Dawn said. “It both comes, and fades, with experience. Tell me, Sky Bolt, are you nervous when you need to recalibrate a sheet of paneling on The Hummingbird’s envelope?”
“It’s not paneling, but no.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s easy. I’ve done it a million times. I could do it in my sleep.” Sky Bolt blew a bit of her mane away from her eye.
“I see. What about working on a new mod? Are you nervous then?”
“Well, a little, yeah,” Sky Bolt said, her eyes narrowing. “But that’s just because something could go wrong.”
“Exactly,” Dawn said, nodding. “From what you’ve said to me, that same worry is what occupies you now. The worry that something could go wrong. That is a reasonable fear.”
“So what do I do about it?
“The same you do when working on your projects, I would think,” Dawn said, offering the pegasus a small smile. “Don’t let that fear hinder you. Believe in yourself a little. Have faith. Push past the fear and go forward as you would while working on an experiment or a project.”
“Will the worry go away?” Sky Bolt asked.
“In time, I think it will,” Dawn said, making a final note on her pad. Patient nervous about active duty, but seems willing to push forward with the right encouragement. “To be perfectly honest, I think that you’ll do just fine. As you said yourself, you’ve hardly suffered any ill-effects recently. If you still harbor doubts, remember that Captain Song chose you, out of all the other candidates he had the option of choosing from. He understood that you, and you alone, were capable of what he needed. Does that help?”
“A little,” Sky Bolt admitted, nodding. “He did warn me, though.”
Dawn nodded, although that was news to her. “And did you listen to that warning at the time?” She asked, trusting her instincts to guide the next few moments.
“No, but—”
“But what?” Dawn asked, leaning forward slightly.
“But … I didn’t know what the job would be like!” Sky Bolt said, her forehead creasing. “I just wanted the job and was sure I could do it!”
“And?” Dawn prompted. The Captain never does something without a reason. I just need to get her to see that.
“And … and what?” Sky Bolt asked, giving her a confused look.
“And what did Captain Song say?”
“He let me on the team,” Sky Bolt said.
“Even when he knew you didn’t quite understand what you were getting into, Sky Bolt,” Dawn said, leaning back, a sense of satisfaction filling her. And there it is. “Do you know why?”
The pegasus shook her head.
“Because regardless of whether or not you knew exactly what you were getting into, you were determined to overcome it,” Dawn said, smiling. “I guarantee you, Sky Bolt, that was what he was looking for. He wanted to see if you would have the drive, the determination to stand up to something when told you should be fearful of it. And you did. And I believe you’ll do the same when faced with our operations in the future.”
“Really?”
“Enough that I’m willing to make this our final session, if you can agree with that.” She made a final note on the notepad, detailing the statement. “I’d be more than willing to keep an eye on you for the next few weeks, but as far as I see it, I believe you’re more than capable of continuing to serve on the Dusk Guard, and I’m confident that you’ll function admirably at the team’s side.”
“I … wow, thanks!”
She could see that the pegasus meant it, too, hear the lightness in her voice. The last, small bits of the weight Sky Bolt had been shouldering for the last few weeks were crumbling, falling away, leaving behind a bright, young pegasus who was now both a little bit older and little bit wiser. She felt a brief swelling of pride in her chest as she saw the mare’s ears perk up, the smile that seemed to come across her face as her confidence came back. Sometimes, the bandages aren’t visible, but they’re needed just as badly.
She’d still need to watch her, of course. Just in case she came across something that could damage her recently healed view of things. She’d done the equivalent of stitching up her patient, but if Sky Bolt went and did something truly dangerous, there was a chance those stitches could tear. She’d just have to hope that they did not, and trust that things would work.
How ironic, she thought as she tore the piece of parchment free with her magic. Now I’m giving myself the same advice I just gave her.
She brought her attention back to the task at hand, still feeling a sense of satisfaction that Sky Bolt had come so far. “Well,” she said, “how do you feel?”
“Actually, even better than when I came in,” Sky Bolt answered. “So, this was our last session?”
“Unless you need to see me again,” Dawn said, nodding as she summoned Sky Bolt’s file from behind her desk. “Which I hope doesn’t happen today, as we’ve already spoken. It’s my day off,” she explained as Sky Bolt gave her a curious look.
“Oh, nice!” Sky Bolt said with a nod. “What are you doing?”
“Checking on my house and doing a bit of cleaning,” Dawn answered as she sent the file back to its place, the latest bit of parchment inside of it. She’d put together a report for the captain later that evening. “Then head over to Canterlot General to watch an exhibition of a new surgery technique from out in Los Pegasus. And then a light luncheon at a favorite restaurant of mine. And before I come back on duty, an early-evening symphony in the Grand Hall.”
“Sounds like fun,” Sky Bolt said, her comment more polite than personal.
“It will be, I assure you,” Dawn said. “But before I can get to that, I have a few more small details I need to take care of here and—” There was a sharp knock at the door, and she frowned. “And now apparently perhaps one more thing to deal with.”
“Well, I’ll get going then,” Sky Bolt said, the tips of her wings fluttering with excitement. “I’ve got a few more projects I can work on. I’m testing the new helmets.”
“New helmets?” Dawn asked as she moved towards the door. The knock hadn’t come again, and it hadn’t quite had the urgency that denoted a medical issue, so she wasn’t too pressed to drop everything. “I wasn’t aware we had old helmets.”
“The first design didn’t allow for the mods or a few other features,” Sky Bolt said, moving alongside her. “With the increased budget, I went ahead and built a whole new design from the ground up. It’ll work better with the new armor as well.”
“New armor.”
“Yeah,” Sky Bolt said as they reached the door. “Mark-two designs, just like the helmets. Took care of some flexibility issues, feedback on weak areas, and combat testing. The new stuff is close to the older design, but better.”
“Well, I look forward to trying it out,” Dawn said as she wrapped the door handle in her magic and pushed it outward into the hall. “Yes?”
A Royal Guard private was standing in the hall, a heavy pair of saddlebags thrown over his back. The marks on his armor identified him as a courier. “Sergeant Major Dawn Triage?” he asked, offering a quick salute.
“I am,” she replied, returning the salute as Sky Bolt slid past her out the door. “What do you need, private?”
“I’m just delivering this, ma’am,” the private said, plucking a heavy envelope from his saddlebags. “Priority mail, just came in a few minutes ago.”
“Ah,” she said, taking the envelope in one hoof and then wrapping it in her magic. She glanced at the return address. Canterlot General. Curious. “Thank you, private.”
“Ma’am,” he said, giving her a quick salute and then turning and moving down the hall as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.
“Well now,” she said as she closed the door. “What is this?” I don’t recall requesting anything from Canterlot General, at least nothing that would require a priority message. She floated a letter opener over from her desk, carefully parting the flap with her letter opener. Let’s see what this is. A heavy stack of papers slid out onto the table and she glanced at the topmost sheet.
“Oh,” she said as she saw the large, block print on the top sheet. Nevermind, I suppose I did send them a request. But that had been weeks ago. For blood work. What had taken so long?
She glossed over the top sheet and then noted the large number of additional hospitals listed on the title page. Well, that explains that. Apparently they’d sent the sample to just about every major hospital in Equestria.
I should have told them this was a low priority case, she thought as she began to flip through the pages. Just a precursory measure. She frowned as another page of the report flowed past. Just as she’d expected—nothing. Which was probably for the best. Technically, though her actions had been in good interest, her actions had been somewhat of an ethical grey area.
Not that it matters now, she thought as she neared the end of the report. Just as I expected, it was a completely futile action—
Her train of thought came to a grinding halt as she came to the last page of the report, her eyes widening as she looked down at the words written on it. Words she’d never expected to see when she’d sent off the inquiry a few weeks earlier.
Oh Dawn, she thought as she stared down at the paper, bearing news she’d never expected to get. What have you done?
“Is your meal to your liking, ma’am?”
Dawn looked up from her dish and nodded at the mauve unicorn. “Yes, it is. Tell the chef he has my compliments.”
“Of course, madam,” the waiter said with a small, almost imperceptible nod. “And will you be ordering any dessert today?”
“Dessert?” Dawn shook her head. “No, thank you. The lunch was quite enough.”
“Very well, ma’am,” the waiter said, nodding again. “I will return with your bill shortly.”
Dawn let out a sigh as the waiter turned and walked away, her eyes turning back down at the meal. Hopefully her morose mood hadn’t shown enough on her face that the restaurant staff had thought her dissatisfied with her meal. In truth, it had been excellent, from the soup that had been served before the main course to the salad she was now digging into. The tomatoes were crisp and fresh—even this far into autumn—and the greens were delightfully firm and tasty. Even the dressing, a light mixture of imported oils, was just heavy enough to season the greens while light enough that it didn’t overwhelm the taste and texture of the leaves. A dash of finely ground salt and pepper on top was the perfect counterpoint to the meals flavor.
And yet the charm of the taste wasn’t there. The delightful crunch of flavor as the greens came apart across her tongue, the pleasant mixture of soft flavors and subtle bits of tartness was subdued, almost … bland.
Dawn took another bite, feeling a slight tinge of guilt that she wasn’t truly entertaining the chef’s creation the way it had been intended. But—and she knew this for a fact—her mind wasn’t in it. She was aware of all the various senses and sensations, aware of the way the meal tasted and felt on her tongue. She was even aware of the light strings of the live performers over in one corner of the restaurant, playing a soft tune that ordinarily would have pleased her greatly.
But her mind just wasn’t in it. It was too worried about the weight hanging over it, a weight that had been on her thoughts from the moment she’d received the missive from the hospital that morning. It had pursued her all through her examination of her home, from her inspection of the sitting room to the habitual swapping out and organization of the new medical texts that were still being delivered there. It had followed her as she’d left her home and attended the medical presentation at Canterlot General. It had even shadowed her happiness as she’d heard the announcement that Mint and Blossom were engaged to be married, a fact that should have brought more joy to her than it did.
Admit it, Dawn, you’ve made a terrible mistake. She levitated another forkful of salad into her mouth and bit down, her attention once again split between the meal she’d meant to enjoy and the weight on her conscience. You violated a patient’s trust, and now you’ll have to answer for it. Sun above, why did you do something so stupid!?
At the time it had been easy enough to rationalize. She’d been taking blood from each member of the team, what would it hurt to get a little bit more blood from one team member and have a few checks done for them? She’d expected that if there had been any response, it would have come in the negative.
And now it hasn’t. She set the fork down on the side of her plate, eyeing the last little bit of salad that was left and contemplating whether or not it would be worth eating. She felt satisfied with her meal as it was. Eating more would only be an exercise in self-indulgence. Which was part of the point of eating at such an establishment, but the presence of her mistake hanging over her was making the event less than enjoyable.
Should I just tell him? she thought, lifting her fork once more and crossing it with the knife across her plate, a sign that she had finished her meal. She took a final sip of her water—faintly cranberry flavored—and then sat back in her seat as one of the waiters began to move towards her table. The waiter slipped away her plate and glass without a word, carrying them towards the kitchen and leaving an elegantly written bill behind.
Perhaps she should just tell him. Let him decide on whether or not to act. But that would require admitting that she’d violated his trust and performed the procedure completely without his permission. Perhaps she should just save it until he asked. What she’d found wasn’t life-threatening after all.
But it could be life altering, she told herself as she stood, collecting her bags and her bill. The maitre d’ looked up as she approached the front desk, her bit bag already at the ready.
“Ah, evening madam,” the maitre d said, his horn lighting with a glow as he took her bill. “I trust everything was to your satisfaction this evening?”
“It was,” she said, giving him a small smile as she levitated five ten-bit coins from her bag and placed them on the counter. “The food was excellent, and the atmosphere was perfect. Thank you for the meal.”
“You’re welcome, madam,” the maitre d said, collecting the bits and passing her a few coins in change. If he saw any sign of her own mood, he was apparently declining to say anything.
She stepped out the doors onto the street, tightening her scarf around her shoulders as the cold air seemed to bite into her skin. She allowed herself one little shiver, just enough to get her body used to the temperature, and then she moved off down the street, headed in the direction of the Grand Hall.
There was still a fair amount of traffic on the streets of Canterlot considering the current hour. Ponies walked down the sidewalks or the streets, the latter only occasionally moving out of the way to let a carriage or other conveyance pass. Canterlot was in the in-between state at the moment, the brief period of low activity between the lunch hour and the time when the earliest of employees and businessmares would get off from work. In another hour or two the streets would be packed with ponies heading in all directions, but for now it was mostly clear.
Dawn took a deep breath of air, the change in scenery a welcome distraction from the thoughts that had been plaguing her. Now that she had adjusted the change in air temperature, the cool crispness of it almost felt welcome, like it was sharpening her mind against the world at large. She took in a deep breath, watching as it almost steamed on its way back out.
Winter is almost here, she thought as she eyed some of the ponies around her, many of whom were wearing light scarves as she was. And after such a short, sudden fall. Sometimes the weather was like that, however. A short spring could lead way into a long, hot summer, or a long winter that overstayed its welcome for several weeks before becoming a fast, wet spring.
In truth, she was glad winter had almost arrived. While it was cold, there was a hidden beauty to the way the season worked, the drifts of snow that covered the landscape in pure, pristine white. Even though it had made her work all the more difficult when she’d been a Ranger, she’d always loved the feel of moving through a quiet, snow-clad forest, wrapped in her own thoughts, admiring the delicate swirls of frost and snow. Fall was wonderful in its own colorful way, but it was a little … well, loud for her tastes.
Up ahead she could see the spires of the Grand Hall peeking over the tops of the city, and her pace picked up slightly as the building came into view. If anything could help her lose the faint cloud of gloom that had been following her all day—or at least help her forget it, however temporarily—it would be music.
The Grand Hall wasn’t actually quite as big as most other music halls around Equestria, a fact that seemed surprising when one considered its size relative to the buildings around it. In truth, the hall itself had been massive at the time of its construction, dwarfed only by a few civic buildings and the royal palace itself, but as time had marched on and new buildings had been constructed to keep up with the growing city, the Grand Hall had slowly moved lower on the list. While it still looked large where it was, Dawn knew that was mostly because the buildings around it were smaller, not because the Grand Hall was still of any great size. Still, for its relative size, the acoustics were still some of the greatest in all of Equestria, and for that the Grand Hall still stood and was still home to many performances like the one she was heading to.
Dawn could feel her own step pick up as the front of the building drew closer. Yes, that was what she needed. Music. Something to help her sort the jumble of thoughts in her head, help everything arrange itself in nice, neat rows that could be analysed and sorted over in a reasonable manner.
The front of the building still looked much like the rest of Canterlot, white and gleaming, but the inside, once she’d stepped through the front door, was a completely different world. Dark, hoof-carved wood dominated the aesthetic here, smoothed underhoof by centuries of ponies passing over it. The wood was rich and heavy, some of it almost sucking up the light beneath its heavy gloss. Thick, red tapestries hung on the walls or covered the sitting areas, dark, calm colors designed to bring about a sense of power. She’d once read that the original sponsor of the Grand Hall, an earth pony named Smart Trade, had nearly bankrupted himself in procuring the large amounts of heavy wood the construction had required all the way from the Plainslands, declaring that the money was better spent on the generations that were to come than on himself. The result was a splendidly ornate look unrivaled by any in Equestria, and that was just for the entrance. The hall itself was even more grand.
Though the performance was the first of two for the evening and wasn’t scheduled to begin for another twenty minutes, there were already a number of ponies milling around the front area. The admissions desk seemed to be doing brisk business, the pegasus and earth pony sitting behind it collecting a steady stream of bits from various patrons like herself. Past the desk, the entryway opened up into a carpeted foyer, the hoofsteps of the various ponies muffled by the thick covering. Several doors, each with an attendant usher, marked entrances to the hall itself, while two more grand staircases, one on either side of the room, led to an upper level, from which both the raised seats and the private boxes could be accessed.
“One, please,” Dawn said, pulling a hundred-bit bar from her bag and placing them on the desk. The stallion behind the counter looked at her in pleased surprised and uttered a grateful thank you, which she returned with a nod as he passed her his ticket. She shook her head as he began to ask if she would have liked anything in return for her sizable donation. The donation was for its own sake and for the Hall’s continued expense, nothing more. She would consider it fifty-five extra bits well spent.
“Thank you,” she said as the grateful pegasus slid her ticket across the desk. She lifted it in her magic and slipped it into her saddlebags, cutting the orange glow from her horn as quickly as possible. It clashed with the interior decor, and she wasn’t about to wander around looking at some of the works on display while displaying such a garish combination of colors. Her coat and mane would clash well enough with the buildings’ more muted style.
There was still time before the performance itself began, though she could hear the faint sounds of the various instruments warming up through the still open doors, and so she turned her attention to some of the historical pieces that had been collected by the Hall over the years on display. Some of them were of quite exemplary history, though of questionable relevance—she still couldn’t quite see a use for displaying Largo’s prized megaphone alongside his conductor’s baton, for example. Though legend had it he had used the megaphone to shout instructions at his orchestra, the small plaque beneath the two items dutifully noted that the legend was—in fact—not true at all, and the megaphone was merely a memorial of his time serving as a lifeguard as a young stallion.
A rare surviving page of Trotaikovsky’s original sheets, however, was much more relevant. As was the baton used by Archos Windfall, the famed griffon immigrant who had shown the musical elite the use of pegasi controlled thunderclouds as a musical instrument, cementing their place in the Equestrian classical music era. She was examining a set of instruments that had once belonged to the infamous Rag Pie—a mare who’d rocked the classical world by performing on three separate instruments simultaneously before going on to help found a new genre of music entirely— when a polite cough from behind her caught her attention, and she turned before widening her eyes and dropping into a quick bow.
“Princess Celestia,” she said, controlling her surprise. The solar diarch gave her a friendly nod, and Dawn rose.
“Hello, Sergeant Major,” Celestia said, giving her a smile. “This is a pleasant surprise. Are you here to see the performance?”
“Of course, your highness,” Dawn said, dropping her head ever so slightly as she responded. “I look forward to hearing it.”
“As do I,” the Princess replied. “The percussion, I’ve been told, is wonderful. It’s sometimes hard to find the time to get away from my duties, but this was one I was simply insistent that I wouldn’t miss.” Celestia turned and began to move towards the stairs, the two pegasus guards behind her falling into step. Dawn followed, moving alongside the princess as she began to speak again. “To be honest, I’ve been looking forward to this all week. Care to join me in my private box?”
Dawn nodded, although she had to fight to keep her tail from letting out an errant twitch of surprise. “Of course, your highness,” she said, only to worry that she’d made a mistake as Celestia let out a soft laugh.
“No need for such formalities, Sergeant,” the diarch said, reseating her wings as she began to climb one of the large staircases. “Consider this an invitation from one friend to another, without the trappings of your or my position for the night.”
“That … may prove difficult, your—uh, Princess Celestia,” Dawn said. “After all, I am a Dusk Guard, even when off duty, and—”
“Very well then,” the Princess said, coming to a stop and turning to look back at her as she reached the top of the stairs. Dawn could almost feel a physical weight descend upon her as the Princess’ eyes locked with hers. “I shall make it a royal suggestion. For tonight only.” The co-ruler of Equestria grinned—grinned—and Dawn felt her eyes widen. “Feel free to carry on a conversation with me as if I were not one of the rulers of Equestria, and instead as if I were nothing more than a fellow admirer of music. Does that help?”
Dawn paused, weighed her options, and then laughed. “Why not?” she said, nodding as she climbed the last few steps to the top of the staircase. “I suppose occasionally one must learn to relax.”
“Now you sound like my sister,” the Princess—no, Celestia, Dawn reminded herself—said. “Very well then, Dawn. My box is this way.” She nodded, pointing down the balcony with her horn. “I look forward to speaking with you before the event.”
“Really?” Dawn asked as she began to walk alongside the princess. “Why?”
“Well, of all the ponies in the Dusk Guard, you, I believe, I have conversed with the least,” Celestia said, giving her warm smile that reminded Dawn of summer days she’d spent at her parents. “I’m curious: do you enjoy your new position?”
“Compared to what, your highness?”
“Just Celestia,” Celestia replied with another smile as they stopped before an usher. Her horn lit with a yellow glow as she levitated a ticket out from somewhere beneath her wing, waiting dutifully on the usher as he slowly tore it in half, his eyes continually flicking from the Princess to the ticket.
Probably out of disbelief that the Princess even uses a ticket, Dawn thought. The colt had to be new, there was no possibility that the older of the Hall’s ushers would be surprised by the Princess’ insistence that in many ways, she was as normal as them. The nervous stallion finally managed to tear the ticket in half, only to give a nervous yelp and drop both halves when Dawn floated her own ticket up in front of herself, waiting for him to take it.
Celestia let out a warm laugh and placed a hoof on the young unicorn’s shoulder. “Relax, my little pony,” she said, smiling at him as she picked up both halves of her ticket, sweeping her half back under her wing and settling the other half on the stallion’s hoof. “The first few weeks on the job are always nerve-wracking.”
The stallion gave a little cough. “They are?”
“Of course,” Celestia said. “Why you should have seen me or my sister the first time we attempted to hold court. It was … a spectacle.”
“It was?”
“Of course,” Celestia replied. “But don’t you worry, my little pony. You’ll be nervous for a day or two more, but soon it’ll seem so simple you’ll wonder how you ever feared it in the first place.” She tilted her head towards Dawn’s ticket. “In fact, you might even stop wondering with that one.” The usher looked up at her with a dumbfounded look on his face, a look that only grew more pronounced when the Princess winked.
“I—of course,” he said, his words picking up pace as he plucked Dawn’s ticket out of the air, parting it with a quick burst of magic and passing the proper half back to her. Dawn gave him a polite nod, followed by a “Thank you,” as she plucked it from the air and slid it into her saddle bags.
“I thank you as well,” Celestia said, removing her hoof and nodding at the young usher. “And don’t forget to ticket the two behind me.” The usher’s face darted to the Guard and he visibly swallowed. “They bought tickets as well.”
“Did they?” Dawn asked, glancing back at the usher as he held the two members of the Guard up, requesting their tickets in a voice that grew more firm by the second.
“Well,” Celestia said with a smile, her wings shifting and resettling. “Perhaps I gave them the bits and instructed them to purchase their own tickets with a sizeable donation on top. But only because that way I could keep the Grand Hall from panicking and explaining to me that, as Princess, they couldn’t possibly let me make such a donation. Just perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” Dawn asked, raising one eyebrow even as Celestia began to turn towards one of the boxes. Dawn lit her horn, lifting the curtains that covered the door to the box and giving the Princess a friendly nod when she glanced back at her.
“Well,” Celestia admitted, grinning as she opened the door and waved Dawn through. “Maybe a bit more certainly than perhaps, but …” she said, glancing behind her before shutting the door to the box. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
Dawn smiled as she took a quick look around the box, her ears flicking back and forth on her head as they picked up the melange of sounds coming from the warming orchestra. She’d been in the private boxes at the Grand Hall once or twice before, but the cost of the box and her salary as a Ranger had meant that the normal seating had been a more economical choice for her. But since this was apparently a box that Celestia had reserved for whomever she wished to invite … she’d certainly take it.
The chairs were plush, although seemingly oddly designed, with a darker coloration that matched the the overall style of the theater. The chest-high barrier that surrounded the box was made of a dark wood she didn’t recognize, and almost seemed to be slightly angled, a technique she had been informed before was in attempt to improve the acoustical quality of the building.
“You may choose any seat you wish,” Celestia said, walking past the back row of chairs to take a seat in the front row, right in front of the barrier. “I myself always choose the front row. I suspect that when the architect designed these boxes, he never quite expected somepony of my own height to frequent them. The sound level in the back of these boxes never quite felt as rich to my ears as it did in the front.”
“Did you know him?” Dawn asked as she chose her own seat in the box, not next to Celestia, but a single seat away, so that they would both have ample space to enjoy the sounds of the symphony.
“The architect?” Celestia asked, turning towards her, her pastel mane shimmering at the movement. “Only in passing. He was a little strange, even for that era. Very eccentric. But he loved his work.”
“He just didn’t expect you to use it, did he?” Dawn commented. To her surprise, Celestia laughed, throwing her head back and sending the multi-colored hues of her mane rippling across her back.
“More than most realize,” the immortal said as her laughter came to an end. “You are familiar with the half-circle seats?” She raised a hoof and pointed over the balcony edge. Dawn followed with her eyes, though she was aware of the so called “half-circle,” a small arc of seats that sat below and in front of the first row, almost directly in front of the platform occupied by the orchestra itself. It was commonly known as the “student pit” on behalf of the fact that it was reserved, low-price seating for musically inclined students from the nearby schools. Dawn nodded as she looked at the mix of ponies that was filling the seats that night, a cluster of young musicians all eagerly awaiting the show.
“Originally, there were only three seats there,” Celestia said. “Brise had them declared ‘the Royal Row’ and set aside only for myself and honored guests.” She rolled her eyes. “I appreciated the gesture, but it was a terrible seat for anything other than listening to the music. I honored his wishes until he’d been gone for a year before moving to the boxes and having the seats you see now installed. I much prefer sitting in the audience itself, or, when my height and stature make that a trifle undesirable, in a box like these.” She pulled her hoof back, still smiling. “Brise was a brilliant architect, but his understanding of social tact and strategy only extended as far as what he could glean from a textbook.”
Dawn wasn’t sure how she was supposed to respond, so she gave the Princess a simple nod. Although she had to agree that she found the diarch’s ruling and reasoning sound. Who wanted to sit so close to the performance itself and be singled out as a showpiece? The proper place to put that spot would have been near the back or middle of the hall. Not at the front.
“So tell me, Dawn,” Celestia said as the orchestra continued to warm up below them, the tuned strings mixing with faint, brassy sounds of the trumpets and the soft, even flow of the woodwinds. “How have you enjoyed your time in the Dusk Guard?”
“That depends, your—ah, Princess,” she said, catching herself at the last moment as she saw Celestia’s raised eyebrow. “Are you asking me as a Guard or simply as myself?”
“As Dawn Triage, of course,” Celestia said, bowing her head slightly. “From one mare to another.”
“Well, I imagine the answer would be quite similar,” Dawn said. “I must say I enjoy the work quite a bit, though not as much as I did my time in the Rangers. There …” she said as she caught the diarch’s questioning look, “There, I was always kept busy, kept busy by both assignments and my duties as a medical practitioner. With this new assignment, I am still not as busy as I was then; though the dangers are no less real. Even so, I would be loathe to part with my position, as it allows me to once again practice the medical career I loved so fully without entanglements.”
“Yes, I would imagine,” Celestia said, nodding. “You’ll be please to hear that the Night Court has begun to put pressure on the Ranger’s leadership to change that little bit of archaic law. They’ve proven surprisingly stubborn so far, but they’re giving. In time, they’ll fold and make the law a bit more amiable to those who follow your line of work.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Dawn said, her ears folding back slightly as a particularly robust note went bad. “Will they be retroactively extending a hoof back at any of us who’ve already been forced out?”
Celestia shook her head. “Sadly, I doubt it,” she said, looking back out over the Hall once more. “Those who are forced to admit that they themselves enforced or supported an action that was in the wrong—even if they were not those with whom the action originated—can often be loathe to admit any more than such once the nature of such an action becomes true. In truth, many of them will only do such grudgingly, as their foolish pride holds them to never admit otherwise.” She let out a sigh, her head drooping somewhat. “I and my sister do our best, but there are still some vices that run deep.”
“It’s fine,” Dawn said with a shake of her head. “In all honesty, I wouldn’t go back even if it were an option.”
“Oh?” Celestia cocked an eyebrow at her. “Why not?”
“Because while I feel I did more while I was with the Rangers, here, serving as a Guard, I find that—despite my expectations to the contrary—I find that I, myself, am more valued. Do you understand?” Celestia nodded slowly as she continued.
“Initially I took the position because I was desperate for any chance to be able to use my medical talents and abilities en masse once more. I was sick and tired of being an aide at local hospitals, of being told that I’d had my time in the sun. When Captain Song offered to hire and circumvent the retirement I had been forced into, I accepted primarily because it would once again grant me an acting medical license, and he allowed me the privilege of working at the local hospitals in order to keep my skills sharp, something I was very invested into doing. However, now …” She shook her head, her orange mane whipping back and forth in front of her eyes.
“I wouldn’t go back to the Rangers after serving alongside the Dusk Guard,” she said firmly. “It seems almost alien to me, but my place is with them. For lack of a better word, they value me. My input, my capabilities. With the Rangers I felt a bit of that, but it was always something a little less personal. I was of value to the Rangers, to the organization. Now, I’m not just valued by the Dusk Guard as a whole, but by each member. Even Hunter, who spends most of his time avoiding check-ups as efficiently as possible, I can tell values my contribution to the team.” She shook her head again.
“Perhaps I am wrong to say that I still enjoyed the Rangers more than this,” she said with a quick shrug. “Or perhaps my definition of enjoyment is subject to numerous interpretations. Perhaps it’s merely to early to tell. Or …” She let her voice trail off as the proverbial minotaur of the day reared its head. “Or,” she admitted, “perhaps I am reluctant to say I enjoy it as fully because I may have inadvertently damaged my own relation-in-standing with one member of the team.”
Celestia’s brow rose at that, her face taking on a somewhat solemn look. “Oh?” she asked. “If I might inquire, why?”
“Well,” Dawn began, trying not to shrink back as the diarch leaned forward. “I did something that, as a doctor, I should not—”
She stopped speaking as Celestia’s mane began to whip violently around the diarch’s head, twisting this way and that as if some mighty, unseen gale was spiraling through the room. The immortal’s tail was caught in the same mighty, invisible wind, twisting and in all directions just as her mane was. Dawn rose from her seat, stepping back as she tried to wrap her mind around what she was seeing. Was the Princess under attack? Was it some sort of danger? She didn’t hear anything but the warming orchestra, and Celestia hadn’t said anything. Also, the look on her face seemed to be more one of surprise than pain or fear. The whipping grew even more violent, the multi-hued mane splitting into clumps of ethereal hair that twisted around one another, wrapping around her horn and face. Celestia’s wings snapped out to their full length, the Princess snapping back as she rose to her hooves.
“Princess! Stay calm!” Dawn lit her horn and stepped forward, running through her mental list of spells. The Princess’ mane was ethereal as well as physical, which meant it reacted directly to magic in a way beyond most materials. Maybe if I—
“Hold, Dawn!” Celestia said, her own horn lighting with a brilliant glow. There was a vibrant, yellow flash, and then her mane dropped back into its usual state, softly flowing over her shoulders.
Well, Dawn admitted as she stepped back, her own horn still lit as she mentally ran through a list of spells, holding them at the ready in case she needed them. Her mane is flowing normally … But it wasn’t in the right places, and the colors were twisted around.
Celestia didn’t seem to notice either. She simply glanced back at her mane and then shook her head. “That will have to do,” she said, folding her wings back at her sides. Then she turned back towards Dawn, and Dawn’s eyes widened as she saw the stern look on Celestia’s face.
“I apologize, Sergeant,” she said, turning for the door. “But I’m afraid I will be missing this performance. As well you. You should return to your barracks immediately. Something of great import has occurred, and I fear your commanding officer will be seeking you shortly.”
Then she opened the door and was gone, a bright flash marking a teleport as she and her attendant Guard vanished.
It spoke highly of her own training, Dawn knew, that she was running before the afterimage of the flash was gone.
The barracks was already showing signs of activity as she ran up. The front doors were closed, but the magilights above them were beaming despite the fact that the sun had barely begun to set. Dawn whipped both doors wide-open with her magic as she approached them, her hooves skidding on the wooden floor as she turned to head for Captain Song’s office.
She didn’t get far. The captain was standing in the common room, speaking with a Royal Guard courier, a hastily unfolded map thrown across the common room table. A pile of magazines on the floor showed how hastily the map had been unfolded. The olive-green earth pony captain looked up at her as she entered the room before turning his attention back to the paper in front of him.
“Sergeant Major Dawn Triage, reporting for duty,” Dawn said, coming to a halt and snapping a quick salute.
“You’re back early, Sergeant,” the captain said, giving her a quick glance and then checking something on the map. “I was expecting to have to send somepony to look for you.”
“I got an early warning that something was up,” Dawn said, nodding. “So I came back as quickly as I could. What do we have?”
“Still waiting on specifics,” Captain Song said, turning back to the courier and passing him a note. The pegasus made a quick salute before turning and darting out of the room. “But the generals are this. Two to three week deployment. Cold weather operation in the Crystal Mountains. Well away from civilization. There’ll be a full briefing once we’re underway, but for now plan for an active engagement.”
“Has the Ocean spilled over?” Dawn asked, her forelegs turning icy. Surely they wouldn’t dare—
“No,” the captain said, quelling her fear. “And I would venture that under no circumstances are we to cross past the mountains unless our mission absolutely requires it. The last thing Equestria needs is to be picking sides or introducing a new one to that schoolyard fight.” Captain Song shook his head. “Hope that it doesn’t come to that. What little I’ve heard from the Ocean is …” He let out a disgruntled sigh.
“Anyway, that’s all I can give you now. Two to three weeks. Active engagement. We’re expected to face an unknown, extremely capable foe.” Captain Steel Song looked up from the map again, his face set so firmly that Dawn could easily see his namesake reflected in it. “If you need to finalize any equipment transfers or move any supplies to The Hummingbird, get to it. We’re leaving in two hours. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Dawn knew an order when she heard one. She snapped a sharp salute and turned for the medical bay, moving at a brisk trot. All right, she thought as she began to mentally catalogue the supplies and equipment she’d already stowed aboard The Hummingbird’s smaller medical bay. Some of those instruments arrived but are still in the barracks bay … The door to the medical swung open under the orange glow of her magic, her telekinetic field extending to turn on the lights even as she began to open cupboards and pull out bins.
I’ll need to grab as much as I can, she thought as skidded to a stop by her desk. And I’ll need to move the blood supplies in the freezer to The Hummingbird so we’re stocked. She began to spread her equipment out on her desk, frowning as she was forced to move a heavy envelope aside. I’ll need to get my saddlebags for my armor and doublecheck that I have everything. She shoved the envelope aside once again before sighing and lifting it out of the way. And what is this doing sitting out on my—oh.
She opened the envelope with her magic, closing her eyes and shaking her head as she saw the text along the top. I can’t deal with this now, unfortunately. If I tell him, it will only be a distraction. She shook her head. No. I have to tell him eventually. But now, before our mission … it wouldn’t be fair to him.
She trotted over to one of her many file cabinets, sliding a drawer open and flipping through dividers until she found the right place for the envelope. It slid down between the dividers with a rasping sound, its dark brown surface standing out against the clear, blemishless parchment on either side. The dissonance would be her reminder, her inspiration for when they returned.
She took one last look at the sheet she’d left on top of the stack and then slid it back into the envelope, shutting the drawer and turning away as the opening lines gave one final echo across her mind.
“Seaddle Medical General - Ethereal Blood Test - Living Blood Relation Search - Patient: Nova Beam.” And below that, in simple, block text…
“One Match Found.”