Scootaloo tests out her inter-dimensional time traveling snow sled.
It's an enjoyable winter afternoon in Ponyville. Foals wage arctic warfare on one another in the form of snowballs, lovers dance majestically on the frozen lake, and then Scootaloo whips out her inter-dimensional snow sled.
November 20th, 3891. Twenty-two minutes past noon on a gray snowy day.
It was a very good time to start.
Layers of frost crunched beneath the little filly's hooves as Scootaloo trudged up the hill. She was far from alone. Looking out across the snow-blanched fields of Ponyville park, she saw dozens of fellow villagers enjoying the wintry wonderland. Little foals in woolly gear chased each other and launched snowballs merrily at random, giggling and shouting from their frosted bastions. Mothers and fathers huddled with their nervous children by the frozen lakeside, teaching them how to skate for the first time. Couples sat side by side on park benches, cradling steamy mugs of hot cocoa in their fetlocks.
It was the first winter snap to touch Ponyville that year—an early one at that—and the townsponies couldn't be happier. They gathered in droves to enjoy the extra-long weekend, afforded them by an inclement blizzard. In just a few days—no doubt—the thicker layers of the snow would melt and they'd have a week or two of trudging back to work. But—for the time being—they were free to enjoy the crisp, cool spontaneity of the moment, and it drew almost everyone out of their homes and into the fresh air.
All things considered, there were just far too many citizens and onlookers out and about. If Scootaloo was smart, she would have postponed for another afternoon.
But there was nothing smart about what Scootaloo was about to do.
Holding her breath, she continued her uphill march. In spite of the cold, she was sweating. This had less to do with the thick purple-striped scarf around her neck and a lot more to do with the huge, heavy sled that she was lugging up the snowy embankment behind her. A tarp had been curiously thrown over the vehicle, weighed down by a heavy saddlebag stuffed full of even more things than a little pony might need for a casual afternoon stroll in the snow.
A few ponies glanced at her, arching their eyebrows at Scootaloo's conspicuous cargo, but they swiftly returned to whatever enjoyable business they were conducting. The air filled with laughter and chuckles. Soon, the voices dwindled—for Scootaloo was putting a great deal of distance between herself and the heart of the crowd. With dogged determination, she made a beeline for the tallest snow-capped hill in the park, leaving two thick lines in the frost behind her.
At last, after much vaporous huffing and puffing, Scootaloo reached the top of the ridge. Even after stopping in her tracks, her heart beat all the faster. It was all downhill from here... in more ways than one.
The filly threw the straps of the sled limply to the snow and made a mental count of things. Saddlebag full of bare necessities?Check. Helmet?Check. Goggles?Check.Scarf?Check.Extra scarf?Double-check.Sled...?
Scootaloo turned around to face the shrowded object in question. But just as she reached for the tarp...
...her forelimb brushed against a crystalline pendant dangling around her neck. A sliver of sunlight through the clouds caught a midnight purple glint that tickled her vision.
The feathered filly couldn't help but pause. She took a deep breath, gingerly feeling the pendant in her hoof. She stared at the slender rock's glazed, violet surfaces—ensnared in a web of gold bands wrapping all around it like spider silk. Scootaloo's amber eyes fluttered shut, and—for a brief moment—her mind went back in time to twenty-four hours ago... when a large package arrived at her door... along with a letter...
Hopefully now that you have received the sled, you will have realized that the previous four letters were not written in jest. This is as real as it gets. I timed everything perfectly. The leyline alignment. The astronomical coordination with the Eponal Belt. Even the precise time when you receive this. On the evening of the 19th, a blizzard will roll through central Equestria, blanketing Ponyville with an early layer of snow. If you have any prevailing doubts, I hope that this latest detail—if nothing else—will convince you of the truth.
The best time to perform the first experiment is this coming Monday, November 20th, around midday. Don't worry, you won't be called to school then. Trust me. Besides, you have all the time in the world now. I only ask for one thing and one thing alone.
Scootaloo, my lovable little scamp, you absolutely must come to these coordinates: December 11th in the year 3882 of the Equestrian Era. Location: 1983 Heave End on the east side of Downtown Fillydelphia at precisely 6:31pm. There, you will find a duplex situated besides a giant oak tree. Walk up to the door on the left—with the pegasus-shaped door knocker—and knock three times. I promise you, I will answer. And when I do, I must ask in this letter that you give me back the pendant that I sent you two weeks ago in the second parcel. By the time you give it to me, it must be free of the gold bands that currently encase it. This will all make sense to you at the time, I promise. In the meanwhile, you may go and do anything else with the sled as you wish—provided that you exercise extreme caution. But you absolutely must arrive at these coordinates at some point or another. For safety's sake, please follow my previous instructions to the letter, and you won't regret it.
I know that I am asking a lot of you, but this is the only way we must proceed with the experiment. Believe me when I tell you that—while I am requesting much—I also intend to give you so, so much more. I know that you have always felt... constrained by the circumstances of your life, Scootaloo. It is my sincere hope that both you and I will now find new freedom... new liberation in the time to come... a time that is boundless.
And please believe me when I say that you have always been and shall continue to be my most favorite niece, a source of inspiration in more ways than you can possibly fathom. I look forward to when we meet again. And we will meet again. It is written in the stars... just like the blueprint for the sled was.
As the written words from Aunt Wellspring's letter trailed in her mind, the glinting sunlight off the crystalline pendant filled the gap. She turned the dangling object over and over in her hoof, studying how the gold bands dug into the stone material like eagle talons. She couldn't imagine how she'd be able to rid the heirloom of the metallic frame with any relative ease, but now was not the time to worry about that.
Now was not the time to worry about anything... much less time itself.
Goosebumps formed under Scootaloo's fur. With an enthused breath, she looked up and gave the horizon a final contemplative glance. Fillies and colts continued with their snowball fights. Oblivious families began skating across an icy lake. Across the way, Scootaloo watched as a clumsy foal in a frilly orange cloak fell off her sleigh and tumbled wildly down a snowy embankment.
"Heh..." Scootaloo smirked devilishly, throwing the length of her scarf around her neck. "...featherweight."
It was a very good time indeed.
She turned towards the sled, leaned over, and bit down hard on the tarp. With one swift jerk of the neck, she yanked it clean off.
The vehicle was exposed completely to the sunlight. Although small, the sled was far from lightweight. It was constructed out of durable iron, with noticeable rivets reinforcing a rust-red colored hull. A reflective silver brace lifted out of the upwards-bent front of the sled, and it branched out in two blue handles—perfectly shaped for a young filly to grip without stretching too hard. There were multiple dials in the handles, all fitted with revolving numbers like a complex combination lock. Then—at the bottom of the silver brace, where it made contact with the main body of the sled—there was a glossy transparent panel that stretched across the width of the sled, through which multiple flip panels read the current date—and time—in monochromatic simplicity:
"NOV – 20 – 3891 – 12:24pm"
Towards the rightmost edge of the transparent panel, seconds and milliseconds ticked away at a swift speed. If Scootaloo leaned in close enough, she could hear the inner gears of a delicate chronometer humming and puttering away beneath the iron exoskeleton of the sled.
But these were far from the most noticeable details of the vehicle. Scootaloo trotted quietly around the vehicle and took a glance at its undercarriage. Postioned towards the rear of the sled—between the main body and where the blades met the snowy hilltop—were two parallel tubes of crystalline material. The horizontal cylinders hugged the underbelly of the craft, and their glossy purple surfaces resembled the pendant hanging from the little pegasus' neck. There was more to this material than met the casual eye, however. If one stared long enough, one would notice a dim glow to it, something far deeper than enchantment. The words from Aunt Wellspring's third letter struck Scootaloo's mind: how she warned about staring too long at the cylinders... that it would feel like drifting off into the deepest vacuum of the cosmos... and make one feel just as cold and lonesome.
So, with a determined breath, Scootaloo wrenched her eyes off the twin cylinders and their constelattory shine. She reached down, picked up the heavy backpack, and strapped it across her flank. Next, she plopped the purple-striped helmet to her cranium and slipped on a pair of goggles. Scootaloo took a moment to look downhill, and the inevitable drop looked far greater than she had ever previously imagined. For all she knew, she could just as well have been gazing into the darkest niche of Ghastly Gorge.
That was the precise stab of fear that she needed, and the challenge was ultimately accepted. Scootaloo climbed quietly on board the sled, took a breath, and began rotating the dials on the blue handles with her hooves.
She had made the decision late last night—while lying restless for hours in bed, finding sleep impossible to achieve while the blizzard raged outside and the words from her aunt's last letter broiled in her mind. Her decision was that she would play it safe for the first push. After all... what would be the thrill in future jumps if the very first leap was the longest and wildest of all?
The handles clicked and clattered as Scootaloo's fetlocks fiddled with the numbered dials of the sled's left handle. She licked her lips in the blistering cold air, squinting down at the translucent panel beneath her forward half that contained the current date. In response to her manipulations of the dials, she saw the numerical drop cards being highlighted in a luminescent red glow. Following the instructions from her aunt's letters, she tweaked and toyed with the counter until the digits "19" hovered above the static "20." The current time was also highlighted in red, but Scootaloo chose to leave that alone.
She twisted the dials of the right handle. This produced a click from halfway down the silver brace. Her gaze darted to where a compass was fitted against the neck of the structure. All cardinal directions were highlighted in red, and a numerical field in the center of the compass read "0000." Holding her breath, Scootaloo twisted the dials of the right handle back. Click! The red glow left the compass, and Scootaloo exhaled with relief.
No need to get too wild for the first one...
Scootaloo stood tall in the sled, staring forward. The snow drifting all around her slowed down, as if the whole world was holding its breath. On the edge of its seat.
It was now or never.
Gritting her teeth, Scootaloo yanked the handles out towards opposite sides. Cht-Chtunk!
Something deep within the belly of the sled hummed to life. The little filly felt a metallic vibration running up and down the length of the vehicle. In her peripheral vision, she detected the two crystalline cylinders glowing with purple vibrance—but she knew better than to stare directly at them. Especially now of all times.
Stretching out a shaky hoof, she pushed back against the snow. The sled inched forward... teetering on the edge of the tallest hilltop in Ponyville. She felt a great heat resonating from below. The blades of the sled glowed bright blue, and steam hissed from where they made contact with the frozen gloss.
Scootaloo momentarily remembered a dream that she had in preschool years ago. A dream that she had woken up from, awash with tears and sobs. Ever since then, she tried to make up for her inabilities by catching as much air as she possibly could every waking day.
Now days too were a dream.
Scootaloo pushed forward.
The wind in her face was freezing, punishing. She welcomed it. The filly waited until the howl of the air met the pitch of the cylinders vibrating beneath her. When at long last she reached the highest speed, she shoved the handles back towards the center with an audible CLACK!
The steam from the sled exploded all around her. Gravity vanished along with the wind, and soon Scootaloo was throttling down a pallid tunnel of white froth flowing in a spiral around her. Her eyes twitched, trying to make sense of the maddening flurry of snow rolling in every direction. She looked down the length of the ivory tunnel, and—for a moment there—she thought she saw countless reflections of herself. A hundred million orange ponies on rust red sleds, sliding into an eternity of bent, broken mirrors.
Scootaloo wasn't ashamed to admit that this frightened her. She tightened her grip of the handle, prepared to abort the process at a moment's heartbeat.
But then it finished on its own... just as quickly as the slalom had started.
With a spray of powdery snow, Scootaloo skidded to a sudden stop.
She lurched, blinking. The pendant around her neck swayed and went still. Scootaloo's head jerked left and right, surveying the scene.
She was at the bottom of the hill. A thin layer of snow blanketed the soil now. Many of the green blades of grass were exposed.
Scootaloo blinked again. She leaned off the sled, craning her neck to look across the nearby glen.
The park was mostly empty. The ponies who had populated it moments ago were now gone. There was no sign of the foals, the parents, the couples congregating in the nippy afternoon air. Either they had gone home, or...
Scootaloo rubbed her head beneath her helmet, fighting a lingering dizziness. Had she fanted? Did she collapse and wake up hours later? Most of the snow had melted, so it had to be...
Her ears tickled from a hissing noise. She looked down to see the last tufts of steam venting from beneath her sled. The two crystalline cylinders glowed... glowed some more... and finally dimmed. So did the blades of the sled.
No...
Scootaloo's muzzle scrunched.
No... she hadn't fainted after all. This was very real. This was...
Scootaloo looked down at the hoof-board of the vehicle. Her eyes caught the translucent panel beneath the silver brace... and she did a double-take.
The numerical counter had changed. The date now read: November 19 3891 3:05pm.
Her lips trembled... as did the rest of her body. Scootaloo stepped backwards off the sled altogether, putting a great deal of space between her and the vehicle... as if it would explode at any moment. More than once she nearly fell onto her flank; the weight of her saddlebag was unbearable. So—with panting breaths—she stripped the thing off altogether and trotted in a random direction. Zig-zagging through random patches of snow, she finally found a park bench to lean against. There, she slumped, sweating in spite of the numbing cold.
Yesterday...
She loosened the scarf around her neck and limply pulled her helmet off. Shaking her violet bangs loose, she stared with shrunken pupils into the overcast sky.
Yesterday... ... ...?!?
She gulped dryly and considered sitting down.
That's when she heard voices. Foalish voices. Familiar voices.
"... ... ...?" Spinning around, Scootaloo looked up the path.
Three figures were trotting briskly her way. Their voices melodically tickled the air, girlish and feminine and enthusiastic.
Scootaloo panicked... if only for the sake of panicking itself. Without thinking twice, she picked up her helmet and saddlebag and galloped off to hide behind a thick oak tree. There, she planted herself against the gnarled trunk and stood—frozen and still.
The voices of the three fillies carried itself over the light percussion of clopping hooves.
"What do you mean you can't join us?"
"We've been plannin' this for weeks! The Cutie Mark campers will be disappointed if ya dun show up!"
"What could possibly be more important than the Cutie Mark Crusader Winter Welcoming Party?!"
Scootaloo bit her lip. Slowly, she peeked out from behind the tree. She watched the three fillies walking around the path. In the center was a young orange mare, trotting tall and proud. For a brief moment, Scootaloo simply told herself that it was Babs Seed. But even she wasn't that stupid.
Heart pounded and she listened in...
"I'm sorry, Sweetie Belle. Apple Bloom. But something came up at the last second."
"Like what?!"
"Tell us! You've been so dang secretive lately."
"I know. And I'll make it up to you! And don't worry about the Winter Welcoming Party. It's gonna be postponed 'cuz of a blizzard overnight."
"Blizzard? What blizzard?!"
"Are the pegasi planning an early winter cold snap or something?"
"It's... guh... I just can't explain it right now!"
"Well, when can ya, Scootaloo?"
"In time, girls. I'll explain all things... in time. I'm sorry, but for right now, you just have to trust me!"
"Well... alright..."
"But you'd better 'fess up sooner than later! Heh... 'postponed 'cuz of a blizzard.' What a load of apple rot."
"Apple Bloom..."
"Dun give me the stink-eye, Sweetie Belle! I coulda thought up a much better excuse...!"
Scootaloo was hardly breathing. It was probably because she was too busy mouthing the words of middlemost filly passing by. By the time all three had left, she sported a dumb smile. Her wingtips fluttered, and she backtrotted numbly from the scene. In her absent-mindedness, she tripped over her own backpack. But it didn't matter. For the first time in her young life, Scootaloo embraced gravity's accursed anchor. Lying on her back in the snow, she hugged herself and giggled into the cold air. The filly's breathy vapors danced between her and the sky, and she reveled in it. There may even have been a tear or two as she maniacally stretched all four limbs, forming an angel pony in the slushy precipitation.
Her heartbeats were loud explosive things. Like gunshots. Eventually, one of them threw her back up onto her hooves. In a rush of enthusiasm, Scootaloo strapped both her saddlebag and helmet back on. Galloping, she rushed around the hillside and returned to her wagon. In less than a minute, she had pushed the heavy thing back up onto the top of the hill. Sweat clung to her fur in the cold air, but it didn't stop the filly from mounting the sled once again and gripping the handles.
At last, she had to pause... if only to catch her breath and steady her trembling hooves. The dumb grin on her muzzle lingered as she looked down at the dormant date beneath the translucent panel.
Time...
Scootaloo closed her eyes.
Time to be a little bit more daring...
When she reopened her eyes, she was already twisting the dials of the left handle. Just like before, she left the right handle alone.
The compass remained untouched. Meanwhile—the chronological counter experienced several crimson alterations. It was nevertheless a humble choice, and Scootaloo took her time inputting the numbers carefully. At long last—once she was finished—she exhaled and drew her goggles back over her eyes.
Ch-Chtunk! She pulled the handles out.
The crystalline cylinders glimmered to life. Steam vented outward from the glowing blades of the sled. She pushed the vehicle towards the edge of the hill, facing down a length of earth that was covered in enough slick snow to make this work.
And...
...she pushed.
Swoooooooosh!
She approached maximum speed. Frost formed along the lenses of her goggles. With clenched teeth, she waited for the right moment and pushed in on the handles. CLACK!
Flaaaaaaaaaaaaaash!
Once again, she was navigating an impossibly long tunnel of snow. She looked behind her and saw a million other Scootaloos doing the same thing. Then—in the space of a blink—they all flew inwards, merging with her in a singular act of spectral implosion...
She was standing dead-still. The sled was standing dead-still. The hilltop, the park, the pathways in between—it was all covered with a thick layer of snow. Much thicker than a minute ago. However, the sky above was clear. A bright sun was shining—low to the horizon—and the moisture in the air suggested that much of the frosted precipitation was in the long process of melting.
Scootaloo gulped. In the next breath, she sniffed the air. Her eyes narrowed.
It all smelled the same...
Scootaloo lifted her goggles and looked around.
Everything was still and quiet.
So she stripped her helmet off and looked around some more.
The snowbanks glistened soundlessly in the warm sun. Tree branches hung with the weight of icicles. There was no wind.
Scootaloo exhaled long and hard. Her vapors lingered, rippled, and finally dissipated.
Did something go wrong?
Everything felt so... same-y.
Gnawing on her bottom lip, she looked down at the hoofboard of the sled. Her eyes traced the characters resting beneath the translucent counter: November 20 3871 9:05am.
"Twenty years ago..."
Scootaloo's own voice shattered the moment like thunder, although it was barely a whisper.
She looked up, squinting at the bright horizon.
"This is twenty years ago...?"
One hoof after another, Scootaloo stepped off the sled. Snow crunched under her fetlocks, swiftly turning to slush. The warm rays of a morning sunrise tickled her fur, clashing with the numbness emanating from her center. She looked around at the familiar trees, the familiar park benches, the familiar trail. Birds fluttered across random branches overhead, looking no older or younger than yesterday or tomorrow.
The filly exhaled hard, nostrils flaring. She strolled several paces ahead, putting distance between herself and the sled. She approached a park bench, cocking her head to the side and observing the wooden surfaces covered with a thin layer of condensation. The seat of the bench looked... brighter?A strange, vibrant coat of green? Or—no—maybe she was just imagining it...
Groaning inwardly, Scootaloo pivoted about. She glanced lethargically at the treetops, the roofs of Ponyville, the Canterlot Mountains lingering in the distance—
"... ... ...!!!"
Scootaloo's vision zipped back to the Ponyville skyline. Something was missing. Chiefly: the only thing that stretched high enough to even give the tiny town a "skyline" in the first place.
The Castle of Friendship...
Twilight Sparkle's crystalline home... ...
... ... ...it was gone.
Scootaloo's jaw hung open. "Holy sm-smokes..." She gulped dryly, trotting limply towards the treeline separating the park from the town proper.
She detected movement. Bodies trotting left and right beyond the tree trunks. Wagons being pulled and carriages rattling to a stop. The place was alive... real... and there was definitely no Friendship Palace.
Once again, Scootaloo's heart was doing loopty-loops. With a goofy smile, she broke into a sprint...
...only to skid to a stop twenty feet from where she began running. Biting her lip, Scootaloo turned and looked behind her.
The sled rested at the base of the snowy hill, fully exposed. A geometric trail of parallel blade-tracks magically materialized halfway down the rise and led directly to where the vehicle was positioned.
Biting her lip, Scootaloo scampered back to the sled. Grunting and sweating, she pulled the metal thing across the field and towards a dense thicket of trees situated behind a park bench. Once it was safely hidden, she pulled a plug from the top of the silver brace. The device immediately went dormant, its crystalline cylinders quieting completely. Scootaloo then plopped the plug into a forward pocket of her backpack, making sure it was safe and tightly hidden. Out of paranoia—if nothing else—she trotted back to the hillside and used her sweeping tailhairs to "mask" the sled's tracks. It only created a greater mess in the otherwise immaculate patch of snow, but Scootaloo was too rushed to think rationally at this point. Also, she was trembling with unnameable excitement.
Panting for breath, she loosened her scarf slightly... and marched towards the heart of town with just her saddlebag in tow. She felt tiny, light, and more than a little bit vulnerable. The sensation only grew more numbing with each step she took from the sled... and into the reality of this antiquated moment.
Scootaloo half-expected a spectacle, but she swiftly learned better. What she ultimately stumbled upon was none other than Ponyville... a slightly smaller, quieter, and less monster-infested Ponyville, but Ponyville nonetheless. There were about a dozen or so fewer buildings than she remembered. This became more evident as she trotted deeper into the center of the snow-speckled village. Gazing east, Scootaloo expected to see the colorful tents and storefronts that made up the bulk of the Ponyville marketplace. They completely didn't exist here, and instead she saw a rickety wooden fence that bordered what in the warmer seasons must have been a cornfield.
A cornfield? This close to town hall?
Speaking of which, Scootaloo's hooves slowed slightly as she approached the dead center of town. She looked up and up some more, her muzzle hanging agape. The cylindrical structure of the town hall building was still being constructed. Wood and metal scaffolds formed a porous exoskeleton around the unfinished summit of the structure. Workponies had evidently suspended their task during the snowfall, and several tarps clung to the exposed woodwork. They flapped in the wing, creating a haunting cadence that made Scootaloo's skin crawl.
Just then, there was an obnoxiously loud noise honking directly behind her. At first, Scootaloo didn't move, because the sound identically matched the noise typically made by clown gags that she was used to hearing. The synapses in her brain suddenly fired, however, reminding her that that very same noise also corresponded with old time-y wagon horns.
"!!!" She hopped towards the nearest lamppost. Within seconds, two old workstallions pulled a thick iron storage cart past her at blazing speed. Scootaloo watched—dumbfounded—as the old model carriage careened around the nearest street-corner, making its rickety way towards some nebulous destination. The filly never thought hard about it before, but she was used to seeing those same model wagons immortalized in tacky post cards—or else wasting away to a rusted fate in some overgrown backyard.
Leaning against the lamppost, Scootaloo looked across the snow-dusted street. Her eyes immediately danced between the occasionally familiar patterns: a rectangular-shaped store sign, a brightly-painted barber shop pole, a triangular arrangement of ceramic roof siding, an old faded woodshed in an alley that suddenly looked a lot less old and a lot less faded. Scootaloo's vision locked on the front window of a toy store that the little filly had familiarized herself with all her life... only now it was labeled as "Brook Trotter's Projectors and Film Reel Rentals."
The filly's muzzle scrunched. "Ponies used to... rent movies?" She looked up and down the sidewalk.
Ponies trotted to and from work in the early morning. They looked... about as normal as always. A few citizens had slightly different manestyles—the mares especially—but otherwise Scootaloo could just as well have been visiting any other town block on any other given day. At one point, a stallion lingered ever so slightly as he passed her, tilting his hat with a smile.
"'Morning," he rasped pleasantly, winked, and was off to whatever destination awaited him.
"Hmmmm..." Scootaloo smiled. "At least we're still polite." She smiled some more. "Hmmm-hee-hee-hee..." She wasn't sure why she was giggling. She didn't care. This was great.
Trotting backwards, Scootaloo bumped into a random trash bin. Her ears perked up, and she instinctually dug her head deep into the garbage. Within seconds, she was leaning back out and facehoofing. Hard.
"Dummy," she muttered to herself. "Stupid dodo. This isn't a work of fiction. You can't just... go back in time and immediately expect some rando to drop the morning newspaper into the nearby trash can for you to conveniently read." She chuckled... then chuckled some more. Outright giggling, she hugged herself before trotting giddy circles into the nearby road. Her vision swam, swirled... then came to a sobering stop on a haunting sight. "... ... ...Whoah." She blinked while her scarf and pendant settled in place as well.
Before her stretched the Golden Oaks Library. The tree somehow looked fuller, taller, and less gnarled. But—perhaps—it was her sentimental memory playing tricks on her. The beehive she remembered was gone, and there was no telescope on the upper balcony... or even an upper balcony whatsoever.
"Probably because there's no Princess Twilight..." Scootaloo winced. "Twilight Sparkle." She winced again, smiling in spite her ditziness. "How friggin' young is she at this point, anyway? Four? Five?"
Just then, the door to the Golden Oaks library creaked open. Two adolescent ponies scampered out, their saddlebags packed full with thick tomes and botany magazines.
"Quick!" one filly—a fuchsia darling with stylishly perm'd hair—lisped through thick braces. "I gotta thtudy up ath much ath I can before my cute-thenera! I don't want the other fillieth to think I'm a total dunce!"
"Don't worry!" the other filly squeaked, rosy locks flowing as she galloped beside her friend. "I'll help you study extra hard! Squee! Ohhhhhh I'm so glad my best friend got a flower for a cutie mark! We're going to be B.F.F.F.F's! Best Filly Flower Friends Forever!"
"???" Scootaloo craned her neck. She glanced at the first pony's flank, and the smiling daisies that looked back at her made her gasp. "Whoah! Hey! Cheerilee!"
The filly in braces skidded to a stop. In a cold sweat, she looked down the street in Scootaloo's direction. "Wh-who thaid that?!?"
In the last few milliseconds, a wincing Scootaloo had stealthily leapt behind a lamppost, pressing her body to it and hiding from sight. Her heart ran a mile per minute as she held her breath, mentally berating herself.
"Cheery? What's wrong?" the other filly asked.
"I..." She trembled, ears drooped. "I thought I heard thomepony, Rotheluck. What if it'th Fleur and the otherth? If they thaw me like thith, I-I don't think I could ever live it down!"
"Pffft. Since when did those gum-chewing bimbos come anywhere near a library? We're fine! Quick! Let's get to my house to study! On the double!"
"Thankth, Rotheluck..." The two fillies resumed galloping, full of smiles and giggles. "You're thuch a courageouth pony!"
"Heehee! Don't jinx it, now!"
Scootaloo waited a good long minute after last hearing their hoofsteps. Finally, she looked out from behind the lamppost. After a steady sigh, she finally trotted out onto the sidewalk again. She contemplated what she had just witnessed... then chuckled breathily into the nippy air.
"Brbbrbbrbrrr..." She hugged herself, suddenly remembering how cold it was. The sun must have gone behind a cloud... or else she was starting to feel the weight of everything falling awesomely into place. "I need something to eat. Something warm."
So, after thinking out loud to herself, she followed an innately buried habit. She trotted down Ponyville's mainstreet, took a right, then a left, then another right until...
"Whoah..." Scootaloo's hooves scuffled to a stop. She absent-mindedly clutched the crystalline pendant dangling from her neck as she looked up and down at the building standing right in front of her. "What the...?"
Sugarcube Corner was gone... only it wasn't. A different building sat in the same exact place as the bakery she knew and loved. It possessed the same foundation, the same windows, the same multiple stories and cornerstones. However, where Sugarcube Corner was bright, pastel, and whimsically decorated, this structure was drab, brown, rigid, and unimaginative. And—yet—as Scootaloo stood there—gawking—she watched as ponies casually trotted in and out the front door. Those exiting balanced trays of coffee and steaming oatmeal on their flanks.
"It..." Scootaloo blinked. "... ... ...it was refurbished?" Her lips pursed. She looked over her shoulder, wings twitching. A few seconds ticked by. She looked back at the cafe with a stupid smirk. It was dumb—and she figured she might regret it—but she trotted towards the building anyways, making her way in through the front door with a dull-yet-rhythmic bell ringing overhead.
"Hello!" a male voice called out across the front lobby. Scootaloo looked to see a acne-riddled teenager calmly, dutifully mopping a checkerboard tile floor. "Welcome to Cantershadow Cafe."
Scootaloo stood numbly in the doorway. Her muzzle moved slowly, pronouncing the awkward name she had just heard through stiff lips. Nevertheless, it felt comfortably warm inside the place... although the heat was coming from one direction only. She looked to her left and saw a gray metal box positioned atop a counter and aimed at the lobby in general. It was a heat lamp; Scootaloo recalled one from an old neighbor she used to visit as a little filly.
It was all normal.
Everything was simply normal.
It was... boring and stale and there was no modern air conditioning and no Pinkie Pie...
...but otherwise it was all normal.
Taking a deep breath, Scootaloo trotted forward. She found that there was no table setup like she was used to, but rather a very long counter fitted with stools. Taking off her saddlebag and scarf, she hopped up onto one seat—struggling a bit due to her small stature. Trying not to tremble, she allowed the warmth from the distant lamp to toast her snow-christened figure. She glanced to her left and right, realizing that a few other citizens were also seated at the counter. They calmly sipped from warm mugs of coffee and bowls of soup as they allowed the wakefulness of the day to float to their senses.
One of them—as it turned out—did have a newspaper. As the earth pony flipped a page, Scootaloo caught a glimpse of the sports section. There was a bold header, covering the announcement of the Equestrian Games in Fillydelphia. Scootaloo wondered if the event was anywhere near as epic as it was when she attended the Games in the Crystal Empire.
She then realized that she had every opportunity to attend the Equestrian Games in Fillydelphia.
She then then realized that she had every opportunity to attend the Equestrian Games hosted at anyplace and at anytime.
She then thenthen realized that—at that current point in time—the Crystal Empire was about nineteen years away from resurfacing... and she was the only soul in Ponyville who knew about it. The only soul in that room who knew, for that matter.
She was a living relic from another time, and this moment was very... very real.
Chills ran down her back. Scootaloo looked at the wall behind the cafe's counter. Many of the advertisements, logos, and decorations had an antique vibe about them—but they were all shiny and brand new. There was a framed black-and-white photograph taken of the first working staff situated outside the Cantershadow Cafe on Opening Day. Scootaloo wondered where that very same photograph might exist twenty years in the future... and if it too was forgotten just like the cafe's name, buried beneath Sugarcube Corner's layers upon layers of pastel decorations.
"Soup's up!" a greasy stallion grumbled, limping crookedly out of the back kitchen. A mare waved her hoof, and he swiftly passed it the patron's way. "Here ya go. Have a good day." As she scampered back out into the cold, the employee marched down the counter. "Hey! Turnip!"
The teenage stallion gasped, skittishly juggling his mop before grasping it again. "Erm, it's Carrot, Mr. Trots."
"Whatever." The cook belched. "Did Miss Swirl show up with the banana bread yet?"
"Uhmmmm..." The stallion gulped, and Scootaloo could see a rapid blush forming beneath his acne. "No, sir. I-I haven't t-talked with Chiffon Swirl all day. I-I-I mean... she hasn't been by with the banana bread. Not yet. Uhm... sir."
"Relax, kid. This ain't no interrogation." The cook pointed. "You done the front room?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Trots. Just finishing up."
"Good. When you're done, go clean out the back. Then Carrot can come help you make the first round of deliveries once his shift starts."
"I believe you mean 'Turnip,' sir."
"Whatever." Mr. Trots glanced down the line of patrons. When he saw Scootaloo, he did a double-take. "Oh! Hi there, little Missy. New customer! My apologies—I didn't see you there."
Scootaloo gulped and broke a smile. "It's cool."
"Uh huh. You wanna order something?"
"I take it there's no banana bread."
"Heh. No. Not yet. Hang out for a bit and it'll show up."
"That's fine. I could... uh..." Scootaloo brightened. "Oh! I could go for a Surprise Gummy Smile Pastry!"
Both the cook and the teen with the broom did double-takes.
"A Surprise Gummy what???"
Scootaloo blinked. She looked up at the ceiling, eyes darting left and right. "It's the year 3871. Pinkie Pie doesn't move out of Dredgemane for another three... dang it...Ahem." She folded her fetlocks nervously together and opened her muzzle. "Uhhhhh... I'll have... uhm..." She bit her lip. "...strawberry stroodle?"
"Okay, then." The stallion fetched a package and turned the toaster on. "That'll be two bits, ma'am."
"Oh. Sure..." Scootaloo fidgeted through her saddlebag. "What's the old slogan? 'So hot, they're cool?'"
"Hey...!" A mare from two stools down chirped. "That's pretty catchy!"
Scootaloo blinked. "Yeah... I'm... uh..." She dropped two coins onto the table. "...I'm sure some wicked smart businesspony in advertising will think of it someday." She gulped, deciding to clam her muzzle shut. If only for a little bit.
Mr. Trots picked up the two coins. He suddenly froze in place, doing a double-take and blinking at the bits. His eyes darted towards Scootaloo, and he spoke: "Say... uh... I'm not trying to point any hooves or nothin', but..." He leaned forward with the coins in open view. "...one of these is a bogus bit."
"Bogus?" Scootaloo blinked. She tried not to tremble. "What—you mean like a counterfeit?"
"Pffft-yeah!" The stallion chuckled. "Some idiot engraved the year '1389' on this coin! Way to stick with the times, ya doofus! Hahaha! Ahem..." He rubbed the coin while squinting at the filly. "I'm guessing some rat hoofed this to you on the street? Or at the playground?"
"I... got it at the bank, actually..." Scootaloo blurted.
"At the bank?" Mr. Trots winced. "Yeesh. I might wanna make a withdrawal before everything sinks to Tartarus."
"Does the kid need a coin?" a stallion at the far end of the counter asked. "I'll cover."
"Nah. It's good." A gracious smile crossed Mr. Trots' face as he stuffed the "good" coin into his apron. "Consider it a traveller's discount, kid." He winked in Scootaloo's direction.
Scootaloo cocked her head to the side. "Traveller's... discount...?"
"Well, you're just passing through, aren't ya?" Mr. Trots took the moment to wipe the back counter clean. He glanced over his shoulder. "I'm guessing your folks dropped you off while they checked in at the local hotel."
"What makes you think I don't live here?" Scootaloo asked. She immediately heard spoons and plates rattling. She looked aside to see half of the patrons blinking curiously at her.
"A pegasus family...?" one mare remarked. "...staying in Ponyville?"
"We're... not due for weather fliers..." Another stallion glanced at the others. "...are we?"
Scootaloo glanced back at her wings, then at the room full of patrons gazing at her. "Uhhhhh—yeah!" She beamed. "That's it! Weather fliers! We're... uhm..." She leaned back with a casual smirk. "...we're here to kick your clouds away."
"No kidding...?"
"Yeah! Me and my Mom—uh—Fluttershy..." Scootaloo blushed slightly. "...my other mom Rainbow Dash..."
"That's... surprising," a mare said. "I thought Ponyville was a few hundred ponies short of the minimum population to warrant inclusion with the Cloudsdale Weather Commission."
"Oh! Uh... that's... that's just the thing!" Scootaloo rambled, fidgeting in her seat. "Cloudsdale is... anticipating a population rise in Ponyville! Sooooo..." She gulped. "...we're sending weather fliers in early?"
Dead silence.
Then...
"Hahahahaha!"
"Heeheehee!"
"You had us going there, kid!"
"Central Equestria! A place of interest! Hah! Can you imagine?"
Scootaloo exhaled with relief. "It'smorelikelythanyouthiiiiiiiink," she squeaked under her breath.
Cht-Chtung! The pastries popped up in the toaster.
"Well..." Mr. Trots smiled as he placed them on a plate and served them to the filly. "...in any case, for a night or a fortnight, you're welcome in our little farming town. It's not that exciting by pegasus standards, but I'm sure you'll fit in."
"Thanks. Uh... I'll try..."
"Still..." One mare squinted at the others. "...could you imagine a whole bunch of ponies moving in from Cloudsdale? Flying over your head everyday?"
"Yeesh... could be weirder. Could you imagine unicorns living in Ponyville? Floating stuff around with their... glowy magic?" A stallion shuddered. "I mean... not that I have any problem with unicorns."
"You're just scared of them blowing your head up from the inside!"
"Taratarus, no!" A pause. "Wait... th-they can do that?"
More chuckles lit the room.
Scootaloo giggled as she nibbled into her morning treat. She went backwards twenty years in time to have breakfast. Talk about win-win. As her tongue delighted in the strawberry flavor, she felt her body and mind relaxing more and more. The denizens of Ponyville were as simple and silly as always. She glanced at several of them, trying to see if she recognized any of their faces. Twenty years from now—Scootaloo figured—a good few of them were likely living in the old ponies' home.
"Taste good, lil' Missy?" Mr. Trots asked.
"Mmmhmmm..." Scootaloo took another bite. Her tail flicked. "Mmmfff!" She waved a hoof, then reached into her saddlebag. "Hey... uh... can I have some milk as well?"
"Absolutely, darling. One bit, please"
"It's... uh..." Scootaloo dropped two more bits and smiled sheepishly. "They're both real. I promise."
"I only need one coin for the milk. I meant it about the discount earlier."
"Thanks. You're awesome."
"Heh..." Mr. Trots took the bit and went towards the backroom to open the refrigerator. "Thanks!" he called from beyond the doorframe. "I try my best!"
"If you're actually visiting for a while..." One mare looked over at Scootaloo, smiling. "You and your mothers should visit the local windmill! They serve Ponyville's finest spinach-and-cheese there. It's a real treat—spoken about from here to Baltimare!"
Scootaloo swallowed another bite. "You mean the Harvest Mill that Green Harvest built back in 3820?"
The mare leaned back, blinking. "Wow... you know a lot about our little town, don'tcha?"
"I... uh..." Scootaloo's ears drooped. "...pay attention in school?"
"They teach foals about Cloudsdale in pegasus schools?!?"
"Erm... I'm not from Cloudsdale."
"Oh? Then where are you and your folks from, dear?"
"I... uh..." Scootaloo gulped. "Well..." She looked in the direction of the heat lamp. "...I never actually found out where I was foaled."
"Hah!" An old stallion shuffled by, chuckling. "That's the life of a pegasus, for ya! Flighty and fancy-free!"
"Sure. Not gonna deny that," Scootaloo said. "But... when I was really young... I moved into a small Equestrian village. I mean... heh... it may not have made that big of a dent in the map..." She smirked slyly. "...but I like to call it home."
"Do they even put clouds on maps these days?" the mare asked.
Another mare chided her. "Oh hush, Whistlemane. Not all pegasi live in clouds."
"Yeah." Scootaloo nodded. "Some of us live in Canterlot and like to blow up ponies' heads."
One stallion in particular shuddered while the rest of the cafe laughed.
Mr. Trots came back with a tall cold glass of milk. "Here ya go, Miss."
"Thank you." Scootaloo grasped the glass in one hoof and a half-eaten tart in the other. She squinted across the establishment. "Y'know..." A mischievous smile crossed her muzzle. "...what if I told you that someday... maybe even just a few years from now... Ponyville will become a home to all kinds of ponies."
"Oh yeah?"
"Mmmmmmm..." She took another bite, munched, and swallowed. "Oh yeah. Earth ponies... unicorns... and pegasi."
"Well, I'd say that somepony like Filthy Rich would be responsible," Mr. Trots said.
"Ewww, Diamond Tiara's dad?"
"Who?"
"Er..." Scootaloo coughed and raised the milk glass to her muzzle. "Filthy Rich? Why Filthy Rich?"
"Who else would wanna diversify Ponyville so crazily overnight?" Mr. Trots huffed. "Hmrmmmff... must be some kind of project with expanding Barnyard Bargains or something."
"You'd be surprised..." Scootaloo grinned, taking a sip. "Maybe ponies from all trots of Equestria will find themselves drawn to how nice and friendly Ponyville is."
"Hah! You make this place sound like paradise!"
Scootaloo didn't immediately respond. She was still recovering from how delicious the milk tasted. It was like nothing else she had enjoyed before—even at Sugarcube Corner. She lowered the glass, blinking incredulously at its contents. "This... this milk..."
"What's wrong with it?" a stallion asked.
"Nothing! It's... it's..." Scootaloo felt goosebumps forming under her fur. "...it's the best darn milk I've ever tasted!"
"Well, I'd hope so!" Mr. Trots dusted off his apron with a smirk. "Ponyville has some of the finest bovine neighbors in all of Equestria."
Scootaloo mouthed those last few words. "But..." A blink. "...I thought half the cattle... moved to Appleloosa."
Heads turned. Expressions were exchanged.
"Darling, what's... an Appleloosa?" a mare asked.
"Heh..." Scootaloo cracked a grin. "You'll find out one day."
"Heeheehee... such a curious child."
"Can't help it." Scootaloo took another sip of milk. "Curiosity was..." And another. "...born in my feathers. Mmmmm." She took a breath, then looked across the counter as she savored the milk's taste some more. "Speaking of which... uhm..." She fidgeted slightly. "I don't suppose any of you ponies know of... uhm..." She gulped. "...a mare named Firefly, would you?"
A few of them muttered inquisitively amongst themselves. Eventually, heads shook.
"No'm."
"No."
"Sorry... can't say that I have, dear."
Scootaloo sighed, gazing at the rest of her "breakfast" with a lethargic expression. "Yeahhhh... I figured you wouldn't have." She muttered under her breath. "She never liked to talk much..."
"Is everything alright, Miss?"
Scootaloo cleared her throat and resumed smiling. "Totally!" Another bite. Another sip. "Now... imagine if..." She leaned against the counter with a devilish smirk. "...Ponyville became the most important place in all of Equestria. I mean... how awesome would that be?"
"Hahaha! She's so adorable..!" One mare remarked. "I wish all little kids who passed through here loved this place nearly as much!"
"I dunno about Ponyville being 'important,' though," a wrinkly old stallion rasped. "I mean... I reckon we get along so fine because we're no more than a speck on the map."
"Uh huh..."
"The earth's fertile. The crops grow in earnest. The weather's easy to predict. Mmmm—eeyup. I'd say we're just fine being no more than a trading post for some of Equestria's finest produce."
"Besides..." A mare seated a few stools down smirked. "Why would any more ponies want to move out here? Most visitors are spooked by the Everfree Forest enough as it is!"
"Ha ha! Eeyup! Had a family of hoity toity retirees from Trottingham try to build a winter home out by the river! They heard just one howl of Timberwolves from beyond the northwest treeline and they booked it!"
"Hahahaha!"
"Too bad they didn't stick around for when the Great Dragon Migration floats overhead! We could've have ourselves some extra fertilizer for the next spring!"
"Hehehehe!"
The room filled with chuckles.
Scootaloo giggled as well. She smiled. "I dunno. You ponies seem really awesome to me. I bet if a bunch of newcomers moved in over the years... they'd be super happy to have you guys as neighbors." She took a warm breath. "You don't have to be big or glamorous to be important. Sometimes... you just gotta be sincere."
"I'll drink to that."
"This isn't a bar, Swirlhoof."
"Pffft! The buck do I care?!"
"Hahahaha!"
"Heeheehee..."
A random stallion in a green hoodie trotted up to the counter and placed a few bits down. "I'll have some Dr. Pony's for the road, bud."
"Alrighty..." Mr. Trots took the bits and grabbed a trio of cans.
"If you ask me..." The stallion smiled down at Scootaloo, almond eyes peering under green-and-black bangs. "...the most important place is always home. No matter what shape it's in."
Scootaloo blinked.
Other ponies nodded and murmured in agreement.
"Here ya go, stranger." Mr. Trots hoofed him the soda.
"Thankies." The stallion took the cans and saluted. "To the once and future breakfast." He trotted off—humming a playful tune to himself.
Scootaloo tapped her chin in thought. She looked down at her plate, and there was one pastry left. She chewed on it, swallowed, and murmured: "Hey, here's a weird question."
"I'm sure we've got a weird answer."
"If you could go anywhere in the world... and at any time..." Her eyes thinned above a playful smirk. "...like... through pure magic. You can just be there in a blinkg. Where would you go?"
The cheery room went silent. Scootaloo was actually surprised by how much thought the ponies were putting into it. Patrons stared blankly into their plates. Mr. Trots scratched his chin and even the teenage stallion in the corner paused in mopping to contemplate the idea.
"I think I'd go to the post office!" one stallion said.
The pony next to him grumbled. "Bah! Use your imagination!"
"Manehattan?" Mr. Trots remarked, blinking. "I've got a brother there."
"R-really, Mr. Trots?" a mare chuckled.
"Oh! Scratch that!" The cook smiled a greasy smile. "I'd go to Manehattan two years ago. Tell my brother to ditch that no-good bit-digging trollop who later broke his heart!"
"Hah! There ya go..."
"Uhm... I know it's a tad bit goofy-sounding, but..." A middle-aged mare smiled, gazing out the window at the snow-kissed rooftops of Ponyville. "...this time of year always makes me feel festive. I think I'd like to go back to Thirty-Eighth Century Canterlot... give Snowfall Frost a hug. I always imagined she need one."
"Oh Pickle Prance. You're such a silly pony. A Hearth's Warming Tale is just a made-up legend."
"Even still!" The mare beamed. "I'd love to see the wardrobes from that time period! I mean... the actual dresses they wore! And not the silly, cheap imitations they sew for today's Hearth's Warming plays. Heeheehee..."
"They certainly knew how to throw some classy parties back then."
"Yessir. Long before Canterlot became snobbish."
"Hahaha! Got that right."
"Hmmmmmmm..." Scootaloo smiled, cheeks rosy. "...sounds pretty awesome, actually." A deep breath, and she inhaled the last of her pastry and gulped the last of her milk.
A mare raised an eyebrow. "Leaving so soon, Missy?"
"Mmmhmmm!" Scootaloo gulped and threw on her scarf and saddlebag. "Gotta jet!"
"Well, it was a pleasure having you around to liven up our morning. I bet your parents are missing you."
"Heh..." Scootaloo winked, hopping off the stool. "...they should go to target practice and work on their aim." She waved as she trotted briskly off. "Thanks for the swell breakfast! Ponyville rocks!"
"Hah!" Mr. Trots and a few happy patrons waved. "I'm sure that's little foalish for 'A-Okay. In which case, back at ya."
"Hah! What a cute little pegasus."
"Yeah. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad with more winged ponies around."
"Ehhhh... don't be silly. Ponyville's a nothing sandwich. It'll never happen."
"I dunno. I'm kinda looking forward to it now."
"Mmmhmmm."
As Scootaloo reached the door, it flew open with a rush of cold air. A panting young mare stumbled in, bundled in snow-kissed wool.
"Oh! Oh dear, I d-didn't think I'd make it in one piece!" The plump teenager peeled her scarf loose and shook snow off her saddlebags. "A wave of icicles fell off the hardware store roof and nearly turned me into a pincushion!"
"Oh goodness!" The teenage stallion nearly dropped his mop, grimacing. "Are you okay, Chiffon?"
"Oh! Oh... C-Carrot!" The mare held a hoof to her blue muzzle. The tips of her ears turned red as she smiled. "I-I almost didn't see you there! Yes. Yes, I'm safe and sound... especially now that I see you here. Heehee..."
"Oh, well I'm glad to hear that."
"But look!" Chiffon pointed at her saddlebag. "I got the banana bread! Fresh and warm from the oven!"
"Sweet!" Carrot smiled wide. "Mr. Trots is gonna be so happy!"
"Heheheh—See?! I won't let your cafe down!"
Scootaloo cleared her throat. When the two youngsters looked her way, the little pegasus smiled and spoke to Chiffon: "Say... you should totally change your name to Cup! Then you two would be a couple of sweet, tasty Cakes!" She winked... then trotted briskly out the door... but not without stealing a glance at the two and the mutual blush spreading across their drunken-happy-smiles.
Outside, Scootaloo trotted down the paved sidewalk. She allowed her body to reacclimate to the cold, and then—when she was ready—she'd gallop back out into the snow once again. While moving, she passed a storefront window. A Hearth's Warming display had been set up, with little quadrupedal wooden figures representing the likes of Smart Cookie, Clover the Clever, and Private Pansy. On another table, Scootaloo saw canvas oil paintings representing the surly Snowfall Frost and her loyal assistant Snowdash hard at work in an old, fire-lit office.
Scootaloo blinked, and a mischievous smile spread across her features. Without a second's hesitation, she galloped out into the snow-patched street. A few parcel-shippers paused in unloading a carriage to glance at the inexplicable pegasus scampering down main street, then slowly returned to their task at hoof.
Minutes later, Scootaloo returned to Ponyville Park. She pulled her sled out from behind the thicket and pushed it up the tallest hill. It was a grueling task, considering that a great deal of the snow had melted. But there was still a frosted slope of moist precipitation dotting the opposite side of the hill. Scootaloo hadn't wasted too much time, and she was certain she could accelerate the sled appropriately.
Once she reached the peak of the ridge, she threw a hoof into her saddlebag and produced the metallic plug from earlier. Sticking back into place at the top of the sled's silver brace, she summoned a magical hum from the heart of the machine. The two crystalline cylinders along the undercarriage of the vehicle vibrated back to life.
Not wasting a minute, Scootaloo glanced at the compass situated halfway up the silver brace. She popped the right handle outwards and began rotating the dials. She watched as the numerical counter beneath the compass ran up and down at random.
Tonguing the inside of her muzzle, Scootaloo thought about the next jump. She resorted to reaching into her saddlebag and producing a ruler and a map. She used a modern sketch to measure the approximate distance in kilometers between Ponyville and upper Canterlot. She also took note of the relationship between two points along the cardinal lines. At last, once she had made the precise calculations, she twisted the handle's dials. Scootaloo watched as the arrow on the sled's compass rotated, and the numbers ticked to the appropriate distance.
Then, once that was done, she pulled out the left handle—click!—and rotated the dials, altering the numerical field along the base of the sled. Once the red text appropriately painted themselves over the drop cards, she smiled in victory.
It was ready.
The mare took a deep breath. She leaned against the handle, all the while looking at the Ponyville skyline one more time. A windmill blade rotated and gentle columns of smoke rose from chimneys.
Scootaloo gulped.
It was about to get a whole lot colder.
With a twitch of her muscles...
...she pushed against the earth.
The sled roared downhill. The cylinders beneath her pulsed with violet energy. Her crystalline pendant spun in the wind, and—
CLAKKK! She slapped the handles back in place as she reached maximum velocity. Snow billowed all around her, blinding. Accelerating. Transforming.
She roared through the tunnel, reaching a ghost-white wall of chronal blankness. When she burst on through, a wave of Scootaloos flowered all around her, undulated, and shot right back with the force of a hundred billion rubber bands.
The trans-dimensional slide culminated with a deafening clap of thunder. Scootaloo burst through the snow, skimming blindly to a stop in an alarming new darkness. She gritted her teeth, shivering from the intense wave of cold. Far far colder than her lackadaisical romp through yesterday's Ponyville. The filly took her first breath—and it was barely enough to fill her lungs. She had experienced this sensation before; she was at a high elevation. But it wasn't a comfortable thinness: the liberating kind of fresh air that she had experienced multiple times in Canterlot or her most recent visit to Cloudsdale.
This air was both frigid and dirty. Every breath felt like her lungs were being pumped full of dirt and dust. Her eyes teared and she felt like coughing. Holding a shivering hoof in front of her muzzle, Scootaloo stared up at the foggy shapes before her. Her eyes squinted, waiting for the foreboding environment to come into focus.
At last, she started to make sense out of her surroundings. Her sled had come to a stop in the middle of a cobblestone alleyway. Crooked buildings built out of soot-stained masonry leaned over the filly. Foggy windows flickered with dim candlelight from within, and deadly icicles clung to dull lampposts and dangling store signs. There was a stench of filth and equine waste lingering in the street corners, and Scootaloo heard the tell-tale squeaks of scurrying rats in her peripheral. When she tilted her head up, she saw two layers of darkness plastered against the sky. One canvas belonged to the dead of night, but the stars were obscured by the second layer: countless columns of smoke being channeled blackly into the heavens from grimy chimneys. The air smelled burnt... like ashes from a dead fireplace, and the few random flakes of snow that fell from the sky were blackened to a charcoal-gray.
Needless to say, Scootaloo was grimacing hard. Teeth chattered as she attempted to produce the words: "This is Canterlot?"
In a blink, her eyes flashed to the compass halfway up the sled's silver brace. Indeed, the counter had rolled back to "0000." Scootaloo's eyes next wandered to the numerical field at the base of the sled. In the faint penumbra of starlight, Scootaloo managed to read: December 16 3736 7:25pm.
"Mmmmmmmkay..." Scootaloo pensively stepped off the sled and trotted slowly towards the nearest street corner. The cobblestone street was slick with frosted moisture, and she nearly slipped more than once.
Nevertheless, she reached an intersection of coal-stained buildings and craned her neck. If she stretched just enough, she could make out a sliver of vaguely familiar architecture amidst the nightmarescape. Towards the north, peeking through the columns of chimney smoke, Scootaloo spotted the unmistakable ramparts of the Royal Palace. Even amidst all the gloom, they looked just as bright and majestic as they did one hundred and fifty-five years later.
"It's Canterlot alright..." Scootaloo blew out the side of her muzzle. "...what a dump."
Wagon wheels. Rattling loudly.
"!!!" Scootaloo instinctively hopped backwards and hid behind a lamppost.
Coming up a slanted cobblestone street, an aristocratic carriage thundered. The ornately-furnished vehicle was being drawn by four stallions—all of whom were wearing gothic black overcoats over like-colored suits. Scootaloo blinked, spotting tricorner hats flecked with snow. She saw a muzzle or two—neither smiling—as they swiftly pulled their passengers around the bend and towards some important destination, grunting and snorting at anypony who might dare to stumble across their path.
As Scootaloo peered her head around the lamppost, she took note of other ponies gathered in the distant streets. Stallions and mares—faces grimy with impoverished scowls—stumbled from one path to another, huddling under multiple layers of rags and occasionally lingering around iron stoves situated strategically in front of densely-packed apartments. They muttered and bartered amongst themselves, casting forlorn looks to the ashen night sky. There wasn't a single moment when somepony somewhere wasn't coughing or wheezing or sputtering up mucus.
Scootaloo nervously backtrotted into the alleyway where she had first arrived.
"Well, that's not very..." She gulped. "...festive."
She looked back at the sled, tail flicking. All it would take was locating an ice-riddled sidewalk, and Scootaloo could easily push her way back to a more agreeable century in a single blink.
But something told her to stay...
"There's gotta be something worth finding here..."
So, with swift hoofsteps, she grasped the sled and pushed it into an even narrower alleyway. The blades of the vehicle scraped against the cobblestone, and Scootaloo had to stop more than once to make sure she didn't arouse too much suspicion with the sound.
She struggled for a brief moment to find a sufficient hiding spot. At last—to her relief—she discovered a narrow lawn sandwiched between two rows of apartments that cast shadows over the elongated niche. A thick layer of snow had gathered over the dead soil, and while the "garden" bent at an angle and was strewn with occasional junk, Scootaloo judged that the sled could easily build up speed and accelerate down the grade in a way that would make the next time jump simple... or at least simple enough.
There was a series of dead brambles growing out of the earth, and Scootaloo found a hollow spot directly behind it where she could hide the sled in the crook of two adjoining buildings. Judging from the lack of hoofprints in the snow, she suspected that nopony had ventured there in hours... maybe even days. Besides, it was so hoof-bitingly cold that she had to have been the only moron who bothered to visit that location.
It wasn't enough that she simply hid the sled. The cold was starting to get to her—to the point that she realized she had to look after her own health. So, reaching deep into her saddlebag, she pulled out a jacket that she had packed for the trip. It was halfway through putting it on that Scootaloo froze, stricken with a sharp thought. The few ponies she had spotted so far were either wearing rags or gothic aristocratic finery, and here she was with a thick puffy orange jacket that she had been given as a gift from a modern day Barnyard Bargains on her last foalday.
"... ... ..." The filly shrugged. "Ehhhh... buck it."
She slipped the jacket on, relishing in the warmth of the pastel insulary fabric hugging her. She tightened the scarf around her neck, plucked the plug from the silver brace of the sled, and left her saddlebag with the vehicle as well. Just as she was about to set out, she paused... blinking in thought. After a contemplative breath, she pulled her crystalline pendant off her neck and slipped it deep into a pocket of her orange jacket.
Feeling a great deal safer—and warmer—Scootaloo wandered stupidly into the streets of Thirty-Eighth Century Canterlot.
Dozens of eyes immediately snapped to her. Ponies gawked, their soot-stained muzzles grimacing in mixed curiosity and apprehension. Commoners in patchwork suits and dresses stared with beady eyes. Shifty-looking stallions and black-lung'd chimney sweepers peered through squinting expressions. A pony on stilts—wandering from lamppost to lamppost to light the dormant candles—nearly fell over upon spotting the filly in her pastel orange getup.
Scootaloo gulped. She smiled awkwardly at the myriad faces studying her every movement. For a brief moment, she contemplated waving back at them... but decided against it. Hugging the orange jacket tighter around herself, she hurried her steps, rushing around the next street corner—
"Oi!" A snow-battered filly in a dress held a flower out towards Scootaloo's face. "Pretty li'il bird!"
"Gah!" Scootaloo hopped back, wincing.
The emaciated foal batted her eyelashes from where she stood at the street corner with a basket full of flowers. "A thousand pardons, ma'am. Ah dinnae mean t'scare ya with me looks. Pretty please, li'il bird, will ya buy me flowahs?" She waved the item in question again, snifffling with great melodramatic poise. "Me Mum will beat me 'orribly if Ah dun make a coppah or two..."
"Uhm..." Scootalo blinked at the flowers. The buds had lost most of their petals, and the stems were bent from countless hours spent in the poor filly's rickety basket. "...a copper?"
"If it's no troubow, miss." The filly smiled, teeth blackened like tar. "Fink it's right propah to have bloomin' buds t'match ya blouse, a'ight?"
"Uhhhhh..." Scootaloo looked behind her, spotting multiple adults in wooly dress garb peering curiously at the scene. "Uhhhhhhh..." She flashed the filly a nervous smile. "I... can give you a coin!" She pulled a shiny bit from her pocket and held it over. "It's not a copper, but it's all I've got."
The filly curtsied in her raggedy dress. "Celestia smiles on ya, miss!" She hoofed a flower over and took the bit. "Celestia smiles on—" Suddenly, she froze... her eyes bugging out at the sight of the coin in her grasp.
Scootaloo blinked. "What's wrong?"
"Ah..." The filly trembled and trembled. "Ah cannae believe me mincers!" She cracked a wide grin, ears flicking in the dirty snowfall. "Gold! Actual bloody gold!" Dropping her basket of flowers in a burst of joy, she turned tail and scampered up the steps to the nearest apartment. "Motha! Fatha! Have a butcher's! Ah fetched us some real gold! Let's ferry our arses to Tro'ingham!"
Gulping, Scootaloo looked over her shoulder again. More ponies had gathered—from various classes—and they were murmuring in a rising commotion. Whistling innocently to herself, Scootaloo side-stepped towards the nearest doorway she could find. She felt a wave of inviting warmth, and she dashed inside without a second thought.
It turned out to be a tavern. Scootaloo had assumed that stealing herself inside would hide her from scrutinous eyes, but it was just as nearly packed inside the place as it was outside. Dozens of stallions in various qualities of suited garb huddled at rickety tables over mugs of ale. A second floor balcony loomed overhead, with lonely souls from the street fraternizing with one other, accompanied by drunken snickers. As soon as Scootaloo entered, a phalanx of bleary eyes swept her way. Some of the surlier patrons snorted while others huddled by a large, bright fireplace, saying nothing as they warmed their mangy forelimbs.
"Hey!" a raspy voice echoed across the rustic establishment.
Scootaloo's head tilted up. She squinted in the flickering firelight.
A big-bone'd bartender leaned against the front counter, frowning and pointing in Scootaloo's direction. "This ain't no place for lil' orphans!"
Scootaloo blinked. "Orphans?"
"Shoo!" The bartender waved his hoof. "Off with ya, grimey urchin!"
Scootaloo frowned. "I am not an orphan."
Patrons chuckled and wheezed.
Growling, the bartender made to march towards her—
"Let the darling be, Smithers," said the most eloquent voice Scootaloo had heard since arriving there.
The bartender turned to sneer at a soul seated near the fireplace. "I ain't runnin' no orphanage, Saltlicky!"
There was a metallic tinging noise, and Scootaloo's eyes followed a pair of coins flipping throuth the tavern air.
The bartender caught the silver bits awkwardly, blinking at them.
"Can't you see she's with me?" the well-dressed gentlecolt said. From afar, Scootaloo saw a top hat and a stove pipe. "For Tartarus' sake, Smithers, have a little Hearth's Warming cheer."
Bittersweet chuckles lit the air.
"Hrmmmph..." The bartender pocketed the coins in his apron. "The only cheer, Saltlicky, is the kind you can afford." He spat, then squinted an angry eye at Scootaloo. "Have a squat, pixie." He motioned towards the fireplace. "But dun try'n swipe anythin'. I've got me eye on you."
Scootaloo gulped. Without hesitation, she scampered across the musky tavern. More than a few eyes trailed her, and drunken patrons let loose a guffaw or two from their tables.
"Look at 'er!"
"Bloody fair must be in town!"
"She looks like the ol' prize of Princess Diamond! From the history books!"
"Hahahahah!"
Grumbling to herself, Scootaloo nevertheless ventured to the one spot in the tavern that now felt safe. She scooted up in a chair and sat across from the richly-dressed stallion who had tossed the coins to the bartender.
"There, now, madame," the stallion murmured in a low, deep voice. He sounded fairly young, but his muzzle was blanketed in contrastingly gray mutton chops and a matching mustache. He flicked the ashes out of his pipe and leaned back in his chair. Before him on the table lay sheets of parchment with half-scribbled paragraphs. A quill pen rested lazily in an inkwell. "Get yourself nice and warm by the fire," he continued in a soothing tone, despite his deadpan expression. "I know this place looks and smells rank, but I assure you that it's immeasurably more agreeable than an orphanage."
Scootaloo's ears rolled back angrily. "I am not an orphan."
"As you wish." He stifled a yawn and adjusted the sleeves of his overcoat. "Nevertheless, I know a soul in need when I see one. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need shelter for the night?"
Scootaloo blinked, suddenly touched by the rich fountain of sincerity being shown to her in the heart of so much filth. "Uhm... no, I'm..." She sighed, nevertheless rubbing her forelimbs together as she basked in the warmth of the fireplace. "I'm fine, sir."
"Are you certain of that?"
"I'm just visiting." Scootaloo gulped. "...from out of town."
He raised an eyebrow. "From out of town? Madame, you will have to make your lies far more convincing."
She blinked at him. "Huh?"
"Even as the wind carries, a pegasus your size couldn't span the continent in this inclement weather." He took his hat off, revealing a balding skull. A sigh. "... ... ...no doubt you were deposited on this mountain by the heartless denizens of Cirrusham? Stratospinople?"
"Hmmmmm..." The stallion re-lit his pipe, giving it a few puffs. "...I see they don't teach basic geography in the schools for lost foals. 'Tis a shame."
"I'm not an orphan!" Scootaloo hissed. She then calmed. "It's... it's just like I said. I'm visiting." She gulped, glancing aside. "I-I guess I can't really explain it..."
"Neither do you have to, madame. My apologies for pressing too hard. I was simply concerned for your well-being. Seems to me that the most innocent of souls these days get tragically overlooked during Hearth's Warming."
"Yeah..." Scootaloo looked across the grimey tavern full of grimey ponies. "...to be honest, I was kinda expecting ponies to be... celebrating more."
"In another district of Her Majesty's royal capital, perhaps." The stallion shook his head. "In places where mirth and merriment can be afforded—most assuredly." He weathered a melancholic breath. "But the warmth dwindles. It wasn't always like that. Almost makes you wonder how our ancestors conjured song from the stone and ice that once imprisoned them."
Scootaloo cocked her head to the side, studying the stallion up and down. "Can I say something weird...?"
"'Weird?' Madame, are you going to bewitch me?"
"I mean..." Scootaloo chuckled briefly. "I mean a silly question."
"You are more than welcome."
"Why are you so much more polite and... like... intelligent than these other dudes?"
The stallion puffed from his pipe, shook it, and exhaled smokily. "Mmmmm... simply a matter of upbringing, my dear. Some of us are far more fortunate than others."
"What brings you to a dive like this?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Uhhhh..."
"You're curious as to why I choose to loiter in such a domain of squalor?"
"Yeahhhhhhhh..."
"Mmmmmm... I'm doing research," he explained. "I'm a writer, you see."
Scootaloo blinked. "No kidding...?"
"I assure you, this is no attempt at jocular misdirection," he said. "I sit here and I listen to the local color, hoping to gain insight on how the common populace communicates with one another."
The filly fought the urge to grimace. "Can I ask why...?"
"Authenticity is a tragically-missing element in romantic literature," he said. "While I strive for pathos, the realistic details I learn from taverns such as this afford me a much needed contrast that can move the hearts of those who read my material."
He bowed his head. "Saltlicky." He introduced himself. "Sir Jump of the House of Saltlicky."
"Uh huh..." Scootaloo's eyes shrank. "...wait." Her muzzle hung agape as she remembered every holiday-themed reading assignment that she had ever undergone at school. "Jump Saltlicky...?" Gasping, she pointed at the stallion. "Of course! Duke Jump Saltlicky! You're the author of A Hearth's Warming Tale!"
The stallion blinked. Hard.
"Oh dude!" Scootaloo's wingtips fluttered as she smiled. "I once played the part of Snowdash in a school play! My friend—Diamond Tiara—was Snowfall Frost and... hahaha... the role fit her perfectly! I mean... sure... she's a whole lot nicer now. She's even thinking of playing the role of the Spirit of Hearth's Warming Presents next year, but I don't think anypony can do that role better than... Pinkie... ... Pie... ... ..." Scootaloo's words trailed off as her smile faded.
The stallion had grasped all of his parchment and dragged them towards his chest. He threw a suspicious glare in Scootaloo's direction. "Who... have you been talking to...?"
Scootaloo gulped. "Uhm... uhhhhhh..."
"I've been working on A Hearth's Warming Tale for months," Saltlicky stammered, starting to shiver slightly. "My loyal editors have been dogging me at every turn. Tell me—child—did one of them send you to hound me?"
"What?! No—!"
"It's about the latest draft, is it not?!" The Duke's teeth showed in a white flash of anger. "Flintheart wants to sabotage this entire work! I swear to the Goddesses—"
"No! Jump—er... Sir Jump of the House of Saltlicky!" Scootaloo stood in her chair, clasping her forelimbs together. "I-I knew nothing about that! I swear..."
"Then how do you know of the names of my chief characters?!" His steely eyes peered. "Was my story spoken of in the streets? Well? Out with it!"
Scootaloo shivered slightly... then her whole body deflated in a well-practiced sigh. "Okay. You caught me red-hoofed." She plotted her words out carefully. "I was... rummaging through back alley trash, looking for something I could burn to keep warm. And I... found these crumpled-up sheets of paper with words written on them. I... I guess I spent the entire night reading and enjoying myself..." Her ears twitched. "... ... ...but I'm totally not an orphan."
At long last, the stallion's frame relaxed. He let go of his parchment, sitting limply in his chair with a sigh. "Damnation, I know I should never have thrown those early drafts away..."
"But... but it's good!" Scootaloo exclaimed, perking up. "Your story is super, super awesome!"
"No it isn't."
Scootaloo blinked. "Buh?"
"I have reached an impasse," Saltlicky said, mumbling out the side of his mutton chops. "And no matter how many attempts I make at rewriting the narrative, my editors are not happy with the material being produced." His nostrils flared. "Especially Flintheart."
Scootaloo loosened the folds of her orange jacket as she relaxed beside him in the fire's glow. "Why? I mean... what's wrong with the story? In... in their opinion?"
"Their opinion is one that I happen to share—at least for the most part," the Duke grumbled. "As you well know, my dear, Snowfall Frost is the protagonist, despite how conniving and antithetical to good proper Canterlot citizenship she may be..."
"Uh huh..."
"It is my grand plan for the character to undergo a dramatic emotional catharsis," Saltlicky explained. "Switching from a diabolical villain who seeks to destroy tradition to a sympathetic soul who learns to embrace the values and mirth of Hearth's Warming." He gulped. "But I've no means of properly dramatizing this shift in her personality."
"How come?" Scootaloo asked, blinking curiously.
"The three spirits of Heart's Warming visit Snowdash and proceed to lecture her on the consequences of her actions... as well as the joy of social communion of which she's not participating." Saltlicky sighed. "Alas, it amounts to a poor modern revisiting of Canterburro Tails, only without the whimsy that's most notable in Geoffrey Canter's praised writing to legitimize the flagrant antiquated reliance on pure dialogue." He lazily rotated the top hat situated on the table between them, his eyes glazed and lethargic. "For a story that relies on spectres of magic delivering morals to the main character, I fear that my latest work is sadly lacking in fantastical merit."
Silence—save for the crackle of firewood and the distant belches of ale-drinkers.
Then—rather explosively—Scootaloo sat up with a beaming smile. "Time travel!"
A few nearby heads turned.
The Duke stared right through her. "What did you just say?"
"You should totally have Snowfall Frost travel through time, dude!"
"My dear..." Saltlicky's left eyebrow twitched as she struggled to contemplate the discussion at hoof. "...how exactly does... a soul travel through... through..." He nearly spat out his pipe. "Did you say 'through time?'"
"Yeah!"
"But..." The Duke scratched his furry muzzle in deep thought. "...that is something a mortal pony simply cannot do..."
"Well, duh!" Scootaloo grinned. "Snowfall's being visited by the Spirits of the past, present, and future—isn't she?"
"Indeed."
"Then have the spirits do crazy spiritual things! Have the Spirit of Hearth's Warming Past literally take Snowfall to a moment from her own past and show her stuff from a third-pony-perspective!" Scootaloo's tail wagged as she went on. "Have the Spirit of Hearth's Warming Yet to Come do the same thing—only in the future."
"You mean... like a soothsayer might prophesy?"
"I mean have them both actually go to the future and then bring Snowfall back to the present for when she's ready to learn from all the stuff she's been through! It's a heck of a lot better than forcing the readers to endure a whole bunch of Talking Ponies Syndrome," Scootaloo said. "And if your editors can't wrap their heads around it... pffft... just pin it all on 'magic!' Ha ha!"
"Hmmmm..." The Duke scratched his chin again. "Magic. Yes... yes, it just might be a certifiable solution..."
"You wanted to get 'fantastical,' right?" Scootaloo leaned back with a nervous blush that she tried to shrug off. "What could be more fantastical than t-time travel..." She chuckled out the side of her muzzle. "Eh heh heh heh..."
Sir Jump Saltlicky leaned back, taking a deep breath. "Yes... yes. Why... this just might actually work." He cracked a smile for the first time... but it just as quickly extinguished itself. "Although..."
"What?"
"Mmmm... I do fear that my chief editor—Flintheart—will take exception to the concept." He gulped. "He already thinks that Snowfall Frost is far too quick to accept the morals being impressed upon her. According to Flintheart, Snowfall loses all merit as a believable character the moment she allows the Spirits of Hearth's Warming to trot all over."
Scootaloo looked left. She looked right. "... ... ...you mean Flintheart thinks your characters' a doormat?"
"That is hyperbolic way of putting it, although accurate."
"Pffft..." Scootaloo waved a hoof. "Buck him!"
The Duke blushed. "My dear! Your tongue—!"
"I mean it!" She smirked devilishly. "Go full-fantasy! Do something nopony's ever done before in writing! We crazy! Be imaginative! Be magical!"
"I... admittedly find the entire prospect to be most... alluring," Saltlicky said, his ears twitching with delight.
"And for the cherry on top...?" Scootaloo winked. "...name a total jerk in the story after somepony who's been a real butthead to you. That'll immortalize their stupidity for all time. I guarantee it."
"Hah hah hah!" He leaned back in his chair, adjusting his sleeves with a smile. "Well, I do not know about that... but I will most certainly think about it."
"I'm tellin' ya, Sir Duke..." Scootaloo smirked. "Do whatever it takes to make your vision a reality. Generations of ponies will adore you for it!"
"Do you truly think so?"
"Mmmhmmm! Totes, dude!"
"Well..." He shook his pipe again, smiling gently at her. "...I must insist on utilizing my own vernacular in the process, little one."
"Heh... that's fine."
"I simply..." Saltlicky shifted a bit in his seat, staring off across the tavern. "...I simply wish to share the tenderness in my heart whenever I allow my mind to wander back to the Hearths Warmings of youth. Perhaps this is a fault of my own aristocratic upbringing, but I find that the joy and poignance of holiday mirth fades over time. I very well know that most ponies in Canterlot never felt that merriment to begin with, but if I could only share it with them through my literature, then maybe—just maybe—they can experience such emotional vibrance anew..."
"Hey..." Scootaloo shrugged. "...nothing's wrong with getting a little nostalgic over things."
"Quite." He bore a bittersweet smile. "If only we could actually travel through time like our misguided Snowfall Frost. Imagine the sheer catharsis of spiritual awakening we could experience... and re-experience. I suspect the Spirits of Hearth's Warming—in their multiplicitous devotions to the ages—are the lucky ones."
Scootaloo weathered a long, warm breath as she stared into the fireplace. "It's pretty snazzy, actually..."
Saltlicky raised an eyebrow. "Miss...?"
Scootaloo stood up, curtsied, and politely said: "Sir Jump of the House of Saltlicky? Thank you most kindly. I do believe I got what I came here for."
"Is that a fact?" He pursed his lips. "Why—my dear—I greatly suspect that I have gained far more than anypony else in this establishment tonight."
"Hey! Whatever works!"
"If only there was a way I could repay you for your fortuitous precociousness," he said. "Do you need a warm meal? A place to stay? I happen to be in good favor with the local magistrate who surely would find you a family willing to provide shelter and learning."
"Nah, I'm cool," she said, trotting out. "And I'm not an orphan."
"Well, if you insist." He waved his top-hat. "Ta."
Scootaloo wandered back out into the bleary streets of Canterlot with a dumb smile on her face. She shuffled and giggled her way down the narrow straits, her head swimming with possibilities and visions. In some perverse way, she just became responsible for generations of frustrated schoolfoals angsting over stale literature homework.
"Dang it, I should go back." She looked over her shoulder with a smirk. "Tell him to add penguins with rocket launchers." Chuckling she turned to look forward again.
A wall of soot-faced colts and fillies stood in a line, glaring angrily at her.
"Whoah!" She hopped back, shivering in the coal-tainted snowfall. "Uhm... h-hey! Uh..." A cheeky smile flickered between them. "...I don't suppose you're here to set up a paintball match?"
"See!" A raspy-voiced colt pointed at Scootaloo as he whispered to the others. "Bright as summah tomatos! Just like Ah said!"
"Stands out like a bloody clown," another muttered, hooves grinding against the snow-speckled cobblestone. "Time t'give, li'il bird."
"Ya've got some shiny gold on ye," the largest and oldest of the colts said. "So says Flowah Molly."
"I... I think there's been some mistake," Scootaloo stammered.
"Bit yer tongue!" A colt motioned with his hoof. "Give it."
Frowning, Scootaloo leaned forward. "And just how are you going to make me?!"
Scch-sschiing! Each of the foals suddenly brandished a shiv, club, knife, and can-opener.
Scootaloo leaned back. "Oh. Right. Um..."
"Come, now..." A scarred filly was the first to march, leading the pack towards her. "...give t'gold or yer guts!"
"I'd love to! But... erm..." Scootaloo breathed and breathed. "You're forgetting one thing!"
"Oi? Whazzat?"
Orange jacket flaring, Scootaloo pointed dramatically behind the mob. "What in Tartarus is that?!"
Flinching, the entire group spun to look—
WHUMP! Scootaloo galloped straight through them, knocking several of the street fillies and colts to the cobblestone. She made a break for it, sprinting madly down the smoky alleyways of Canterlot.
"Oi!"
"Bloody nob!"
"She's ge'in away!"
"After dat 'orse's arse!"
Scootaloo panted and panted. The streets behind her thundered with the pitter patter of grimy little hooves and scraping blades. Dashing around corners, Scootaloo passed dumb, heavy-lidded adults who just stood back in the snow, watching the bloodbath-to-be.
"Crud!" she cursed, making straight for the niche hidden behind the thicker apartments. "Frickin' peasants!"
At last, she made it to the shadowed snow-blanched garden where she had hidden her sled. Jumping behind the brambles, she fumbled madly through her jacket. She yanked out the pendant necklace by accident—cursed again—and threw it over her neck before fiddling once more for the plug to start the sled.
"Where'd she go?!"
"Back 'ere! In da garden!"
"Ach! I smell 'er!"
"Filvy rat!"
"Give us da gold!"
At long last, Scootaloo grasped the plug. In shivering hooves, she struggled, strained, and finally shoved the thing into the time machine's silver brace.
Vrommmmmmm! The crystalline cylinders beneath the chassis hummed to life. Their purple glow illuminated the mangy faces of street urchins pouring into the garden.
"'Ey! You!" One made a running leap. "C'mere—!"
"Httt!" Scootaloo simultaneously jumped on the sled and bucked behind her. Whap! She kicked the jumping foal aside, then kicked against the apartment wall. Wooooosh! She glided down the sloped niche of snow, curving around the bent and blackened building faces.
"Bloody 'ell!" somepony shouted from behind. "Where does da bird fink she's goin'?"
"???" Scootaloo looked behind her to see the foals standing in a distant line, gawking. Fwoooosh! The mountain air suddenly opened up around her. "Huh...?" Scootaloo looked forward, squinting in a crisp wind. She saw nothing but horizon. "Whoah—!"
As it turned out, those particular apartments had been built on the very precipice of southwest Canterlot, and Scootaloo was just two snowbanks away from plummeting into pure atmosphere...
"Ghhhhh!" She steered hard to her left. The sled sped in a half-circle, but the downward momentum was just too much. She flew straight for the edge, smashing through a flimsy wooden fence. "No—!"
Crash!
Splinters flew.
Scootaloo flew.
The sled flew... and then fell. Scootaloo felt her lungs emptying as her eyes filled with a bowed landscape full of forests, rivers, lakes, and farmland—all glinting beneath her from the deathly night sky. Wind howled past her ears, for soon gravity was taking control. She plummeted like an anvil towards sea level as the height of Canterlot Mountain blurred behind her.
A whimper escaped her lips. Her mind went into overdrive. Falling or flying—the fact of the matter was that she was accelerating.
"!!!" Scootaloo pulled the handles out, left and right. Click! She spun the dials at complete random, listening to the gunshot clicks of the numerical counters built into the sled. The compass spun. The counter blurred. No matter—she slapped the handles back in with vigor. CLACKKK!!!
The crystalline cylinders beneath her bubbled, glowed, and FLASHED with chronal energy. The tunnel of snow re-formed, this time a vertical cyclone that spun her in maddening circles. Her ears tickled with a hundred thousand Scootaloos mirroring her very screams. And then—as the doppelgangers and their shrieks converged upon the astronomical center—she burst through the wall of frost...
—and Scootaloo rematerialized in free-fall, sailing towards a field of snow lingering a comfortable twenty feet below her.
"Hnnnttt!" She tensed her body up, angling the sled at the last second to match a hilly mound of snow.
Fwooooosh!
Miraculously, she landed evenly with the snowbank's angled slope. The time sled's burning blades ripped into the thick precipitation, but somehow found traction. She glided away from the snowbank, sliding swiftly across an ivory white field of frost.
At long last, after half-a-minute of frictionless momentum, she and the sleigh grinded to a merciful stop. She sat there, clinging limply to the handles and hyperventilating.
Sweat stained her coat through her orange jacket. Her crystal pendant had spun around her neck three times. The backpack had miraculously caught around her rear fetlocks by its straps, nearly vomiting its contents loose from the pockets.
Panting and panting... Scootaloo shivered in the gentle snowfall. She looked over each shoulder, studying the bleak landscape through twitching eyes.
An overcast sky hung over the identically gray landscape. Barren, near-dead trees lingered in rows, utterly blanketed in snow and icicles. Mountains rose in the distance, scraping at the eggshell heavens. It was the middle of the day, grim, miserable, and seemingly lifeless.
Scootaloo never felt happier.
"Hehhh... hah...!" Scootaloo smiled crooked and crooked-er. "Haaaah hah! Hahahahahaha!" With a mad grin, she flashed a look towards the numerical counter of the sled beneath her.
January 22, -185. 3:15pm.
"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah ha ha ha ha ha!" She jumped high and did a literal backflip, landing on the sled with a fist pump aimed skyward. "Woooo! What a rush!"
The fact that the year's date read in the negative didn't faze her. She looked at a series of snowbanks rising up out of the flat field around her and thought:
"Sweet!"
Fwoooosh! Scootaloo kicked against the earth. She glided like an albatross across the field, hit one of the mounds, and ramped wildly over it, achieving a modicum of the same air that chaotically brought her there.
"Woooohoooo!"
She landed with a spray of snow, shredded with a flicker of purple light, and buzzed her wings—gliding the time machine towards yet another victorious ramp.
"Aaaaaaaaaaand—" She hit the bump, then angled her wings to get some aerial traction. "—touchdowwwwwwwwwn! Hahahaha!" She landed with another frosted splash. "Woooo!" Bursting through the debris, she made for the next lingering hill of snow.
For the next few minutes, Scootaloo proceeded with the impromptu stunt show, hitting ramps and gliding her way through the air in bright orange streaks. Her laughter and cheer echoed in every direction, shaking the frost from tree branches. The filly licked at the falling snow, shivered, giggled, and shivered some more.
She should have been dead.
Maybe she was dead.
Scootaloo didn't care. She hit another ramp and spun herself and the sled in a three-sixty twirl this time.
"Woohooo!" She came down thunderously, tossing snow and powder in all directions. "I. Am. Awesome—!" Her rolling eyes caught a glint of serrated metal. "Whoah!" She skidded to a stop, then looked up with wide eyes. Panting.
A line of soldiers loomed above the filly, grasping spears and clad in thick breastplates with matching helmets. Three adult equines stood dead-still in the snow, peering darkly through their visors with obscured eyes. Not one said a word. Not a single tail flicked.
"... ... ..." Scootaloo gulped, gripping the handles of her sled tightly to avoid trembling. "Uhm... I was just... uhm..."
The soldiers continued staring at her. One tilted his head aside, taking a good look at Scootaloo... at what she was wearing... at the bright colors of her getup.
Scootaloo was biting her lip hard at this point. The sheer fact that none of these armored equines had gutted her by now was somehow more alarming than an actual ambush. The air was so silent and still that she could hear icicles crackling from half-a-mile across the wintry landscape.
Her eyes fell to the counter beneath her once again. The year read: -185. The gravity of this strange, random number finally fell on Scootaloo's shoulders with lucid weight.
Careful not to make any sudden, dramatic movements, Scootaloo braved a glance behind her. What she saw made her heart sink.
The mounds of snow—the sporadic hilltops that Scootaloo had so brazenly chosen to ramp her sled repeatedly over—turned out to actually be dormant catapults and ballistas. Loose wooden weapons of war had been frosted over from countless blizzards taking their toll on the navel of Equestria.
She had just used it as a playground.
"Uhhhhh... huh..." Scootaloo exhaled. She turned to face the soldiers once again.
They still hadn't moved. The phalanx continued peering at her, quiet as death and just as deadpan.
Swallowing a lump down her throat, Scootaloo stealthily plucked the plug free from the top of the sled's silver brace. She stepped gently off the craft, hoping that the placement of her tiny limbs would obscure the light dimming in the crystalline cylinders. Pocketing the plug in her orange jacket, Scootaloo smiled gently then curtsied before the stray phalanx of armored equines.
"Uhhhh... h-hi there! My name's Scootaloo!" She stood tall. Brave. Still trembling. "What're your names?"
"... ... ..."
"... ... ..."
"... ... ..."
Scootaloo's amber eyes reflected the three stone-faces. "I... uh... I'm not trespassing, am I?" A nervous gulp. "Have fences even been invented yet?"
"... ... ..."
"That's some pretty nifty armor. Did you make it yourself?"
"... ... ..."
"You guys enjoy the smell of your own farts?"
"... ... ..."
Scootaloo blanched. "You don't... understand a word that I'm saying, do you?"
The soldier in the center suddenly shifted in place. Schiiiiiiing!
Scootaloo curled up into a little orange ball, covering her head. "Nnnnnghhh!"
But the armored equine had merely sheathed his spear. With liquid grace, he reached up and removed his helmet. A dirtied coat graced the gray skylight, along with a thick unkempt beard. Weary eyes—one obscured by a scar—squinted silently down at the filly.
The other two soldiers—a stallion and a mare—likewise removed their helmets to get a better look at the little pegasus. Each of them bore scrapes and scars from untold years of battle. But that wasn't the only common thing between then; each bore a notched horn in the center of their foreheads. They were all unicorns.
"Hrmmmm..." The second stallion—younger and shaved—cocked his exposed head to the side. Dreadlocks with metallic ringlets flounced behind his neck. "Fela'nulm dressel." He nodded in the direction of Scootaloo while speaking aside to his companions. "Massul hala kemniel fenella druus."
"Vaas..." The mare nodded. "Fenella draasa. Mass'em halemn sella theem."
The bearded stallion's deep voice reverberated. "Haas'tem. Sakka theenul."
The others chuckled breathily at what he said. All three bore scarred smiles.
Scootaloo's ears twitched at the first sign of emotion from the group. On jittery legs, she stood up. "That... uh..." Her brow furrowed. "...is that Old Ponish?"
The bearded stallion's face scrunched. "Venalla sep'lem caan..." His muzzle contorted. "'Ol'ed Ponillish'?"
"Y'know...!" Scootaloo smiled. "Old Ponish!" She gestured. "The language that ponies spoke... uhm..." She fidgeted in place. "Waaaaaaay before Equestrian Basic was adopted by... the modern population... ... ... phweee... ... ..."
The soldiers exchanged glances. They blinked in utter confusion.
Scootaloo tapped her chin. She opened her muzzle to try saying something else—
"Havalla sem'niel..." She heard from behind. She looked around to see that the younger stallion had trotted past her on silent cat hooves and was poking the time-sled with a curved dagger. "Venka!" Clink clink! "Hrmmm... sevalla caamen sem'thaan!"
"Whoah!" Scootaloo scampered towards him. "Hooves off the—"
Schiiiing! The stallion held the dagger up reflexively.
Scootaloo skidded to a stop, flinching with outstretched wings. "—m-merchandise!" She squeaked. "Hey... d-demo it all you w-want, buddy!" A nervous grin. "Eheheheh..."
"Duaaaaaaah...!" The female soldier suddenly gasped in awe. Scootaloo heard her hoofsteps crunching closer in the snow, and suddenly there was a warm breath cascading over her neck and flank. "Sem'jen! Salla'gan! Haas'tem!" Scootaloo felt the mare's hooves brushing repeatedly over her wingfeathers. "Mee'null sellellathriel saam'na jeem!"
The other two soldiers performed wild double-takes. The younger stallion ditched the sled completely while the bearded warrior paced about the tiny pegasus.
"Galem'nass salathran..." The older stallion's deep voice resonated. He studied Scootaloo through thin, scrutinous eyes. "Hrmmmm... Jeemnulien saapjaan...?"
The mare shook her head, continuing to fiddle with Scootaloo's feathers. "Jeemnulien sa'mna hasalmnen! Haas'stem..." She pulled at the wingspan, inadvertently plucking a single feather loose. Plink!
"Oww!" Scootaloo habitually yelped.
All three soldiers hopped back. The mare stammered, "Dreem dreem!"
"Uhhhhh..." Scootaloo flexed her wings, smiling nervously. "No big deal. I... uh... forgive you..."
The mare blinked, armor rattling a bit. The other two unicorns gazed at her, then laughed bombastically. She pouted, nevertheless floating the orange feather in a telekinetic grasp, studying it up and down.
The soldiers continued speaking to one another in their flowery language. All eyes were locked on Scootaloo the whole time, and the tone in their voices bordered on pure wonder.
Scootaloo cocked her head to the side. She exhaled vaporously in the cold air, contemplating the situation. "You..." Her eyes narrowed. "...youuuuuu guys have never seen a pegasus before, have ya?"
The trio of armored ponies locked up.
"Y'know..." Scootaloo flapped her wings. "Pegasus!" She pointed at her wings, then at her chest. "I'm a pegasus!"
The two younger soldiers looked at the bearded stallion. The veteran's muzzle contorted yet again to pronounce: "'Peegasallus..?'"
Scootaloo giggled. "Stop trying to make it sound pretty! It's just pegasus. Peg-a-sus"
"'Pe... Peeguul...'"
The mare suddenly blurted: "'Pegasus.'"
The other two hissed at her and she snarled back.
"Hahahahaha!" Scootaloo giggled, hugging herself in the snow. "Omigosh! You guys are like when Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle and I have an argument!"
The mare's horn sparked. "'Aap'leem Baallumen!'"
"Yeah, no..." Scootaloo shook her head, smirking. "Don't even try—"
A high pitched banshee shriek lit the air.
Scootaloo gasped. Her pupils shrunk to penpricks as she squatted low in the snow. "Holycrap!Holycrap!Holycrap!Holycrap!" She trembled so hard that tufts of frost flew up all around her. "What was that?!"
"Achassa!" the bearded stallion snarled, slapping his helmet back on in a blink. Schiiiiiing! He brandished his spear sky-high as his horn glowed from beneath the headpiece. "Ha'lassem wind'ellageh havala'sem!"
Sch-Schiiiing! The other two held their weapons out, forming a tight defensive circle as they cautiously scanned the horizon.
"Mmmmmm...!" Scootaloo stifled a whimper, looking past the mounds of snow-covered weaponry. She felt several degrees colder, and her heart was beating a mile-per-minute. "What is it?! I can't even see anything—"
More banshee shrieks. The screaming sounds had multiplied. This time, Scootaloo sensed that they were coming from the west. The clouds turned darker, and the temperature dropped even more than it had before. Frost formed on her eyelashes, and it was getting hard to see.
"Ah jeez! Ah jeez, what was—?!" Scootaloo gasped as she felt a familiar tingling sensation: her body was being encased in telekinesis. "Aaack!"
The soldiers had magically picked her up and were galloping towards the nearest structure—a frozen catapult in the middle of the field. They moved remarkably quick for unicorns... and even quicker for unicorns clad in clunky ancient armor. The younger stallion used his staff like a club and knocked away several icicles, exposing a hollow niche within which the four could huddle beneath the catapult.
"Wait!" Scootaloo's voice cracked. She flailed upside down in their magic field as she felt herself being tugged towards the hiding spot. "My sled—"
To her surprise, the unicorns were tugging it along as well. Scootaloo watched—upside down—as the time machine was yanked out of the open field and shoved unceremoniously beneath the catapult alongside the group's huddled bodies. Simultaneously—and with remarkable skill—the unicorns' telekinesis smoothed the snow field behind them to an immaculate sheen. Even in modern day, Scootaloo never saw the unicorns of Ponyville exercising such finesse. Winter Wrap-Up would have been a cinch with such talent. Sure enough, within seconds, all hoofprints and sleigh tracks and any other remote signature of living ponies had been erased from the pale, snow-frosted field.
"How..." Scootaloo shivered, huddling close to the three soldiers. "How did you just—?"
"Shhhhhh!" one soldier hissed.
That, Scootaloo understood, and the little filly clammed up. The body heat from her inexplicable saviors was the only thing keeping her from outright freezing. She huddled silently beside them, staring out as a dark gray curtain swam malevolently from the western horizon and rippled directly overhead.
Icicles materialized spontaneously from the edges of the catapult. The top of the field turned to ice. The air howled... crackling with frosted energy.
Then...
An ear-piecing howl rippled across the landscape. Remaining icicles along the fringes of the catapult shook, wobbled, and shattered before they could even touch the ground. Scootaloo's vision faded in and out with each scream, and she was scarcely aware of thick dark shadows streaking over the pale white field. Bodies were roaring overhead, and cloudstreams of snow ripped through the overcast sky in the shape of ethereal horses. Spidery forelimbs "galloped" and raked at the blizzard-stricken air, and Scootaloo saw pinprick eyes of ghostly-white luminescence peeking out from the figures' undulating equine skulls high above.
The filly's heart shook, and she was afraid she might start sobbing outright and give away their position. Shivering, she clung to the closest body she could, burying her face against a metal breastplate. Withing seconds, a tender hoof was stroking her mane, accompanied by the soldier mare's warm, comforting voice: "Thaas thass. Sem'dalla meniel vella freem, Pegasus."
"Hrmmmm..." The elder grunted, casually staring up at the pallid poltergeist rupturing through the sky. "Wind'ellageh seemn'uusan halla vansem menathaan."
"Kelm," the younger stallion nodded with a smirk. "Ha'klamma semgorun ulla kammen. Theym hukk!"
All three laughed merrily as they waited out the ghostly storm.
Scootaloo's trembles lessened upon hearing how fearless the group was. She stole a peek at the outside world. To her surprise, entire new hills of snow had formed directly beneath the mid-air stampede of the shrieking banshees.
A minute passed.
Two.
At long last, the screaming sounds dissipated. The swirling blizzard ended as swiftly as it began. The sky—although not clearing up completely—brightened to a noticeable degree. Soon, everything had returned to a digestible gray calm.
Scootaloo bit her lip, still cowering in the mare's embrace.
The elder soldier gazed out, squinting into the snowy world.
The younger stallion craned his neck. "Valn wind'ellageh thremmin?"
A shuddering breath later, the elder nodded. "Kelm." He gestured with his armored fetlock. "Hamman salla'threem menuul sum."
Scootaloo felt a magical tug as all three soldiers exited from underneath the catapult. Free from their hiding place, they looked around and surveyed a fresh topographical nightmare of snow ridges and sporadically jutting icicles. Scootaloo's jaw dropped in wonder as she observed the suddenly inhospitable frostscape.
"Were..." Scootaloo gulped, fidgeting in the gray malaise of the perpetual winter. "...were those Windigoes?"
She received no answer. The elder soldier pulled from deep within his breasplate, produced a leather flask, and took a hearty sip. "Mrmmmmfff..." After drinking, he wiped his beard cleaned, stifled a burp, and threw a hoof towards the north. "Vaaka."
"Kelm, Sem'jen."
"Vaak'um seenulem."
All three soldiers began a swift march in the direction commanded. Scootaloo felt herself being nudged along as the militant unicorns grunted at her.
"Whoah! Hey! Uhm... eheheh..." She smiled cheekishly. "...as much as I would love to stay and chat as a 'thank you' for saving my life, I really really really really gotta be going now. Sooooooooo... if you don't mind just letting me back on my sledddddd!" She yelped as she was telekinetically lifted up and plopped squarely on the back of the armored mare. The magical grip on her was firm, and she realized that any attempt to hop off her new "seat" would be less than ideal. "Okay." She gulped. "Uhhhhhh..." She looked back behind them.
The younger stallion was dragging her sled along with them in a telekinetic field. The soldiers had no intent of losing the spoils of their patrol—be it feathery or made of modern metal.
"Uh huh..." Scootaloo bit her lip as the situation slipped further and further from her fetlocks. She trembled noticeably.
"Haa'vanaal..." The mare smiled up at her, giving a friendly wink from beneath her helmet. "Sem'nassa claanu threm, Pegasus!"
"Yeah..." Scootaloo stifled a cough. She looked nervously at the northern treeline as the group carried her away. "...I guess I am, sister."
The time traveler had no clue what lay in wait over the nearest horizon. But one thing was for certain... she wasn't about to hop back on her sled anytime soon...
