It won't stop raining
Corkscrews tore muddy wounds into the path behind me as I launched from home to old home. I told myself the last trip would be the last. Rain whipped horizontally across my face, pelting my jacket like a storm of bullets. I made a mental note that this jacket was woefully unqualified for such weather. I could see light through the rare holes in the cloud cover - I'd been at this all night. The torrent paused for breath as I passed through a short tunnel. The brief quiet felt uncanny; I'd become so accustomed to the ambiance of rain that rainfall became my new silence.
I rode atop a minimalist quadbike, that I had, in weeks prior, modified for the rapidly changing landscape. Two large screws replaced four wheels, each screw coiling around a hollow metal tube. This provided both boyancy and thrust, allowing me to traverse sea and land. Currently, I seemed to be on a mix of the two. Aside from some mud guards, the barebones quadbike lacked any kind of bodywork; all components were purely functional. Cosmetics are an afterthought, if I remember them at all. Pebbles, dirt, and water assaulted the tender mechanisms that carried me. I looked down towards the engine, silently thanking it for facing the brunt of travel.
I shot out the tunnel like a bullet from a gun, and the familiar white noise of rain returned. The battered mountainside trail ahead of me, once dry and quiet, was a marshy no-mans-land between a rock and a wet place. I tried not to feel too bad for incidentally tilling the land behind me; it would be a seabed soon. Since the ocean invaded, aided by an eternal deluge from above, Equestria had become unrecognisable. I was headed towards my old home for the last time, having spent the last night ferrying what I could between my old home and new. A cave, halfway up a mountain, would be my new home for now. I'd scouted for higher land like a hermit crab seeking a new shell, although I wasn't prepared to leave my old shell behind.
Refocusing on my mission, I drilled on towards my old home. The pathway had given way to water, and my amphibious quadbike skimmed the surface triumphantly. I felt proud of it. Looking up from my steel companion, I left my happiness in my wake. The house I grew up in sat on uncaring waves. My door had been ripped clean off, allowing my line of sight to follow the water into my abode. Loose pipes and less dense machinery dotted the surface of the water, a swell tore a set of blueprints off my wall, and dips in the waves gave me glimpses of unfinished projects.
Pivoting my quadbike, I brought it alongside the open doorway before dismounting. Cold water bit into my coat as I waded into what was left of my home. Items stored higher on the walls were fortunately spared, and I assessed what could be saved. Unfortunately, I'd arranged my tools and parts by usefulness, placing the most used ones beside my workbench, which now sat just below the waterline. Determined to not let this trip be a total waste, I loaded what I could salvage onto the quadbike, stubbornly refusing to let the sunk cost of my trip sink too.
Screws, bolts, tools, and a couple ball joints made the cut. Anything more fragile was already beyond repair, and I knew if I waited much longer, I would be too. The water had visibly risen during my salvage attempts, and I treaded water towards the shrinking doorway, using my jacket as a sack to carry parts. All around me, land was disappearing, giving way to an increasingly unbroken sheet of water. I hugged myself to my corkscrew bike. It had become a lifeline, and an invaluable ferry between the shells I call home. How many trips would I have managed without it? One? Could I even carry my heavy metalcraft all the way back? It felt much more than a mere object; my bike, like everything I make, is an extension of myself. It augments my abilities, allowing my metalworking strengths to patch the weaknesses granted by my feeble pony body. I shivered against the cold body of my friend, knowing just how much my life depended on it at this moment. The now filled storage compartment between the corkscrews rattled as I restarted the motor. Its lid, which doubled as my seat, held firmly shut by my weight.
With justified urgency, I ripped across the tide, giving one last look to my workshop before it disappeared forever. At the speed I was going, a tall wall of water was kicked up behind me, obscuring the house as I turned towards my new home. The trail I'd originally followed was invisible now, although my hours of following the path had instilled enough muscle memory for me to navigate straight back. The way here, I'd followed the curve of the path as it followed the contours of the hill. I no longer needed to; the pathway which just yesterday would've taken me off a cliff was now a deep sea, and I felt almost as if I was flying over it, with how intimately familiar I was with the terrain now so far below me.
I arrived back at the mountain and stopped. Water filled the lower half of the tunnel I took here. I stopped to think, weighing the possibilities. I could probably fit between the water and the ceiling, although I knew the tunnel was slightly raised in the middle - if I entered, there's a real likelihood that I couldn't fit through the exit on the other side, trapping me in there. It would be a horrible way to go. On the other hoof, there wasn't exactly a quick way around - I'd have to backtrack to find a hill I could use to go over the top of the mountain. This tunnel existed precisely because of the travel time it saved, and now it didn't. The corkscrews briefly spun in sync to pivot my vehicle 180 degrees in place, having decided to go around.
The new route gave me another glimpse of my previous abode, only to inform me that the walls had failed. A flattened rooftop floated amongst debris as the waves consumed all. I felt like crying. Was I crying? I couldn't tell, my face was so wet. Everything was so wet. Was the land crying with me? My personal suffering was a drop in the ocean, a story of loss that families across Equestria all felt. I mourned the land; the sunny world I knew had drowned, suffocated by rain that never relented its smothering.
I didn't need to cry. I was wet enough already.
I turned around, this time mounting the hill, crawling out of the water and over the sodden soil. It wasn't a particularly tall mountain, but I could still feel my bike struggle. I muttered some words of encouragement to it, as it pulled us along. With the strain of recent days, and pain of seeing my house washed away, the last thing I expected was to see anything that made me happy.
My bike gained speed as the hill flattened, eventually greeting me with a grand plateau. Cold air raced through my mane, and drizzle danced across the sky, sparkling in a lone beam of sunlight. It was almost beautiful. Almost, if not for the rain. Vivid grass swayed across the plateau, forming waves in the wind. The open field was framed with trees, high up enough to be untouched by flood water. I smiled, breathing in a rare happy breath of fresh air, smelling the moisture from the overgrown grass. I picked up speed. A rare, serene moment presented itself, and I willingly accepted the gift. I'd lost everything; pessimism felt rational, yet I rejected it. Carelessly choosing to be happy, I pressured my bike further, accelerating faster. I set my sights on buzzing past a lone apple tree. I didn't care. Why care? There's a freedom in having nothing to lose.
My levity was interrupted by an immediate reminder that I did, in fact, have things to lose. A firm tree root jutted out from the ground, catching the left corkscrew at just the wrong angle. A pained shriek sounded from the motor, dislocating, and bending painfully. Was it okay? I'd hurt it. Did I hurt me? It had to be fine, I couldn't hurt it. Right? I couldn't think. This was a mistake - a careless mistake. I turned anger towards the tree root, feeling vindictive satisfaction at how it too seemed hurt in the crash. The root deserved it - it struck when I was vulnerable, and... wrecked my bike. My bike didn't deserve this. Guilt and regret bring my mood back down to earth - and bury it beneath it. I pleaded with my bike, not to be beyond repair. I can help. I can fix it.
Situation: destroyed front axle, shattered gears, damaged corkscrew, bent mud guard. Altitude: Water reaching me wasn't an imminent worry, although the cold would be. Nopony around, and I needed the bike to cross water towards pockets of civilisation. I was truly alone. The tree responsible for my misery bore fruit; a lack of willpower would take me before starvation or the flood. Breathe. I can fix this.
Time slowed. My breathing eased as I closed my eyes. I was alone with my thoughts. Sounds of a gentle breeze and the dull patter of rain on grass were all I could hear. I could smell the nearby apples, the grease from my bleeding engine, and the freshly cut grass I'd left a trail of. I opened my eyes. Mud and grass were plastered across the underside of my bike, and water dripped out of every opening. I was in much the same situation - skid marks of mud painted my fur, and there wasn't a dry hair on my body. I realised, only now, how sore I was. I'd landed roughly on my flank and was shivering uncontrollably. My jacket was soaked and torn. I waded through the cutie-mark-high grass towards the tree, at least to keep me out of the rain directly.
The field felt timeless. I just sat, watching raindrops roll off leaves. I don't know how long I sat for - I just needed to gather myself and my thoughts. After an unknown length of time, I gingerly pulled myself towards the bike. I felt guilty still, but right now, it was my patient. Lifting the seat, I pulled out the cargo - a random arrangement of tools and parts, some of which may be useful, I reasoned. Removing my still soaked jacket, I began cleaning the wound. I worked slowly, and methodically, in total silence. Quiet sleet filled the air. I worked my way through the cleaning process. I wiped mud off the gash that tore into the axle, wiping it away with my shredded jacket. I developed a process; I wiped away some mud, cleaned off the jacket by rubbing it on some grass, repeat. Going over each area repeatedly until it was clean, I lovingly wiped away the stress and dirt that had accumulated after a full night of use.
Once the axle was clean, I moved onto the screws. Their large surface area meant this would take some time. It was also pointless - it would be soiled the instant it could move again, if it ever could. I ignored that possibility. I was pampering an injured animal. I took pleasure in the cleaning, and ritualistically wiped all dirt off the damaged beast. Occasionally, I'd reposition myself on my haunches, steadily working my way around the frame. The grass around it was dirtied by how often I'd wiped off my jacket, leaving an obvious circle of where I'd been sat as I cleaned. When I ran out of clean grass, I decided to move it.
My body was weak - both in general and due to circumstance. Regardless, I used what strength I could to delicately lift my homemade quadbike below the tree. Perhaps some time together will help, and the bike could forgive the tree for its grave error. With the caution of an archaeologist moving a millennia-old statue, I moved the bike steadily below the tree, giving me a new patch of grass to dirty as I cleaned. It was also dryer - a benefit that was not lost on me. The corkscrews didn't even so much as rotate during the move, although I didn't know if that was due to my caution, or my bike was too hurt to move them.
Resuming my ritual, I worked through cleaning the mud flaps. They were, predictably, completely caked in mud. I removed it in bulk, wiping it against the bark of the tree. I continued this process until I'd cleaned them entirely. If it weren't for the cold, and rhythmic pattern of raindrops to keep myself lucid, I'd forget myself. My mind drifted, I thought about my house, and all the machines that perished inside. I thought about the cave I'd be moving into - how I'd make it homely. I already had plans for how to set up heating as I re-established my workshop. I thought about the thrill of speed as I drove across the field, as serene as it was lonely. I thought about my friends - both the ponies I'd lost, and the ponies who remained. I remembered building my initially wheeled quadbike to speed up excursions through Ponyville... and just for fun. I remembered modifying it to be screw-driven for amphibious travel after the water began its invasion.
At some point, I'm not sure when, morning turned to afternoon. The shadow of the tree had processed around me, giving some indication of time. I continued with no hurry, until all the muck was gone. Only then did I begin repairs. I began with a bolt that had sheared from its socket, hesitantly removing it from its home, and replacing it with a new bolt I'd saved from my house. I wound my wrench around the head of the bolt, cautiously tucking it into its new home. Repositioning once more, I turned my attention to the broken gears.
Repairs were slow, and what little sunlight permeated the membrane of cloud faded as the air grew cold. I worked through the night, uncompromising in my mission to save this machine. Also, myself. It had been a full day since I began clearing out my old home, and thanks to my own carelessness, I still wasn't done. I'd forgiven myself by now, but still fantasized about the unexpectedly appealing prospect of sleeping on a dry cave floor. I wouldn't be sleeping tonight.
I reluctantly admitted to myself that I had, again, in typical Spark Bug fashion, formed an emotional bond with my creation. It served me well, and I was grateful towards it. It carried me faster than I could walk, further than I could swim, and for longer than I could endure. It was now also my lifeline. This beautiful plateau of rolling hills was now an island, separated from the ponies I knew. Given my isolated lifestyle, I wasn't expecting them to look for me - why would they? I knew how to take care of myself. Right now, I was doing so by taking care of an extension of myself.
After bending the mud flap back into place and conceding that the damaged screw wouldn't significantly impair functionality, I turned my attention towards the elephant in the room - the broken axle. I had no replacement parts for it, and without welding tools had no chance of repairing it. I'm not a squeamish pony, but I still winced as I pulled the mangled metal out of its frame. I stopped to ponder the problem. Until now, repairs had been caring but relatively mindless. The solutions were clear, I just had to methodically work through them. This demanded tools outside of my grasp, however. If only I was home. I would have all the equipment necessary, and my bike would be healthy again. I need to get home to fix the axle, but I need a working bike to get home. Grumbling, I retreated to the trunk of the tree and lay on my stomach. It grumbled too.
For the first time since the crash, I turned to my own needs; I was desperately hungry. Perhaps my bike could help me again here; I used the mangled remains of the axle to knock on a branch, causing a cluster of apples to tumble down, one landing on my head. I needed no reminder that gravity existed, tree. I cleaned off the apples in the rain, and began to eat, thinking about the problem. Time again passed without me really noticing. My thoughts were preoccupied with the engineering puzzle at hoof.
Mid way through my third (or was it fourth?) apple, I froze. I had an idea. Dropping the apple and all care for my corporeal needs, I leapt towards the quadbike.
I've been calling it a quadbike this whole time when it wasn't. It had TWO screws, not four wheels like it used to. The shaft connecting the front wheels wasn't needed to drive it, just securei t. Power running through the back would twist the whole screw. The connections for the pair of wheels on each side had been repositioned through a series of gears to work in unison to spin the giant screw. A complex gearing mechanism allowed me to reverse the direction of either independently to allow me to turn and reverse. They connected at either end of it, providing a great combined power that enabled the speed that got me here. With my house destroyed, I had no need to rush, and the rear motor alone should be enough to spin the screws. For structural integrity, the front of the screws still needed attaching, however, I could do that.
I pulled out the ball joints I'd salvaged before. They could spin freely while anchoring the mechanism to the frame at the front. The power from the front motor would go unused, but I could rectify that at home - I finally had a plan! My work was zealous, and my plan was bold. I slotted four screws into the pre-drilled holes of the joint and fixed it to the frame.
Steady progress was made, and minutes melted into hours as I performed the operation. My typical surgical precision was stunted by excitement and my limited tools, but sometimes even surgery requires a bone saw or nail. I think. Annoyingly, I was exactly one nut short of connecting the ball joints. In an act permissible only in my current field-medic situation, I used a wrench like a hammer to roughly bend the screw at an angle, effectively locking it in place. I assured myself that I would fix it properly if I got home. When I got home. I worked consistently through the night, and by morning, I was done.
Morning sun peaked over the horizon, casting beautiful light along the underside of the cloud cover above, and turning the rain into glittering beads of fairy lights in the morning air. I waded out through the tall grass of the field; it tickled my sides as I walked. I admired the rare beauty of rainclouds lit from below. The sun cast long shadows from the bike, tree, and I. I watched my hazy shadow wave as the grass swayed in the breeze. I gazed into the distance, deep seas filling the horizon in every direction. I lay there, taking it in, gazing pensively into the sky as raindrops fell onto my muzzle. The grass would make a nice bed if it weren't so wet.
The moment was short lived, and the land was plunged into its usual gloom as the sun disappeared behind the cloud cover overhead. Walking back to my bike, I described it in flowery detail. I wasn't entirely sure if I was telling my bike, which I knew couldn't hear me, or talking to myself. Either way, I'm probably a little crazy from my elective isolation. I realised; I was likely the only pony for miles around.
So, I yelled. I bellowed a joyous war cry out to the open sky as loud as my lungs would allow. I pushed all my energy and emotion into a whoop that shook my soul, because and only because I could. There are few situations where you need to use such volume, and fewer where you simply can because you want to. I valued the companionship of friends and the true freedom of being alone in equal measure. It suited my lifestyle.
Feeling spent, and with a silly grin on my face, I began collecting up my things. Spare parts, tools, odd pieces of metal, the axle, my filthy jacket, and a single apple. Lifting my seat, I stowed them away, before closing the lid, wiping off what water I could, and boarding. A day after I crashed, and now with half the power it had before, I brought my screw bike to life. Noise sputtered from the engine before settling on a cosy purr. Hesitantly, I turned the handle.
Slowly, I started to move.